Waterborne Exile (32 page)

There was a stir as the doors to the throne room opened and an equally tall figure strode in. Behind him followed two soldiers, holding a prisoner between them. The prisoner’s head sagged, as if he was impossibly weary. She felt the first prickle of apprehension down her spine. The prisoner’s face was hidden by his hair, but he was of slight build. It was then she noticed the soldier to one side wore a captain’s uniform of the palace guard. She looked more closely and recognised Peveril on the instant: Peveril, looking well pleased with himself. The man in front was Jervin, dressed in court finery. She did not need to see the prisoner’s face to know it was Drew, but she needed the proof. As if he’d heard her thoughts the prisoner looked up and met her gaze unsteadily. But that was enough: she had to try to help him. This was an obligation.

The visions faded and scattered, and Alwenna found herself staring down at her hands in the stream water. She pulled her hands out and they were white with cold, with barely any feeling left. She dabbed them dry on her skirts and stood up, tucking her hands into her armpits to warm them.

Erin waited nearby, her expression closed. “Well, my lady?”

“Vasic has Drew.”

“I see, my lady.” As ever, Erin didn’t question Alwenna’s sight. “That’s bad news for Drew, but you can’t hope to do anything to help. Not against Vasic.”

“Nor can I stay here pretending it hasn’t happened.” Alwenna rubbed new life into her numb hands. They began to burn with the hot-aches.

“My lady, you can’t be serious.”

“I must do what I can. It will be little enough, but at least I’ll have tried.”

She thought the girl was about to argue with her, but instead Erin smiled. “Very well, my lady. Our bags are already packed.”

“You know me better than I know myself.”

“I won’t be sorry to leave this place – it gives me the chills. But I feel bad for Drew, if we’re his best hope of help.”

The child in Alwenna’s womb wriggled and twisted, as if it agreed.

Marten couldn’t shake off the uneasy sense of being watched. He was in a roomful of people at court, of course someone would be looking his way at any given moment. Of course there could be no one behind him – he was standing at the edge of the room, after all – but he glanced over his shoulder nonetheless.

He was distracted by the throne room door opening.

A group of men entered, Jervin leading the way, far from his usual haunts in Brigholm. Behind him followed two soldiers, holding a prisoner between them. Marten knew it was Drew before he looked up, eyes moving towards that same place over Marten’s shoulder. Someone had beaten the lad, who had a fat lip and a swollen eye. Dried blood clung to the corner of his mouth. One of the two soldiers wore the household guards’ livery. A burly man, Marten had noticed him from time to time: in the market place, at the citadel gatehouse, about town.

The new arrivals approached the throne, escorted by Marwick.

“Highness, may I present Master Jervin, a merchant of Brigholm. His business today is twofold.”

Vasic turned his gaze to the merchant, barely glancing at the group behind. The merchant bowed in courtly manner. He was stiff-backed, that one, whether through pride or infirmity Marten couldn’t yet hazard a guess.

“Well, sir, state your business.”

Jervin straightened up, stately and in no haste. “Highness, I thank you for the favour of your time. I bring you a token of my gratitude.” He turned slightly to indicate the prisoner. “Your captain here informs me this young man is a known felon, who escaped from your custody some months ago.”

The expression on Drew’s face was one of hurt, but it changed subtly to one of anger as Jervin continued to speak.

“I have been employing him as a clerk, unaware of his background. When I announced we would be travelling to Highkell on business he was strangely reluctant to accompany me, but now I fully understand why. Your captain is to be commended for his alertness in recognising him. Rarely have I been so taken in.”

Vasic took a closer look at Drew. “Well, well. It is my friend the young novice. You are indeed to be commended, Captain…?” He glanced at the soldier.

“Peveril, your highness.”

“Captain Peveril.” Vasic’s gaze slid away from the soldier to the prisoner. “You’ve not improved the lad’s looks any since I last saw him.” He smiled.

One or two courtiers tittered at his witticism. Seated at Vasic’s side, his new queen’s mouth tightened. She raised her head and turned her eyes towards Vasic as if she would speak out, but something caused her to pause and instead she clasped her hands in her lap and fell to studying a point in the middle distance once more.

Now that was interesting. Marten made a note to speak with her at the first opportunity. He understood from court gossip that the marriage had secured Vasic’s hold over the region by virtue of a more than generous settlement. Wealth always brought with it influence. But more importantly for Marten, the Lady Drelena seemed inclined to look favourably upon the underdog and his cause was never in greater need of a new royal patron. His original plan to ingratiate himself with Vasic seemed doomed to failure: Vasic was a very different creature to Tresilian. Or at least, to the man Tresilian had once been. Marten had sworn he’d court no more monarchs, sworn he’d drop his crusade for equal rights for the freemerchants, but it was a habit of longstanding and was proving harder to break than he’d ever believed possible.

Vasic had ordered the soldiers to bring the prisoner forward. “Well, lad, have you anything to say for yourself?”

“In my defence, highness? Only that the charges levelled against me remain as false as the day they were first made.”

“Consistent, if not particularly original.” Again Vasic smiled, looking about the assembled courtiers. Again, a few obliged with restrained affectations of laughter. “Not entirely unexpected. Have you learned anything since we last met, lad?”

Drew glanced sideways at Jervin, whose expression remained cold and dispassionate. “Only a very little, your highness.”

“Indeed. Dare I hope you have learned to fight yet? You might hope to earn yourself a pardon.”

“No, your highness. I have mostly learned bookkeeping.”

“Bookkeeping? That would not prove entertaining.” Vasic seemed to lose interest in Drew. “Return the lad to the cells until I decide what is to be done with him.” He turned to Jervin as Drew was led away by the two soldiers. “Your diligence will not go unrewarded. There is a purse due to anyone capturing the novice.”

“Highness, rather than the purse, I beg you would consider my petition. There is a group of merchants operating out of Ellisquay who do not honour the trading laws. They trade outside the market places and shirk their duty to pay taxes, while stealing custom from honest men. I have here a record of several transactions that have been brought to my notice by other concerned tradesmen in Brigholm. I beg that the strength of the law be brought to bear against these criminals.” Jervin bowed and handed Vasic a parchment scroll.

Vasic snapped the seal open and perused the document. “I shall look further into this. Those who flout the trade laws are robbing their fellow citizens as well as the state. We must make it clear what consequences such dishonesty entails. Marwick, you will oversee this matter.” He handed the parchment to his steward.

Jervin bowed again, uttering words of thanks as Vasic stood and held out an imperious hand to the Lady Drelena. She rose from her seat and took his hand, letting him lead her down from the dais and through the throne room to the chamber where their meal awaited them.

Marten fell in with the gaggle of courtiers following the royal couple through. The new queen ate sparingly while Vasic conversed and drank with his current favourites, the lean ambassador Kaith among them. Marten suspected Kaith would not meet much favour with the Lady Drelena.

Further up the table, Marten spotted the unlikely trio of Durstan, the priestess and Weaver. At another table Jervin sat, with two soldiers. It took him a few moments, but Marten recognised Rekhart. He appeared ill at ease, perhaps having witnessed his friend’s fall from grace, although Marten could have sworn he’d not been present when Drew had been brought before Vasic. This was certainly the first time the trader and his people had enjoyed the king’s hospitality.

It crossed Marten’s mind that he might have similarly bought the king’s favour by divulging Alwenna’s whereabouts and had doubtless incurred the king’s displeasure instead. It appeared the dagger had not impressed Vasic half as much as it ought to have. But he hadn’t been dismissed from court, not yet. He must learn what he could while he could.

Meanwhile the Lady Drelena watched Vasic with distaste as he continued to drink. She took care to conceal her emotions, but her feelings were apparent nonetheless. She must stand in need of friends at this new court. Vasic, glass in hand, looked about the room. He spotted Durstan.

“Ah, prelate. Just the fellow. I’ve a fancy to test out this champion of yours.”

He brandished his glass to include the whole room. “Who among our number is swordsman enough to test his fighting ability? You there, Weaver, Pius, whatever you call yourself. Stand up. Let our challengers get your measure.”

Weaver glanced at the prelate, who nodded. Weaver clambered out over the bench and stepped into the empty space that ran between the two long tables. He bowed slightly before Vasic. “Highness, I await your command.”

“Who thinks they can best this man? Come now, don’t be shy, gentlemen. Great honour and glory await the victor. And a fat purse.”

Weaver waited impassively in the centre of the room. Marten saw the priestess lean over and whisper something to the prelate, who glanced over to where Jervin sat. He asked her some question and she nodded. Durstan pushed himself to his feet.

“What, prelate, would you take on your own challenger?”

Laughter ran around the room. The Lady Drelena had pushed away her wine glass and watched the proceedings with her mouth drawn into a tight line.

Durstan laughed, the awkward laughter of a man determined to please, whatever the cost. “No, highness, I fear my fighting days are long gone. But there is one noted warrior here who is in his prime and furthermore is known to brother Pius. He would make an excellent test of the brother’s loyalty.”

Weaver turned his head to look at Durstan for a moment before setting his eyes straight ahead once more. His expression remained unreadable.

“Who is this paragon? Show him to me at once.” Vasic flourished his glass.

“I understand he goes by the name of Rekhart, your highness.” Durstan glanced over to where Jervin sat. At his side Rekhart looked exceedingly unwilling to step into the fray. “And there he is, your highness.” Durstan gestured in welcome to Rekhart. There was a burst of shouts which rapidly became jeers as Rekhart hesitated.

Jervin smiled. “Come now, Rekhart, you have caught the king’s attention. This is your chance to prove yourself.”

Rekhart eased to his feet, and a burst of raucous applause broke out.

Drelena leaned over to say something to Vasic. Whatever his reply it clearly displeased her and she watched stony-faced as Rekhart walked round the end of the table, to join Weaver in the centre of the room, rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms. Rekhart’s jaw was clenched. He acknowledged Weaver with a tight nod. Marten had never seen a man more ready to embrace his fate.

Vasic watched the scene with ill-concealed anticipation. His queen glanced at him once, then looked away in disgust. And Marten hoped to further his cause by serving this man? Perhaps it was time he found a new cause.

They were still in the foothills of the mountains when the first birthing pain hit Alwenna. She doubled over in the saddle, gasping to catch her breath. No, this could not be; she must have strained something on the tortuous climb out of the valley. She’d ignored the tightening sensations in her abdomen, assuming it was from the sudden effort required. Surely that had to be it. It was too soon for the baby to come, wasn’t it?

“Goddess, my lady! What is it?” Erin slid down from behind her, and ran round to take the horse’s head, bringing it to a halt.

“Just a twinge–” Another pain racked through Alwenna.

“We need to get you down off that horse.” They achieved it somehow when the pain had subsided. Erin guided Alwenna to a sheltered spot between several boulders. “It looks like that baby’s on its way.”

“But… it’s too soon. Wynne said to expect it when–” Another spasm cut short Alwenna’s words, resulting in a sharp pain and a gushing of fluid down her legs.

“They come when they’re ready, my lady, and it looks like this one’s ready now, whether we like it or not.”

Alwenna nodded, trying to catch her breath as her womb contracted. And then there was more pain.

She lost track of time after that. At some point Erin’s encouragement faded out and gave way to worried silence. It could have been minutes, or it could have been hours. Alwenna had never been so exhausted in her life.

“The baby’s wrong way round, my lady. If we had a proper midwife here we might turn it, but I can’t get it out that way, not without damaging you both. The only way I can see is to cut it from your belly.”

“Do what you must.” Alwenna didn’t care at that stage. Anything for the pain to stop. She was so tired… impossibly tired.

She barely registered the added pain as the knife sliced through her flesh, was barely aware of a thin wail that could have been her child’s or could have been her own.

It was still some time before dawn when Brett woke. His sleep had been uneasy, run through by a sense that something was terribly wrong with the Lady Alwenna. His dreams had been all confusion, but the last of them had had a terrible clarity: a dark hand reaching out for her as he looked on, helpless. He sat up, pushing back the bed covers and the sweat on his skin cooled rapidly in the night air. Next to him his younger brother snored, oblivious to Brett’s tossing and turning. Brett eased out of the bed. On the far side his elder brother stirred, mumbled, then slid off into a deeper sleep.