‘Good, good,’ Barl rumbled to himself when he was done. He sat back and took a pull of ale. Cade could tell he’d had plenty already by the glaze in his eyes and the slow way he moved. It was Jorsday, which meant he’d likely spent his day off in Finnan’s tiny bar by the docks, drinking with the fishermen.
‘Squarehead farmer up in the hills wants a wardrobe making,’ Barl said, and burped. ‘Krodan style. Ossian furniture ain’t good enough for that lot.’ He took another pull and set his ale down. ‘That used to be Arrol’s farm before they took it from him,’ he added bitterly. Then he looked at Cade. ‘We’ll set to it on the morrow. I’ll show you how to make duck-beak joints the way the squareheads like. You can mix up the varnish.’
Cade nodded and kept eating. He didn’t want to think about tomorrow, about sanding and hammering, chisels and saws, splines and splinters. He had his ma’s head for stories and her clever tongue, but his hands were hooves and there was none of Da’s craft in him. No matter how carefully Barl taught him, he never got it right. Barl wasn’t a patient man, but he was a persistent one. Every day he tried anew to make his son a carpenter, and every day Cade disappointed him.
If Cade had a brother, things might have been different. But he’d almost killed his ma as she pushed him out – a fact Barl never tired of mentioning, sometimes in jest, sometimes not – and Barl loved his wife too much to risk another child. So there was only Cade, and when the time came he’d have to take over the business, and that was how it was.
‘There’s a mummers’ troupe coming to town for the ghost tide,’ Cade said. ‘It was on the crier’s board. We could go and see them. After we’re finished in the workshop, I mean.’
‘That’s a fine idea!’ Velda enthused.
‘As long as they ain’t Sards,’ said Barl. ‘I won’t stand to watch Sards. Filthy folk. If they ain’t trying to sell you something that’s broke, they’re picking your pocket.’
‘I don’t reckon they’re Sards,’ Cade said uncertainly. ‘It’s an Ossian play – Podd and the Pot of Plenty.’
‘Oh, I like that one!’ his ma said.
Barl harrumphed, swigged his ale and said nothing.
‘Aren says that mummers’ troupes sometimes hire a carpenter to travel with them,’ Cade said tentatively. ‘To build and repair the stage, make props and such. Easy stuff. The carpenter gets to be in the play, too. Everyone in the troupe has to act. Sometimes they play the lead, even.’
‘Mmm-hmm.’
Cade looked down at his hands, where he was knotting his fingers. ‘I thought … well, I reckon it might be good experience for me. To really help me get a grasp of the basics. And I can make people laugh, I’m good at that. They might take me with them, if I asked. Just for a few weeks.’
Barl was silent. He took another slow drink, his eyes far away and full of thought. Cade glanced at his ma, who made an encouraging face. Da appeared to be considering what he’d said. Cade let himself hope, just a little.
‘And another thing about Sards!’ Barl snapped. ‘They’re so cursed secretive! Stick to their own, don’t they? Whispering in their secret tongue. That ain’t how honest people act. We should kick them all out, that’s my view on it. This ain’t even their country.’
Cade’s heart sank and his gaze dropped to the table. His da hadn’t even heard him. Cade had no love for Sards, either, but in some ways he envied them. They were the Landless, roamers who were unwelcome wherever they settled, but at least they were free to forge their own fates. He dreamed of the world beyond the walls of his da’s gloomy workshop, a life where the weeks and years were not already laid out before him. Somewhere he counted for something.
But it was a fool’s dream. He was a carpenter’s son, and that was all he’d ever be. So the world turned.
‘Cavin called by, looking for you,’ Barl said. ‘You never go about with that boy any more.’
‘I was with Aren,’ said Cade.
‘Hunting she-wargs,’ added Velda, with a glimmer in her eye.
‘I wish you wouldn’t go trailing round after that boy like a lost puppy,’ Barl grumbled.
‘I ain’t trailing round after anyone,’ said Cade, roused to indignation. ‘He’s my friend.’
‘Aye, until he’s not,’ said Barl, sucking down the last of his ale. ‘He’s his father’s son, and the apple don’t fall far from the tree. Disloyalty’s in his blood. Only one way an Ossian gets to be rich in this day and age.’
‘Barl—’ Velda warned.
‘I’ll speak my mind at my own table,’ he said. ‘And I call Randill a turncoat. Lickspittle. Collaborator. Just like all the rest who rolled over when the Krodans came, desperate to keep what they had.’
Velda pointed a stern finger at Cade. ‘You ain’t to repeat that outside this room. Not even to Aren. Especially not to Aren.’
‘I ain’t stupid, Ma,’ said Cade, for whom the whole thing was a lot less serious than his parents seemed to think it was.
‘And you!’ Velda snapped at Barl. ‘Hold your tongue. You want to bring the Iron Hand down on us?’
‘Should I fear spies in my own house?’ Barl crowed. ‘Hiding in the stew pot, perhaps?’ Made smug by his own wit, he put his jack to his mouth, and looked faintly puzzled when he found it empty.
‘Not here,’ said Velda, ‘but loose words breed loose words, and when beer makes you bold, you’re apt to say what you’re thinking. One day you’ll say it to the wrong person. And who’ll run your workshop then?’
Barl scowled at that, but he didn’t argue. He held out his jack and Velda filled it, satisfied that he’d got the message.
‘That boy’s a Krodan-lover, and he’s the son of a Krodan-lover,’ Barl said darkly. ‘Mixing with his sort will only bring you trouble. Heed that, boy.’
‘Aye, Da,’ said Cade, but he didn’t. After all, his da had never taken heed of him.
6
Aren leaned forward, his brow furrowed, hand covering his mouth, deep in thought. Master Fassen, seated opposite, watched him keenly, awaiting his next move. Between them on the castles board, two armies waged war.
The hexagonal board was divided into hundreds of smaller hexes, across which dozens of carved pieces were scattered, some of ivory and some of polished black stone. The castles which gave the game its name were unevenly placed around the board. The object was to capture and hold them while protecting your king. A broken line of blue counters, representing a river and its fords, meandered between them.
Aren’s eyes flickered over the battlefield. He held two castles and had made gains by capturing a ford with a pair of giants. Master Fassen held the other four castles and was steadily pounding Aren’s left flank with superior numbers. It didn’t look good.
Aren picked up a swordsman and advanced it two hexes into enemy territory. The moment he released the piece, Master Fassen slid an archer into firing range and took it.
‘You didn’t think that through, Aren,’ he chided.
Aren’s tutor was a gaunt man, straight-backed despite his age, sober in dress and manner. He had large ears and a beak of a nose, a bare pate, bushy white sideburns and a solemn dignity that Aren thought particularly Krodan
‘Perhaps I should reconsider my strategy,’ Aren said. He sat back, regarding the board as if it were a puzzle he couldn’t solve.
Night was thickening outside, the hedgerows and lawns silvered by starlight. Aren could hear the tinkle and rattle of the servants cleaning up in the dining room. Soon they’d be in to draw the parlour curtains and trim the lamps.
The hour after supper was for digestion and relaxation, when members of the household and their guests would gather for games, music and conversation. Nanny Alsa and Master Orik had also joined them tonight. She was embroidering a handkerchief and he was sitting in an armchair, drinking a glass of dark brandy and smoking a thin cheroot.
Aren picked up an ivory draccen, weighed it in his hand and mind, then flew it over the river to take one of Master Fassen’s swordsmen. H
is opponent raised an eyebrow and slid a black knight through a gap in his lines to bump up against Aren’s draccen. Aren tutted as the piece was removed.
‘You must think three moves ahead,’ Master Fassen advised. ‘Know your intention before you act.’
Aren sat back again and made a show of thinking to satisfy the master. Everything was a test with Master Fassen, everything a lesson. But Aren’s mind wasn’t on the game, and he suspected his opponent knew it. He was thinking of tonight, of the first night of the ghost tide. He was planning his escape.
Master Orik cleared his throat in an unsuccessful attempt to draw Nanny Alsa’s attention away from her needlework. He didn’t live at the house but was often to be found here, and his interest in Aren’s governess was evident to everyone except Nanny Alsa.
‘Does your cheroot not agree with you, Master Orik?’ Aren inquired innocently.
‘Oh, it’s quite fine,’ said Master Orik, with a look that said Aren would suffer at practice tomorrow. ‘A dry throat, that’s all.’ He sipped his brandy, glaring at his pupil. Nanny Alsa never raised her head, but Aren saw a hint of a smile on her lips.
She was pretty and apple-cheeked, with strawberry-blonde hair worn in buns over her ears. She’d cared for him since he was ten, after his previous nanny departed suddenly for reasons nobody had ever properly explained to him. He sensed there was a scandal there, but didn’t care enough to pry as he’d never liked her much.
Nanny Alsa, by contrast, was all he could wish for in a surrogate mother. She was sweet and playful and loving, permissive when she should be and strict when necessary. She’d never raised her voice to him, as her disappointment was enough to shame him if he misbehaved; there was something in her manner that made people want to please her. She was liked by all and loved by some, but in the five years Aren had known her, he’d never seen any sign that she was interested in romance. Which made Master Orik’s plight all the more amusing.
Aren picked up one of his giants and sent it stamping across the castles board. Master Fassen moved to counter the danger and Aren slipped an assassin over the ford. Master Fassen shifted a trebuchet to one of the raised hexes that indicated high ground. Doing so increased its range and put Aren’s giant within reach. Master Fassen plucked the giant from the board.
‘You are throwing your pieces away now,’ said Master Fassen disapprovingly. ‘This is very unlike you.’
Master Orik, restless and bored, got to his feet and went to the decanter to refill his brandy. He moved with a slight limp, the result of a leg wound sustained in the Krodan army. He still dressed like an officer, his jacket neat, trousers pressed and shoes shined, but he could no longer be one. Instead he taught swordplay to the sons of the rich, and his regret over his lost past was evident in the amount he drank and smoked. Though young, his face was ruddy behind his red moustaches.
He poured himself a new glass and straightened. ‘Miss Alsa, if I might observe, you’ve been unusually quiet tonight, and full of sighs,’ he announced, abandoning subtlety entirely. ‘Are you troubled?’
She put down her needlework and sighed again, as if to prove his point. ‘Your enquiry is kind, but it is nothing.’ She spoke in Krodan; it was the language of the household, and everyone here was Krodan except Aren. Only the servants spoke Ossian, though Aren and his father sometimes did when they were alone. Randill had only learned the language of their occupiers after the invasion, and even thirty years later he still found his mother tongue easier.
Aren moved a piece. Master Fassen took it and Aren cursed, drawing a scowl from his opponent. He raised a hand in apology.
‘Please, Miss Alsa, if you would speak of it, perhaps I could help,’ Master Orik persisted.
‘It is not a thing that can be helped,’ she replied sadly. ‘I grieve on a friend’s behalf. I suppose you’ve heard of the recent events at Salt Fork?’
Aren’s ears pricked up at that. Salt Fork had been the subject of hot debate among the locals ever since the news reached Shoal Point. Ossian rebels had seized a fortified town that stood at the junction where the Millflow joined the River Apsel. It was a vital link for river traffic, and for a time they’d snarled up transport in the region. Some thought them heroes; others called them mud-headed fools who threatened to bring the wrath of the Krodans down on them all.
Aren had been following the news with particular interest because his father was travelling in that region, and he’d been due back days ago. There had been no word to explain the delay, but that wasn’t unusual. Likely he was simply held up by the chaos surrounding the uprising, but Aren couldn’t shake the niggling worry that something worse had befallen him.
‘Surely Salt Fork is a cause for joy, not grief?’ Master Orik said. ‘The rebels were crushed entirely.’
‘By the grace of the Primus,’ Master Fassen added piously.
‘His will be done,’ Aren muttered in automatic response.
‘I am glad of the victory,’ said Nanny Alsa, ‘but I grieve at the cost. Rosa, the chandler’s wife, is a dear friend to me. Her son was at Salt Fork.’
‘A rebel?’ Master Orik sounded disturbed.
She shook her head. ‘A notary. But he lived in the town, and he was part of what happened. The Iron Hand have made an example of the mayor and the town’s leaders for going along with the rebels. Now they are questioning even minor officials, seeking guilt. Rosa fears her son will be among those punished. He is Ossian; there will be no mercy.’
‘Your generous heart does you credit, Miss Alsa,’ said Master Orik. ‘But you need not grieve. If he is innocent, he has nothing to fear.’
‘And if he collaborated, he is not worth your tears,’ Master Fassen said sternly.
Nanny Alsa picked up her needle again. ‘You are right, of course,’ she said quietly.
Aren used his last giant to capture a swordsman. Master Fassen moved another piece to flank the giant, thereby preventing it from moving. Aren deployed a knight to try to free it up, but Master Fassen managed to take the giant first. Aren tried to move his knight from danger, but Master Fassen intercepted it with his queen.
‘A truly disastrous assault,’ Master Fassen observed. ‘You have lost almost all your major pieces. Perhaps you would like to concede?’
‘Not just yet,’ said Aren. He slid his assassin through the hole where Master Fassen’s queen had stood, tapped it against the black king and won the game.
Master Fassen stared at the board in outraged astonishment, then up at his pupil. Aren grinned. ‘There is no victory without sacrifice, Master.’
The master was still searching for a sufficiently tart reply when they heard hooves clopping in the lane and Aren surged to his feet. Horses approaching at this hour could only mean one thing.
‘Father!’ He hurried out of the parlour, through wood-panelled corridors, past paintings and busts of Krodan thinkers and generals. The servants were already preparing for the new arrivals as he scampered through the door onto the grand stone porch and down the steps to the forecourt. Two horsemen were dismounting in the moth-haunted lanternlight, one rangy and tall, the other broad-shouldered and squat: Randill and his Brunlander bodyguard Kuhn.
Randill heard Aren coming and turned to meet him with open arms. Aren crashed into his father and held himself there, to his warmth and wiry strength, breathing in the sweat-and-leather smell of him. It was a greeting of Ossian passion rather than stout Krodan reserve, the uncouth embrace of a peasant, but in that moment Aren didn’t care.
Father was home.
7
Randill’s arrival sent the servants into a frenzy. The ostler and his daughter hurried to see to the horses. Maids stoked fires to heat water for baths. Most frantic of all was the kitchen, where the cookboys ran hither and thither, in and out of the pantry, while the cook loudly bemoaned the lack of notice. A boy was dispatched to town with orders to get more bacon for the next day’s breakfast, even if he had to wake the butcher to do it.
When Randill was away the h
ouse felt empty; his return filled the rooms with warmth. He’d barely entered before his steward assaulted him with a flurry of pressing matters that needed his attention, but he brushed them off and slung an arm around his son.
‘There’s nothing so urgent it can’t wait till the morrow,’ he said. He winked at Aren. ‘Or at least till I’ve reached the bottom of a goblet of wine!’
Taking the hint, a servant hurried off to uncork a bottle of Carthanian red. Randill headed for the dining room, nodding at the greetings from his household staff, Aren grinning at his side. Kuhn loped behind them, scowling.
‘And what of you, eh, my boy?’ Randill asked. ‘Getting into trouble, no doubt!’
‘Nothing anyone’s found out about,’ Aren said brightly. Randill’s laughter echoed down the corridor.
The masters and Nanny Alsa joined them in the dining room, which had been hastily cleared after supper. Grey velvet curtains were drawn across the tall windows and lamps hung on silver chains above the long, narrow table. Presiding over the room was a magnificent portrait of the Imperial Family, purchased at great expense from an artist in Morgenholme who swore it was painted from life.
The cook had whipped up a platter of cold meat pies, pickled fish, cheeses and fruit, plus a bowl of salted eel soup for Randill. Those who’d already eaten sipped wine or brandy and picked at sweet biscuits.
‘Your business in the east went well, I trust?’ Master Fassen enquired of Randill.
‘Not particularly,’ said Randill, fishing out a chunk of slippery white eel. Master Orik watched him through a cloud of cheroot smoke and looked slightly nauseous. Krodans had always found the Ossian love of eels repulsive, which Aren privately thought a little unfair, since one their own delicacies included boiled bull’s testicles.
‘Was it the Greycloaks?’ Aren asked.
‘Ha!’ said Master Orik. ‘Greycloaks! They call themselves resistance fighters, but they’re nothing more than a rabble of disorganised thugs. Don’t even have a uniform. How do you know who’s on your side if you don’t have a uniform?’
The Ember Blade Page 4