‘“My liege!” Cade cried. His imitation of Josper’s boozy slurring was all the more convincing because it was only half faked. ‘“All these things I have done, I admit, but they were not my intention. A giant raven stole my steak pie while it cooled on the sill, you see. All that followed was in service of one goal alone: to get my delicious pie back from that thieving bag of feathers! So if you would grant me one boon, let it be this: lend me a hundred men, and I will find that raven, put paid to his evil ways and get back the pie that has so long eluded my jaws!”’
Keel cackled to himself at that, and Vika chuckled, but Aren knew the real punchline was still to come.
‘At this, the king was bewildered,’ Cade went on. ‘“But it has been a year and a day since your quest began!” he said. “That pie is surely eaten, and even if it is not, its crust must be so hard that the Stone Mother herself would chip her teeth on it. If you will give up your quest, I will give you my youngest daughter Alessa’s hand in marriage. Her beauty is renowned throughout Embria, her wit will delight you, and her grace shames the stars, it is said.”
‘“My liege,” said Josper. “That’s all well and good … but can she cook?”’
The others roared with laughter and Keel pounded the table. Grub looked up from his ham hock, startled, worried that he’d missed something important while he’d been concentrating on his dinner. They applauded as Cade gave a little bow, then he sat back down next to Aren and reclaimed his ale.
‘I swear you told me that story once,’ Aren murmured to him. ‘But as I recall, the hero was called Goyle the Unfortunate, and everyone in it was Krodan.’
Cade shrugged and grinned into his flagon. ‘Reckon I know my audience.’
Aren threw an arm round his shoulders. ‘You’re a good friend. Did I ever tell you that?’
‘Aye, but I can always hear it again,’ said Cade, and reached for a hunk of bread and some cheese.
Aren sat back, stuffed and pleasantly hazy. Beyond the latticed windows the hills were dark. Lamps had been lit and fires burned brightly in two hearths. There was a bar at one end, behind which stood the lanky Xulan who owned the place, his skin black and shiny as obsidian. Serving girls scurried briskly around him.
There were other travellers here, perhaps two dozen in all. They clustered round the fires, huddled in shadowy booths or loafed at the bar. A pair of drunks in tatty cloth coifs and fingerless gloves shared a flask of plum liquor. Three Boskan merchants murmured together, their strange clothes making them look like hunched desert beetles. Their faces were hidden by domed hoods of stiffened hide so that only their noses and beards showed in the dim light, and pungent smoke rose from the exotic cigars they smoked. In a corner, a Krodan family and their Brunlander bodyguard ate quietly. At the back of the room, a Sard lutist was tuning up while an armoured Harrish man who shared her table surveyed the room with a stern gaze.
I’ve never seen so many different peoples in one place, thought Aren. The world he’d known growing up in Shoal Point felt small and far away now.
Of them all, it was the Sard his eye was drawn to. She was beautiful, with a drowsy elegance about her, and she wore complex layers of lace and patterned cloth. Tiny silver ornaments were sewn into her sleeves, and little chains of them hung round her wrists and ankles. Her ears were pierced many times with studs and rings. Black hair tumbled down her back, held there by combs and pins of chalcedony and amber. Her skin was a shade darker than the Ossian norm – Sards always looked tanned, as if from an outdoor life – but her eyes gave away her origins. Her irises were so green they almost glowed: the unmistakable mark of her kind.
She began to play, plucking delicate arpeggios while her fingers spidered and slid across the fretboard. A few of the patrons looked up from their drinks, mildly interested. It was only when she sang that people really started to pay attention. Her voice was husky and warm and smooth, too exceptional to ignore. As Aren watched her, his thumb absently rubbed the mark on his wrist.
The song was a rolling, swooping folk tune from the misty forests of Trine, far to the north-east. It was the story of two brothers competing for the love of their cold-hearted father by goading each other to ever-greater acts of valour until, inevitably, tragedy occurred. Trinish history was littered with such tales. They were a warrior people, argumentative and violent by nature, which was why there was rarely peace and stability in their land. Even now they were locked in a civil war to settle their succession, while trying to fight off the encroaching elaru in Peth and squabbling with the Quins for the best fishing spots in the White Sea.
Just like us, he thought, always pulling in different directions. Just like at Salt Fork, or during the centuries of disorder before the Krodans came. The Ossians weren’t warlike, as the Trinish were, but they were fiercely opinionated and didn’t take orders well – at least, not until the Krodans forced them to. They prized their families, good food and loud conversation over discipline and obedience. Getting Ossians to do anything en masse was akin to herding cats.
But we weren’t always like that. We fought our way out of slavery and built the greatest empire the East has ever seen. Why couldn’t we do it again?
He caught himself before he could follow that line of thought to its end. Just the idea made his chest swell with an unfamiliar pride, and that scared him. Now wasn’t the time for heroic dreams, when they’d only just escaped the clutches of the Krodans. Garric’s plan, whatever its details, was doomed to fail. Why hitch themselves to a burning cart?
They weren’t going to fight the Krodans. You couldn’t fight the Krodans. They weren’t Greycloaks, just a couple of boys looking to keep their heads down and start again.
He glanced at Cade. At least, he hoped that was the case.
‘Ah! Here’s the sweetwine!’ Keel said as a serving girl approached their table with a tray. ‘Make some space!’
They cleared a spot on the table and the girl set down a stone jar with seven stone cups; stone was traditional when toasting those who’d returned to the earth. Garric poured for them all and stood to pass out the cups. Grub tried to neck his immediately, but Vika slapped a hand on his wrist to stop him.
When they all had a cup, Garric raised his, and the others did the same. Grub copied them resentfully.
‘Tarvi. Varla. Otten. Dox. Osman.’ Garric said each of their names slowly, his expression grim and his eyes faraway. ‘Good people, all. People who believed in something, who thought to make things better than they are. I knew none of them as well as I’d have liked to, but for a time they were brothers and sisters of mine.’
He moved his cup towards his lips, and they were all about to drink when he held up a hand. He wasn’t finished. For a few moments, he struggled with what he had to say.
‘Their dying is on me,’ he said at last, his voice hard as he forced out the words. ‘They followed me, though they didn’t know the reason why, and did it willingly. But it was my oath, my responsibility. I should have shouldered it alone, and they’re dead because I didn’t.’ His eyes flickered to Aren, then away again. ‘That’s all I want to say. Sarla’s grace be on them.’ He swallowed his drink and sat down.
‘Sarla’s grace be on them,’ echoed the others, all except Grub, who was just happy to be allowed to drink at last. Aren watched Garric over the rim of his cup as he finished his sweetwine.
Did he just admit he was wrong? That none of this was my fault?
There was a sombre pause as they thought of the men and women they’d lost. Then Keel clapped his hands.
‘Who’s for another round? It ain’t Amberlyne, but it’ll do.’
‘Grub is!’ Grub cried, but Keel was already pouring.
‘They reckon Prince Ottico won’t have any sweetwine but Amberlyne at his table,’ Cade told them knowledgably.
Keel and Garric exchanged a quick look at the mention of the prince. ‘Is that so?’ said Keel. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Nor I,’ said Garric, studying Cade thoughtfully.
Aren turned his cup around in his hand, a wistful look in his eye. ‘My father used to like Amberlyne,’ he said. Then he saw Garric’s expression and realised what he’d said. Merely mentioning his father was enough to raise Garric’s hackles.
Well, damn him. He’d speak of his father if he wanted. In fact, he’d do more than that.
‘I never drank to him,’ Aren said suddenly. ‘Never had the chance to, till now.’ He got to his feet, hot with defiance, and raised his cup. ‘My father. Fallen to a Krodan blade. It may be I never knew who he really was, but he was a good man to me, and I loved him.’
The table was silent; they sensed the tension there. Aren held the older man’s gaze as he said ‘Sarla’s grace be on him,’ and drank.
‘Sarla’s grace be on him,’ echoed Vika, and she drank, too.
Cade was wary of Garric’s wrath, but his hesitation lasted only an instant. ‘Sarla’s grace be on him.’ He downed his cup quickly, before he could have second thoughts.
Fen went next, and then Grub. This time, he said the words along with the others.
Only Keel and Garric were left. Keel gave his friend a long look. Let it go, he was saying. It doesn’t matter. Garric was impassive. Do as you will. So Keel shrugged and drank. ‘Sarla’s grace be on him.’
Garric slowly pushed the full cup away from him and got to his feet. He didn’t look angry, but weary instead. ‘Ought to see about fixing us some transport,’ he rumbled.
‘Yes!’ Grub said. ‘Grub want to know what adventures he’s getting into next! Grub still got a lot of skin to cover!’
Garric said nothing to that; he only walked away. The others said nothing, either. The Skarl clearly didn’t understand. Garric didn’t want him as a companion. Nor did Aren, in truth. Just because they’d shared the road for some way, it didn’t make them friends.
They all fell into their own private conversations after that. Cade leaned close to Aren and opened his mouth to speak, but Aren intercepted him.
‘I know what you’re going to say. You don’t want to leave, do you?’
‘Why should we?’ Cade said. ‘They’re an alright bunch, aren’t they?’ He saw Aren’s expression and quickly backtracked. ‘I mean, aside from Garric punching your face in that time. But he’s sorry! Look at him! He’s just too gruff and beardy to say it.’
‘Beardy?’
‘Well, he is.’
‘Cade …’ Aren fought to put his feelings into words straightforward enough for his friend to understand. ‘I hate him, don’t you see that? Everything that’s happened to us has been down to him.’
‘Ain’t true,’ said Cade, raising a finger. ‘Who killed your da? Krodans. Who sent us to rot in a work camp? Krodans. You always were slow to blame the squareheads for what they’re rightfully responsible. Now, if you ask me who saved us when we had the choice of getting torn up by skulldogs or stepping off a cliff—’
‘Yes, you’ve made your point,’ Aren said waspishly. He knew it was true, but knowing that didn’t change a thing. It was so much easier to hate Garric – who was surly and violent and hated him back – than it was to hate a whole nation whose beliefs he’d been taught to admire and share.
‘We had a plan, remember?’ he said. ‘Get to safety, then see where the wind takes us. All of Ossia awaits us. I thought you wanted to be an actor?’
‘Aye, but that was before,’ said Cade. ‘They’re doing something noble. Something right. They’re fighting for our country, and they need our help.’
‘Help?’ Aren scoffed. ‘You can’t even swing a sword, and I’m no warrior. How can we help?’
‘Dunno,’ said Cade, pushing a pickle around his plate. ‘But I know my da would be right proud if he heard I’d joined the rebels.’
Aren sobered at that. Sometimes he forgot Cade still had a stake in Shoal Point. Aren’s bridges had all burned when his father died, but Cade still had family there. What agonies his parents must have suffered, not knowing the fate of their only son.
‘Do you miss them?’ Aren asked.
Cade shrugged. ‘Da, not really. Ma … I missed her sore when we were in the camp, but since then, not so much. Feels good to be on the move, you know? Any direction, as long as it’s away from there.’ He frowned slightly as a thought occurred to him. ‘Been meaning to write them a letter, though, when we get ourselves sorted. Reckon you could help me with that?’
‘Of course. What do you think you’ll say?’
‘Oh, I dunno. That everything’s alright and I’m making my way in the world. And I’ll tell Da where he can stick his gods-damned chisels and saws.’ He grinned.
Aren’s gaze found Garric over at the bar, deep in conversation with the innkeeper. The Xulan was perhaps in his forties, perhaps his sixties; it was hard to tell. He wore a purple waistcoat too fine for working in, and there was something courtly about the way he stood and the gestures he made. Likely he’d come from wealthy stock: Xulan highborns were notorious fops. Aren wondered how he ended up managing a remote inn in occupied Ossia.
‘Listen,’ said Aren, ‘I know you like the idea of what Garric stands for, but he’s a hunted man. Hunted by dreadknights. We’ve no worth to the Krodans, we were just bait. Nobody’s after us now. We can do anything, be anything. Isn’t that what you always wanted?’
‘I suppose,’ said Cade gloomily. His eyes were on Fen, smiling and relaxed as she talked with Keel, made loose by food and drink. When Cade fell for a girl, he fell fast and hard. It wouldn’t be easy to make him leave her.
‘It’s not our decision, anyway,’ Aren said. ‘He doesn’t want us.’
‘You could change his mind,’ Cade said optimistically. ‘You always know how to persuade people.’
Aren began to despair of letting his friend down lightly. Blinded as he was by his new infatuation, he didn’t see that this wouldn’t work, couldn’t work.
‘Besides,’ said Cade, as a new point occurred to him, ‘don’t you want to know who your father really was? The only one who can tell you is Garric.’
‘And for that I should lash myself to him, until he decides I’m allowed to know?’ Aren said, more sharply than he’d intended. Cade looked hurt; Aren softened. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Something prevents him from telling me, I don’t know what. And even if I could make him, I doubt I’d like what he has to say. But I’ll think on it.’
He waved his hand then, dashing the subject away. ‘Ah, begone with all these decisions,’ he said, louder now there was no need for secrecy. ‘Here’s ale and sweetwine, good food and good company. Let tonight be tonight, and tomorrow be tomorrow.’
Cade gave him a mischievous smile. ‘Time was, you thought Ossian sayings like that were just for us bumpkins.’
‘Well, then call me a bumpk—’
‘Bumpkin!’ Grub yelled in a wave of beery breath. He cackled and took a swig from his flagon, well pleased with himself.
The lutist had finished her song to scattered applause and taken her seat to retune. Aren saw his opportunity and got to his feet.
‘Where are you off to?’ Cade asked, but Aren was already heading across the common room.
When Keel saw his direction, he yelled ‘You don’t think you’ve got a chance with her, do you?’ loud enough for everyone to hear. Aren blushed to the roots of his hair and walked faster.
The lutist’s companion stood as Aren approached, placing himself between them. He was very tall, clad in a fine splint-mail shirt that was probably expensive, and polished greaves and bracers. A longsword hung at his hip, and his hand stayed near it. But though his size was intimidating, his features were not. His head seemed too small for his body, he had hardly a chin to speak of and his mouth was small and puckered. His dark brown hair was bowl-cut above his ears, and his expression was fixed in an attitude of haughty blandness.
‘Halt!’ he said. ‘Approach no further!’
His voice was high and fluting. If Aren hadn’t already guessed he was from Harrow by his hair and his ramro
d-straight stance, his crisp accent and superior tone would have given it away.
‘Be calm,’ said the lutist. Her speaking voice was silken and low, with the sing-song lilt of her people. ‘You are too protective.’
His expression changed not one bit. After an uncomfortable pause, he stepped aside; but he kept his hand near his sword.
‘Sit, please,’ she said to Aren. ‘I am Orica, and this is Harod.’
‘Aren,’ he said, before he could consider the wisdom of providing his real name. He cursed himself for his lack of wit, but her beauty had flustered him. He remembered the tales of illusions and bewitchments that the young men and women of Shoal Point brought back from their visits to Sard campsites, and resolved to be more careful.
He pulled out a stool, scraping it awkwardly along the floor, and sat. Harod loomed at his shoulder, silently threatening. Aren was suddenly conscious of the fading bruises that still discoloured his face. He looked rough and unkempt in his battered travel clothes, even after his bath. Small wonder Harod was cautious.
‘I … er … I very much enjoyed your music,’ he said politely.
‘Thank you,’ she said with a tilt of her head. ‘I’m surprised you could hear it over your companions.’
Aren looked sheepish. ‘Were we that loud?’
‘I am teasing. No music is finer than the sound of people enjoying themselves. Life is laughter, yes?’
‘I like that idea,’ said Aren. ‘There’s been little enough laughter of late.’
‘All the more reason to treasure it.’
He glanced nervously at Harod. ‘Have you journeyed far?’
The Ember Blade Page 40