It was a bright, clear day and the chill of autumn was in the air. The city was abuzz, restless with anticipation. Banners hung everywhere and all the talk was of the wedding. Cade and Aren wandered wide-eyed, drinking in their surroundings. They marvelled at the strange fashions and languages, and studied exotic wares in shop windows. Here stood a crumbling fountain, there a fragment of an ornamental wall. The ruins of the Second Empire surrounded them, towering over the streets or hiding round corners, quiet hints of former magnificence.
Cade’s chest swelled with triumph. Look where he was! No longer was he some carpenter’s boy, damned to a small life. He’d endured hardship and terror, but through it he’d found fellowship, a bond forged from shared danger and shared purpose that was altogether different from the knockabout friendships of the dockside boys in Shoal Point. His companions were his brothers and sisters in rebellion. Whether the Greycloaks were real or not, he felt like one now.
What a story he’d have to tell when he returned home, after the land was free again. Wouldn’t Da be proud of him then?
They’d set out with no particular destination in mind, but it soon become clear that Harod, at least, knew where he was going.
‘Have you been here before?’ Aren asked him.
‘In my youth,’ said Harod. ‘The Shacklemarket is this way.’
‘Why’s it called the Shacklemarket?’ Cade asked. Half his attention was taken up with watching Fen, who had a habit of drifting away from them.
‘Because that is where your ancestors sold slaves,’ said Harod, with obvious distaste.
‘Eh? When did Ossians keep slaves?’ Cade asked Aren. Aren had some schooling, even if most of it was Krodan.
‘From the middle years of the Second Empire,’ said Aren, ‘till Queen Vambra outlawed it.’
Cade was appalled. ‘After we were all made slaves by the urds? I thought Jessa Wolf’s-Heart said there’d never be slaves after that?’
Aren shrugged. ‘What’s history but a series of lessons we didn’t learn?’
Harod gave a haughty sniff. ‘Harrow has never allowed slavery,’ he said.
‘You don’t need it. You’ve got tradition,’ said Aren witheringly. ‘And half your country are still slaves.’ With that, he walked off ahead.
Grub cackled. ‘Ha! Bowlhead got his mouth shut by Mudslug. Maybe your sweetheart write a song about that!’ Pleased with himself, he swaggered off after Aren, leaving Harod alone with Cade, taut with indignity.
Cade felt sorry for the big knight. He was over-proud, easily offended and entirely without charm. In Harrow, his noble birth might have shielded him from abuse, but he’d clearly never met anyone like Grub. Highborn wit was no defence against the Skarl’s thuggish mockery, and Grub, for his part, enjoyed having someone even less popular to pick on.
‘He’s just a bit touchy, that’s all,’ Cade offered as an excuse for Aren’s behaviour. ‘Doesn’t like it when people criticise his homeland.’ He thought for a moment, then added, ‘Probably feels guilty for doing it himself all these years.’
‘There is no need to apologise,’ he said. ‘Your friend is correct. The low folk are little more than slaves in my land, without hope of freedom. Their chains are invisible, but no less secure for that. I have nothing to boast of.’
That surprised Cade. He’d never heard Harod admit he was wrong before. Encouraged by this unexpected indication of humanity, he pressed further.
‘And how did your sweet— Er, how did Orica find life in Harrow?’
‘Well enough. Better than Ossia, I daresay.’
He meant to end the conversation, but that only made Cade more determined to keep him talking. Cade took silence as a snub, and he hated nothing more than the thought that someone disliked him.
‘Because of the news about the ghetto?’ Cade prompted.
He gave Cade a sidelong glance. ‘The ghetto, and Tatterfane, and Maresmouth and more besides. She grieves for her people and her family. She cannot even walk the streets of this city. East of here, the roads will only get more dangerous as we near Kroda; but east is where the Sards have been taken. She must choose whether to follow her family to almost certain capture, or abandon her search while she still can.’
‘And go back to Harrow with you?’
Harod kept his eyes stiffly forward. ‘We cannot go back to Harrow.’
They walked on for a short while, till Cade could bear it no longer.
‘Er … why not?’ he prompted.
Harod’s head whipped around and he gave Cade a look of angry disbelief. No one in Harrow would be so impertinent. But they were not in Harrow now, and Cade was nothing if not tactless and intrusive.
‘Well … Because …’ he stammered.
‘You might as well tell me,’ said Cade affably. ‘I’ll only get it out of Orica if you don’t. She’s quite happy to talk about that kind of stuff.’
Harod looked like a man being slowly and gently strangled. ‘You Ossians are quite brazen, aren’t you?’ he observed, his voice weak.
‘Shameless,’ Cade agreed.
Harod swallowed, his larynx bobbing up and down his long neck. ‘Well,’ he said, defeated. ‘Then I suppose I have no choice but to tell you. I am, as you know, a scion of High House Anselm. I was Sar Harod once. I still am, I suppose, but now it seems … inappropriate.’ He took a moment to firm his resolve, and went on. ‘I was betrothed to a daughter of another High House. Our marriage would have secured vital access to a mountain pass for my family, which would have halved the transportation costs of our goods from the coast. The lady was … an admirable woman, intelligent and pleasant of face.’
‘Aye, but did you love her, though?’
Harod visibly flinched at the word. ‘That is not necessary for marriage,’ he said. ‘In Harrow, marriage is a matter of highest political importance, the glue that holds our society together. Only death can put man and wife asunder and even to break a betrothal is unforgivable. It shames the whole family, a crime rank with disgrace that demands compensation.’ His voice wobbled a little at the last.
‘Then Orica came to your father’s house and played for you,’ Cade said, beginning to understand now.
‘A song of such beauty …’ Harod stopped himself as his voice threatened to betray him again.
‘So you left your family and broke off your marriage contract to go with her,’ said Cade in wonderment. ‘You knew you’d be disgraced and exiled. You gave up everything for a song.’
Harod said nothing, his eyes fixed on the middle distance, braced for mockery. But Cade didn’t want to mock him; he was in awe. It was like one of his ma’s tales, a story of heroism, sacrifice and glory such as they told of the old days. He’d never suspected that beneath Harod’s stuffy, solemn exterior beat the heart of a romantic.
‘I hope I hear a song like that one day,’ he said. Then he gave Harod a pat on the arm and walked on ahead to catch up with Aren. Harod watched him go, faintly surprised by the boy’s reaction.
Unseen by anyone, a small smile of pride touched his lips.
The Shacklemarket was aswarm, a bewildering churn of people of all ages and races milling beneath a webwork of bunting and banners. It was held beneath the coral-coloured roof of the Parthena, a shallow dome standing on a dozen pillars that still bore the memory of thousand-year-old murals. Statues worn to lumps rested on corbels projecting from the dome’s interior, aloof from the chaos below. Sparrows darted restlessly in the heights.
‘Grub need some time to himself,’ Grub told them, eyeing the crowd hungrily. His fingers wriggled in anticipation. ‘He find you all later.’ He slid off into the market, oozing nefarious intent. Harod excused himself, too, and went to seek the items Orica needed.
Fen hovered on the edge of the market, shuffling from foot to foot and looking less than enthusiastic.
‘Come on, let’s go in,’ Aren urged her gently.
Cade frowned at his tone. There was some meaning there that he was missing, something in the w
ay he said it. With an unpleasant shock, he realised there were private signals passing between them, right under his nose. Fen gave Aren a look that Cade couldn’t read, then she nodded and they went inside. Cade trailed after them, his mood souring.
They went from stall to stall, amazed at what they saw. A swarthy Carthanian sold caged cats of many breeds. A Xulan chimericist showed off a live feathered snake that he professed was his own creation, and charged passers-by a decim to touch it, or a half-guilder to have it draped around them. One stall was piled with fruit they’d never heard of before; another offered antique urd jewellery dug from the earth.
They found a vendor selling carvings of elaru whitewood. Fen, who was keen on whittling, stopped to admire them, turning them over in her hands. Aren picked one up and showed it to her. She gasped in delight, and Cade felt a bitter slither of envy in his gut. How had he missed it? Now he remembered Aren comforting her in Skavengard; the way he stayed back to help her along that ledge; the two of them creeping off into the woods to ‘hunt’. A dozen other moments sprang to mind. He’d suspected something was up, but he’d never really let himself believe it.
Perhaps it was his talk with Harod that had opened his eyes, turned his thoughts to romance. Now he looked with a sharper gaze at the object of his affection, and he saw what should have been obvious all along.
They moved on. Fen flinched as she was buffeted in the press of people, shying away from an elderly woman who shoved past with vigour belied by her years. Presently they came to an open space that was less crowded, away from the centre, where stalls sold clothes and knick-knacks and sweetmeats. Her eye was caught by a fletcher’s stall, and she headed over to see about some arrows. Aren made to go with her, but Cade stopped him.
‘Hoy,’ he said quietly. ‘Why’s she acting weird?’
Aren couldn’t resist a final glance at Fen’s back as she went. ‘She’s not used to crowds,’ said Aren. ‘She grew up in a cabin in the woods. Before she left the forest, the biggest town she ever saw was smaller than Shoal Point.’
How easily that knowledge tripped off his tongue. Why had she told Aren that, and not him? Didn’t he entertain her with his stories? Didn’t he make her laugh?
Aren’s eyes had strayed to her again, checking on her. The fletcher was trying to engage her in conversation as she perused his wares, without much success.
‘Have you two done it?’ Cade asked suddenly. The question welled up out of him, unstoppable as vomit.
Aren looked puzzled. ‘It?’
‘It!’ said Cade, making an obscene gesture with his fingers to demonstrate.
Aren gaped. ‘No!’ he cried. ‘No, of course we haven’t. Why are you even asking that?’
‘Huh. Why? Reckon you know why,’ Cade said. He sounded sullen and didn’t care.
Aren was bewildered. ‘Cade, she’s not interested in me. Not like that.’
Cade pounced. ‘So you’re interested in her?’
Aren opened his mouth to form a denial, but no words came out. Maybe he didn’t know the answer himself, then. Cade could see him formulating something diplomatic, the kind of meaningless response he was good at, so he decided to get in first.
‘I love her,’ he said hotly. ‘Laugh if you like, but it’s true. I love her, and she’s going to love me, once she gets to know me well enough.’
He waited for Aren to make a joke, to call it one of his fleeting crushes. He was ready to respond with anger. But Aren just sagged, as if a great weight had settled on him.
‘Well,’ he said sadly. ‘Then there it is.’
It wasn’t the reaction Cade had expected. Too late, he realised what he’d done. He’d laid claim to her, and by doing so he’d forbidden Aren from ever acting on his feelings. It was an ultimatum: choose her and lose me. He hadn’t meant it like that, but that was what it meant. He wanted to take it back, but he didn’t know how.
At last he understood the feeling that had been growing inside him ever since that day when the Iron Hand came to Shoal Point, and two boys were taken away from home for ever. ‘Everything’s changing, ain’t it?’ he said.
‘No,’ said Aren, wearing the smile of a brave liar. ‘No, it’s not.’
‘It is,’ Cade said, and he wanted to cry. ‘But the worst thing is, I can’t seem to stop it.’
Cade saw in his eyes that he’d been thinking the same thing. The uncomplicated loyalty of youth couldn’t survive outside the sheltered lands of home and childhood. Something else was taking its place, something fraught with doubt and conflict. He wasn’t sure they’d ever again be the friends they once were, and it frightened him.
Once, Cade had been happy to be led by Aren in all things, but no longer. He wanted to be his own man, he wanted to be a Greycloak, and he wasn’t sure Aren really did. Aren’s heart was set on finding the answers to his father’s death, not revolution. He was obsessed with Garric, and Cade was starting to find his anger tiresome. Garric was a hero who’d saved their lives over and over. It was the Krodans that killed Randill, not him. The worst Garric had done was hit Aren a few times, and it was hard for Cade to see what the fuss was about there, since he was no stranger to a clouting from his da. He knew Aren’s feelings on the issue were complex and all, but couldn’t he just let it go?
Then there was Fen. The only girl in their new world. She divided them just by existing.
‘I wish we could go back to how it was,’ Cade said.
‘Nothing’s changed, Cade,’ Aren assured him; but there was something desperate in his voice. ‘It’s still you and me, always.’
Cade nodded glumly. ‘Aye. You and me,’ he said, his heart slowly sinking.
‘You and me and Grub!’ said Grub, slinging an unwelcome arm round their shoulders. He gave them a hideous grin. ‘What we talking about?’
Cade shoved him off, annoyed. The smell of him up close was like an ambush.
‘Dumbface not want to be friends?’ Grub asked, pooching out his lower lip in a parody of sadness. ‘Grub’s heart is broken.’
‘Find anything interesting?’ Aren asked, before Cade could come up with a snappy retort. He’d always had more patience with the Skarl than Cade did.
‘Grub find many things! Ossians leave all sorts of valuables lying around. Lying around in their pockets,’ he added with a smirk.
Aren sighed. ‘You’ll bring the Watch down on us.’
Grub shrugged. ‘You didn’t want Grub to steal, shouldn’t have brought him to a market.’
Cade rolled his eyes. ‘No one brought you anywh—’
‘Ho! You there!’ A neat young Krodan man in an expensive waistcoat pushed through the crowd. ‘Yes, you! The Skarl!’
Grub adopted an expression of comical innocence, ruined by Aren’s obvious look of alarm. Cade gave Grub a furious glare. Trust that fool to attract trouble now, when they needed it least!
But the highborn man didn’t seem angry. ‘Please, if you would wait a moment. My wife is just coming. We saw you in the crowd and she’s very eager to meet you. It’s rare that she comes across someone from her homeland. Ah, here she is!’
Grub’s expression went from innocence to fear. ‘Grub has to go,’ he said, but it was too late. A Skarl woman appeared next to her husband, flustered from the chase. She was tall, square-featured and striking, her hair in a complex arrangement of plaits. An elegant band of tiny tattoos followed her jawline and hairline, and curled around the socket of her left eye. She wore an excited smile, which froze as she laid eyes on Grub, and then drained slowly from her face.
‘Aye, he’s no looker, is he?’ Cade joked; but nobody laughed, and he knew he’d misjudged the situation. The woman’s eagerness turned to hate and disgust, and Grub shrank before her.
‘Is something wrong, my love?’ the Krodan asked.
‘Khannaqut!’ she snarled in the angular language of her homeland. ‘Skin-thief!’ And she hawked and spat in Grub’s face.
‘Alenda!’ her husband cried in surprise, but she’d swept off
into the crowd. He offered them a look of embarrassed apology and chased after her.
Fen returned from the fletcher’s stall to find Grub trembling, his face burning red and a wad of greasy phlegm inching down his cheek. He turned and blundered away, pushing shoppers aside.
‘Hoy, Grub!’ Cade called after him. ‘There’s still something on your face!’
Aren gave him an angry look, which surprised and hurt Cade. ‘I’ll go after him. You stay with Fen.’
‘Eh? What are you going after him for? He spends his whole life mocking everyone else. Let him be upset. Do him good to know how it feels.’
‘I’m going after him because he’s one of us,’ said Aren sharply. ‘And that’s what we do.’
With that, he left. Cade felt something leave with him, some butterfly-light emotion too vague to be named, fluttering out of his grasp. But he’d never been good with that sort of thing, so he shook off his unease and gave Fen his best fake smile instead.
‘Well, then,’ he said. ‘Looks like it’s you and me.’
68
Skin-thief!
Grub’s blood beat in his ears, throat hot, teeth gritted. He’d wiped away the woman’s spit with his sleeve but he still felt it there as he hurried through the streets, dizzy with rage and shame, barely aware of the people he was pushing past.
Skin-thief!
Memories swarmed up, of another woman who spat at him. The one who found him in the longhall feasting with heroes, who accused him and brought him down. His former friends dragged him to the priests’ black stone halls and threw him before the Sombre Men to answer his accuser.
Skin-thief!
The Sombre Men had listened, shaggy-haired and rancid, mouldering furs piled about their shoulders beneath sagging wide-brimmed hats. Their eyes were hidden behind bands of rag, and on each rag was daubed a new eye: the eye of Urgotha, the Bone God, who saw all lies. Beneath their blind gazes he told his story, protesting his innocence till the end.
When he was finished, the foremost of the Sombre Men leaned forward, skinned back lips over rotten teeth and spoke the word that would damn him.
The Ember Blade Page 57