“I have just the thing,” said Pavek, holding up a large dark grey cloak with an attached hood. “Feel that!”
Hava ran her hand over the material and nodded. There was a slightly oily feeling to the wool, so it would repel water for some time. “I know from experience that wet wool is the worst thing to be wearing in the cold.”
“I thought you said you came from a warmer land?”
She kept her smile. “My father was a horse trader and we traveled a lot.”
“Ah,” said the merchant with a nod of the head.
Hava spent a few minutes looking at other items but had already decided to buy the cloak. It gave her a reasonable excuse to be in the market, and besides it was true that Hatu had nothing to wear outside in foul weather.
The climate on their home island was fairly constant year-round, rarely getting cold enough to notice. Rains came regularly, but they were of short duration and warm. Occasionally a storm would come through, lasting a day or two, but they were not often extreme.
Here the weather from the coast came down from the Ice Floes and the Westlands, and it could be very cold. Mostly the climate was temperate, but when it wasn’t, fireplaces were ablaze and warm clothing and heavy boots were the order of the day, according to what Gwen had told her. Short-sleeved shirts, simple cotton trousers, and sandals, common in Coaltachin, were unheard of in Marquensas.
After settling on a price for the cloak, Hava asked Pavek, “The two men you were talking to who left as I arrived . . .”
“Yes?”
“They’re staying at our inn, but truth to tell . . . well, they keep to themselves and I’ve barely spoken two words to them.”
“That’s odd,” said Pavek. “All they did was chat. Didn’t buy a damned thing.”
“Odd,” agreed Hava.
“They kept talking about travelers who might have passed through sometime recently. A man or a woman, a boy and a girl, they couldn’t seem to make up their minds. They only mentioned one thing they agreed on: the man, woman, or child would have bright red hair, copper and gold in the sunlight.”
Hava feigned indifference as she picked up a woolen scarf, which was actually quite nicely made. “Quite a few people with red hair around here, aren’t there?”
“Aren’t there?” agreed Pavek. “I think they’re idiots looking for the legendary Firemane child.”
Hava made an instant decision to pretend ignorance. “I’m sorry, the what?”
“You must come from a long way off. The legend of the Firemane . . . well, it’s an eastern kingdom, or was,” began the merchant. He then launched into a quick retelling of the legend of the fall of Ithrace and the rumor of the lost child. There was even something about a curse involved, he claimed.
Hava was relieved to hear a jumble of facts and fancy that bore little resemblance to what she and Hatu had learned from the baron.
Pavek finished by saying, “There’s word that the King of Sandura will pay a man’s weight in gold to learn of the child’s whereabouts. Though, come to think of it, that battle was so long ago, he or she is hardly a child anymore, right?”
“If you say so,” said Hava. “I’ll take this scarf, too. How much?”
The haggling took the merchant’s mind off the story of the Firemane, and as she walked back to the inn, Hava wondered what the two men were playing at. There was something Hatu hadn’t shared with her yet, and she imagined it would help make a bit more sense of the story. This wandering about openly searching for the legendary heir must be a bid to draw attention. But from whom? wondered Hava.
Obviously Hatu was doing his level best not to be discovered, and the reason for his hair always being colored since childhood now made complete sense to both him and Hava. Now that they were clearly alerted, they would be doubly cautious in keeping Hatu’s identity secret.
Agents connected to the Church could never be this artless, so their behavior must be by design. The men would surely know their outspoken questions would bring a reaction, so again the question: Whose attention were they seeking?
Hava was so lost in thought that she almost walked past the inn, and suddenly she realized that the answer was simple: there was another player in this game. Someone besides those already known: two men and their masters in the Church, Hava’s masters in Coaltachin, and the baron and his brother. Before entering the inn she paused, holding her bundle of newly purchased clothing. The key question was: Who was the new player?
The wagon rolled up to the gate Declan had used before when delivering weapons to the baron. Hatu said, “How long to finish your business, Declan?” They had spent an uneventful night sleeping under the wagon, so they were arriving in the city just as it was coming alive with the morning’s clamor.
Declan said, “The wagon will be unloaded in an hour at most, but I don’t know how long the baron will keep me waiting to make my report.”
Hatu nodded. “I’ll be quick as I can. I don’t have much to secure, just a few things Hava wants that can’t be bought in Beran’s Hill.”
Declan nodded. “Leon prided himself on . . . delicacies, he called them. Some cheeses, strange fruit—at least I thought it tasted strange—exotic nuts, and of course—”
“His whisky,” interjected Hatu with a smile. “I’ll have some porters lug what I buy here, and if you’re not out, we’ll wait for you over there.” He pointed to a space that stood empty almost opposite the gate.
Declan said, “If I finish first, I’ll park the wagon there.”
“I’m off,” said Hatu with a wave, and started walking toward the old keep.
Declan waved after him, then drove his wagon to the gate. The soldiers on duty recognized him from previous deliveries and motioned him through, and he moved his cargo around to the stabling yard where he had first come to visit.
It took only a few minutes to get the unloading started, and he walked toward the central keep of the sprawling castle. As he had anticipated, the baron’s body servant, Balven, exited before Declan got there. “Declan!”
“Sir,” said Declan, still unsure exactly how to address the baron’s illegitimate brother.
“Full order?” asked Balven, stopping before the smith.
“Yes, sir. Twenty-four new swords, and that shield you asked me to make.”
“Ah,” said Balven. “What did you think of it?”
“It’s a bit heavy to lug around the battlefield, I think.” The shield was one of the baron’s notions, for men to stand against a cavalry charge. Baron Dumarch had called it a “leaf shield,” though the resemblance to a leaf on any tree Declan had ever seen was vague. It stood to shoulder height, with long sides, a slightly curved top, and a pointed end that could be planted firmly in the soil. Trained men in line formed a virtual wall, and Declan imagined that men standing just behind with long spears or pikes would stop all but the most determined charge. But the shield was three or four times heavier than the smaller round or heater shields he had been taught to fashion.
“I’m sure it is, but it may prove useful in defending a position.”
“Might I suggest a wooden frame instead of this metal one? It would lower costs and be quicker to fashion. Good hardwood would be as effective, even with the reduction in weight. Only your strongest men could lug one of these around all day and not be exhausted.”
Balven considered this. “Make one and we’ll test it against lances, side by side with this one.”
Declan nodded. “If I might ask, sir, where did the baron come up with this idea?”
“From a book,” said Balven with a laugh. “The baron is the best-read man I’ve ever known. He got that from his father.”
Declan nodded. The one time he had visited the inside of the castle he’d seen it had shelves full of books, more than he had ever imagined existed in the world.”
Balven quickly inspected the swords and nodded his approval. He handed a purse to Declan. “Is there anything else?”
“There is one thing, sir,” said t
he young smith. He recounted Molly Bowman’s description of the men who had arrived in Beran’s Hill a few days earlier.
When he had finished, Balven looked slightly concerned. “You did well to bring us that news, Declan. Armed men, and . . . and castellans, from what you said, disguised as mercenaries . . .” He took a deep breath. “This is very troubling. Wait here while I bring this to the baron’s attention.”
“Very well, sir,” said Declan, as Balven turned back toward the doorway into the keep. He hoped this didn’t take too long, as he wanted to start back as soon as Hatu returned. If they pushed on with a lightened wagon, they could arrive home a few hours after sunset, and he’d much rather spend his night in bed with Gwen than under a wagon with Hatu.
After an hour had passed, without Balven’s return or Hatushaly’s, Declan felt a rising sense of resignation that he would be forced to stay the night and depart the following morning, but eventually, the baron’s man appeared and said, “You’re free to go, smith. My lord will investigate this matter.”
Balven turned his back before Declan could ask even a single question and left the annoyed young man alone. Declan took a breath and decided it best to ask the closest soldier where he could stable his wagon and find lodgings.
When Hatu got close to the river that cut through the eastern third of the city, he found the Sign of the Gulls. He entered and looked around for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom and doing a quick inventory of faces.
His first thought upon taking in these surroundings was that his inn was a palace compared with this one—a waterfront inn with dockworkers, rivermen, whores, and no doubt an abundant supply of criminals.
He took another moment and saw a man standing in the corner behind the bar. He waved away an approaching whore, a girl who looked younger than Hava had been before she was sent to the Powdered Women, and she quickly retreated. Hatu made his way to the barman and said, “I have a message for Grandfather.”
“I’ll give it to him,” answered the barman. He was a lanky, blond-haired man of middle years, broad shouldered and with enough marks on his face and neck to label him a brawler.
“I have a message for Grandfather,” repeated Hatu.
The man pulled a large cudgel out from under the bar and said, “He’s not here. As I said, give me the message and I’ll see he gets it.”
“I have a message for Grandfather,” Hatu repeated a third time.
Immediately the barman put the cudgel back under the bar and said, “Come with me.”
He led Hatu through a door behind the bar, through a filthy kitchen, and down a flight of stairs. The cellar was below the level of the river, Hatu reckoned, seeing how the stones in the wall seeped. A miasma of mold, stale beer, and deceased rodents left unburied almost made him gag, but he fought back the reflex.
They worked their way through a chaos of empty pallets, stacks of barrels, abandoned crates, and half-filled sacks to reach an unblocked section of wall. It was a maze with a purpose, Hatu decided; you would have to know exactly where you were going down here in order to find this space.
They had reached the other side of the storage room, as far from the stairs leading down from the inn above as possible, Hatu judged. The barman pushed on a stone, and a door revealed itself, swinging away easily, wood painted to look like the bricks that surrounded it.
They walked down a sloping, stone-walled tunnel with a ceiling reinforced with supports and beams like those one would find in a mine. Water dripped from the ceiling, so it must run under the edge of the river, Hatu calculated. At last they came to a well-lit room.
A man sat at a table looking at what appeared to be ledgers, which he covered with a cloth as soon as he saw the barman with Hatu.
No words were exchanged as the barman turned and began his way back. “Yes?” said the man at the table. He was well dressed, looking more like a merchant of some importance than a master criminal, which Hatu knew he must be to hold the position of this city’s crew boss.
“Who is the message for?” asked the man behind the table.
Hatu said, “Master Bodai.”
“Alone?”
“No other,” said Hatu, “save Zusara.”
The man stood and removed the covered book and cloth. “I am neither’s man. Can you write?”
“Yes,” said Hatu.
The man set the ledger down on a shelf, produced clean paper and a pen and a glass inkwell, then fetched a stick of sealing wax and a seal. “When you’ve finished your message, fold it twice and seal it with wax. Leave it here on the table; do not carry it up to the taproom. When you have left the inn, I shall return and send it off. I assume there’s some urgency?”
Hatu nodded. “Great urgency.”
The man said, “I’ll have a man start downriver tonight. We have a fast ship near the mouth of the Narrows and it will be safely aboard by the day after tomorrow. With favorable winds, it should be in the hands of one of the masters within the week.” He paused, then added, “Should a reply come, where will I find you?”
“Beran’s Hill, at the Inn of the Three Stars. I am the proprietor.”
The man nodded once and turned and walked up the tunnel.
Hatu moved behind the table and sat down as the man departed. He paused for a moment to organize his thoughts, then dipped his pen in the inkwell and began to write.
4
Reflections and Bloodshed
Daylon Dumarch, Baron of Marquensas, listened to his half brother sum up Declan’s report and sat back in his chair. When Balven concluded the baron asked, “What do you think?”
“Castellans? Escorting someone through miles of the barony, only to drop him off out of sight at the edge of the town?” Balven shrugged. “It can’t be anything good.”
“Agreed, but whose man is he?”
“There’s a small chance it’s not what we imagine,” said Balven. He glanced out a north-facing window, as if he could somehow magically see Beran’s Hill from where he stood, then said, “But there’s a very good chance it’s Lodavico.”
“Or the Church,” said the baron, taking a deep breath. “They are none too pleased with me lately, as their missives make clear.”
“In the politest manner possible,” added Balven.
“I’ve seen what they’re doing across the rest of the twin continents, and it’s clear they seek domination—with influence rather than armies, but given enough control over the likes of Lodavico, they don’t need their own army.”
“If you just let them burn the occasional heretic,” said Balven dryly, “they’ll stop complaining.”
“Perhaps,” replied the baron. “But it would cede control, and that I oppose. Their rising power concerns me. And I don’t care which god anyone else worships.” The last was said with a dismissive tone and a shrug.
“Because you do not believe in gods,” said Balven. “I believe you’ve been inside a shrine or temple . . . three times . . . in what, the last five years?”
“There are rites that need observing: prayers for the dead, sanctifying a marriage, anointing an heir. I respect the rituals, and the need people have to observe them, but I stopped believing in the gods years ago. Too many people I loved have died needlessly.”
Balven knew that his half brother was thinking of his first wife, who had died in their third year of marriage. That was when he believed Daylon had started to lose his faith.
“The rise of the Church is far more about the ambitions of men than any divine purpose I can perceive.”
“Well, that may be,” said Balven, “but whatever the cause, there are real consequences attached to your choices, and those choices are narrowing, and soon you’ll be left with two: submission or opposition. But at the moment it’s still possible to come to an accommodation.”
“Accommodation?” Daylon said, seemingly on the verge of laughter. “You mean a long pause while the Church consolidates its power, builds churches, converts more of my people, then finally demands to b
e recognized as the only true faith?”
Balven said nothing.
“Or they’ll decide on who the next baron is as soon as I’m burned at the stake?” added Daylon.
Balven tilted his head slightly in a gesture both men knew meant he conceded the point. As boys growing up together, they had developed a host of small signs and signals that stood in lieu of words.
“If the Church has agents poking around Beran’s Hill,” said the baron, “that means they’re probing for the weakest point of attack.”
“Where you want them to attack, at Beran’s Hill,” conceded Balven. “But it seems a premature reconnaissance given they still have some unfinished conflicts on the other side of Passage Town. Even Lodavico isn’t rash enough to launch a separate offensive and split his forces.”
Daylon nodded. “Perhaps he is hearing rumors of our Firemane ghost and wants to investigate their validity.”
“That ghost looked rather hale last we saw him,” replied Balven. “Though young Sefan may find himself a true ghost soon enough.”
“One thing,” interjected Daylon.
“What?”
“His name, Sefan. I never remembered to ask, how do you know that was his given name? No note was left with him.”
Balven looked distracted for a moment. “Whoever brought him to your pavilion . . .” He shook his head slightly. “I still wish to know how he, or she if it was his nurse, got in and out without detection.”
“The question?”
“I had a few agents tucked away in a couple of bands of mercenaries who went with Lodavico’s forces, and not every single person in Ithrace was killed, just most of them. One of the bits of information one of our men returned with was that the queen’s unexpected baby was a boy. Very few know that, so there’s rampant speculation as to whether it’s a boy or a girl. He also found out the baby was to be blessed after the battle, when the king came home, and given the name of Steveren’s—”
“Great-Uncle Sefan,” interrupted the baron. “That makes sense.” He let out a long breath that was almost a sigh. “The eldest son had been named for Steveren’s father, the second for the queen’s father, the small boy for his grandfather. So as the queen had no uncles, that left the king’s only . . .” He smiled at his half brother’s clever mind. “Yes, Sefan.” Then he laughed out loud. “Besides, who is there to contradict you?”
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