“What happened to him?”
Draig forced a smile past the sadness in his eyes. “Good death. A fire, in a bakery. Spreading across Cairnabel. He help to put it out. Put shoulder to shoulders of bakers, tanners, soldiers. Covered in soot and ash. Tried to rescue elfs trapped in house.” Draig said no more. He didn’t have to.
“He sounds like a great elf.”
Draig nodded and looked at Neirin. “Yes,” he said, in a way that suggested the son was not like the father.
“You were there?”
“Yes. Brega and me. Both to protect him.” Tom could hear the sense of failure in his voice.
“But he had a good death. That’s the important thing, right?”
Draig stood, forcing Tom to tip back his head painfully. “Good death is good for dead, Tom,” he said. “Does not help the living.”
When they rode again, Draig rode alone, pensive and troubled. Tom let him be.
As the sun set they came to a town Hullworth identified as Amber’s Point. After a day on the road Tom was looking forward to a bed and a rest from the pitiful glances and well-meaning words. But Katharine advised against stopping there.
“They build parts for ships,” she told them. “But with trade with the West and the Marches cut off, there’ll be no demand. That will leave purses lighter and Regent’s reward will be too desirable. It’s not safe.”
“You think they would dare accost us?” Neirin asked. “Ignore their own Judge and risk war with the Angles?”
“I think empty bellies trump good judgement every time.”
Both Hullworth and Neirin had disagreed but, by the end of the discussion, Katharine had persuaded them to avoid all of the towns and villages they would find on the coastal road. Instead they camped in hidden spaces, unused caves and thick forests. Tom found sleep elusive. He kept dreaming of Topknot climbing out of that grave and finding him in the dark, putting cold, dirty hands around his neck and choking the life out of him.
Before they slept, Draig gave him his sword lessons, ignoring Neirin’s looks of disapproval.
“It is good to know a sword,” Draig said as they swung padded blades at each other. “Better not to use it.”
He gave Tom Siomi’s sword and shield; Brega wouldn’t give hers up. “Do I need the shield?” Tom asked. “Can’t I block with the sword?” The scimitar felt too heavy to hold in one hand. The shield was heavy too, a teardrop of metal and wood with a sigil painted on the front.
Draig looked embarrassed for him. “Blocking with sword, it will blunt the blade.”
Brega snickered and Tom glowered at her. How was he supposed to know?
Draig was a patient teacher but made it clear he was only going to show Tom the basics, enough to survive until someone could come to his aid. “To know a sword, it takes many years.”
Yet he had seen himself fighting with skill and precision, as if he had handled a sword all his life. And he hadn’t been holding a shield either. Perhaps he’d been wrong. Perhaps Draig wasn’t meant to teach him after all.
One morning he woke from another nightmare, crying out. Unseasonal fog was rolling over them, making him cold and damp. Siomi sat around the remnants of their fire with her skull mask in her lap; they had climbed down from the road the night before, making camp under an outcrop of rock that aspired to a cave. It had made a fire safe and they had hot food and unnerving shadows.
“Are you well, Tom?” She didn’t open her eyes. She sat with crossed legs, hands in her lap. Meditating, perhaps.
“Just a bad dream.” He’d dreamt Topknot’s friends had cut their bonds and buried their dead friend’s axe in his chest. He touched his breastbone. Intact. Of course it was. But it had felt very real.
Siomi nodded and made a sound that suggested understanding.
“Sorry if I interrupted.”
“You did. But that isn’t a problem.” Her voice was low, serene. It was quite soothing and Tom could feel himself relaxing. “I was just reflecting on the previous day.”
“Oh.” Hunting through her actions for any wrongs or misdeeds. He felt like a voyeur, intruding on a private ceremony. “I can give you some privacy?”
“No need.” She opened her eyes and they were smiling. “I appreciate the company. Keeping the last watch is so lonely. The night creatures go to sleep and those of the day have not awoken yet.”
Tom nodded. He climbed to his feet, joints cracking in the cold. He tried to ignore the aches in his back and neck. Camping was a young man’s sport.
They sat in silence for a time. Tom didn’t mind. It felt like both companionship and solitude at one. There was no pressure to talk, no obligation to do anything but sit. It left Tom feeling a peace he hadn’t felt in a long time.
“Do you mind if I ask a question?” he murmured. His voice felt vulgar in the quiet.
“Not at all.”
“Your philosophy, the Eastern philosophy, death is all that matters.”
“That is a simplification. But yes, death is important. Death is the end of our stories. The end is what matters most.”
“So why do you do this?” He gestured to the mask in her lap, facing up at her. “Why worry about what happens in your life if death is what matters most?”
Siomi nodded and spoke to the mask. “It is a good question, Tom. Many agree with you.” She picked up the mask and turned it so it faced him. “This is my grandmother. She was a wise elf.” She ran a hand over the forehead and Tom suppressed a shudder. Even in her peaceful company, turning a grandmother’s skull into a mask seemed grotesque. “She told me once that death is the end of our journey but it is not the destination.”
Tom nodded. But he didn’t understand. “So what is the destination?”
She turned the mask back and looked into the eyes. “Whatever it wants to be.”
“Not whatever we want it to be?”
She shook her head. “How many times have you thought you were going to one place only to end up in another?” When Tom didn’t answer, she said. “You see the things to come, Tom. Can they be changed?”
Tom shook his head.
“Then it cannot be us that decides our destination.”
Tom shifted. The idea that something else was deciding the course of his life made him uncomfortable. He knew the future was unavoidable. But it was his choices that would give birth to his future. Wasn’t it?
“So I know the end of my journey. And I know the destination will find me.” Siomi put the mask back in her lap, straightening the straps with care. “So the only thing left to me is the journey. I would make it the best I can. I would leave no regrets in my wake.”
Tom looked over at Katharine, still sleeping. Six lay not too far from her.
“Does it make you feel better?” he asked.
“Not always,” Siomi replied. “But making oneself a better person doesn’t always feel good.”
“But you’ll always make mistakes,” Tom said. “You can’t make yourself perfect.”
“No.” She closed her eyes again and settled back into her position. “But that doesn’t mean I should stop trying.”
He watched her meditate. Was it futility, to strive towards a goal you could never achieve? Or admirable? Tom wasn’t sure. He looked back at Katharine, feeling the weight of his deception. If he told her that he had Six lie for him, would it make him a better person? You couldn’t change the past any more than the future.
The present disappeared in a sharp instant.
“Your foresight is like an echo of mine,” said the old man. He was lying down, looking tired and weak. The tent flapped and the air was filled with the roar of the wind. “You remember the future, just like you remember the past. But memory changes. What you remember today is not what you will remember tomorrow.”
“Does that mean my foresight can be wrong?” he asked. “Can the future change?”
“No.” He made no attempt to hide his bitterness. “Just our understanding of it.”
Knight’s Cro
ssing was a town seated at the closest point to the Harbour and that was its sole reason for its existence. Any trade or journey to the Harbour passed through Knight’s Crossing, making it prosperous. Tom guessed it was ten times the size of Cei’s Cove and, though its buildings were squat and rarely rose above two stories, there were lights and people and noise. The men were bearded and the women wore trousers, and Tom got the feeling that everything had a purpose, even if its only purpose was entertainment. There were no airs here, no Eastern or Western influences, no attempts to imitate the noble fashions. Clothing was for keeping warm and dry, and the dyes were almost an afterthought though none the worse for it.
“Why is this place safe if the other towns weren’t?” Brega was sullen. Camping didn’t suit her temperament.
“It’s close to Cairnalyr,” Katharine answered. “The law is easier to ignore when you’re far away from the lawmakers. But when you live in their shadow?”
Hullworth agreed. “Knight’s Crossing is one of the most law-abiding towns we have.”
Still, Tom felt uneasy. They were still a curiosity and everyone watched them as they passed. It would only take a handful of Erhenni to decide it was worth the risk and he’d be carted back off to Regent. They stopped in the town square whilst Hullworth talked to the ferrymaster; it was the only way to cross the water to the Harbour, where Cairnalyr lay.
“Ferry won’t run overnight,” the ferrymaster told them. When he spoke his mouth showed far too few teeth. His face and his head were speckled with patchy grey stubble. “Sea’s angry. Won’t risk losing you folk overboard in the dark.”
“Very well,” said Neirin. “We will be on the first ferry tomorrow morning.”
The man nodded.
“Very good. See to your prisoners, Hullworth. Katharine, find us a bed for the night.”
Katharine began to lead them towards the sea front, leaving Hullworth alone with the mercenaries. “My lord,” said Tom. “Shouldn’t someone go with Judge Hullworth? We know these are dangerous men.”
Neirin waved a hand without stopping. “If you will, Master Rymour.”
“I hadn’t meant myself,” he replied but Neirin either didn’t hear or didn’t care. They rode down the street, leaving him. He couldn’t believe it. He had a bounty on his head and Neirin just rode away. He looked over at Hullworth. Would the boy take him prisoner?
“Don’t worry, Master Rymour. I can handle them.” Tom’s fears disappeared; the boy seemed terrified. He felt sorry for him.
“It can’t hurt to have someone to help,” Tom said.
There was no need, however. Knight’s Crossing had a proper gaol, a squat and hardy building that laired behind the square. Clean and coldly utilitarian, they were met by the local Judge and five other men he called his Hands. This Judge was old and grizzled, a permanent droop to his lips and a tremble in his hand. The Hands were grim and hard and they took hold of the prisoners and hauled them into small, dark cells. Seeing their rough work raised Tom’s fears anew.
The true test was the paperwork. Hullworth had to sign something attesting to the men’s well-being, to the date and time they had passed into the other Judge’s care, the crimes they stood accused of, a list of their personal possessions, and so on. Tom found himself standing in an empty cell, trying to read the graffiti scratched into the thick wooden walls and trying not to smell the smells that had soaked into them. He came from a time when gaols were rare, when criminals were either sentenced to death, the stocks, or the well. Looking at the tiny, windowless cell Tom thought the well was a better fate. Cold and wet, yes, but at least you could see the sky.
Hullworth signed his last piece of paper and the local Judge huffed and sent them away. So much paper. Erhenned must have been a richer duchy than Tom had thought to afford it. He understood now why Erhenni were called sailors and lawmakers.
The square was dark and cold but the air was fresh and clear, the smell of the sea scrubbing the gaol from Tom’s nose. Hullworth wore a weak smile and his relief was palpable.
“First time?” Tom asked.
Hullworth nodded. “We don’t have much trouble in the Cove. Fights or stealing for most part. I can fine them. But thieves and murderers, foreign lords getting attacked? It’s the most excitement the Cove has ever seen.”
Tom thought of Topknot lying in the ground. “I wouldn’t have called it exciting.”
“No. Sorry.” Hullworth led them back to the square. “Don’t be angry, Master Rymour, but why does Duke Regent want you back?” The question was oddly hurtful, as if it questioned Tom’s entire worth. “What did you do?”
How honest could he be? Hullworth might be just a boy, but if he decided to imprison Tom those Hands would make quick work of it. “I left,” was all he said.
“Without the duke’s permission?” Was that surprise? Was he preparing to call for the Hands?
“My task is an important one,” he replied. “I couldn’t make Regent see that.”
“Your business with Duke Ria,” Hullworth said, as if he knew all about it.
Tom imagined Maev welcoming him with open arms. “Nothing is more important.”
“Regent has asked Duke Ria to turn you over to him.”
Tom stopped his horse and pretended his heart wasn’t hammering in his chest. “What will you do, Judge Hullworth?” he asked. “I’m alone. Unprotected. Easy to take into custody.” So all Tom could do was challenge him. Call his bluff. “Without me, Erhenned will fall.” Because there was no other way Maev would grant Neirin an audience.
Hullworth sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Way I see it, you’ve broken no laws of Erhenned. No reason for me to get involved.”
Tom relaxed and allowed himself a smile. “Thank you, Judge Hullworth.”
The boy smiled. “Call me Jago.”
“Call me Tom.”
Jago seemed to know where he was going so Tom followed. It turned out they were headed to the waterfront, a long stretch of taverns and shops. It seemed bigger than it needed to be. The taverns advertised ‘rooms’, ‘best beds’ and ‘stay for cheap’. Their doors were all open but little noise bled out into the night. Many of the shops were shuttered and dark. The whole place seemed as if it ought to be a riot of activity but was instead deserted.
When Tom said so to Jago, the boy nodded. “Our old Judge told me this was the heart of Knight’s Crossing. But Ria told everyone to leave, that and the Harbour. Only people left are them that have to be.”
“Leave?”
Jago nodded. “Sent them inland or south, away from the city.”
“In case you’re invaded?”
The boy’s eyebrows leapt up his forehead. “Is that why?”
“It would make sense.” What sort of judge would he make if he couldn’t make that connection?
“By the Westerners?” The boy shook his head. “They’re invading the Heel next.”
Tom shrugged. “Do you know that for a fact?”
Jago shook his head again and retreated into thought, leaving Tom to find the others. It wasn’t difficult. They were in the finest tavern, the only one showing a ‘full’ sign. Neirin had hired the entire building.
“It did not cost much,” he said when they sat down. “And we get a modicum of privacy.”
The bar had a few other patrons, including one man with a lute and a purse at his feet. He was playing a tune Tom recognised as belonging to The Ballad of Thomas Rymour. Tom blushed and said to Jago, “Does he have to be here?”
“No.”
“Shouldn’t you tell him to go?” Tom didn’t want to hear the song the man was threatening to play.
“Our old Judge told me to pick my battles. I tell him to go, he’ll just go to another tavern. And his pocket is lighter for it.” The boy shrugged. “Not everyone does what they’re told.”
Tom turned back to the lutist but saw instead Neirin astride a horse in dark city streets, surrounded by smoke and screams.
“Tom, I command you to stay,” he
said. And then Tom galloped away into the smoke, knowing something terrible was waiting for him.
The foresight faded and Tom shivered. It was Cairnalyr he’d seen; somehow he knew it. He looked at the others, in quiet conversation or listening to the music. Should he warn them? But why? They would worry, panic, argue. And it would be noise to no end; there was no changing the things to come.
Tom sat back and said nothing.
Chapter 10
The ferry journey was cold and wet and miserable. Autumn had hold on the summer sun and clouds did their best to smother it. A high wind picked up spray and dashed it in their faces, scouring them with salt water and soaking into their clothes. Six was the happiest Tom had seen him, interrogating the ferrymaster and examining the ferry’s mechanisms and structure. The ferry itself was flat and broad, looking less like a boat and more like an enormous shelf of wood that had been put to sea. The aft was home to a squat shelter and Tom had hoped it would protect them from the wind and the water. But the ferrymaster put paid to that idea.
“That’s for horses, young master,” he said. “They get spooked easy, they do, so we put them in there.”
“And where do you put us?” Neirin had asked in his coldest, most aloof tone.
“Begging your pardon, good lord.” The man had learnt manners from somewhere; he bowed and averted his gaze at all the right times. “I pray you rest here, on the fore. You’ll have a good view of the Harbour from there.”
“Won’t we get wet?”
“That’s down to Lannad, patient lord.”
So they got wet while the horses remained dry and, for the most part, calm. When a wave hit the ferry it did not rock much, a fact Tom put down to its sheer size alone, but they staggered whenever it shifted even a fraction. So they sat on the tarred wooden planks, but Neirin was too proud. He and Siomi stood at the fore, watching the Harbour approach, while the ferrymaster sat nearby and answered Six’s questions. They were the only passengers; the two other men worked for the ferrymaster, attending to this and that, though there was little for them to do. There were no oars and no sails; the ferry was bound to mighty chains which were wound or unwound on either shore depending on which direction the ship travelled in.
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