Stuttering, confused, “The king or his councillor, you mean?”
“So you admit it?”
“Of course not. I never met such grand people.”
“The warrant is a lie?”
And Thribb kicked the stool from under her, pushing her to the floor, saying, “You worked at the palace once, whore. You know a lot more than you say.”
Freya doubted if either creature knew what they said, asked only what Kallivan had told them, but spoke in their own simplistic words and knew nothing of conspiracy or plotting, spying or subterfuge. Either Sir Kallivan, distrusting him, had not fully explained, or the father was far more stupid than the son.
But if she didn’t answer, either from cold or from confusion, she was beaten. Rudd used his fists. Thribb used whatever came to hand. Once he used a filthy jagged stone from the ground outside and stuffed it hard into Freya’s mouth. She thought it would crack her teeth, and almost choked. “Sluts that refuse to answer me,” he sneered, “can chew on something less pleasant until they learn their lesson.”
Then the scarred man stopped coming, delayed by something she hoped might be serious illness, or accident. Kallivan did not come at all. He had spoken of regular interrogation, but he did not return. Freya prayed that Symon had found him and killed him. The whole world, she was sure, would profit from his death.
Even now downstairs with better warmth and better food and in particular leaving the prison four times each day, the inactivity and enclosed dreariness seemed more of a drug than her poppy drink. Although constantly fearing they might stop bringing the morning drug, Freya also knew her mindless lack of thought and inactivity was the poppy’s gift, and if she could stop her need for it, she would more easily escape. It induced a terrible creeping lassitude. Over the next few vision-sad evenings, she tried to reawaken the energy for action and regain the strength she remembered once owning. She saw little of Rudd, nothing of the one-eyed man, and the girl rarely spoke, but one day as Doria pushed Freya angrily before her to the cobbled courtyard, she said, “Why don’t my father take you to his bed, whore, ‘stead of me? Why does you get Sir Kallivan’s protection, when you’re naught but a scrawny prisoner and a wicked paid harlot to boot?”
Freya twisted around. “Your father molests you? Then help me escape and come with me. I’ve friends who can look after you.”
“Plenty men fuck their daughters,” said Doria bleakly, “and their sons too, when they’s little. “Specially after the ma’s dead, like mine. A strong man’s gotta swive or his stuff’s all blocked up inside his guts and he gets sick. But he’s got a fucking big appetite, my old man. It shouldn’t always have to be me. Now there’s you. It should be you to take it most nights. Fair shares at least. I told him I’ll help hold you down. But he won’t.”
After many days of silence, when Freya wanted the girl to speak and had tried to get her talking without result, she would now have much preferred her to keep quiet. “He hurts you?” Freya said, “Help me, and I’ll help you stop him.”
“Not your place to talk agin my Pa,” said the girl, and kicked out. Her wooden clog missed Freya’s shin, but as she sidestepped Freya’s own bare feet slipped on the smooth wet cobbles and she stumbled. Both knees cracked on the pavings, and she stayed down. The girl kicked again, and this time, Freya couldn’t move away. “He’s a real man, my Pa, not some mewling city pimp. He were proper important when I were little. Folk said yessir to my father, and they was scared of him. It were the shitting king threw us out and lost my father his work.”
Gulping back disgust, Freya forced her voice to remain mild. “And the scarred man. Does he look after you all now? Or do you look after him?”
“Tis my Pa looks after us all. Master Thribb, he were a warrior once, and lost his eye in some great battle. Brave, he is, and clever. But he gets sick from all them bits missing, and he’s sick now so my Pa keeps him safe wrapped up with good wine and tonics. Tis his son Sir Kallivan as brings coin and such. So I does what I’m told.”
“Which includes sharing your father’s bed. Does he beat you as well?”
“’Course he does,” said the girl. “He’s my dad, ain’t he?”
“But Sir Kallivan, he doesn’t come as often as I’d expected. Is he sick too?”
“Dunno,” she said, frowning. “My Pa don’t know neither. Even Master Thribb don’t know. We thought he were coming, but we ain’t seen him. He’ll come when he wants.”
“And this Thribb. Does he hurt you? Does he fuck you too?”
For a third time, Doria kicked Freya, knocking her to the ground. “Mind your own fucking business, whore.”
Chapter Nine
With the little fur ball once again mewling in his front pocket, Udovox now travelled the train once more, but this time sitting grand and proud in the final carriage, fully paid. He sat on the high cushioned bench, his legs swinging since they didn’t reach to the ground, and enjoyed his pie, cheese sandwich, and bottle of ale. A few other travellers looked at him in faint surprise or outward dislike, but he was used to that. From a dwarfed child he had learned to despise those who glared and stared but sympathised with those who showed surprise. There were few dwarves in Eden, and some remained virtually in hiding.
The condition sometimes came in useful, for no one dared question him about the odd little noises coming from the front of his inner coat.
After three days of thundering through the countryside, stopping only twice a day on average, Udovox was excessively relieved when he finally arrived in the city, and clutching a large suitcase which dragged on the ground, managed to scuttle off in plenty of time. The station, being a great draughty affair, gave little shelter and little convenience, and since he did not need another Right of Travel, so would not join the queue at the front, he simply sat on one of the broken benches while summoning up the courage to walk the rest of the way with the heavy baggage and the less heavy but ferociously hungry infant.
It had been a journey of cramped boredom. The window rattled and the scenery outside sped past. The countryside offered little exhilaration, and although the endless farms did sometimes contain interesting animals grazing their fields, most were dark and barren, for winter was not a time of ploughing or planting, harvesting or haymaking. The two great central quarries held some interest since one mined the filth of coal but sometimes discovered amber, jade or even diamonds, whereas the silver mine also used the wider layers of rock for cutting building materials such as slate, sandstone and even marble. The trains also ran for hours through forest, through barren hills, and along the cliffs of the coast. But the most interesting part of any train journey was when two sets of rails crossed, and the two rumbling engines, billowing out their steam and the whistles of warning, managed to pass without crashing one into the other. Hearing the second seep boom of the steam horn, folk would rush to stare from the windows, children clambering on the seats to peer out over their parents’ heads as the second train would approach full speed. Then with a whoop from the passengers in both, the trains would rumble past each other, steam a cloud of diminishing strength, engulfing both engines. Udovox, one hand clasped over his pocket, and each time expecting a crash, would lean back with a relieved sigh.
His parents, also farmers, lived far in the north and farmed a large and prosperous area in Lydiard. In such isolated areas, trains ran only once or twice a day, but further south towards Eden City, they were frequent, and the black smoke-stained leaf, roof and paving.
They had paid his Right to Travel, they had paid for most of the contents of the suitcase, and they had paid for their son and his lover Tom to set up a brand new business in the city, leaving the brothel as soon as could be arranged. It was rare that Udovox felt quite so consciously content. Considerable success now filled his head, hope bubbled like boiling spiced hippocras, he had adopted the most precious infant the people of Eden could ever imagine, and he was coming home to the handsome man he had been missing with all his heart. So outside the station h
e paid for a younger beggar boy to help carry his case to the Bridge and returned happily to the Pearly Webb.
Seeing his small strutting approach, Edilla herself ran to the front door and swung it open.
“My dear, how good to see you back,” she said, mellowing. “Tom has not been, let us say, at his best. A small problem arose after you left, although he has almost recovered now. And dear Freya – well – I shall leave that to Tom to explain in full.”
“Shit,” Udovox said. He had floated on clouds of bliss for ten-day after ten-day, and only missing Tom had spoiled the perfection. “Is it time for everything to go bloody wrong again?”
“I certainly hope not,” Edilla trotted up the first flight of stairs behind him, and behind her the guard obligingly carried the dumped suitcase.
Although still in bed, Tom leapt up when Udovox stumbled in, and raced into his arms. While squashed together, Tom heard a small beleaguered squeak. Something rather unexpected was wriggling in the middle of their hug.
The feather in his hat drooped but beneath the red velvet and pheasant colours, his expression was both alert and determined. “But I had an appointment five days past. I was told it was impossible, so I made another appointment for today. Now you tell be it’s impossible all over again. Why? Doesn’t she want me anymore? But we’ve been real friends. I care for her. It’s more than just – business. What have I done wrong?””
“Master Ruffstan,” said the guard loudly, “this is nothing personal, I assure you. The lady is simply not here.”
“But she has to be,” Ruffstan said, high pitched, and grabbing his hat from his head, “She even told me her real name. Like proper friends. So why is she avoiding me now? I’m worried. What have I done to offend her?”
The scuffle down the long creaking staircase at the guards’ back, interrupted them both. The small ball of dark fluff, rolling faster than the two men following, hurtled to Ruffstan’s boots and sat there, interested in the embroidered leather and the silver toe caps. . Ruffstan stared down. The kitten stared up.
“My apologies, young man,” Tom scooped up the lacine and smiled with ingratiating insincerity.’
Diverted from his original motives, Ruffstan reached out to stroke the dark striped fur. Two huge blue eyes stared back. “What a delightful creature. What is it?”
“A baby lacine,” said the voice at his elbow. Ruffstan regarded the top of Udovox’s head. “My little baby,” Udovox said. “And I hear you’re searching for Lady Freya.:
Ruffstan nodded eagerly. “I hope she isn’t – ill.”
“She’s a good deal worse than that,” Tom said as he handed the lacine to Udovox. The fur ball wriggled. Two clawed paws appeared, stretched, and attached themselves to the red velvet doublet, sank with determination into the material, hoisting itself up, as the tiny head disappeared into the large central pocket. Another two paws stuck out from the top, claws curling and retracting, and the entire fluff ball squirmed upside down into its cosy sleeping quarters. A faint purr echoed from within the velvet.
“I must inform you,” Udovox told him quietly, “I was away myself when it happened, but I have heard the story many times, for everyone here has been most disturbed. Now a ten-day past, and somewhat further down the Bridge while everyone here remained unaware, a small crowd of men grabbed our dearest Freya, and a young lord who had been forcibly barred from this house on two previous occasions, insisted that Freya was his cousin, or sister or something of the sort, dragging her away never to be seen again.”
Shocked and confused, Ruffstan asked, “Was she his sister? Did they hurt her? Where is she now?”
“We have no idea,” Tom said, leaning forwards to pat the vibrating bulge in Udovox’s pocket, “since no one has seen her since, poor Freya. I have tried. I have sent out friends to search. But – nothing.”
“That’s appalling. I shall attempt some searching myself. Who was this vile man?” Ruffstan demanded.
“His majesty’s grandson,” said Udovox, “which makes it a little tricky.”
“I remember nothing,” said the king.
“I had your permission – even co-operation,” Kallivan roared. “I’m your bloody grandson, and don’t you forget it.”
He was shouting. His majesty King Frink sat placidly on a padded armchair by the fire, and spoke with mild sibilance. “Really? I had almost forgotten that too. How kind of you to remind me.” He pursed his lips. “Most kind – er – whatever your name is. I can’t remember.”
For one blistering moment, Kallivan wondered if this nonsense was true, and his grandfather might be old enough to have fallen into brainless lunacy. Then he saw the glint in the old man’s eyes. It meant the king had no intention of offering the slightest satisfaction that day, and Kallivan nodded, swung his cape back around his shoulders and marched out.
Without specific complaints, it was pointless to persevere. His grandfather could rarely if ever succumb to manipulation. A shame, but the whore and Jak himself were more directly responsible at this stage. He’d paid enough for the arrogant idiot to be tossed overboard on the way to Shamm or some island so Jak of Lydiard was clearly at the bottom of the ocean, and meanwhile he old bitch he liked to fuck would be able to squeak and squeal while he fucked her as he wished. His wife Reyne, although boringly pointless in so many ways, was in his bed whenever he wanted her, while her huge piles of money were at his fingertips. Just as importantly, the bitch who had spoken of arrests and warrants was tucked away with his half-witted father and the brutal Rudd, which would keep her quiet for some time. When he wished, he could go there and slowly torture the slut until she admitted everything.
He had intended to question the whore at length, but first needed reassurance from the king regarding the accusations and arrest. But clearly no sudden arrest was watching from his doorstep, and he felt a wash of sublime confidence. His world was settling, and his enemies were under control. Even his true father, who had passed on this vile and unwanted colouring of bleached nothing, was at a distance and would stay there for the immediate future. He had grown up calling someone else father and preferred that one – a mild and comfortable man without controlling demands. His mother, on the other hand, was a demon in skirts.
But now, he was rich. Blindingly rich. It made a difference. He was not on the Council, and as yet he did not occupy the grandest apartment in the palace, in spite of his pretty wife. But there was time. He was enjoying life.
Until Reyne, waiting timidly at the bedchamber door one morning, said, “My love. I’ve been waiting to tell you. I am so happy to tell you – that I am carrying your child.”
It had spoiled the day for him, but on careful consideration, it didn’t really matter.
“Are you – pleased, my dear?”
He nodded. It wasn’t worth an argument. “Yes, yes. Pleased enough. But I presume there are at least seven more months to wait?”
“Yes, I believe so. It’s sometimes hard to be exact. But seven and a half months at the most.”
“Then I shall think about it another day,” said her husband. In the meantime, I expect you to ensure the child is a boy.”
The fire crackled and spat, joining the conversation. The heat billowed into their faces, while their backs froze. Jak grinned. “Well, you’ve heard my story. Who lacks shame enough to tell the next?”
Symon lowered his chin and looked down at his large knees, protruding now from the holes in his britches.
One of the group, dark-eyed but white haired, clasped wizened hands in his lap. “I’ll tell you another man’s story. My own is dull, but together we had moments of laughter.”
“This is my father,” Captain Panter patted the old man’s slumped shoulder. “He was captain before me, but now he claims his eyesight’s too blurred and he’d run the ship aground.”
The previous captain nodded. “I was the captain when my men were pirates,” he said with a hoarse cackle. “Good pirates we were and took our ships from the greedy Edenites who c
ame sidling in, thinking they’d take us by surprise. They never did. We didn’t sleep.”
“He’s Shozwall,” muttered the son. “And that was a name to make all men shiver once upon a time. Now,” and his cackle was much like his father’s, “we hear that name – we all fall asleep.”
“Oh yes indeed, and me too,” Shozwall grinned with toothless energy. “But I knew one Edenite I called friend, and his son too. Artos, it was, who lived here in the town over the hill, and made friends with the local lord. The lord was a flabby creep and his wife had run away from him, leaving him free to fuck where he wanted. But he had a daughter he disliked, and the poor fool lived a wretched life until her father arranged for her to wed the Edenite. I dare say she expected even worse treatment from an Edenite, but Artos fell in love with Questa, his new wife, and they lived most happily.
“He sailed with me sometimes. He was a true adventurer and loved to go a-pirating. He sailed when my own father was captain, and then with me. Artos and Questa then had their own son, name of Fraygard, and a bright boy. He loved music and played the new modern guitar. I knew him as he grew, since my friend Artos often came to talk, to sail and once to find a boat that would take him and his new family back to his parents. But he was old by then, and our ships were ruined by storm and fighting, so we had nothing to give him.
“Then Fraygard turned up one day. In his twenties perhaps, I can’t remember. The Lord of Rantall had died. Lord Rantall was a friend of Fraygard’s father. The new lord, brother of Fraygard’s own mother, had killed both Fraygard’s parents and Fraygard needed to escape. He killed the murderer of his parents, thus leaving the city without a lord, stole what he wanted, left the palace for the village people to raid, and needed a boat for escape. We had just one rowing boat, and he took it.”
The Mill Page 10