“I was trying to locate the fake-fool, and the fake-lord who helped him to escape,” Sheldrake said.
“And you thought a dead chicken would help you with that, did you, sir?”
“I thought a dead chicken would be more use to me than those two assassins you engaged,” Sheldrake said bitterly.
Henrik swallowed. “Ah, yes, the assassins...”
“We have not seen much by way of action from them yet, have we? Have they killed anyone recently?” Sheldrake asked. “Each other, perhaps?”
“No, sir. But I am sure they are – at this moment – seeking out their quarry, and will terminate him shortly.”
“We would have been better off hiring a couple of milk-maids,” Sheldrake said.
“You know what guildsmen are like, sir – quality work cannot be rushed.”
“Well, I hope it can at least be hurried along a bit – for your sake, Henrik.”
“My sake, sir?”
“If their quarry is not dead before nightfall tomorrow, I’m going to try and read the entrails again. And I won’t be sending you for a chicken!”
Henrik’s hands covered his stomach protectively. “I will attend to it immediately, sir.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Anton was careful to make sure that he wasn’t followed when he rode out of Sangreston. He dressed as a wealthy merchant so that he was less likely to be stopped by anyone at the gate, and left with a group of similarly-dressed men who were travelling south. He took the south road, staying with the group until he was out of sight of the town, and then took one of the minor roads heading west. He kept to less-used tracks and circled Sangreston at some distance, until he was some miles north of the town where he could safely join the main road which paralleled the shore.
A day in the saddle made his hips and shoulders ache, but that was the limit of his discomfort. He still wore the amulet, whose energy was now all but spent, and all visible sign of his injuries was gone. How Edison had obtained the amulet he did not know, that was a question for another time: he must have stolen it, or stolen the money to pay the enchanter for it. Either way, magic was a scarce resource and did not come cheaply.
Anton almost missed the fisherman’s shack; not because it was hidden, but because it was so ramshackled as to seem uninhabitable. It stood a little way back from the road on the landward side, close to the treeline. The wood was almost as green as the leaves behind it, and not a single plank seemed in line with another. The ridge of the roof was bowed, as if something heavy had sat upon it, and there were gaps in the timbers of both roof and walls. Shutters hung askew at the windows. In places, it seemed that seabirds had tried to bury the hut with their dung.
“How do you like my summer home?” Varian asked, crossing the road from the beach, a pile of driftwood in his arms.
Anton swung down out of the saddle. He had to swallow before he could speak. “How did you know of this place?”
“We used to come here as boys, with a firkin of watered ale or a pouch of hemp that was half dried dock-leaf,” Varian said. He dropped the wood by the door of the shack.
“I am sorry you are reduced to this,” Anton said.
“There are families raised in worse accommodations,” Varian said, not looking at him.
Anton looked up at the gaps in the roof timbers. “What do you do when it rains?”
“Get wet.” Varian turned, smiling. “Do not look so glum: it is only temporary.”
“I wanted to apologise,” Anton said. He wished there was something he could do that would make the grin light up Varian’s face.
“No need,” Varian said, turning away.
Anton grabbed his arm and turned him back. “I did this. Because of me you are in exile, branded a traitor and a deserter.”
“Not branded yet,” Varian said, pointing to his cheek.
“What?”
“I thought that’s what you meant. They brand a ‘D’ on your cheek. After the flogging.”
“I do not want that to happen to you,” Anton said.
“Nor do I,” Varian said.
“You should leave,” Anton said. “Get as far away from here as you can, as quickly as you can. We’ll go together.”
Varian smiled sadly. “We can’t all run away that easily,” he said.
“What ties do you have here?” Anton asked.
“My mother.”
“You have a mother?”
“No, Anton, I stepped full-formed from the brow of a god. Of course I have a mother. She lives above the clog-maker on Saddler’s Row. She takes in mending, but I support her.”
“You never mentioned her,” Anton said.
“Our relationship had not progressed to the point where I take you home to meet her,” Varian said.
“I know, I’m sorry...”
“You should go,” Varian said, “it is dangerous for you here.”
“It is equally dangerous in Sangreston,” Anton said.
“I meant that you should leave Sangreston – continue your journey south to whatever you were heading before we met.”
“I cannot leave. Not now.”
“You should not stay for my sake,” Varian said.
Anton smiled and touched his cheek. “I must try and put right the damage I have done,” he said. “I have to make sure Sheldrake is stopped. And if I can, I will see that your reputation is restored, so that you can take care of your mother.”
Varian thought about this, considering the likelihood. “If anything happens to me, will you tell her what happened – and see that she’s provided for?”
“Nothing will happen to you.”
“Promise me.” Varian’s gaze caught Anton’s and did not let go until the other finally nodded.
“I give you my word. And I promise you that no harm will come to you...”
Varian shook his head. “You cannot provide that guarantee, and I will not hold you to it. I know what risks we face.”
“I should never have...”
Varian silenced him with a kiss. “But we did,” he said. “I don’t regret it. It just became more complicated than I anticipated.”
“That tends to happen in my life,” Anton said.
“Is that why you ran away?” Varian asked.
Anton looked down, his cheeks burning. “I should have told you the truth.”
“He must be someone very special,” Varian said.
“He was.”
“Is,” Varian corrected.
“When we met, I never meant to deceive you.”
“You didn’t. I offered to show you the delights of Sangreston, remember? I didn’t propose wedlock.”
“You deserve a much better man than me,” Anton said.
“That I do, without a doubt. But until I meet him, I will continue to share the delights of Sangreston with handsome strangers.”
“You think I’m handsome?” Anton asked, looking up through his eyelashes.
“Somewhat. And you are definitely strange.”
“Are there any delights you haven’t shown me yet?”
The grin spread across Varian’s face, and Anton felt a weight lifted from his own chest.
“I would offer you dinner first,” Varian said, “but it would seem I have forgotten how to fish. It was much easier when I was a boy.”
“I brought beef pies and red wine,” Anton said, nodding towards his saddlebags.
“I will light a fire,” Varian said. “Some of this driftwood burns with green or purple flames, it is quite magical.”
“I have seen ‘magic’ done with the same salts,” Anton said.
“What?” Varian looked round.
“I’ll unsaddle the horse and fetch our supper.”
“There’s a stream behind the shack, you can water the horse there.”
Their bed consisted of blankets on an uneven wooden floor in a room that smelled of rotten wood, but Anton slept better than he had in any feather bed. Perhaps it was the effects of his long ride and the cl
ean sea air. Perhaps it was the wine. Or perhaps it was something else. Whatever it was, he did not stir until he heard a dreadful hammering sound coming from the front of the two-room shack. He leapt to his feet and pulled on his breeches, relaxing only when he heard a tuneless whistling between bouts of hammering. Anton pushed open the rickety door and looked into the next room.
Varian was kneeling on the floor, with the old table upside down in front of him. He was pounding rusty nails into the table in an attempt to repair a loose leg. The hammer was equally rusty, and lacked a shaft. The hammering stopped when Varian hit the end of his thumb and cursed. He looked up and saw Anton standing in the doorway.
“Good morning,” he said brightly, “I did not know you had arisen.”
“I hadn’t.”
“Ah. I was whistling too loudly, I’m sorry.” Varian began hammering at the table again, bending another iron nail.
Anton looked around the room. It was lit only by dusty shafts of light that slanted in through gaps in the walls and roof. Last night’s plates and cutlery still lay on the floor, where they’d fallen when the table collapsed. Other items of broken furniture and unidentifiable pieces of wood were strewn about the place. And there was a shadowy mound in one corner that might once have been a mattress, but could equally well be a sleeping bear.
“You didn’t have to tidy up on my account,” Anton said.
Varian looked up, sensing that Anton was speaking, but unable to hear over the hammering. He laid down the hammerhead.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Do we have anything to drink?” Anton asked.
Varian jerked a bruised thumb towards one of the windows. “There’s a pitcher of milk on the sill.”
Anton made his way carefully across the room, taking care not to stand on any stray nails. He bent to retrieve a small wooden drinking bowl, and then picked up the pitcher from the window sill. He sniffed its contents and wrinkled his nose. He tipped the pitcher up, and a cloudy fluid and lumps of white spilled into the bowl. He set bowl and pitcher aside.
“I will ride into town and get some things from the market,” Anton said.
“Isn’t that dangerous?” Varian asked.
“I’d sooner risk that than dysentery,” Anton said. “If you like, I could also call on your mother and give her a purse, to cover her expenses in the short-term.”
“I have no purse to give her,” Varian said.
“I will find someone who does.”
“Do not tell her where it came from...”
“I will tell her it came from you – and that your present duties prevent you visiting her for a few days.”
“But do not tell her who you are...”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t tell her I was seeing an actor,” Varian said.
Anton shook his head, smiling. “I will convince her that I am very much a gentleman,” he said.
“Are you that accomplished an actor?” Varian asked.
“You made no complaints about my performance last night.”
“Your delivery was excellent, but I was somewhat disappointed by the climax of the second act!”
Anton picked up his saddle and headed towards the door. “Everyone is a critic.”
Standing upstream of his horse, Anton drank and splashed cold water on his face. When he picked up the saddle again, the horse backed off, its expression indicating a lack of enthusiasm.
“If you want to eat something other than grass today, we have to go into town,” Anton said.
The horse snorted, and allowed itself to be bridled and saddled.
“Is there anything else you want me to bring back?” Anton asked, stepping back into the shack.
“A new table?” Varian said. The table in front of him now appeared to be missing two legs.
“What happened?” Anton asked.
“I grew frustrated,” Varian said.
“I’m glad you took it out on the table.”
“You will be careful?” Varian asked, nodding in the general direction of Sangreston.
“I have no wish to revisit the rack,” Anton said.
“They may be watching my mother’s door.”
“I shall not use it.”
“If anything happens...”
“If anything happens to me,” Anton said, “and you need help – head north into the great forest. When the outlaws find you, tell their leader you are my friend. He will protect you.”
“You have friends among the outlaws – why am I not surprised?”
“I have friends in many places. But if you ever find yourself as far north as Drake’s Spur, it would be better not to mention my name.”
“Whose life did you destroy there?” Varian asked.
“That is a tale that would take some time to tell,” Anton said. “But if you wish to hear it...”
“I think your tongue could be put to better use,” Varian said, wrapping his arms around Anton’s waist.
Anton put a finger on Varian’s lips to silence him.
“No one will hear us!” Varian said.
Anton covered his mouth with a hand. “There is someone outside,” he whispered. Releasing Varian, he went over and looked out through a gap in the shutters. “Two horses,” he whispered.
“Who is it?” Varian asked.
“A couple of old friends,” Anton said, recognising the smaller figure as Gosling. “Stay out of sight – I will deal with them.”
“There are two of them,” Varian protested.
“They’re both half-wits – I am more than a match for the two of them. Do not let them see you here. I will lead them away.”
Anton went through to the rear of the shack and pushed against the shutters at the window. He expected them to creak open on rusty hinges. Instead, both shutters and the frame holding them fell outwards and landed with a clatter on the ground. Anton jumped out and ran towards his horse, aware than the two assassins had been alerted by the sound.
Chapter Forty-Five
Hooves drummed the beach, cutting small circles of wet sand and sending them flying. Risking a glance over his shoulder, Anton saw his pursuers were close behind; Gosling on a dun-coloured pony and, in front, Bryn, on a bay stallion sending up clouds of sea-spray and creating a little rainbow behind him.
Anton was heading north, away from Sangreston, wanting to lead the assassins away from the shack and Varian. Staying on the coast road, he risked being overtaken, so he’d aimed for the shoreline. Ahead, through the haze, he could see an outcropping of black rocks sloping down into the surf. If it came down to a fight, he could use the uneven terrain to his advantage.
The air temperature dropped noticeably when he reached the shadow of the dark cliffs. Rising from the beach, up through the rocks, was a steep narrow path that zig-zagged to the clifftop. If he could get up there ahead of Bryn and Gosling, the forest was only a little further on, and he could easily disappear among the trees. Anton urged his horse away from the water’s edge and towards the rocks. The dry sand made progress slower, and they stirred up a great cloud of sand hoppers as they crossed the black line of drying seaweed. The path was steeper and narrower than he had imagined. On one side was the rock wall, and on the other a near-vertical drop.
The clatter of his mare’s hooves on loose shale sounded like applause in Anton’s ears. Bryn’s heavier horse would be slowed by the incline. And at the very least, the assassins would be forced into single file by the narrow track, unable to overtake him. The beach was below him now on his left, the cliff falling away in an almost sheer drop.
The mare’s neck was slick with sweat, and only Anton’s constant urging kept it dashing headlong up the path, where its back legs would occasionally have to push forward together to heave horse and rider over steep steps where rain had eroded the path’s rocky surface. Anton knew the track would level out once it reached the top of the rise, and with luck he’d reach the flat far enough ahead of his pursuers to increase the distance between them, an
d hopefully they would then give up the chase.
Concentrating on the path immediately before him, on keeping his horse away from the precipitous drop to the left, Anton had not dared risk another backward glance. A quick glance now showed that Bryn’s horse was only three or four yards behind, and closing the gap. Bryn and the stallion blocked his view of Gosling and the pony. And then Bryn was urging his horse up on the inside, trying to drive Anton’s horse towards the edge of the path. And the drop to the beach below.
The chestnut mare sensed the danger, and pulled ahead even as Anton urged her to do so. The level path along the ridge lay just ahead: if they could just stay in front of the other rider.
Anton’s horse reared suddenly. He tried to reign it in, but it lurched wildly forwards and sideways. Losing its footing on the loose shale at the side of the path, it tumbled, falling with its rider down the steep slope towards the beach below.
Anton’s horse lay with its foreleg shattered, the gleaming pink-white bone protruding from the bleeding flesh like something on the butcher’s stall. One of its back legs lay at an unnatural angle to its body. The mare’s eyes showed white all around, and she threw back her head to scream pitifully. The shaft of a crossbow quarrel protruded from a bleeding wound in her hindquarters.
Anton drew his sword and ended the creature’s misery. He wiped the blade clean and sheathed it, then leaned on the scabbard for support: the horse had hit the ground with his leg under it, and his knee was already swelling. He took several hesitant steps, then lowered himself to the ground and leaned back against a black boulder at the foot of the cliff. He wiped sweat from his upper lip and closed his eyes for a moment, hoping the pain would ebb after a few moments rest. If he could get to a suitable hiding place before the assassins made it down to the sand, he might yet live through this. If only he had the strength to open his eyelids.
“Is he badly hurt, Gosling?”
Anton opened his eyes and saw Gosling standing over him holding a loaded crossbow. The little man was wearing thick eyeglasses that magnified his eyes grotesquely. Bryn was waiting with their horses some distance away.
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