‘Important, eh?’ Whitey spoke. ‘You look like you’re here to trade to me. Look at that goods basket; you’re not telling me it’s full of apples.’
‘No, it is not, but I will discuss its contents only with your elder, or baron. Is baron the right word?’
Gorton smiled, all jowls and brown teeth. ‘With all due respect. my friend, the baron here – Eburg I think his name is – is not going to spare a swamp creature like yourself ten seconds of his time. Why should he? What could a hut dweller possibly have or know that would interest a baron?’
‘Because his lands are in danger; I come to warn him of this.’
Whitey sneered at the man. ‘You are not threatening to attack us, are you? A whole two dozen of you with your pointy sticks and woolly armour.’ He smiled at Gorton who shared the joke and spoke again to the Marsh Man.
‘Look, my friend,’ – he put his arm around the man’s shoulder – ‘no one gives a wren’s beak for your problems up here. If I were to take you to the Baron, we would as likely be flogged for our temerity in thinking he would deign to see us, let alone you. Now, be reasonable; you have bought goods with you, that we can both see; now, why don’t we barter a good deal for us both? Then you can go home and tell your elder the audience you sought was refused but, that on the other hand, you have traded for some quality goods from myself and my colleague. What say you, eh?’
The Marsh Man poked the merchant’s wares with his foot. ‘Even if I were to accept what you are saying, these are hardly “quality goods”. Other tribes may be grateful for this rubbish but not mine. Is that where your baron lives?’ He pointed to the magistrate’s house.
Whitey was about to reply in the negative but Gorton spoke before him.
‘I see you are far too clever to fall for my salesman’s talk. I tell you what, I will send my colleague to the nobleman’s house to see if he will grant you an audience, but’ – he drew breath loudly – ‘in order to do that we will need to see the goods that you bring; otherwise you will just get the door slammed in your face.’
Behind him, outside the inn, two of the magistrate’s men leaned by its door, flagons in hand, while a third one was relieving himself against the wall; they were watching the proceedings at the trading post with a studied disinterest. The Marsh Man stared back at them; he was considering the merchant’s words.
‘Very well,’ he said. He reached into the boat and pulled out the basket. Uncovering it, he showed its contents to both men. Gorton looked appraisingly at the display then cleared his throat.
‘Please, just give us a minute, I just need to confer with my colleague.’ He beckoned Whitey to follow him and took a few steps away from the Marsh Man before whispering: ‘Did you see all that! There is at least ten times what these people normally bring. We are made I tell you, made!’
‘The house of Meriel will pay a fortune for this,’ said Whitey, grinning.
‘Forget them! See all that blackroot. Think what the gangs in Sketta will pay for that! You’ve got the connections. What would the Fists of Guerric or the Nemesis gang give us? We could sell half to each of them and watch them kill each other. Your old firm, the Dead Hand, could take over! This, my friend, is that house on Loubian Hill I have always dreamed of!’ he chuckled softly.
‘There is only one small problem,’ Whitey looked at the Marsh Man.
‘Mmmm,’ said the merchant. ‘Are the guards still watching us?’ Whitey nodded.
‘Do you think,’ the merchant said slowly, ‘that it would be a terrible thing if this man had an accident and fell into the river, or perhaps even fell on to your knife first? Could such a thing be contrived, I wonder? We could tell the baron’s men he went for us; what say you?’
The two men exchanged a knowing look. ‘Stand between me and the guards; we will have to do this quickly.’ Whitey silently loosened the knife at his belt and strode forward, failing to notice the sweat beading on Gorton’s brow.
‘What are you two talking about,’ said the Marsh Man suspiciously.
Whitey moved towards him, trying to look as friendly as he could.
‘It is just that carrying all those expensive items, and on your own...’ He put a confidential arm around the man’s shoulder. ‘Don’t you think that perhaps that might be a little bit ... dangerous.’ And with that, and swift as a snake, he went to slip the knife between the man’s ribs. Unfortunately for him, Cyganexatavan knew exactly what the man intended.
He had been to this place many times before and had met many traders from the northern lands, so much so that he could read most of them pretty easily. There were honest ones and then there were ones like these two. The second he had opened the basket and saw the greed shine in their eyes, he knew what was going to happen. And so as Whitey thrust his blade towards him, he turned his body in the same direction, so that the knife cut his tunic and scored the flesh over his rib but did no real damage; then he grabbed the off-balance albino and smacked his head against one of the jetty posts. The man’s legs turned to jelly and he screamed as he pitched downwards on to the planking. Cygan kicked him hard in the ribs and turned towards Gorton.
The man’s face had turned as pale white as Whitey’s and broke into a full sweat. The stiletto he held in his right hand was shaking wildly as he held it outwards towards Cygan.
‘Put it down and get out of here,’ Cygan said, walking firmly towards him. Gorton started, stepping backwards away from the man, but was so panic-stricken that he paid no heed to where his feet were landing.
‘No, Marsh Man, no, get away from me!’ and with that he took a step too far in the wrong direction. His right foot contacted nothing but air and with a womanish shriek he toppled off the jetty into the river. There was a violent splash and he vanished under its black surface, his heavy clothes pulling him into its invisible depths.
Cygan noticed the soldiers by the inn had been alerted and were coming towards them. He then heard a scream behind him and turned to see Whitey barrelling his way with his knife held high and a bloody bruise on his forehead. Cygan drew his knife, crouched low, and slashed the man’s chest, letting Whitey’s own momentum carry him onwards until he slammed into the wall of the trading post. He got up quickly and turned to see Cygan staring at him, knife in hand.
‘Guards!’ he called, almost hysterically. ‘The Marshie is trying to kill me!’
Two of the guards were nearly with them, halberds pointing ahead of them. Whitey, panic-stricken, saw a dark shape rise in the river, quite a distance away from where he was standing.
‘Gorton! Gorton!’ he called as the shape disappeared under the water again. It started to dawn on him how much he was dependent on the big man and how his new-found status in life was in jeopardy. ‘Gorton!’ He started to run along the bank, giving no thought as to how he was going to affect a rescue.
Then Gorton emerged, his pudgy white face a mask of pure terror. He was at the far bank among the reeds, his arms thrashing desperately. He managed to grasp at a branch of an overhanging willow.
‘Help me!’ he croaked desperately.
‘Gorton! Just hold on. Just hold on!’ Whitey was close to him by now, suddenly aware that there was a whole river between the two of them. Hearing a noise, he looked back towards the jetty.
The Marsh Man was in his boat again, coming towards them; the branch on to which Gorton was clinging was bending horribly; Whitey could see it slowly slipping through Gorton’s wet hands.
‘Hurry up, Marshie; he can’t hold on much longer.’
But the man was there. He positioned his boat so that the current would pull Gorton towards him and with a little difficulty got him to grasp the side of the boat with both hands. The boat listed dangerously but the Marsh Man knew what he was doing. With deft strokes of his paddle, he cut against the current and steered the little craft towards Whitey. Arriving at the bank, the two men conspired to haul the sodden mass of the merchant on to the damp grass. Gorton was worryingly still.
Whitey started pr
essing the man’s chest, imploring him to start breathing. Cygan, though, stood apart from the two of them; the outcome was already obvious to him. He let Whitey carry on desperately for a little longer, then spoke.
‘He is gone. His heart must have stopped in the water.’
The albino stopped his pummelling of the dead man’s chest. Visions started to swim before his eyes, of his new life vanishing like mist. He saw himself back in the stocks again, or being flayed raw at the whipping post. He saw his old gang members walking past him, pausing only to spit in his direction, followed by the ladies of the brothel he had only just started to feel comfortable in, then the local magistrates; they all started to laugh, cold, cruel, mocking. He could hear them saying, ‘The demon pink-eye thought he was human, thought he was like us. How ridiculous of him! Put a rope around his neck and make him dance, throw him a penny for livening up a boring afternoon.’
Suddenly he felt the wound on his chest smart, and the bump on his head throb. He looked down at the dead man’s face and felt the shadow of the guards fall over him.
‘It was him!’ he cried to them, pointing at Cygan. ‘He killed him, he wounded me – all for no reason at all!’
Cygan looked at the two guards and saw he had no choice. He held out both arms and let them take him without a fight. His fate was with the spirits now.
Or rather, with Magistrate Onkean, who was now sitting in the main room of his house behind his dining table, Cygan standing in front of him flanked by the two guards. Whitey, who had reason enough to be nervous around officialdom, was cringing in a dark corner. The magistrate drained his ale and took a bite out of a slice of bread before speaking.
‘So a man is dead, you say, drowned in the river after an altercation with this marsh fellow.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the guard. ‘We saw the three of them at the trading post and the next minute a man was in the water, with this man’ – he indicated Whitey – ‘screaming his lungs out for us to come and help. The Marshie fished him out of the water, but he was already dead. He was a fat man and the shock stopped his heart. After that, though, we saw the wounds on the pink-eye and realised there must have been a fight of some sort. Then we found this.’ He put the basket on the table. ‘Look inside – there’s enough stuff there to leave any merchant sitting pretty.’
The magistrate did so, his expression grave.
‘You! Pink-eye, did you fight over his merchandise? And don’t lie to me or I’ll have your ears nailed to the stocks.’
Whitey feigned a low bow and wiped the sweat off his face.
‘There was a misunderstanding, sir. We offered the man a fair price for his goods but he wasn’t interested. Called the stuff we had to barter with rubbish and pulled a knife on us, he did. Poor Gorton was so afeard he fell overboard and I got slashed by him. Them Marshies have their own rules, they do; they just don’t know how to behave in civilised lands, sir, so they don’t.’
‘I see,’ the magistrate growled.
‘It is not as this man said.’ Cygan decided to speak. He had no idea of the protocols involved here but obviously this man passed as important.
‘So, Marsh Man, you speak our tongue. Then tell me why, within five minutes of your arrival, a countryman of mine is lying cold on a table in the inn. Coincidence, maybe?’
‘No. I came here with a message from the Elder of my tribe for your baron. The goods I brought with me were to be used as a gesture of goodwill and to ensure that our words were heard. The dead man and his ... ally’ – he nodded towards Whitey – ‘saw an opportunity to enrich themselves to the endangerment of us all. They attacked me and in the fight one of them fell into the river. I tried to rescue him but was too late.’
‘How is it that this man is wounded and you are unscathed?’
‘Actually, he did catch me a blow. Ten years ago he wouldn’t have got near me.’ He showed the magistrate the hole in his tunic and the strip of dried blood underneath.
Another mouthful of bread later and the magistrate spoke again.
‘We have a classic case here. Two witnesses whose accounts differ and no one else around to corroborate either story. What am I to do? Eburg town is but less than ten miles away and a man is dead. A report has to go up there and any judgement I make the Baron will hear of. The last thing I want is for him to come down here with a load of his men undermining my authority. So, punishment has to be meted out.’ He brushed some crumbs off his sleeve and gazed steadily at Cygan.
‘I am sorry, Marsh Man, but a merchant is dead. Though I am far more inclined to believe you over the snivelling little shit in the corner, the villagers here, and the people at Eburg, will never accept the innocence of a non-Artoran barbarian against one raised under the Divine Pantheon. Take him out and hang him.’
Cygan’s eyes blazed; his mind raced as to how he might attempt a desperate breakout when his guard spoke.
‘If I may be so bold, sir, the people here rely on the Marshies and the trade and people they bring in. To execute one of them here, well, it could threaten the trading post. The Marshies could go further upriver instead, to Eburg, or further on.’
‘I cannot let him go, my man. Do you have a suggestion?’
‘Yes, sir. Send him to Eburg for judgement. They will probably decide the same as you, but, at least to the Marshies, it isn’t us that has made the judgement. Besides, if the Marshy has a message for the Baron, at least he’ll be closer to him. He just has to hope the Baron visits the dungeons from time to time.’ The guard laughed at his joke.
‘You have a point. I will prepare a written deputation and you two can shackle this man and take him to Eburg on the wagon. You can leave within the hour.’
‘You are a fool,’ said Cygan. ‘You have to listen to what I have to say or you are all going to die. My people first, yours second.’
The magistrate gave him an icy stare. ‘I will put your request in my deputation. If you are genuine, then pray to your gods that the Baron reads it. Take him away.’
The two men led Cygan away, out of the manor house towards the smithy. He didn’t struggle; it was the Baron he wanted to see, after all, and to resist here would be a futile gesture.
The magistrate and Whitey were left alone in the room.
Onkean started scribbling, writing his deputation. Only the sound of the quill scratching the parchment could be heard. After a couple of minutes Whitey plucked up the courage to speak.
‘Sir, I was ... er ... wondering as to who had the rights to the goods on the table. I was wondering if I could take some for ... um ... Gorton’s widow, seeing as she will need providing for now her husband has gone. Any proceeds I make will go to her, I swear.’
Onkean was dismissive. ‘This is all going to the Baron, as it is evidence in this case. You should go, too, as you are a witness, or would you rather I wrote down your evidence here rather than have you face the Baron yourself?’
‘No sir, I am happy for you to write on my behalf.’
‘Good. Now as you have no further business here, I suggest you settle your account at the inn and leave our village behind. You have the merchant’s widow to speak to and his business interests to settle. I imagine you will be a busy man for a few weeks, will you not?’
‘Of course, sir, as you command.’ Whitey bowed and beat a hasty retreat from the room. He had the money from the transactions earlier in the week, so the trip had not been a total loss. Gorton was unmarried, of course, and Whitey knew nothing of his business interests other than the work he had put Whitey’s way. So it was a case of take the money and run. Today had been a disaster but there were things that could be salvaged from it. He would decide what to do next when he was back in his room in Sketta.
Behind him Onkean continued writing. He looked up at the guard.
‘That albino.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Make sure he leaves promptly. A man like that around brings bad luck to us all. Beat him out of town if you have to; his sort makes my flesh cr
awl.’
The man left and Onkean was alone. He finished his deputation with a sense of satisfaction. After sealing it, he sat back in his chair, smiled, and lifted the covering off Cygan’s basket.
38
Morgan had slept well. The bed was one of the softest he had known and the gentle warmth of the glowstones suffusing the room had left him feeling more relaxed than perhaps he had ever been. For a while he had heard Itheya in the next room talking softly with someone in her own language, before she, too, had fallen silent and he had been left with the sounds of the wind gusting over the lake, the snapping of the banners outside his window and the soft lament of the trees as they shed their leaves in the face of the oncoming winter.
When he awoke, he saw that someone had been in his room leaving some bread and fruit and a large vessel containing water for him to wash with. Itheya had told him he could not leave his room, unless she was with him, so he accepted his benevolent incarceration and remained where he was.
He was not to remain alone for long. He had just devoured the last of the food when a shadowy figure appeared at the doorway.
‘Good morning, Dramalliel. I take it you wish to be my escort for an hour or two?’
‘Indeed,’ the elf said with a smirk. ‘Your fellow human and Terath are already on the shore waiting for us.’
And so they were. Morgan acknowledged Cedric who was swathed in a dark-green elven cloak that Terath had obviously given him. He leaned on his stick and was presumably feeling the drop in temperature. A small but curious crowd dressed in similar cloaks had gathered to watch them. Morgan, too, felt the late-autumnal nip in the air, pinching his nose and cheeks.
‘Hello, my boy. I have some interesting news. Terath is going to attempt a scrying ritual using information gleaned from the tooth. It may give us the location of some of the dragon stones. Granted, none of that is of any practical use to us at the moment, but to the people here it is significant. It strengthens the ties between me and you and our hosts, and what with their gathering taking place a few days from now it can only be helpful.’
The Forgotten War Page 54