The Waiting King (2018 reissue)

by Deborah Hale

  The tense furrow of his brow eased. He raised his hand then let the back of it slide down over her hair. “Both will distract me worse than I can afford, but I will do my best to bear it.”

  Maura laughed. “You favor me with your tolerance.”

  “So I do.” Rath feigned a stern look, but the flesh of one cheek twitched from the effort to maintain it. “Do not impose upon it more than you can help.”

  “How far is Duskport from here?” Maura wedged herself into the cleft under Rath’s arm so he had no choice but to drape it around her shoulder.

  He stared off downriver. “It has been a long while since I last made this journey. After Ganny died, I was fool enough to fancy I might make an honest living crewing on a fishing boat.”

  “And?” Maura scarcely needed to ask. If he had succeeded in finding honest work after the death of his foster mother all those years ago, she would never have encountered him that day in Betchwood fleeing a Hanish ambush with his outlaw band.

  Rath’s lips curled in a sneer at his childish folly. “I was lucky to escape the place with my throat and a few other parts of me unslashed. I know the Han spread many false rumors to frighten ordinary folk of wizards, outlaws and smugglers, but I believe the one about Duskport fishermen using human flesh for bait. I swore I would never go back again.”

  Maura shuddered. It was no use saying she wished Rath had told her all this before she’d urged him to take her to Duskport. She would not have let it stand in her way... at least she should not.

  “Then again,” murmured Rath, tilting his head to rest against hers, “I’ve done a good many things I never thought I’d do before I met you, enchantress. Are you sure you haven’t bewitched me?”

  “If I had, it would only be a fair exchange for you stealing my heart, outlaw! Now, are you going to tell me how far it is to Duskport? A day’s ride? A week?”

  “If we can keep up the speed we made this morning, we should reach the coast in two or three days.”

  As it turned out, their ride to Duskport took every hour of three days, because Rath refused to risk the least chance of them meeting up with Hanish patrols in open country.

  “How can your hundredflower spell make us blend in with the crowd when there is not another Embrian around for miles?” he demanded, leading her in a wide loop to avoid a ford he guessed might be guarded.

  They passed a few scattered farms and two small villages, both of which Rath insisted upon giving a wide berth. “It is warm enough to sleep out of doors and we have supplies to last us until we reach the coast. I’d rather not draw any more attention to ourselves than we must. Besides, if anybody nasty comes following our trail, I’d just as soon the folk around here have nothing to tell them.”

  Was that all? Maura wondered. Or did Rath not want anyone else guessing who they might be and raising hopes he feared he could not fulfil?

  “Well, there it is,” he said at last as they crested a bit of rising ground.

  “There is what?” Maura peered down the far slope toward a thick bank of dark fog. If she squinted hard enough, she fancied she could make out a cluster of rooftops rising from the mist.

  “Duskport.” Rath pointed in the direction of her rooftops. “The rest of the year, it is a good deal warmer than most towns this far north. But in summer, that gray fish soup of a fog rolls in. Haven’t you heard the saying ‘Better a winter in Bagno than a summer in Duskport’?”

  “Cold, is it?”

  “Aye.” Rath gave his horse a little nudge forward, and they headed down into the fog. “The kind that settles right into your bones after a while. The smugglers and cutpurses like it well enough, for it hides their crimes... or hides them if they get caught. Whatever you do, stick close to me and pull a scrap of something from that sash of yours to have handy in case of trouble.”

  Swallowing a lump that rose in her throat, Maura edged her horse as close to Rath’s as she dared without risk of their hooves getting tangled and pitching both riders to the ground. After weighing the merits of a few defensive magical items she carried in her sash, she extracted a generous pinch of madfern and cradled it in her clenched fist.

  Bless the twarith of Westborne who had refilled the empty pockets of her sash! A pity they’d had no cuddybird feathers. Where she and Rath were headed, it might be very useful to be able to disappear at the first sign of trouble. As it was, they’d have to make do with confusing any enemies they encountered. Fortunately, it was a good strong spell if the madfern was fresh—capable of befuddling quite a large crowd.

  Once they reached the edge of town, Rath signalled Maura to slide down from their saddles and lead the horses. “We’ll draw less notice that way. Besides, most of the streets are narrow and crooked—easier to get about on foot.”

  They met only one Hanish patrol—three soldiers and a hound, whose gazes roved warily as if expecting an ambush at any moment from any direction. For all their heightened caution, the soldiers took no notice of Rath and Maura thanks to the hundredflower spell she had cast on them both before they entered town. The hound seemed aware of them, though, straining in their direction on the end of its short chain, a menacing growl rumbling in its throat.

  Once the patrol passed without challenging them, Maura breathed easier—though not for long. She and Rath spent the next little while approaching some of Duskport’s less threatening citizens. To each, Maura murmured a phrase in Old Embrian that followers of the Giver might understand and respond to.

  But the people she spoke to only gave her puzzled, frightened looks before hurrying on their way.

  “There’s no help for it,” Rath muttered at last. “We’ll have to leave the horses at the stable we passed on the way into town. It looked halfway respectable—like they might not sell the beasts off to somebody else before we’re all the way out the door.”

  So they tracked back to the stable, almost getting lost in the cold fog. When they asked to leave the horses with him, the proprietor gave them a suspicious look.

  Suspicion changed to something else when Rath asked him, “Is there an eating and drinking place handy where the fisherfolk gather?” He lowered his voice and glanced behind him. “One where the patrols don’t visit too often?”

  The stable owner looked around, too, before answering. “You mean The Monkey, down on Wharf Row? You’ll find plenty of sea-goers there. Though you might soon wish you hadn’t, if you take my meaning.”

  Maura knew better than the man might suppose. She pictured a sea-going band of outlaws rather like the ones who had held her captive in Aldwood. Why would the Vestan wizards instruct her to seek out a man of that sort?

  “The Monkey it is.” Rath grabbed Maura by the wrist and pulled her out into the thick, chilly fog that smelled of rotten fish.

  He led her through a maze of narrow, fog-shrouded lanes and alleys. The only way she could tell they were getting closer to the water was that the fog became even thicker and the smell of fish more rank, until it nearly gagged her. When she struggled to fix her attention on something besides her writhing belly, Maura realized she could hear the rhythmic slap of waves against wood.

  “This looks like the place.” Rath pointed up at a hanging sign, barely visible in the fog. It bore the crude likeness of a Tolinese monkey.

  From within the building came sounds of raucous laughter, angry shouts and the high-pitched tinkle of breaking glass.

  As Rath pushed the door open and tugged Maura into the place after him, she heard him mutter, “May the Giver watch over us... if it can see through this fog.”

  The common room of The Monkey reminded Maura a little of the tavern in Westborne were she’d gone seeking help from the secret followers of the Giver who called themselves twarith. But only a little.

  The smell of strong spirits overpowered the ever-present stench of rotting fish, but that came as no comfort to her suffering stomach. Somewhere on the other side of the crowded, noisy room, someone was torturing wheezy music out of an instrument Maura had ne
ver heard before. Most of the patrons huddled on low wooden benches that ran along either side of three long, narrow tables. They guzzled some drink from earthenware mugs and either argued or laughed loudly with their neighbors.

  It eased Maura’s fears just a little when she realized the customer were not speaking in Comtung, the language her people used to communicate with their Hanish conquerors. Instead they spoke native Embrian, though with a strange accent unlike any she’d heard before.

  The noise did not quiet as Rath threaded his way through the crowd, towing Maura behind him. No one turned to look at them. Even the people they brushed against as they made their way toward the bar seemed to stare through them. Yet the flesh between Maura’s shoulder blades prickled, as if sensing many curious, hostile gazes aimed at her back.

  When he reached the bar, Rath spent a while trying in vain to catch the eye of a short man dispensing drinks behind it. Reaching the end of his limited patience, he lunged forward, grabbing the man by the front of his shirt and lifting him off the floor until they were nose to nose.

  Having succeeded in gaining the fellow’s attention, Rath spoke in a quiet, mannerly voice quite at odds with both his actions and their surroundings. “I’d like to see a Captain Gull, if you please.”

  Maura braced for the surrounding hubbub to fall into an expectant hush, as everyone’s attention fixed on her and Rath. The prickling sensation between her shoulder blades intensified, but the noise continued as loud as ever.

  The barkeep did not answer, though his face grew redder and redder. His gaze skittered to a large man standing beside Rath, whose shaved scalp bore a tattoo that looked like a map.

  The big man leaned toward Rath and spoke in a friendly tone that surprised Maura. “You fancy seeing Gull, do you, inlander? I can take you to him.”

  “When?” Rath eased his grip on the barkeep’s shirt, lowering him back onto his feet.

  The man with the tattooed head shrugged. “As soon as you like, inlander. Now?”

  “Now.” Rath let go of the barkeep.

  “Follow me, then,” said the man, his tone still affable.

  A month or two ago, his obliging manner would have eased Maura’s apprehension. Since then, a little of Rath’s wariness had rubbed off on her.

  The big fellow turned and began to make his way through the crowd, which parted to let him pass. With Rath and Maura following close on his heels, he strode toward the opposite end of the room. As they approached, Maura could see that a shadowed corner was in fact a shallow alcove. Their guide pulled back a bit of curtain to reveal a door, which he opened and entered.

  Maura clutched Rath’s hand tighter when he drew her toward the doorway and the dark passage beyond. He glanced at her, brows raised, as if to ask what other choice they had.

  “At least we knew there is a Captain Gull.” He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “You haven’t lost faith in that destiny of yours already, have you?”

  “Our destiny,” Maura corrected him, trying to sound more confident than she felt. How could she expect Rath to place his fledgling trust in that baffling power when her own doubts were all too evident? “Lead on.”

  She reached back to shut the door behind her—no easy task with the madfern still clutched tight in her fist. A glance back showed that it was not necessary. Several more people crowded into the narrow passage after them, their sinister-looking forms lit from behind by the flickering candles in the tavern.

  Rath’s grip on her hand betrayed the tension that clenched the rest of his body as he led her into the darkness. They seemed to shuffle along the dim, narrow passage for a long time. It twisted several times confusing Maura as to the direction they were headed. Would they emerge somewhere behind the tavern... or down the street from it?

  Suddenly a light appeared ahead of them and the passage opened into a room. Rath lurched forward, stumbling on something. An instant later, a raised doorsill caught Maura’s foot and made her stumble too. As she squinted against the light, she felt Rath’s hand wrenched out of hers.

  Before she could open her other hand to release a cloud of powered madfern into the air, Rath cried, “No!”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, inlander,” their tattooed guide chuckled. “You aren’t in any position to be giving orders.”

  Maura knew Rath had been speaking to her—not that it mattered. For at the same instant, someone grabbed her hands and pulled them tight behind her back. She concentrated on keeping her fist clenched around the powdered madfern until she could get a better opportunity to use it.

  “Well, well, what have we here?” asked a voice.

  Maura glanced up at the speaker as he rose from a chair and turned to look them over. He was a small, slender man, a bit less than her own height, which was tall for a woman. The man wore tight black breeches and leather boots that reached halfway up his thighs. His shirt, the color of dark blood, billowed in loose folds over his arms and upper body, while a long strip of the same cloth had been wound around his head. It covered all his hair except for a long, black plume that stuck out of an opening in the top—a mockery of the way Hanish soldiers pulled their pale hair through the tops of their helmets.

  For a moment Maura thought he had a fur collar draped around his shoulders. Then the “collar” raised its head, stared at her and hissed. She flinched from the creature, a long-legged hillcat with sleek brown fur.

  “Mind your manners, Abri.” The man raised his hand to caress the beast.

  He wore snug-fitted leather gloves with holes through which his bare thumb and fingers poked. Only three fingers, though. The smallest on each hand was missing.

  “This inlander strolled into The Monkey,” the tattooed man announced, “with a wench twice too pretty for the likes of him. Said he wanted to see Captain Gull.”

  “Indeed?” The little man sauntered toward Maura.

  When he lifted his hand, she flinched, but he only tilted her chin with the gentle pressure of his fingers to turn her head to one side.

  “Tell me, inlander, was that all you wanted—to see me?” He let go of Maura, stepped back and struck a pose. “Now you have seen me.”

  He glanced toward the tattooed man. In as mannerly a voice as he might have used to bid them be escorted away, he ordered, “Kill them.”

  “We wanted more than to see you!” Rath cast Maura a sidelong glance that she sensed meant, “Get ready!”

  She flashed him one back that she hoped he would understand to mean, “This is not going to work.”

  Oh, she could mutter the spell under her breath and drop the madfern. Perhaps even kick it up into the air. But in this small, crowded room, there was a good chance she and Rath would become as befuddled as everyone else. Or the others might do them some harm while in the grip of their confusion.

  “We were told you could take us to the Vestan Islands,” said Rath. “Can you? Will you? It is vital we reach there!”

  Captain Gull looked from Rath to Maura and back again. All the while he petted the cat draped around his neck. “You must know it is death for any Embrian to sail more than five miles from the mainland. My friends and I are but humble fisherfolk.”

  Maura could not bite back a retort. “You do not look like any fisherman I ever heard of!”

  “Ha!” Captain Gull let out a laugh that seemed far too deep and loud for his slender frame.

  “A bold wench!” He remarked to the cat. “I like that.”

  The cat looked over at Maura and hissed again.

  “Mmm, I reckon you’re right, Abri.” Gull shook his head, a look of deep regret shadowing his fine features. “These two must be Hanish spies.”

  He glanced toward the large tattooed man and amended his previous order. “Kill them slowly.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  AS RATH LISTENED to Captain Gull order their deaths in such an offhand tone, he sensed the strange little man was more truly dangerous than the outlaw Vang Spear of Heaven, with all his bluster.

  He shou
ld never have brought Maura here, Rath chided himself. He should have left her somewhere safe while he’d come in search of the smuggler. In truth, the notion had crossed his mind, but he’d worried what harm she might come to if he was not there to keep her safe. Instead, he’d hauled her into danger from which he would be hard-pressed to protect her.

  If she could give him the slightest edge by casting her spell, he would try to fight their way out of here... though he didn’t fancy his chances.

  “Kill us if you must and if you can!” He hurled the challenge at Captain Gull. “But do not let it be because you believe us Hanish spies!”

  Though it made him feel unbearably vulnerable, he bent forward, baring the back of his neck for them to see. The flesh still felt tender where the Han had branded him, almost a fortnight ago.

  Rath heard Maura suck in her breath through clenched teeth. He had not told her about the brand, though he knew she could have compounded a salve to soothe and heal it. Once or twice, when she’d thrown her arms around his neck too eagerly, he’d had to bite back a grunt of pain.

  “Well!” Captain Gull sounded shaken out of his amused indifference. “I have never seen one of those marks on a living man, inlander. How did you come by it?”

  “The usual way.” Rath straightened up and shot a look around at Gull and his men. “It is the first thing they do to you when you’re sent into the mines... after a whiff of slag to dull the pain and sap the fight out of you.”

  “How do you come to be here, then?” Gull’s dark eyes narrowed. “No man has ever escaped the mines... unless he made a bargain to spy for the Han in exchange for his freedom.”

  “You disappoint me, Gull.” Rath hoped the insult would not cost him his head.

  “Do I?” Gull sounded intrigued rather than enraged. “How so?”

  “I took you for a man who makes it his business to know what’s what in the world. There have been escapes from the mines, though not many and not much talked of. The Han try to keep word from spreading, in case it should inspire more miners to try. And the men who escape are not eager to call attention to themselves by bragging.”