by Angus Wells
The branding came soon enough—at dawn the next day—which suited Arcole better than waiting.
The turnkey came with four Militiamen, who took hold of Arcole even though he did not struggle, and drew his hands behind his back, locking them there with heavy cuffs that were connected to the manacles around his ankles by a length of chain. He must perforce go tottering, with a Militiaman to either side, their hands upon his arms, and two vigilant behind, to the low, dark hall where a brazier glowed red and a man clad all in scorched and greasy brown leather tended his irons.
There was a chair of wood and metal, high-backed and bolted to the floor, its purpose obvious. Before the Militiamen might prod him onward, Arcole shuffled of his own accord toward the seat.
“Master Torturer, good day.” He nodded a greeting to the leatherclad man, and had the satisfaction of seeing the fellow gape in startlement at his casual tone. “Shall I sit here?”
The man nodded dumbly and looked to the Militiamen as if for reassurance that the prisoner was secured safely. Three favored Arcole with reluctantly admiring smiles; the fourth’s was scornful. “You’ll use a different voice when you feel the iron,” he said.
“Think you so?” Arcole determined he would not scream.
The Militiaman said, “Take his arms,” and two of them grasped Arcole firmly as the speaker produced the handcuff key and removed the shackles.
He was pushed down onto the chair, where bands of dark iron locked about his wrists, more around his ankles. A leather strap was bound tight around his chest, and another across his forehead, holding his head rigid against the chair’s high back.
“He’s secure.”
The Militiamen stepped back; the one now wore a grin of horrid anticipation, the rest watched stoically. The torturer drew on a heavy gauntlet and took an iron from the brazier. The head glowed bright in the dim light. Arcole gritted his teeth: he would not cry out.
The torturer stood before him, and he closed his eyes against the iron’s heat as it was thrust close.
Such was the pain, he could not prevent the shout that burst forth. He heard it echo off the indifferent stone; his nostrils filled with the stench of burning flesh. He was grateful for the darkness that encompassed him.
He woke suddenly, unwilling to leave the soothing blankness. Cold and wet denied him that solace, however, and he spluttered indignantly as he realized a bucket of water had been thrown over him. A hand took his chin, steadying his head as another smeared some salve over the raw pain that covered one side of his face. The pain subsided to a dull throbbing, and he opened his eyes to find the same four Militiamen studying him with calm indifference.
“Not so brave now, eh?”
He recognized the speaker and forced a smile that seemed to crack his face apart. “Have you a mirror?” His voice was thick, and every word sent shafts of pain through his skull. “Perhaps I shall start a new fashion.”
The Militiaman scowled; his companions smiled. Then they hauled Arcole upright and locked the cuffs about his wrists again, this time at the front, and marched him from the hall.
He thought they might return him to his cell and that should be a small blessing, for he felt very weak and would stretch out on his bench and sleep awhile, but instead, he was led down a long corridor to a flight of steps that rose to an arched doorway opening onto a courtyard. Blue sky showed above high walls, and somewhere a bird sang. The air smelled clean and fresh after the malodorous cellars of the prison, and rain glistened on the flags as Arcole was brought to a wagon.
It was such a vehicle as he had seen often enough in the streets of Levan: painted black, with high, solid walls and roof, a single window in the rearward door covered with a metal grille. It was such a vehicle as transported prisoners; he had never thought to ride in one himself.
A ladder granted access to the interior, and the Militiamen stood back as Arcole climbed awkwardly inside. He grimaced at the smell that succeeded in combining all the body’s fluids in one overpowering fetor, then he was pushed down onto a narrow bench and the chain unlocked from his shackles and fixed to a ring set in the wall above his head. The Militiamen departed and he looked about.
Five other prisoners sat watching him with the numb indifference of lost men. All were branded, their cheeks displaying the letter E that was the damning mark of the exile. Arcole winced at the sight.
“None too pretty, eh?”
The speaker was a hulking fellow, his dirty black beard serving to throw the scar into vivid relief against the prison pallor of his cheek. Arcole prayed he did not look so dreadful. He said, “No. I think we’d none of us win prizes for our looks at present.”
The bearded man coughed laughter and asked, “What they got you for?”
“I killed a man,” Arcole said.
The bearded man was unimpressed. “So’d I,” he said. “In a tavern. Bastard pulled a knife on me, so I broke his neck. They’d’ve hanged me, save they want slaves out there in Salvation.”
“Salvation,” Arcole grunted. “Hardly our salvation.”
“Better’n hangin’, no?” the giant said.
“Think you so?” Arcole replied.
The bearded man gaped at him as if he were deranged. “Livin’s better’n dyin’, no?”
“It depends,” said Arcole, “on the manner of one’s existence.”
“You one o’ them philosophers?” the giant demanded. He pronounced it fill-oss-off-er.
Arcole shook his head and sucked breath as the movement set his cheek to burning. “No,” he replied, “I’m”—he corrected himself—“was a gentleman of leisure.”
The giant guffawed. He seemed not to feel any pain. “Not no more,” he hooted. “A gentleman o’leisure, eh? Won’t be much leisure in Salvation, friend. Hard labor’s what you’ll get out there—same as the rest o’ us. Just hard labor til you’re spent, an’ then you die. Gentleman o’ leisure, hah!”
He leant back against the wall, grinning through his beard. Arcole closed his eyes and fervently wished he were somewhere else; he thought the gallows should have been preferable to weeks in such company.
Then the door was flung closed and the interior was abruptly dark. A key grated in the lock; the wagon rocked as the driver climbed to his seat, then lurched as he cracked his whip over the team and the horses flung themselves into the traces. Faint came the clatter of hooves as the escort of Militiamen formed about the vehicle. It began to move, across the prison yard and out through the gates Arcole could not see. The wheels rumbled over cobblestones. Someone whimpered; someone else began to hum unmelodiously. Arcole closed his eyes. He thought this should be a most unpleasant journey.
Davyd stared around the barnlike hall at his fellow exiles. They looked to him like any crowd found on the lesser thoroughfares of Bantar, save that all wore manacles, and all were branded. His own scar no longer pained him, but the cuffs about his wrists chafed. He thought that had he his picklocks, it should not be too difficult to get free; but those were long lost and, even could he use them, the brand decorating his cheek marked him for all to see. Not even Julius would offer refuge to one bearing the mark of exile.
No: he was condemned now, without hope of rescue. He sniffed noisily and tried to tell himself that he was lucky, that it could be worse—had the Autarchy discovered he was a Dreamer, he should likely have been burned by then. It failed to help: he faced a fear almost as great. Soon he would be herded out of this solid, safe, earthbound hall and onto a ship that floated on water. And that ship would slip its moorings and turn from the harbor toward the open sea. Its sails would fill and it would progress westward, to the Sea of Sorrows and beyond, out where there was nothing but ocean. An ocean that was filled with monsters, like the creatures in his dream.
He shivered, trying without success to drive those oneiric images from his mind, and his shivering became a trembling that set his teeth to rattling and, against his will, the tears to flowing helplessly down his cheeks. He drew up his knees, hugging hi
mself as best he could with shackled wrists, his eyes screwed tight as he rocked back and forth, chased by the monsters he knew awaited him.
It was a while before he felt the hands that stroked his shaking shoulders and heard the voice that murmured soothing words such as he’d not heard since Aunt Dory died. Unthinking, he turned toward the sound, burrowing into the consolation of the arms and the warm body that offered him temporary refuge.
“There, there. It’s not so bad, eh? Don’t cry; please don’t cry. It’s not so bad.”
“It is,” he mumbled, and almost added, I know it is, because I dreamed it. But the habit of that concealment was grained too deep, and so he only repeated: “It is.”
“I’ll look after you,” the voice promised, and Davyd opened his eyes and blinked back the tears that he might see his comforter.
She was not that much older than he, and he thought she looked like an angel, one of the carved and gilded angels that decorated the churches he so seldom visited. Her face was an oval framed by golden curls, that managed even in disarray to tumble artfully as if arranged by a coiffeuse. Her eyes were big and blue as cornflowers, and her mouth was wide, the lips full and red. She was, he decided, absolutely beautiful. Suddenly he was embarrassed and drew back a little.
She smiled and said, “My name’s Flysse. What’s yours?”
“Davyd Furth,” he answered, sniffing. He saw that his tears had marked her blouse, which had once been white. “And it is bad.”
For an instant her smile faltered, became forlorn, but then she rearranged it in the shape of confidence. “The ships cross the ocean all the time,” she said. “They come and go, and they’re really quite safe.”
“They sink,” he said.
“How do you know?” she asked gently.
“My mam was drowned,” he said gruffly. It was difficult to talk about it even then, so many years later, but it was the only acceptable reason he could offer. He couldn’t mention his dreams, the fluid visions that had haunted him since childhood, his mother’s death by water only enhancing their terrifying import. It was his dreams that had always told him that. Turning back to his companion, he added, “She went out on a fishing boat, and there was a storm, and she was drowned. So I know!”
“Oh,” she said, “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged, swallowing noisily. “It was a long time ago. I don’t hardly remember her, but it made me scared.”
“But we’ll be on a big ship,” she said, trying to comfort him. “Much bigger than a fishing boat. I’m sure it will be safe.”
“On the ocean?” He shook his head miserably. “There are storms and sea monsters. And they get becalmed and everyone starves, or goes mad because they’ve no water.”
“How do you know?” she asked again.
“Because,” he said, “I do. How do you know they don’t?”
“I used to work in a tavern,” she said,” she said, “and sometimes sailors came there.”
“Sailors lie a lot,” he said.
“And sea captains,” she said, “who are respectable and don’t lie; they told me about it. And if they could, then they must’ve crossed the ocean, no?”
He thought about that a moment, then frowned and shrugged again. She still held him, though not so close, and he did not want to quit her embrace. Nor did he wish to seem a sniveling coward in her eyes, but that was hard—he was still very afraid.
“I suppose so,” he allowed. “But I don’t want to go.”
She laughed at that, not mockingly but softly, as he remembered Aunt Dory laughing when he brought her some childhood fear. It was a comforting sound, and he felt a flash of anger. He was no child, to be fed soft words and meaningless noises.
“I’m not a coward,” he said.
“No, I didn’t think you were.”
He felt a little better for that. He suspected she said it only to soothe him, but he liked her the more for it.
“I’m afraid too,” she said, “do I tell the truth.”
Davyd forgot his tears then, and that he was by several years the younger. He straightened his back and said, “I’ll protect you.”
“Thank you,” she said, sounding absolutely sincere. “Perhaps we might protect each other?”
“Yes.” He nodded vigorously. “What did you say your name was?”
“Flysse,” she said. “Flysse Cobal.”
He held out a hand and they shook as best the manacles allowed, sealing their bargain. They were both encouraged: it was good to find a friend in hardship.
“When do you think we’ll”—Davyd hesitated: he still did not like to think of the imminent future—“… sail?”
“I heard a guard say soon,” Flysse answered him. “They’re waiting for some other prisoners. When they arrive, we depart.”
“I hope they take a long time. The longer the better.”
Flysse laughed at that. The sound was odd in this miserable place, like a hurdy-gurdy in a graveyard. Davyd found his smile become genuine. He saw faces turn their way, most frowning as if the owners wondered at their sanity, and he began to laugh himself, defiantly.
He thought perhaps he was a little crazed, for the memory of the dreams remained and he knew past any doubting that his dreams told the truth. Danger waited for them on the open sea. He wondered if he should tell this newfound friend, but habit bade him not. In his life he had learned more of mistrust than of faith, and it occurred to him that Flysse might buy her freedom with revelation of a Dreamer. Likely the thought was unworthy, but even so—wiser for now that he hold his tongue. Did he come to trust her fully, perhaps then—but not now, when careless words might save him from the sea only to give him to the flames. It was an unpleasant choice, but the fire was certain; the sea … Well, while the dream had threatened horrors, it had not specifically foretold his death, so perhaps there was hope. He clung to that straw like a drowning man.
Two more days they waited in discomfort and ignorance. They were fed, albeit poorly, and were free to move about the hall, but most remained huddled in their places as if staking some claim to that sad patch of ground. When the guards came in with their food, the briefly opened doors admitted a wafting of air that smelled of the sea and tar and wet rope, reminding them they were held in the harbor quarter. Davyd thought the hall must once have been a warehouse—faint through the overlaid scent of unwashed bodies there were more exotic odors of spices and tobacco—and the few windows were set high and very dirty. It was still, he supposed, a kind of warehouse, save now its contents were human—living goods awaiting shipment across the ocean. He thought he might have lost his mind were it not for Flysse.
She remained determinedly cheerful, so that he must match her and pretend he was no longer afraid. He hoped they might be indentured together, when they reached Salvation—if they survived the Sea of Sorrows.
For her part, Flysse was grateful for the company of this odd boy, and—though she hid it—as much shocked as intrigued by his tales of robberies and rookeries, of pockets picked and locks undone. He was, unashamedly, a thief; indeed he was rather proud of his larcenous skills, which sat ill with her honest upbringing. Yet as he told her of his sad childhood, of a mother barely remembered and of the woman—Aunt Dory—who had raised him, she could not help but feel sympathy. He seemed to her less a genuine criminal than a luckless victim of unkind fate. In Cudham a home should have been found for him, a place to sleep, and honest work. He might well have had no more than a corner of some hayloft, but the folk of her village would have seen him fed and clothed, not left him to his own devices.
Such a reminder of home saddened her, for she knew she would never see Cudham again, and likely her parents never know her fate. She wondered if they would assume her dead, or—far worse—believe she had forgotten them, seduced by the city. She did not believe word would ever reach them of her exile, and with that thought tears threatened. Then it was Davyd who comforted her, with tales of daring thievery and colorful accounts of folk who seemed to her
quite bizarre, so that before long she smiled again and listened eagerly to his yarns.
So the days passed until, around noon on the third day, the last of the exiles arrived.
Davyd and Flysse were deep in conversation. Flysse was speaking of the summer fair in Cudham, which seemed to Davyd a marvelous thing. She broke off as the doors opened and six men were ushered in. They were unshaved and dirty and none too steady on their feet, as if walking were a thing they had forgotten. The doors banged shut behind them and they stared around, blinking and squinting in the poor light.
Five were dressed in the clothes of ordinary workingmen, but the sixth was in gentlemanly attire; and though his coat was soiled and his boots scuffed, and his chin as stubbled as the rest—save for one giant fellow who sported a voluminous beard—he managed an air of elegance that set him apart. He looked about with narrowed eyes, his lips pursed in an expression of distaste, as if he found himself in unfamiliar surroundings not at all to his liking. Flysse thought she had never seen a man so handsome.
“I wonder what he did to end up with us.”
Flysse blushed as Davyd spoke, thinking her observation overly brazen; but then she saw that she was not alone in remarking the newcomer. He was, after all, the only man present to wear such finery, or such an air of disdain.
“Looks like a toff,” Davyd murmured, and chuckled. “And if he keeps his nose in the air like that, someone’s likely to dent it for him.”
Flysse thought that should be sad—it seemed to her a very attractive nose.
“Nice clothes,” Davyd remarked, watching as the stranger picked a way between his fellow prisoners in search of a space. “I wonder if he managed to bring any coin?”
“How could he?” Flysse asked, turning toward Davyd whilst still managing to watch the man from the corner of her eye. She found herself hoping he might find a place beside them, then berated herself for such silly notions. He was clearly a gentleman fallen on hard times, and unlikely to consider her worthy of notice.
“It can be done,” Davyd assured her from the depths of his worldly wisdom. “It all depends on who you know, who your friends are.”