“Yes, sir. Of course, sir,” the old man said. “And their pay? Shanks will want more money.”
That was another thing Fa’rann liked about the man – he had a habit of coming right to the point.
“What of it?” he asked.
“At the rate, you are going, sir, you will run out of money in four months.”
“You let me worry about that,” Fa’rann said, waving off the comment. If he weren't in the palace before the summer, Ash’mael and the Karakin would likely have put paid to his plans. And if not them, the dragons surely would. “Just send the message.”
“Yes, sir,” the old man said, turning to the door.
He stopped before opening it. “And the Re’adh woman?” he asked. “What do you want me to do with her? She’s complaining about her quarters, about having to wait for over a week to speak to you. Do you want me to send her on her way?”
Fa’rann blinked. He had forgotten about her, too. What was wrong with this human mind? Was the real Lord Breen fighting his possessor?
“The Re’adh woman,” Fa’rann mused.
She was the boy’s mother, and wife to the new colonel; the man who had helped defeat Vila’slae. Could he afford to let her go? And if he kept her, would he be inviting an attack from the capital?
More bad timing, he thought.
He sat back in his chair. Would the palace attack if he kept her? Was Vierdan strong enough to send an army south? Fa’rann did not think so; Bailryn had barely recovered from the siege, and the king had fewer men than he did. Of course, he had the wolves, and those Cren Woodsmen, but Fa’rann did not think Vierdan would ask them to battle, not for a woman.
“What to do?” he whispered. Then, sighing, he said, “Tell the Re’adh woman, I’ll see her tomorrow morning. Tell her to gather her things, ready to move into the manor. That should keep her quiet.” He turned in his chair to face the old man. “Then, at the second bell, have her taken to the keep. Put her in a cell, but see that she is taken good care of, I do not want her injured.”
Bayon’s eyes widened. “Are you sure that’s wise, sir? We’ve all heard the stories about her son. This Gialyn is powerful, and he has the help of the mage boy, Mersius. And never mind the wolves. The Rukin are more his creatures than the kings. Holding the young man’s mother could prove, problematic.”
“I’m aware of that,” Fa’rann said. “But who’s to say she did not just run afoul of bandits? Put her in the keep, and make sure only you and the jailor know she is there.”
“Very well, sir. In that case, might I suggest the old farm? We can hold her securely along with the Toyan woman. Nobody goes out that way. A few trusted men, a maid to see to their needs; it would be far less troublesome than the keep, sir.”
Yes, Fa’rann thought, he was right to like the man.
“Very well,” he said. “Do what you think best. But remember, see she comes to no harm. And put it about that she has left the estate. Travelling to the old farm should make that ruse easier to manufacture. And use Calleon’s men, not the regulars. I don’t want whispers in the barracks.”
Bayon smiled. “As you say, sir. A wise precaution.”
The old man left, and Fa’rann took a long drink of wine.
“Gialyn Re’adh,” he whispered.
Had he seen the boy before? Or rather, had Lord Breen seen him? He did not think so. And if he did, the lad had not left much of an impression. He knew Mersius, of course. All the lower gods knew of the mage Seer and his pets. But Gialyn…
“What have you been up to,” Fa’rann mused. “And why are the wolves following you?”
It did not matter why, not really. Fa’rann had the boy’s mother; the young man would not use the wolves against him while he held her prisoner. But what of this Dragon Oracle; the young woman who had been seen with the Re’adh boy? Could Gialyn control her, too? If so, two sides of the triangle, the dragons and the wolves, could be effectively neutralised, leaving only the Eiras Witches. Yes, there was nothing he could do about Ash’mael, but maybe he could rid himself of a few other issues.
And all it would cost is one boy’s mother.
Maybe using the Re’adh woman would not work, but it would be worth a try. At the very least, it would slow the boy down.
“A few months,” he whispered. “A few months and Aleras will be mine.”
The thought made him smile – an odd sensation: another of those human eccentricities he would have to get used to, along with hunger and tiredness. Honestly, how did these people put up with such weakness?
“Oh well,” he said. “Small price to pay for ruling Ein’laig’s domain.” He laughed at that, then poured more wine.
* * *
“This really is intolerable,” Odaman said.
Mairi sighed. Would the man ever stop complaining?
They were in the guest house on the other side of the field from the manor. They had been there over a week, ever since Karyl Hock had escorted them to Lord Breen’s estate.
That had been an odd few hours, Mairi remembered; an odd few hours wondering whether they would end the night tortured in some dungeon. But Hock had been true to his word, and rather than go to the warehouse – the headquarters of Lord Breen’s Devotees, whoever they were – Hock had brought them out to the estate. An hour later, they were roomed at the guest house. Since then, the only sign of Lord Breen had been a distant view of the man taking his pet desert cat out for a run through the snow.
Meanwhile, Mairi had spent an exceedingly long week with only Odaman for company – which, as anyone who knew the man would testify, was a torture all of its own making.
“He said in the morning,” Odaman went on. “It is an hour from second bell. Where is the man?”
Odaman was talking about Bayon, Lord Breen’s secretary.
In Mairi’s view, Bayon and Odaman where two sides of the same coin. Both were small, both were frail, and both had that sweaty conniving look which seemed common among life-long bootlickers. By rights, the two secretaries should have gotten on well with each other, but Odaman hated the man – maybe he saw too much of himself in Breen’s lapdog?
“He’ll be along,” Mairi said.
“When?” Odaman said, as if she would know the man’s movements. “Don’t they know we are waiting?”
Again, he walked to the window and stared out toward the cobbled road connecting the guest house to the manor grounds. He was pulling his collar and straightening his tunic. Something he did when he was agitated, Mairi had noticed, which meant it was something he did a lot.
Again, Mairi sighed. “Can you not just sit down and wait?” she said, waving at the chair opposite where she was sitting. “I doubt Master Bayon woke up this morning thinking you a priority. He’s likely busy with all sorts of things. I’m sure he will be along presently.”
The effort of being civil to the man was giving her a headache. Why could he not just sit down and shut up for five minutes? Not for the first time, she cursed Evin for sending Odaman along on this mission. Bad enough he was such a devious cretin, he was also incredibly rude. She was sure, had he not come along, Bayon would have taken her to see His Lordship long since. Gods, she should have been on her way home by now.
That made her think of Daric.
Are you home? She thought. Then chastised herself for thinking of Bailryn as home. Would they ever go back to Albergeddy? A few more months, and all the work they had done readying the farm would go to waste, destroyed by the spring melt and the inevitable weeds that followed.
Sighing again, she reached for her teacup. Yes, Daric would be on his way back to Bailryn. He would find the boy, Mersius, and he and Gialyn would be on their way north. And what would he do when he arrived to find her still not back from Whitecliff? Ride south with half the palace guards in tow, no doubt.
Odaman was right about one thing; they did need to hurry things along.
Two more days, she told herself. Two more days, and we’ll go back to Bailryn, meeting or no mee
ting.
“Here he comes,” Odaman said. “And about time.”
Mairi put her cup down. “Gather your belongings,” she said. “We will wait for him on the stoop.”
Odaman shot her a wry grin. “Now who’s the impatient one?” he said.
Mairi ignored the man. Gathering her bag, and the pouch with the papers Evin had given her, she headed for the door.
Gods, I hope they put us in separate apartments, she thought. And on opposite sides of the manor.
She opened the guesthouse door and walked out into the chilly, late-morning air.
The carriage Bayon sent was the one from the palace, the same one Mairi and Odaman had used to travel down to Whitecliff. Mairi had thought Hock’s men had taken it back to the warehouse. She nodded up at the driver, then eyed the arrow hole next to the door frame as she allowed one of the guards to help her up the shaky step. There was no sign of Bayon.
Once in, she sat in her usual place and put her bag on the bench next to her, to stop Odaman sitting there – yes, it was a short trip to the manor, but anything to keep the man at arm’s length.
Of course, short trip or not, Odaman had to have all five of his bags put up top. Gods alone knew what he kept in them. Not clothes, that was for sure; since leaving Bailryn, he had worn the same two black and silver outfits.
Mairi waited patiently while Odaman directed the guards to pack his belongings just so. The man really was a pompous fool. He reminded her of Theo Tanner, Elspeth’s father. He was another one who would pay for a crust and expect the loaf. Thinking about the emissary, Mairi wondered if they were still in the palace, living in Elspeth’s quarters.
Likely not; Evin would not want them anywhere near the king.
The carriage rocked as Breen’s men threw Odaman’s things up onto the roof, Odaman preaching all the while over the guards taking more care with his belongings.
Absently, Mairi wondered why there were so many guards for such a short trip – she could see the manor from where she sat; surely a couple of men and the driver would have been enough. She asked one of the guards.
“Standard practice, ma’am. Lord Breen likes his security,” the guard said.
He did not look her in the eye, and there was something about the way he—
“That’s it,” Odaman said, pulling himself into the carriage. “Five minutes, and we will be safely in the manor, where we belong.”
He was smiling, the first smile Mairi had seen on his face since leaving Bailryn. It did not look good on him; like a goat chewing a sour berry. The thought made her cringe.
“Will Master Bayon meet us at the manor?” Mairi asked the guard, ignoring Odaman’s comment.
“I expect so, ma’am,” he said, and slammed the door.
He did not look at her when he spoke, and it was not long before Mairi knew that last comment for the lie it was. Less than two minutes later, they turned west at the crossroad. Ten minutes after that, their driver guided the four-horse carriage into the yard of an old farmhouse.
Mairi looked across at Odaman. He was no longer smiling.
CHAPTER 2
View from the River
In the marshes, south of Bhail, winter seemed not to have touched the great expanse of wetland that made much of central Eiras – something to do with the gas bubbling up from deep underground, Elucia had said. It always seemed warmer around the canal – and smelly. Of course, it was a different story north of Bhail, where the pass through the western spur had, for over a fortnight, been blocked by a three-span-high drift of heavy ice and snow. Here, there was no sign of snow. And yet, Elspeth could still feel a chill in the soft breeze blowing up from the canal and smell the crisp aroma of still-frozen dew.
At that hour, there was little sound but for the clanging of wood on stone, as the dockworkers stacked last night’s cargo of fish and seed, ready for the wagons that would haul the barrels up to the city. Fish and seed were all that was left of the rich cargo the dock usually handled at this time of year. The rioters, who had left most of their crops rotting in the fields, had seen to that – other than the basics, there was nothing left to trade. And not only had the crops failed, there was precious little meat and fruit and veg, and never enough to go around.
Elspeth was not concerned with the cargo, she would eat onion soup with stale bread if that was all the kitchens at the Blue Tower had to offer, she was not standing at the end of the stone dock waiting for a shipment of food; she was waiting for an army.
Trapper nudged her elbow and moved in closer. He could tell she was cold, Elspeth knew. The dog had been getting extremely sensitive of late, especially concerning Elspeth’s needs. It was almost as though he could read her mind.
Even sitting, the black and white not-quite-a-dog’s head reached past her elbow. He was huge, now. When she first rescued him from Vila’slae, some five months ago, Trapper had been no bigger than a mid-sized hunting hound, barely up to her knee. Now, he was the size of a small pony.
“It’s all right, boy,” Elspeth said, stroking Trapper’s neck. “Another five minutes, and we’ll go back. Olivia was right; I don’t think they’re coming.”
“You back again, miss?” a croaky voice said.
“Yes, Chiney,” Elspeth said. “Back again.”
Chiney was an old man, wisp-thin, with virtually no hair and only one tooth Elspeth could see. But she liked him well enough; he always had a kind word. Today, Chiney was fixing a net. Folks laughed at the old man for fishing the canal – too much salt and muck for fish, they’d say – but the Chiney usually caught enough to feed himself. Not that Elspeth would want to eat any of his catch; most the creatures the old man dragged up from the canal already looked half dead.
“Waiting for your prince, I suppose? And where’s that little friend of yours, the little pale skinned girl?” Chiney said, grinning.
Elspeth laughed. “If you mean Anooni, she’s back at the palace,” she said. “And as for a prince, I’d settle for a few hundred of his men.”
She had not told the old man why she had visited the docks every morning for the past fortnight, and he gave her a dull, bewildered look.
Elspeth waved off her comment. “Never mind me, Chiney. I was just thinking out loud.”
Chiney looked over his shoulder, south, down along the course of the canal which, twenty miles beyond the marsh, eventually met the huge lock before flowing into the sea. The old man looked like he expected a Krassian galleon to emerge from the mist.
Elspeth cursed her big mouth. There was enough nervy folk in and around the city without her adding to it.
“Did you catch anything?” Elspeth asked, changing the subject.
Chiney looked down at the bucket by his left foot. “A few snappers,” he said, the grin back on his lips. “You want one, miss? They’re good with a few tubas and a bit of fenna. If you can find fenna, that is, not seen much this year.”
Elspeth glanced at the bucket. She could just about see the many-tentacled head of a snapper fish poking out of the water. It was pale green, slimy, and had huge black eyes. Its gaping mouth was open – in truth, the foul thing was all mouth – and Elspeth could see why folk called it a snapper.
She held her stomach. “Thank you,” she said, “but no. I’ve got food waiting back home. You keep that.”
Chiney tilted his head to one side. “You all right, miss?” he asked. “You’ve gone a funny colour.”
Trapper whined, doubtless in sympathy over her churning stomach, and Elspeth stroked his head.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Just a bit tired. I didn’t sleep much last night. I think I best go home.”
“As you say, miss.” He reached into the bucket and pulled out a snapper fish. The sickly-looking creature wriggled in his hand, trying to bite him. “You sure you won’t take one?”
Elspeth turned away. “Really, thank you, Chiney, but… Thank you. I’ll be off now.”
She let Trapper lead her to the gate.
“See you tomorr
ow, miss,” Chiney said to her back.
Elspeth raised her hand and waved without looking. “Tomorrow,” she said, and wondered how she could avoid the old man without upsetting him too much. Maybe cross to the other side of the canal? She had nothing against old Chiney, but if she had to look at another one of those foul fish.
Absently, she wondered if she could ever be hungry enough to eat something like that. She knew there were food shortages, but how desperate would she have to….
No, she told herself. Stop thinking about the bloody fish. She took a deep, settling breath, then, silently praying the kitchens would not run out of onions, she opened the gate.
The road back to Bhail was all but empty. Elspeth walked her horse for most of the three-mile journey. She was in no rush to get back to the tower. Trapper loped at her side, eyeing the other folk on the road, scowling at every bush or tree they passed, and generally doing his guard dog thing. Elspeth did not mind; it was not as if she wanted to talk to anyone. Still, she had to admit; Trapper took his self-appointed mission as her guardian and defender a little too seriously at times.
More than once, she had wondered what happened to the dog – if he was a dog. Why had he grown so quickly? Elucia said she had heard of a breed that grew to enormous size, but Elspeth thought Trapper was already fully grown when he followed her out of Vila’slae’s camp. Whatever had happened to him, it had been a recent change. She glanced over at the black and white beast with his flat face and pointed ears. Indeed, he was the size of a pit pony – bigger, if measured by width. Thinking about it, she wondered if she could have ridden him back to town.
“I wouldn’t do that,” she said, patting Trapper’s neck.
He glanced at her as they walked, an oddly human expression. Could he understand what she was saying, too? She already thought he could read her mind.
“Don’t be silly,” she whispered. “It’s just coincidence; he’s just sensitive.”
Trapper let out a short bark that made her wonder if it was just coincidence.
The Ship of Tears: (The Legend of the Nine: Part One) (The Eastern Kingdom Chronicles Book 8) Page 2