Waterborne Exile

by Susan Murray

  The king was late. Marten had been cooling his heels in the antechamber a good half hour before, finally, the king strolled in accompanied by his retinue. Marten studied them without being too obvious about it: he recognised only Marwick, who’d been prominent in Highkell society for many years. He’d seen the tall skinny fellow before, too, although he could not put a name to him.

  It was he who approached Marten now. “You are Marten the freemerchant?”

  “My name is Marten.”

  “Then the king will grant you his attention now. Be sure you use his time well, or he will not forget.”

  The tall man led Marten to the door of the chamber where the king now sat, waiting. The room was otherwise empty. The air struck chill as if the place had not been warmed through in days.

  “Highness, this is the freemerchant, Marten.”

  “Very well, Kaith. You may leave us.”

  Marten bowed low, in best court style. Now he was playing courtly games once more he regretted having left all his finery behind. It belonged to his old life as a freemerchant and had no part to play in his new life, but in this place he had no doubt a man would be judged on the worth of his clothing.

  “Highness. I am honoured to be granted an audience.” He noted Vasic’s finger tap impatiently on the arm of his throne. The king’s rumoured impatience was true, then. If he’d had the forethought he might have questioned Alwenna about the king – she knew him better than most. She might also have wondered why he was taking such an interest in the upstart monarch…

  “You spoke of a valuable artefact?”

  “Indeed, I did, your highness. It is an item that I believe may hold some particular importance to you.”

  “Importance? That is a bold claim.”

  “But not ungrounded, your highness. This artefact was once in the possession of your late cousin, Tresilian. It is a dagger – a particularly fine one.”

  Vasic’s brow creased, but Marten had his attention now. “Do you intend to talk all day, or to show me this dagger?”

  Marten bowed, slipping the bag from his shoulder. “I have it here with me, your highness. If it might be of interest I shall be only too happy to show it to you. I would not have you misconstrue my producing it when in such close proximity to your person.”

  Vasic glanced to the door – it stood open allowing those in the antechamber to see the exchange, without being close enough to overhear. There were guards posted at either side of that door, alert for any command from the king. “You will find my understanding significantly stronger than my patience, freemerchant.”

  Any physical likeness to Tresilian was superficial at best. Yet there was something about his manner that reminded Marten of Tresilian’s changed nature at the summer palace. That was something that deserved more thought… Vasic drummed his fingers on the chair arm.

  “Well?”

  Marten removed the cloth-wrapped bundle from the bag, unwinding the cloth that hid the dagger. It had been opened since they’d tied it up securely by the stream the day they’d left the summer palace. Picked over by the freemerchant elders, and rejected…

  Vasic was a more appreciative audience for the dagger. Yet it would be so easy to end this now. Vasic was the single largest obstacle between Alwenna and the throne. Marten could remove him, right now, and her way would be clear. She would be undisputed ruler of the Peninsular Kingdoms. And Marten would be unlikely to get as far as the doorway before the guards felled him. This was not the moment to act on impulse. He’d always played the long game… And yet, handing over the dagger to Vasic was difficult. Was it exerting influence over him the way it had over Alwenna? That was fanciful nonsense, surely?

  Marten held out the dagger, as if the tattered cloth was some kind of presentation cushion. At least it meant he didn’t need to touch the jewelled hilt. Vasic sat forward, eyes on the dagger.

  “This was Tresilian’s, you say?” He leaned closer, one hand reaching towards the hilt. “And you know this how, freemerchant?”

  Whatever Marten might have said in the heat of the moment, he was a freemerchant – to the core. This was why he was doing this. He must not lose sight of his goal now. She would understand… hadn’t she expected as much all along, and mocked him for his self-delusion while he was waiting for an audience? Or had that whisper been some effect of his guilty conscience? “It was identified to me by one who held it in her hand.”

  Vasic looked up sharply. “What mean you by that? Speak plainly.”

  “By the Lady Alwenna’s account, your highness, you already know this blade well.”

  “What could you possibly know about that, freemerchant?”

  “Sire, I know only what the Lady Alwenna told me herself. This blade fell with her when the tower collapsed, and was found nearby when she was dug free of the rubble.”

  Vasic studied the freemerchant for a moment, then reached out and picked up the dagger by the hilt. He seemed relieved as he turned it over in his hand, admiring the craftwork. The jewels glinted in the light from the window, but nothing more. Then it was true: Vasic may have wielded the blade before, but it did not know his hand. There had been no other way to discover this.

  “So… The Lady Alwenna gave you an account, you say? She survived the collapse?”

  “That is correct, sire.”

  Vasic studied his face. “How is it possible that none should know of this?”

  “I imagine there must have been a great deal of confusion at the time, your highness.”

  Vasic turned his attention to the blade again, turning the dagger over in his hands, admiring the play of light on the jewels. There appeared to be nothing sinister about it. “There have been rumours, of course, but none from credible sources. Your tale, however, with the weight of this dagger behind the testimony… I find it more plausible.”

  Marten bowed. “Highness. I am your humble servant.”

  “Are you, indeed?” Vasic studied him, his brow creased in a frown. “How selfless an act on your part, to bring me this dagger.”

  “I hope, your highness, it will prove how useful I may be to you.”

  Vasic raised one eyebrow. “In what way, precisely?”

  “In these changing times, your highness, a man must look to his future. Freemerchant ways are sliding into antiquity by failing to change with the times, yet I have learned much on my travels. I know languages and far-off places that few have seen for themselves. I have conversed with kings as well as commoners; I can conduct myself honourably in court or agreeably in a poor man’s hovel. Doors, in short, are open to me where they would be closed to other men. Highness, I would serve you. I offer that dagger as evidence of my utility.”

  Vasic weighed his response. “And you seek no reward for this?”

  “I am not a greedy man, your highness. It is worth a king’s ransom, but I do not ask for that. I would however be grateful for a modest salary in recompense.”

  “Would you, indeed?” Vasic turned to studying the dagger again. “Precisely how did you come by this?”

  “It was recovered from the rubble when the Lady Alwenna was dug free, highness.”

  “Yes, yes, you told me that before. Was it you who dug her free?”

  “No, your highness. I was not present. At the time I was in the Marches, discussing the supply of provisions to the old summer palace there.” He paused. “I believe you have here one priest who goes by the name of Durstan. His order have been based there in recent years.”

  “Is that so? And are you aware of their work?”

  “Indirectly, your highness. My contact there was steward to the prelate Durstan, whom I never met in person. But I have seen the results of his work firsthand.”

  “And?”

  “Their work is remarkable. They can make dead men walk, restore them to life as whole as if they had never fallen.” Better not to bring Tresilian’s name into this. “I understand that blade has been used in their rites. It is at once powerful and dark – and now we come to my
reason for bringing it to you, your highness.” He hesitated. Was he right to do this? “If that blade were to be turned against you its power would be multiplied threefold, because of its history with your kinsmen.”

  Vasic digested this revelation with suspicion. “And?”

  “Highness, I thought you might seek to keep it safe, where none can touch it, to ensure it cannot be used against you.”

  “So you contend the dagger is inimical to me?”

  “It may be, highness. And, knowing of the dagger as I do, I have also heard rumours that the high priest Durstan was seeking to recover the dagger. Given the power his order wield, I would fear the consequences if they were to gain possession of it. None could hope to keep it safer than you – you who are ruler of the combined Peninsular Kingdoms.”

  Vasic turned over the dagger, studying it closely. Marten had little doubt he recognised it as the one he had used to dispatch his own cousin: it was too distinctive.

  Vasic pursed his lips. “And the Lady Alwenna? Have you news of her? You claim to have conversed with her.”

  “Not in recent days, your highness. But she was in good health when last I saw her.”

  “And how am I to know your bringing me this dagger is not some trick of hers? She turned it on the priest from Vorrahan when he held it in his hands – I saw it happen with my own eyes.”

  “I have heard others speak of that day, highness. Terrible though it was, I doubt she could achieve anything from so great a distance.”

  “So she is at a great distance now?”

  “She was when I last saw her, your highness: she has left the Peninsular Kingdoms entirely, with no intention of returning.”

  “Has she, indeed? You are very careful not to commit yourself, freemerchant.”

  “I pass on only information I know to be true. It is safer for all that the Lady Alwenna remain a great distance removed from that dagger.”

  “And so you brought it to me?”

  “You are her closest surviving kinsman, and so you have a stake in this. It seemed only right that you should know.”

  “Indeed?” Vasic set down the dagger on a small side table and clapped his hands. A servant appeared at the door. “Summon Marwick to attend me.” He looked over at Marten again. “I shall reward you for bringing the dagger to me.”

  Marwick hastened into the room. “Your highness?”

  “The freemerchant here has brought me a valuable item. Reward him with a fat purse for his trouble. And put your mind to considering how we might find a use for a man with his skills upon my return from Lynesreach.”

  They had been dismissed. Marwick bowed low, and Marten followed suit before following the courtier from the room. He couldn’t blame the king for being cautious: both of them knew what had happened last time the blade had crossed Vasic’s path. But leaving the dagger there was harder than Marten had ever imagined possible. The dagger had been the focus of all his thoughts and plans on the journey to Highkell and he felt its loss as keenly as if it had been one of his own children. His only consolation was it could do no harm to Alwenna now, nor could she do any harm with it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Don’t be a fool – no one will even recognise you, not when you’re with me. I didn’t bring you all the way here so you could hide in this room the whole time.” Jervin dragged his shirt on over his head. “The king’s not even here, now – do you imagine anyone will remember a single prisoner who escaped months ago? You don’t even look like the same person any more.” The mattress shifted as he got to his feet.

  Drew gnawed on his thumbnail. Jervin was right – who would be likely to recognise him here? He’d been shut in the dungeon most of the time. And those he’d travelled east with were not here to be seen with him, so what had he to lose? Vasic might have known him, but Vasic was gone to Lynesreach to meet his new bride.

  The king would know him, he was sure of it. There had been an unpleasant intimacy about the way Vasic had leant over him as he applied the branding iron… Drew had been so convinced he ought to come to Highkell, but now he was here the certainty had deserted him.

  Jervin had pulled on his trousers and boots. “Do you plan to sit there all day?”

  Drew shook his head. “No. I’ll come out with you.”

  “Then you’ll be needing these.” Jervin scooped some trousers up off the floor and threw them at Drew.

  The market square would once have been teeming with people eager to examine the traders’ wares, but today it was sparsely occupied. Drew wandered among the stalls trying to take a desultory interest in the goods, but there was little to catch his attention. Jervin had soon tired of the exercise, and had left Drew with Rekhart as he went to discuss what he had described as a small business matter. Rekhart was in subdued mood, contributing so little to the conversation Drew had given up and walked in silence. Jervin had made this trip out to be a bold adventure – sallying forth into the town where there was a price on Drew’s head. But… No. It was a dull business. Drew should never have accompanied him here in the first place – his presence was a constant source of acrimony. Jervin was displeased that he’d been unable to see the king before his departure for Lynesreach, and that made it difficult for everyone about him.

  There was nothing on the final row of market stalls but a couple of fabric merchants. A young woman stood at one, studying the bolts of fabric. The hair on the back of his neck rose with apprehension. He’d never seen her before, to his knowledge, but there was something about her that made him uneasy. Her hair was so fair it was almost colourless. Her face was equally pale, there was something bloodless about her. And that face was the one that had been haunting his sleep in recent weeks.

  Abruptly Drew turned away and bumped straight into a tall man who was crossing the street.

  “I beg your pardon.” Drew was intent on putting as much distance between himself and the priestess as possible.

  “Well, now. You’re the last person I expected to find here.”

  Drew recognised the freemerchant by his voice rather than his appearance. It took a moment to recall his name. “Why, Marten. We met briefly on the road east.”

  “That’s right, young Drew. And of course, I know commander Rekhart of Brigholm.”

  “Commander no more, but I never forget a face.” Rekhart offered his hand to Marten, who shook it.

  “Just as I am a freemerchant no more. Perhaps we will find a common cause here in Highkell.”

  “Perhaps.” Rekhart’s tone was non-committal.

  “Our mutual friend, Weaver, is in town, too. You may already have seen him?”

  “Weaver? No I haven’t, but I would be glad to speak with him again.”

  “I’ve seen him at court, although I haven’t yet had the chance to speak with him.” Marten gestured towards a nearby kopamid house. “But we needn’t stand around out here, will you join me for some kopamid?”

  Rekhart shrugged, but Drew agreed with alacrity. The chance to speak with someone outside Jervin’s immediate circle was more than welcome.

  Marten poured the kopamid into the utilitarian beakers favoured by this particular kopamid house. It was situated on a side street just off the main town square, set up above the pavement by a short flight of steps. Patrons might watch passers-by from the window without themselves being observed. Marten had chosen the seat that gave him the clearest view of the town square, Drew noticed. Weaver had told him little about the freemerchant, so he was interested now to see the man for himself. It had been clear that Weaver did not trust the freemerchant, even though the former king’s man had been working for him when they last met. Like everyone else, Drew had heard the many rumours about events surrounding the destruction of the summer palace. This could be his chance to learn more about what had happened.

  “To your health, gentlemen.” Marten raised his beaker and drank. “I’ve been told the blend they use here is the best in Highkell. Nothing brings clarity like a good, hot shot of kopamid.”

&
nbsp; Clarity. Yes, that was something Drew had been lacking in recent weeks. He sipped at his drink. Marten was right: it was a good blend. But now he had so many questions he didn’t know where to begin – or how much he ought to reveal to the freemerchant of what he already knew – even though, or perhaps because, it was very little.

  “You spoke of our friend, Weaver – at court, I believe you said. Does he work now for the new king?” Drew set down his beaker on the wooden table top. It bore ring-marks from dozens of hot beakers that had been placed there over the years.

  “Not for the king, no. But he is his guest, along with members of the order lately travelled here from the Marches.”

  “When last we met, he was working for you.” Drew picked up his beaker again, keeping his eyes on the freemerchant.

  “That is so. I have suffered some reverses since then.” Marten met Drew’s gaze levelly. “My royal sponsor of several years’ standing proved in the end to be unworthy of the trust his most loyal servants had placed in him.” There was no trace of bitterness in his voice, yet Drew guessed events had not unfolded as simply as the glib reply suggested.

  “I beg your pardon, but I can be slow on the uptake. You speak of ‘him’, but I must assume you do not mean Vasic?”

  “That is correct. I speak of Tresilian, late king of Highground and ruler of the Marches in his wife’s stead.”

  Drew glanced at Rekhart, who appeared as much at a loss as he was to understand this. “But… Tresilian died when Highkell fell to Vasic’s army, surely?”

  “Yes and no, young Drew. Yes and no. You may have heard tales of the mystic arts studied in the Marches in the distant past. Mystic arts so dark they have been forbidden for many years and are practised now only in the utmost secrecy?”

  “I have.” Rekhart spoke up. “It was said some of the royal family were caught up in the rituals. From time to time the city watch would find… evidence that suggested the tales were not entirely fabricated. But no one asks many questions when a vagrant dies suddenly.”

  Drew didn’t press for more detail – Rekhart’s expression suggested he’d said all he was prepared to on that matter.