Waterborne Exile

by Susan Murray

  “Surely not.” That was impossible. Rekhart had to have been mistaken.

  “I swear I didn’t know before that night what was going on.”

  “And this was one of the regular shipments?” Jervin was shipping children upriver from Ellisquay like so much produce? Just another commodity?

  “That’s right.” Rekhart pushed his beaker away. “But you haven’t heard the worst of it. There was one lad – maybe ten or so. He’d been taken ill on board. I had to help carry him off the boat. I thought we’d take him to a healer, but… The woman in charge slung him in the water. I had him by the ankles… His head hit the side of the barge… I just let go. I saw him go under the water. I could have dived in and tried to save him, but I just stood there. I did nothing, Drew. I just stood there.”

  Drew was lost for words.

  “You see now, why I can’t live with myself?”

  “Why tell me this? I can’t absolve your guilt.”

  Rekhart shook his head. “You’ve been a friend to me these past weeks. I… it’s only fair to let you know what you’ve got into.”

  Drew pushed his seat back, jumping to his feet. He wanted to believe Rekhart was lying, had made up this tale for some twisted reason of his own. But he couldn’t.

  He hesitated at the foot of the stairs. Maybe he should walk around outside for a while, let the night air clear his head. And if he did, what then? Would he talk himself out of confronting Jervin? He should never have agreed to come back here…

  Reluctantly, he climbed the stairs to the room they shared.

  Jervin was busy wrapping some of his new treasures and stowing them carefully in a wooden trunk. He glanced at Drew. “Cheer up. It might never happen.”

  Drew didn’t need to say anything. Rekhart might have been lying. Maybe he was testing him in some way. Maybe it was one of Jervin’s games… But what sort of a man would make up something like that and think it a mere game? Drew felt bile rise in his throat. If that was the best excuse he could think up it was a pretty poor one. And there could be no doubting the self-disgust in Rekhart’s expression as he related the tale.

  “I was talking to Rekhart.”

  “Maybe now you’ll agree with me there are better ways to spend your time.” Jervin set the lid on the wooden box.

  “Yes.” The word was more forceful than Drew had intended.

  Jervin looked up sharply. “What, no lectures about caring for my fellow man?”

  “No. Not this time.” There was no easy way to do this. No discreet way to enquire without damaging their friendship… Nor did that concern him, if what Rekhart told him was true.

  “Here – is this not a fine piece? Fit for a queen would you not say?” Jervin held out a necklace fashioned in the shape of leaves, each one as delicate as nature itself.

  It was exquisite: even in his mood of current discontent Drew couldn’t help reaching out to touch it. Yet when he did, he had an overwhelming sense of stifling darkness. It pressed about him until he snatched his hand back. “The craftsmanship is remarkable. Fit for a queen? Do you mean anything by that?”

  Jervin grinned. “It came with several tall tales attached. What do you think?”

  Drew was in no mood for guessing games. “It’s a great shame the clasp is broken.”

  Jervin’s mouth tightened and he folded the necklace away in the cloth, adding it tenderly to the box. “You might try a little harder to take an interest.”

  This was his opening. “I do have a question for you, Jervin: how do you make your money?”

  “You know, Drew. You handle the accounts.”

  “Some of them. But I don’t know what it is the Ellisquay traders supply that you’re prepared to spend so much entertaining them.”

  Jervin shrugged. “They supply many things. Wine. Spices. Carpets. But you know all this: why the sudden curiosity?”

  “Oh, it’s not sudden. I’ve been wondering for a while.” It was Drew’s turn to shrug, but his indifference was feigned. “Like the cargoes that come upriver at night; the ones that are locked away in the warehouse cellar. What about those?”

  “What about them? Do you expect me to leave valuable wine out in the open?” Jervin moved the wooden box over to the corner of the room.

  Drew’s heart sank. Jervin could have owned up and told him the truth at that point. They could have made things all right. Somehow.

  “But those cargoes aren’t wine, are they?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Jervin’s mouth tightened to a thin line.

  “Of course you do! Don’t lie to me now, please.” Surely Jervin would have a real answer, an explanation for it all…

  “Whatever notion you’ve got hold of, I suggest you forget it now, Drew. I’ve given you a lot of leeway, but I won’t tolerate accusations of lying.”

  “Then admit the truth! They’re children, for Goddess’s sake. Rekhart told me all about it. He told me how one child who was ill was thrown overboard rather than take him to a healer.”

  “Rekhart’s a damned fool.”

  “Is he? Then deny it! Deny everything he told me.”

  “They come from the slums of Ellisquay. Their parents can’t afford to feed or clothe them. I bring them here to be indentured, to learn a trade. They come here for a better life.”

  Drew could almost believe him. “A better life?”

  “A better life. You’ve never been to Ellisquay, never seen real poverty. I grew up in those slums, Drew. Is it so wrong to offer them the advantages I couldn’t enjoy?”

  Jervin, the philanthropist. The collector of fine art. The connoisseur of fine food and wine. Drew wanted it to be true so much it hurt, physically. Rescuer of children from poverty. What was it Rekhart had said? All tied together, hand and foot?

  “Tell me, Jervin, what advantages do they enjoy when they arrive bound like prisoners? When you’ve paid for them? I want to believe you, truly I do, but I’m not the naive novice fresh out of the precinct. Not now.”

  “Do you presume to judge me? You’ve enjoyed my wealth these past months – eaten my food, drunk my wine. Every thread on your back is of my providing. Why question it now? Where did you think it all came from?”

  Jervin didn’t deny it, then. Everything Rekhart had told him… “If this is true…” Drew leaned on the table for support. “If this is true, I can’t stay with you. Not knowing this.”

  Jervin’s face was ashen. “Did nobody tell you, Drew? No one leaves me. No one.” Jervin closed the distance between them, reaching out as if for reassurance. Then something crashed against the side of Drew’s head and he knew no more.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Alwenna woke, her head spinning, a sharp pain above her right ear. She sat up in the dark, taking a moment to return to her senses. The pain was not hers. She pressed her eyes shut, trying to recall the vision. A tall man stepping closer, his expression taut with anger… She had seen that face before, his expression carefully neutral, revealing nothing. The night they had returned Drew to Brigholm. Jervin.

  “What is it, my lady?” Beside her Erin was sitting up, rubbing her eyes sleepily. “Not the baby?”

  “No, not the baby.” It was still far too soon, wasn’t it? She’d lost track of the days since they’d left Scarrow’s Deep, before that, even. She and Wynne had worked it out, long ago. But the year hadn’t turned yet. Soon after the first frosts, Wynne had said. But did this Goddess-forsaken region even have frosts at the same time as Highkell?

  Another burst of pain cut off her wandering thoughts. Jervin, angered… That could only mean the pain belonged to Drew.

  “I think Drew’s in trouble.”

  “He finds trouble everywhere, that one.” Erin rolled over in her blankets once more.

  “Most of it when he was travelling with me.”

  “But he’s not now, is he?”

  “No. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t need my help.”

  “My lady, get some rest. Not even Col would make the climb out of
this valley in the dark. Big as you are now we’d have to haul you out.”

  Erin was right, of course.

  “But I gave him my word…”

  Erin sat up again. “My lady, are you seriously thinking of rushing off to help him? What do you imagine you could do? You need to put the child first.”

  “There must be something… I gave him my word. Whatever else I may have failed at, I can at least keep my promises.”

  “My lady, he’s a good man. He would understand. And he would never ask you to put your child in danger for his sake.”

  “Without Drew I’d have died in the ruins of Highkell. I owe him my life.”

  “My lady, he would never reproach you if you didn’t rush to his side. He knows your condition. I’m sure he would be devastated if you were to put yourself in danger on his behalf.”

  Erin was right, and they both knew it. Alwenna settled down in her own blankets once more. Whatever she might decide in the morning, she could hope to go nowhere before daylight. She had to rest: it was all she could do.

  Uneasy visions haunted her sleep: of the dungeon at Highkell where Drew and Weaver had been held captive; the cell off the guardroom where she herself had been held; the vaulted chamber where Tresilian had been tortured by Vasic; the narrow culvert she’d escaped through the night she left Highkell, with Weaver and Wynne; the shadows in the depths of the gorge; and she knew something waited for her in the darkness there. The sense of that waiting shadow hung about her on waking, but she’d learned no more of what had happened to Drew.

  Alwenna made her way over to the stream, knelt down and plunged her hands into the water. She gasped from the cold – it had surely not struck so chill the day before. Did that mean the first frosts would soon arrive? From the valley floor they could not see the higher mountains, but she guessed they might have had their first snowfall of the season.

  She shut out the distractions, concentrating her thoughts on the water as it ran against her hands and numbed her wrists. It took longer than usual to slide out of her surroundings. She was annoyed with herself; she knew better than to let that happen. She tried to damp down the unhelpful emotion, but the annoyance stayed with her, clung to her like a burr to a dog’s shoulder, caught in a place from which she could not hope to dislodge it.

  She forced herself to concentrate once more. She became aware of a heartbeat: rapid, tiny. It took her a moment to realise it was her own child’s. Such a small, determined thing… She could have lingered all day, marvelling at the tiny miracle, but she dragged herself away. A young woman rising from her bath, servants wrapping her in towels. The stone of the wall behind her was familiar, and Alwenna recognised with a start the bedchamber at Highkell that had once been hers. This had to be Vasic’s new bride: she sat impassively as the servants brushed her long hair and fastened it up in an elaborate fashion. There was none of the despair there had been on the boat on the way over to Lynesreach; but there was no joy, either. The young woman was simply going through the motions. Alwenna moved on.

  Vasic was seated in the throne room, doing little to hide his boredom. Various scribes were scribbling busily as one petitioner after another stated their case, then withdrew, pending the king’s judgement. A few courtiers stood about the edges of the room. Her attention was caught by a tall man who stood close to the window. Only when he turned his face towards her, as if he sensed her scrutiny, did she recognise Marten. Was this king feeding from the palm of his hand? She very much doubted it.

  There was a stir as the doors to the throne room opened and an equally tall figure strode in. Behind him followed two soldiers, holding a prisoner between them. The prisoner’s head sagged, as if he was impossibly weary. She felt the first prickle of apprehension down her spine. The prisoner’s face was hidden by his hair, but he was of slight build. It was then she noticed the soldier to one side wore a captain’s uniform of the palace guard. She looked more closely and recognised Peveril on the instant: Peveril, looking well pleased with himself. The man in front was Jervin, dressed in court finery. She did not need to see the prisoner’s face to know it was Drew, but she needed the proof. As if he’d heard her thoughts the prisoner looked up and met her gaze unsteadily. But that was enough: she had to try to help him. This was an obligation.

  The visions faded and scattered, and Alwenna found herself staring down at her hands in the stream water. She pulled her hands out and they were white with cold, with barely any feeling left. She dabbed them dry on her skirts and stood up, tucking her hands into her armpits to warm them.

  Erin waited nearby, her expression closed. “Well, my lady?”

  “Vasic has Drew.”

  “I see, my lady.” As ever, Erin didn’t question Alwenna’s sight. “That’s bad news for Drew, but you can’t hope to do anything to help. Not against Vasic.”

  “Nor can I stay here pretending it hasn’t happened.” Alwenna rubbed new life into her numb hands. They began to burn with the hot-aches.

  “My lady, you can’t be serious.”

  “I must do what I can. It will be little enough, but at least I’ll have tried.”

  She thought the girl was about to argue with her, but instead Erin smiled. “Very well, my lady. Our bags are already packed.”

  “You know me better than I know myself.”

  “I won’t be sorry to leave this place – it gives me the chills. But I feel bad for Drew, if we’re his best hope of help.”

  The child in Alwenna’s womb wriggled and twisted, as if it agreed.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Marten couldn’t shake off the uneasy sense of being watched. He was in a roomful of people at court, of course someone would be looking his way at any given moment. Of course there could be no one behind him – he was standing at the edge of the room, after all – but he glanced over his shoulder nonetheless.

  He was distracted by the throne room door opening.

  A group of men entered, Jervin leading the way, far from his usual haunts in Brigholm. Behind him followed two soldiers, holding a prisoner between them. Marten knew it was Drew before he looked up, eyes moving towards that same place over Marten’s shoulder. Someone had beaten the lad, who had a fat lip and a swollen eye. Dried blood clung to the corner of his mouth. One of the two soldiers wore the household guards’ livery. A burly man, Marten had noticed him from time to time: in the market place, at the citadel gatehouse, about town.

  The new arrivals approached the throne, escorted by Marwick.

  “Highness, may I present Master Jervin, a merchant of Brigholm. His business today is twofold.”

  Vasic turned his gaze to the merchant, barely glancing at the group behind. The merchant bowed in courtly manner. He was stiff-backed, that one, whether through pride or infirmity Marten couldn’t yet hazard a guess.

  “Well, sir, state your business.”

  Jervin straightened up, stately and in no haste. “Highness, I thank you for the favour of your time. I bring you a token of my gratitude.” He turned slightly to indicate the prisoner. “Your captain here informs me this young man is a known felon, who escaped from your custody some months ago.”

  The expression on Drew’s face was one of hurt, but it changed subtly to one of anger as Jervin continued to speak.

  “I have been employing him as a clerk, unaware of his background. When I announced we would be travelling to Highkell on business he was strangely reluctant to accompany me, but now I fully understand why. Your captain is to be commended for his alertness in recognising him. Rarely have I been so taken in.”

  Vasic took a closer look at Drew. “Well, well. It is my friend the young novice. You are indeed to be commended, Captain…?” He glanced at the soldier.

  “Peveril, your highness.”

  “Captain Peveril.” Vasic’s gaze slid away from the soldier to the prisoner. “You’ve not improved the lad’s looks any since I last saw him.” He smiled.

  One or two courtiers tittered at his witticism. Seated at Vasic’s side, h
is new queen’s mouth tightened. She raised her head and turned her eyes towards Vasic as if she would speak out, but something caused her to pause and instead she clasped her hands in her lap and fell to studying a point in the middle distance once more.

  Now that was interesting. Marten made a note to speak with her at the first opportunity. He understood from court gossip that the marriage had secured Vasic’s hold over the region by virtue of a more than generous settlement. Wealth always brought with it influence. But more importantly for Marten, the Lady Drelena seemed inclined to look favourably upon the underdog and his cause was never in greater need of a new royal patron. His original plan to ingratiate himself with Vasic seemed doomed to failure: Vasic was a very different creature to Tresilian. Or at least, to the man Tresilian had once been. Marten had sworn he’d court no more monarchs, sworn he’d drop his crusade for equal rights for the freemerchants, but it was a habit of longstanding and was proving harder to break than he’d ever believed possible.

  Vasic had ordered the soldiers to bring the prisoner forward. “Well, lad, have you anything to say for yourself?”

  “In my defence, highness? Only that the charges levelled against me remain as false as the day they were first made.”

  “Consistent, if not particularly original.” Again Vasic smiled, looking about the assembled courtiers. Again, a few obliged with restrained affectations of laughter. “Not entirely unexpected. Have you learned anything since we last met, lad?”

  Drew glanced sideways at Jervin, whose expression remained cold and dispassionate. “Only a very little, your highness.”

  “Indeed. Dare I hope you have learned to fight yet? You might hope to earn yourself a pardon.”