by Susan Murray
“They say now she must have taken her own life.” Bleaklow’s voice was hoarse. “Suffering homesickness, and shame at her feelings for a common freemerchant.” There was a note of accusation in his voice.
“Then they are fools. She would never have done such a thing.” Marten turned back to the open coffin and looked closer at that great bruise. It extended back beneath her hairline, across the side of her head. He steeled himself to look again at the crushed wreckage of the other side of her face.
“Forgive me, Bleaklow… I know this must distress you, but can you tell me, if she fell on her right side, how did the left side of her face come to be bruised?”
Bleaklow stood up unsteadily. “Why… I… I don’t know.” He winced as he looked on her face and his hand trembled as he reached out to examine the bruise. “This, here? It… appears someone struck her before she fell. But, who would do such a thing? She could have had no enemies.”
“It is unthinkable.” Marten had difficulty speaking. “Yet, someone did. Whoever it was, they sought to implicate me every step of the way.”
“You were conveniently attentive to her.” Bleaklow’s words weren’t an accusation.
“She stood in need of friendship. The entire court should have been at her feet in adoration.”
Bleaklow turned away.
Marten looked one last time on Drelena’s broken features. It was abhorrent to think someone had been prepared to extinguish so vital a being simply to damage his reputation. Whoever it was, he had to move quickly.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Weaver was pretty sure Vasic was drunk again, even though it was still early in the day. But this time the king was not slumped in his seat maudlin drunk, as he had been the past few days, but resentful, angry drunk. Spoiling for a fight drunk. Weaver knew the signs: the set of Vasic’s jaw, the tic in his cheek, the steel in his eyes. Whether the king had the mettle to act on the impulse was another matter: he was the kind who avoided damaging his own hide whenever possible. He’d sooner beat a man who was shackled down than take one on as an equal. Weaver knew this from personal experience.
Today, Kaith had persuaded the king to hear some of the more urgent petitions. A week of strict mourning was enough, he’d insisted: long enough to hold matters of state in abeyance; long enough to demonstrate a proper regard for the deceased; long enough for a king to display proof of weakness. Any longer would be to invite trouble.
And so Vasic had sat through a succession of petitioning citizens. The last had been Jervin, again seeking action against the group of rival merchants who were undercutting the prices of those who paid their full dues.
Weaver studied Jervin’s face: his portrayal of an outraged taxpayer was convincing. His outrage may indeed be real, if he’d failed to bring these traders to heel by other means. If Weaver hadn’t known Drew was languishing in a cell thanks to information laid by Jervin he might have been fooled entirely. Even the fog in Weaver’s brain couldn’t obscure the certainty that Drew had been a loyal friend, both to Weaver, and to the lady whose name he could not – or dared not – recall.
Vasic was likewise studying Jervin. “Marwick looked into this before his untimely demise. He concluded it is a matter for the local tax collectors and the city watch – and not worthy of royal intervention.”
Jervin bowed. “Highness, in the Marches the people have been too far from the influence of the throne for too long. If I may be so bold, it requires the oversight of one with greater authority to bring them into line.”
“Are you suggesting I must collect my own taxes now?”
“Never, your highness. But I would suggest you appoint a representative to oversee the matter who knows the Marches and who understands how best to deal with the people there.”
“And where would you suggest I might find such a person?”
“Sire, if I may again be so bold, I stand in readiness to prove myself a loyal servant to the crown.” Jervin bowed again. “I grew up in the Marches and I would not be resented by the local people as one from Highground or Meallgard might be.”
Vasic steepled his fingers, studying Jervin. “You have never set foot in court before this month; why should I trust you to carry out this work?”
“Highness, let the results speak for me. If I do not bring in greater revenue from the Marches over the next year you may deal with me as you wish.”
“Well, you’re bold, I’ll grant you that.” Vasic glanced to where Kaith waited. “What say you, Kaith?”
Kaith stepped forward. “Jervin has already proven himself loyal in the matter of the renegade novice from Vorrahan. I believe his suggestion has much to commend it.”
“Then you may see to the details of his appointment to the crown’s service. The Marches will be brought into line.”
“As your highness wishes.” Kaith bowed.
Jervin withdrew, bowing and uttering words of gratitude. Weaver watched uneasily. If anyone could wring money from the Marches, it would be Jervin. Across the room the pale-eyed priestess followed the scene, her expression impassive. It had not taken her long to insinuate herself into the king’s good graces once more. Not that there was much of grace or goodness about this particular king. The priestess raised an eyebrow, as if she’d divined his thoughts.
“With that we can declare the business of today’s court closed.” Vasic would have stood up at that point but Kaith intervened.
“I beg your pardon, your highness, but there are two more petitioners. They have been waiting some considerable time already for the favour of your attention.”
Vasic sat back, making no attempt to hide his annoyance. “Then let them waste no further time in speaking.”
The first was a landowner who complained of the depredations of brigands destroying crops and stealing livestock. Marwick had promised a detachment of soldiers to help restore order.
Vasic pressed his fingertips to his forehead. “Kaith, see Marwick’s orders are carried out. And someone bring me more wine.” The final petitioner had to wait as Vasic’s glass was refilled by a servant.
His business was more complex, a matter of a disputed title to land. Marwick had been due to preside over a hearing, but his sudden death had prevented that taking place.
Vasic had had enough. “Kaith, take the details, we will make a decision in due course.” He glared around the room. “You are all dismissed.”
The priestess hesitated at the edge of the chamber but Vasic gestured her away. “All of you. Leave me in peace. And close the doors. Not you, Weaver. You keep your sour face here.”
Weaver resumed the rigid stance he’d held throughout the morning.
When the room had emptied, Vasic stood up from the throne, swaying for a moment, wine slopping over the edge of his glass. He made his way across the dais to where Weaver stood to attention.
“You’ve not got much to say for yourself, have you, soldier?”
“No, your highness.”
“You were stubborn enough back in the day.”
“Yes, your highness.” Goddess knew where this was leading; nowhere good.
“That weasel-faced prelate claims you’ll obey my every command without question.”
“Yes, your highness.”
“And he claims you’re indestructible.” Vasic took another mouthful of wine. “Have you nothing to say to that?”
Saying nothing would be safer. He could still picture the disbelief on Rekhart’s face after he’d plunged his blade into Weaver’s heart, yet Weaver had not fallen. The pain Weaver could hope to forget, but Rekhart’s expression… “I find it hard to believe, your highness.”
Vasic nodded. “You always were more astute than you appear. Even now.” He swallowed the last of his wine and tossed the glass aside. It smashed, scattering a myriad fragments across the wooden dais. “But do you know what, Weaver? I, too, find it hard to believe.” He took a couple of steps across the dais. Glass crunched beneath his boots. “Durstan’s services are expensive. And I have
learned of late to take nothing at face value: did I see what truly happened during that fight, or did I see what Durstan wanted me to see?”
“There were no illusions, your highness.” Now Weaver understood.
“Is that so? Do you imagine I’ll take your word for it, turncoat?”
“No, your highness.”
“Indeed.” Vasic drew his sword from its scabbard, studying Weaver’s face for a reaction. “Let us put Durstan’s handiwork to another test, shall we? A test of my own devising. You will stand there, and remain perfectly still while I run this sword through you. You will not move, or shout out, or protest in any way. Is that understood?”
If Weaver was accepting, if he didn’t fight back, could this be the end to it? To think he might not wake another day to the aching sense of loss, to the crushing certainty of his own failure. If all it took in the end was obedience… “Yes, your highness.”
Vasic smiled. “Very well then. Before I begin, you will remove your sword belt.”
Weaver undid the buckle and pulled the belt from about his waist, dropping it and the scabbard on the floor nearby.
“And now you will remove that brigandine. I will not risk blunting my blade on it.”
Weaver untied the fastenings one by one. Would Vasic require him to be bound, too, just to ensure his own safety? He guessed he would. Although the king would require a servant for that; he could hardly ask Weaver to bind his own hands. Weaver shrugged off the brigandine and padded jacket and dropped it on the floor next to his sword belt.
“The shirt, too. There’s no point putting a hole in good linen.”
Weaver tugged the neck loose and peeled the garment off over his head, dropping it with the rest.
Vasic studied him for a moment. “With the number of scars on you, one or two more should make little difference.”
“No, your highness.” Goddess, why wouldn’t he get on with it? “Would you have me kneel, sire?”
Vasic tilted his head to one side, considering. “No. I want to see you fall.”
“Very well, your highness. I believe I am ready.”
For a moment Weaver thought Vasic’s nerve would fail him, but the king licked his lips and raised his sword, elbow high, smiling an odd, tight smile. “I believe you are.”
Vasic drew in a breath, then plunged the sword between Weaver’s ribs.
The pain was immense, as if Weaver’s chest had been torn in two and the separated parts set on fire. Vasic withdrew the blade and Weaver sucked in a shuddering breath, waiting for the dread sensation of blood filling the cavities in his lungs. But he drew in only air, and though he swayed on his feet, he remained standing. Vasic lunged at him again and Weaver staggered back as the sword sliced into his belly, dropping to one knee as Vasic twisted the blade and withdrew it. He remained there, seemingly held up by the magnitude of his own pain, as Vasic stepped back to admire his handiwork.
“Well, now, soldier. I thought you would have fallen by now.” With a high laugh, Vasic spun round and smashed the pommel of his sword into Weaver’s face. It missed his left eye by a hair’s breadth. Weaver was forced to set one hand on the ground to maintain his balance. He heard, rather than saw, Vasic take several steps away from him, boots crunching once more on the broken glass.
“How long should it take, soldier?”
What, death? Days, like as not. It had last time, in the cellar of the summer palace… What a time for his memories to regain focus. “I do not know, your highness.”
“Stand up, then. Let us see what you are made of.”
Weaver pushed himself to his feet and straightened up, fully expecting his body to fail under the effort, but it did not. The pain from his injuries should have brought him low, but he managed to stand without assistance. He had to press one hand to the wound in his belly to prevent his entrails spilling out.
Vasic stared at him a long while in silence, then went over to his throne and sat down, sword still in hand, pressing the fingertips of his left hand to his forehead.
“Leave me. Take your clothes with you, and leave me. Now.”
“Very well, your highness.” Weaver stooped to gather up his garments and sword belt with his free hand, stepping in his own congealing blood as he did so. He made his way stiffly down the steps of the dais, the pain so great he doubted he’d manage as much as half a dozen steps further, but somehow he held together. It was a long walk to the doors of the throne room.
Weaver paused at the end, one hand on the door handle. Vasic still sprawled in the throne, watching his progress. He didn’t appear pleased with his morning’s work. A trail of dark blood stretched from the pool on the dais, marking Weaver’s progress along the throne room. He hadn’t kept to an entirely straight line after all. Weaver found that oddly reassuring: some tiny part of him must still be fallible – and human.
“Go on, then, I dismissed you. Find a healer to clean you up. And send Durstan’s bitch of a priestess to me.”
Weaver tugged the door open and stepped out into the antechamber. A crowd had assembled there and they recoiled in horror as he approached them, stripped to the waist, blood-covered, clothes and sword clutched to his belly. Only the priestess stepped forward, eyes wide.
Weaver gestured towards the throne room. “The king wants you in there.”
She nodded and slipped through the door.
Weaver made his way through the anteroom expecting with every step that the pain would overwhelm his body, but that moment never came. He ignored Vasic’s order to see a healer and instead limped back to his quarters and dropped down on his bed. If he didn’t wake in the morning it would be no great hardship.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The prisoners were sleeping when Marten had the guard unlock the cell door. Drew sat up hastily as he recognised the noise of the keys, blinking in the unaccustomed light of a lantern.
“You’re to come with me, Drew.”
Drew stood up slowly, easing his limbs. He asked no questions, but followed in silence behind Marten as he led the way up the stairs. Behind them the door banged shut and keys grated in the lock. Marten heard a low exhalation from Drew.
Marten opened the door to an unoccupied guard room and ushered him inside. A bundle of clothing sat on the wooden bench. “We haven’t much time.” He reached down and unlocked Drew’s manacles. The flesh of his wrists was rubbed raw beneath them. “The clothing there is for you, as is this royal pardon. All charges have been dropped and it has been noted in the official records.” Drew gaped at him, but took the sheet of parchment he offered, examining it in disbelief.
“Is this real? Not… some kind of trick?”
“It is real. As of this moment, you are a free man.”
Drew set the parchment down on the bench. “But…?”
This wasn’t the naive novice who’d sailed from Vorrahan with the Lady Alwenna. “I understand you would not be welcome in Brigholm.”
“No.” The wonder on Drew’s face clouded for a moment. “In the end I was not sufficiently grateful.”
“Well, you’ll find I’m not looking for gratitude.”
“But my freedom has a price, nonetheless.”
Marten inclined his head. “I have work for you, if you care to take it on.”
“What sort of work? Is it legal?”
“It is legal. It is the sort of work you would be well suited to, if you are prepared to enter the precinct once again.”
“That is a high price to ask.” Drew shrugged off his filthy shirt and dropped it on the floor before donning the freshly-laundered one.
“I realise that, but you are uniquely suited to the role.”
“I’m listening.” Drew removed his leggings and pulled on the clean ones. A leather pouch fell to the floor from the bench.
“It concerns the Lady Alwenna. I have learned the precincts in the Outer Isles boast extensive libraries. They have recorded many of the old ways, and hold extensive records of the royal family history and the seers’ lore.”
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“I see. Is this to satisfy your curiosity in some way?” Drew picked up the leather pouch, twisting the fastening between his fingers.
“Not at all. This is to repay a debt to her. I understand from what little Vasic and his advisors have let slip that the seers are uneasy some great evil has awoken. That blade you recovered from the rubble is tied into it in some–”
“She needs that blade. Have you found some way to return it to her?” The youth’s expression had become intense.
Marten nodded. “I believe I have – and that is why we do not have much time.”
“You have it with you now, don’t you?”
Again, Marten nodded. “And that is why I would charge you with this research. You understand enough of this business to grasp the import of what you read.”
Drew flexed his fingers. “I understand next to nothing – but I have witnessed much that I do not understand.”
“And that is more than the rest of us can say.”
“You could hand me the dagger and I could take it to her.” Drew made the suggestion sound almost casual.
“There is one better suited to that mission – one who will be less susceptible to the dagger’s wiles.”
Drew smiled ruefully. “If you knew the nightmares it gave me… even here since I’ve been under the same roof… I do not understand why it can still tempt me the way it does. Are you proof against it, Marten?”
“I gave it up once, and I shall again. Within the hour if we can settle your business now. Will you take on this task?”
“I never thought to return to the precinct,” Drew said slowly. “But any journey that takes me further from the blade can only be a good thing.”
Marten nodded. “So you’ll do it?”
“I’ll do it.”
“Then I have letters of introduction for you, to go with that pardon. One recommends you to the Lord Convenor of the Outer Isles, the other to the prelate of the main precinct. They have been written by Master Bleaklow, trusted servant of the Lord Convenor. He is a good man. You will no doubt meet him there in the fullness of time.”