The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

by Graham Austin-King

  “Well then, I suspect it’s high time we had one, isn’t it?”

  Jantson pulled himself to his feet, downing the brandy in one long wincing swallow. “I’ll get on to it now. You really think you can do something for Raysh?”

  “Leave it with me.” Selena walked him to the doorway. “Don’t forget to tell Rentrew for me too.” He gave her a worried nod and left.

  Selena settled back into her chair and pulled the book closer, reaching for her cup with the other hand. She sipped at the tea, then pulled a face. It was cold. How long had it been sat there?

  “Thompson?” She raised her voice rather than reaching for the silly bell.

  “It is Thompson, isn’t it?” she asked, as the servant came into the study.

  “Sanderson, your grace,” he replied, with the faintest hint of a smile.

  “Oh, I was fairly close.” She smiled her apology. “Do be a dear and have some fresh tea brought up, would you? This has gone cold on me again.”

  “Very good, your grace.” He gave a bow which went unnoticed as she sank back into the book.

  “Oh, Thompson?” she called, as the door swung closed.

  “Your grace?”

  He really was very good. Not the faintest hint of temper. It almost took the fun out of it, really. What was the point in baiting the staff, if they wouldn't rise to it?

  “Have you lived in Celstwin long?” she asked.

  “All of my life, your grace,” he replied.

  “And your family? Are they all in Celstwin, as well?”

  “My brother and youngest sister, your grace. My parents passed on some years ago.”

  She nodded, pausing in thought. “And would you say you know the city well, Thompson?”

  “As well as anyone, your grace,” Sanderson said. It was starting; he wasn’t totally immune. There was just the faintest hint of a clenched jaw.

  “I wonder if you could arrange something a little unorthodox for me, Thompson?”

  “Of course, your grace?” His acceptance was automatic, with just the slightest lift of tone to make the statement a question.

  “I’d like you to find me someone of less than savoury character. I need to speak to a cutpurse or someone of that ilk.”

  “Your grace?”

  “Find me a thief, Thompson.” She smiled. “Do you think that could be arranged?”

  “I... err...” His perfect control cracked at the request, allowing emotion to leak out for the first time.

  “Well?”

  “I expect that could be done, your grace,” he managed.

  “Excellent. Please arrange it as soon as possible. I’ll receive them here.”

  “Very good, your grace. I’ll have tea brought in momentarily, your grace.” He bowed again.

  “Thank you, Thompson, that will be all.” She smiled again and then looked down at the book.

  “Sanderson, your grace,” he corrected her.

  “I’m sorry?” Selena glanced up, with a confused frown.

  “Sanderson, your grace,” he repeated.

  “Who?”

  Sanderson drew a visibly deep breath. “Never mind, your grace.” He sighed and left the room.

  Selena clapped her hands and stifled a laugh, but her smile faded too soon. Anlan might be at war, her people themselves threatened, but taking on her own king? That would require nerves she wasn’t sure she possessed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Gavin fought down the wave of nausea and wished the damned door would just open. The press of menand the stink of sweat and tar, were enough to make anyone’s stomach lurch, but it was the swaying of the ship that was making him green.

  “Still got your lunch on the inside of you, Retcher?” a voice jeered from behind him.

  Gavin glanced back over his shoulder. He couldn’t put a name to the man that grinned back at him. The pig-eyed idiot was so impressed with his little dig, it looked to be all he could do to keep the smile from splitting his cheeks.

  He ignored it, though. Pig-eyes was right. Managing to keep food down aboard ship was a rarity for him and he didn’t dare open his mouth to respond for that very reason.

  The wall of leather-clad flesh in front of him pushed back, forcing him tighter into the crowd. There was a muffled thump, followed by a waft of fresh air, as the ramp thudded down onto the long dock. “Finally!” a voice breathed from behind him. Gavin grinned, his seasickness forgotten, as they began to move forward.

  It hadn't taken him long to work his way onto a ship headed for the Farmed Lands. The haulers that travelled back and forth through the Vorstelv no longer just carried trained oarsmen and settlers. These days, so long as you could swing a sword and follow directions, you were accepted.

  Gavin sighed as he took deep breaths of the cool air. “Lords of Blood, Sea and Sky, what am I doing here?” he said to himself. It was a hell of a gamble, coming all this way to find Klöss, but then what other choices had he had?

  He fought down a wave of guilt that was just as strong as any of the seasickness he’d suffered. The creature had followed him. He’d been a fool to lead it to Ylsriss. Because of him, Ylsriss had lost her baby. Because of him, Klöss had lost Ylsriss. His debt was not something he could pass off. Anyone would see where the blame lay, if they knew the facts. If they believed them, that is.

  Rhaven had not believed him about the creatures in the park, not even for a moment. He’d scoffed at first, then grown angry, demanding to know what Gavin had done with Ylsriss and the baby. Gavin didn’t blame him. He almost didn’t believe it himself. His face warmed with remembered shame as he thought of the way the man had thrown him out of his house. The shouts had drawn almost as many stares as the picture - a crippled old man hurling a boy less than half his age out onto the streets. Gavin could still feel the wet cobbles under his hands. He'd scrambled to his feet and fled, Rhaven's curses echoing down the street after him. His time at sea, retching over the side of the ship, wasn't nearly penance enough for what he had done.

  He stamped down the ramp onto the docks, following the other men. The city seemed a strange sight to Gavin. He was used to the narrow alleyways and tall buildings of Hesk. Wood was almost a rarity there so, if something could be constructed of stone or slate, it was. This place was a confused mix of wooden and stone structures, most of which appeared to be in the process of being replaced, repaired or, in some cases, rebuilt. He looked around as he made his way along the dock. The tightly-packed crowd of men filing out of the ship gave him little choice as to where he was going. Participating in extended military service had never been a goal of his, though. He was going to need to find a way to get out of this line, and soon.

  The harbour was crammed to capacity, thanks to the newly arrived fleet. The ships' jet black sails provided a stark contrast to the blood red sails of the reavers that had already been at dock. The line shuffled down the docks towards a small group of people who were sending them off in different directions. Assigning billets, Gavin realised. This was no good. The moment he was assigned a billet he would be on their records. It would be that much harder to disappear. He hadn’t come all this way to play at being a soldier.

  Crates were stacked up beside the line of men; cargo waiting to be shipped back to the Barren Isles, by the looks of it. If he could somehow slip out of line and in amongst them, he could be gone in moments.

  The line crept forwards. Sweaty men shuffling inside sweaty leathers; it was not pleasant. It was also the worst circumstance for him to try to duck out of line, with the men barely moving. He needed to do something. He staggered and fell hard into the man in front of him, pushing himself off, then stepping back and to the side as the man turned.

  The man stumbled, then caught himself and spun to face the line behind him. “Watch yourself!” he snapped at Pig-eyes, as Gavin shifted to the side.

  Pig-eyes looked back at the man with a flat stare. “Yeah, I’ll do that.”

  The line moved onwards. As they drew level with the crates, G
avin allowed himself to slow, moving into the space at the edge of the piled cargo as he drew level with Pig-eyes. A well-planted foot and a good shove sent the idiot staggering forward until he crashed into the back of the man in front.

  Gavin drifted into the space between the crates as the voices rose. “I. Told. You. To. Watch. Yourself!” A series of fleshy thumps punctuated the sentence. Gavin wore an evil smirk as he eased himself around the boxes and stepped into an alleyway. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer man.

  He ditched the boots first, pulling his own soft-soled pair from the sack that held the rest of his greys. The leathers he wore would do a better job for blending in with the crowd, but the boots were just too clunky for him to move in easily. He tossed them into the gutter and made his way along the alley before pausing, swearing and then retrieving them. It was never a good idea to just toss part of a disguise away, no matter how much you hated it.

  It took just half an hour for Gavin to decide that he didn’t like Rimeheld. The place was too ordered, too structured. This wasn’t a city that had grown naturally over time. It had been made and designed this way. Someone had thought about where the streets should go and how the alleys should intersect. Its design probably had something to do with overall defence plans but, to Gavin’s mind, it was profoundly unnatural.

  It was also, so far as he could see, almost completely devoid of places to skulk and hide. He had no need to hide, of course. Nobody knew he was here. A city formed of broad avenues, though, with each alleyway as straight as a die and well-lit, thanks to regularly positioned torch brackets? Well, that was just wrong.

  After less than an hour, he'd got a feel for the city. It was actually more of a fort, but every place has a soul, a flavour, and he quickly had the measure of it. It took him longer to find the right kind of inn, however. Finding someone to get information from subtly requires a particular type of place. Somewhere quiet enough for a hushed conversation, but loud enough not to make it look suspicious.

  The dockside inns, he dismissed immediately. Not only was there the slim chance he'd run into someone from the ship, places like that were also renowned for fights. It’s very hard to get information from someone whilst dodging glasses and flying fists.

  He passed three more taverns that were busy with soldiers of one form or another. The places were loud and rowdy, with patrons playing table games and laughing. He’d have had to shout to be heard.

  Eventually, he settled on a small tavern in a quiet backstreet. The paint was already peeling from the sign hanging from the wall. The Golden Goose looked to be just the place.

  A barman looked up from where he was making a half-hearted effort to polish the bar and nodded at him as he came through the door. Pig-eyes had been useful in more ways than one and Gavin smiled to himself as he opened the man’s purse. He looked around at the dingy interior and turned to a small man huddled over a tankard. “How’s the mead?”

  “I’m right here,” the barman said.

  “He’s drinking it. You’re selling it,” Gavin replied, unabashed.

  “S’not got any rats floating in the keg, if that’s what you’re asking,” the small man muttered, giving him a gap-toothed grin.

  “Good enough, then,” Gavin nodded. “Mead,” he said brightly to the barman, who shook his head.

  “You with the fleet then?” he asked. “That'll be four farthings.”

  “Four!” Gavin sputtered. It was extortionate by Hesk's standards.

  The small man chuckled over his tankard. “He’s from the fleet, alright. We ain’t really got mead here yet. S’either ale or pay for what gets brought over on the haulers.”

  “Ale it is, then,” Gavin muttered, and handed the single copper farthing to the barman. He sipped at his drink and winced at the sour taste.

  The small man chuckled again. “You'll get a taste for it.” He drank deeply from his own tankard and sighed in appreciation.

  “Buy you another?” Gavin asked.

  “S’very kind of you...?” He paused, waiting for Gavin’s name.

  “Gavin,” he supplied, holding a finger up to the barman.

  “Scarit,” the short man replied. He took the tankard quickly before Gavin could change his mind. “How is it you're not with your men, then?”

  “My men?” Gavin asked.

  “You’re fresh to Rimeheld. It's written all over you.” Scarit shrugged. “The only ships that have arrived lately have been the Black Fleet. That makes you the sealord’s man.”

  The man was sharper than he looked. So much for subtlety. Gavin drank some ale. His companion was right. It didn’t take long to get used to the taste. Either that or his tongue had gone numb.

  “I’m looking for someone,” he admitted. “The fleet was just a way to get here.”

  “You must need to see ‘em awful bad,” Scarit snorted. “It’s a long way to come just to collect a debt.”

  “It’s not a debt,” the barman said.

  “How d'you know, Rolant?” Scarit demanded.

  “No man’s going to cross the Vorstelv just for a debt,” Rolant explained, picking up the rag and scrubbing at the bar again.

  “Well, s’got to be sommat like that,” Scarit said.

  “It’s not a debt,” Gavin said. Their bickering was getting on his nerves. “There’s a man here I need to see, that's all. I need to tell him something.”

  “Think I’d have just sent a message,” Rolant muttered to Scarit. The short man snorted and set his drink down quickly, before clapping his hand to his face to catch the ale that was dripping from his nose.

  “Dammit, Rolant!” Scarit cursed, between laughs from behind his hand. “You can’t wait until I swallow ‘fore you come out with sommat like that?” The barman, for his part, did his best to keep the grin from his lips as he shrugged.

  “You might know where I can find him,” Gavin said. It was a risky move but he had little choice but to try now; he’d gone this far. “An oarsmaster called Klöss?”

  “He’s no oarsmaster. Don’t know who told you that!” Scarit scoffed. “He’s shipmaster and second to bloody Frostbeard himself!”

  “Shipmaster? Frostbeard!” Gavin moaned and took a long drink. “How am I going to get to see him?”

  “You’re not,” Rolant stated flatly.

  “Send a messenger,” Scarit advised, waving his ale at Gavin. “S’what I’d do.”

  “Won’t help,” Rolant said. “He’s not here. Or at least he won’t be for long.”

  “What?” Gavin gasped, his persona slipping a little as shock set in. The possibility of Klöss not being at Rimeheld had never occurred to him.

  “He’ll be headed inland. Last I heard, he was, anyway.”

  “You’d be better off with your company, lad,” Scarit observed. “Some of them are bound to be sent to join him, anyway.”

  “You think?”

  He waved his other arm and Gavin noticed, for the first time, the fabric of the sleeve was pinned over what must be a stump. “I didn’t lose this hand threshing wheat, lad. I didn’t fall off the last fishing boat either. S’obvious to anyone with eyes that you’re lying about sommat. I don’t want t’know. You need to find Klöss, you say. Your best bet would be with the company you left. I’ll tell you this for free though, lad, you’d best not tangle with him. His is one reputation that was earned.”

  Gavin nodded and sipped at his ale as he thought. It didn’t improve over time, he decided, as he failed to keep the grimace off his face.

  “Thanks for the advice,” he said to Scarit.

  The man shrugged over his near-empty tankard. “Din’t cost me nothin’.”

  “You want this? I don’t think I’m thirsty.” Gavin nodded at his ale.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing, son,” Scarit said, as he snatched up the drink.

  Gavin snorted and nodded a farewell to Rolant, as he made his way to the door and out into the sunlight. He moved further into the alleyway before he started swearing. The
y’d not told him much he didn’t know already but, of all the damned bad luck, he’d managed to sneak out of the very unit he needed to be part of.

  ***

  Klöss fought down the obvious response and listened in silence.

  “It’s totally out of proportion. He couldn’t have made it more obvious if he’d just swanned in with a proclamation!” Frostbeard ranted, pacing back and forth behind the desk.

  “Have you considered that it might just be exactly what it appears to be? Simply that he has sent reinforcements drawn from the islands?” Klöss suggested.

  Frostbeard sank into the chair behind his desk. “They aren't just reinforcements, Klöss,” he sighed. “He could have sent reinforcements without those colours. Sending the Black Fleet only means one thing. That he’s taking a direct hand.”

  Klöss sipped at his keft, savouring the bitter taste. “Let him. It’s all politics, Uncle. What difference does it actually make?”

  Aiden ran a tired hand over his eyes. “I don’t know,” he admitted, with a sigh. “You’re right. As a people, we’ll still have these new lands, the new opportunities.”

  “So it’s vanity then?” Klöss asked, aiming the shot over the rim of his cup.

  “Vanity!” Aiden sat upright as if he’d been slapped. “You dare?”

  Klöss laughed at the reaction, watching as Aiden’s face grew darker by the second. “Hear me out,” he managed, before taking another sip of the keft. “Think about it. The sealord sends the Black Fleet and you see this as him seizing control of the lands we’ve taken. But what is the Black Fleet? In theory, it’s the thane's own force. In reality, though, it’s a relic of a bygone era and hasn’t been used, or really even existed, in two hundred years. What he’s really done is take some of our own haulers, fill them with whatever men he could scrape together and then put black sails on the ships.”

  Frostbeard grunted and waved his hand in a motion that Klöss took to mean he should continue.

  “For that matter, who is the sealord? He’s the servant of the thane, but then aren’t we all? These lands we’ve taken, the fleet we built, that was all done under the auspices of the thane. The sealord is just trailing in your wake, picking up the scraps.”