Heir to the Raven (The Pierced Veil, #1)

by J. Wesley Bush

  Addison dragged Furtick on to the pallet and covered him with a cloak. He gathered a few belongings, including his dented helm and the notes on Leax’s force disposition. Brinley came with the horses and they left, none too early, as men were stumbling back from the feast.

  At the road, four of Paldrick’s men stepped from the trees, one holding a crossbow. “Where are you off to, sir?”

  “Captain Paldrick sent us to find a surgeon in the main camp. One of our men is apt to lose a hand if it isn’t tended.” He was glad to be leaving. Lies came too easily now.

  “Watchword tonight is ‘constable’s daughter.’ Lots of brigands in the area, and Priest-King Leax has pickets set all along the road.”

  “Appreciate that.” They were a hundred feet gone when the hue and cry erupted from the camp. “Hyah!” Addison spurred Intrepid into a gallop. Something thumped into his shoulder but didn’t pierce the armor. He looked back to see the crossbowman reloading the weapon. He and Brinley raced away, quickly disappearing into the night.

  They made the fastest time possible, while being careful not to lame their horses on the darkened road. Three times a squad of infantry stopped them but stepped aside at mention of the watchword and the need for a surgeon. By the time they reached the main camp, however, the baying of a lymehound carried on the night air. “We can’t risk it. Time to leave the road,” Addison told his squire, angling his horse into the woods. “We’ll cut across country and make for the Little Neck River. Then we need to locate a ford.”

  “Do you think they’ll call out the army?” Brinley asked, ducking under a tree limb.

  “Not for this. Paldrick won’t want Leax to find out he brought a spy into camp. He’ll handle it alone.” Addison rubbed his eyes, trying to focus. Riding through woods in the dark was never easy, but harder yet with scrambled brains.

  The lymehound pursued them through the night, joined by the sounds of hunting horns. From what he could tell, the pursuers were stretched in a half-mile line, the ends curving forward, as if hunting game. I guess they are, Addison thought ruefully.

  The first stroke of luck came some hours later, when the clouds broke apart, granting moonlight and a chance to see the stars. Without landmarks or direction, a man was prone to ride in circles. Squinting through the trees, he searched for the High King’s Chalice. All the stars were blurs to him. “Can you see the Chalice, Brinley?”

  The boy pulled up short and stared into the sky. “I never learned to read stars, sir.”

  “The Chalice has a red star at its center - the Diadem. It guides north. First look for the Great Eel. Six stars, three very bright, in a waving line. Can you see it?”

  “Aye. There it is!”

  “The Eel’s tail points to the Chalice. Can you find it?”

  Brinley rode close and pointed him to the Diadem. “Excellent. Now we just keep it to our left and ride for our lives.”

  Perhaps Addison had suffered longer nights, but he couldn’t remember when. By the time dawn broke, he was hugging the neck of his horse, praying for strength to continue. Brinley looked nearly as miserable. The lymehound must have tired as well, for they hadn’t heard him in hours. Up ahead, Addison caught the sound of running water, and they emerged onto the bank of the Little Neck. “Hurry! Now is when we have to slip the net.” The two urged their tired horses into a canter, moving as quickly as the footing allowed. A few minutes later, Addison looked back to see four horsemen break through to the riverbank, perhaps three hundred paces behind. They spotted him as well. One of them lifted his horn and gave a series of pulsating, double notes, the Quarry Spotted.

  For the next hour, hunter and prey raced along the slippery banks of the river. The lighter armor of the serjeants allowed them to slowly but steadily catch up. Fortunately, Brinley wasn’t burdened with plate. “Run ahead, Brinley,” Addison commanded. “Don’t stop riding until you’re safe.”

  “I just became your squire,” the boy yelled back. “Not going to leave you now!”

  “Squires obey orders. Now go. Find your way to the chapterhouse in Swanthorpe and have them warn Jandaria that Leax is coming!”

  Brinley scowled, but kicked his horse into action. Addison soon lost him to a curve in the river.

  Before long, one serjeant was only a hundred feet behind. Addison had decided to surrender and take his punishment when the time came. Brinley would carry the message to the Order, and the men of Paldrick’s company were innocent of any crime. He couldn’t harm them. Besides, a beheading would at least stop the terrible throbbing in his skull.

  He noticed smoke curling over the trees in front of him. Rounding a bend, he saw a village up ahead. After a moment, he realized it was one they had visited on the way from Tethmere. The ferry sat on his side of the river. Squinting, he saw Brinley standing next to the ferrymen, waving frantically. Intrepid was lathered and wheezing, but Addison spurred him still faster. “You can rest soon,” he promised. The ferry came ever closer, but so did one of the serjeants. Addison drew his sword and slashed with the flat of the blade, trying to buy time.

  The ferrymen began pushing the boat from shore, Brinley and his horse already on board. The serjeant drew up with Addison again, arm raised for a strike. Acting on instinct, Addison slapped the flat of his blade into the nose of the serjeant’s horse. The beast reared in surprise, tossing its rider into the mud. Addison reached the bank and squeezed with his legs, signaling Intrepid to jump. The horse leaped through the air and landed hard on the flat deck, muddy feet skittering and nearly upending the ferry.

  “Faster!” Brinley yelled to the ferrymen. “The bandits are almost upon us. Look what they did to my poor master!” The squire caught Addison’s eye and winked.

  “Aye,” Addison said, “They’ll kill us all! We must warn your village.”

  As they crossed the river, Addison looked back to see horsemen lining up along the river, Sir Clive and Captain Paldrick among them. He felt a pang of conscience at having deceived them. A few serjeants waded their horses out to test the depths. They were planning to ford.

  As the ferry approached the far bank, the ferry captain called out to the village. “Bandits! Arm yourselves! Bandits!” By the time they made landfall, dozens of peasants stood ready, axes and bows in hand. Addison dismounted, leading Intrepid onto land. His poor horse was spent. “Brinley, take the mounts to the rear. If things don’t work out, take my message to the chapterhouse.” He went to take his place with the villagers. If it did come to a battle, he would surrender before it began. Deception was one thing, but he couldn’t let innocents die.

  Happily, either the water was too deep, or Paldrick decided a murderer wasn’t worth the trouble. Only their curses crossed the river. After a few minutes, the mercenaries turned and left.

  Addison thanked his rescuers, giving the village most of his remaining coin. A midwife saw to the bandages on his head and gave him a hot, minty drink which made the world even foggier but dulled the pain. Regretfully, he left the comfort of the midwife’s hut, finding Brinley spinning tales for the village children. “The faiesteed ate a pear right out of my hand. It turned out the tribe had made a pet of him. True story!”

  Addison chuckled tiredly and waved for his squire to follow. There were leagues of wilderness to cross before they could rest. He would show the boy some true adventures.

  CHAPTER 32

  T imble sailed from Nineacre Castle to Almsport by trade boat but found no pleasure in it. The stench and noise of hogs saturated the vessel, and this captain was not as amusing as his last. A former mate in the Jandari fleet, he ran his boat on military lines: the crew was sober in both mind and body, and powerfully dull. But the speed of the boat made it worthwhile, as they sailed past barges taking the autumn harvest to port. Some carried sacks of flour, but most had fresh-cut sorghum, barley, and pearl millet destined for the tide mills around Almsport.

  At mid-morning they reached the mouth of the Green Lady. Almsport spread around the bay and into the surroundin
g hills. The bay was silty and shallow, and two scoop-and-bag barges were dredging the channel, trying to keep up with the muddy outflow of the river. Timble changed into his most respectable clothes as the boat tied off on the docks used for river traffic. Anxious to be away from the joyless crew, Timble paid the Captain and made his way into town. The cobbled street led through a market filled with sailors and shopkeepers from every civilized land. While most of the haggling was in common Oberyn, he heard bits of Dagoran, Jandari, Keferi, and even Aralgameshu, the language of the Sea Folk.

  The Old Town was easy to spot, with large, whitewashed merchant homes towering over the neighboring quarters. It didn’t take long to find the Langton House, a dilapidated manor near the top of the hill. Black fungus grew on the walls and the trees and gardens ran wild. The knocker was missing from the door, and Timble pounded for several minutes before an elderly servant answered him. “We are not buying anything today. Thank you.”

  Timble ran thumbs down the velvet trimmings of his doublet. “I am no hawker of goods, sir, but an emissary of Duke Harlowe. I bear a letter of commissioning from His Grace.”

  “We have no commerce with rebels in this house. You can report that to Duke Lockridge.” The door began to close.

  “It concerns Edine Langton.”

  The old servant left the door open a crack and took the letter. “One moment.”

  Timble had only whistled half of The Young Smith’s Hammer by the time he returned. “The master will see you.”

  They walked through near-empty halls. Marks on the walls and floors noted where furnishings had been pawned. The rugs were worn through to the flagstones. The servant led him to a terrace overlooking the bay, where a skeletal man sat wrapped in a cloak, staring out to sea. He turned at their approach, hungry eyes boring into Timble. “You have word of my Edine?” he asked, motioning with a trembling hand to a nearby bench. “How can this be? She is five years gone.”

  Taking a seat, Timble folded his hands and asked, “How did she die?”

  The man watched him suspiciously. “If you do not know this, how can you have news? She perished at sea, with my sons, my son-in-law, and my three ships. With one stroke, God took everything from me.”

  “A woman calling herself Edine Langton works as a maid for the Young Dowager Harlowe. She claims to have lost her husband at sea and came to the Harlowes begging for work.”

  Master Langton lurched forward and gripped Timble’s knees with trembling hands. “Describe her to me?” Hope kindled in his eyes.

  “A Coasterwoman,” Timble said, feeling vaguely guilty for the pain he was about to inflict. He had to be sure Edine was a fraud. “Tall and thin, much more than a head taller than me. She has a deep furrow in her chin.”

  The light faded from the old man’s expression, and he deflated back into the chair. When it was clear he had no strength to speak, the servant said, “Edine was generously-built and shorter than you. Who would perpetuate such a monstrous fraud?”

  “I have suspicions,” Timble said thoughtfully. “Do you know any noblewomen in Almsport named Millicent? Perhaps one who left some time ago?”

  Master Langton seemed not to hear, his attention again on the horizon, watching for ships that would never return. The servant nodded. “It is an uncommon name in these parts. Millicent Marten was wife to a banneret knight whose fief lay just north of the city. His lands included two large tide mills and a copper mine. Duke Lockridge caught him evading taxes and dispossessed him. Faced with the shame, he strung himself up by the neck.”

  “And the wife?” Timble’s pulse quickened.

  The servant shrugged. “Her son went into Duke Lockridge’s household, but I have no idea where she went.”

  “What does Millicent look like?”

  It took the servant a moment to answer. “Just as you describe your impostor. Thin and freakish tall.” The servant placed a hand on Master Langton’s arm. “I doubt this has been healthy for him. Probably best that you leave now.”

  Returning to the docks, Timble found a tavern wedged between the fish house and the harbormaster tower. A serving girl led him to a driftwood bench out on the beach. The fresh henna in her hair smelled like hay, but she was far from ugly. “Hope you like fishcakes,” she said, sweeping some thin bones from the table. “The cook isn’t awake yet and it’s all we have.”

  “Fishcakes then. And fruit wine. Cherry, if you have it.”

  The girl smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Timble watched longshoremen unloading boats, thankful he’d never worked an ordinary job. It looked exhausting. Not a single Belgorshan ship could be seen. Their merchants must be withering on the vine.

  “Here you are, nice and spicy,” the serving girl said, bringing the cakes on a broad, green leaf. “The cherry wine has gone off, but I found you some apricot.”

  “Wonderful.” He took a bite of the fishcakes. Too spicy, just as he expected. Washing it down with sweet wine, he motioned to the bay. “When was the last time you served a Belgorshan crew?”

  She seemed puzzled. “Priest-King Leax has them bottled up. Haven’t seen any since spring. It’s hurt all of us in the tavern.” She thought for a moment. “Well, there is one, but the captain says he can’t go back to Belgorsk for a while.”

  “Do you know the boat?”

  “Mudskipper. The captain always makes me laugh.”

  “Any idea where I could find him?” Seeing her grow concerned, Timble smiled harmlessly. “I’m seeking news from Belgorsk. There’s orricks for anyone who helps me”

  “He serves the islands now, carrying supplies from Almsport. They left a couple of days ago. The wharf rats can probably tell you where.”

  Timble downed the wine, left two orricks on the table, and kissed her hand with a flourish. “In Irmgaard, the barbarians use fish to fertilize their crops, and they grow beautifully. The fish of Almsport have done the same, causing such a lovely rose as you to bloom.” The girl seemed puzzled, perhaps frightened, but Timble thought she would probably be flattered later.

  After an orrick changed hands, the shore chief remembered Mudskipper quite well. “Left for the Harpy Isle two days ago. With the Festival of Joining coming up, they’ll probably stay for the celebration. You could still catch him.” His weather-blasted face darkened. “So long as you don’t mean him any harm.”

  Timble held up a hand. “Appease your belated conscience. I’m a friend.”

  A few more coins booked him passage on the Bluenose, a short galley with twenty pairs of oars. The winds of the Hidden Sea came and went, making sails untrustworthy, so galleys ruled the water. Timble bought a half cask of fortified wine to see him through the trip. The harpies were long gone from the island, but sea voyages had their own terrors, mainly boredom.

  They were four days on the water, and Timble used the time to practice his craft. The flat planks of the stern deck were perfect for acrobatics and the crew was eager for japes and songs. Of course, he spent the last half day of the voyage lashed to the prow like a figurehead, but it was all in fun.

  Sailing into Forsard Bay, they passed a solitary rock topped with a likeness of Lord Forsard, clutching the net and sky-iron spear he had used to rid the island of harpies. Timble wormed loose of his bindings enough to take a look at the town. According to the crew, Harpy Isle survived on fish and windfalls from the ships that wrecked on the area’s treacherous rocks. The fishermen of the Harpy Isle were legendary for their skill at navigating the risky waters and hated for the ruinous fees they charged to aid foundering vessels.

  The town was too small for a proper dock, and those boats not at work were beached in the sand. It took only a moment to spot Mudskipper among them. Behind him, he could hear the deck crew readying the ship for arrival, while the coxswain shouted at the oarsmen to beach the ship. His teeth jarred as they struck land and momentum carried them onto shore.

  No one hurried to cut him down from the bowsprit, but eventually Timble gained his freedom and stumbled
from the ship, face chapped by sun and wind. Thankfully, no one from the Mudskipper was on the beach, though he could see their bedding spread across the sand. Only a few children and old women were in sight, picking through tide pools for shellfish. The town itself was built into rocky bluffs, sheltered from weather and too far away for anyone to spot him. He wanted to surprise Captain Timotei. If the man proved uncooperative, Timble planned to torture and then silence him, though he hoped to avoid it. Crime was risky on an island, especially when the victim had crewmates. If needed, he planned to escape overland to Whelkton, on the far side of the island and hire a boat from there.

  Timble spent the afternoon hiding in a hollow of the bluff, watching for Captain Timotei. Toward dusk, he saw a bearded figure leave one of the cottages and stretch with a satisfied yawp. A village woman leaned out of the window and called to him in a laughing voice. He still wore the same loose trousers and oiled-leather shirt Timble remembered from Belgorsk. Captain Timotei weaved his way up the bluff toward the ramshackle inn. Timble frowned. It would be hard to corner him in such a place.

  Two sailors appeared in the door and called to the Captain. He wandered over, took a bottle from one, and then continued up the bluff toward the woods. Timble skirted the town, scrambling over boulders like a goat, moving as quickly as he dared. The bush behind the town was thinned-out by firewood seekers and provided little cover.

  The Captain hummed as he walked, and Timble could hear him swatting at branches with a stick. Timble eased the hand crossbow from his bag, crouching behind a palm tree while he cocked the weapon and fed it a bolt.

  Slipping quietly forward, he spotted the Captain through the trees. He was digging a furrow in the sand with his boot, underneath a forked tree branch. The big man then cracked the branch, bending it to the ground. He dropped his trousers and took a seat over the hole in the ground.

  Timble waited until the man was well occupied before stepping out from cover, the crossbow behind his back. “Captain Timotei.”