Chapter 3
Eleanor walked until it began to get dark, and then she curled up under a thick hedgerow to try and sleep. The ground was sodden, and even wrapping herself thoroughly in her blanket only slightly slowed the rate at which water seeped into her clothes and hair. She lay as still as she could, listening to small animals rustling nearby and the birds chirping their evening songs, until she eventually drifted into sleep.
She was woken before sunrise by another downpour of rain, and although it was only a brief shower she was so thoroughly drenched that there seemed little point in trying to get back to sleep. Shivering and miserable, she pulled herself from the bushes and continued with her journey in the dim pre-dawn light.
For the next couple of days she walked determinedly along the coast-road towards Almont, ducking out of the way whenever she heard a cart rattling along the uneven track, and being sure to hide herself well away from the road each night when she settled down to sleep. In her hurry to leave Port Just she hadn't had chance to stock up on food so her diet consisted of increasingly stale bread, accompanied when she could find them by a few summer berries that the birds had not yet eaten.
Hunger, combined with near-constant drizzle and unseasonably cold temperatures, made Eleanor's walk more uncomfortable by the day. So it was with great relief that, three nights after leaving Port Just, she came to the outskirts of another small town. An old painted sign informed her, in slightly wobbly lettering, that she was entering Arche.
The first person Eleanor came upon in the rainy streets was a plump, middle-aged woman with greying blonde hair, clearly on her way home from the market, laden with her weekly shopping. Trying to suppress her coughs and sniffles, Eleanor asked the woman whether there was a guesthouse in the town where she would be able to rest for the night.
"I'm afraid there isn't, dear," the woman said, shaking her head. "I'm afraid there's not much call for that sort of thing round here. But you look sick, and you're absolutely soaked – you'd best come back with me and dry yourself out. My house is only just around the corner from here," she added hurriedly.
Eleanor was feeling too dazed and feverish to even consider rejecting the woman's kindness, and she allowed herself to be led through the narrow streets. A small part of her mind was alert enough to take note of the winding route they took between small, crowded houses. She'd never been this far from the school before, but something about Arche gave an immediate impression of poverty. Of course everyone had a roof over his head, but the houses were tiny and somewhat ramshackle – Eleanor sensed that in a town like this, only the most essential repairs were likely to get done. The woman took her arm and pulled her into an alleyway between two houses, then through a gate into a small, slightly overgrown courtyard, full of flowers. Even through the rain the pollen was overwhelming, and Eleanor started sneezing again. There were three houses facing out onto the courtyard and the woman pushed open the door to one of them, hurrying Eleanor inside ahead of her.
"Welcome to my home," she said, as Eleanor stood dripping in the hallway. "Now, come along, let's get you warmed up."
Her mind thick with fever, and feeling groggy in the sudden warmth of the house, Eleanor was only vaguely aware of herself as the woman encouraged her up the stairs, helped her to undress, and pointed her towards a bath-tub full of steaming hot water.
"I knew John'd have this ready for me," she said cheerfully, "which is just as well, really... I think you've already got a chill. That's right, lie back there, just try to relax and you'll warm through soon enough..."
The woman continued talking as she bustled around the house, wandering in and out of the bathroom, clearing Eleanor's wet clothes away and bringing a pile of freshly-laundered towels. The babbling voice washed over Eleanor as she lay in the hot water, half-asleep and hardly taking in a word. Suddenly, a pattern of intonation followed by expectant silence told Eleanor that she had been asked a question and she sat up, startled.
"Oh, I'm sorry, dear!" the woman cried when she saw Eleanor's response. "I didn't know you were sleeping. I was just asking if you wanted any lunch, but maybe you should get some rest first?"
"Lunch would be good," Eleanor said weakly, her stomach now reminding her that she hadn't eaten properly in days.
The woman nodded, and passed her a towel. "You get yourself dried off, then, and there's a bed in the next room where you can settle yourself. I'll bring something up shortly."
The bed was warm and comfortable, and Eleanor was dozing again by the time that the woman came upstairs with a huge bowl of casserole and a mug of nettle tea. Eleanor ate quickly, glad of the hot food, and finished her drink in two mouthfuls.
She fell into a deep, feverish sleep almost as soon as her cheek touched the pillow. Though she woke many times over the following days, to eat or drink or use the chamber pot, she was sufficiently unwell that she paid little attention to the passage of time, or the comings and goings of the kindly woman and her husband who took turns at bringing food and water upstairs.
One day, however, she woke to find the sun streaming in through the bedroom window, and was suddenly aware that her fever had lifted. She sat up, wondering vaguely how many days she'd been ill, and for that matter what time of day it was now. Clutching a sheet about her for modesty, she made the short journey to the window in two wobbly steps. A glance outside told her that she hadn't missed the whole of summer – there were still flowers in bloom in the courtyard. The sun's position high overhead also suggested it was around midday, so Eleanor was optimistic that it might soon be lunch-time.
Her movements didn't go unnoticed, and she'd only just sat down on the bed again when her hostess came upstairs with a plate of sandwiches. "You're looking better today, dear," she smiled. "Do you think you might be getting up soon? I've washed your clothes."
"Thank you," Eleanor said. The woman's generosity was overwhelming. "I don't know what to say. You've been so kind – and I don't even know your name. I haven't been myself."
"Mary," the woman obliged.
"I'm Eleanor."
Mary pushed the sandwiches encouragingly in Eleanor's direction, and Eleanor was glad to take up the offer – although she had been well fed over the previous days, she still felt hungry.
"Now, if you're really sure you're better, then do get dressed – yes, your clothes are just here – and come downstairs. John would like to speak to you."
Eleanor nodded, and dressed herself quickly. She noticed immediately that her pockets were empty – even her name bangle was absent, and she felt naked and vulnerable without her knife. She forced herself not to panic. Mary would have had to turn out the pockets to do the washing – and if they'd had any reason for wanting to harm her, they could have done so very easily while she was lying in bed.
"Where are the rest of my things?" she asked, in what she hoped was a sufficiently casual voice. She didn't want to imply any criticism of the people who'd been so kind to her.
"Ah, John has everything downstairs," Mary replied. "Will you come down now?"
For the first time, as she followed Mary down the stairs, Eleanor really looked around at her surroundings. Compared to the outsides of the houses in Arche, the inside of this one was surprisingly smart and well-kept. Although the rooms were not large, there were little touches – a vase of flowers here, a silk curtain there – which suggested an elegance out of step with the rest of the town.
"The girl's called Eleanor," Mary said by way of introduction as they came into the kitchen.
John was sitting at a large, solid table, on which Eleanor's possessions were spread. He stood up as they entered. "Eleanor. Enchanted."
"Nice to meet you," Eleanor said, forcing herself to smile to conceal her irritation that they had laid out everything she owned for inspection. At Mary's indication, she pulled up a chair to the table; Mary stood stiffly by the door.
John paced gently alongside the table; a tall, stocky man with a chiselled jaw and thick, muscular arms. Eleanor was embar
rassed to catch herself noticing how attractive he was, considering he was easily into his forties. "You're quite famous, Eleanor," he said at last. "Though no-one knows your name. The flame-haired assassin o' Port Just, they call you."
Seeing the look of panic which flitted across her face, he laughed. "Don't worry, we've not turned you in."
"Why not?" she asked, her voice icy. "If that's what you think." This wasn't what she'd expected to wake up to.
John laughed again; he had a hearty, cheerful laugh which would have been pleasant in any other circumstances. "I admit I've my doubts about the bit where a rogue assassin ends up picking pockets in a provincial town like the Port," he said, "but the harbour master's quite convinced that that's what you are."
Eleanor considered her options. She could run, of course, but she'd done that last time and she didn't really want to run into more sickness and malnourishment. From here, it'd be more than a week to get to Almont if she was walking all the way – and she couldn't risk asking anyone for a lift if there was a price on her head. Besides, this couple didn't seem to have any intention of hurting her, despite thinking her a criminal.
"Will you believe me if I say I'm not?" she asked, wondering how the harbour master, presumably the man who'd chased her, had possibly identified her as an assassin. It wasn't even true.
John nodded. "Aye, but I think you'd better tell us exactly what happened."
"I was hungry," Eleanor said; they would surely believe that given the state they'd found her in. Besides, it was true, and she knew from experience that if she had to lie then it was best to base her lies as close to the truth as possible. "I needed money to buy food, and I'm not a very good pickpocket, so I got caught."
"And the knife?"
"I panicked. I just wanted to get away."
John nodded slowly. "That all sounds very reasonable. I'm sure a court would look kindly on you – probably only a year or two in jail, don't you think?"
Eleanor heard the thinly-veiled threat in his words and chose not to respond, waiting to see what alternative he would offer. If he'd just wanted to turn her over to the police he could have done it much earlier than this, so he must have a proposition.
"We've covered up for you this far," he continued, "but you can't stay here if you're going to be up and about. Can't have you wandering around Arche when everyone wants to know who you've come here to kill. However, I captain a fishing boat, and by all accounts you're practical enough to make yourself useful."
"Doesn't the government provide you with a full crew?" Eleanor asked in astonishment. Surely the assignment process would identify plenty of candidates who would make good fishermen; it didn't seem the hardest job in the Empire.
"For the fishing, they do," he said.
Eleanor's eyes widened a little; suddenly the small touches of wealth might make sense. She knew there was a lot of money to be made on the ocean wave, whether from piracy or smuggling, or from other things beyond her imagination.
"For my other operations," he continued with barely a pause, "we have to fend for ourselves, so to speak. And if I need a crew to operate outside the law, it's best to use people who're already there."
Eleanor wanted to ask why a fisherman would risk turning to a life of crime; did the government not ensure that everyone had sufficient to be comfortable? But she knew how hypocritical – and how very strange – the words would sound to someone who thought she was a common criminal, so she kept silent. It could be fatal to arouse any more suspicions.
"So?" John asked sharply. He'd clearly been expecting a response, but she wasn't sure he'd asked a question.
"Do I have a choice?" she asked, keeping her voice deliberately soft and submissive.
"Course you do. But I fear your story is bigger than you are, now... at least in these few towns. I'm not sure whether – without your knife – you could live up to what people think you're capable of." He twirled her favourite blade carelessly in his thick fingers.
Another threat. She tried to hold her reactions in check; she had few enough possessions, she couldn't let him think she had any sentimental attachment to the things she owned. He would recognise the superiority of the knife he held, of course – this house gave away its occupants' finer tastes, and a man with any kind of sideline in trade could hardly avoid noticing the relative value of things. Compared to the old school practice daggers she had appropriated, Laban's knife was a jewel; a beautifully constructed implement even without its emerald insets. An assassin's knife.
She wondered – but surely it couldn't be! If the harbour master had recognised the blade then he was more than just a harbour master, which seemed implausible. More likely he'd just come to wild assumptions from an overactive imagination, or else wanted to make the story more impressive so as not to be embarrassed by the fact that a woman, barely more than a girl, had outwitted and outfought him.
Eleanor's mind ran over her chances. She didn't want John to think she cared for the knife – let him think she'd light-fingered it from some more accomplished fighter! – but at the same time she was afraid that he might try to sell it.
"Will you let me arm myself in my own defence if I agree to sail with you?" she asked cautiously.
"You'll be safe aboard," John said, an edge of roughness entering his voice. "I won't let my men touch you, if that's what you're fearing."
It hadn't even crossed Eleanor's mind to worry about the crew, but the captain's words did little to cheer her. If he expected her to be afraid then there was something – however small – to be afraid of. She would have to tread with caution.
"I sleep easier at night with a knife in my hand," she confessed.
"Aye, well, you would on the streets, but life afloat's a bit different, and by all accounts you're a bit quick on the draw..." He left the sentence hanging for a moment, then added, "Besides, you've slept soundly enough the last few nights – and days."
Mary gave a gentle laugh, and Eleanor started slightly: she'd forgotten the woman was there. Irritated at herself, she swore not to be so careless in future – it wouldn't do to forget about an opponent just because he kept still and out of sight. But somehow, whatever games they were playing, these people had treated her too kindly to be enemies.
"I won't draw a knife against you or your men," she said. "You can have my word on that – and if we meet pirates, better we're all armed."
"Pirates won't touch us," he said.
Eleanor wished she could feel reassured by the certainty of his tone, but she worried she was heading into piracy herself and it didn't appeal. Though – she realised with some relief – if the captain didn't want her to carry a weapon then their main goal couldn't be anything as violent as proper piracy. She was beginning to get fed up with his dodging her at every turn. She decided to call his bluff; if the gambit failed, she would take her chances. "I'll join your crew if you let me defend myself," she said. "That's my final word."
"Aye, well, then," he sighed. "It's hard enough to get good people these days. I'll need at least six months out o' you before I give the knives back, though."
She nodded: it was good enough, and she didn't think she was going to do better. "What about my bangle?" She'd be unrecognised in the Empire without the gold bracelet which bore her name and identifier.
"The same – six months and you can have it back. We sail in twelve days, and you'll stay in the house till then," John said by way of a conclusion. He scooped all the weapons from the table, but pushed the rest of her possessions along the table towards her.
The deal was done. Secretly, Eleanor wondered what she'd just agreed to, but she preferred not to ask – she'd find out in time.
Mary broke the silence and the tension with a cheerful offer of tea and cake, which they all agreed was a lovely idea, and Eleanor wiped all thoughts of the sea from her mind. She had twelve more days here, with hearty cooking and amiable company, and she was determined to enjoy it while it lasted.
She threw herself wholeheartedly int
o this idea for a couple of days but although she was pleased to be well again, and happy to be warm and well-fed, she soon began to struggle with her confinement – and John was too busy, preparing for the voyage, to answer any of her myriad questions. He reluctantly agreed that she could go into the courtyard, but the small taste of freedom only made her even more frustrated.
She spent a day yanking angrily at weeds growing in the cracks in the courtyard paving, building up a sizeable pile of rubbish and gradually clearing the area of everything she didn't think was pretty or useful. As the sun began to dip, and the job was all but done, she allowed herself to sit on the step and rest for a moment. With her hands burning from the irritant sap of some unknown weed, she wished she'd paid more attention in her Herbal Remedies classes – maybe something here could ease the pain, if only she could identify it. She remembered being taught that antidotes often grew near their poisons, like nettles and dock-leaves, but with no idea what had caused her blistering fingers she knew she was unlikely to find any relief.
Annoyed and exasperated, she finished piling up the weeds in one corner of the yard, and went back inside. Mary had already made a pot of tea for her, but when Eleanor picked up her mug she gasped in pain as the heat seared her hands and aggravated the sores.
"What have you gone and done?" Mary asked, full of concern. She grabbed Eleanor's hands and examined them, then scuttled into the kitchen, returning moments later with a large glass jar. "Put some o' this on, dear," she said, unscrewing the top so that Eleanor could dip her fingers inside.
The jar was full of a cold, clear jelly. Eleanor rubbed it into her hands, glad of the soothing coolness. "What is it?" she asked.
"Oh, I don't know what they call it," Mary said. "It's foreign stuff, John brings it back from some o' the warmer countries. Not that you'll be needing anything like that once you've been at sea a couple o' weeks – you'll have calluses on your hands like he has, and there's no plants as'll hurt your fingers then."
Eleanor wasn't sure if she was expected to be alarmed or pleased at this idea. Certainly she couldn't imagine Mary ever getting callused hands – but then the woman was far too soft round the edges for any kind of physical work. "What's your job?" Eleanor asked, wondering for the first time.
"Me? Well, I man the fish stall, when we have fish." Mary hesitated, then went on, "Most o' the time John turns enough profit that we don't have to worry about that, really. I'll send him out if the town's short o' fish, mind you. But mostly my job's to stay here and keep the house while he's off on one o' these long runs."
"How long will we be at sea?" Eleanor asked. She knew John had said she had to work for half a year, but she had no idea how many trips that might involve.
"I don't know, love. Likely a few cycles of the moon, all told, with stops here and there. The boat carries over two months' water if you're careful – and you'll learn to be careful."
Eleanor gave a small gasp of surprise; even one month without setting foot on dry land sounded like a very long time. She'd never been on board a fishing boat before – despite growing up near the coast, and in spite of her natural curiosity about such things, Laban had strongly insisted that sailors were not appropriate companions for a young woman. Not wanting to risk upsetting her most valuable teacher, she'd stayed away, so her only experience of the sea was from the small rowing boats the school had supplied.
"It's not as bad as it sounds," Mary said.
"You've done it?" Eleanor asked in amazement.
"A few times, when I was younger."
"Can you tell me about it?"
Things improved after that – though the limitations on her movements still stung, Eleanor found that Mary could answer most of her questions about life at sea, and she had more than enough questions to fill the days. Mary drew numerous diagrams of the boat and its rigging, answered Eleanor's strangest queries with good grace, and even found time to share odd snippets of information that she was too ignorant to ask for.
Eventually the fortnight passed, and Eleanor was relieved to find that it was a clear, dry day when they were due to sail, with only a light breeze disturbing the air. Waking her at first light, John gave her a flat cap and one of his old cloaks to wear until they reached the boat. She pinned her hair in a tight knot on top of her head and put on the borrowed clothes; the disguise wasn't convincing at close range, but she hoped it would be enough to allow them to get to the sea without interruption. At least her distinctive hair was tucked out of sight. They said goodbye to Mary, who supplied them with enough sandwiches and cake to feed a small army, and walked swiftly to the coast.
Even before the sun had fully risen above the horizon, they walked down the rickety quay to where John's boat was moored. Compared to the others in the harbour it was a large vessel, a 48ft ketch needing a crew of ten – who would work in shifts, John explained, so they could sail through the nights, though he assured her she wouldn't need to work in the dark until she knew what she was doing. The name CANNY ROSE was painted in block capitals along the bow.
They stepped aboard, John with a seaman's easy confidence, Eleanor taking great care not to slip on the sea-sprayed deck boards.
At John's instruction she lowered herself through the hatch and climbed down the ladder into the dark cabin below. There were no portholes but dusty lanterns hung from some of the beams, just waiting for candles to bring them to life. Blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she took note of the room's layout. Hammocks were strung between the stanchions, and a small kitchen area occupied the stern. John came down the ladder behind her and beckoned her to follow him into the bow.
"You'll have this one," he said, indicating the end hammock. "We'll put this up to give you a bit o' privacy."
He was holding a blanket, which he then proceeded to nail to a beam that ran above their heads. It formed an effective curtain, and she nodded her approval.
"Thanks," she said, and placed her bag on a peg by the hammock. She was just loosing her hair from under the borrowed cap when the floor lurched beneath her. The motion was accompanied by the sound of footsteps echoing from above; Eleanor counted one, two, three, four men embarking... before the sounds of those already aboard were loud and chaotic enough to mask the noise of others arriving.
"Ah, that'll be the men," John said. "C'mon, let's introduce you."
Eleanor followed him up the ladder and back on deck, where they found seven men talking and joking. They all fell silent at their captain's approach, but their eyes were not on him but on the short, red-headed girl who came two steps behind.
They all spoke at once, but Eleanor managed to make out only one voice through the confusion of their mingled speech: "Can't have a woman aboard, Cap'n, it's bad luck." She guessed the others were making similar comments; the look of distaste was, at least, the same on all their faces.
"Silence, the lot o' you!" John called over the growing clamour of voices. "SILENCE!!"
Casting furtive glances one man to another, the men's shouts died down to hushed mutterings and shortly all fell quiet, their eyes expectantly turned on the captain.
"None o' you really believes that superstitious nonsense," John said once he had their attention. Eleanor could hear the same veiled threats, the same quiet authority in his tone, as he'd used the first time he spoke to her. "You don't want a woman in the crew because you don't think she'll do a good job. Well, either you trust my judgement or you get off my ship. We're a man short as it is, and this girl's as strong as you could hope for, just look at the muscles on her."
The man nearest to Eleanor, a blond-haired, muscular sailor who also happened to be the youngest of the men, took this as grounds to reach out and pinch at her arm; she pulled away sharply, but he just nodded his approval. "She'll do," he said, then turned back to Eleanor. "They call me Sandy. Welcome aboard."
The crew crowded in on her, and she struggled to pin names to faces as each spoke in turn. "Triangle." "Spice." "Mag." "Anvil." "Misty." "Jaws."
Jo
hn watched their introductions, then turned to indicate Eleanor. "And this is..."
His hesitation was only momentary, but it was long enough for the balding, stocky man known as Anvil to interject: "We know who she is! She's the Assassin."
There was a general chorus of agreement from the crew, and Eleanor felt her spirits dip – was she going to have to fight to deny any link to the assassins at the same time as she struggled to find out about them? She had been hoping, if anything good was to come of this indenture, then at least the chance to visit distant shores might give her chance to seek out more stories and clues.
"Aye, alright then," John nodded ruefully. "You can't escape the rumours, lass, even if they're not true."
"And what do we call you?" she asked, suspecting it wasn't to be 'John' if none of these men went by the names their schools had given them, and seemingly she wasn't to be introduced by her name either.
"Captain," he said.
Rebellion (Chronicles of Charanthe #1) Page 3