“You see why I wasn’t free with that information.”
“Oh, indeed.” Kyrin’s voice sounded as if she had to summon up the words from a great distance. “I see many things I wasn’t sure about. I’m cold, Aldric.” When he slipped his arms about her waist she returned the embrace, briefly but hard enough to make him wince, then snuggled against him for a moment until his crest-collar touched her face. The contrast between body-heated silver and wind-chilled skin made her shiver.
“You are cold,” said Aldric. “Go below. Get some rest.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll stay here a while. I can’t sleep just yet.” It was as if he was already thinking about things long ago and far away.
“What’s troubling you?”
“Remembering. Not a good thing to do right now.”
“Because of those pirates?”
“The ones I cut down had an even chance to do the same to me. It’s the others who—”
“They deserved what they got.” Kyrin’s voice was flat and vicious.
“Maybe. Probably. But I was raised to use a taiken. A firedrake… No. What I did was too crafty, too deliberate. It makes me feel dirty. I wish there had been another way.”
“There wasn’t. ‘An even chance,’ you say? Oh no. Would your death be preying on their minds if the tables were turned? I don’t think so. My father’s a bigger, fiercer man than you, Aldric, and he once told me there’s a balance to things. Nobody should take a life without regret; nobody should waste regret when it’s not needed. Think about that.”
For a long time after she left, Aldric did.
*
Kyrin was scarcely into her bunk when the knock came at her cabin door. Aldric wouldn’t have knocked but she knew who would, so pulled the sheets high before she said: “Come in.”
Dewan ar Korentin slipped inside, closed the door behind him and sat down. He removed the stopper from the wine-jug under one arm, filled two cups and offered one to Kyrin before taking a thoughtful sip.
“Well? What did he tell you?”
Kyrin tasted her wine first. “Little enough. The spellstave is what he said it was before all this began, a gift of gratitude for Gemmel-altrou.”
“His foster-father. A wizard. And a foreigner.”
“Which makes him just like us. You’re a renegade, I’m a castaway.”
“And that was all?”
“Yes.”
“Just yes? Nothing more?”
“Nothing.”
Dewan stroked his moustache. “Aldric asks a lot of questions, or stands quiet and listens. Have you noticed how seldom he volunteers any answers?”
“Of course. It doesn’t match the rest of his character, which I know better than you.”
“So secrecy is an assumed habit. One learned from someone, or maybe insisted on by the wizard?”
“Perhaps. More wine, please.”
The Vreijek poured a second cupful for them both, then as footsteps approached down the passageway he rose and put his weight against the cabin door. Whoever was outside went past without stopping and Dewan sat down again, this time on Kyrin’s bunk. She jerked her feet aside barely in time.
“Aldric might be…” Dewan began, then shook his head. “No, not yet. Much as I’d like to, I can’t trust him until I’m sure.” Kyrin stifled a snort of ironic laughter. “What’s so funny?”
“Just a coincidence. Something he said.”
“Indeed? Don’t let your emotions into this, Kyrin. You’re an observer, nothing more.”
“You said you’d help me with a ship. It doesn’t grant you liberties with my private life.”
“In exchange for that help, you agreed to keep an eye on him.”
“I did. I have. And it proved what I already told you. He’s no threat to your king or his plans.”
“It depends on whose viewpoint I take, Kyrin-ain. Oh yes, I’ve heard the lover’s endearment, though I warned you not to get involved. It affects your judgement, and won’t influence the high-clan arlethen who’d be very dubious about how much he’s at ease with the Art Magic.”
“Let’s give them more to ponder, ar Korentin. Such as why you were so friendly with an Imperial ship-captain, and why your fellow-countryman Skawmour wasn’t more closely watched. Would they be dubious about that, do you think?”
“Let’s not be foolish.”
“Then get off my bed.”
Dewan stared at her, his expression masked by the play of light and shadow from the single lantern. When he got up, it was with all the leisured dignity of someone doing what he had intended all along. “You’re in love with Aldric Talvalin, aren’t you?”
“I’m not.”
“From the sound of it I thought—”
“You didn’t. You assumed. Not the same at all. I like him, he deserves that much, and we both needed some companionship. But love? No. Not the way you mean it. And he doesn’t love me, though he thinks he does. Infatuation describes it better.”
“Going up against a killer like your countryman was more than infatuation.” Dewan raised his hand to still the irritable correction. “Yes, I heard you before, Ersoltun mountain-men aren’t true Valhollans, and I don’t care. What matters is how Aldric got us out of a tight spot. He did that for you far more than me.”
Kyrin stared at him for several seconds. “He was a virgin when we met,” she said bluntly.
Dewan almost laughed, then took note of her expression and thought better of it. “There’s something to make a susceptible lady feel privileged. Easy to claim and hard to disprove.” He took a thoughtful sip of wine and his expression went more serious. “I once met his elder brother. A moral gentleman of the old sort you seldom encounter nowadays.”
“You mean he was ‘very Northern’? I understand the term.”
“Then you understand Joren Talvalin. After the other brother Baiart got over-fond of pleasures at court, he put Aldric on a tight leash. Too tight, by all accounts. I had another talk with Gyrek, the guard from Radmur. Remember the woman he mentioned, the haughty piece you didn’t care for? Well, long story short, young Aldric arranged a clandestine meeting with her as an Eskorrethen present to himself, as his first—”
“Ar Korentin, you’re blushing.”
Dewan ignored her. “So off he went to Radmur, head full of grown-up dreams, body full of youthful enthusiasm, and when he got there, surprise! She’d taken up with someone else. Older, richer, Father of Fires knows what. Gyrek suspects the other man was there all the time, encouraging her to play Aldric along for their amusement. It sounds about right, since she laughed in his face. He must have felt… Well, you can imagine. Then the Dunrath killings happened, he ran for his life, and left this world behind for years. He was probably telling you the truth.”
“I’m sure he was. And I won’t see him hurt simply because of your suspicions. As long as you bear that in mind, Dewan ar Korentin, any little secrets about irregular ship-captains are safe with me. You understand, don’t you?”
“Every detail, lady. It’s clear Valhollans can negotiate in other matters than trade. Just remember what I told you, and discourage him as gently as you can. If things work out as I hope, you’ll soon be going home, and… Well, he’s a Talvalin.”
“I said I didn’t want him hurt. Especially by me. I’ll manage.”
“I hope so, for both our sakes. You still don’t understand my bedtime story. The only other woman in his life dropped him without warning, so bear in mind how he might react if you do it too. Hurt? What about angry? What about insulted? You’re not Alban, you’re not protected by the rules he grew up with, you carry a sword and as I said, he’s Talvalin. Very Northern. Think about it.”
Dewan moved as if to leave, gathering the cups and empty jug, then paused theatrically at the door as if recalling a last-minute detail.
“King Rynert told me I should mention this only if I had to. After what you said about ship-captains, I have to. We know how contraband gets in and
out of Alba, and who carries it. Spices and wines are harmless enough, so we also know when to turn a blind eye. Once in a while we need to prove we’re not blind after all, and some unlucky smuggler gets chosen as an example of the King’s justice.”
Instead of the rest of the threat Dewan patted her on the arm like a friendly uncle. “We also know when to blink. Or wink. As long as you bear that in mind, Tehal Kyrin, any little secrets about irregular trading routes are safe with me.” He kept her own words company with a little smile. “And after Skawmour, I need someone else with access to neutral ships. Someone I can trust.”
Kyrin let out held breath in a sound like a sigh. “I appreciate your candour, Eldheisart ar Korentin.” She pronounced the Drusalan rank like an obscure insult with a smile of her own, a gambler’s smile with more relief than triumph in it. “I didn’t have the pleasure of meeting Joren Talvalin, but I can tell you one thing. His young brother is as much an honourable gentleman as Joren could have been.”
“That’s the problem. Honour can be blind to all else, and Joren had a temper as hot as the Red Pit when he believed he had good cause. Choose your parting words with care. Good night, my dear.”
The door closed behind him with a solid, final click.
*
Kyrin awoke to the sound of more clicks, the dry carpenter-sound of wood on wood somewhere off in the distance. There was no sign of Aldric. He had arrived long after ar Korentin left, slipped into bed without speaking and they had made slow gentle love in the same wordless way. Now he was gone again, just as quietly and long enough ago for his half of the cramped bunk to go cold.
She rubbed sleep from her eyes, then opened the shutters on her cabin’s port, blinking as the recently risen sun shone full into her face. With the port open that clattering noise grew a little louder. It was like nothing Kyrin had ever heard on a ship before, yet En Sohra rode easily on a gentle deep-sea swell with the creak of structure and cordage sounding as it should. Best of all there were no shouts of alarm, only a distant murmur of many voices and, just once, enthusiastic shouts and whistling.
Kyrin washed, dressed, tucked her hair though a loop of braided leather and walked up the companionway into the usual smells of shipboard breakfast: sausage, fish and bacon, cheese, griddlebread and a strong tisane the Elherran crewmen liked as their morning drink. The odd noises had stopped, so she turned her attention to warm bread wrapped around sliced sausage and crisp bacon, washing each mouthful down with careful sips from an over-hot, over-full beaker and reflecting on the difference a day could make to appetite. Yesterday everyone had merely picked at their food, but this morning – more rashers of bacon followed the first four – it would be easy to eat too much and not notice. Or care.
There was a light-hearted atmosphere about En Sohra, if not quite a holiday since there were few holidays aboard a ship trying to make landfall on time. Hervits Barrankal had told his crew nothing of what had happened on Techaur Island, and only enough about the rest to motivate their memorably swift departure. It was useless for a friendly stranger in a wharfside tavern to ply this crew with drink, since even the drunkest sailor couldn’t let slip what he didn’t know.
That didn’t stop rumours from the quarterdeck and the Master’s cabin suggesting this voyage had been more successful than expected, with clinking tokens of appreciation when the ship reached port. Then there was the whole business of sharing close unknowing anchorage with pirates and escaping with a whole skin. It was all reason enough for good spirits, so maybe the crew had managed some celebration after all. There were none about except for the half-dozen attending to sails and cordage, since despite the fine blue day a full-rigged vessel didn’t run herself, and even the cook at the galley-hatch looked like he wanted to be elsewhere.
The noises started again, coming from near the bow and clear enough to identify at last. Leather boots scuffed and stamped against the pine deck, while wood struck wood in an irregular stutter reminiscent of…
All the things nagging at Kyrin’s still-drowsy mind since she came on deck fell together at once. How few of the crew were eating breakfast or even at their duties, why Aldric had slipped away so early, and where she’d heard that stop-start rhythm before.
She dropped her plate and ran.
Up on the foredeck, the rest of En Sohra’s crew were gathered in a ring while Aldric and Hervits Barrankal faced each other over lengths of polished hardwood. Barrankal held a fighting stave almost as long as he was tall, cross-hatched for grip at each end and the middle, while Aldric used the taidyo waster from his daily practice.
Kyrin had never seen him use a staff-sword against an opponent before. Until yesterday she had never seen him use a real taiken against one either. The wooden weapons clicked together as the combatants took each other’s measure, and watching them move to guard positions for another exchange brought back more memories than she could bear.
“Stop it! Stop it at once!”
Heads turned at the shrill outcry, there were chuckles and several smiles, and Hervits Barrankal broke ground at once. He gave her an odd look, then a courtly bow and a grin of white teeth against black skin and blue-striped beard. Aldric simply put his eyebrows up and stared. Kyrin cursed herself, for yelling like a fishwife, like a mother catching her child doing wrong…
No, like a lover seeing her beloved at risk.
Because Dewan ar Korentin was standing by the rail, and he too was smiling since she had just proved, before witnesses, that what she felt for Aldric Talvalin was more than mere ‘companionship’. He wouldn’t have forgotten what she’d said about Luent Skawmour, either. Aldric would be a clan-lord if everything came right, but there were many clan-lords in Alba and only one King’s Champion, one man so trusted that his words were believed without hesitation. Kyrin knew Dewan was a man to treat with respect. Now she realised, too late as usual with such things, that he might be one to fear.
“What under Heaven’s Light are you fussing about?” said Aldric, loud and clear so everyone could hear his cheerful nonchalance.
“I didn’t expect you’d be training this morning. Not after last night.” Someone let out a coarse guffaw and she went pink.
“This isn’t training, just the friendly meeting I arranged with Master Barrankal before we went ashore.” Those arrangements had been far from friendly, and she was about to say so when he carried on, still grinning. “Besides, I don’t want to stiffen up again.”
That prompted another crude laugh, and a comment in Elherran caused yet more. En Sohra’s crew were enjoying the show. Kyrin’s blush deepened and when Aldric leaned forward as if to kiss her cheek, the enthralled sailors almost had the added treat of him being slapped across the face. He deflected the blow with an upraised wrist, but it didn’t deflect her hot-eyed glare.
“Hush now.” His voice dropped to a confidential murmur. “This nonsense proves I’m healthy, and only took a tumble like any clumsy fool. Pleading anything worse,” Aldric’s lips were almost touching her ear now, “might make people wonder what caused it. And I really do need to keep the muscles working. They ache like hell.” He smiled wickedly. “Whatever I do.”
When he backed away, his obvious wink and the duration of the apparent embrace gave their delighted audience more to speculate about, if the unquiet nights sailing down from Erdhaven left any room for speculation at all. It diverted attention so well that Kyrin wondered if the whole performance had been rehearsed from ar Korentin’s script before she came on deck. It had his manipulative touch all over it, so she added a touch of her own. A fistful of Aldric’s shirt-front dragged him close again, and the kiss she planted full on his mouth lasted long enough for En Sohra’s crew to raise a sardonic cheer.
Aldric squeezed her hand, then let go and resumed the Wolf’s Guard as precisely if he’d never moved from it. Stave and taidyo met with the hollow musical resonance of seasoned hardwood, striking once, once again, then three times in a rapid flurry before the fighters parted like dancers ending a measure.
Aldric moved better than Kyrin expected to see, though without the lethal grace of his killing fight in the Cavern of Firedrakes, and she wondered if he was favouring his injured side or his opponent.
Then she saw the reason. Barrankal’s fighting stave almost matched the sparth in length and reach, and Aldric was taking this opportunity for a safe bout with mismatched weapons. How safe, Kyrin wasn’t so sure. Hervits Barrankal was fighting in front of his crew against an unwanted passenger who had insulted him on his own quarterdeck. He had every reason to knock a reckoning out of Aldric if he got the chance.
That chance hadn’t happened yet.
Barrankal made two quick snap-cuts with the top end of the stave and blocked a response on the mid-section between his braced hands, then swore helplessly as Aldric pivoted his point round the bind into a thrust at the big man’s chest. It was neat enough that Barrankal gave a reluctant salute as he backed away, though he had to gesture twice at his crew before they too produced an unwilling spatter of applause. The quick economy of the move shocked them like a splash of cold water. With live steel there would have been neither salute nor hand-clap, just their shipmaster down on the deck with his left lung open to the air.
Aldric didn’t look smug at his success. The fight with Kakhur and the thud as sparth met ribs had frightened him as much as it would frighten anyone aware of their own mortality. Practicing all the things he should have done helped ease his fright and exorcise its demons, and Hervits Barrankal was a necessary part of it.
The man’s broad smiles and occasional laughter covered his impatience well, but Kyrin could see it was becoming anger and his crew’s reaction filled in the parts she hadn’t witnessed. Aldric was half the Elherran’s age, a head shorter and at least sixty pounds lighter, so Barrankal should have won by simply over-running him. Except for a single touch early on, greeted with the shouting she had heard, Aldric’s point or edge had always intervened. For all the broad smiles and dignified bows and studied courtesy, this one-sided combat rankled and the shipmaster’s tolerance was fraying fast.
The Horse Lord (The Book of Years Series 1) Page 23