by Chris Bunch
He made two friends in his ramblings, then a third.
The first was the enormous Labala, whom he rescued from being rolled by cutpurses when drunk. Labala’s family came from a distant tropical island, but none of them knew precisely where it was. Labala, like his father, worked as a stevedore on Ticao’s docks, augmenting his income by what he could steal.
In return for Gareth’s favor, he promised that neither he, nor any of his family, nor any of his cousins, would ever thieve from a Radnor cargo, no matter the temptation.
Labala was two years — or so he thought — older than Gareth, but appeared in his twenties at least. Some made the mistake of not taking him seriously, or thinking him stupid, because of his bulk, the rolls of fat he was quite proud of, and the constant beam on his round face.
The grin concealed quite a nasty temper, as quite a few discovered after the smile suddenly vanished and Labala growled, “Now I’m going to sit on you.” Which he would do, after his huge fists had hammered the person’s body for a while. Labala was also very fast. Gareth saw a man pull two knives on him one night, lose them both in an armblock and two crashing blows, and then get hurled into the river.
Labala loved pranking as well, without much regard for the target or outcome.
Fox was the second. He never said what he did during the day. Gareth thought he was a cutpurse or perhaps pickpocket, the way his eyes followed money around. He was very small, skinny to the point of emaciation, and his eyes darted about under a mop of unruly hair. Gareth knew little of his family, except he had a mother whom he revered, two twin brothers — “the greatest of heartless villains,” he said proudly — and a seemingly endless array of uncles. He never mentioned his father.
Fox’s taste in japery ran toward the well dressed and those with purses he might be able to end up with during the hubbub.
The last was Cosyra. She stood just to Gareth’s chin, was slender, small-breasted, wore her brown hair very short, dressed like a boy. Her face was heart-shaped, with perfect teeth and a grin almost as frequent as Labala’s.
Like the other three, she wore commoner’s clothes of leather, wool, or coarse cotton. There was one thing unusual about her appearance: on a silver chain she wore a small icon of a sea eagle.
Cosyra spoke, unlike Fox and Labala, in an educated tongue, though the cant of thieves and the streets came easily to her.
She never spoke of a family or friends. One of her favorite quick pranks was, when someone realized she was a woman and showed lustful signs, enticing them for a bit, then telling them she was the daughter of a shopkeeper, and would love to tryst later, at a certain address. Since the address she gave was that of the temple of Houf, Goddess of Eunuchs and the Celibate, Gareth wondered if she was a young harlot, sold to one of the many bordellos of Ticao.
None of the three young men ever tried to bed her. For some unknown reason, they all felt that might spoil things.
And so, every second or third night, they’d creep out, either looking for a target, or else putting a plan in motion.
The pranked were generally picked by either Cosyra or Gareth, the other two seeming content to be lieutenants in the schemes.
Gareth thought his japery might be the only thing that kept him from going mad.
Three
I have it,” Labala gurgled from the darkness. “Let’s paint the statue of the king in Centersquare.”
“We did that three months ago,” Cosyra said patiently.
“Yes … yes … but this time, we’ll paint his butt blue, instead of pink,” Labala said, and almost fell against the stone wall in his mirth.
“Well,” Gareth said diplomatically, “we’ll consider that as a second option.” None of them wanted to get Labala unhappy, for obvious reasons.
“You have somethin’ in th’ way of a scheme,” Fox said, not a question.
“Maybe,” Gareth said. “Do any of you know Lord Quindolphin?”
“I do. I mean, I’ve heard of him,” Cosyra said.
Gareth waited.
“Not supposed to be a very nice sort,” she said.
“Had a mate of my uncle’s drawn an’ quartered,” Fox said. “Just for borrowin’ one of them gilt eagles off his mansion’s gates.”
“That ain’t right,” Labala said indignantly. “Let’s do him. Forget about the king’s stony arse.”
“His daughter’s getting married four nights from now,” Gareth went on. “There’ll be a big party afterwards.”
“Of course,” Cosyra said. “But his mansion’s got big, high walls.”
“He’s not having it there,” Gareth went on. “For some reason, he’s putting it on at the Banker’s Guildhall.”
“Prob’ly owes ‘em money,” Fox said.
“Could be,” Gareth said. “Anyway, I scouted the place on my way here. It’s got a big delivery door at the rear.”
“So?” Cosyra said.
“A very big delivery door,” Gareth said, and outlined his idea as Labala’s laughter grew, almost shaking the cobbles they stood on.
“An’ — an’ — an’ — ” he interrupted, sides shaking like they were in a gale, “there’s a ship, come from upcountry, just docked today, with just the right present for old Quindolphie.”
• • •
“Way for the musicians’ gear,” Gareth bayed, cracking, rather ineptly, the whip he’d borrowed along with the freight wagon and its horses.
A guildhall worker nodded without much interest, went back inside, under draped red and black banners.
Gareth managed to swing the wagon around, and Fox jumped out of the back. He awkwardly pushed at the horses until they backed up, and the wagon thudded against the building’s dock.
Cosyra and Labala jumped off the back, and slid a ramp from its slot under the wagon to the dock. She went to the guildhall’s gate, prepared to open it.
Fox and Labala were on either side of the ramp, and Gareth unbarred the wagon’s rear door.
Two dozen pigs saw freedom, squealed happily, and ran down the ramp as Cosyra opened the guildhall entrance.
Someone shouted, a woman shrieked, and the pigs boiled through the kitchen — no doubt smelling in horror their former colleagues revolving on spits — knocking a wine steward aside, into the middle of milord Quindolphin’s daughter’s reception.
The squeals were louder, human, and there were shouts and frenzy.
Gareth let himself listen to the cacophony with great pleasure, then came back to reality.
“Come on. There’s trouble building,” he shouted, and the four, abandoning the wagon they’d “borrowed” some hours earlier, ran down the side of the guildhall and into the street.
There was a man, rather foppishly dressed, dismounting at the main entrance, handing his horse’s reins to a servitor.
“Here, you,” he shouted. “What’s going on in there?”
Paying no attention, the four ran on.
Gareth looked back, saw the man draw a sword, come after them. But they had him by ten lengths, and in another two hundred feet would be able to dart into a winding, mazelike alley.
Then Cosyra slipped, skidded on the cobbles, and lay flat, her breath knocked out.
“I have you, shitheel,” the man shouted, blade lowered. “Damned footpad that you are, stealing from his lordship’s wedding — ”
Cosyra was on her knees, trying to get up, the blade was no more than a few inches from her chest.
Gareth, without needing to think, saw a loose cobble, scooped it up, and threw it hard. The stone smashed into the man’s head, and Gareth’s stomach roiled as he heard bone smash. The man dropped the sword, skidded on his belly against the curb, contorted twice, and lay very still.
Gareth heard, numbly, shouts from the guildhall, as he helped Cosyra to her feet.
Horses’ hooves rang on the stones, and he saw riders galloping toward him.
Fox had stopped, crouched against a building; Labala was running back toward him.
“
No,” Gareth shouted. “Go on. Better they get one of us than all.”
“But — ” Cosyra managed.
“Go, dammit! Or they’ll have us all!”
Cosyra worked her lips, then ran, grabbing Labala by the sleeve.
A pistol went off, and a ball ricocheted off the stone near them, then the three were gone.
Four riders were around Gareth, three with drawn swords, the fourth, with a ready pistol, slid out of his saddle. He went to the body, knelt, and turned it over, his eyes and pistol barrel hard on Gareth’s chest.
He glanced down for a minute.
“It’s Sir Wyeth,” the man said. “He’s dead.”
He looked hard at Gareth.
“Now you’re for it, lad.”
• • •
The warders in the dank, chill Great Dungeon that sprawled just downslope from the east side of the king’s palace weren’t any more cheerful.
“Killed a man, and noble at that,” one of them said, smiling in pleasure. “And what’s your class, boy?”
Gareth shook his head, not really knowing.
“That’ll determine what happens to you,” the warder went on. “Commoner — which I suspects, seein’ how you’re dressed — for murderin’ nobility, ‘specially in the course of a crime, that’s having your guts pulled out in front of you an’ burnt, then the rope. Merchantman, that’s slow hangin’, or maybe bein’ broke on th’ wheel. If you were noble, like Sir Wyeth, it’d be no more’n th’ ax.
“But they’ll not let you die that easy,” he said with glee.
“Best you come up with some silver afore th’ day, boy, so you can pay th’ headsman to put a blade in y’r heart after he makes the first cut along y’r guts.”
The first cell he’d been thrown into had been occupied by two great bruisers. They’d decided to fight to see who’d be first to have the boy as bedmate. The noise had attracted the corridor warder, who jerked Gareth out and put him in a solitary cell. Not, he was careful to explain, that he minded the idea of Gareth being raped, but both the thugs were in for murdering a fellow of his, and he’d see they had no pleasure at all before their death day.
Gareth had stayed in that cell long enough to hear the prediction of his fate and, hating to do it, getting paper and pen and promising a guard he’d be paid for taking a message to his uncle.
When that warder came back, his manner had changed.
“Here, boy,” he said. “Your uncle said to make sure you was took care of.”
He escorted Gareth out of that section, up flights of stairs into another corridor, and to a very different cell. This had a desk, a chair, even a bed. The bedding, though threadbare, was clean, and the cell didn’t smell too badly of shit.
“Anything you want to eat,” the warder said, “just call for me. Name’s Aharah. You want anything now?”
Gareth shook his head, then asked for water, and could he wash?
A pitcher of clear water and a bucket and soap were brought, and Gareth numbly cleaned himself, thinking of what the first warder had said of his death options.
He went to the cell window, looked out. Gray day, gray stone walls, guards walking their rounds on the parapets. He was high enough to see a bit over the walls, a few streets, then the Nalta River, gray winding to the ocean he’d never sail.
After a while, Aharah brought a tureen of soup, bread, and cheese. Gareth forced himself to eat. The soup wasn’t bad, and he forced gloom away.
Perhaps he’d find a way to escape before the execution. He guessed he’d be taken out of his cell and brought before some judge or other. Maybe there’d be a chance then.
Surely! He jeered at himself. Just about as great as the possibility of growing wings and flying out of here.
Aharah came back, with a small box.
“A girl brought this,” he said. “Gimme a gold piece to take it to you.”
Gareth took the box, untied string, opened it. Inside was a silver sea eagle he recognized, and a note:
This has been ensorcelled, so if you ever are free, think of me, hold the eagle, and it will lead you to where I am.
C
“Wait,” he said as Aharah was leaving. “What of this girl? What was she dressed like?”
Aharah shrugged. “Wore a cloak, so I couldn’t tell much. Looked like maybe she was somebody’s maid or somethin’. Thin. Short hair. Haw, boy. You so popular with the little girlies you don’t know who sends you things?”
Gareth didn’t answer, but sat turning the eagle in his fingers. At last, he put its chain around his neck, tucked it well out of sight.
Strangely cheered, as if the little icon could somehow help, he lay down, and sleep came.
• • •
Two days later, his uncle came to see him.
Gareth had wondered if Pol would simply forget him as a murderous fool, or, if he did come to the prison, only rail at him for his stupidities.
Radnor did neither.
He sat down, heavily, in Gareth’s chair.
“These damned stairs take it out of a man,” he said.
Gareth sat, waiting.
“I’ve often said, as I’m sure you’ve heard me, that I consider myself lucky.
“Son, compared to you, I’m the original cursed one with a black cloud over my head.”
Gareth started in surprise.
“The first piece of luck you’ve had is Sir Wyeth, the man you … you killed, is … was … has a reputation around the city for being a rapscallion and a man without honor. I don’t know what he did to gain such repute.
“As an aside, I assume that you killed him in fair fight, although what the hells you were doing out and about at that hour is quite beyond me.
“I do not believe a Radnor, particularly my brother’s son, capable of cold-blooded murder. Nor do I wish any explanations.
“As I said, the identity of the man you killed was the first piece of luck. No one seems much to care whether his death is recompensed.
“The second is even greater. The king has heard of what happened.”
Gareth could feel the blood leave his face, braced. What kind of luck was that, to have the king aware of him?
“Lord Quindolphin has long been in disfavor with the king. I — and I never want you to repeat these words, since it bodes not well for a man to openly criticize those above him — have found him to be without integrity, especially when he decides to do business with those he considers of a lesser class, such as merchants and shippers.
“I confess to having suffered financially at Quindolphin’s hands myself. Why the king dislikes him, I don’t know, and don’t care to know. But King Alfieri heard of your little sport, and found it most amusing. It gave him, I’ve been told, the only hearty laugh he’s enjoyed this month.
“When I heard that, I ventured to speak to a friend, who has friends elsewhere. Your joke has cost me dearly, Gareth. But there will be no judgment passed on you. If Sir Wyeth’s heirs materialize and become noisome, I’ll see they’re paid for the loss of their relative.”
“That means …”
“That means you’ll not end before the King’s Justice and … other, less pleasant places.”
Gareth slumped back on the bed in disbelief.
“However, this doesn’t mean that matters can return to normal,” Pol said.
“Oh, nossir,” Gareth babbled. “You can rest assured that I’ll never again — ”
“I am hardly referring to your choice of recreation,” Pol said with asperity. “I’m saying that Lord Quindolphin has sworn revenge, and, since he knows whose kin you are, vows he’ll go to any extreme to see you punished for making the wedding of his only daughter the joke of the city.
“I hope you didn’t know she’s considered a rather plain thing, poor lass, and was known to her friends as ‘Hoggy.’ ”
Gareth grimaced.
“So there is no way that you could continue to live with me, let alone work in my factory, without having armed guards convey yo
u everywhere, and my own house would have to be somewhat garrisoned. And I assume that would be of little good, since Quindolphin has far more men under his command who’re familiar with blade and ball than I could dream of or pay.
“So Ticao and Saros are lost to you, boy, at least for a couple of years. I’ve already made arrangements for you to be taken from this prison after nightfall. We’ll move quickly, and hopefully fool the lord if he’s having this prison watched. You’ll go directly to the port, and board a certain merchant ship as purser’s assistant. Suitable clothing and gear is being purchased at this moment, and will be waiting for you aboard ship.
“You have found a most peculiar way to secure the position you were always hounding me for. But now you are for the sea.
“And the gods have mercy on you.”
Four
Gareth’s first ship was the elderly Idris, a small two-masted coaster, with two jib sails and a lateen sail on its foremast, a smaller lateen on its main mast, with a crew of twelve. The purser — Gareth’s new master, Kazala — was also second mate.
Gareth was at the railing, marveling at all, as the Idris cleared the mouth of the Nalta River. He’d had nothing to do thus far, because the Idris was already loaded, carrying sacked potatoes to Adrianople, two weeks’ sail distant to the south, away from the winter’s gray and storms.
He was proud of himself for having no trouble with the Idris’s slow roll in the river current, having noticed a couple of hands bending over the side, “praying to the sea goddess,” as one sailor put it. But they’d been noticeably debauched-looking when they put to sea.
Then the first ocean swell lifted the Idris, in a rather gentle corkscrewing motion. Interesting. Then another, and another. Gareth felt his throat knot, swallowed hastily.
The Idris hit a bit of chop, and the motion became a seesaw, and Gareth lost interest in exactly describing the ship’s motion.