Anomer passed the message on, and before long Bregor was negotiating with city officials.
‘Fifty? Fifty!’ The Hegeoman’s voice echoed in the narrow arch of the Suggate. ‘We wish only to visit, not to buy property!’ Noetos craned his head forward, hoping Bregor would not make trouble.
‘We ask for such a sum to ensure visitors to Raceme have sufficient means to afford the food and accommodation offered here.’ Noetos didn’t need to see the official’s face; he could imagine it from the words and the tone of voice.
‘Taking fifty will ensure we no longer have the means!’
‘Then, sir, you should enquire of lodgings in the Shambles, through which you have but recently passed. I understand the epidemic of lice has all but abated, and as long as you are not frightened of roaches you should be able to get a decent night’s sleep.’
‘But fifty is seven per person!’
‘Aye, and that represents a thirty per cent discount.’
‘Tell him about the special citizen exemption,’ came a woman’s voice from the back of the small toll booth set into the Suggate arch.
‘Ah yes, the exemption. If you can induce a friend or relative who lives in the city to accommodate you, we will waive the charge—as long as he or she presents him or herself here before you enter the city.’ The official sounded as though he was enjoying himself.
‘That’s stupid,’ Bregor complained. ‘How would my relative know I was here?’
‘You could pay a fee of ten, go and find your relative, bring him or her to this window, and receive your discount then.’
Noetos had endured enough. ‘Here’s your fifty,’ he said, stepping forward and slapping the coins down on the stone sill. ‘And ten extra for your trouble. Good day.’
‘And a pleasant day to you, sir, and I hope your bagman gets better soon,’ was the cheery response.
‘Let’s find an inn,’ Noetos suggested to his men once they and their mules were within the city. ‘I don’t anticipate being here more than a day or two, but we do have to purchase supplies, so we cannot afford the best accommodation. I wonder if the Man-o’-War is still operating?’
‘Likely,’ Tumar said. ‘Was last time I was here, anyway. Couple’a year ago.’
A woman gave them directions, and within minutes they stood outside a three-storey whitewashed building with a green-tiled roof, a wooden sign in the shape of a jellyfish hanging above the orange door.
‘My father knew the man who once owned this establishment,’ Noetos said to his son. Then, to them all: ‘Let’s get settled in here. No funny business or drunken antics, lads; the militia here are very strict. You’ll get a night in the stocks and we’ll have to pay handsomely to have you released. Trust me, time in the stocks in a port city is not a pleasant experience. You don’t know you’re alive until you’re being pelted with rotten fish guts. I’ll sort out an arrangement with the innkeeper, though there shouldn’t be too much trouble: the place looks half-empty.’
The innkeeper was not the one his father had known. In fact, this innkeeper hadn’t heard of his predecessor. He gave Noetos and his companions the entire second floor, which was accessed by a series of wide but rickety steps. Four large rooms would sleep them all in relative comfort.
‘No wonder it was cheap,’ Bregor said. ‘It’s built out over the stables.’ The stench was dreadful.
‘It’s only for a night’r two,’ Seren reminded him. ‘Not half as bad as Papunas’ wind, rest his soul. Smells build up in a mine, this is nothing. No windows in mines.’ He opened the shutters, knocking a bird from its perch.
‘Ah, salt air ’n’ pigeon shit,’ Dagla said. ‘Perfect.’
The seven men gathered in the private taproom on the third floor. The public bar down below had already become rather crowded, and prices for guests were slightly cheaper in the smaller, quieter room. A lone barmaid took their orders. While they waited for their wine and ale, they took their chairs and sat in a semicircle by the window, which framed a view of Raceme Oldtown, showing cobbled streets leading down to the port and the ocean beyond.
‘Could get some rain,’ Seren said, easing off his boots.
‘Nah, that storm’s been out there fer ages,’ Gawl said. ‘A small one.’
‘We don’t usually get to see storms unless they’re right overhead, o’course,’ Dagla added.
Noetos looked closer at the masses of clouds billowing into the grey sky, then at the grey rain-curtains the clouds wore like skirts. Faint lightning flickered in the gathering gloom.
‘The storm appears small because it is so far away,’ he said. ‘It is enormous, and it is coming this way. We will have wind and rain aplenty tonight.’
Their drinks arrived, and for a time they dispensed with talk. Later, they spoke quietly of what direction they might take in their journey north, and whether it was better to go by land or sea. After some time the men took their meal in the taproom. Stew and turnips, the quantity and quality both impressive.
‘Here!’ Dagla cried, calling them over to the window. ‘In’t that Omiy?’
‘Looks like him,’ Seren muttered. ‘Turn around, you loose-head.’
Gawl puckered his lips as if to whistle.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ Bregor said, raising his hand. ‘If it is him, he’ll be looking for us. Let him go.’
‘’Tis him all right,’ Dagla said.
‘Then keep back from the window until he’s gone,’ said Noetos.
‘Look at the storm now,’ Anomer breathed.
All eyes left the street and traced the ragged clouds up, up and further up. Much closer now, the true size of the storm was apparent. The westering sun painted the foremost clouds a pale yellow-tinged white, while those that followed took on various shades of darkness. At that moment a flickering tongue flashed across the sky; the ensuing thunderous boom took ten heartbeats to rattle the inn’s shutters.
The barmaid came over to the window. ‘Storm’s coming,’ she announced unnecessarily. ‘My job to shut the windows.’
‘It won’t be here for a while yet,’ Noetos said reasonably. ‘We’ll close the shutters when we’ve finished—what are those?’
The fitful sun flicked a few stray rays across the sea at the base of the storm, illuminating a series of white sails scattered across the water, all filled with the wind bringing the following tempest.
‘Fishing boats coming back to harbour,’ Anomer commented. ‘I hope they make it.’
‘No,’ Noetos said. ‘Not fishing boats. Oh, Alkuon, it’s the Neherian fleet.’
As the words left his mouth a bell began to toll, insistent, frantic. It was joined by another, and another.
People appeared at doors and windows; within minutes the same people left their homes, clutching whatever valuables they owned, and hurried up the streets towards Suggate and the hills. Others ran down the streets towards the port: eager sightseers, or determined men with weapons in their hands.
The fisherman pulled the shutters closed with a bang, then turned his stony face on the others.
‘Come on, boys,’ he said, ‘gather your swords. We’re needed down at the docks.’
Gawl smirked at Dagla’s pale face. ‘C’mon, lad, another chance for the Fisherman’s army to make a name for itself.’
‘I feel sick,’ the boy complained.
Bregor groaned. ‘You’ll have no need of a seal this time. Perhaps I should stay behind.’
‘But Raceme needs clear heads and intelligent minds,’ Noetos said. ‘Come on. If the Neherians take Raceme, there’ll be no safe place for the heroes of Makyra Bay.’
Chaos ruled Raceme Harbour. A groyne of stone protected the inner waters from the worst of the waves; it was lined with people who, Noetos considered, had no business being there. The militia wasted no time with them, instead forming up along the top of the crenellated wall a hundred paces behind the docks. Noetos offered himself and his men to the young commander, who accepted with profuse thanks.
‘My
superior has gone to Tochar to be with his ailing father,’ the commander groaned. ‘I could do with his advice.’
‘We faced the Neherians at Makyra Bay and drove them off with the help of the villagers,’ Noetos told him. ‘Had I thought they’d try their luck further north I would have alerted the city authorities as soon as we arrived. I’m only sorry I didn’t.’
‘You any good with that thing?’ the commander asked Noetos, indicating his blade.
‘Good enough, and so are my men.’
‘Very well. I’m sending a contingent of volunteers down to the docks. I’ll make no secret of the fact that you’ll likely end up as fodder for the Neherians unless you’re more skilled than you look, old man. Up to you, but you can go with them if you wish. Now, I have men to deploy. Here’s Captain Cohamma—do as he tells you. You’re conscripted, the lot of you.’ He walked a couple of paces away, then turned back to them. ‘Oh, yes. Pay is five each per day. Make sure you’re around to collect it.’
Captain Cohamma turned out to be a capable, no-nonsense man in his fifties without a single tooth in his head. This made his instructions hard to follow.
‘Gerron wiffit! Downa docks ’n’ be reddy for me orders!’
Along with Noetos’s army and the contingent of fifty militia, another twenty or so volunteers—many, by their expressions, regretting their impulsive bravado—lined up at the main dock.
The first of the Neherian boats came into view. As a lead craft it was surprisingly small, a dory with a single sail, reminiscent of Noetos’s own boat. Behind it came the multiple-masted ships they had seen off Kymos and Makyra Bay, sails billowing like clouds, gaining on the lead boat.
Unless the small dory was not part of the Neherian fleet. A fisherman taken unawares by the storm, now fleeing the enemy fleet, trying desperately to make it to harbour…
‘Father,’ Anomer said, his face drained of all colour. ‘Father, look. That is your old boat.’
What?
The white dory breasted the swell in the manner he knew so well. Whitewash blackened by the scars wrought by fire. Single square-set sail cracking in the wind. Two figures wringing every last bit of speed from her, one young and broad-shouldered, one old and with a gut, both naked above the waist, their shouts audible as they passed the groyne to the cheers of the spectators there. And a third figure low in the stern, one hand on the tiller, the other hand bailing bilge water.
The first of the Neherian ships, a triple-masted carrack, bore down on the dory as though it were standing still.
‘They won’t be able to fit past the groyne!’ one of the militiamen shouted.
But it seemed the Neherian captain had scant regard for his own vessel, driving it between the groyne and the city wall. A dozen spears were flung from the deck; a number of the spectators fell.
The younger of the two men sailing the dory—Mustar, Noetos could now see—shouted to the older, Sautea, who yelled something in response. They drew near the dock, a few hundred paces in front of the slowing carrack. Perhaps the Neherian captain had some sense after all. Behind the huge flagship, other Neherian vessels came into view. Someone threw a rope down to Mustar, whose muscles rippled as he drew it tight and secured it. Sautea clapped the boy on the shoulder, then extended a hand to the third figure.
The figure stood up, a woman. A woman who had guided Noetos’s burned boat into Raceme Harbour on the wings of a storm, the wrath of Neherius behind her. Eyes glistening, she stared up at the spectators, obviously searching for someone, and Noetos’s heart stilled as he recognised her.
Arathé!
About the Author
Russell Kirkpatrick’s love of literature and a chance encounter with fantasy novels as a teenager opened up a vast number of possibilities to him. The idea that he could marry storytelling and mapmaking (his other passion) into one project grabbed him and wouldn’t let go.
Russell lectures in geography and manages a small mapmaking business. He lives in NZ with his wife and two children.
Visit Russell’s website at: www.russellkirkpatrick.com
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Books by Russell Kirkpatrick
Fire of Heaven
Across the Face of the World (1)
In the Earth Abides the Flame (2)
The Right Hand of God (3)
Husk
Path of Revenge (I)
Copyright
Voyager
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
First published in Australia in 2007
This edition published in 2010
by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited
ABN 36 009 913 517
www.harpercollins.com.au
Copyright © Russell Kirkpatrick 2007
The right of Russell Kirkpatrick to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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Kirkpatrick, Russell.
Path of revenge.
ISBN 13: 978 0 7322 8391 9. (pbk.)
ISBN 978 0 7304 4412 1 (ePub)
I.Title. (Series : Kirkpatrick, Russell. Husk ; bk.1).
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Table of Contents
Cover Page
Dedication
Maps
Prologue
Fisherman
Chapter 1 The Recruiters
Chapter 2 Burning His Boats
Cosmographer
Chapter 3 Garden of Angels
Chapter 4 Questions and Answers
Chapter 5 Expedition
Queen
Chapter 6 Death of A King
Chapter 7 The Maremma
Chapter 8 Loss of A Queen
Interlude
Fisherman
Chapter 9 The Neherian Fleet
Chapter 10 The Alchemist
Chapter 11 Makyra Bay
Cosmographer
Chapter 12 Emperor of The Desert
Chapter 13 The Place of the Giant
Chapter 14 House of the Gods
Chapter 15 Valley of the Damned
Interlude
Queen
Chapter 16 The Cage
Chapter 17 The Limits of Imm
ortality
Chapter 18 Decisions
Chapter 19 The Vale of Youth
Cosmographer
Chapter 20 The Desert Children
Chapter 21 Nomansland
Fisherman
Chapter 22 Saros Rake
Chapter 23 Raceme Harbour
About the Author
Books by Russell Kirkpatrick
Copyright
About the Publisher
Path of Revenge Page 56