by Susan Murray
“Enter.”
The door pushed open and a timid servant stepped just inside. “The Lady Alwenna’s maid is here, sire.”
“Admit her, then leave us.”
As ever, the maid entered the room with her head bowed. She moved silently, as if she wished to leave no trace of her presence in the keep. Vasic would not have chosen her as his agent, but in times such as these even royalty had to work with the tools fate handed to them. The girl halted several paces away from where he stood, hands clasped before her, eyes lowered.
“Well, what have you to report?”
“Nothing new, sire. The Lady Alwenna continues to work on a tapestry. She bathes daily. She… she would have me believe she can help me reclaim my father’s farm.”
Why did the girl hesitate then – was she holding something back? “Have you seen her using any strange amulets, talismans? Anything out of the ordinary? Anything that could be a sign of witchcraft?”
“No, I have not, sire.” The girl kept her eyes to the ground.
“And does she remain calm and even-tempered?”
“Yes, sire. Except…” The girl hesitated again.
This could be it. “Except what?”
“She is restless at night, sire. She talks in her sleep.”
“What does she say?”
“I cannot make out the words, sire.”
“You must try to do so. I want to know everything she says. Leave me now.”
The servant girl hurried from the room as if she meant to be gone before he could change his mind. As if. Once had been enough with that one.
He returned to the table and lifted the mirror once more. It told him no lies. With dismaying honesty it reflected the dark hollows beneath his bloodshot eyes, the gaunt lines over his face, and the lankness of his hair which had developed an alarming tendency to fall away with the comb. The healer had found nothing wrong, and suggested blood-letting. Or that the water at Highkell did not agree with him.
Vasic set the mirror down sharply and picked up the letter from the high seer at Lynesreach.
“It is unfortunate the Lady Alwenna’s guardians did not heed our advice when they established her as a child at Highkell. Had she been raised with us here – as we earnestly advised – Highkell might have continued to prosper. As it is she is no longer of an age to be admitted to our order and we regret that we are unable to offer her sanctuary at this time, despite the generous provisions you are prepared to make.”
No one could nurse a grudge like an old fool. And the seers clung to the remnants of their self-importance like ticks to a dog’s muzzle. Doubtless if they waited long enough every single one of their jaded predictions would eventually come true, one way or the other. Meanwhile Vasic was acutely concerned about which came to pass in his own lifetime. A lifetime which at present he feared might be somewhat attenuated, if not abruptly curtailed. If he couldn’t rid himself of the Lady Alwenna honourably, there were other ways. But they were last resorts. He’d had his fill of kinslaying. It was one thing in the aftermath of battle – a ruler was expected to make his mark in no uncertain terms. That was a lesson Tresilian might have done well to learn for himself, but his cousin had always lacked resolution – look how he’d havered over his marriage to Alwenna. And much good it had done him. And now Vasic found himself vacillating over her. He had no wish to rid himself of her at all. Quite the reverse. He should be bold and seize the moment.
She knew how these things worked. She’d never been keen to take Tresilian as husband but she’d capitulated in the end. Now she was back at Highkell it was only right she should resume her place as queen at his side. Wed her with honour and all due deference, bed her, get her breeding. What more could she ask? With her honour restored, her witchery against him would surely cease. In fact, now he’d reached his decision he felt much improved already. A wedding would be just the thing, unite the people – his aunt had always insisted there was nothing like a good wedding to make trade prosper. And he would ensure the only knives within his happy bride’s reach were blunt ones. She’d come round to the idea. Let Garrad perform the ceremony – everyone would see the match had the blessing of the precinct.
Vasic took up his pen. If this plan failed she would have to go, but really, the more he thought about it, the more fitting it seemed. Of course she wouldn’t yield to him without the blessing of wedlock – that was no more than her due as royalty. Yes, now he was on the right path.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Weaver was to meet the freemerchant in a small kopamid house in the ancient heart of the city. Many eyes followed his progress down the cobbled backstreet. He had no reason to suspect it was a trap, but it wasn’t unusual for a stranger to these parts to become lost in the maze of narrow alleys and never be seen again – never missed, never recognised. Such was Brigholm. The rich lived up on the hill while the poor teemed among these alleys, working when they could, supplying the mine companies with what they needed but earning little in return. Small wonder the city was a source of discontent in difficult times. Vasic’s armies hadn’t ventured this far, but food supplies from the south had been disrupted and bread was costly for poor folk. And bread made peace like no other foodstuff. Full bellies were content ones.
Content or not, no one interfered with Weaver’s progress through the labyrinthine streets. Heads turned when he entered the kopamid shop, but the freemerchant was already there, awaiting his arrival. A youth hovered in the doorway behind Weaver, having followed him most of the way. Perhaps an escort to vouch for his good character if the locals had taken exception to his presence. Or a guide to intervene if he took a wrong turning. Either way, the freemerchant’s eyes flicked towards the youth for a moment and there was the slightest of nods to acknowledge his errand had been discharged. If Weaver had nursed any preconceptions the nomadic freemerchant might be uneasy in the cramped confines of the city he had to revise them, for Marten appeared very much at home here.
“Greetings, Weaver. You found the place without difficulty?” He performed the traditional gesture of greeting, but it was perfunctory at best – he might as easily have been gesturing towards a seat in welcome. A freemerchant who could slip between the worlds of traveller and city dweller with consummate ease. A renegade, or a sign of changing times? Marten may be outward-looking but he had not gone so far as to break with centuries of freemerchant tradition and shake hands – such direct contact led to exchange of disease, the landless people maintained.
Weaver echoed the man’s gesture. “Greetings, Marten.” Weaver took his seat in the booth opposite the freemerchant.
Marten set about pouring spiced kopamid into the ornate globe-shaped vessels favoured in the region. Ritual required it be poured in the presence of the guests, and that the host should drink first. Not that the free people had a tradition of poisoning their guests, but like many rituals this one had its origins in practical matters. Marten set down the pot and took up his cup.
“You are familiar with our ways, then, Ranald Weaver?”
“I served here for several years.” And would have made the place his family home, had they not been destroyed by one of the foremost nobles in the region. Doubtless the freemerchant knew all about that – he was not so artless as he wished to appear.
“Then let us drink. To brisk trade.” He held the vessel beneath his nose for a moment, inhaling the aroma, then swallowed a generous mouthful of the spiced kopamid and set his cup down.
Weaver took up his own. “To brisk trade.” Trade was everything to the freemerchants. They were allowed no other income. He inhaled the aromatic spices, blended in the same way his wife had made it in the tiny room they rented below the barracks. The wave of nostalgia the smell inspired was so powerful it caught him off guard. He gulped a mouthful of the hot liquid. Hot enough to bring him back to the here and now. He replaced his cup on the table.
“Your messenger said you might be able to put me onto some work?”
“Indeed I might.” Marten smil
ed, undoubtedly intended to charm, but secretive as a snake under a blanket of leaves. “Since our first meeting I’ve made a few enquiries about you, Weaver. Our new king would pay well to see you returned to his hospitality at Highkell.”
A secretive and prudent snake. One to be given a wide berth. But Weaver was hungry, with no prospect of work in sight. He took another sip of the spiced kopamid. He should never have come back, not this far east. He should have gone north, back where he began, price on his head or no. Back where there were no broken dreams to torment him. “And did you learn much else from your enquiries?” It wasn’t too late, he could hang up his sword and learn how to plough again.
“I learned much to confirm what you told me. And more about your deeds in battle than I doubt you would ever own. Farmer’s son risen to King’s Man, no less.”
Weaver shrugged. “Common gossip may be common, doesn’t mean it’s true.”
“Ah, yes, rumour is a fickle mistress. But for our landless people rumours are a commodity – what other stock can a man carry in such quantity that will never burden his mule, yet cannot be seen by would-be thieves?”
“Will your rumours put food in my belly?”
“In time they will. I heard you were loyal and true to the dead king. Am I right in thinking you would seek to displace the usurper who’s taken his throne?”
“My loyalty’s my business. I’ll not discuss it with one who so easily fell foul of a bunch of drunkards. Secrets can be taken by anyone with a will to extract them. And then they’ll hang a man faster than any rumour. It’s true I was loyal to the old king. He’s dead now and I’m King’s Man no more.”
Marten nodded. “There’s a fine discussion to be had about the nature of truth and the nature of rumour – many a truth may prove to be, after all, a rumour substantiated. And armies have mobilised for belief in things no more substantial than rumours. But I see you are in no mood for philosophical debate. Your old cause may not be as dead as you think, if you’ve stomach to continue the fight.”
“You think I’ll fight for an ideal now? I’m ready to turn my hand to the plough. You’ve been listening to the wrong rumours.”
“Is that so, Ranald Weaver? My sources have been reliable in the past. You were unstoppable at Vorland Pass, they tell me. And they told me you lived for battle.”
“That was years ago. People change.”
“This cannot be denied. My own kinsman tells me he saw you riding away from Highkell as Vasic’s army approached from the lowlands. With a fine lady, no less. Now there’s a fascinating tale. So much room for conjecture.”
“What are you suggesting?” Weaver downed the last of the kopamid. He wanted a proper drink, one that would numb his senses and chase away the ghosts. If he didn’t need more coin to buy it, he wouldn’t be listening to this prating fool now.
The freemerchant met Weaver’s hostile gaze without embarrassment. “I suggest nothing, but people do talk. Your king is killed in the siege, yet you escape unharmed and his lady is committed to his cousin’s control? This has not escaped notice.”
“Then you accuse me of turning coat? I’ve killed men for suggesting less.”
“Of course not, but people do talk. Along with the convenient matter of your escape from Highkell, the commander of the city watch here is your friend. There are some who believe you have already thrown in your lot with the new king.” The freemerchant smiled.
“So they would have it I’m here to bring down any last traces of rebellion? Foolish beyond belief.” Weaver pushed his cup into the middle of the table. “We’ve nothing more to discuss.”
“If you would prove them wrong, there’s opportunity here for you.” For the first time Marten’s expression suggested the conversation was not going his way.
“Opportunity to get myself hanged by talking treason? If the east were going to rise they should have done it when Highkell first fell, instead of bleating about taxes. I’ll take my chance with peacetime.”
Marten spread his hands wide in a theatrical gesture. “I’ve heard this peace will be short-lived.”
“More rumours? Continue like this and you’ll be even shorter-lived.”
“Not rumours, Weaver. Reliable information. This opportunity will be to your advantage.”
Farming had never looked so good. “I see no opportunity here. Unless you mean me to watch while you talk the new king to death.” Weaver stood up.
“Would you leave the lady where she is?” It seemed the freemerchant would stoop to any means to recruit him.
“Don’t drag her into this.”
“She belongs with her own people, and they stand ready to welcome her into their hearts.”
“Then you’ll have no need of me. We’re done here.”
The freemerchant bowed. “Very well. If you change your mind, Weaver, ask for me here. They’ll know how to get word to me.”
Weaver turned on his heel, striding from the kopamid shop. He needed a drink – several drinks – to dull the ache in his head, and to drown the nagging doubt that accused him of once again failing the lady he’d sworn to protect.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
When Vasic finally spoke to Alwenna he did it with a remarkable lack of fanfare. The door to her chamber opened and in he stepped. A guard waited until the maid hurried from the room, then the guard followed her out, closing the door.
Alwenna looked up from where she sat at her tapestry frame. Her cousin’s face was even gaunter than when she’d last seen him. Had he been unwell? That would account for his absence. “Cousin. I thought you had done with me entirely.”
Vasic crossed over to the window embrasure where Alwenna sat, stopping a couple of yards away, well beyond arm’s reach. “And if I had, could you wonder at it?”
“Of course not.” She set another stitch in the canvas, stabbing the needle through the taut fabric with a “pock” sound.
“And would it please you to know I have indeed considered setting you aside entirely?”
“I think it would be a wise choice on your part. But I have no wish to see out my days as your prisoner.”
“‘Prisoner’ is a harsh word, dear cousin. I wish to keep you safe from harm.”
“Indeed? Your loyal servant Hames suggested otherwise.”
Vasic’s fingers clenched then unclenched, a nervous gesture Alwenna remembered from childhood. “He proved to be unworthy of my trust. My judgement was perhaps wanting.”
“Wanting in many ways, cousin.” Alwenna stabbed the needle through the canvas again. A strange hunger filled her once more. She recognised an echo of the reckless fire that burned in her veins the day she’d killed Hames. But only an echo. She crushed it. Right now she would hear what Vasic had to say. She needed to know what he was thinking or, better yet, what he was planning.
He watched her now with something that might have been apprehension. A strange wariness had taken place of the acquisitive way he’d been wont to look at her.
Stab, into the fabric, pull the thread through. Why did he not speak? Stab, draw another stitch through. Stab. This silence was impossible. “I know how you killed Tresilian.”
Vasic made a gesture of annoyance. “You disappoint me, Alwenna. You’ve lived here long enough to know you cannot believe idle gossip.” He paced away from the window, arms folded.
“Idle gossip? I know the very words you whispered to him.”
“That is nonsense.” He raised one restless hand to cover his mouth.
“You tortured him. I know you did. He asked you to finish it and you bent down to whisper in his ear.”
Vasic’s eyes widened as he stared at her.
“You asked if it would be a kindness. And he said you hadn’t the mettle.”
Vasic’s hand moved, then settled again over his mouth.
“Do you still care to tell me it’s idle gossip, cousin? Can you deny you told him he’d always underestimated you as you pressed your knife against his ribs? Dare you deny it? You stabbed your own cousin
– not just kingslayer, but kinslayer. Doubly damned by your own hand.”
A tremor shook the fingers he still held over his mouth. He clenched then unclenched them. “How could you possibly…”
That echo grew louder. Alwenna’s needlework was forgotten.
Vasic paced across the room to the table and turned to face her again. “I don’t know who you’ve been speaking to, but it doesn’t matter now. All that is in the past. It is with the future we must concern ourselves.”
“I have little confidence it would be a long future, cousin. The scowl on his face told her she’d overstepped the mark. She should have curbed her tongue. The echo of that raw, wild hunger faded, leaving her strangely bereft, drained of the will to do anything at all.
Vasic took a couple of steps towards her. He’d come into the room all conciliatory, but now he was back to the familiar bluster. “Let me tell you how it will be, Alwenna. You and I will be married, in proper order. I’ll have no one claim it was done in haste. The announcement will be made this very day and the wedding will take place on the next holy day. I have made my decision and it is for you to accept it.”
She’d been foolish to hope he’d had second thoughts. “Vasic, I know you’ve long sought this marriage, but do you really believe you are getting a good bargain in me?”
His eyes narrowed, as if he suspected some new trick on her part. “We will unite south, east and west for good. This will be a new age of prosperity for the Peninsular Kingdoms.”
“There is another way.” Once the idea took hold she could not shake it off. “You could still do all those things if I were to abdicate my authority to you. I could go into exile. I could leave the Peninsula and there would be no cause for unrest then. I could go to the Outer Isles – further, even.”
“Come now – do you think me such a fool? You would be rallying supporters against me before you were out of sight of the citadel.”
“I would not, I swear it. I would support your claim to the throne unequivocally.” She had to make him understand. “I have no appetite for the business of royalty. Keep me here and I’ll be a constant reminder of Tresilian. And people will seek to use me to influence you. Let me leave and the kingdom will truly be yours. It makes sense, Vasic.”