0857664360

by Susan Murray

  “You would choose poverty over staying here at my side in your rightful place?”

  Was he considering it? A little flattery couldn’t hurt. “You would be too generous to leave me in poverty, cousin.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “You will remain here, as my queen. I am decided. And all will be as it should be. You will have no cause to reproach me.”

  He turned and left the room.

  Alwenna stabbed her needle into the canvas. She’d dared hope for a moment. She’d never be able to trust Vasic. She never had, even before he’d killed Tresilian. And how long before she went the same way? She wouldn’t wait to find out. Vasic would get little joy of this marriage.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Weaver hunched before the campfire and pressed his hands to his temples, nursing another sore head. This would be his last hangover. Not because he’d sworn off drink, but because he had nothing left to buy drink with. Not even an old friend on the city watch had been able to use his influence to secure work for him. Times were hard in Brigholm. Times were hard everywhere.

  Curtis was busying himself adding more wood to the campfire, every so often glancing towards Weaver.

  Weaver recognised the expression of old: a man with something to say, but aware this wasn’t the right moment. There never would be a right moment. “Well, spit it out, man.”

  Curtis turned his eyes away briefly. It was clear he didn’t want the conflict. But Blaine had gone in search of something to put in the cooking pot and Drew was away in town, working, supposedly. There wouldn’t be a better opportunity.

  “You’ve got something to say, say it before the others get back.”

  Curtis shuffled his feet and dropped the bundle of wood by the fire. “We go a long way back. A long way. And it’s not for me to question your choices, but… We need to decide what to do next. There’s nothing to keep us here – there’s no work going. Not the sort we’re fit for, anyway.”

  “And you think I should drink myself into oblivion somewhere more congenial?”

  “Eh? No, I never–”

  “I get it. You think it, but you were never about to say it.” Weaver picked up a small pebble from the ground, turning it between his fingers. He should never have come back to Brigholm at all. It brought the past too sharply into relief. His wife and child’s deaths, Stian, and, because of him, the Lady Alwenna. All of it was pressing in on him, demanding his attention when all he wanted was to forget the whole sorry lot.

  Curtis cleared his throat. “What I was going to say is there’s no point sticking around here. We’ve already gleaned that much firewood we’re like to outstay our welcome. I’m for pushing further east. The more distance we put between us and Highkell the better, I’d say. Now we’ve got prices on our heads an’ all.”

  Nobody made you break me out of prison, Weaver thought. And nobody even asked you to. “How much further east? The mining towns? There’s not much else, but they won’t be hiring fighters. And after that there are just mountains.” He hadn’t mentioned the freemerchant’s promise of work. Now would be the time if he was going to. But he didn’t trust Marten. In the past it hadn’t stopped him taking money for a day’s work, but… something didn’t smell right. He realised Curtis was speaking.

  “Y’know, the big port? What’s it called – Ellisquay?” Curtis straightened up, with a hint of his old enthusiasm. “There’s labouring work to be had on the dock, or ships – and merchants hire protection for cargoes, overland as well as by sea. What better way to drop out of sight?”

  Weaver considered. Curtis had a point. Attached to a trade caravan, cash-in-hand, staying nowhere too long – the idea had merit. They would disappear from Vasic’s view, for certain. The image of the farm on the northern coast faded and died. The road he’d travelled had led him too far away from it after all. He couldn’t hope to get much further from Highkell without getting on a boat. Trouble was he didn’t really want to get away from Highkell. Not while Alwenna remained captive there. Common sense told him the longer he hung around there in Brigholm the less likely he ever was to move on. He should find himself an accessible woman and cure his fixation with the one he couldn’t have.

  He was distracted by the sound of someone whistling as they drew near to the campsite. Drew, sounding remarkably pleased with himself, came into sight between the trees. He carried a small bundle slung over one shoulder.

  “Fancy some newly baked bread? And eggs? Fresh from the market this morning.” He grinned. His hair flopped over his face, growing rapidly out of the severe novice’s crop.

  “From the market?” Curtis didn’t need a second invitation, reaching up to unwrap the bundle.

  “I came by some money,” Drew said, still grinning. “Honestly,” he added when he saw the doubtful look on Weaver’s face.

  “And there I was thinking you’d taken to robbing old ladies.”

  “I told you I’d found work. I’ve been running errands for a trader uptown. He says I can stay on.”

  The lad looked remarkably pleased with himself, still. Now he was up close Weaver could see heavy shadows beneath his eyes. Seemed he was working night shifts. He’d found himself rather more than a job, if Weaver knew anything about anything.

  “Steady work?” Weaver asked.

  Curtis had already set about cooking the eggs in the one pitted pan they’d gleaned in town.

  “Oh, yes, steady. I’ve the chance of a room above the shop.” Drew radiated happiness.

  Weaver tilted his head sideways. “It’s that way, is it? I’m glad for you.” He hesitated. “We’re talking about moving on. There’s no work in sight for us here.”

  Drew’s face fell slightly. “You’ve had no luck? That’s a shame. I…” He rubbed one hand awkwardly on his leg, looking troubled. “I think I need to stay here. It’s a good opportunity for me… If you don’t mind?”

  “Mind? It’s your life, lad. Better we split up – we’ll be less easily recognised if Vasic’s men come searching for us.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. Do you think they will?” Drew looked anxious.

  Weaver shook his head. “I doubt it. Not now. He’ll have more urgent matters to bother him. We’d already served our purpose.”

  For a moment the youth looked downcast. “I don’t want to seem ungrateful – I owe you so much, but I’m no fighter. And that’s the work you’re looking for, isn’t it?”

  “Aye. You’ll be better off here. It’s far enough from Highkell for you to rest easy, I’d say. And a big enough city for you not to stand out. But you don’t owe me anything – you cleaned out one of Vasic’s guards, remember?”

  “That reminds me – something I heard in town last night.” Drew hesitated. “It’s news you might find unwelcome, but… it’s public knowledge, so you’ll hear soon enough.”

  Weaver could guess what it was. He nodded. “Tell me, then.”

  “It’s the Lady Alwenna. She’s to marry Vasic on the next holy day. There are town criers proclaiming it throughout the Peninsula.”

  Weaver shrugged. “It was bound to happen.”

  “There was a lot of talk about an age of peace and prosperity for the people. I guessed you wouldn’t like it, but… I thought you’d want to know. I hope I haven’t done wrong?”

  “No, lad.” He’d done it out of consideration, after all. Not from malice. And yes, it was better to learn here, away from the public eye. Here where none would press an advantage because of it. Weaver gave himself a mental shake. “How did the crowd react?”

  “They didn’t cheer.” Drew considered. “Some muttered a bit, but I couldn’t hear much of it. They seemed to think they’d be better treated once she was installed as true queen – that’s his intention – queen rather than his consort. If Vasic dies without issue the crown will be hers.”

  “Is that so? Generous. I’ll hazard he sleeps with guards by his bed from now on.” Weaver grinned despite himself. “That was ever Tresilian’s mistake: his advisors insiste
d she shouldn’t be given equal status, even though her claim cemented his. He’d have had less trouble from The Marches if he had.” Perhaps Vasic was not as foolish as he looked. He’d laced Tresilian’s court with his own adherents readily enough, after all. And perhaps he’d treat the Lady Alwenna well enough. He could offer her all the comforts she was accustomed to. Maybe it would be a good thing for the kingdom. Maybe.

  Of one thing he could never convince himself: that the Lady Alwenna would welcome the match. Whatever she claimed about duty there’d been times when she’d smiled for Tresilian and he’d felt he was intruding. She’d never smile on Weaver that way. Not now. The match could bring the people the political stability they sought and he ought to welcome it on those grounds. But he never would. His faint hope that he might somehow wrest her untouched from Highkell withered and died.

  Blaine returned at that moment with a brace of rabbits which they hung ready for supper. And they set about their unexpected breakfast of fried eggs, slightly smoked-tasting from the green firewood they’d had to use. Weaver’s hands shook as he juggled the food into his mouth – another situation that wouldn’t improve any time soon.

  They were lazing about the fire enjoying the luxury of full bellies when Drew sat up, startled.

  “That’s horses! Could it be Vasic’s men after all?”

  Weaver listened. “It’s just one horse, and too slow. Make yourself scarce, lad. You’ve not been seen with us for a few days now, better keep it that way.”

  Drew grabbed his meagre bundle of clothes and ducked away beneath a low branch, pausing. “If you need to find me, the shop’s on Soulard’s Gate. The door’s green–”

  “That’s plenty, lad. The less I know, the less anyone can find out from me. Goddess be with you.”

  Curtis muttered a farewell as he got to his feet. Blaine grunted something non-committal.

  Drew nodded tightly and ducked away beneath the branch, vanishing into the cover of the trees. Weaver stood up, stretching knotted muscles as he buckled on his sword belt. He fumbled the strap into the buckle with unsteady hands. What he wouldn’t give for a drink right now.

  Curtis watched him. “Are we expecting trouble?”

  “Could be he led someone straight to us,” Blaine grunted.

  “No, he’s sound.” Weaver rolled his shoulders. “Trouble wouldn’t move that slowly.”

  The three of them spread across the small clearing, between whoever approached and their horses, which were tethered at the other side of the camp. All three held their hands over the pommels of their swords.

  A large bay horse pushed into sight between the trees. Weaver recognised the tall figure astride it straight away. Curtis and Blaine glanced towards Weaver in question. He shook his head and moved his hand from the sword pommel.

  The freemerchant halted his horse several paces away in the centre of the clearing and smiled. “My greetings, gentlemen. May the Hunter watch over your fires.”

  “And so may you be blessed, traveller.”

  Marten inclined his head in greeting and Weaver did likewise. Damn the man, what was he up to? The smile playing about his mouth was too smug by far.

  “I bring you news, King’s Man. May I dismount by your fire?”

  “I’m King’s Man no more, as I’ve already told you.” But he quelled his instinctive reaction to tell him to ride on and take his damned news elsewhere. Rarely had he taken such a dislike to a man. He’d had many dealings with the freemerchants over the years. His own wife’s freemerchant relations had all danced at their wedding, for Goddess’s sake. But he kept his feelings in check. “You may dismount if you’re still of a mind to.”

  The freemerchant smiled, and swung down from the saddle, fastening his reins back behind the stirrup leathers. He approached the fire, spreading his empty hands wide. “I come to you unarmed. You may trust me, Weaver, although I doubt you will.”

  “Then finally we agree on something. What makes you think I want to hear more of your news?”

  Curtis set about boiling water.

  The freemerchant crouched down by the fire, warming his hands. “Mornings can be cold this close to the mountains.”

  “Aye, they can. But I’d sooner you answered my question.”

  The freemerchant glanced pointedly towards Curtis and Blaine.

  “You can talk freely in front of them.”

  “Very well.” The freemerchant appeared unconcerned by Weaver’s hostility, maintaining his easy smile. “They may find this news of interest, too. Put in simplest terms, Weaver, the king you swore allegiance to is not dead.” He paused for effect, looking round his small audience. “Tresilian lives.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  The freemerchant showed every appearance of believing his outrageous claim.

  Weaver shook his head. “I’ve heard some tall tales in my time, but that must be the tallest.”

  “Sometimes the truth is the hardest thing to accept.” The freemerchant studied him. “You are disinclined to believe me?”

  “Vasic himself bragged to me of stabbing him.”

  “And Vasic, is, of course, renowned for his honesty and forthrightness.” He spread his hands over the fire.

  The kettle tilted where Curtis had set it in the embers. He reached over and adjusted it. “I carried his body out. He was dead.”

  “Ah, yes. And you pocketed a handy sum for putting his body in a freemerchant’s wagon, despite the orders to throw him in the pit with the rest.” The man smiled.

  Curtis coughed and spat into the flames. “Could be.”

  “The same freemerchant who slipped you a spare set of keys while Weaver was held prisoner? And who waited for you by the gates?” Marten clasped his fingers together, watching the three comrades with a benign expression.

  Curtis nodded slowly. “Aye, the same.”

  Weaver shifted irritably. “This proves little, freemerchant. Only that you have reliable sources of information. And are meddling in affairs that are not your own.”

  Marten shrugged. “Perhaps. As I’ve said before, rumours are our stock in trade. And we pass on only what is accurate – our livelihood depends upon it. Tresilian lives. And he will be in need of loyal men in his army. Loyal men such as you three. Let me take you to him and then you will see for yourselves.”

  Weaver rubbed the back of his neck. “And how are we to know you wouldn’t lead us into a trap?”

  “If you will not trust me, trust what you know of your king. Hasn’t he always treated the freemerchants with respect? He had a great deal of time for us, did he not?”

  “The same could be said of any of his subjects.”

  “Your caution does you credit, Weaver. He would not have gullible fools in his new army, but I have nothing to lose by revealing my hand now. Tresilian would have me convince you to rejoin his cause. After all, you never left his service, did you?” The freemerchant studied Weaver’s face.

  It was said they, too, had the sight. Weaver turned his attention to the fire. Swearing allegiance to his former master’s widow had been a continuation of his duty to his king. Nothing had changed. Nothing outward, anyway. He met the freemerchant’s gaze again.

  “Many saw him dead. I won’t follow you on a fool’s errand without proof.”

  The freemerchant sighed. “Of course. You may have tried to lose yourself in the ale barrel, but you haven’t pissed away your common sense with the rest of it.”

  Weaver jumped to his feet. “Away and play your cat-and-mouse games elsewhere. You’re under guest rights here at our fire, but next time we meet don’t expect me to show you courtesy.”

  The freemerchant got leisurely to his feet, uncoiling long limbs with practised ease. “This is no game. This is about life, and death, and the places between. You and I serve the same king, Weaver, and we always have. The night you took the Lady Alwenna from Highkell, I was there. Who do you think Tresilian sent to cover your backs? Why do you think the men following you didn’t run you down at the wate
rgate? They went the same way Stanton did. And it was my blade that sent them on their way.”

  Weaver prowled around the fire, glaring at the freemerchant. Could he have learned this from anyone else? Or was it nothing more than a series of lucky guesses about events that night? “What blade would that be? Your people boast of never carrying them.”

  The freemerchant smiled again, mirthless this time. “Indeed. But I would be an imprudent man not to carry some means of defending myself, would I not?” With a theatrical gesture he shrugged, and spread his hands wide. This time his hands were not empty, but in each a throwing blade lay across the palm, held loosely in place by his thumbs. His attitude remained unthreatening.

  “A nice trick.” Weaver shrugged. “You are more the courtier than I guessed.”

  “But I have yet to convince you?” The freemerchant tucked the blades away inside his sleeves.

  Weaver nodded. “Your sources may be every bit as accurate as you brag, but you have yet to convince me.”

  “Very well. The night Tresilian ordered you to take the Lady Alwenna away? I was listening from the garderobe the whole time. You had thrown your cloak over the settle. When she entered the room her eyes fell upon it first, in disgust. She protested she had to take the servant Wynne with her on the journey. She and Tresilian whispered, so you could not hear. But I could. She asked if he’d told you everything, and he replied–”

  “Enough!” All eyes were upon Weaver now.

  “Tresilian handed her a bundle of homespun clothing. Drab, brown stuff, more suited to a merchant’s wife than a monarch. But she wore it when–”

  “I said enough.”

  “I too had the king’s trust.” The freemerchant smiled again. “My admiration of the lady was open, so he sent her with you, the man who hadn’t looked at another woman since his wife died.”