Doutro shot an angry glance at the captain, who flushed red. ‘Yes, sir. I did. But they already knew him. That was clear.’
‘Of course we did,’ Thorn went on. ‘He was travelling on our ship. We admitted that. But he left the ship and we were found to have no involvement in his death.’
Doutro glanced down at some papers on the table in front of him. He shuffled them, bringing one sheet to the top and pretending to study it. In fact, it was a report on the need for repairing one of the boom cables, but there was no way the prisoners could know that.
‘So you say,’ he said smoothly. ‘But apparently, fresh evidence has come to light. Quite damning evidence, in fact. I’m going to have to hold you here for trial.’
‘What might that fresh evidence be?’ Hal spoke up and Doutro looked at him with some surprise. He hadn’t expected any of the youths to speak. This one seemed confident, he thought, and there was an air of authority about him.
‘You’ll find out at your trial,’ he said. He saw the look of cynicism on the young man’s face.
‘Sounds to me as if this fresh evidence came in the form of a bribe from Zavac,’ Hal replied. He was watching Doutro’s eyes closely, but the Gatmeister showed no sign of recognition at the mention of Zavac’s name. Neither, however, did he show any sense of surprise or curiosity. And that was just as telling, Hal thought.
‘Are you suggesting that justice can be bought and sold here in Bayrath?’ Doutro asked.
This time, the older man answered. ‘Assuming that it can be,’ he said, ‘we’d certainly like to have a chance to buy some. We’ll offer you double the amount Zavac gave you.’
For a moment, Doutro was tempted.
‘And how do you know how much that was?’ he asked.
The younger man answered quickly. ‘So he did pay you to arrest us?’
Doutro allowed a momentary flash of anger to show on his face. He hadn’t meant to fall into that trap. He’d underestimated these unkempt northmen, thinking of them as little more than savages, with no idea of subtlety. He pointed an angry finger at Hal.
‘You speak when you’re spoken to!’ he ordered.
Hal allowed a small smile to play on his lips.
‘What about our offer?’ Thorn continued. ‘We’ll pay for our freedom.’
But Doutro had come to a decision. These Skandians were cleverer than he had thought and it would be best to be rid of them. They might pay him a large bribe now, but it would be a once-only payment. While Zavac was by no means a friend of his, he was a regular visitor and a source of continuing income.
‘You’ll pay for your crime,’ he told them coldly. ‘Your trial will be set for the first day of next week.’
He was about to dismiss them but the captain of the guard raised a tentative hand and Doutro glared at him. The encounter with the Skandians had put him in a bad mood.
‘What is it?’ he snapped.
‘There was the girl, sir. What should we do about her?’ He had mentioned Lydia’s presence when he first reported to Doutro.
Doutro drummed his fingers on the table’s surface. He had forgotten about the girl. He made a peremptory gesture.
‘Bring her in. Let’s see what she has to say.’
The captain moved to the door, opened it and beckoned Lydia into the room. She approached the table hesitantly, casting fearful glances at Thorn and the crew as she came.
‘What’s your name, girl?’ Doutro demanded. She replied in a small, nervous voice.
‘Lydia Demarek, your honour. I have nothing to do with these men. I paid for passage down the river with them, that was all.’
‘If you want my opinion,’ Thorn said scornfully, ‘she’s a sneak thief and a cutpurse. She couldn’t get out of Krall fast enough. Offered to pay us double, in fact.’
‘You charged me double!’ Lydia replied angrily. ‘You knew I’d have to pay!’ Then she stopped as if she’d given too much away. Interesting, thought Doutro. It was clear that she was no friend of the Skandians. But she obviously had a few skeletons in her closet. That could prove useful.
‘You saw the murdered man, Rikard, on board their ship?’ he asked.
She tore her eyes away from Thorn, becoming meek and submissive once more.
‘Yes, sir. This one . . .’ She pointed to Thorn, unable to hide the spitefulness in her eyes. ‘Argued with him constantly. I heard him threaten to –’
‘That’s a lie!’ It was Jesper who interrupted her, his face hot with anger. Ingvar, standing beside him, jabbed an elbow into his ribs, shutting him up. Doutro nodded encouragingly at the girl, who had turned towards Jesper, fear in her eyes.
‘And you’d be willing to testify to that in court?’ Doutro asked in a silky voice. He always liked to go through the motions, to make it seem as if justice had been done. Show trials like this one could be used to encourage others to pay their way out of trouble.
The girl nodded several times. ‘Yes, your honour. I’ll say anything you want me to,’ she said in a low voice.
Thorn snorted in disgust. ‘And that’s the measure of your justice, is it?’
Doutro looked angrily at him. ‘Keep your mouth shut,’ he ordered. He looked at the girl again. She was young and might well be quite attractive if she were properly groomed. Best of all, she was meek and submissive. He could use her as a serving girl in his house, or sell her on to someone else as a slave, he thought.
He jerked a thumb towards the door. ‘Take them away,’ he ordered.
‘The girl too?’ the captain asked uncertainly. ‘Should I put her in with them?’
‘Of course not, you fool!’ Doutro told him. He wondered why he had to be surrounded by idiots. ‘If you put her in with them, they’ll probably kill her!’ He paused, thinking. ‘Take her to my house and put her in a room there. With a guard.’
The captain and three of his men started to herd the Heron’s crew out of the room. Thorn stopped at the door and turned back to Doutro.
‘I can’t help wondering . . . You said there was fresh evidence about the murder in Krall,’ he said. ‘But since we left immediately after we were cleared, and no other ship passed us on the way upriver, I’m wondering how that evidence got here before we did?’
Doutro locked gazes with him for several seconds. Then the Gatmeister dropped his eyes to the papers on his desk.
‘Get them out of here,’ he ordered.
The Herons were conducted to a large cellar beneath the building where the Gatmeister’s office was situated. It was set below ground level. A low, barred window was set into one wall, about two metres from the cellar floor, allowing light and air in from above. Stig chinned himself up to look out the window and found that it was set at ground level outside, looking into a dim alley. The floors and walls were hard stone and there were shackles set in the walls at intervals. None of these were in use at the moment. By the walls, dirty straw lay in piles, presumably for their bedding. In some places, water oozed through the stone walls and dripped to the floor below. The air was damp and stale. The cellar door was an iron grille, with heavy bars running vertically and horizontally. It looked out onto a dimly lit corridor, where a single torch burned.
‘Welcome to our new home,’ Hal said as the door clanged shut behind them. The captain signalled to the turnkey to lock them in. They heard the heavy lock squeal as the key rattled in it. Then the guards and the turnkey walked away, their boots echoing on the stone floor.
‘If I’d known company was coming, I would have tidied up,’ said a voice from the far corner.
They all turned in surprise. Somehow, they had expected to be the only occupants of the cellar. The speaker rose and emerged from the shadows. He was a slim man, about thirty years old. His clothing was obviously expensive, although it was overlaid with grime and damp from the cellar. He was a nondescript-looking fellow, with dark hair and a thin moustache that had been waxed at one point, but now was sagging and losing its trim shape.
‘I’m Pedr,’ he sai
d and they mumbled their introductions. When they had finished, he continued. ‘And what are you lot in for?’
‘We’re accused of murder,’ Hal told him. Pedr stepped back, his hands raised in a theatrical gesture of shock. ‘We didn’t do it,’ Hal added.
Pedr raised an eyebrow. ‘Nobody ever does. Everyone’s always innocent. Except me.’
‘What’s your crime?’ Ingvar asked him.
Pedr eyed him for a second. ‘My, but you’re a big one, aren’t you? My crime is cheating at dice. And it does me no good to deny it, nor proclaim my innocence.’
‘Why’s that?’ Stig asked and Pedr favoured him with a smile.
‘Because my victim was none other than Doutro himself,’ he said, sighing deeply. ‘So here I will languish until my wife rakes up the cash to pay my fine. Or, rather, my bribe.’
‘Well, we don’t have that luxury,’ Hal told him. ‘Our trial is set for first day next week. And I’m guessing we’ve already been found guilty.’
‘So we’re just going to have to find a way to get out of here,’ Thorn said. ‘I’m hoping Lydia can come up with something.’
‘Lydia?’ Jesper said angrily. ‘Why would we depend on her? You heard how she turned on us. She’s nothing but a traitor, out to save her own skin.’
He realised they were all staring at him. He looked around their reproving faces.
‘What?’ he asked belligerently. It was Ingvar who answered.
‘You just don’t get it, do you? She’s on the outside. She’s not locked up in here with us. She made sure of that.’
Realisation dawned slowly on Jesper’s face. Then he flushed with embarrassment, as he realised all his shipmates had understood what Lydia was doing when she claimed not to be one of them.
‘Oh . . .’ he said. ‘I suppose you’re right.’
Hal searched around for a dry spot on the stone floor by the wall and kicked some of the straw into a pile. He sat down, arms wrapped round his knees, his face thoughtful.
‘Even if she does get us out of here,’ he said, ‘we’ve still got a huge problem. How do we get the ship past that boom? I checked the map when we left Krall and there’s no other way south.’
‘That’s not exactly true,’ Pedr said. ‘There’s always Wildwater Rift.’
Doutro’s residence was several streets away from his offices. It was an impressive, three-storey structure, built on a small rise with a view of the river. It was freshly painted and well kept, as were the houses around it.
‘Rich Man’s Hill,’ Lydia muttered to herself as the captain led her along the wide, cobble-paved street. It was definitely an upper-class area, unlike the mean, cramped, narrow streets they had been led through when they made their way to Doutro’s office.
To circumvent any possibility of her escaping, the captain had bound her hands in front of her, and attached a two-metre leather thong to the bindings. He kept a firm grip on the tether as they made their way to the gleaming white house. The doors and window frames, she noted, were painted a fresh, cornflower blue. It was an attractive colour scheme.
There was a short flight of wide stairs leading up to the front door of the house, but the captain bypassed these and led her to a more discreet, and less ornate, side entrance. He knocked loudly and, after a short wait, the door was opened by a huge bald man, dressed in a grey woollen robe that came down to his feet. He studied the captain, then Lydia, with mounting distaste.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Doutro sent us,’ the captain said brusquely. Obviously, there was little love lost between the two men. ‘This girl is to be put in a room – and guarded. Get the household women to clean her up and put some fresh clothes on her.’ He saw the angry frown beginning on the bald man’s face and added firmly, ‘They’re the Gatmeister’s orders.’
The bald man hesitated, then nodded reluctant agreement. He might resent being ordered around by the captain, but he couldn’t risk disobeying an instruction from the Gatmeister.
‘Give her here,’ he said, holding his hand out for the leather rope the captain was using to lead her. But the captain didn’t hand it over. Instead, he untied the bindings around Lydia’s wrist and rolled them up, along with the leash, placing them inside his jerkin. He pushed Lydia towards the bald man, who grabbed her upper arm in an iron grip. He jerked her forward, into the house, and slammed the door without another word to the captain.
Lydia looked around. She was in the kitchen – a large, low-ceilinged room. It was dominated by a huge fireplace and cooking area at one end, and a long timber workbench that ran down the middle of the room. Pots and ladles, well used and scrupulously cleaned, hung in gleaming rows from hooks over the bench. There were three women, wearing aprons and cooks’ hats, working at the far end of the room. They all stopped what they were doing to look at the newcomer. The bald man turned to them. He was still smarting over the captain’s peremptory manner.
‘Get back to your work!’ he snarled at them. ‘This has nothing to do with you, so stop gawping and start working.’
‘You don’t give orders here, Milo!’ the oldest woman snapped back immediately. ‘This is my kitchen!’
The bald man took a pace towards her, his body language threatening. ‘Keep a civil tongue in your head, Dana! I’m the senior servant in this household and if I complain to the master about you, I can have you whipped!’
While this exchange was going on, Milo had lost interest in Lydia. She noticed a small paring knife in a rack on the work bench, a few metres away. She stepped towards it, scooped it up and hid it in her sleeve.
Dana laughed scornfully. ‘Master won’t have me whipped, baldpate! He’s too fond of his apple strudel for that and I’m the only one who can make the pastry light and flaky the way he likes it.’
Milo scowled at her. He knew she was speaking the truth. Angrily, he turned his back on her and grabbed Lydia by the upper arm once more, dragging her across the kitchen and into a large hallway. Judging by the utilitarian nature of the furnishings and lack of decoration, they were still in the service area of the house. A narrow stairway led upwards at one end of the hall. Milo paused, still holding her arm in that painful grip, and bellowed.
‘Erlic! Where are you? Get yourself out here!’
‘Coming, Milo!’ a high-pitched voice replied. Then a side door banged open and a young man of about twenty emerged into the hall. He was wearing rough clothing, stained and discoloured. He was thin and had a mean and suspicious face, which was partially covered by a red rash. He rubbed at it now.
‘Leave your face alone!’ Milo shouted and the young man dropped his hand to his side. Even so, it continued to twitch convulsively, as if he wanted to scratch the offending rash once more.
‘Take this girl to the third floor – the detention room. Then stay on guard outside.’
Erlic turned side on, and edged away slightly, as if he were fearful of Milo’s anger and was planning to escape.
‘But I have Master’s boots to clean,’ he protested.
‘Then take her to the third floor, lock her in and come back for the boots. You can clean them while you stand guard.’
Erlic nodded several times, not meeting Milo’s angry gaze. ‘Yes. Yes. I can do that,’ he said, half to himself.
‘THEN DO IT!’ Milo thundered and Erlic actually jumped backwards, before recovering and bowing to the head steward.
‘Yes, Milo. Come with me, girl!’ Erlic ordered. He reached out to grab Lydia’s arm but she brushed his hand away. Shrugging, he beckoned for her to follow. As they reached the staircase, Milo’s voice stopped her.
‘All the doors and windows in this house are locked, girl. And I have the keys. So don’t bother trying to escape. You don’t leave unless I say so. Understood?’
She nodded, trying to assume a suitably browbeaten demeanour.
‘Yes, sir,’ she said. Then, at Milo’s imperious gesture, she turned and followed Erlic up the stairs. As they moved from the second floor to the thi
rd, the stairs became progressively narrower. On the third floor, the ceiling levels were noticeably lower. These were the servants’ quarters, she assumed. Erlic led her along another narrow hall to the rear of the house. Solid timber doors led off the hallway at regular intervals. She reached out and tried the latch on one. It opened easily and the door swung inwards, giving her a quick glimpse into a sparsely furnished room. Erlic, hearing the click of the door handle, turned to look at her.
‘What are you doing?’ His voice was shrill. She shrugged, hoping to calm him down.
‘Just looking,’ she said, pulling the door closed.
He shook his head at her. ‘Well, don’t!’ he ordered. Then he ushered her past him so he could keep his eye on her, shoving her in the back to keep her moving. He stopped at the end of the corridor, at the very back of the house. There was one door, set at right angles to the line of the corridor. It was fastened by a simple lift-latch, she saw. There was no sign of a lock or key.
Erlic raised the latch and, when the door swung open, pushed her roughly inside, slamming the door behind her. Unlike the door she had tried a few minutes earlier, it opened outwards. She turned angrily at the rough treatment, then saw the reason why there was no need for a lock or key on the door. There was no handle on the inside – no way of raising the latch.
She took stock of the room. It was small – three metres by three metres. There was a wood-framed bed with a thin straw mattress and a threadbare brown blanket against one wall, a small pine table with a straight-backed chair in the same material, and that was it. No closet or armoire. Not even a hanging rail covered by a curtain. Just bare walls. A jug of water with a chipped beaker stood on the table.
There was a small window, and she moved to it and studied it. The window space itself was approximately one metre square. The window was in two halves, each one hinged to swing outwards. Heavy wood frames filled the window space, with small glass panes set into them. The frames were thick hardwood and, in the absence of a saw or an axe, they formed effective bars. The windows were latched on the outside, with a simple bar dropping into two metal brackets. At some stage, there must have been provision to raise the bar from the inside. She noticed a hole drilled in the top of one window frame. A cord must have run through there to the latch bar, she realised. But it had been removed after the window had been latched shut. Like the door, there was no way now to open it.
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