Cursing his clumsiness, he forged onwards, following the sound of breaking branches until at last he stumbled across them again.
The doe had fallen at the edge of a clearing and was lying limp on its side, its fur stained with blood and Fen’s arrow buried in its flank. She was kneeling next to it, one hand on its ribs next to the wound. Her head was bowed, her eyes closed and her mouth moving in prayer.
Aren approached as quietly as he could, loth to disturb her. There was something intimate about the scene, a connection between hunter and hunted, the living and the dying. As he came closer, he heard some of what Fen was saying. She was offering thanks to the doe for the gift of its life, and to Ogg, Aspect of Beasts, for a successful hunt. When she was done, she raised her head and began to stroke the doe’s neck, murmuring softly.
‘There, you. It’ll be over soon. Rest now. Rest.’
The deer breathed its last, and its eye went glassy and blank. Fen stood to find Aren staring at her in wonder. He’d never imagined death could be so tender. In that moment, he was seized by the urge to kiss her, but he thought it would be unwelcome and he didn’t dare.
If she had any idea what was in his head, she gave no sign. ‘We’ll start you on something easier next time,’ she said. ‘Since you’re here, you can carry it.’
Fen was irritable and tense as they made their way back to the camp. Having Aren near put her on edge. When he spoke, she had to fight the urge to snap at him. When he didn’t, she felt like she was supposed to speak. She fancied she could sense his expectant gaze boring into her back. He demanded her attention just by being there.
He’d hardly said a word since she’d slain the deer, and the silence was agonising as he trekked along in her wake with the dead animal slung across his shoulders. She wanted to leave him to make his own way back, but he’d be lost within minutes and the deer with him.
Why did you invite him along?
She had no good answer. Was it thanks for what he did in Skavengard? She’d never have gone out on that ledge if not for him, and she did feel a little bad about the way she treated him afterwards. It was just that she’d been so angry; angry at herself for being weak, angry at him for seeing it. Angry because he’d made her climb, when he didn’t understand what it meant to fall, to have the world disappear from beneath your feet.
And yet, as much as he annoyed her, there was something reassuring about him. He was content just to be there, and that made her feel content. He didn’t ask anything of her, or pester her with questions. It was certainly easier to be alone, but there was a strange sort of pleasure in sharing the day with another. And mostly it wasn’t that hard, except that sometimes he looked at her in a way that triggered a vague sense of alarm deep inside her. She wasn’t sure if she liked that feeling or not.
Was this how people became friends? Nine, why did anyone put themselves through it?
‘So, how did your mother die?’ she asked, as lightly as she could manage.
Aren stopped and stared at her. Fen felt herself curl up inside and burn like a leaf on a fire.
‘I’m not good at small talk,’ she said sullenly, as if it was his fault.
He shook off his surprise, raised a hand in apology. ‘That’s alright. It was just a bit … abrupt. Er … She was ill. I don’t know exactly what she died of. Nobody ever told me, and I suppose I never asked. Isn’t that funny?’
‘Funny,’ Fen agreed, though she didn’t really see why it was.
‘What about yours?’
Fen felt a wave of panic. She hadn’t meant to open up the subject to include herself. But of course, that was how it went, wasn’t it? Get something, give something. Even if you didn’t want to.
‘She cut her hand. It went bad.’ The words came out dull and terse. She didn’t want to elaborate.
Aren got the hint. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry for what? You didn’t cut her hand.’
‘Just … you know.’
She didn’t. The conversation faltered again.
‘What was it like growing up in the Auldwood?’ he asked, in an attempt to spur it back to life.
Fen wasn’t sure how to answer that. What remained of those days were fragments of memory. Da’s palm on her back to feel the pace of her breathing as she took aim at a stag. Climbing trees near the cabin while Ma sat out front, singing and whittling in the sun. The doll Ma carved for her; the scent of apple-sweet griddle cakes; her parents holding hands beneath the table. Her early life was so filled with happiness and love that she found it hard to believe it wasn’t some hazy dream.
‘Good enough,’ she said. ‘Till Ma died. Da was different after that.’ She fought for some words that wouldn’t sound false or stupid, but found none. He sensed her awkwardness and mercifully changed the subject.
‘Do you know what Garric has in mind for us?’ he asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’re heading for Hammerholt, right? It’s the most formidable fortress in Ossia, and it’ll be swarming with guards for the royal wedding. How are we actually going to get the Ember Blade?’
‘He’ll tell us when we reach Morgenholme.’
Aren snorted. ‘He likes his secrets, doesn’t he?’
‘It makes sense. What if one of us were captured and interrogated? The Iron Hand would know everything then. This way’s safer.’
‘I say he’s paranoid.’
‘If you’re not paranoid by now, you just haven’t been paying attention. I’m sure it’s in hand.’
‘Are you?’
‘You didn’t know him before Salt Fork,’ she said. ‘Back then, we’d have followed him anywhere. I have my doubts about his temperament now, but I don’t doubt his heart. I’ll hear him out, and if I don’t like his plan then I’ll leave.’
‘Where will you go?’
She thought for a moment. ‘Elsewhere.’
Aren nodded. She supposed he understood. His home was as lost to him as hers was, and he knew as little of the world. But he, at least, knew how to connect with people, and he had Cade. He’d do well enough. She wasn’t so sure about herself.
‘You could have left us back at the Reaver’s Rest,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t you?’
‘Cade didn’t want to.’
She gave him a sceptical look. You can do better.
‘I didn’t want to,’ he admitted at last. ‘I never knew my mother. My father was everything to me. I remember how it used to feel, when he’d come home after one of his trips away … The happiness, the relief at having him back … He was warm and strong and kind, he was everything I wanted to be as a man.’ His face twisted into a scowl. ‘I didn’t even know his name.’
Fen lowered her gaze. The bitterness in his voice made her uncomfortable.
‘I need to find out who my father was,’ he said at last. ‘Only Garric can tell me that.’
‘And the Ember Blade? Doesn’t that mean anything?’
‘The Ember Blade …’ His eyes went distant. ‘Do you think Ossia really could rise again, if we took the Ember Blade back?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how people think.’
They walked on a short way.
‘If I knew who your father was, Aren, I’d tell you. Whatever Garric said.’
Aren was taken aback by that. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and he gave her a look of such gratitude and affection that she blushed angrily and turned away.
‘We’re wasting time,’ she snapped. ‘Let’s get moving.’
She didn’t say another word the whole way back to the camp.
55
The trading houses were set back from the waterfront, hidden among the cobbled lanes far from the noise of the warehouses and the smell of fish and boiling blubber. Garric walked down familiar streets, between grey stone houses streaked with black lichen. Wracken Bay was a tangle of alleys with dwellings built higgledy-piggledy wherever they’d fit. Shopfronts appeared from nowhere; sullen plazas lurked in ambush around blind
corners; windows were scattered without symmetry.
On an overcast day like this, the town was cheerless and cold and damp, but anticipation kept Garric warm, and he walked with purpose. If he could conclude the day’s business to his satisfaction, it would be a good day indeed.
He knew the Xulan trading house, though he’d never visited it before. Foreigners were common in Wracken Bay and most nationalities had a trading house somewhere in the town. The ships that docked here were crewed by elegant Xulans, swaggering Carthanians, secretive Boskans, tattooed Skarls and slow-talking Quins. Once in a while, a Caraguan vessel would arrive from the distant west, disgorging missionaries to spread word of the Incarna, or a boatload of squabbling Lunish would turn up, unable to pass a single night without starting a fight. In the main, these visitors were met with mistrust, and few settled here. Wracken Bay liked their coin and trade, but not their strange customs. Ossians were a welcoming and tolerant people by and large, but the Bitterbracks were peopled with harder folk, close-mouthed, stubborn and resistant to change.
The trading house was unremarkable from the outside, a building of weathered stone with small windows, nestling on a corner. Only its sign was unusual. It was written in the beautiful and mysterious ideograms of the Xulan alphabet, and meant nothing to an Ossian. Above it was a painting of a robed man sitting cross-legged with his arms splayed. He was lean and bald, his head dipped so that only the top was visible. Half his skull was white, the other half black.
Garric recognised him, at least. The Pradap Tet, spiritual shepherd of the Xulans, whose teachings they worshipped in lieu of any god.
He pushed open the door and a tiny bell rang, high and pure. Stepping inside was like stepping into another land. There was nothing of Ossian decor here, none of the exuberant colours, mismatched fabrics, old wood or scuffed stone. Instead, the room was practically bare, and everything was spotless and neatly arranged. A polished bronze ball sat on a black shelf. A framed expanse of parchment was marked with a few strokes of paint, suggesting a shape beyond Garric’s ability to interpret. A low table of rare elaru whitewood, shaped like a teardrop, sat off-centre in the room, with an obsidian beaker and two glass-and-silver cups placed upon it.
The sound of the bell faded, leaving an eerie silence behind. A young Xulan glided in from the back, his slippers whispering on the floor. He was fine-boned and shaven-headed with a neat black beard, and he moved with the same silken poise as his countryman from the Reaver’s Rest.
‘Welcome,’ he said in lightly accented Krodan.
‘Greetings to you,’ Garric replied in Ossian. ‘I am looking for a man named Atatep. His cousin told me he often visits here.’
‘Alas,’ said the merchant, switching smoothly to Garric’s mother tongue, ‘Atatep departed several days ago with a cargo for my homeland. What unfortunate timing.’ He made an airy gesture, waving one hand limply before him.
Garric wasn’t sure whether to believe that, and the Xulan’s face and tone gave him no clue. It was said that in Xulan society their faces were their weapons. Every conversation was a deadly dance, and they were trained from birth to master their expressions in order to convey exactly what they wanted to.
‘A shame,’ he said. ‘I’m in need of something … unusual. The kind of thing only a Xulan might know how to get. I need it found and delivered fast and safely, and I was assured he was reliable.’
‘Perhaps I can help? Our reputation and services are second to none.’
‘Perhaps you can,’ said Garric.
The Xulan made a florid gesture of invitation towards the table. Garric, who knew enough of Xulan customs to expect no chair, seated himself as comfortably as he could on the floor. Habit made him reach for his sword to adjust it as he sat, but he’d left it back at the camp. Ossians were forbidden swords within town limits, and he didn’t have a permit for Wracken Bay.
‘My name is Katat-az,’ said the Xulan, seating himself gracefully. ‘My brother and I oversee all Xulan trade in Wracken Bay. May I have your name?’
‘Danic of Hearthfall,’ Garric lied. He’d lived under so many aliases these past thirty years that new names sprang quickly to his tongue.
‘Honoured.’ Katat-az poured two glasses of water. He smelled of perfume, something musky softened with a hint of jasmine. ‘And this item you need?’
Garric pushed a folded piece of paper across the table. ‘My requirements,’ he said.
Katat-az unfolded it, glanced at it, put it down again. ‘Four barrels of Amberlyne we can, of course, provide. But this other … this is dangerous cargo.’
‘Can you get it for me?’
‘I can. We sell it in our homeland, and sometimes to the Glass University for their experiments.’ One eyebrow arched and he pursed his lips. ‘You are no chimericist, nor are you a scholar. What is your interest?’
‘That’s my business.’
‘I see. You understand that if anyone comes asking about it, I will co-operate with the authorities in all matters?’
‘You needn’t fear. It’s not contraband, and I’m no Krodan informer.’
Katat-az gave him a knowing smile. ‘Of course you’re not,’ he said.
Garric didn’t argue further. Mistrust of foreigners ran both ways. He took a sip of water; it was flavoured with something sweet, and a touch of mint.
‘I need it delivered to Morgenholme in seven days,’ he said.
‘Impossible,’ said Katat-az, and raised a hand to forestall Garric’s argument. ‘Impossible!’ he said again, firmly. ‘The cargo is not in Wracken Bay and it will require a considerable diversion to collect it. Fifteen days. It cannot be done faster.’
The wedding was on the last day of Copperleaf. Garric did some calculations in his head. If the cargo arrived on time, it would come eight days before the wedding. That was time enough. ‘Very well.’
‘It will be expensive,’ Katat-az warned.
Garric tossed a bag of coins onto the table. Katat-az didn’t even look at it.
‘More expensive than that,’ he said.
‘That’s a deposit. I’ll pay twenty falcons more on delivery to Morgenholme.’
Other men might have shown surprise or suspicion at such a ridiculously generous offer. Katat-az showed nothing. ‘And this money is where?’
‘In a bank in Morgenholme,’ said Garric. Though not in any account of mine.
‘I am sure you have further conditions,’ Katat-az said, and sipped his water.
‘I have three,’ Garric said. ‘One: it must be on time. If it’s late, it’s useless to me and you’ll get nothing.’
Katat-az dipped his head and fluttered his lashes in acceptance. ‘It will not be late.’
‘Two: you’ll tell nobody of this transaction. Especially not your brother.’
‘I will keep it confidential. But as I have already said, if the authorities ask—’
‘Which brings me to three: you will oversee the shipment personally. You’ll leave on the ship tonight, and you’ll be there when I meet it at Morgenholme.’
Katat-az studied him carefully. Garric held his gaze.
‘It’s that, or no deal,’ he said.
Garric saw that the Xulan understood. He wouldn’t compromise himself by withholding any information from the Krodans, but by insisting he was on the ship, Garric had ensured he wouldn’t be around to ask.
Katat-az sighed and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. ‘You realise this is a considerable inconvenience?’ he said. ‘However, I do have interests in Morgenholme, and business I can conduct in the ports along the way. My brother can oversee things here in my absence.’ He spread his hands and smiled. ‘Very well. I will do it … for thirty falcons.’ His gaze went cold and his smile took on a sharper edge. ‘It’s that, or no deal.’
It was robbery, an absurd amount of gold for the undertaking. Garric agreed without hesitation. Negotiation was a waste of time. The only thing that mattered was that he got what he needed.
‘I will dr
aw up the paperwork, to ensure there is no misunderstanding about the price when I arrive,’ said Katat-az.
‘Nothing that your brother can find. Nothing in your records,’ Garric warned.
‘I will carry it with me,’ the merchant assured him, ‘and enter it into our records on my return.’
Garric grunted and scratched at the edge of his scar.
‘It occurs to me that you will need transport to Morgenholme yourself,’ said Katat-az. ‘Perhaps I can help there also?’
‘I need passage for nine, and a dog. But we need to be there long before that shipment arrives, to prepare.’
‘There is a fast ship departing at dawn the day after tomorrow, direct to Morgenholme. You will be there by Draccensday.’
Garric nodded. Though he’d have liked to leave sooner, it would have to do. The Krodans would follow their trail to Wracken Bay eventually, after the mess they’d left at the inn, but he doubted they’d be quick enough to catch them. As far as anyone at the Reaver’s Rest was concerned, Garric and his companions were nothing more than Ossian rogues who’d killed a road patrol. Only the dreadknights and the overwatchman who held their leash would have any chance of running them down, and they were probably still on the other side of the mountains, yet to hear the news.
‘I will book you passage,’ said Katat-az. He flowed to his feet and collected the forms to be signed and stamped, along with the details of the ships. When they were done, Garric eased himself up stiffly and they clasped each other’s forearms, Ossian style.
As Garric made to leave, the Xulan lifted a finger thoughtfully to his lips. ‘Forgive me, but I must say something. When a man bargains as you do, he is either rich, desperate or no longer cares what happens to him.’ He looked Garric up and down. ‘I do not think you are rich or desperate.’
Garric gave him a level stare. ‘Fifteen days,’ he said.
Katat-az waved a slender hand. ‘It shall be done.’
The Ember Blade Page 46
