“Ai-ee! Fuck!” cried the man on the floor, pushing himself up to his knees with his good arm. “Loish! I’m hurt! A fuckin’ kid! Loish!”
Tilim looked up. “Loish” didn’t heed the cry for help; he was intent on reaching the second floor. He took his chance on the old man and the dagger, bounding up the steps. At the last instant Rooks slipped sideways under the thrust of the intruder’s sword to stab at him with his dagger, catching him in the pit of the arm that held the weapon. The big man’s sword fell down to the first floor with a clatter, while the intruder staggered forward one more step, grabbing Percia’s hair, pulling at her with all his strength.
Percie screamed. Mama beat at the man’s wrist, and Lemle yanked Percia by the waist back from the stranger’s grasp.
Then the man’s hand fell nerveless, and he crashed facedown on the stairs. He slid down a few steep risers with loud thumps. Rooks sat down heavily on the step behind himself. Mama enfolded Percia in her arms.
While Tilim was watching this drama, the intruder he had injured had staggered out the front door, leaving a dark streak behind him. Baki ran after him, his claws scrambling on the wooden floor; a short scream pierced the darkness of the yard, then stillness.
Tilim’s head started swimming. He sat down in a chair and put his head between his knees so he wouldn’t black out.
Dimly he heard Rooks say to someone, “There don’t seem to be any more comers.”
“Lock her in the bedroom, Lem, and stand guard,” said Mama. And in a moment his mother crouched on the floor next to Tilim, rubbing her hands up his legs and arms.
“Mama, I’m not hurt,” he said. “No need. Quit it, will ya?”
“Are you sure, Tilim? Are you sure?”
“Yeah, just a little dizzy.”
“Missus, I feel dizzy too,” said Rooks. “A drop of brandy would not go amiss.”
Mama poured them both a finger of brandy. She lit all the lanterns and stoked up the fire for more light. Tilim was able to lift his head upright, though he didn’t want to try standing.
“Mama, I want to come out!” called Percie.
“No, Percie. I forbid it. Stay in my room with the chair holding the door.”
Lemle helped Rooks to rise. “Are you hurt, old codger?”
“Nay,” said Rooks. “Pah! Amateurs. Twice my weight and I took him down with one strike. Your uncle’s still got some grit in him.”
“Your name should have been ‘Grit’ instead of ‘Rooks,’” said Lemle proudly. “And what about your pupil? A nine-summers boy fighting off a brawny man!”
“Yeah! How about that!” agreed Rooks cheerfully. “Don’t guess I can take any credit for the dog, though.” He swallowed down the rest of his brandy and smacked his lips.
“What was this all about?” Rooks said. “When has this ever happened in Wyndton? Not in all my years!”
Mama’s hands worried her nightdress. “Oh, I wish Wilim was here! This can’t be happening.”
“Now, missus, calm down,” said Rooks. “Send for Hecht. He’ll know what to do. I feel a mite tuckered. How about bed, Nevvie? Help an old codger back to bed after all this excitement?”
Rooks chuckled and slapped his knee. “Feels awful good to know I’ll wake up in the morning and that miserable son of a bitch won’t.”
Lemle settled Rooks back in bed, and then he rode off to fetch Hecht, the village peacekeeper. Tilim could have gone, but he really didn’t want to leave his mother and Percia in case there were any more of these intruders lurking around. And truth be told, he still felt a mite shaky.
“Tilim, I’m going to wait down here for help to arrive. I’ll have Baki with me,” said his mother. “I need you to go up to my room and lie down next to Percie. She’s miserable alone up there. Can you do that for me?”
“Don’t you want me to stay with you, Mama?” said Tilim.
“I’ll call you if I need you,” she answered. “Keep your sword handy. But Son, would you take off your boots? And here, let me wipe you off a bit.”
She washed and washed Tilim in the kitchen bucket. The water grew quite red. He cautiously tiptoed around the dead man sprawled on the stairs and went into Mama’s room with Percia. Percie made a fuss over how brave he was and all, till he told her to hush up. He lay down on the bed next to her, held her hand to comfort her, and—woozy from the liquor—fell asleep.
* * *
In the morning Tilim heard the rest of what happened in the night. Hecht had come to the house, and when he’d found the tracks of four horses coming and going, he had raised a posse of locals. Hecht figured one of the scoundrels had stayed with the horses, but he had too much of a head start. The posse came back empty-handed and none the wiser about the motives of the four ruffians.
They’d moved the bodies and Mama had scrubbed the floor by the time Percia and Tilim came downstairs in the morning. The house looked a bit disordered, but not scary.
Because this was a major crime, Duke Naven and Captain Walmunt, the head of his personal guard, were sent for. No one could recall anything like this happening in Androvale—four armed strangers attacking a cottage! It was not as if they owned anything valuable. Were the intruders after the womenfolk?
Now Tilim had to tell Hecht his story about noticing the strangers following them, and the owner of the Wyndton Arms was questioned. All he knew was that one of the men asked about Percia, claiming he knew her from her years in Gulltown.
Duke Naven and Captain Walmunt arrived around midday. The captain put on a grim face about the whole business. He said he was proud of Baki, Tilim, and Rooks, but he didn’t focus on their heroism quite as much as Tilim would have liked.
The duke kept repeating to the air, “A nasty business! A nasty business! In my duchy. I won’t have it, I tell you; I won’t have it!”
After some hours of this, when no progress was made on the investigation, Duke Naven turned to Mama. “Missus, when was your family fixing to travel to Cascada for the wedding?”
“Around Planting Time, sir,” she answered.
“Pack your things,” he ordered. “All of you, all your things. My men will help. You are going to stay at the manor house for the six moons until you sail, so the duchy guard can keep you safe.”
“But—my school,” Percia protested. “My mother’s loom. Tilim’s little friends and Rooks and Lemle. We can’t just leave all that behind.”
“No?” said Duke Naven impatiently. “Were you going to take your Wyndton life to the palace when you marry Lordling Marcot? Girl, you made your choice.”
Percia crumpled in on herself. In that moment, Tilim hated Duke Naven.
“But we weren’t about to abandon it all in a tick, neither,” said Mama, her hands on her hips and her eyes taking on a look that Tilim knew could mean trouble for anyone who crossed her.
Duke Naven must have recognized the danger he faced from Mama, prepared to do battle. He raised his hands in exasperation. “All right. All right. I watch out for my people. I’ll leave two men to keep an eye on you for two weeks. But I can’t station soldiers in one cottage forever, you know.
“Finish up your business here. All your business and all your goodbyes. At the end of the time, I’ll send a wagon to fetch you.”
36
Cascada
This evening was the fourth time that, after bringing his winter vegetables to the Central Market in Cascada (telling Eyevie they would fetch a higher price in the big city than in their local hamlet), Yanath stayed late with his former shieldmate Pontole to search the quayside taverns for Branwise.
Tonight Pontole and he had gone around in circles, revisiting places they’d gone to before. Yanath felt frustrated and longed to collect his wagon and head home. But knowing the importance of their mission, he persevered.
Luck was in their corner, though, because after they tried Sea Wench (to no avail), they peeked into a dingy establishment called the Beached Boat. Oil lamps and pipe smoke formed a haze in the long, narrow room half f
ull of patrons, but after a moment Pontole elbowed Yanath in the side. Halfway down the counter, visible through gaps in the sparse crowd, a disheveled man who was sitting alone, humming tunelessly, nursing a whiskey and drawing patterns in the moisture on the wood, had Branwise’s physique, Branwise’s ears, and Branwise’s big, scarred hands. In fact—’twas Branwise himself.
Pontole moved noiselessly to sit on one side of him, and Yanath slid onto the stool on the other.
“Hey!” said Branwise, gazing at Pontole with recognition. “Hey!” he said, turning his head the other way and squinting at Yanath.
“Hey, yourself,” said Yanath. “Do you still snore as loudly as you used to?”
“I don’t know,” said Branwise, taking the question too seriously. “When I’m asleep I cain’t hear myself. Hey! Ain’t seen you fellas in forever. Buy me a drink for old times’ sake?”
“Nope,” said Pontole. “No drinks.”
“No drinks?” said Branwise. “You guys turned dry?”
“Nope,” said Yanath. “We’re working. You remember about staying sober when you’re working?”
“Ahh!” said Branwise, nodding sagely. “What’re you working at?”
“Actually, we was searching for you,” said Pontole. “Run our feet off looking everywhere. You’re a hard bloke to find.”
“Searching for me? Well, you found me, so let’s cele—”
With a forceful bang the door of the tavern burst open and bounced off the wall behind it. A squad of soldiers crowded in with swagger and noise. The barmaid gave a frightened squeak, and the bartender carefully laid both hands on the wooden surface in front of him.
“Don’t want no trouble,” the bartender said.
Yanath studied the intruders. They weren’t the city watch, nor palace guards; they wore red sashes. He raised his eyebrows at Pontole.
Pontole mouthed, “Matwyck’s Marauders.”
The room had fallen dead quiet except for the coins the barmaid had dropped on the ground. These rang as they rolled about the floor.
These Marauders obviously hadn’t stopped in for sour ale. Yanath glanced around, calculating if the three shields could escape through a back door.
“You, there!” roared the leader of the squad, a beefy, fat-faced man, directing his attention to the tables on the side. Yanath realized that the speaker wasn’t paying any attention to the former Queen’s Shields; he was shouting at a table of sailors on the far side of the room. “Which one of you shitwits goes by the name ‘Gourdo’?”
One of the sailors stood. He wasn’t in uniform, but Yanath recognized Seamaster Gourdo, part of Lord Ambrice’s circle from the war against the Pellish pirates. The man had aged but still carried himself with dignity.
“I am Gourdo,” he said. “Who wishes to address me?”
“I’m Captain Murgn,” answered the swaggerer, “and you’re wanted.”
“Wanted by who and for what?” asked Gourdo.
Murgn drew his sword, and his men did likewise. The tavern was narrow for so many weapons; the other patrons pressed themselves back against the walls, overturning some chairs in their haste to get out of the way.
The bartender said again, “Don’t want no trouble.” No one paid any attention to him.
“Wanted by me for shooting your mouth off. You’ve been heard talking.” Murgn’s voice went up an octave and became mincing: “‘When the queen returns’ and ‘When the queen takes power’ and ‘When the queen’—my arse!”
“Where’s the crime in talking about the queen?” asked Gourdo. “I’ve been in the Queen’s Navy all my life.”
“Ain’t no room in Cascada for mal-con-tents,” said Murgn. He spit on the floor. “Come along now.” He waved his free hand toward the doorway.
“Cap’n, don’t go!” implored a young sailor from his table.
“Cap’n, there’s six of us!” said another, grabbing his tankard of ale.
“Aye, but lads, you’re not armed tonight, sitting having a pint, expecting a peaceable evening,” said Gourdo. “I’d hate for any of you to take hurt.”
Under the cover of the bar counter, Yanath slipped his dagger out of his scabbard.
Reaching across Branwise’s belly roll, Pontole grabbed Yanath’s wrist. He whispered, “Our business is too important to get tangled up with this. Let it go, Yanath.”
Seamaster Gourdo walked slowly around the table toward the bullying guards. One of them gratuitously struck him in the head with a metal-studded leather glove. Gourdo’s knees sagged, and the young sailors jumped to their feet, overturning their table. Instantly, Murgn had his sword tip in the youngest sailor’s neck. He wasn’t just touching the lad; by the amount of blood gushing down his shirt, the point had already penetrated the skin perilously close to cutting into the sailor’s throat.
“My, you’re a tasty morsel,” said Murgn. “Do you want to keep breathing? Then sit back down and drink your pint of piss like a good little boy.”
Murgn snapped his fingers at his team of guards. They grabbed Seamaster Gourdo by each arm and hustled him from the tavern. The room remained paralyzed with shock.
“Don’t want no trouble,” said the barkeep again, his eyes glued down on the counter.
“Then treat those sailor boys to new pints and keep your trap shut,” said Murgn as he backed out of the room.
“I’m going to be sick,” said Branwise. He bolted from his stool out the back door. Pontole and Yanath could hear him retching in the alleyway.
“For guts, I’d take the sailor any day,” muttered Yanath to Pontole as they followed Branwise outside.
Vomiting cleared some of the liquor out of Branwise’s system. Pontole and Yanath walked him around in the air, then bought him a plate of sausages at a tavern. On the second cup of tisane, Branwise’s eyes cleared up enough that they knew he was listening.
“We’re hoping to talk you into giving up the demon rum,” said Pontole.
“Give up the demon rum?” said Branwise, holding his tisane mug protectively just at the suggestion. “Now, why would I do that? I was drinking whiskey tonight. And I’ll give up neither rum nor whiskey. Better friends than you. They never desert me.”
“No one deserted you, Branwise. We just had to make a living and you became a sot,” Yanath said. “Let’s get out of here. We’d like to talk to you about something important.”
“But I haven’t finished,” answered Branwise, instantly truculent.
“Then swig that last swallow. We’ve been searching for you for hours, and it’s getting late.”
Branwise glanced up at them with a touch of his former shrewdness. “You guys were looking for me. Looking for me. You ain’t just concerned about my future. Is there something you want?”
Pontole looked about the empty room; then, whispering, he told him the story about sitting at the Nargis Fountain and hearing the Water’s message. Yanath studied Branwise’s face as Pontole told his tale.
“Let’s go there now,” Branwise said, rising so abruptly his trencher and mug swayed.
“Go where?” asked Pontole.
“The Fountain, you lackwit. The ever-lovin’ Fountain.”
Yanath barely had time to grab some coins out of his pocket to pay the fare and follow; Branwise began running up the hill from the quayside as if his life depended upon it.
Huffing, the three men arrived at the Courtyard of the Star, which at this time of night sat deserted with the exception of a few bored city watch keeping an eye on a clump of beggar kids. The Fountain sang low in the moonlight, the Nargis Ice shining like a star close at hand.
Branwise cupped his hands and drank Nargis Water from the Fountain again and again. Yanath cursed himself for being so out of shape that a short uphill jog winded him. Then he dipped his hand, and as water dripped off each finger he murmured each of the five prayers: Home, Health, Safety, Comradeship, and the Future of the Realm. Each of the prayers brought to mind images, painful or precious.
Yanath didn’t wa
nt to just pray for the Future of the Realm; after what he’d witnessed tonight he wanted to fight for it.
“All right, Bran,” he said, after he dried his hand on his shirt. “I’m tired of dicking around searching for you. I’m tired of your drinking and puking. I’m tired of thugs like that pig in the tavern. I’m tired—I’m just plain tired of a lot of things. Are you in or are you out? Right now. Tell me.”
Branwise stopped lapping Nargis Water. His eyes had cleared, and he had a peaceful smile on his wet face. “Aye, I’m in.”
* * *
Slightly over a week later, Pontole brought Yanath and Branwise to meet Nana and Brother Whitsury in the Abbey of Sorrow. Whitsury put a finger to his lips and led them by a circuitous route around the back of the complex, through the vegetable and herb garden, down a flight of stairs to the basement, and then through a lengthy corridor to the annex called the Queens’ Rest.
This crypt held the elaborate stone tombs—each carved with representations of her Talent and accomplishments—of all the Nargis Queens of Weirandale stretching back at least three centuries. Although the crypt lay beneath the floor of the abbey reading room, glass portals had been cut into the ceiling and the coffins placed in such a way that thick shafts of natural light fell in a pattern around the room, illuminating each of the queens’ resting places.
Yanath would have liked to examine the monuments, but Nana stood waiting for the three shields there. The room had two doors: the small one Whitsury had just used and a grand double door that led to the official entryway. The Brother of Sorrow stationed himself watching and listening at the public door. The air felt dry and cool on Yanath’s skin, and the shafts of light made it bright enough to see clearly. Through the ceiling Yanath could hear a choir practicing hymns in the abbey.
Nana shook Yanath’s and Pontole’s hands, then turned to Branwise. He’d lost weight since the night Yanath had last seen him, undoubtedly from going through a rough time getting the liquor out of his system. But for this meeting he’d washed and tied his springy hair back. The skin on his cheeks was scraped raw, and three bright red nicks showed how shaky his hand had been as he shaved.
A Broken Queen Page 29
