Beyond the Hanging Wall

by Sara Douglass

  “Baxtor,” said the guard as they reined their horses behind the shepherd. “We have a suspicious character here. No-one knows him, and see this dirt? Straight from the Veins, we think!”

  The shepherd struggled and moaned.

  Another of the guards indicated that Joseph and Garth should dismount. “It’s good that you’re here, physician. Will you examine this man? Some of these stains look like fungus to us. See? Here…and here.” He pointed to several stains on the man’s garments.

  Gods! Garth cursed to himself. So close! This was the last patrol before the freedom of the road to Ruen.

  But he kept his face as neutral as he could as he dismounted. Joseph was already leaning close to the shepherd, and Garth had to push past one of the guards to get a good look at the man’s face.

  His heart thudded alarmingly in his chest. The man was well covered in dirt, but Garth recognised him instantly—Vorstus!

  “And how old was this prisoner you hunt?” Joseph asked patiently as he made a pretence of checking the man’s eyes, ears and skin.

  “Youngish,” muttered one.

  “About thirty, Furst told us,” another said.

  Joseph sighed and raised his eyebrows. “Well, you may have bagged a wandering thief, gentleman, but he’s not from the Veins.”

  “Are you sure?” one of the guards asked, disappointment clouding his voice.

  Joseph sighed again, more melodramatically and impatiently this time. Garth regarded his father with veiled admiration; he had not thought Joseph to be this good an actor.

  “This man approaches old age,” he said. “Look, his finger joints are swollen with arthritis.”

  “Could be from the constant swing of the pick,” a guard said hopefully, but Joseph glared at him.

  “These stains are not fungus, but grass. No doubt the man sleeps with his sheep. And look here,” Joseph abruptly squatted by the man’s legs, and every eye followed him. “His ankles are smooth and unmarred by irons. You’ve all been down the Veins. You’ve all seen the festers and ridges the irons carve into a man’s ankles. This man has never been manacled in his life.”

  “And look at this,” Garth put in, as eager to convince the guards as his father was. “His skin is tanned underneath this dirt. This man’s well acquainted with the sun.”

  Joseph caught his son’s eyes momentarily, and nodded.

  “Nevertheless,” the commander of the patrol said slowly, disappointment etching his voice, “he’s the right colouring…and none of us know him.”

  “Then arrest him for being a stranger,” Joseph said disinterestedly as he stood up, “but not for being an escapee.”

  His frustration making him testy, the guard now turned on Joseph. “And what are you doing here, Baxtor?”

  Joseph silently withdrew Cavor’s order and handed it to the man. The guard read it through, then thrust it back at Joseph. “Well,” he said roughly, “let them through…and this filthy shepherd. We’ve better things to do than interrogate every peasant that wanders by.”

  Vorstus wasted no time in wrenching his arm from the one guard who still held him, and waved his staff at the rest of them. “And who’s going to help round up my sheep?” he demanded.

  “Get out of my sight,” the commander hissed viciously, “or I will throw you in gaol!”

  Obviously deciding he’d taken the act far enough, Vorstus wasted no time in striding off mumbling to himself. He jumped down from the verge of the road and shooed his sheep back into the semblance of a flock, herding them as quickly as he could towards the south.

  Joseph met his son’s eyes again, then looked back at the guards. “And Garth and myself?”

  “On your way,” the commander said shortly, then turned back to the first wagon in line. “Well?” he demanded of its occupants.

  Garth was just mounting his horse when he heard a sweet voice reply.

  “We’re on our way for a picnic, officer. A nice warm day and all, I thought several of the girls would appreciate a touch of spring sunshine.”

  Garth glanced curiously at the wagon, then froze in the act of swinging his leg over the horse’s back.

  The wagon was packed with five or six women, all dressed in gaudy clothes and ringlets similar to the three who’d stood on the verandah of the house in Myrna. The woman who’d answered was the oldest of them, about forty, but the others were all young…and Garth recognised two of them instantly.

  He slowly sank down in the saddle.

  “I’d have thought you had business aplenty back in Myrna, Anya,” the guard said, although his tone held no suspicion.

  The older women arched well-drawn eyebrows. “Every able-bodied man’s been called to guard duty, officer. There’s nothing for us to do. So I thought,” she gestured at the landscape about her, “what a nice day for a picnic! If we drive far enough we’ll be able to find a spot that’s not covered in soot.”

  The guard had noticed that Joseph and Garth had not yet ridden off. “What are you two waiting for?”

  Both men jerked guiltily.

  “Ah,” Joseph began, but the woman broke in, smiling wickedly.

  “No need for them to hurry off, officer. Perhaps they might like to ride with us a while. Even share the picnic lunch we’ve brought with us. Who knows,” she dropped one eyelid in an exaggerated wink, “perhaps there might be some profit in this for us after all.”

  The guard snorted, then turned his eyes to the other women in the wagon. Garth stiffened as the man’s eyes stopped.

  “I’ve not seen these two before.”

  Anya smiled archly. “You’ve not yet had the opportunity—nor the purse—to work your way through all my rooms yet, officer. No doubt my house contains a few surprises for you yet.”

  Both of the women were attractive, but the guard stared at the younger of them. She was stunning, with dark hair and peculiarly light grey eyes. “And what’s your name, girl?”

  Ravenna smiled, and leaned down from the wagon. “Myst, officer. And when might I expect you to come a-calling?”

  The guard reddened under her frank eyes, then turned back to Anya. “On your way, madam.”

  Anya grinned and slapped the reins across the backs of the two horses pulling the wagon. The guard stepped back as the women rumbled past. “Next!”

  Joseph and Garth fell in behind the wagon. Garth glanced across at his father; Joseph had a thin sheen of sweat across his face, and Garth guessed he didn’t look much better himself. Joseph noticed Garth’s look, and checked over his shoulder to make sure that the guards were well out of hearing distance.

  “The women of the Ladies’ House are good friends of mine,” he explained quietly, then hastened on at the look on Garth’s face. “Not in the way you think! I’ve helped them out over the years with several minor problems, and they were pleased to repay the debt with this small ruse.”

  Garth grinned weakly. A small ruse? They had an escaped prisoner sitting in the front of their wagon dressed as a woman! But Garth had to admit to himself that the ruse worked well. Maximilian had a fine-boned face, and his skin was pale and smooth after so many years away from the sun. Disguised with a wig and an artful application of face paint, it would have taken a very close examination to reveal him as a man. No doubt, Garth thought to himself, his grin broadening, he’d been given a particularly close shave this morning.

  Joseph watched Garth’s face. “Vorstus agreed to act as a decoy. It were better that suspicion fell on someone immediately before the ladies’ wagon, for then it was more likely that the guards would let them through without too close an inquisition.”

  Garth watched the wagon, but all of the “women” had their faces turned to the road ahead, and all he could see of Ravenna and Maximilian were their gently swaying backs. “And how did you manage to get the guards to call us forward?”

  Joseph’s face relaxed into a smile. “Sheer luck, Garth. To be perfectly frank, I’d hoped that the women would be well through the guard post by the time
we came through. Still, things have worked out well.”

  They’d drawn level with Vorstus and his herd of sheep, but no-one called out to him and Joseph only nodded as they passed. “We’ll meet up later in the day,” he said quietly once they were well past Vorstus, and Garth nodded, resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder.

  “And the other monks?” he asked. “Are they sitting disguised in that wagon as well?”

  His father shook his head. “No. Only Vorstus has come with us. Trying to smuggle out several other men as well would have been impossible. Vorstus said they’ll stay hidden in their hollow hill for the next few days, if not weeks, until security has been lessened.”

  They had ridden in silence for some two hours when the wagon rumbled to a halt in front of them. Joseph and Garth pushed their horses up to the front.

  Anya, businesslike and brusque now, pointed to an overgrown track that led eastwards. “If it’s the forests you want, Joseph, then that’ll get you there quicker than anything else. You’ll still have a hard journey ahead of you, and few excuses to explain your presence if you meet any suspicious questions, but some good walking will get you to the forests within a day or two.”

  “I thank you, Anya,” Joseph said soberly. “You have helped right a great injustice here this day.”

  Anya looked at Maximilian, sitting silent and expressionless underneath his wig and face paint. “I wish you luck, Joseph,” she said quietly.

  Ravenna took Maximilian’s arm. “Come,” she said softly, “it is time to go.”

  Maximilian rose obediently and climbed down from the wagon, turning to help Ravenna. The girl was surprised at his consideration, but she blinked it away and pulled down several large packs from the wagon, handing two to Garth and Joseph, and setting the other one on the ground beside her. “Will Vorstus be able to find this track?”

  “Yes,” Anya nodded. “I explained what to look for earlier. Now, be off with you. My girls and I are off to enjoy a picnic.”

  As Ravenna shouldered her pack, Joseph pulled his horse close to the wagon. “Anya, how will you explain the two missing girls when you return?”

  Anya grinned, her eyes mischievous. “I shall tell the guards that you and Garth could not bear to be parted from such skilful ladies, and that you have paid well for them to accompany you to Ruen.” She laughed at the expression on the physician’s face. “Well, Joseph Baxtor, no doubt the loss of your reputation will be the least of your exploits that you’ll have to explain to Nona when you finally meet up with her!”

  EIGHTEEN

  THE ROYAL FORESTS

  Joseph led the small group along the track which led into some low, rolling hills covered with stubby trees and long wild grass. As they set off Garth offered Maximilian his horse, but the prince’s eyes widened in alarm and he stumbled backwards at the sight of the large animal, so eventually Garth led his horse and walked by the prince’s side.

  Maximilian was clearly exhausted, and Garth could see that under his face paint his cheeks were even more flushed than they had been the previous night. After ten minutes of walking, Maximilian stumbled and Garth took his arm, sharing a glance of concern with Ravenna, who was walking at Maximilian’s other side. But she said nothing, and Garth continued to talk in low tones with Maximilian, sharing some amusing tales of his life in Narbon, hoping to elicit some memories of his former life.

  “Have you ever seen Narbon, Prince?”

  “No,” Maximilian said shortly, his eyes darting apprehensively to the sky. The sky was cloudless now, and the prince had his eyes squinted almost closed. Garth could feel him trembling under his hand. “When will we reach shelter?”

  Again Garth shared a glance with Ravenna.

  “We go to the forests, Maximilian,” she said softly, and smiled as he lowered his eyes from the sky to her face. “Tonight, perhaps tomorrow.”

  “I do not like the open spaces,” Maximilian mumbled, “but…” He fell silent, and he frowned.

  “Prince?” Garth asked. “What is it?”

  “I think,” Maximilian said softly, “that I am going to like the forests even less.”

  “You will have to remember, Maximilian,” Ravenna said. “Sooner or later.”

  “Why?” Maximilian asked her. “Why? What do I have to remember?”

  To that Ravenna did not answer.

  After half an hour Joseph called a halt. “We are well hidden from the main road here,” he said as he dismounted. “Come, we can make a small fire from brushwood while we wait for Vorstus.”

  Maximilian sat obediently as Garth and Ravenna collected some dry brushwood. They quickly built a fire then, once water had boiled and tea steeped to one side, Ravenna washed the paint from Maximilian’s face.

  “It’s beginning to streak,” she said as Joseph raised his eyebrows, “and his beard is beginning to shadow through. No-one who met him now would be fooled.”

  Joseph nodded, and Maximilian grimaced as Ravenna rubbed his face dry with a cloth. She pulled his wig from his head and tucked it inside her pack. “Perhaps we’ll find another use for it.”

  Maximilian, his face finally clean, ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it back along his head. “As fuel for the fire, I think,” he said, and glanced at Ravenna. His face remained sober, but his eyes twinkled slightly.

  She laughed, pleased at his attempt at humour. “You’d better remove that dress, Prince. You look even worse in it now you wear your true face.”

  Maximilian unbuttoned his high-necked dress and pulled it off, handing it to Ravenna to pack away with the wig. He wore a simple countryman’s shirt and breeches underneath, and Ravenna tossed him a brown worsted jacket.

  Garth helped Joseph cut some bread and ham—Anya and her girls had been more than generous with their contributions—while Ravenna poured out mugs of tea and Maximilian slipped his arms into the jacket.

  “Why do you call me Prince?” he asked quietly, but all could hear the tightness in his voice.

  Both Joseph and Ravenna opened their mouths, but it was Garth who spoke. “What do you remember of your life as Maximilian Persimius?” he asked, his eyes and voice gentle.

  Maximilian’s own eyes widened at the question, and Garth could see the anxiety they contained. “I…I…” His eyes flickered about the group, and his face tightened in distress.

  Ravenna leaned over and handed him a mug of tea.

  Maximilian grasped the mug as if it were a lifeline. “Tea,” he mumbled, “yes, this is tea.” He took a deep breath, and when he lifted his eyes they were calmer. “My name is Maximilian Persimius.” He paused for a long minute. “What do I remember of that life? I remember red walls and long corridors filled with laughter.” His eyes softened as his fingers shifted slightly about the mug. “I remember love. I remember that I was loved.”

  “That is a good memory,” Garth said very softly.

  “Yes…yes, it is, isn’t it?” Maximilian looked surprised, but also relieved. “Yes, I remember love and laughter.” He took a deep breath and his shoulders relaxed. He sipped his tea thoughtfully. “Joseph Baxtor?” He spoke the name carefully, as if remembering it anew.

  Joseph nodded. “Yes?”

  “I remember you and an older man with a beard as heavy as yours is now.”

  “My father,” Joseph nodded. “He died when you were about twelve.”

  “Yes.” Maximilian took another sip of tea, as if he drew courage from it. “You and your father often came to dine with…with my parents and I.”

  Joseph only nodded, his own hands now tight about his mug.

  Maximilian turned back to Garth. “I remember my parents now, Garth. They loved me.”

  “Yes,” Garth said, his voice thick. “They grieved when you were lost.”

  “My father,” Maximilian said slowly, his eyes unfocused. “My father often read to me in the schoolroom. He read…he read from a book that I found boring but which my father insisted I study. It…it was called The Art of Wise Governan
ce.”

  There was a long silence, then Maximilian looked up at his companions. “My father was a king.” He took a deep breath. “And I was a prince then.”

  “You are a prince now,” Garth said, reaching across and laying his hand on Maximilian’s arm. “And you are the rightful heir to the throne of Escator.”

  Maximilian’s eyes hardened into flintiness. “No. I am not rightfully a prince at all.” He paused. “My father’s lessons are not all that I remember.”

  “Maximilian,” Garth said urgently, but just then Vorstus arrived with his sheep, and Maximilian turned his head to the right and refused to say any more.

  Within the hour they had packed up—Vorstus setting the sheep free to roam the hills—and were marching towards the royal forests to the east.

  By mid-afternoon Furst had decided that he was never going to find Maximilian about the Veins. The guards had searched every square inch of the complex, both above and below ground—twice.

  Nothing.

  “How?” Furst cursed as he paced about his office.

  “How?”

  How could everything have gone so horribly wrong?

  “I should have had him killed,” Furst mumbled, pouring himself a generous drink from the decanter on a side cabinet. “Surely the mark’s protection would have faded under that scar? Orders or no, I should have murdered the brat!”

  But he hadn’t, and that’s what currently mattered. And after seventeen years Lot No. 859 had unaccountably escaped and vanished into thin air.

  And it was Furst who was going to have to make account.

  “Damn!” he muttered, feeling cold nerves slice through his belly, and he threw the empty glass across the room.

  The guard standing duty outside the overseer’s office flinched as he heard the glass shatter. The next moment he snapped to attention as Furst threw the door open and lurched down the steps.

  “Fetch my horse and an escort,” he shouted into the night. “Now!”