“You never bloody asked,” Symon said, addressing his knees.
Jak saw no point in prolonging the discussion. Symon was not the type of friend he could imagine Freya making. He reminded himself that Symon was not the usual kind of friend he made himself, but looked out across the sizzle of the morning ocean and pointed. “That’s the way back to Eden. It took five days to sail from beyond the city to this strange island. Maybe I’ll come back one day, but now I have to leave. And our Shammite pirates don’t seem keen to take us. I wish I could swim but five days steam sailing means a crossing of a ten-day at least by arms and legs.”
“I reckons two ten-days,” muttered Symon.
“So we steal their ship. We build our own. Or we create a miracle.”
“Dunno ‘bout miracles,” Symon said. “But life surely plays tricks.”
“The miracle,” Jak said softly, “will blow in on the western breezes.” He stood now, staring out to sea, his hands clasped behind his back. His thoughts disjointed, slipped sideways, and reformed in silent rows. He had been abducted – a miracle in itself. Who would want him? Now it could be that the country girl he had met as a child, and adored ever since, was of a higher lineage than he was himself. He hoped it was true. It might give her a better life, whether or not she still wanted him.
Having led his men inland, Shozwall was off to spy out the land and expected to return in a day or three, but without promises to sail the Edenites home. Symon now sat alone, watching Jak’s back. “Them crocodillos done gived up on us, I reckon.”
“They play the tricks you accuse life of playing.”
Symon spoke to Jak of the crocodiles, but his thoughts were on Freya. He said, “You don’t reckon the lass I knows as being the same lass you knows. But my lass needs help. If tis the same lass, tis you wot needs to help her.”
“I can’t see the Eden coast,” Jak answered, “not even where the cliffs rise, or the hills climb into mountains. I imagine we’re not only too far, but too far south. Perhaps waiting for a miracle is an absurd solution, but it is a solution for all that. It will happen.” He turned, smiling suddenly. “And I promise you this, that I’ll find the Freya I have thought about for so long, and I’ll explore her parentage which may or may not be true. And your Freya is perhaps the same girl. Even if not, I promise you, I’ll help her too.”
“I reckon,” Symon said, looking back up into the hot wind blowing in from the blue glitter of sky and ocean, “you’s thinking sommint I right properly understands. It ain’t no insult nor no lie. I bin a gang leader all me life. I were born in the clink, right there on that titchy little island on the Corn . I ain’t got no idea who my mother were, poor lass. No doubt an ugly old crone, thief and fraudster. Mayhaps she were raped in the clink, and I were the product o’ two bastards, one worser than t’other. A fellow in there got released after a few years when he dun his time. He brought me out wiv him. I were ‘bout six, but there ain’t no one knows days nor years in the clink. This fellow, name o’ Bramber, he were a good fellow but he didn’t save me fer bein’ some bright angel. He took me to learn from wot he knows, and I learned well. He were killed when I were older, and I missed him. Missed him right awful. Hardened me even more, it did. So I bin leader o’ the Lower City fer nigh on twenny years or more. Not wot you’d call a good job. But I looked after them other brats wot got shoved into the low life just like me, and I done alright by them, even when I didn’t like the stuff wot had ter be done. So,” his smile widened into a throaty chuckle, “I ain’t the sort o’ feller wot you’d call friend, but I’s sick o’ the low life. I got to the top. Ain’t no steps further up to go. So’s I wants out. Tis done, in fact. I’s out. If you calls me friend, then I’s mighty glad. If you doesn’t, then I ain’t gonna lose me mind. But I likes you, m’lord. You’s a fine gent and I calls you friend, whether or not you says it back.”
He had listened carefully and learned little, but Jak smiled in retur. “I call you friend.” He paused, then nodded. “My birth is no credit to me. Your birth is no fault of yours. Had I started life as you describe, I doubt I’d now call you friend, for we’d already have killed each other. I’m delighted that didn’t happen. Our different skills may be of considerable help to the other. And finding Freya may be listed there.”
“I bin away lately,” Symon added. “You might calls it a bit of a holiday. So where my lass could be, I doesn’t know. But finding folks ain’t mighty hard fer me, m’lord. Swimmin’ on t’other hand, ain’t bloody easy at all.”
Jak laughed. “Believe in my miracles, friend Symon. And being friends, call me Jak. You’ve ruled the Lower City. Perhaps you’ve been more of a lord than I have.”
“You’s a bloody good lord if you makes miracles,” said Symon.
“So we wait here,” Jak grinned. “But I don’t think crocodile would be an easy catch for lunch. We need food. I’ll go hunting for rabbit.”
“We could steal that there ship out there,” Symon jerked his chin towards the beach. “But we doesn’t know how to sail it.”
“Rabbit first. Then reeds and narrow branches.” Jak looked at the ashes of the previous night’s fires. “Too hot for that, but cooked rabbit is surely better than raw. Afterwards we start building.”
“Till that there miracle pops up.”
“Exactly,” said Jak.
Tom, in passionate love with a lacine baby, was out of bed and marching the corridors, occasionally patting the mewling pocket in the front of his coat. It was still winter, and fires had been lit in the downstairs salons. All chimneys ran from hearth up through the ceiling beams beneath the upper floors, and the brothel was a welter of comfort.
But in spite of the kitten and in spite of the cosy warmth, Tom was furious. He roared his complaints at the passing tapestries, frosted windows, and tightly closed doors. “What is this?” he demanded loudly of no one. “Conspiracy? Wicked plots? When I make a bloody friend, I expect them to hang around. But what do they bloody well do? They bugger off, that’s what. They disappear. They melt into the clouds and are never seen again. Where is Symon? Where is Freya? Even my very own Udo disappeared for bloody long enough.”
“But now is back. And brought you the perfect gift,” said a voice, floating faintly down the staircase from the top level.
A small female head peeped around one of the doors along the corridor, and Sossanna whispered, “Bleedin’ hell, Tom, hush, will ya? I got customers.”
Tom said, “I’ve been told even the Lord of Lydiard has disappeared. Is Eden draining out one by one? Who will be next, I wonder.”
“You, I hope you silly bugger.” A deep masculine voice echoed from behind another of the doors, still shut. “How do I enjoy rutting with you strutting and shouting.”
“Then concentrate on your prick,” Tom answered with vehemence, “and just hope it doesn’t disappear like all my friends.”
Downstairs at the doorway of the main salon, Magg’s last customer was paying his bill, dropping large coins into Edilla’s open palm. He turned as Tom stamped down behind him, tugged on his hat, and said, “Lord Lydiard, you said? The king’s wretched grandson had him killed off, didn’t he! That’s the rumour.”
Tom frowned. “So why isn’t the rogue in prison?”
The customer shrugged, about to leave. However, when he opened the brothel’s front door, the sleet slanted full force and blew off his hat. He grabbed it and hurried back inside. “Well,” he said quickly, finding the excuse of talking to Tom. “No one can prove anything. Someone said they saw him being pushed onto a steam ship going to Giardon. Now why would any sane man sail to Giardon. No doubt a lie.”
Having made a somewhat more leisurely descent, Udovox now pushed beside Tom, and looked, unconvinced, at the man brushing rain sparkles from his hat. “I returned from Lydiard just two days back,” he said. “Plenty of talk there, there is. They say the Lord Kallivan forced Lord Lydiard aboard, with orders to chuck him overboard. But the Lydiard villagers, they say the Giardonite
s never drown their prisoners. They keep them as slaves on the island. And Lord Lydiard – well, he’s no fool.” He turned back to Tom. “And our Symon’s no fool neither. He’ll be in the south somewhere, waiting till his arrest warrant gets forgotten.” He said, shaking his head. “As for our poor little Freya, I wish I knew where she might be. I’d be off now to try and rescue her.”
Tom was thinking as the customer swept outside onto the Bridge, braving the storm. Finally he said, “We can’t rescue someone without knowing where she is. Nor where he is. That’s Freya and Symon. Besides, I’m quite sure Symon can rescue himself. But perhaps we could get a trip to Giardon, and this Lydiard person is supposed to be the love of Freya’s life. We help him – maybe he helps us.”
“You want a new customer?”
Tom turned angrily to Maggs, standing half-dressed at her doorway on the next landing up. “Some females,” he said with a cold and unblinking stare, “remind me why I prefer men. No, foolish woman. But if his feelings for Freya remain even faintly unchanged – he might be the ideal rescuer. At the very least he might slaughter the bastard Kallivan.”
“There’s a family I know,” Udovox interrupted, “living just over the Corn but further towards the coast, as you’d guess. They make small boats. Not steam, not sail. Rowing. But with a pair of wheels to speed up the oars.”
Imagining this unattractive vessel with serious doubts, Tom said, “You know them? How? Friends?”
“Their daughter,” Udovox said softly, “is like me. I knew her when we went to the same doctor. The family was a nice crowd. Of course, that was years back.”
“We’ll visit.” Tom clapped his hands. “But who’s going to look after our beautiful baby boy?”
“Our beautiful baby,” said Udovox, “can stay with Edilla. She’s good with animals.” He patted Tom’s pocket. “And we leave tomorrow morning.”
The brothel madam regarded her two men, one being her principal pimp, and both being men she trusted, with considerable disappointment. “Now listen to me,” she said, hands on hips. “This place is wearing positively threadbare. First Freya. Now you two. And what if you both drown? Boats aren’t safe, you know, especially little ones.”
“It’s Freya we’re going to find,” Tom said, without explaining the entire story. Nor did he mention that he and his lover were both heartily sick of the brothel life, and already had money secured, volunteered by Udovox’s parents, for a whole new life once Freya could be found.
It was a larger boat they bought, and they were taught to sail it. It had one short mast, one large sail, two sets of oars, a massive wheel at the stern, and another nestling the rudder at the prow. “But,” said the boat builder, who remembered Udovox extremely well since that was the only other dwarf he’d ever seen apart from his own very shy daughter, “Giardon is way south. Do you have a nautical map?” They did not, and received a copy from the boat builder. “Take food. Don’t try fishing since raw fish have tiny sharp bones that stick in your throat and kill you off. And be prepared to sail for a ten-day.”
“That long?” Tom had expected one day and perhaps a night.
“Well, you’ve got a good boat now. You might as well use it.”
“And if we drown?”
“Don’t sail into storms, take the sail down and the mast too if the wind gets too rough. Then bring the boat back and I’ll buy it back off you. It’s one of my best.”
They left the lacine kitten with at the brothel, and packed large amounts of bread, cheese, pies, raw fruit and cooked vegetables, bottles of water, wine and ale, and two blankets each. The excitement was tangible. It was the most unusual adventure they had ever thought of undertaking.
The waves swallowed them for six days and seven nights and the excitement overcame the fear, the tedious repetition, and the hard work. Dolphins danced and whales breached. When both moons sank on opposite sides of the black night waters, a silver world of ripples sang of magic and gods. With little space for making love, they talked more than usual, discussed the things they had never considered before, and they conserved their food, both hoping they’d lose the middle bulge while they were at it. They took turns to sleep, but often, exhausted, drifted while in each other’s arms, watching the sun rise and set, the horizon turning from a haze of rain to a haze of sizzling heat, and the birds wailing high above.
Jak’s miracle was on its way.
She rolled reluctantly from the bed although, with both his arms wrapped tightly around her waist from behind, she stopped halfway and laughed.
“Dear heart. We have to get up and face another day. There’s so much to do and this time at least the king has agreed.”
“Agreed to see us. Not agreed to offer any help.”
“He will, because I’m going to blackmail him.”
Fraygard released his wife, who tumbled, sitting on the rug, laughing.
It was difficult to be difficult, when all they could think about was freedom, and loving, hope and enormous comfort. Freedom sat high on the eves of the list. Many years had passed in the misery of the Prison Island, and Chia, permitted to visit her husband only four times a year, had lived in poverty and wretchedness. Now Fraygard was free, although his arrest had not yet been announced unjust, and lived in constant company with the wife he adored, both enjoying one of the finniest apartments at court. King Frink, however, was not their sweetest companion even though he had arranged the release.
“We have important things to do,” Chia repeated. “And I want my daughter.”
“We have no idea where she might be, since my dear Hyr was killed.”
A quick journey to Lydiard had helped no one. The Lord had died, and his son had disappeared. More importantly, the woman Hyr had been slaughtered. She had cared for Freya, the townsfolk said, “for many years, but had been stoned to death in order to bring an end to the Black Death, which had ravaged every village, every town, and virtually every household for miles around. And the daughter? She’d run south.
It had been years ago. They did not even know if the girl had changed her name, if Hyr had ever told her of her true mother, if she had now married, or if she had also died.
Looking far more aged than he truly was, Fraygard had only one friend apart from his much beloved wife. “Logon will help,” he said.
“Logon has also disappeared,” Chia pointed out. “Getting freedom back after a twenty-year imprisonment will surely make any man change his life.”
“A thousand years in prison,” Fraygard corrected her, “and I am now at least a thousand years old.”
Chapter Twelve
It was late winter at court, and although everyone was hoping for the sunny rainbows announcing the start of Probyn and the end of the long freeze, it was another bitter morning and folk stayed in bed, snuggling under as many blankets, quilts and warm bodies as they could manage. Reyne enjoyed plenty of warmth and the maid had recently lit the fire. The flames rose, and puffed smoke. There was no warm body for her to cuddle with, but Reyne was especially glad of that. Nor did she go immediately to her daughter’s nursery, since just the previous day her husband had returned, and his presence had extinguished all her shining happiness. Nevertheless, he had hardly spoken to her, had not come to her bedchamber that night, and had entirely ignored their daughter as was usual.
Almost four months old, small, very fair haired, Cecily resembled her father. Reyne saw the man she hated in her daughter’s eyes, her colouring, even her mouth, and certainly her pale flaxen hair. She feared to show it, and when she kissed the child, smothering her with the semblance of dutiful love, she tried not to see her husband’s eyes but instead looked at the tiny hands, the curled toes, and the little round gurgling chin.
Her old nurse, who had looked after her since she was an infant herself but who was now rather too aged to trust with the new baby, was plump in fine blue linen and, sleeves rolled to her elbows, was stoking the fitful first glimmer of the fire.
“Tis not a sickly morning, mistress, a
nd ‘tis time you was up. Folks is expected to be arriving early this morning, and the servants must organise afore the dinner platters can be served. Will be a mighty feast for the day, with his lordship, bless him, home at last.”
The shutters were lifted and the winter sunshine rushed in. It was truly not a sickly morning, but Reyne was feeling sick. “I’m tired,” she murmured. “I think I will stay in bed until dinner is served indeed.”
“Now, now, my lady. There’s the guests will need to be greeted. And you’ll miss kissing our precious little babe on this day of all days?”
The lady smiled obediently and swung her legs from the bed, accepting the robe held out to her as she crossed to the growing flames on the hearth. “You’re right, Alice, and I need to smile, not frown,” she said, “and stay with her for the morning until our guests are arriving. Before that, I shall not go downstairs. I am not ready to face my lord. At least, not yet. You may come with me to the nursery.”
The nursery wing seemed exceptionally quiet, though a trickle of winter sun crept in through the long windows and the three nursery maids were busy folding the linen nethercloths recently brought up from the laundry, and the soft woollen blankets for the little child’s bed. But the bed was empty.
Reyne said, “Up so early? And where is my darling Cecily?”
The mistress of the chamber curtsied. “My lady, have you not been informed? Though I confess we are a little puzzled ourselves. For his lordship took the child with him after your own goodnight visit at the usual four of the clock yesterday. His lordship rode out at five of the clock, as the sun went down. We were told not to expect them back until today, but have no further details, my lady. There is, as yet, no return nor word from his lordship.”
The lady stood very, very still and looked towards the gentle burnish of sunbeams over the empty bed, its sheets smooth with no indentation of child’s body nor dip on the pillow. Reyne stared, not daring to breathe, as if she might then breathe in a new day with her daughter there, laughing and calling to her.
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