by Anthony Ryan
Berrine arched an eyebrow, pursing her lips in consideration. “You’ll trade this for a chance at some fabled pile of loot?”
“No.” My voice was sharp with refusal and I forced a calmer note into it as I went on. “But I’ll let you copy it, perhaps use what knowledge resides here to translate it, if you can.”
In truth, I was asking for two favours rather than a trade. My debt to the Sack Witch required I unlock the knowledge in this book, not that Berrine knew that. Her hunger for it was plain and I suspected she would have paid a considerable sum to own it. Would she settle for the chance to make a copy?
“I assume,” Berrine said, “this man you spoke of, the one not given to fancy, had some notion of where to look for the hoard?”
“The Shavine coast, so I’m told.”
“That’s more of a clue than your fellow treasure seekers possess, at least. Come on.” Her finger slipped from my hand as she brushed past me. “I’ve gained enough insight over the years to sort the fanciful from the promising.”
Climbing the ladder felt like a perilous business in the gloom, although Berrine ascended with the unconscious rapidity of one who could navigate this entire library blindfolded. She held the lantern at a helpful angle as I nervously clambered from the ladder to the metal scaffold that stretched along the third tier, then turned its glow upon the requisite tomes.
“Although Lachlan’s story has been greatly embellished over time,” she told me, her voice reminding me a good deal of Sihlda’s tutoring tone, “there’s no doubt he actually existed. Here—” she played the lantern over a row of tall but narrow books bound in red leather “—we have copies of the sheriff’s records dating from his most active periods of thievery and murder. The spelling of his name varies and it’s clear he employed several aliases, but his habit of collecting rather than spending his spoils is frequently mentioned. However, there are only two contemporary sources that make mention of his famed hoard.”
She passed the light to me and stood on tiptoe to retrieve a wooden scroll tube, twisting the lid free to extract the contents. “A letter from the Duke of the Shavine Marches to King Arthin the Third,” she said, holding up a document consisting of one page and a few lines of text. “It’s dated shortly after Lachlan’s disappearance and refers to a lost missive from the king enquiring as to the whereabouts of the outlaw’s hoard. It appears Lachlan stole a good deal of tax revenue over the years and the king was keen for its return. Sadly, the duke clearly had no notion of where it might be.”
Berrine sifted through the parchment and held up another document, this one consisting of several pages. “A fulsome account from one Sir Dalric Strethmohr, then Champion to the King, prepared two years after Lachlan’s demise. It appears King Arthin dispatched his most trusted knight on an errand to find the outlaw’s treasure. The poor man spent months scouring the Marches and beyond for any clue that might reveal its whereabouts. He lists over three dozen of Lachlan’s former associates put under torture ‘to compel honest testimony in place of churlish lies’. All without success, although before the rack snapped his spine, one did make mention of a smuggler of Lachlan’s acquaintance.”
“A smuggler,” I said. “One who would know well the hiding places on the Shavine coast.”
“Quite so. Unfortunately, it seems the fellow was inconsiderate enough to die before he could cough up the name of said smuggler.” She waved the pages at the other books on the shelf. “The rest of this consists of various researches and musings on the possible location of the hoard, some of it scholarly, most of it nonsense. Wealthy folk have beggared themselves searching for it, spending their lives in hopeless pursuit of something that may well not exist.”
I surveyed the other books, some thick, most small and all dusty with neglect. “There’s no other mention of the mysterious smuggler among all this?”
“A great deal of conjecture only. Smuggling was even more rife in those days and there are plenty of candidates among those who rose high in the trade. But, as is often the case with outlaws, parsing fact from rumour and legend to identify a real person is often impossible.”
I grunted in disappointment but little surprise. Finding the hoard had always been an overindulged fantasy, something to keep Toria at my side more than a true ambition. Still, as the months passed I had begun to wonder. “So,” I said, playing a finger across the dusted row of books, “no clue here to where the Hound laid his head.”
“Hound?” Berrine stepped closer, her brow furrowing with renewed interest.
“Something Deckin said, and another who also had some knowledge of this. That fellow I threw the stone at, in fact. He’s dead too, by the way.”
“But they spoke of the Hound in regard to Lachlan?”
“Erchel did. Deckin was far more circumspect. I assumed it was just another name for Lachlan. Perhaps folk called him the Hound of the Shavine Forest, or somesuch.”
“No.” Berrine’s frown deepened. “There are no accounts that refer to him as such. He was called a dog many times, but never the Hound.”
For a second her eyes took on the unfocused cast of a busy mind then she abruptly turned about and strode away, the iron platform thrumming with her purposeful steps. I followed at a less hasty pace, the way this metal scaffold squealed and shuddered making me wonder just how old it might be. She led me to another ladder, scaling it with her unconscious ease and scant regard for the lack of illumination she afforded her companion. Consequently, I was obliged to grope my way up the ladder, finding her on her knees, hands busy as she extracted and replaced one book after another.
“Where is it?” she muttered. Reading her expression, set in the concentration of an expert at work, I stayed silent, deciding she wouldn’t appreciate any distracting questions. After some more rummaging she let out a triumphant gasp and got to her feet, book in hand.
“The lettering is somewhat outmoded,” she said, holding it out to me. “But a scribe should be able to read it.”
Taking the book, I squinted at the words embossed onto its cracked leather cover. They were formed of overly elaborate Albermainish script, the characters flaked with specks of gold. It was not something I knew how to craft, although not altogether alien for I had seen Master Arnild doodle something similar on spare scraps of parchment.
“‘The Sea Hound’,” I read, peering closer at the denser words below the main title. “‘A Chronicle of Piracy in the First Tri-Reign’.” The First Tri-Reign, I knew, referred to the period of Albermaine history under the first three kings of the Algathinet dynasty. It was often considered something of a golden age by modern scholars, a time when the realm was young and the royal bloodline remained pure. Sihlda had been dismissive of such notions, calling them “the chauvinism of the nostalgia addict”.
“The Sea Hound,” Berrine told me in hushed excitement, “was a notorious pirate chieftain during the time of Kings Arthin the Second and Third. He menaced the realm’s coast from the Fjord Geld to the Bay of Shalvis. It’s not known where he was born but it is clear that his home port was not in the duchies.”
She took the book from my hands and thumbed through the first few pages, revealing a map I recognised as depicting the seas off Albermaine’s western coast. Berrine’s finger stabbed at a small cluster of islets a good distance out in the midst of the Cronsheldt Sea. “‘The Iron Maze’, they call it. A notorious graveyard for ships, said to be unnavigable by all save the Sea Hound. A handy place to stow treasure, wouldn’t you say?”
“This seems something of a stretched thread,” I said. “You think Lachlan and the Sea Hound were allies?”
“Perhaps. We do know they were contemporaries. It’s not stretching the thread too much to imagine the foremost outlaw of the Shavine Forest and the greatest pirate of the age forming some kind of association. But, until now, no one has suggested such a link. Folk have been looking for a smuggler this whole time when they should have been looking for a pirate.”
Seeing doubt linger on my f
ace, she laughed, leaning closer. “It will require further research, of course. But there are far more accounts of the Sea Hound’s exploits in this library than there are of Lachlan’s. Fjord Gelders love sea stories, after all. Give me time and perhaps I can point to a particular spot on more detailed map.”
“How much time?”
“Time enough—” her voice grew soft as she leaned closer still, reaching into my jerkin where I had consigned the witch’s book “—to translate a portion of this, for I sense it’s your principal object, is it not? The treasure is but a trifle compared to this.”
Her lips were close enough to brush my cheek, summoning an automatic response I surprised myself by resisting. Far, far too friendly. However, such resistance dissolved when Berrine’s arms encircled my shoulders, breath hot against my ear.
“When the Ascarlians laid down the foundations for this library,” she whispered, “King Aeric fucked his favourite slave on the keystone for all to see then cut her throat to bathe it in her blood. It was how they invited the gods’ blessing in those days…”
Her words died as I smothered her mouth with mine, crushing her body against me and rejoicing at the feel of female flesh. The movement summoned a fresh judder to the scaffold of sufficient violence to make me stop, breaking the kiss to glance nervously around.
“How sturdy is this?” I asked to which Berrine responded with a laugh that echoed long and loud in this ancient place.
“Sturdy enough,” she said, reaching to gather up her skirts. The sight of her legs, long, pale and golden in the lamplight, was enough to banish all other concerns and I pulled her close once again. Fortunately for the longevity of this tale, most cherished reader, she was proven right about the sturdiness of the scaffold.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The trinket was old and pitted, but the gleam of real silver shone bright as I turned it in my fingers. The metal had been shaped by skilled hands into a perfect semblance of a rope twisted into a complex knot. The weave of the rope and slight bulge where it pressed against itself were all crafted with a precision that brought a smile to my lips.
“Take it,” Berrine had said in the small hours of the morning. We lay together in the chamber where she slept most evenings, having forsaken the distractingly creaky scaffold after our first somewhat energetic encounter. The next couple of hours left us sweaty and spent, tangled in contented lethargy on her narrow bed. She had made a gift of the silver knot she wore on a chain beneath her robe when I told her of my intended patrol into the wilds that day.
“You may get to keep that book,” I commented with a flippancy I didn’t feel. “Since I’d be a liar if I said I was sure of coming back.”
“It’s just a lucky charm, of sorts,” she told me as I regarded the token with a puzzled frown. “Don’t worry,” she sighed, resting her head on my chest. “It doesn’t mean we’re bound in eternal union. Such notions are the delusions of your Covenant-infested lands where women are enslaved as whores under the name of ‘wife’.”
Had my mind been less addled by post-carnal torpor, the venom with which she spoke of the Covenant would have roused me to question her further. Instead, I was content to lie with her a while longer, my gaze roving the many sheets pinned to the walls of her chamber. They were a mix of drawings and writings, often intertwined.
“My own researches,” she said, seeing my interest.
“Into what?”
“Oh, whatever snares my eye. It varies over time.”
Surveying the notes and sketches, I noted how Berrine wrote with a messy, near feverish speed while her drawings bespoke a measured and careful attention to detail. She was evidently a better artist than a scribe, though I felt it best not to say so. I also saw that, while much of the notes were set down in Albermainish script, a good many were rendered in the angular lettering etched into many a window and doorway in this town.
“Ascarlian runic,” she explained when I asked what it might be called. “The archaic form rather than the more standardised text used today. I’ve been trying to master it for years but it’s tricky. Meaning can be altered with just a small change to the spacing between the characters.”
One particular cluster of sheets drew my attention more than the others. They were all in runic and positioned in a chaotic mass around a sketch of the statues carved into the base of Mount Halthir. I hadn’t yet managed to view these up close, catching only glimpses of the mighty gods of the Altvar rearing above the rooftops.
“The bases of the statues are liberally inscribed,” Berrine said when my gaze lingered on this patch of wall. “And not all have been translated. The master librarian is content for me to work on it when time allows. If I manage to compile a complete translation, he promised I will have a book of my own to place on these shelves.”
There was a guarded note to her voice, one she tried to hide, but I knew a lie when I heard it. There was more to these notes than just the promise of a book with her name on it, however laudable such an ambition might be. I debated pressing her on the matter but, with daylight creeping around the edges of her small shuttered window, I thought it best to take my leave.
“Five days,” she said as I dressed. “I think I should have some answers then.”
The sight of her propped on one elbow, flaxen hair cascading over her shoulders and the bedsheets only half covering her nakedness, brought a severe temptation to stay. However, Sergeant Swain’s reaction should he feel compelled to seek me out, as he surely would if I failed to appear at the allotted hour, was enough to have me pulling on my trews and reaching for my boots.
“And the Caerith book?” I asked.
“That will take longer, as I think you know. Still, I’d hazard that your company will be here a good while, don’t you? I’ll find you there when you return. Best if you don’t risk coming here again.” A regretful pout passed across her lips before she lay back, placing a forearm over her eyes and smothering a yawn. “Diverting as this was, we would’ve been lucky to get away with just a flogging if they found you here.”
Feeling another swell of temptation, I tore my gaze from her breasts and made for the door.
“Reconnaissance only,” Evadine told Wilhum and me when we led our mounts to the Gate Wall. “No fighting unless you have to. I’ll expect you back in three days. After five, I’ll assume you dead.” She had the good grace to put a regretful frown on her face as she said this, although the coldness I still saw in her eyes as she looked me over raised doubt as to its sincerity.
The captain paused to clasp hands with Wilhum. They said nothing but the look that passed between them told of a lifelong affection. I had the sense of a farewell in the way she swallowed and lowered her head a fraction before stepping back and moving to me. Her face was guarded, and voice clipped to near a whisper as she said, “If he chooses to run, let him go.”
I glanced at Wilhum, watching him climb into the saddle and tease a hand through his horse’s mane. I could tell he’d had a gutful of drink the night before and he wore the expression I’d seen on plenty of men, the blank-eyed, partly ironic mask of those who consider themselves lost.
“He won’t do that, Captain,” I replied in a similarly quiet murmur. “Only cowards run from those they love. And he is no coward.”
Evadine’s mouth twitched with controlled emotion and she looked away. “Even so,” she said in a tone of curt instruction. “Remember my order.”
I hauled myself into the saddle, drawing a snort from Karnic who at least consented not to toss his head in protest this morning.
“Here.” I looked down at the sound of Swain’s gruff rasp, seeing him strapping a crossbow and quiver of bolts to the rear of my saddle. It was a stirrup crossbow, lacking a windlass so not as likely to fell a man with a single bolt, but much faster to recharge. “Know how to use one, I trust?” Swain enquired, stepping back.
I grinned, knuckling my forehead with expected servility. “That I do, Supplicant Sergeant.”
“Good. L
ose it and the cost will come out of your pay. And mind what the captain said; five days and you’re dead.”
A mile or two from the fjord, the perennial mist it breathed over the shore dissipated to reveal a landscape of steep-sided valleys bordering rolling, forest-clad hills. The trees also lay in a thick green blanket over the lower reaches of the slopes and the sparse open ground was riven with many streams and rivers of varying depth and breadth.
I was accustomed to places mostly untouched by human hand, but only in the depths of the Shavine Forest, where even the duke’s foresters feared to tread. Much more familiar were the outer fringes of the forest thinned by constantly felling and charcoal burning while beyond lay the hedged fields where the churls toiled. The innards of the Fjord Geld had no hedges, or any stone walls that I saw. It was truly a wild place, and cold with it.
“This is late summer,” Wilhum told me with a laugh when I complained of the chill. “If you think this is bad, you should see a winter in the Geld. When the nights grow longest you can’t venture outside for more than a moment or two without sucking tiny shards of frozen air into your lungs.”
We rode at a sedate walk, Wilhum seeming to pay little heed to our course except to maintain a vaguely eastward direction. My enquiries as to our intended destination met with only a muttered “Wherever the enemy may be found, I suppose.” I found it lacking in reassurance.
“Did it occur to you that you’re being tested?” I asked. My mood, already sour, had been worsened by the experience of fording a particularly energetic stream, its current churning over loose rock, which set Karnic to stomping in annoyance once we cleared the bank. My boots were filled with icy water and I worried my feet might freeze come nightfall. “You’ve turned your coat twice now, after all,” I went on. “It seems odd our Anointed Captain would entrust command of this oh-so-important mission to you.”
