by S J Hartland
Reluctantly he weaved past two soldiers huddled over a table, their voices low and careful, their glances creeping over shoulders as though they plotted treason.
An idle thought. His mind turned on schemes more dangerous than betraying kings.
Heath slid onto a bench opposite his sister, leaning to kiss her cheek. Judith’s perfume tantalised with a fragment of blossoms. It reminded him of lazy, steaming summers, of billowing clouds above fields of cornflowers.
“That girl has yellow hair.” He jerked his head. “Where’d she get that, do you think?”
“What do you care? This is Tide’s End. Every stinking, sweating soldier, priest, sailor and lordling washes up here. Maybe her mother bedded some blond Venivan. Or the girl’s the whelp of a heathen from beyond the Ice Sea. They all have yellow hair there.”
Heath laughed. “And how would you know, Judith, my precious?”
“I keep my ears open.”
“And your mouth shut—when needs must,” he teased. “A skill I’m yet to master.”
“You’ve mastered talking nonsense,” Judith said. “Made it an art form, in fact.”
A greasy-haired man with sweat stains on his tunic thumped a carafe onto the table. Heath dropped coins into his outstretched hand and poured wine. He sipped.
“I tried the ale,” Judith said. “Undrinkable. I ordered you wine.”
He made a face. “The wine is fit only for pigs.”
She laughed. “My poor Heath. If you can’t get drunk, what will you do?”
“The gods only know. How do the not-so respectable citizens of Tide’s End live like this? Cursed heat, flies, wine a dog might spew up. What a wretched place.”
“A wretched place?” Judith arched well-formed brows. “The jewel of the Isles? This famed city of stone, light and air?”
“Give me the emptiness of the Icelands any day.”
Tide’s End, in comparison, crowded like an oppressive mire crawling with jostling life. The city sprawled about an ancient castle rising from cliffs into clouds; a haze of alleys, jutting harbours and wharves lapped by a too-bright sapphire sea. Sleek, exotic ships with furled sails congested sea lanes or rocked beside long-fingered boardwalks.
Heath had prowled the sweeping harbour that morning, unnoticed in the wash of perfumed bodies thinly clad in silk and linen.
He listened to thuds and clunks as men unloaded goods off vessels from Wardour and distant Veniva, to creaking timbers, lapping waves, the cries of traders and strident voices cursing or laughing or complaining about the heat.
Tide’s End’s scents—brine, citrus and sharp sweat—tore at him with longing, a yearning for the lonely icescape of cutting winds and monotonous cold he and Judith called home.
“Surely we can soon return to the Icelands.” Judith grabbed his hand. “No need to look further. Aric Caelan will please our gods.”
“I must make sure.”
“I’m sick of this, Heath. Sick, sick, sick. Can’t we go home? It’s been—” She broke off to stare at the door, murmuring, “No, don’t look,” when he turned.
“Is it Pairas, or whatever his stupid name is? What’s he doing?”
“Laughing with some sweating fool. No doubt comparing jewellery or admiring each other’s garments. Isles men.” She gave a mocking roll of her eyes.
Heath tried the wine again. Still foul. “So what now?”
“We know his weakness.” Judith tucked a strand of long hair behind her ear. “I’ll bring him here and drop a little something into his drink.”
“What a dull plan. More fun if I beat the information from him.”
She patted his hand as she might a child’s. “What’s that old expression? Too much pleasure spoils a man. And I must protect you from yourself, dear brother.”
“Must you? I’d rather be spoiled.”
Scowling, Judith shot to her feet. “That cow.”
“What?”
“Your yellow-haired lass is all over him. And now another. Well, I suppose he is deliciously masculine.”
“An Isles man? They’re all too pretty for my taste. Can’t tell one from the other.”
“You can’t tell. Only because you’re always drunk.” She shed her cape and smoothed a gown hugging every curve.
Heath risked a glance as Judith glided away, hips swaying, torches dancing auburn light through her tumbling, dark hair. Men gaped. One, more brazen than his companions, called out. Her retort drew barks of laughter.
She reached a young man with burnished, black hair, a bladesman’s curved shoulders and press of muscle against a tight tunic. Whispered in his ear. The man laughed and shook his head. Women clinging to him glared.
Judith turned with a swirling gown and a flick of glossy hair.
The man discarded his admirers to follow like a puppy. Too easy. Heath yawned.
“Heath. I won our bet. This young man is Pairas. Not who you thought.”
“If he’s cost me money, the least he can do is drink with us.”
Judith touched Pairas’ arm. “Please join us.”
Heath caught a thread of her perfume; too sweet for this wretched den and its licentious Isles patrons.
Pairas willingly sat. His helpless, dog-like look reminded Heath of another old Icelands saying from the notorious long-dead lord and poet they called the Ice Rider.
Oh, what foolishness we men embrace, and all because of a pretty face.
“Pairas, this is my brother Heath.”
“Brother?” The Isles captain brightened.
“So you’re not Aric Caelan?” Heath gestured to the tavern keeper for more wine.
Pairas tore admiring eyes from Judith. “I’m honoured to serve Aric. Call him friend, even. But I’m nothing like him.”
“Really?” And everyone said Isles men all looked alike.
The surly tavern keeper brought wine. Heath surrendered more coins as Judith eased an ampoule from her pocket.
“An acquaintance pointed you out as Aric. My mistake.”
“Your acquaintance saw us together, perhaps? Where was this?”
An undercurrent of suspicion. He approved. “At a tournament, I think.”
Pairas made no reply. His stare dwelled on a brooch on Heath’s tunic. A tight frown burrowed his brow beneath soft, damp curls. “That’s a curious pattern.”
With a disarming smile, Heath drew his cloak tight.
“An old family thing. Wine? It tastes like piss, I’m afraid. Judith can buy the next carafe since she won our bet.” He wagged a playful finger at his sister. “She always guesses right. Whether it’s who wins the melee or if the king has a new mistress.”
Or which pretty, sweating, ignorant Isles fool he might carve up next.
“A tournament, you said?”
Ah, still suspicious. Hardly surprising. The king wanted Aric Caelan dead.
Heath poured wine to deflect the question.
Pairas raised his cup to Judith. “Lady, to your beauty.”
Judith threw him a bold, low-lidded look, her scarlet lips parted.
Pairas’ breath stalled. His dazed look mimicked other men’s around Judith.
Heath sighed. He expected a trickier hunt, given the young captain’s wits cut as sharp as his blade. Or so men said. And men in Tide’s End had a lot to say about Pairas—for a handful of coins.
“A good swordsman … not as good as Aric Caelan, mind you,” they had told him. “But then who is?”
“True, so true,” Heath had replied, nodding, “but about Pairas?”
“Oh, Pairas. Young for an Isles captain. Well-born. The only son of an impoverished lord drinking himself to death on a crumbling rock in the middle of the sea.”
Very sad. Heath hid another yawn as his sister clashed cups with Pairas. She slipped a hand beneath the table. A time-proved way to scramble a man’s wits, sharp or not.
Pairas put down his cup. He drew Judith’s hand onto the table and covered it with his own. “Can we just talk? I possess only your na
me. That isn’t close to enough. I must know what’s behind that beautiful face. I must know everything.”
Judith sat back. She hid a blink of surprise. A small silence settled about her and Pairas.
Across the tavern, laughter broke up voices raised in discord. A man shouted for ale. But neither of Heath’s companions spoke.
At length, Judith turned to him. “Heath, I thought you must meet a trader.”
He forced a doubtful look. “And leave you alone in this dreadful place? It’s too much to ask this young man to watch out for you, Judith, when we only just met him.”
Solemnly, Pairas said: “It would be my honour to serve you and your sister.”
“If you’re sure.” Pairas talked a lot about honour. An honour to serve Aric. An honour to service—ah, serve Judith. “Then I am in your debt. I’ll retire to change.”
He rose, nodded and made his way to the stairs. The seamen glared. Heath chuckled. Long memories in the Isles. They held a grudge for at least half an hour.
Upstairs, he left his door unlocked, lit a candle and dropped onto the bed. Not long now. Judith’s potion stunned as readily as her beauty.
Softly he whistled a stupid tune he heard all over Tide’s End about a knight called Goffren who betrayed the king. It followed them everywhere. The Falls, the Mountains, the Plains.
The minstrel in the city of kings, Dal-Kanu, was a swarthy, balding man with plump cheeks. At Tide’s End a pale-faced boy too thin to have breath in him belted out the words.
In a Downs tavern, a sallow-cheeked woman with braided hair amused drunken patrons with cheekily added lewd gestures.
Fat, thin. Old. All sang the same tune, it seemed. What tune might the young captain sing?
Wind whooshed as the door thumped back. Heath leapt up to catch a slumped Pairas.
“Quickly.” Judith pushed past. “Help me with him. He drained his wine in one swig. Silly boy. I could barely rouse him.”
“You had no trouble rousing him before.”
She glared at his crude humour. Heath muttered, “I am truly unappreciated,” and dragged Pairas to the room’s only chair. The man’s head drooped.
“How much did you give him? I can’t question him if he’s senseless.”
“Not my fault he gulped his wine.” Judith knelt to search a chest. “However, I have another potion that will somewhat restore his wits.”
Heath tapped fingers on the wall. She grew careless. He had known for a while but did not have the will to correct her. Not when he grew careless too. Sick to his gut of all this.
When they had first left the Icelands, Judith’s artistic seductions required only a mere promise to hook and land their prey. Now—
“He gulped the wine so he could bed you quicker. Of late, you’re reckless, clumsy even. I saw your hand. What did you do? Fondle him in public?”
“You have a wicked mind.”
True enough.
“I touched his thigh. He—” Her fingers stilled on the trunk, brow furrowed at the memory. “Removed my hand.”
“The chase, Judith. That keeps a man keen. On the Downs you let that swordsman with the grey eyes work to win you. This one? You could teach that yellow-haired wench a trick or two about plying her trade. If it’s too easy, a man like Pairas will suspect you want more than his body.”
“Shut your mouth.” Judith surged up, clutching a vial. “How dare you judge me. I serve our family and our gods.”
Heath gestured at Pairas. “He’s out of it, Judith. I won’t learn anything about Aric.”
“I don’t care. We learnt all we need. But you must make sure. Always making sure.”
“Lower your voice.” He pressed an ear to the door. “A poor choice will anger the gods.”
“I’m beginning to think one swordsman is just like another.”
“You don’t mean that.”
Hands on hips, Judith glowered. “No bladesman is Aric’s match. Instead of this nonsense, it’s time, surely, to come up with a clever plan, my clever brother, to abduct him.”
“I have lots of clever plans in my clever head. I just need to know where Aric might be so we can snatch him. With luck, this man will tell me.”
In answer she knelt and held the uncorked vial beneath Pairas’ nose. He coughed.
Judith rose, arms folded. “Well, he’s yours to torment. So make certain.”
Heath slapped their captive’s cheek. “Captain, you can sleep after we talk. You want to answer my questions. You must answer my questions. Can you do that?”
Pairas grunted. His dark eyes hazed, his body and mind languid and soft.
Despite the dream-like state, their sister Myranthe’s potion compelled answers. She loved her draughts, her spells. Magic gave Myranthe control. Even of her scheming siblings.
“What was that?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I want you to think back to a tournament in the Falls. Aric Caelan was there.”
“Aric fell in the melee.” Pairas smiled faintly. “Drank too much the night before.”
“He lost? To whom?”
“Aric doesn’t lose. He recovered, held off the Stone Knight, Sherrin Cross, I think—” His voice trailed off.
“Aric is the best swordsman you’ve seen?”
“We know this,” Judith muttered.
Pairas hesitated. “The best.”
“You sound uncertain.”
“No. Aric never loses. It’s just—”
“What?” Heath hammered.
“A Downs tournament years ago. There was this woman—”
“Yes, yes, forget the woman. What about this tournament?”
The Isles captain’s voice blurred. “He was perhaps seventeen. His lord raged when he learned he entered the lists. I thought he might strike the boy.”
“Strike who?”
“Kaell. Vraymorg dragged him away, shouting, ‘A bonded warrior does not waste his talents at tournaments. He serves the gods.’ Not a man to cross, the Mountains lord.”
“Vraymorg.” Judith frowned. “We keep hearing strange things about him.”
Heath leaned in. “You watched Khir’s bonded warrior fight. In a tournament?”
“Some Cahireans ambushed Kaell. Vraymorg killed—”
“Forget Vraymorg. Tell me about Kaell.”
“Kaell?”
Heath heaved an impatient sigh. “Is this Kaell a better bladesman than Aric Caelan?”
“This is pointless.” Judith threw up her arms. “We can’t touch Kaell. You know that. He belongs to Khir.”
Ignoring her, he gripped Pairas’ wrist. “Just tell me. Then you can sleep.”
“Tell you?”
“About Aric. And Kaell. Who is the better swordsman?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Then how is it?” He no longer had a taste for this. Time he and Judith returned home.
Pairas’ eyelids drooped. “That boy. He stunned everyone. His speed. His control.”
“So he is better than Aric?” A flat despair emptied him. The old gods protected Kaell.
“Kaell is brilliant, his technique perfect. But he fights coldly, without passion.”
That was a weakness? Not in the Icelands. Not in a fire arena.
“And Aric Caelan?”
Pairas smiled fondly. “Aric fights with both head and heart. Not that he’ll fight much after he bends his knee to Cathmor.”
Judith gasped. Heath’s breath died. He knew nothing of this.
“Why should Aric Caelan, prince of the Isles, bend his knee to King Cathmor?”
“No.” Pairas shook his head furiously. “It’s still secret. I can’t.”
“You want to tell me.”
The man’s head sagged as if the compulsion in the command crushed his will.
“A treaty. An end to war between the false king Cathmor and Aric’s father King Hatton. Signed secretly. Aric is escorting his sister Azenor to Dal-Kanu to marry the false king.”
Heath threw J
udith a bewildered look.
His sister shrugged a “don’t ask me.”
“And Aric? Will he stay in Dal-Kanu? Or return to Tide’s End once Azenor weds Cathmor?”
“Cathmor won’t let him leave. I told Aric that. I told him not to go, reminded him the king had a price on his head, that he’d find an excuse to arrest him. He wouldn’t listen.”
Judith whispered, “Heath, what do we do?”
“About him?” He drew his knife. “I’ll finish him, dump the body at sea.”
“No!” She grabbed his arm. “There’s no need. Leave him to sleep it off.”
“Judith, this man is not some drunken Downs knight or an unwashed Mountains warrior with a dog’s wits. He’s an Isles captain. He saw my brooch, may even know what it means.”
“No,” she howled, fingernails in his flesh. “Please. I can’t stand any more. I haven’t slept properly since you cut that soldier’s throat in Dal-Gorma. Please. Not this one.”
Heath dragged his hands down his face, too weary to argue. Let the fool enjoy a few dazed hours of life. Time enough to kill him later. “Tie him up.”
“Let’s leave him here, Heath. He doesn’t know who we are.”
“Bind him. Let me think.”
Judith dropped her hands to her side. “Heath, what do we do? If there’s peace, we lose all. The prophecy says a true Caelan king must rule before fate draws the seer back to the Icelands. If Hatton bends his knee, he can’t be king.”
Heath snatched up his cloak. A restlessness twitched. “I must go out.”
“Now?”
He nodded towards Pairas. “Watch him. I’ll deal with him when I return.”
The girl straightened her skirts. She flashed Heath that toothless grin and brushed strands of blonde hair from her cheek. “My, you’re a strong one.”
Heath pushed off the rough wall. Flooded tides left a line of salt and grime on stone.
He wrinkled his nose against the vinegarish stench of the narrow, mud-stained alley.
As he yanked up his pants, the girl held out her hand.
“I’ve a weakness for men with dark-brown hair. Reminds me of my first lover. But a girl’s still got ex—” she struggled briefly with the word, then proudly pronounced, “expenses.”
“You’ve got more than that.” Heath looped a lock of hair around a finger. Such a strange colour. With a laugh, he dug into his purse to find coins. She took them, again flashing gums.
