Fergal did not answer. “Recite the conversation again slowly,” he said, taking up a quill and a blank parchment, “this time without translating it.”
Aedan did so. “What does ralge mean?” he asked.
“Somewhere between innocent and trusting.”
“Oh.” Aedan saw how big a difference that made to the meaning. “And krulua?”
“Negotiations.”
“So this has nothing to do with a romantic arrangement, then, does it?”
“That might be there too, but the discussion you overheard implies a political arrangement, such as a trade agreement or military alliance, and this would indeed be a strong reason for Burkhart to suppress rumours of danger or anything that might cast his city in a bad light.”
“Who is the woman they talk about?”
“Officially, King Renka still holds the throne in Vinterus. But one of our sentinels –”
“Sentinels?”
“A delicate word for something else. You’ll learn about them in time. One of our sentinels delivered a message that has not yet been circulated. It contains only unproven suspicions. Princess Irrinel is considered by many in that palace to be ambitious and black-hearted enough to murder her parents for the throne.” Fergal paused. “Our sentinel suspects she has already done so and is hiding their deaths while she consolidates her position. What you overheard seems to confirm this.”
“Do you think Prince Burkhart knows?”
“Whether he believes he is negotiating with Renka or Irrinel is of little consequence, because we are forbidden by our king to form any kind of alliance with Vinterus. They are a treacherous nation with a history of dishonour and underhand dealings. Burkhart, it would appear, is making free with the southern reaches of his father’s kingdom as if it were his own. If I know King Elgar, then this is news that would most certainly bring an end to Burkhart’s rule here.”
“Another secret that could get me hanged,” Aedan groaned.
“Not hanged. That’s only for public executions. Dungeon axes and swine feed-troughs are for hushing.”
Aedan put his head in his palms for a while. “Can we get word to Tullenroe, to the king?” he asked.
“We would need far better proof than we now have, or stern eyes would be turned on us. We need to wait until it is clear what is happening, until it can be proven. Then we will send word.”
“I would give a few toes to see the last of this prince. Being in his city is like standing in a bear trap that’s been jammed with a stick. I keep wondering when the stick will break.”
“Don’t panic, Aedan. For the time being we are no great threat to Burkhart. He has far more troublesome things on his mind. He is not likely to think of much beyond these negotiations and the Fenn threat. We will find a way to deal with him eventually. Something will slip and we’ll have our proof. Hang onto your toes for now. If things get desperate you can make Burkhart an offer.”
Aedan laughed. Fergal’s eyes were lost in thought while his hand dug somewhere through the wild bush of a beard, probably just as lost.
“I’ll let Osric know,” he said. “In fact, I think the academy high council should be told.”
“May I know who they are?”
“Considering the context in which your name will be mentioned, it is a fair request. I am chairman. Sorn and Edreas – whom you do not know – along with Giddard and Balfore hold the other seats.
“Balfore, mayor of the city south?”
“Yes. We needed a man with strong political influence. He has done fine work for both the city and the academy. He would not approve of this disloyalty to the throne.”
“Seeing the prince reminded me of the last time I overheard them … and I was wondering …”
“No, Aedan. I am not going to show you what lies beneath the academy.”
“I hate mysteries that are forbidden. They are like meals you have to watch other people eat.”
“Did I forbid you to search or explore?”
“Won’t I be punished if I’m caught?”
“Of course. And I will be most surprised and a little disappointed if you see that as a closed door.”
“You have a strange set of ideals, Fergal.”
“Nothing to do with ideals. I consider it to be part of your training. I gave my word not to admit anyone, and I will keep that. You are training to be a marshal, and marshals are required to go where others cannot. Your explorations will not be by my enabling and will be for your advancement and ultimately for the good of Castath.”
Aedan grunted and rose to his feet, but Fergal was not one to forget things.
“Have you even started on the book?”
Aedan frowned. “No.”
Fergal said nothing. It struck harder than the worst of Dun’s shouting. That silence gnawed at him all the way back to his dorm. He pulled the red volume out and looked at the cover. The design was as familiar now as his own hand. He sat down, opened the book and tried to read. But it had the same effect as a plate of rotten offal.
“No!” he growled, shutting it and putting it back. “Not that. Anything but that!”
He drove it out of his thoughts again, but it was like shaking a pebble to the front of his shoe – just when he thought it was gone, it would slip back and make its presence felt. The only means of getting it out was by reading the book, and he could not do that. He would not do that. So he nudged the pebble away and pretended and thought of other things until it slipped under his tread and made him wince and almost scream with frustration. But that was the course he had chosen and he held to it.
–––
Since news of Eastridge had arrived in Castath, much had changed. Aedan had noticed on his return that there were fewer soldiers patrolling within the city. Castath had no separate police force – all internal security was managed by the military – so when garrisons had been posted in a broad arc to the east, the military presence back home was thinned.
As a compromise, marshal apprentices and student officers were assigned to patrols, assisting them from time to time in order to supplement the numbers. Even so, there was no hiding the fact that fewer eyes watched inside the walls.
A cruel counterpart to this was the growing number of naive countryfolk that had moved to the city from their isolated homes in the east.
The result was not unforeseeable.
Aedan and Lorrimer were paired with a group of soldiers – the very old and very young. All they managed to do was aid those they found beaten and robbed, and load up those who had fared worse. The patrols were too few to be everywhere they were needed, and spotters picked them out from a long way off.
Aedan’s mood sank through the day, but it was the last scene that turned him white with anger. An old woman, her skin cut and swollen with puffy bruises and her jaw struck almost from her face, hung weeping over a dead man, presumably her aged husband. The depth of her heartache was like a solid weight that rose with her soft keening and settled on the shoulders of everyone there. The younger soldiers were constantly brushing their cheeks as they tried to help her up and lift her onto the cart, but with feeble arms she fought them off and clung to the dead man, burying her face in his neck, gently brushing his thin white hair. “Oh Sherwin, Sherwin, my Sherwin …” she cried. The couple’s rough country clothes told enough of the story.
Lorrimer stood at a distance with his back to the scene. Aedan tried to watch but kept turning away, striking at the air with his iron-sheathed quarterstaff, wishing it was not air that he was striking.
That night he visited Osric’s house. The general was packing for a fortnight-long patrol in the east.
“I saw an old couple near Miller’s Court today,” he said, sitting down. “They were old enough to be grandparents. His neck was broken and it looked like they used a hammer on her face. What is happening to our city? We send our garrisons out to defend it and it begins to cut itself up from inside.”
Osric paused, waterskin in one hand, oatmeal loaf in
the other. “The irony of war,” he said. “It has always been this way. We are taught to think that the battle lines separate the good from the bad, but the truth, as you are beginning to understand, is less comfortable. When we have clearer knowledge of Fenn movements, perhaps we can pull back some of the patrols. Until then the dogs will take their chances.”
“Osric, what are the Fenn after? I know it’s not silver. We don’t have much left. It wouldn’t be food because their soil is just as rich as ours. What do we have that could justify a full scale war?”
“You’ve done some study in trade. What gem could bring about a war if even a small deposit were found?”
“Earthstars. But we don’t …”
Osric looked at him in silence.
“We do?”
“I should not really answer that, but seeing as you have been a guest in the war council and seeing as you shared knowledge that has more than once provided vital clues, I shall tell you. But it must not be passed on. The deposit was only recently found, and it has brought great danger. We are like the poor man who has just discovered a treasure trove beneath his floor. No walls to his property, flimsy locks to his doors, and merchants who would follow him back home the moment he attempted to trade. A nation trading in these gems needs to be well fortified before entering the market, or it will simply be invaded. We can’t even use the stones to buy arms or hire builders. Fortunately for us, the Fenn would not want to spread the word for fear of competition.”
“Have you ever seen an earthstar.”
“A few. You’ve seen at least two yourself at Kultûhm. Don’t you remember?”
“I saw a speck of light at the top of a cave.”
“You saw one up close. You wanted it.”
“Oh, the gem in the crown!”
“Yes.”
Aedan sat back and considered. “How did the Fenn hear about our deposit?”
“I’m not sure. Prince Burkhart has not told us. I suspect he tried to look for buyers.”
“Is it as bad as that? Try to sell and the buyer becomes a thief?”
“That’s about the way of it. The most hostile market I know. Horrible things to have to sell.”
“Do you think news of the earthstars has reached Vinterus?”
“I truly hope not, and so should you. If our young prince has not held his tongue we may find ourselves in a two-front war, with Lekrau always hovering.”
Osric finished packing his food, slung his bags over his shoulder and strode to the door. “There’s something you should know,” he said. “Both Holt and Captain Senbert have disappeared. I’ve checked prisons, patrol rosters, discharges, and even asked the officers. Nothing. It’s as if the earth swallowed them. I don’t think they will ever be seen again.”
Aedan stared, a needle of fear slipping behind his collar.
“Keep out of Burkhart’s way, Aedan. And even further out of Ganavant’s.”
“I always do.”
Osric glared at him. “There is nobody in Castath for whom that is less true.” The door slammed. It was the general’s version of a warm goodbye.
Aedan lingered for a while, staring into the grain of the rough oak table as if he would find in it some answer to how people could do to others what he had seen that day. And why one nation would rise against another for a few sparkling rocks.
His thoughts produced neither answers nor solace. He had intended to fix a meal, but his appetite was charred. Instead, he trudged out through the city to the walls, climbed a rickety builders’ ladder, and found his usual lonely spot between sentries where he could stare out into the heavy darkness.
A while later, big feet slapped towards him and Lorrimer lowered himself onto the stone. They watched the night in silence before Lorrimer spoke.
“Still upset?” he asked.
“Still,” Aedan said.
“Me too. I thought I could handle blood, but the people we saw today, none of them were armed, and even with weapons they would have been helpless. What kind of cowards …” he trailed off.
“Do you think,” Aedan said, after a while, “that anger is wrong?”
“Don’t know. Maybe it depends on how you use it.”
“Or where it comes from?”
“What do you mean?” Lorrimer asked.
“Well, I used to think real men turned their anger into revenge, and that’s what got them to be respected. But I tried it a few times and it didn’t make me feel like a man any more than swearing or kicking the chickens. But when I saw that old woman today, the anger I felt was huge and it seemed like a right kind of anger. Does that make sense?”
“I think so. Makes sense to me. I felt like that too. So did most of the soldiers, judging by how their faces looked.”
Lorrimer was quiet for a time and when he spoke again his voice was different. It was the voice of someone who has decided to release a long-held secret.
“One of my uncles used to come over when he was drunk and play this game where he would jab his knife into the table between my fingers. I could see my father was scared, but he didn’t want to argue with his brother-in-law, so instead he just laughed – that thin, false kind of laugh. When he hugged me afterwards I hated it. It was like he was lying. I used to think if he cared anything he would have got angry. If you care about people and you really love them, you should get angry at the things that put them in danger or hurt them.”
“You’ve also got to decide to do something,” said Aedan. “I used to get angry when my father …” he caught himself, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, decided he was tired of hiding it. If Lorrimer could lay down his secrets, so could he. It was time.
“I got angry when my father beat my mother,” he said. “The day I decided to stand in front of him, things got really bad for me. I thought I’d made a huge mistake at the time, but I don’t anymore. I would rather be the person who steps in front of a whole gang to defend someone and gets beaten up for it than the person who watches from a safe hiding. There were times I hid, and I think the shame hurts more than the bruises would have.”
A distant series of creaks interrupted him. “Listen,” said Aedan. “It’s the main gate. It must be Osric’s patrol leaving. He loves heading out at odd hours. That way nobody knows when to expect him. I wish I was going with.”
Lorrimer did not chime in with his agreement. “If they actually meet an enemy front,” he said, “I wonder how many of them will make it back.”
The next morning, Brenton, the stabler, shocked Aedan with stories of what was taking place near his home. Later, Aedan went to visit Garald and Hayes in the Seeps. The things they told him, he could hardly believe. It was even worse than he had thought. A reign of sickening lawlessness was spreading unchecked.
The knowledge turned inside Aedan like a bad meal. It shattered whatever was left of his assumptions about solidarity – that when war threatened, people with a common enemy stood together, princes and peasants, thespians and thieves. How, in a time like this, could men turn on their own? Apparently, to some, their own did not extend beyond their hands and feet, and they would turn on anyone and do anything that suited them.
Many who had run to the city for shelter had found all that they had dreaded, and found it here within the walls that should have protected them. Aedan remembered his first experiences – the gang that had tried to rob his father, his encounters with the Anvil whom he somewhat hoped to run into again, the gang he had spotted at work and that had tried to collar him.
And then he had an idea that sent him running.
Aedan was grim as he explained. Dun’s mouth stretched into a smile that held little humour.
“Fetch the whole class,” he said. “I’ll collect a few of the seniors.”
It took a little time to find everyone, but they were finally gathered in the weapons hall.
“It’s Aedan’s idea,” Dun said, “and it is a blazing good one. For some of you it will be your first uncontrolled encounter with the sharp end of a bl
ade and men who will not hold back. But I believe the time is right.”
Almost all the boys had passed their fifteenth birthdays, a few were sixteen, and they were strong for their age. Very strong.
As Dun began to explain, the faces watching him grew angry, then firm, and then eager.
It was afternoon in the Seeps, but already the light had fled, along with any respectable company. Some of the narrower alleyways were almost dark enough to warrant the use of lamps. But there was no lamp among the group of frightened young women that skittered between the heaps of refuse, shrieking at rats and arguing over directions in thin, frightened voices.
They came to a sudden halt as the shapes of three men filled the alley ahead of them. Gasps of horror escaped them when they spun and found that the alley behind them was now blocked too. They stood, quivering, drawing their shawls over their heads as if to hide, but it was too late.
“Pay up!” the largest and dirtiest of the men said. “Leave your money and we will let you pass.”
The women were too frightened even to speak. Coins clinked, some dropping on the floor as the foremost girl collected them and handed them over.
“Now will you let us pass?” she pleaded.
“I lied,” he said with a laugh as filthy as the floor of the alley. “I’m not much for counting, but it looks like there’s as many of you as there is of us. One each boys!” He stepped forward and put his unwashed hand around the first girl’s neck. The other men closed in.
“You’ve done this to many girls, haven’t you?” she asked.
“Many,” he said with a smile of pure evil. “We all have. And pickings have been good lately.”
“I thought so.” This time the girl’s voice was softer. It did not sound frightened, but it was heavy with sadness and it shook with swelling anger.
“You’re going to give me trouble, aren’t you?” the man growled, raising a club and tensing to bring it down hard.
Dawn of Wonder (The Wakening Book 1) Page 70
