The Heir To The North

by Steven Poore

  Cassia stifled her relieved sigh, still uncertain how far she should trust this man. Nobody else had offered any help, true, but why should a beggar take pity on her? What motive could he have? She had no doubt there were countless unmapped and quiet alleyways in Hellea, and she had no desire to be found in one come the morning, with her throat slit from ear to ear. She should have accepted Meredith’s offer. But she was so used to being able to drift freely through the streets of Keskor and the northern coastal towns that she had not considered how different Hellea would really be.

  “I don’t know the street,” she said, “but the sign shows a man pouring wine into his mouth. The owner is called—”

  “Ultess?” the beggar interrupted. When Cassia nodded, he surprised her with a bark of laughter that deteriorated into a rasping cough.

  “Is something wrong, sir?” she asked, worried by his reaction, and worried too that the coughing fit might incapacitate him. “Is it a fair place to stay?”

  The beggar waved her away before she could help him. “Only a cough. I’ll be fine.” But his breath was shallow and came in a ragged wheeze. He lowered himself carefully onto the steps. “Gods . . . bitches and bastards . . . the damned lot of them . . . I’ll be fine.”

  Cassia hovered nervously for a moment, with a few sidelong glances at the whores at the bottom of the steps, before joining him. She had decided to trust the man. If he did mean her any harm he would be hard-pressed to even catch her if she ran.

  “Do you know Ultess, sir?” she asked when the man’s fit had subsided.

  “I know him. He has paying guests now, does he?” The beggar lifted his head to study her more closely. “Might be the day isn’t so wasted after all. Come on girl, here’s a bargain for you. I’ll show you to the Old Soak, and you pay for a drink there.”

  She did not think Ultess would allow the beggar inside his tavern, but she was reluctant to offend the old man. Baum will surely buy him one drink if I ask. I can repay him when I start telling my tales.

  The beggar extended his unbandaged hand and Cassia took it.

  q

  When they reached the corner of the next road Cassia was dismayed to see the gradient of the hill before them. She knew the beggar would not manage the climb unaided. He had relied on her support ever more over the last half mile, unsteady on his feet and needing regular rests. These pauses were becoming longer, and at this rate they would barely reach the Old Soak before daybreak. But Cassia would not have abandoned her companion even if she had been able to pull away from his clawlike grip. She had given him her word, after all. If she left him here he would in all likelihood go no further and lie helpless in the gutter until dawn.

  It was not that he was drunk. Or rather, it was not only that he was drunk. The man rambled, the direction of his thoughts changing with every explosion of coughs and wheezes, and Cassia quickly gathered that he had been seriously wounded in recent times. The scarring on his face and body were testament to that, and his wounds had robbed him of his health. Listening to the scattered fragments of narrative, between the bouts of coughing, Cassia was amazed the man was still alive.

  “One was as young as you,” the beggar said. “Just as young. An’ they butchered him. Laughed as they did it. No courage, no principles. That’s what it comes to.”

  Phlegm streaked the corners of his mouth, and he wiped ineffectually at his face with one sleeve. He had mentioned this boy before, a note of bitterness in his voice. “I let him down. I let them all down. Why are you helping me?”

  “Because you asked me to,” Cassia said. She glanced over her shoulder. The street was quiet and only a few revellers and labourers could be seen. For the most part they had been left alone as they made their tortuous path through the city. People veered aside when they saw the old beggar; or were pulled out of the way by their companions and friends. But if any showed a flicker of recognition, none hailed him or offered to help.

  “Never asked.”

  “You did, sir.”

  He spat against the wall. “More fool you. And don’t sir me.”

  “Then what am I to call you, sir?”

  “Fool. Idiot. Gutless. Drunkard. Coward. Fake.” He lifted his head for a moment and saw the hill before them. “Sweet Matias. Leave me be.”

  Cassia gritted her teeth and hauled him upright once more. “No. We have a bargain, sir.”

  “Stupid girl.”

  “You’re worse than my father,” Cassia retorted. She would have to drag him up this hill, but if that was the only way she could move him, that was how it would be.

  This far from the grand squares and precincts that were at the heart of Hellea, there was little light to see by. Flickering shafts escaped through the missing slats or gaps at the sides of the shutters in the tenements that crowded the narrow lanes. But Hellea was dark and becoming darker, and now Cassia began to fear for her safety. If any man chose to attack her now, she would be hampered by the beggar’s weight, and he would be unable to defend her. Right now he couldn’t even defend himself.

  “How much further, sir?”

  The beggar spluttered. “Why didn’t they run?”

  That made no sense at all. She cursed under her breath and started up the hill, half-dragging him along with her. After a few steps she realised propping him up from behind and pushing him up the hill might prove more successful.

  The man’s weight vanished suddenly, pulled up and away from her as though Althea herself had descended from the skies to pluck him from the streets. Cassia overbalanced with a squeal and tumbled forward into the dirt at the side of the road. When she looked up, the dark shape before her had far too many limbs, until her shocked senses finally caught up with her.

  “Meredith?”

  He held the old man’s unconscious form in the air as if he was nothing more than a rag doll. “You have worried us.”

  Her strength leaked out from her body as she lay on the cobbles. It was a struggle to lever herself back onto her knees. “That stupid boy ran off and left me.”

  Meredith reached down with his free hand and hauled Cassia onto her feet. She eyed the lordling nervously. In the dim light he looked as frightening as he had back at the shrine that housed Malessar’s shieldmen. He wore his sword openly, the bejewelled pommel flashing as it caught a shaft of light from a nearby window. Cassia imagined the tales that would circulate around the city as Meredith made his presence felt. A Northern lordling, seeking the great Warlock – there will be trouble . . .

  The beggar wheezed, and Cassia realised his breathing was more shallow than ever. “Meredith, take care with him. He’s ill.”

  The lordling lowered him gently to the ground and the beggar’s breathing eased. “He was not attempting to overpower you?”

  “No. We were helping each other. He was going to show me how to reach the Old Soak. He knows Ultess.”

  “I can smell alcohol.” Meredith bent over the man. “Cassia, this man is dying. Ultess will not welcome him.”

  It was hardly a surprise to her, but she could not leave him here like this. “Can you carry him? Please, Meredith?”

  There was a puzzled frown on his face. “Why?”

  “Because he helped me. It’s the right thing to do.”

  “I will help you,” Meredith said. He lifted the old man with barely any effort. “Come with me. The inn is not far.”

  q

  Ultess was sat at one of the tables in the front room, a half-drained tankard at his elbow. His only reaction to the sight of the beggar in Meredith’s arms was a weary sigh, and a resigned shake of his head.

  “Look what the dogs dragged in. My errant doorkeeper.”

  This beggar – the only man in the whole city who had talked to Cassia this afternoon – was Ultess’s man? Surely that was such a coincidence that only storytellers would use? She watched as Meredith laid the man on a bench behind the door, handling him more gently than he had in the street, and her thoughts tumbled over each other. But this is a story.
Or it will be. Who is to say what will happen? Only the gods knew for certain. This must have happened for a reason. I was on Ceresel’s steps – the goddess herself heard me! She meant for this man to find me!

  The man groaned, but did not wake. Already he looked more comfortable, his breathing becoming more regular. Ultess snapped at his hearth-boy. The treacherous child was hunched by the fire, and Cassia glared at him as he hurried to cover the old man with a blanket.

  “Sir, who is he?” she asked, once the room had returned to normal. There were still several men occupying a table in the far corner of the tavern. They had offered a few muttered comments at Meredith’s entrance, but their attention had soon wandered.

  “Didn’t he tell you?” Ultess said. “No, I don’t suppose he did. Not one to shout his own name. He never was, and these days even less so. I believe he thinks himself cursed. And there’s always the bloody Gentarrs to watch out for.”

  “I don’t understand,” Cassia said. “The Gentarrs?”

  Ultess winced and motioned her to lower her voice. “Softly, girl. Even here there are eyes and ears. This is political.”

  She looked around guiltily, but none of the other customers appeared to be listening. She was reminded of Rann Almoul and his quiet campaigns amongst Keskor’s richer families, and the thought left a sour taste in her mouth.

  “He may tell you if he sees fit,” Ultess said. “If he actually remembers who you are from one day to the next.”

  Meredith loomed at Cassia’s side. She was oddly grateful for his presence now, and a small part of her wanted to edge closer to him for warmth and comfort. She wasn’t sure where those thoughts had come from, and she shied away from them.

  “He was a soldier,” Meredith said. He nodded to the wall over the bench, where a sheathed sword was mounted. Metal brackets secured the weapon in place; it would not be easy to remove it. “Was that his sword?”

  Ultess stared at the lordling as though weighing his answer. “The last he ever wielded. I don’t think he even sees it now.”

  “But what is his name?” Cassia asked again.

  Ultess glanced at the man. For a second Cassia thought she saw a shade of sympathy in the tavern keeper’s eyes. “Arca. Arca the Brave.”

  The old man muttered and shifted, as though the mention of his name had penetrated his exhausted mind. Then he rolled onto his side, curled away from them and away from the dim light of the tavern’s lanterns.

  “Baum says you are a storyteller’s daughter,” Ultess said. “Well, here’s a tragedy for you. Arca the Brave, one of the last heroes of Cape Magister, the man who held the line at the Usurper’s Fields, who saw even the mighty Guhl fall and die.”

  “What happened to him?” Cassia asked.

  “He grew old. His body failed him. He went to drink. Then he sold out a contract and his honour. His guilt got the better of him – if it had not, then Lianna of the Castaria would most likely be dead. Arca himself barely survived. Now he sleeps on my floor and begs for scraps like a dog.” The tavern keeper sighed. “Perhaps there are some wars that are not worth fighting.”

  Chapter Ten

  By the time Cassia rose in the morning, Baum was gone. When she asked Ultess where he was the tavern keeper shook his head.

  “I never asked him, and he never told me,” he said, in a tone that brooked no further questioning.

  She was disappointed, but she supposed she only had herself to blame. It was little wonder, after the exertions of the previous day, that she had slept far into the morning.

  She peered through the shutter, down into the street. Stains and unsavoury lumps marked the ground beneath the window. Thankfully, she did not need to avail herself of the pot. Yet.

  Meredith, after scaring the hearth-boy half to death with his intense practice of forms and stances in the yard, had also left for the day, and Cassia was alone. She glared at the hearth-boy until he retreated behind the curtain. He still had not apologised for abandoning her the night before. Arca slept, and every so often a snore like dry twigs breaking underfoot came from his bench. Ultess was busy with chores, moving endlessly from the fire to the stairs, casting an occasional frown in her direction. Cassia had the impression that he was uncomfortable with her presence. And that served to inflame her own discomfort.

  Finally she fled back to her room and gathered her robes, tying her hair so she could hide it under the cap. The patched clothing hid the curves of her figure, so the people of Hellea would see her as a boy, just as her father’s audiences in the North had done.

  Ultess looked up as she descended again. “Going out? Don’t get lost again, girl. Arca won’t wake today.”

  She decided not to answer him.

  The hearth-boy might not have been one for words, or directions – or cleanliness, come to that – but his route into the city was easy to follow. This time she took care to watch the way behind her as well as the road ahead, memorising landmarks, buildings and small shrines. She was confident she would not lose her way today.

  She navigated her way past the Emperor’s Square and paused before the temple of Pyraete, marvelling at the building’s overbearing columns. It had been built in the Northern style, blunt and aggressive, threatening to take over the entire square. In the evening the temple would cast grand shadows over the square, asserting its dominance over the city. For a moment she felt a twinge of homesickness. There were still buildings with such a profile in some towns in the North, and she had sheltered in their deep porticos during many savage winter storms. She forced herself to veer away from the steps of the temple. She had more important things to do than remember those days, she told herself. She had a future to make.

  Still there was no sign of even one storyteller on the streets. Cassia felt conspicuous in her robes, but nobody seemed to be paying her much attention. As the sun reached its zenith she found a large market area that sprawled through streets and open spaces alike, clogging up all passage like pondweed. Where the stalls in the Emperor’s Square were piled with yards of rich cloth and fruit from overseas, the traders here clearly catered to a less affluent market, selling grain, roughly milled flour, old and sweating cheese and, on a few stalls, even cuts of greying meat.

  She shuffled through, struggling against the press around her. The sun and the dust made her queasy, and the streets stank. At last she could stand no more and, checking her cap still covered her hair, she found a tavern just off one of the broader alleyways and ducked cautiously down the steps.

  This tavern was a dingier affair than the Old Soak. The rushes covering the floor were rank and strewn with rubbish, and even the light from the candles seemed dirty and greasy. The men on the benches that lined the damp walls only emphasised the run-down and squalid nature of the tavern, and Cassia almost turned on her heel immediately, intending to find a better place. Even her father would not be seen dead in this horrible dive.

  But she had been noticed. The barkeep glared at her, his eyes too close together and the shape of his face rodent-like. “Whatever you want, you’d better be able to pay for it, boy.”

  Cassia coughed, praying her voice would not give her away. “I think you’ll find my tales are more than worth a tankard of ale.” It was one of her father’s lines. When he used it he sounded full of bluster, but it always seemed to work. From her mouth, the words sounded ridiculous.

  The barkeep shook his head and turned away. “We don’t need another bloody storyteller,” he said. “We already got one. No coin, no ale.”

  They already had a storyteller? Cassia’s eyes were still adjusting to the gloom, and she became aware of one of the tavern’s patrons pushing himself to his feet.

  “But surely if you hear me—” she started.

  “Country boy,” the customer snapped. “You heard him. I’m the storyteller here. You find your own place. If you can.”

  Now she could see him more clearly. He was a large man with a storyteller’s cloak draped around his shoulders, the hems frayed and the patch
es faded. His jowls sagged and his hands were fat, and he moved as though his joints had seized up and turned to stone. This is how my father will look in ten years, she realised, taking an involuntary step back toward the door.

  “Country boy, is it?” the barkeep echoed. “He won’t know our ways then, will he?”

  “What ways are those, sir?” Cassia asked carefully. She reached behind her with one hand to find the reassuring solidity of the door.

  The storyteller smiled. It was an unpleasant sight, reminding Cassia of some of the thugs she and Norrow had encountered over the years. Men who demanded money to allow them passage, or to sleep unmolested outside the walls of a town. It made sense they would flock to a city such as Hellea.

  “There’s a guild in this city,” the storyteller said.

  “And I have to belong to it?”

  Both men nodded. “And you’ll need sponsors,” the barkeep added, his smile as predatory as the other man’s. “It’s not a cheap process, you know.”

  Cassia had guessed as much. This had happened to her father once or twice. Usually Norrow had settled the argument by packing up and leaving, refusing to play their game. Only once had he agreed to pay, and on that occasion he had to borrow against the promise of his future earnings. That had ended badly; Norrow would not be visiting Iltridor again.

  “If it’s all the same to you,” she said, as lightly as she could, “I think I will find my sponsors elsewhere.”

  “You don’t want to offend Marko,” the barkeep said, shaking his head. “Perhaps you should buy him a drink.”

  The man named Marko was too close for comfort now and Cassia realised with mounting panic that she had trapped herself behind the door. She would need to push the man aside to be able to open the door far enough to escape. Marko had clearly seen that too.

  And when I need Meredith . . .

  Marko reached out to grab her shoulder. Cassia ducked inside his grasp, driving her elbow forward into his chest. It was a desperate move, she knew, but it had always worked against Hetch.