Trevor unclasped his cloak at the neck and flung it haphazardly over the back of a great wicker chair. Then rubbing his hands together, he stood beside the fire.
“You must have made quite good time,” said Bela as he sat back down at his desk.
Trevor nodded wearily. “The road was a muddy mess. The stuff splattered all over me. I had to wash myself clean in some iced springwater.”
“Brrr,” said Bela with a shiver. He knew how cold the mountain road could be at this time of year: frigid enough to turn one’s fingers into icicles.
“But at least most of the snow’s melting,” added Trevor happily. “In a couple of weeks it’ll almost be spring.”
The governor smiled. “This is your first winter in Newfoundland, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Well, I’m afraid you’ll find that spring comes a little bit later here than it does in the Valley. The last snows tend to linger up this way, you know. We’ve got a good six weeks to go yet.”
Trevor groaned and forced a wan smile. “Well, at least I won’t have to spend it all on the Line,” he said, grateful for that.
“That you won’t,” said Bela with a hearty laugh. “But speaking of the Line, how are things out there these days?”
Trevor, at last feeling the first rush of warmth through his body, slumped down into the divan opposite the governor’s desk. “Quiet,” he sighed. “It took nearly the whole bloody winter to do it, but we finally got those agitated farmers settled down. There shouldn’t be any more trouble.”
“And the wolves? Did you manage to placate them as well?”
“Oh, I guess they did a lot of howling and growling,” admitted Trevor, “but they came around in the end. I’d never have done it, though, without that big red wolf on my side. You know, Cicero. The one who sometimes accompanies Elias.”
Bela could not help but chuckle. “Ah, yes, Cicero. I’ve never met him personally, I don’t think; but his name’s crossed my desk at least a dozen times. A couple of years back he and a pack of mountain wolves were raiding the farms out Fiana way. Those angry farmers damn near killed him, and I wouldn’t have blamed them if they did. His blokes tore up half the Fiana countryside, what with their sheep-stealing and all. Some men I know swear that we lost more than three hundred sheep that winter.”
Trevor whistled. Cicero certainly did live up to his reputation.
“But I understand he’s tamed somewhat since then,” Bela added hastily. “Now he spends most of his time hunting caribou and elk.”
“Or on the river with Elias,” agreed Trevor. “At least that’s what he told me.”
Bela smiled and shook his head slowly from side to side. “Can you beat that, eh? A wolf on a boat? Still, it is an interesting thought.”
Just then, the servant came into the room with a tray filled with two ceramic bowls and a small pot of hot soup. He placed the tray down on the small table beside the fireplace, left, then quickly came back with another tray bearing two silver goblets and a large flagon of wine.
Bela stood up and gestured for Trevor to follow him to the table. “You are hungry, aren’t you? I took the liberty of ordering us some lunch.”
“I could eat a wolf,” said Trevor, grinning. And for the next few minutes they hardly spoke as they sat back and ate. To Trevor, a hot meal was a most welcome treat.
After lunch, his belly full, head slightly tipsy from the strong Deepwater wine, he returned to the divan and slumped down. He cleared his throat. “Governor, your message said my presence here was important, so I guess that you must already have some other duty planned for me before I can go back to Rhonnda.”
Bela forced a sour smile and sighed. “There’s been some trouble, some real trouble. I got this letter three days ago from the captain of the Aberdeen garrison.”
Trevor’s face slid out of his smile, and the boyish youthful flair seemed to disappear instantly. The grimness of the governor’s lined face assured him that the business ahead was not something he would ever be able to think back upon fondly.
“What’s happened?” he asked with rising trepidation.
Bela drew a deep breath and half closed his eyes. “Two Valley soldiers are dead. They were murdered,” he said flatly. “The Aberdeen captain is certain it was the work of smugglers who were caught trying to evade paying taxes on a whiskey cargo headed for Rhonnda. And if rivermen are behind this, it’ll take an expert on the river to track them down.”
Puzzled, Trevor looked at him. “But I’m not —”
Bela nodded curtly. “I know you’re not. But I’ll need some good Valley soldiers to be there when the fighting starts.” Here his eyes narrowed and his face grew dark. “And there will be fighting, Trevor. Those brigands murdered two men in cold blood. And they’re going to pay for it, by Fara, they’re going to pay for it. I’ve commandeered a ship from Rhonnda to find them. We think they’ll be hiding in the channels near Fiana Fjord.”
Trevor blew the breath out of his mouth. “That’s tough country, my lord. A man could hide there forever, if he wanted.”
“But a ship can’t,” rejoined Bela. “We’re going to find those swine and keelhaul them until they drown.”
“Who’s the riverman you paid to bring them back?”
Here Bela smiled slyly. “Elias. The best man for the job.”
“He’s the best,” concurred Trevor. “But you know in Rhonnda they say he’s a bit of a brigand himself.”
“Ah, Commander, that’s the beauty. Don’t you see? Who better to send after a thief than another thief?”
Trevor swallowed hard. “May I ask why you chose me to lead the Valley soldiers on this mission? After all, Governor, I’m really just an engineer. My job is building things.”
Bela looked at him impatiently.
“I called for you for several reasons, Commander. First, you’ve been on the river. Most soldiers haven’t. Second, you’ve had good contacts with wolves — and in a job like this we’ll have need of wolves in our tracking. And thirdly, perhaps most important, you’ve sailed with Elias and you know him. When these brigands are caught, you’ll make sure that our friend doesn’t find any sympathy for them. You say you build things, Trevor. Well, good. When you get back, I want you to build the highest gallows you can. Murder in Newfoundland is never to happen again.”
Chapter Nine
As the long months of winter drew to a close, even before the last snows had fallen in the Valley, the first caravan set out to cross the mountains to the Newfoundland coast. The road wound an uneven course through the peaks until it came out of the thick forest at the Shara.
More than three hundred people set out from the Valley in the first caravan. They were an odd mixture, almost half of them were new settlers, deeds in hand, ready and eager to begin their new lives on the tracts of land set aside for them along the Aberdeen Plain. Most of the others were Newfoundland traders and merchants, who after spending winter in the Valley now came with wagons laden with goods to be sold throughout the Empire. Fifty wagons and four hundred horses, the caravan formed a long line through the wilds overlooking the Cottonwood. A squad of Valley soldiers led the way, plodding on through mud and slush, until at last they overlooked the sleepy town of Deepwater and its endless sprawl of farms beneath the towering mountain ranges in the north. That Stacy and Casca had joined them on the journey was a small matter. Her rank and title meant little or nothing, the wolf-companion merely an odd quirk that raised not a single brow. But had anyone been aware of her true purpose in Newfoundland it would have raised many an eyebrow indeed.
Stacy stood at the crest of a hill, a heavy scarf wrapped tightly around her neck. The hill was cluttered with pines, their leaves exuding a strong, spicy scent. Her long hair tossed to and fro in the wind, and her riding boots were grimy and caked with layers of thick mud and clay, a testimonial to the long journey she had endured. At her side her mare stood meekly, occasionally digging a hoof into the earth to seek a root or plant. Casca, r
estless with the slow pace of the trip, had already left the caravan and was somewhere out in the foothills, seeking a more appetizing game than that which he had been forced to eat.
As she stood watching the last of the wagons negotiate the road that led down to the town, Stacy was approached by a Rhonnda merchant who had befriended her.
“Well, there she is, my lady,” he said gesturing grandly out at the town. “Been quite a trip for you, eh?”
Stacy smiled at him and pulled her fur collar higher over her ears. “I feel as if I could sleep for a week,” she said with a gaping yawn.
The merchant laughed and rubbed at the side of his nose with a stubby finger. “The Ax Blade Mountains are always the hardest part,” he drawled in the Newfoundland burr. “But it’s done now. There’ll be plenty of time to rest at Deepwater.”
“I don’t have very much time, Spooner. I’ll only be at Deepwater as long as I have to. Governor Bela’s expecting me.”
Spooner grinned toothlessly. “See that grand house atop the hill?”
Stacy peered past Dockside and the couple of small boats in the harbor, followed along the winding street and fixed her gaze at the spacious, pastel house with the red-tiled roof. With all the open land and gardens around it, it was hard to miss.
“That’s it,” said Spooner. “That’s the governor’s place. Know it well myself. Many’s the time I’ve stopped there to see the governor on business. He’s a fine man, Bela is, yes, indeed. And a fair one, too. A very fair man.”
“I know he is. It’ll be good to see him after so long. He’s an old friend of my father’s.”
Spooner laughed and clapped his hands together. “Well, bless me, I should have known! A fine lady like yourself, I should have known, yes, indeed. I’ll wager my sheepskin coat he’s counting the hours until you arrive. He’s got a fine eye for the women, Bela has. Yes, indeed, a fine eye.”
Stacy blushed and looked back down at Dockside. “Are any of those boats headed for Rhonnda?” she asked, changing the subject.
“Those old tugs? No, my lady. Those aren’t Rhonnda ships. They’re just for the locals. Channel skiffs, you might say. They bounce up and down along the river to the Cottonwood and carry mostly small cargoes to the nearby settlements. When a Rhonnda ship comes into harbor, you’ll know it. Their sails are as high as the tallest pine in Newfoundland. Their flags fly still higher atop them. Yes, indeed, my lady, when the Rhonnda ships come, you’ll know.”
Stacy frowned. “I have to get to Rhonnda as soon as possible.”
Spooner grinned at her. “Have you a young man waiting for you? Never mind. Youth is always impatient. But look. I’ll tell you what. There’s an old cargo ship due in any time now. She’s short on comforts and plays all Hel going down the rapids, but she’ll be Rhonnda-bound. I’m taking her myself, you know. And I’m sure old Sykes, her captain, can find room for a lady and her companion, even if it is a forest wolf. If you like, I can arrange the passage for you.”
Stacy’s eyes flashed happily. “Could you? I’d really appreciate it.”
Spooner bowed. “No problem at all, my lady. None at all. You go see the governor and carry out your business. I’ll look out for Sykes and see what I can do. But there won’t be any problem, I’m certain of that. Old Sykes always has room for one more. Then we’ll both be Rhonnda-bound, my lady, aboard the Lady of Newfoundland”
Chapter Ten
The morning was bright and dry, with a fresh wind blowing from the north, clearing away the low, rumbling clouds from above their heads. “Unfurl the sails!” came the cry, “unfurl the sails!” And the tunic-clad sailors scrambled across the pine decks and tackled the halyard ropes. They worked swiftly, sure-fingered, with the tight precision that comes with long experience. Barely moments later the heavy canvas of the main and topsail was swelling with the breezes, spreading to the fullest as it caught the wind and caused the boat to lean hard to the starboard side. It swayed and leaned even harder as the Cottonwood currents cut directly underneath the bow. Slowly the boat straightened, veering hard from the Cottonwood channel and into the wide expanse of the Newfoundland River.
Stacy stood aft on the deck, her back against the railing. Her eyes stared in awe at the size of the mighty river. The nearer bank, the one at Dockside, was a good three hundred meters distant, and the far side, a gravelly steep bank already showing the first signs of spring peat moss, was at least twice that distance from her. The tiny Deepwater homes became increasingly smaller with each passing second as the Lady of Newfoundland dipped and rose, cutting against the waterline. What was it Governor Bela had told her? The river, the great river, was the blood of Newlanders; when her waters flowed warmly in the spring, then and only then did Newfoundland begin to breathe. It was their life source, from which all, men and Dweller alike, drew their sustenance. Without it there would be nothing.
The cry of shouting voices pulled her from her daydream, and she looked back to the frantic activity on the deck.
Captain Sykes, a tall, graying fellow, was standing close to the mast, hands on hips, darting his eyes and barking commands. His face was ruddy in color, deeply lined — a telltale sign of his years on the river. As the ship rounded the first in a series of sharp bends, he called to his mate, “Steady as she goes, Mr. Wren; bear with the flow.” And from behind him the steersman gave the reassuring reply, “The currents are with us, Capt’n; they’ll be no problem tonight.”
Just then there was another call, a shrill voice from atop the sail. “There’s a ship to portside, Capt’n, I can see her sails!” cried the lookout.
Sykes leaned over the rail and shaded his eyes. “Can you see her colors, Mr. Woolsey?”
“Aye, Capt’n. Gray and green — out of Fiana. She’ll pass us in a minute. Her flags are already lowered.”
“Then dip ours, Mr. Woolsey! And as she passes, raise ’em high!”
As Sykes spoke, a burly youth began to tug at the ropes and carefully began to bring the flags down. No sooner had he done it than there came a great lumbering ship from around the curve in the river. It had a single square sail of blazing gold. Emblazoned at the center was the black likeness of a flying hawk with silver-black talons. The ship was larger than the Lady of Newfoundland, yet clearly faster on the water. As the two ships passed each other at a distance of about two hundred meters, the crews of each began to shout and exchange greetings. Then the larger ship took down its gray Fiana flag and hoisted another of maroon and blue in its place.
“She flies Rhonnda colors, Capt’n,” shouted Woolsey from his high perch.
“Then we’ll show her ours!” called back Sykes. And the youth at the ropes hoisted a similar banner, triangular, maroon in color with thin blue stripes.
Stacy leaned with her hands clutching at the rails and with her eyes followed the wake of the fast ship.
Spooner, the merchant, came by her side and grinned. “Impressed?” he asked.
Stacy nodded without looking back at him. “Very. Are there many like that?”
Spooner laughed, his pot belly quivering. “No, my lady. Only a few. But that one’s perhaps the finest of the lot. Yes, indeed. She’s a Rhonnda ship.”
“How can you tell? By the flag?”
Spooner looked at her thoughtfully. “Yes, the flag tells the port. But did you see the gold sail? And the flying hawk? Well, they tell more than just a port or a destination. Indeed they do. That ship’s rigged for danger and battle. It takes more than just a desire and knowledge of the river to sail her, I’ll tell you.”
“Sounds important,” said Stacy, impressed.
“That she is, my lady. There’re stories I could tell you about that ship that would curl your hair. Yes, indeed. Why, her captain’s a man who’d dare anything if there’d be a quick profit to turn. Some say that back in the Valley he was a lord, a man of stature, but he gave it all up to come here and sail the river.” Spooner’s old eyes began to glitter with a tinge of envy. “And he made a name for himself like no other.
Yes, indeed. He’s married to that old ship, they say. He and the Brora are like one, if you get my meaning.”
Stacy stared at him breathlessly. “The Brora?”
“Aye, my lady. Have tales of her doings even reached fine folk such as you?”
“Her captain,” said Stacy, excited, ignoring the question, “is it Elias?”
“Well, bless me!” said Spooner with a silly grin. “Don’t tell me you know him, too?”
Stacy smiled. “Sort of. We met once last year. But only for a few minutes.”
The merchant roared. “Now don’t tell me. Is it Elias that you’re to meet in Rhonnda? Is it because of him that you’re in such a hurry?”
Stacy tried to conceal an embarrassed smile but could not help it. “Strictly business, Spooner, strictly business. I, er, my father has a proposition for him. One that could prove most rewarding.”
Spooner’s eyes twinkled even more brightly than before. “Then Elias will be your man, yes, indeed. But what a pity! Here we are less than an hour out of harbor, and the man you’re on your way to see is headed back from where we just left.”
“It’ll wait, Spooner. Anyway, I’m sure that Elias will be in Rhonnda within a few days after us.”
Again Spooner laughed. “A Rhonnda man always comes home, my lady. Sure as cod in the sea, a Rhonnda man always comes home. And when he does, there’s always a tale to tell!”
*
Barely two weeks before Stacy and her caravan reached Newfoundland, the Brora slipped out of the Deepwater harbor under the cover of night. Elias had been searching for the pirate ship and its murdering crew. To Elias and his rivermen this crime was a betrayal — of them, of Newfoundland, of the great river itself. The brigands had used their skills and wiles viciously, committing the foulest of crimes on innocent, unarmed victims.
Also on this journey were eight crack Valley soldiers, hardened veterans of Newfoundland duty, men who would not cringe at the sight of pirate daggers or blades. They knew and understood only one thing — Empire law. And they were sworn to uphold it. And Trevor, who commanded them, knew as well as any how difficult the task might be. The hills of Fiana were wild and rugged, and Valley soldiers would find few friends among the scattered settlers who called them home.
Lady of the Haven (Empire Princess Book 1) Page 10
