‘We’re seven-year-slaves, but that doesn’t make us barbarians, like the Utlanders,’ his helper said. His voice reminded Garzik of a tutor he’d once had. ‘Not that I expect you to understand the distinction.’
‘We’re not in Rolenton now, Mitrovan. No one cares that you were a markiz’s scribe.’
The scribe ignored his tormentor and adjusted Garzik’s head so he could swallow more easily. ‘That’s it, drink up.’
‘Why...’ Garzik’s voice cracked. He swallowed and sat up with difficulty. There was a coarse wooden wall at his back. Splinters pricked his shoulders. ‘Where –’
‘We’re in a ship’s hold –’
‘A shit hole, you mean!’
‘Travelling to Port Marchand –’
‘More’s the pity. I had a sweet little widow lined up. I was about to marry her and spend the rest of my life bedding her and living off her pastry shop. Now I bet some Merofynian’s lying in her bed, ploughing her furrow!’
Garzik’s instinctive dislike hardened.
Mitrovan expelled his breath softly in disgust and ignored the interruption. ‘From Port Marchand, we’ll be shipped to Merofynia as part of Lord Travany’s war booty.’
Garzik’s stomach rumbled. ‘Hungry.’
‘You’re not the only one,’ the complainer muttered.
‘They’re not overly generous with our portions,’ Mitrovan admitted. ‘And I doubt they’ll be feeding us again before we disembark –’
‘Listen to him. Thinks himself a markiz.’
Garzik wished Byren was here. One good thump – that’d teach the lout to keep his mouth shut.
‘You’re not helping, Feo...’ Mitrovan protested, but there was no conviction in his voice.
It made the scribe look weak and made Garzik appear cowardly by association. The men Garzik had grown up with would’ve had no patience with someone like Feo. His father despised...
He had a flash of the Old Dove hanging off their front door, pinned by a lance. Bile rose in Garzik’s throat. His father was dead, cruelly murdered. He could not imagine life without the iron-willed old man.
But... he’d better get used to it.
If he was a Merofynian captive, that meant Byren had not retaken Dovecote.
Had Byren saved his sister? What of Orrie? One thing was certain – his brother would never let Byren be taken, not while he lived. Orrade was honourable to the bone.
Another flash of memory. Kiri on the stairs, a knife through his eye. Silly, brave Kiri, trying to avenge the hound’s death.
Freezing Sylion! He’d failed to light the beacon. He’d failed Byren.
Garzik gasped in horror.
‘Don’t move about. Give your head time to settle,’ Mitrovan advised, mistaking his gasp for one of pain. ‘What’s your name, boy?’
Shame silenced him.
‘Don’t worry.’ The scribe squeezed Garzik’s shoulder. ‘It’ll come back to you. With a head blow like that, it’s not unusual to –’
‘So you’re a healer now?’ Feo sneered.
Anger bubbled up in Garzik. Merofynians had killed his father, ransacked their home, raped his sister, captured the kingsheir and, for all he knew, Byren and Orrade were dead – yet all this lout could think about was scoring points off the scribe. It was too much. ‘If you haven’t got anything useful to say, I’ll thank you to keep your tongue between your teeth.’
It was his father talking, and the moment the words left his mouth, he knew they were a mistake.
In the stunned silence that followed his outburst, he tried to think of a way to mend things, but came up blank.
With a curse, Feo lunged for him. Hands closed on Garzik’s throat. Feo shook him. Weak as a day-old kitten, he couldn’t fight back.
Head thumping into the wall, Garzik fought to breathe; managed a gulp of air, as a stream of vile obscenities hit him, carried on putrid breath.
Mitrovan tried to pry Feo’s hands off him. ‘Leave him be. He’s just a lad, a foolish lad.’
As they fought over him, Garzik’s head hit the wall for the fourth time. It was too much. He threw up all over them. Not that there was a lot in his stomach. They both released him. The smell made Garzik gag and bile burned his throat again.
‘You little bastard!’ A calloused palm slammed into his head, stinging his ear and toppling him sideways.
He must have blacked out, because the next time things made sense Mitrovan was wiping his face with a scrap of damp cloth.
With consciousness came the horror of his failure. Freezing Sylion, may the god of heartless winter take him, he’d failed Byren. How could he ever go home?
He had no home. The invaders had claimed it.
‘You’ve made an enemy of Feo. He’ll take pleasure in causing trouble for us now.’ The scribe spoke in a desperate whisper, voice breathy with fear. ‘You’ll get us both killed. You mustn’t talk back, lad. Do you understand?’
Garzik nodded because Mitrovan needed him to, and sat up gingerly. As long as he didn’t move his head too quickly, he could fight the nausea and dizziness. As for pain, a slap or a beating was nothing new to him. But in the past, he’d always earned the rebuke. Captain Blackwing used to despair of teaching him sense. He’d been too busy dreaming of becoming a great warrior like Byren to listen.
But Captain Blackwing would never have struck an injured man or a woman. He was a warrior, not a bully. You knew where you stood with a man like Blackwing. Dismay settled in the pit of Garzik’s stomach. He was out of his depth. The rules he’d grown up with did not apply in the hold of a sled-ship.
Soft whispers and moans came from the other men in the hold. Either it was getting lighter, or his sight was improving, because he could see Mitrovan’s dirty face now. The scribe’s slightly protuberant eyes studied him. Under all that dust, Mitrovan’s hair was black; he was not old, just fussy and frightened.
‘Someone took my boots –’
Feo laughed.
‘Forget your boots,’ the scribe said. ‘Keep your head down and we’ll be all right.’
Garzik wanted to tell him there was no ‘we.’ He was not a coward who gave in to bullies. He was Lord Dovecote’s younger son, a warrior in training. He held his honour high.
But Byren had asked him to do one important thing and he’d failed.
Did Byren still live? May it please Goddess Halcyon, bringer of bountiful summer, let Byren live. Let him have rescued Lence and escaped with Orrie and Elina. Let them all be safe up in the foot-hills of the mountains.
Garzik searched his memory of the overheard conversation between Master Cialon and Lord Travany’s other servants, but the details were hazy and he could not recall any mention of Byren’s name. Surely, if the king’s son been captured or lay dead, the Merofynians would have been crowing?
‘What news of Byren?’ he asked the scribe. ‘Does Byren Kingson still live?’
‘I’ve no idea. He wasn’t at the castle when the Merofynians attacked. There was hardly any warning.’ Mitrovan looked beyond Garzik, into the past. ‘Before my master escaped with his family, he entrusted me to oversee the loading of his prized possessions on a ship bound for Ostron Isle. I should have joined him there, but the ship never left the dock. When the castle fell, it –’
‘The castle fell? Rolenhold has never fallen. It’s –’
‘Keep your voice down. Feo’s just waiting for a chance to take out his temper on someone,’ the scribe hissed. He glanced over his shoulder and then leaned closer. ‘I’m no fool and you’re no servant. Only a nobleman’s son would have taken that tone with Feo. There’s no need for you to stay here with us. Why don’t you identify yourself? Lord Travany can contact your father to arrange a ransom.’
Garzik shook his head. Anger and shame made it impossible to speak, even if he’d wanted to.
‘I don’t see why anyone would become a seven-year-slave, if they could avoid it. I don’t understand...’ Mitrovan broke off with a little gasp, eyes widening. ‘You’r
e a spy, sent to report on the Merofynian nobles. The markiz was always telling me to beware Ostronite spies trying to get the inside information on his deals. But this... this is spying in the service of Rolencia.’
Garzik looked down, wishing his reason for being here was so noble. ‘I’m not... I don’t –’
‘Of course,’ Mitrovan agreed, voice low and full of repressed excitement. ‘You can rely on my discretion. But if you want your disguise to work, you need to take a more servile tone. Your tabard is good quality and your accent is refined, so you’d best present yourself as an indoor servant. Is that what you’re pretending to be, a scribe like me? Because a lord’s personal scribe knows when to keep his mouth shut.’
Garzik looked up. ‘I’m not a spy. I’m...’ He could not bring himself to reveal his failure.
The scribe shook his head. ‘That’s no good. You need a strong story, one that holds water. You’re lucky you met up with me. I can teach you how to be a nobleman’s scribe. You’ll want to win a place in Lord Travany’s household, win his trust and become privy to his secrets. I know just the way to go about it.’ He nodded to himself as he squeezed Garzik’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll help you.’
And because this illusion was far better than the bitter truth, Garzik let it slide. ‘The castle fell, you say?’
‘In just one day. I heard a rumour they were betrayed from within. King Rolen died even before the castle fell, murdered under a flag of truce –’
‘What?’ Garzik shuddered. The king had been like a second father to him. Kind, in his bluff way. Anger choked Garzik. ‘Those cowardly Merofynians... But what can you expect of a king who offers his daughter’s hand to cement an alliance, when he’s really planning an invasion?’
Garzik’s mind ran on. Queen Myrella would be heartbroken. As for Piro... The thought of how she’d bristle at finding herself a prisoner made him smile.
A year younger than him, she’d plagued him all his life, wanting to join in with what the big boys were doing. Only last summer, after he’d won a coveted place on the fishing boat with Lence, Byren and Orrade, she’d talked her way in. He would have willingly pushed her into the lake that day.
But since the time she’d dressed as a goat-herder to help Byren restore the Warlord of Unistag Spar... well, he’d been thinking about her a lot lately. ‘I suppose the queen and her daughter are prisoners?’
The scribe blinked. ‘You don’t know –’
‘Queen Myrella’s dead?’ Garzik felt sick. His own mother was long dead; Byren’s mother had been the closest thing he had to a mother.
Mitrovan shook his head. ‘Yes, both of them were killed.’
Not Piro. He could not believe it. Would not. ‘But Piro’s only thirteen and a kingsdaughter. She’d be a valuable prisoner. Why kill her? You must have it wrong –’
‘They burned the bodies,’ Mitrovan whispered. ‘The day the castle fell, they burned their bodies to make sure no one could take trophies.’
He said it with such finality.
Turning away from Mitrovan, Garzik curled up, covered his head with his arms and willed the world to go away.
And it did. For a while.
When next he woke, the sled-ship’s movement had changed and he was even hungrier. He sat up. ‘I think we’re approaching Port Marchand.’
Mitrovan shifted and sat up next to him. He listened for a moment. ‘I think you’re right.’
‘They’ll have to transport us from the lakeside-wharves across port to the bay.’ Garzik had been here last spring with his family. Happier times... If Piro and Queen Myrella were dead, dare he hold out hope for Elina? Despair made him curl up again. He’d never realised heartache could cause physical pain.
‘We’ll be up on deck soon, in the fresh air,’ Mitrovan told him.
He was right. Not long after that they were herded out of the hold up onto the deck, where they blinked in the weak sun, under the brilliant icy-blue of the Rolencian winter sky.
Garzik shivered, his bare feet freezing on the cold wood of the deck. He could really have done with his boots.
Now that they were in the light, he counted his companions. There were fifteen of them, all young, all with injuries that would heal. Master Cialon had made sure Lord Travany would get his seven years’ service out of them.
Garzik’s head spun and he had trouble staying upright. He hated being so weak, hated having to rely on the scribe who, now that he got a good look, was probably not much older than Byren. Mitrovan adjusted his weight to better support Garzik. The movement made the tall, skinny scribe grimace with pain.
‘What happened to you?’ Garzik gestured to the where he favoured his right side. ‘Did a Merofynian –’
‘Nothing like that.’ The scribe looked rueful. ‘I slipped on the ice and cracked a rib.’
Garzik grinned.
A familiar voice made him turn and look. In the light of day, with his arm in a sling, Feo did not appear too threatening. Garzik frowned. Wait a moment; hadn’t Feo attacked him with both hands? ‘What’s wrong with Feo’s arm?’
‘Nothing.’ Mitrovan kept his voice low. ‘He made a sling from a torn up shirt and fell in with us, because he thought he’d be able to escape from the injured group, but they watched us too closely. He was right about one thing though, we did have an easier time of it than the healthy seven-year-slaves. The Merofynians made them load the war booty, while we all sat and watched. You won’t remember that: you were out cold.’
Garzik had never come across someone like Feo before, a man who took pride in shirking his duty. He was thin, with a misleadingly handsome face; it was only when you looked into his eyes that you knew something was missing.
Feo caught Garzik staring and gave a nasty smile.
Garzik turned away. The sudden movement of his head made his balance go and the scribe had to steady him. Around them, the others shuffled and looked hopefully towards the wharf. The smell of beans and onions carried from the nearest tavern. Garzik’s stomach rumbled loud enough to hear.
‘Hopefully, when we get to the Merofynian ship, they’ll feed us,’ Mitrovan said.
But an argument developed between Master Cialon and someone on the dock. Apparently, there were no cage-carts for hire due to the large number of slaves being sent to Merofynia. Transport would be available tomorrow at the earliest.
Master Cialon turned around, frustration in every line of his body. He was a little man with a big opinion of himself. Garzik had come across his type before.
‘We could march them across,’ one of his burly servants suggested.
‘March this lot?’ Cialon rolled his eyes. ‘Why did I get stuck with fools for helpers? March them across the port with only the three of us to guard them? Do you want them to escape?’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘Drive them back into the hold.’
Some of the boldest protested. The two burly servants clipped them over the ears. ‘Get below.’
‘What’s this?’ The ship’s captain came out of the cabin. ‘Why aren’t you disembarking?’
‘No cage-carts.’ Master Cialon let his disgust colour the words. ‘None available until tomorrow.’
The captain was already shaking his head. ‘I’m not housing your cargo one more night. Not when there’s cargo waiting to be picked up in Rolenton. You’ll have to find somewhere else for them to sleep tonight.’
‘What do you suggest I do? Put them up in a tavern?’ Master Cialon countered.
The ship’s captain shrugged and folded his arms.
Garzik noticed movement in the corner of his eye as Feo tried to climb over the side. It was about two body-lengths to the ice and freedom.
But Cialon was too quick. ‘Grufyd, stop him.’
One of the burly servants caught Feo by the scruff of his neck and dragged him back onto the deck, delivering a blow to the side of his head that left him lying stunned on the deck.
Garzik felt only the slightest satisfaction. It was as if everything happened at a
great distance and none of it mattered.
So it didn’t worry him when Lord Travany’s servant negotiated to hire the ship for one more day and they were sent back to the hold.
Chapter Three
ANOTHER NIGHT IN the hold meant nothing to Garzik, just as the indignity of being caged up like chickens going to market and paraded through Port Marchand meant nothing.
The good folk of Marchand turned their heads and went about their work. Down every street the cart passed, business boomed as the invaders travelled through the port, sending their war booty back home.
Surely the invasion was not over?
Even if the castle fell, there were still King Rolen’s twin sons. Lence and Byren, with Orrie’s help, would unite the people, call on the warlords beyond the Dividing Mountains to honour their allegiance to King Rolen and strike back.
But all that would take time.
And it was impossible if Lence, Byren and Orrade were dead.
Garzik refused to accept this.
At the seaside-wharves, so many ships had been coming and going, they’d kept the harbour free of ice. Amongst the many fat-bellied merchant ships flying the Merofynian flag, Garzik spotted the sleek lines of sea-hound vessels. Race horses to the merchant plough horses, they were designed to hunt down Utland raiders. And those Utlanders would be waiting along the trade routes to attack unwary captains.
Garzik shuddered. Lence had been going to lead a reprisal raid on the Utlanders this spring. Everyone had been up in arms because a shipload of Utlanders had slipped into the bay and raided Cobalt Estate, killing Cobalt’s father and bride.
Only now that he knew Cobalt, Garzik was not so certain of his facts.
Master Cilaon’s three carts – two loaded with wine, the third with the injured seven-year-slaves – came to rest. Garzik felt the other captives let out a sigh of relief. They were packed so tightly they could barely move. Unable to stand or stretch their legs, other than hanging them through the rails, their only consolation was the way the press of their bodies kept them warm.
They waited.
No one came to let them out.
The King's Man (The Chronicles of King Rolen's Kin) Page 2
