by Rod Duncan
Elias moved close and put his arms around the old man. An embrace, it might seem to the others. Only he could feel how the advisor struggled to escape. He kissed the man on the desiccated cheek and whispered.
“The Patron, your oath-holder, my great uncle: he will be dead within the week unless I can speak to him. Alone. If he wants to find me, I’ll be at the cove below the south cliff.”
He kissed the man’s other cheek before letting go. His bow in the direction of the Patron brought sneers of disgust from the others. But they thought no worse of him than he thought of himself. He turned and walked out of the firelight.
Waves were always close on the Island. Cliffs muffled the sound for the most part, but stepping to the very edge Elias heard the scouring and crashing with sudden clarity. Stones slid under his heels as he clambered down to the little cove.
It was a scramble. He hadn’t thought about that when he suggested the place. Patron Calvary hid his years well. But there was always a man to either side of him. They might have looked like guards. But the real job was to catch their oath-holder if he stumbled.
A sharp wind blew off the sea, making it too cold for him to sit still. The sand was wet from the last high tide. He walked to the bluff of rock that walled in the cove on one side, then back across to the other.
It was said that the Island had been chosen because of its shape. It wasn’t exactly a map of Newfoundland, but close enough for every clan to know where to pitch camp. The northwest had been the only problem, being too small to fit all the clans who wanted to make camp there. There’d been arguments at first. But over the years, the placing of their fires had shifted apart and no one seemed to mind any more.
It was the cliffs though that made the Island perfect. There were few ways down to the water. That made it hard to cross to the mainland by any means other than the rock ridge. With the ridge held by the oath-wrights, the Patrons could yield their weapons, knowing others couldn’t be smuggled across.
Elias lowered his gaze to the pebbles and marched hard from rock to rock, trying to warm himself. The wind found its way too easily through his thinning cloak. When he stopped to empty a pebble from his boot, his uncovered fingers started to go numb.
When Patron Calvary didn’t follow him, Elias had thought it might be a waiting game. He’d be left to freeze in the cove for an hour to remind him of his place outside the family. But when an hour or more had passed, it seemed the Patron would likely not come at all.
He decided to wait until the bright stars that made up the constellation of Cassiopeia had wheeled behind the silhouette of the cliff. But clouds came in and he lost that measure of time.
The waves were growing smaller and the tide was going out. By stages he could get further around the rock buttresses.
Another thought had come to him. If anyone did want him dead – and the heavens knew he’d annoyed enough of them by playing Jago’s fool – then this would be a place they could get it done. The beach was scattered with weapons, from spars of driftwood to the rocks themselves. If his body washed up with a staved-in skull, who could say he hadn’t been staggering near the edge of the cliff and stepped drunkenly into blackness.
The waves had gone out far enough for him to venture onto the barnacle-crusted rocks. The rough surface gave him a good enough grip to start rounding the headland. If he could get around a little further, he’d be beyond view of anyone coming down to do him harm. He could watch from safety. But the tide wasn’t out far enough yet for that.
A scatter of falling stones made him stop mid-movement. Three figures were sliding down the scree towards the beach. Two he might have been able to get past, to scramble back into public view.
If he risked the water, he might be able to wade around into the next cove. But his legs would freeze if he didn’t get to a fire quickly after that. He’d rather face three men armed with rocks.
Then the middle figure stumbled and the men on either side grabbed his arms to stop the fall. Elias breathed again. It was Patron Calvary.
First they searched him. Then they tied his wrists behind his back. His cloak went over the top, so his fingers wouldn’t freeze. That was a kindness of a sort. Then the two guards climbed back up the scree, out of hearing.
The Patron stepped around him, one slow circle before coming back to stare into his face. He was taller than Elias by a few inches, his back unbowed by age.
“It’s piteous to see you like this,” Patron Calvary said. “You should have the dignity to know when to give up.”
“I don’t want to come back.”
“Then why the threats?”
“I made none.”
“Death within the week, you said.”
“A prediction. Not a threat.”
“That’s a fine distinction, Elias. Foretelling the death of a Patron Protector – that’s a dangerous prediction to make. The words of one man become the actions of another. There’s so much I could have taught you. But here you are. If you’ve something to say to me, do it now.”
“And then your men will come back to stave in my skull?”
“Is that what you think of me?”
Elias shook his head. “I don’t know. But you’ve trussed me like a fowl for the oven.”
Cold saliva was pooling in his mouth. He knew what he had to say, though he couldn’t put a finger on the moment when he’d decided. It would change everything, for better or worse. He swallowed.
“Would you like to be the king of Newfoundland?” he asked.
A slap came in response, too weak to sting but it stung nonetheless. Calvary’s eyes were daggers. It was as if he resented being forced to strike a bound man.
“Don’t even whisper such things!”
“Because you don’t want to answer?”
“Newfoundland will never have a king.”
“It will have one,” Elias said. “I could tell you something now that would stop it happening. But only for a month or a year.”
“Lies!”
“The only reason we don’t have a king is because we fight our wars with weapons that can never finish the job. But if we couldn’t keep out the smugglers – what then? Do you know how I got away when I was outlawed?”
Patron Calvary tilted his head. There was interest there, mixed with disgust. A hatred for the idea. But a desire to know, nonetheless. Perhaps that was why he’d come at all.
“I got away on a vessel that can never be seen or caught. It can come and go as it pleases. The blockade of arms is over. You just don’t know it yet.”
“Is it a ship made of glass? A ship of the air? Is it a tunnel?” Calvary was leaning forwards. Both their voices had dropped, though the guards would have been too far distant to hear in any case.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Elias said. “Do you want to be king?”
“No,” said the Patron.
“No because you don’t want? Or no because you think it’s impossible?”
“Is there a difference?”
“Yes. A thousand times yes! There is going to be a king. Won’t you listen to me? The Patrons will die or they’ll submit. And then they might die anyway.”
“You’ve a sickness of the mind,” Calvary said.
“If I could make you king, would you want it?”
“No. A thousand times no!”
“Why not?” Elias asked.
“Do you think I was cruel to cut you off, Elias, when they found you cheating? How do you think I felt watching – when they put the pincers to your thumbs? I had no choice. I could lose you or I could take the responsibility, and then others would have died. There would have been war after that.”
“I didn’t cheat.”
“What difference does it make?”
“It makes a difference to me!”
Calvary nodded. For a moment he seemed more a tired old man on a cold seashore than the proud Patron Protector, more the great uncle that Elias had lost.
“A Patron must do terrible things,�
�� he said. “A king must do all that a hundredfold. I wouldn’t submit to it. Even if it could be done.”
“I’m sorry I caused you pain,” Elias said.
Calvary bowed his head. “I can’t take you back. Though I’d do so in a moment – if it was in my gift.”
Elias leaned closer still. “New weapons have come to Newfoundland. More will follow. If you won’t be king, then another will.”
“Jago?”
“Yes. In his mind he’s king already. You must have seen it in the way he carries himself. But if he’s crowned, he’ll be let loose. You’ll never have seen such cruelty. He’ll use terror to rule. Everyone who’s looked down on him, everyone who’s called him upstart – he’ll have them in agony. He’ll keep them alive to make the humiliation last. I’ve ridden with him. I know what he’ll become.”
“He has the means of it?”
Elias nodded. “But I’m offering you the crown.”
“And I refuse it.”
His great uncle dropped a shoulder, as if about to turn away and walk back towards his men. Elias knelt, his knees digging into the stones of the beach.
“Please. I’m begging you. If I call, or send a message, you must know to answer. You must know what’s about to happen.”
Patron Calvary shook his head. “You’re impudent to say this even though I’ve told you I don’t want to be king.”
“I’m saying it because you don’t want to be king! That’s why it has to be you.”
The Patron gave a final questioning look. His cloak swirled out as he wheeled. His men came running down the slope to help him away. They didn’t beat Elias to death. Nor did they unbind his hands. It took him another hour to free himself, and cost the skin of his wrists.
Chapter 37
From the placing of the first section, the table had gathered onlookers, much to the annoyance of the oath-wrights, who were obliged to keep the track to the rock ridge clear. From time to time, Elizabeth had returned to see more pieces joined. The initial crowd had thinned. But with the placing of the final piece, the rounded end section, they returned in numbers. Some of the watchers sprinted off, carrying the news to their clans. Presently, men and women of the Blood arrived, as if they just happened to be passing.
The crowd became a press. But there was always a small space left around the table. It attracted them. But it repelled them also. As well it might, Elizabeth thought.
Everyone must have been talking about it from the start. The placing of the pieces had been a kind of clock, counting down the hours. Now the thing was complete, they knew something would happen. She could see it in their faces.
She began picking her way back to the tents, to Charity. The turf had been churned up around the path, so she took a wide line, following the cliff edge. Approaching Jago’s camp from the seaward side. The hem of her dress was now muddied all the way around, making it heavy. Before, it had seemed a thing of childish colours. But without the means of cleaning, it had become a mockery of grace. Everywhere she went, people turned to look, their lips curling into expressions of disgust. That was the way Jago seemed to like it. The more they looked down on him and the company he kept, the less of a threat he would seem.
All she needed was a pair of trousers and a shirt small enough to fit, and a coat to go with it. She could disguise herself well enough. Then she could escape. If she could take Charity with her, all the better. As for Elias, he was lost somewhere inside himself. The only thing she’d asked him for was a set of clothes. He’d failed to deliver. And the closer he came to his game of chance, the more distant he seemed. It was a sickness of the mind.
Approaching his tent, she coughed loud enough to alert him if he were inside. Drawing level, she whispered his name. But there was no response so she let her feet carry her on beyond and back towards the three big tents next to the feast fire.
Charity sat up as she entered, eyes red from crying. “Where’s Elias?”
“Doing something good, I’m sure,” Elizabeth said.
“Tell him to go. To save himself.”
“You think that’ll work with you chained here?”
Charity blinked as if about to cry again. “Bring me a knife,” she said.
“You know there are none on the Island.”
“Then bring a rope. If I kill myself, he’ll be able to go.”
“We can do better than that,” Elizabeth said.
She felt for the nail hidden in the hem of her cuff and worked it towards the loose stitch and out. Kneeling, she lifted the lock that held Charity’s neck iron in place.
It seemed a crude thing, with rough edges at the meeting of its metal plates. “Stay still, now,” she whispered, then began probing inside the keyhole with the tip of the nail. The crudeness of finish suggested something easy to pick. A simple ward lock, perhaps. But locks could be as deceptive as people.
Charity turned her head, as if trying to see what was happening. But this only pulled the lock from Elizabeth’s hand.
“Stay still!”
Using the edge of the keyhole, Elizabeth bent the nail to make an angle at the end. That gave her a deeper reach into the lock. With this she found the levers that stopped it from opening. They were too stiff to move.
Charity was trembling. “Will it work?”
Elizabeth bent an angle on the other end of the nail. With this as a handle she tried again. The first lever shifted but sprang immediately back.
“Pull the lock away from the collar,” she whispered. “Keep up a gentle pressure.”
Charity obeyed. Having something to do seemed to calm her, which was a bonus. It also kept her still. Elizabeth found the lever again. This time it worked. As did the second lever. But the final one had jammed.
She sat back and shook her head.
Charity tugged at the lock, rattling the chain. Her tears had started again. Elizabeth could see the iron collar digging into her skin with every pull.
“I’ll do it,” she said, not knowing how. A real locksmith would manage. And so might she, if she had better tools.
The sound of a footstep outside the tent made her jump back. As the flaps opened she palmed the bent nail. Firehand ducked his head inside. He looked from one of them to the other. There was no emotion in his face. Then Jago’s voice called from the distance and he was gone.
Elias watched as the Patron assembled his most trusted men. All were dressed in their finery, as if for a grand feast. But the armour they wore was real enough, for all the jewels and ribbons. It made his own frayed and travel-stained clothes more ridiculous.
“Your day of glory,” Jago said.
“Thank you, Patron.” He felt no thanks.
“Take off your cloak.”
Elias frowned.
“Take it off! Do you not think me a man of my word?”
One of the gatherers stepped up, a bundle of grey and green cloth over his arms.
Then Elias understood. It was another cloak. He took it by the collar, unfurled it to hang full length. In colour it was like his old cloak had been when new. But silver thread ran through the hems. The clasps glinted red. They were as big as blackberries. But not garnets, he thought. Coloured glass. How like Jago. Somehow he didn’t want to lose his old cloak, but they took it from him. The new one felt heavy over his shoulders, but warm.
Jago pushed him forwards. “Lead us, Elias No-Thumbs.”
So he did, stumbling at first, heading the procession down the hill like a jester on the day of fools.
Men, women and children from other clans ran to watch. By the time he reached the final slope, bodies lined the sides of the track. When his feet slipped on the mud, he heard their intake of breath. The laughter when he didn’t fall was a nervous sound. They’d come to see a show, but didn’t know if it was to be a comedy or a tragedy of horrors.
Elias glanced back. Whilst Jago was with him, it would be a comedy. The Upstart Patron caught his eye then made a mock bow. Laughter rippled through the press. They’d reached th
e table, and the main mass of the crowd. Faces looked in from all around. Jago pushed him towards the rounded end, the place of honour, where the largest chair had been set. The whole crowd seemed to be holding its breath. Jago pulled out the chair himself, as if he were merely a servant.
Elias’s guts churned as he sat. He could see the faces of Patrons in the crowd but it was their sons who pushed forwards to the front. The spectacle and the insults had worked. Everyone had been magnetised to that spot.
Suddenly fearful, Elias stood and turned. But Jago was still standing directly behind his chair.
“It’s time,” the Patron said, showing his teeth in a false smile. Then calling out to the crowd he said, “This man of no affinity, this No-Thumbs Shit Smear, will now issue a challenge.”
There was hatred in every face. “I will… I… will…” Elias’s stuttering words came out hoarse, but a deep quiet had fallen. “…I will play a game of Hazard with Aaron of the Weaverbright clan.”
The wall of bodies shifted and through it shouldered Patron Weaverbright himself, followed by Aaron, the man who had called for his thumbs to be cut away with hot pincers.
“My son doesn’t need to play against this joke.”
“True,” said Jago. “You can go back on your word if you want. Is it him who’s the coward or you?”
“It’s you breaking your word! You said he’d have gold. I see none.”
Firehand passed a bundle to Jago, who dropped it on the table. It fell with a heavy chinking crash, the noise of soft metal, the sound that every ear was tuned to, the song of wealth.
“Open it,” he said.
Elias did, pulling back the corners of the cloth. Foreign coins and hacked plate rolled out. Silver there was. But most was gold. The front row of the crowd leaned towards it. Further back there were whispers as news spread. Another crowd had gathered on the rise overlooking the table, hundreds straining for a glimpse of the drama. The whole Island must be there. He saw the oath-wrights among them, men usually aloof.
