Her man looked us over. “You’re no sailors.”
“Aye.” I looked about. “Is the inn reserved for seamen?”
“Depends.” His tone was short.
Rust and the others seemed lost. They could hardly join a conversation, as there was none, just a sputtering fire, smoky acrid air and slumped shoulders. I lowered my voice, said to the inn in general, “Hriskil’s sailors laugh about your plight.”
The drinker spat; his blob of spittle glistened in the grime of the planks. “No piers open. Norland ships tied to every post.”
“We saw.” I made my tone sympathetic.
Another fellow took up the tale. “Like Jahl says, they unload and won’t move. Bay’s so full there’s no fishing it, so what’s the point dropping nets outside? We’ve no carts to haul fish across town. Herring spoil ’fore we get ’em sold. And Fiegel, what they did was crying shame.”
I looked blank.
The barkeeper grunted. “Fiegel unloaded from a breakwater a league south. Borrowed three mules, loaded a cart high. Imp-cursed Norlanders overturned the cart before he got to market. A thousand fish rotted in the sun, and laughing Norland pigs kicked him and his sons as they tried to gather their catch.” Gloomily, the keeper sampled his own wares. “No wonder my place is empty. Who has coin for ale?”
Jahl said, “Half the fisherfolk of Stryx be gone to—”
“Jahl!”
“—gone,” the man finished lately. Nothin’ for ’em here.”
I glanced at Rust. His eyes took in all, but he gave me only an imperceptible nod. Encouragement? I hoped so. I took deep breath. “If it hangs me, I’ll say it: I’m for Rodrigo, king of Caledon. May all Norlanders rot in the lake of fire!”
A pause. Men looked at each other, then away.
A moment passed. Then, one by one, eyes not on each other, they raised glasses and bottles and gave silent toast.
Jahl said cautiously, “Where be you from?”
“A month past, we fled Cumber. Now we come down from Verein.” A salute to the True.
“Margenthar!” He spat again.
“We’re not his.” My tone was quiet, but intense.
“They say Sarazon took Verein.”
“Not yet. I heard he marches tonight.”
The barkeep asked, “How missed you his force?”
I grinned. “The fat old Norlander likes a road. Garst—” A wave to Rustin—“prefers goat trails.”
Our “Garst” said abruptly, “Where your fisherfolk went ... might we go? To fight Sarazon?”
The innkeeper said immediately, “No one said that.”
“No need to.” Rust scratched behind his ear. “If you’ll not tell us, so be it, no hard thoughts. But once ... I met the king.” His tone was fervent. “And I would aid his cause.”
With thy life, my great friend. My eyes stung.
“I know nothing of it,” the barkeep said offhandedly. “There’s those say the Lady of the Hill gathers them in. She who rides at night.”
My heart fell. Peasant myths. Mother was long gone. Why did simple folk sustain themselves with legend, rather than doing what would improve their lot? Elena Queen could no more save them than ... than Ebon.
“Mustn’t forget Willem,” said Jahl. “He yet holds Stryx.”
“Aye, he’s old but has valor,” muttered a sailor “Where’s the boy king when you need him?”
“Didn’t Rodrigo fight at Pezar?” My voice was hot. “At Cumber? At—”
“Didn’t he lose at Pezar? At Cumber?” He made as if to spit, instead slammed a fist on the table so hard it shuddered. “Rodrigo’s a worthless sod.”
Rust asked mildly, “What would you he did?”
“Fight to free us!” In a fit of anger, Jahl swept his table clear. His drained bottle smashed into shards, to the barkeep’s disgust. “I buy whiskey instead of bread. Why not? In a week I’ll sell a chair, and have naught in my hut but straw. Then we’ll starve, Lenna and I. Would a true king let Stryx rot?”
“Faugh!” I kicked an empty stool; it skittered across the planks. “Were he here, would you aid him? No, you’d drink yourselves senseless. Tell me there’s one of you who’d fight with his king.”
Rustin grabbed at my arm, but I evaded him. Hands on hips, I waited.
Most looked to the floor. At length Jahl muttered, “I would. But I have only a dull hatchet, and a knife. No sword.”
My tone dripped contempt. “One, out of a dozen!”
“And I!” A scrawny, sallow man shook off his woman’s arm, got unsteadily to his feet.
Jahl snorted, “Why don’t you join the Lady?”
“She’s not the king!”
“I would.” A hook-nosed fellow, sitting alone. “If he wanted a boat. I’m no use at much else.”
“Garst ...” The barkeep looked past me. “You say you saw him. What’s he like?”
“Impetuous. Foolish at times. Noble. He strives to be worthy. And astoundingly brave.”
The keeper said slowly, “You describe one you know.”
In the air, a static, as before lightning strikes.
Rust said, “I do.”
One of the women got up, casually scratched herself, wandered about.
Without turning I said, “Stop her.”
Jatho caught her waist just as she reached the door.
I asked, “Would any others aid the king?”
A sailor cried, “Jahl, they’re informers.” Sharp, hooked knives appeared from nowhere. “In the bay with them.” A gesture, of throats slit.
“We’re not,” I said. I met Rust’s eye, seeking forgiveness.
Our necks were well in the noose, and I’d given him no chance to gainsay my cast of the die.
“Who, then?” They’d circled us, all of them, even the drunken woman, who wielded a huge nicked butcher knife.
“I’m the one you seek.” I fished in my bag. They tensed, but I brought out a cloth, unwrapped it, set the coronet on my head. Slowly, I unknotted the bandage, let it fall. I eyed the sailor. “I’m that worthless sod. Rodrigo.”
The effect was extraordinary. The sailor who’d spoken so disparagingly let his knife clatter to the planks. Slowly, he approached me, searched my face. A whisper. “The Lady was right. You came for us.”
I stifled a sigh. When I died, would I too be retained as myth? In the dusty gray cave, would I know it?
The slattern with the butcher knife cackled. “It’s a trap. The scar’s painted on.”
I snapped, “Finger it! You have our leave.”
Contemptuously, she did. Broken-nailed fingers swept across my cheek. Her eyes changed. “Real.” No more than a mumble. She backed away. “Dunno. Not only boy in Stryx with scar—”
I pulled out my chair, sat. “Take the coronet.”
“Can’t.” She made a sign warding off demons.
“I order it.”
Rust said urgently, “She’s armed, she’ll—”
Deliberately, I turned my chair to present my back. “Take it, woman. Know you gold?” I tensed, lest she abruptly end my pretensions.
In a moment, fingers at my brow. The gentle weight of the coronet lifted.
Her tone was grudging. “It’s real.”
“Show the others. If you’d have me as king, crown me.”
Rust said angrily, “What mummery is—”
“Shush, my lord. I’m not king without them; I learned that at Pezar while you were ... in a time of dream.”
Stolidly, I waited my fate.
After a time, the coronet settled on my locks. I exhaled, not knowing how long I’d held breath.
Jatho said, with a note of apology, “What about this one?” He held yet the woman who’d sought to leave.
“Innkeeper?”
“She meant to turn us in. There’s reward.”
“For me?”
“No doubt. But also for seditious talk. She’d have had a silver for each of us.” His voice grew hard. “Wouldn’t you, slut!”
/> “No!”
“Kill her!” Jahl.
I said, “Not yet. Have you a cellar?” In a quarter candle, she was tied below.
“Now what?” They gathered round.
I stifled a yawn; it must be near morn. “Who has boats?”
“I.” The hook-nosed sailor.
“And I.” A brawny beard, calculating eyes. “And ...” He looked about. “Two others.”
“We’ll need more.” I stretched. “To coat your keels, do you not use pitch?”
“What else?” A touch of scorn, as any adroit to a novice.
“You’ve a storehouse for it, is there not? South of town?”
“Kandar has one.”
“With barrels?”
“Must have twenty or so.”
“Ahhh.” For the first time in hours, the knot in my shoulders eased. “This is what we’ll do.”
Thirty-three
IN THE STIFLING WAREHOUSE, I dozed on Rustin’s shoulder. Outside, it was bright day, and we must need wait until night. Along with Pardos and Jatho, we were but four; I’d argued Rust into sending our other men back to Groenfil, that he know our plan and not fret at our absence. I hoped they’d thread their way through Sarazon’s patrols; if caught and put to torture, they might reveal all.
Yet, were we not at risk simply sitting among the barrels of thick black pitch? A dozen—no, by now it would be more—Caled fisherfolk knew our whereabouts, and my rank. Who could say they wouldn’t succumb to the lure of Sarazon’s silver? Of course I’d made them grandiose promises—no greater, they said, than the Lady of the Hill—of silver, gold, remission of taxes unto the third generation. But Sarazon’s coin could be spent, mine only contemplated.
“Sleep, my prince. You’ve done what you might.”
“Are you angry, Rust?”
“I ... know not what I think.” He patted my knee. “We’ll speak of it anon.”
“It occurred so fast ... no time to consult you ...” I rubbed an itch on my collarbone. “Please, I know you take offense.”
“Ahh, Roddy.” His soft fingers caressed my locks. “You’re a noble soul.”
“Despite Mar?” Like an aching tooth, I couldn’t let it be.
“I didn’t say a perfect soul.” Rust hesitated, lost in thought. “In your ... other life? The one without me ... did you use your Power for ill? Tell truth.”
I contemplated. “I think not, sir. I vexed Jestrel the silversmith, but not as you saw it. Only to learn truth.”
“But when I bound you at Verein ...”
“I evaded you in my oath. Rust, I hate Mar beyond words. If that makes me foul, so I am.”
Cool fingers flitted across my scar. “You’ve reason for hate; I only hoped you’d defer. Yet, am I sure you erred? Word spreads; across Caledon, men will know not to cross the king. Perhaps that is meet. Rest a bit.”
On the bench across the way, Pardos stared glassily at my boots, sword across his knees. When did he sleep? Jatho, at least, had no such problem. Head back, he snored lightly. A seasoned soldier, he took ease when he might.
“Are you well?” In the sliver of moon’s light, Rust’s expression was anxious.
Gulping, I nodded. I was well. I merely craved death.
On the thwart, Jahl chuckled softly. “No swell. Not even a ripple.”
I’ll have your head! I managed not to say it. To divert myself—not that I truly cared—I whispered, “Where are the others?”
“Look about, King.”
“Call him ‘sire.’ ” Rust’s tone was disapproving.
Ignoring him, Jahl thrust his chin to the side. “Sarnut’s scull is an oar’s length to port.” His tone took on a cajoling note. “Better if you open your eyes.”
Better if I leave my stomach ashore. I swallowed air, fighting the urge to spew my dinner of bread and cheese over the side.
We were twenty-two of us, in ill-kept longboats and barques. The stench of fish pervaded every timber. My boots, my cloak, my leggings ... if I survived the night I’d burn them all. I’d visit a ritemaster and seal a yearning-jar, never to see a fish again.
Rustin leaned back, hands clasped behind his neck, and gave a contented sigh, having no inkling he’d just become my foe for life.
“Is the lamp still lit?” Anything to bestir him to discomfort.
A fisher cautiously lifted an edge of the cloth. “Aye, my lord.” Carefully, he replaced the cover. Rust hadn’t moved.
I asked, “Which way does the wind blow?”
Jahl said, “Toward shore.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“It means if we cut anchors, the Norland ships will drift inward.”
It had seemed such a simple scheme. Our new comrades gathered dilapidated fishing vessels—what other kind had they?—loaded each with barrels of pitch and ropes. In darkest night, we launched our tiny fleet from the breakwater south of Stryx.
The fisherfolk objected to the risk, of course. But I argued that they had not the use of their vessels; the Norland fleet crowded them out. If Hriskil won, it might ever be so. And if I was victorious, I’d reimburse any loss. They grumbled and muttered into their bowls, but a village consensus had formed in my favor.
So, we’d set out. But no one had told me how despotically the direction of wind controls direction of sail. As the breeze was pressing toward shore, we’d be forced to beat about so as not to be driven onto the rocks before we reached the mouth of the bay. Jahl said it was quicker to row, and so we’d taken turns, except that, as hard as I’d tried, I couldn’t seem to keep rhythm with my thwartmate. The old fisher didn’t seem to mind; his tone was affable enough as he bid me take a seat in the bow. I just wished he hadn’t winked to his companion. And at least the rowing had shifted my thoughts from the constant roll and swell.
“You’ll spend the rest of your life ashore.” As usual, Rust had read my thoughts.
“Yes!”
“A pity, my prince. A sail in fresh wind, under the stars ... a delightful roll; it feels like a hammock under—”
“Stop it!”
“My lords, voices carry over water.” Jahl spoke barely above a whisper. “The bay’s just past that rocky arm.” Instantly, we were silent.
Only a sliver of moon rode the heavens, but our eyes were well-accustomed to dark. I looked about while our oars dipped over and again into the water with a barely audible slap.
In moments my stomach was forgotten.
Hriskil had sent so many ships to Caledon that a score clustered at the mouth of the bay, unable to anchor within. Ketches, yawls, trading barques, brigantines, what have you. One mast, two, three on the larger vessels.
Jahl breathed, “Where do we start?”
“What say you?” In this circumstance, he was journeyman, I the apprentice.
“That two-master. Broad enough the wind will take her once she’s cut.”
I looked to Rust. He nodded. So did I.
Jahl shipped oars, waited until Sarnut’s timeworn barque drew near. Jahl pointed to a fat brigantine just inside the harbor mouth. “Remember to wait!”
“Aye!” Samut hoisted a blackened sail; I flinched as rope creaked through pulleys.
Jahl whispered instructions to each of our boats as they neared.
Too soon, it was our turn. I licked dry lips as we glided to the fat two-master. Ours was a small craft, barely more than a longboat, our mast well below the deck of the stout Norland cargo vessel.
One of Jahl’s fishers slipped to the bow, gently fended us off with his palms. On the ship above, crewmen surely slept, perhaps on deck. We were demons in the night, visiting on them every seaman’s nightmare.
As the Norlander’s stern nets drew past, Jahl’s man seized them; in a moment we were stilled alongside. Another crewman hefted a barrel, handed it to Jahl, who passed it to Rust. From Rust, to me. I caught my breath; it was weightier than it looked, and oozed pitch that stuck to my hands. I passed it to the fisher in the bow. With great care, he tied it
with thoroughly wet ropes to the netting.
He breathed, “Are they ready?”
I turned to Jahl. “Are they ready?”
“Hold.” Ever so carefully, so as not to make a splash, he and his companion backed their oars until Jahl could peer around the side of the two-master.
Eons passed. I fidgeted and fretted, ’til Rust’s hand fell on my knee.
At last, Jahl nodded. A stroke or two of the oars, and we glided back in. Someone passed the fisher our lamp; Rust was ready with a pitch-soused torch. He held it to the flame; it sputtered and caught. Instantly, the fisher thrust it at the pitch oozing from the barrel.
“Now!”
As fire rose up the side of the barrel, the crewman drew his knife, sawed at the anchor ropes. It seemed to take forever, but they parted.
“Away!” Jahl’s whisper was sharp. It seemed to echo in the breeze. Already, flames licked at the Norland hull. The fisher plunged our torch into the bay, dousing it. From the two-master, the sweetish smell of resin alight.
With all their might our rowers hauled on their oars; our darkened boat shot into the night. Jahl made past the next vessel, aiming for a yawl just inside the bay.
Behind us, the two-master drifted slowly shoreward. Fire crawled along the deck. In moments it was aflame, a signal to our compatriots. In moments, other lights flared, each from a burning ship.
We raced across the still water. In a moment our rowers reversed oars; we glided almost to a full stop under an aged barque that rode far lower than the two-master.
“Barrel!” Willing hands passed it on.
“Wait!” Jahl stood; I gripped the thwart, praying we wouldn’t capsize. “Make ready a torch!” He threaded his way to the bow, whispered a command. Together, he and the fisher lifted the barrel over their heads, heaved it over the barque’s rail. It fell with a thud. From the barque, shouts. Rust lit a torch. Jahl grabbed it, hauled himself over the Norlander’s side. A moment later he threw himself seaward, caught himself on a rope, lowered himself more gently to our bottom, so as not to smash through our thin hull. “Go!”
The King (Rodrigo of Caledon Book 2) Page 45