“From what I hear, sir, there isn’t much of Kunadi left.”
Fa’rann nodded. “Just so,” he said. “So where has he gone, I wonder?”
“Maybe he is on his way here.”
“Maybe,” Fa’rann admitted. “But if he is, he will be coming on his own. One thing we know from all this mess, His Highness is in no mood for a civil war.”
* * *
Mairi sat at the kitchen table. It was an old thing, and had taken her three hours to clean. Clearly, the last person to stay at the old farmhouse had left years ago. Or rather, the last person with a mind to clean up after themselves had left years ago – she knew Calleon’s men had been there for some weeks, but they were hardly the homely sort.
Through the window, Mairi could just about see the manor house chimney. Other than that, and the run-down barn, there were no other structures near the farm – nowhere for her to hide if she tried to run.
Run? she told herself. They won’t let you near the door, and you are thinking about running?
It had not taken long to understand they were now prisoners. A moment after seeing the six guards sent to escort her from the guest house, Mairi had known something was up, and when she saw the old farm looming up in the distance, she had known the truth of it.
But was she a hostage, or was Lord Breen just keeping her in reserve, as leverage against Daric or even Gialyn? She knew the palace would not bend to hostage demands, but Daric would. Her husband would try to organise a rescue.
But then all the general need do was relieve Daric of his command. Lord Breen would know that, which meant, if she was a hostage, it had something to do with whatever Gialyn was up to.
Unless, of course, Lord Breen wanted the keeper’s boy. But would Daric give up Mersius to save her? She did not think so; he knew she would never forgive him.
She sighed, then leaned her forehead against the palm of her hand.
Stop trying to work him out, she told herself. You don’t know what Breen has planned for you.
Odaman was sitting at the other end of the table, ostensibly nursing his broken nose – Calleon himself had punched the king’s secretary when Odaman complained about his room, of all things. Odaman just did not grasp the reality of their situation, Mairi had decided, when the weasely little man continued complaining about the smell from the privy. She knew he was mouthing off because he was nervous, but if he did not find something else to talk about, he would end up with a broken neck and rotting on the midden heap.
“Does it still hurt?” Mairi said.
“Only when I touch it.”
Mairi smiled. “Then don’t touch it.”
She had meant her comment to be humorous, but Odaman shot her a glare that could have melted ice.
“You need to calm down,” she told him. “Calleon is just looking for an excuse to hit you again. You know he hates being stuck out here when all the other men are out looting merchants and travellers. He blames us for that, never mind it was Bayon’s orders that put him out here. He thinks, if he can get rid of us, he can get back to stealing.”
“I know that,” Odaman said, dragging out the comment. “Don’t you think I know that? Did it never occur to you he might beat on me all the more if he thought me weak?”
Mairi felt her brow pinch. “Is that why you keep annoying him, because you think you’re being strong, standing up to a bully?”
Odaman shrugged. “Of course it is,” he said. “Men like that – bullies, as you so rightly call them – prey on the weak. Mark me, he would beat on me all the more if I cower away at every opportunity.”
Mairi glanced into the hall. Calleon was in the other room with Mercha, the other guard from the day shift was out in the yard; she did not think anyone could hear their conversation, but still, she whispered.
“You are wrong, Tolas. Take my word on it, Calleon does not care a wit about you; he’d as soon sit in that room drinking his spirits than admit you exist. Just let him be, stop provoking him. One of these days, he will hit you hard. He will find something to use as a weapon and hit you so hard, Tolas. Don’t help him along by feeding his anger.”
Odaman opened his mouth, likely to rebuke her argument, but a noise in the hall shut him up.
Mercha guided the other hostage into the kitchen. He sat her down between Mairi and Odaman.
The woman was dark – Toyan, maybe – with slightly slanted eyes and shoulder length black hair. She was not very big, but Calleon’s men watched her like she was a wolf ready to pounce.
Right now, however, she looked so far under the influence of whatever herb they were giving her, it was a wonder she could sit up on her own.
“Is that really necessary?” Mairi asked Mercha, then chided herself for asking.
Haven’t you just told Odaman to keep his mouth shut?
Mercha let out a mirthless laugh. “With that one, yes, damn right it’s necessary. She aint no friendly filly, not like you.”
Mercha made himself some tea, watching the woman out of the corner of his eye. When he reached up for the lemon, Mairi was sure Ally shot her a wink, then subtly shook her head.
Are you pretending to be drunk on their herbs? Mairi did not say.
When Mercha turned back to the table, Mairi had to hide a smile. Was Ally planning something? And was she as dangerous as Calleon’s men seemed to think she was? One way or another, Mairi had to talk to the woman, make sure she was included in any escape attempt.
“Yep, took six men to catch her,” Mercha went on, “and two of em lost fingers trying to throw a rope over her. If it were down to me, I’d as soon put the bitch down, but His Lordship wants her for something – one of his experiments, I’ll bet.”
Experiments?
Again, Ally glanced over at her. The look in her eye said no one was going to experiment on her.
“And you don’t think that’s a little peculiar?” Mairi asked, and once again cursed herself for opening her mouth.
“Aint none of my business what he does with her, only that he hurries up and does it. I’m getting sick of following her around and trying to force that elder bark down her neck.”
“You could let her go,” Mairi offered. “Say she escaped.”
Mercha regarded her with a flat stare. “You really don’t know who you’ve gotten yourself messed up with, do—?”
“That’s enough, Mercha,” Calleon interrupted. “What did Bayon tell you about talking to the prisoners?”
Mercha huffed. “If Bayon’s got a problem with me talking, then Bayon can come up here and tell me himself. I don’t work for that little rat.”
“No, you work for me, and I’m telling you not to talk to the prisoners.”
Mercha grumbled something inaudible, then nodded.
“I’ll watch them,” Calleon said into the silence. “It’s your turn to fetch in wood for the fire.”
Again, Mercha grumbled, but he got up and walked to the door, teacup in hand. He would likely sit outside and finish it.
Calleon sat down in Mercha’s place. He gave Ally a cold stare, then curled his lip in disdain at Odaman.
For once, the king’s secretary kept his mouth shut. Maybe he was not all that stupid after all.
CHAPTER 23
The Reluctant Spy
Morn woke to find the room empty. He had expected to see Livvy laying at his side, but all that was on the bed were her day breeches. The shortsword and belt that had been hanging on the hook next to her washstand were gone.
She had left in a hurry. Had something happened? And if so, did it have anything to do with that buzzing noise Morn had heard while in the mess, the noise which had made him feel sick?
He found his shirt and shoes. Once dressed, Morn made his way through the crew quarters and onto the aft castle. The corridor was deserted, nothing but dark wood panels and covered lamps for twenty paces in either direction. Where had everyone gone?
Morn stood still and listened. Could he still hear the buzzing? He opened his mind
to the Voice. He heard the persistent drone of the wet witches, the echoing boom of some large sea creature, and a sound that reminded him of snoring, but no buzz. What had made that noise? Could it have been that thing in the black tower, the machine?
Morn ignored the thought and made his way back to the kitchen. Lupan had told him to come find him; maybe the cook would know what was going on?
Morn had just entered the passage by the mess, when he felt a hand on his shoulder, then a tug on his collar, as one of the guards – a Kel’mau – pulled him toward the kitchen.
“This way, boy,” the guard said.
“I’m was going to the kitchen,” Morn told him. “No need to drag me.”
The guard ignored the comment and pushed Morn through the door.
The other chore boys were already in the kitchen, lined up like ducks for the pot.
“Stand at the end,” the guard said.
Morn looked along the line of boys. He was the oldest in the line by five years, but with his flat hair and round cheeks he looked no more than sixteen. The five faces he saw were clearly frightened, likely wondering what they had done wrong. The two younger boys glanced at him, as if he would have an answer, but Morn knew no more than they did.
They must have found me out, he told himself. Someone from Raff saw me talking with the rebels and told the guards.
That must be it; what other reason could the Kel’mau have for lining them up like that. If they had done something wrong in the kitchens, Lupan would have scolded them himself; there would be no need to call the guards.
Morn could feel his knees shaking, and a sensation of cold dread wrapped his gut. What were they going to do with him? Kill him? Torture him until he gave up the others?
They should not have sent me. Gods, they know I can’t do this. Why did they send me?
He bit at the inside of his cheek. Somehow, he had to stop his knees shaking, and hold his water.
Think of Sansi, he told himself. What would she think if she saw you now? Think of Sansi. You don’t want them to hurt her, do you?
He imagined her being tortured, laid out on a slab while the Kel’mau pulled out her fingernails and burned hot iron into her breast. Maybe they would rape her, or at least threaten to. They would tell her it was his fault; that Morn the coward had told them everything.
They will do it, he told himself. They will torture you until you give her up.
Anger rose in him. He was all but chewing a hole in his cheek. You are a coward. You would give them up, wouldn’t you? You would give them up to save yourself.
Suddenly, a crystal-clear thought washed over his mind. No, he would not give them up. Better to die than betray his friends.
He was surprised at how certain he felt about that. The feeling gave him strength. His knees stopped shaking and his stomach no longer felt full of cold water. Again, he glanced down the line of chore boys. Another thought occurred to him – If they knew who he was, why were the other boys there?
Karloth entered the kitchen. Jaw clenched and boots thumping on the stone, he strode along the line. All the boys, including Morn, stood to attention and faced forward. Karloth paused in front of Morn, then turned and stomped back along the line, stopping at the guard who had dragged Morn into the kitchen.
“Is this all of them?” Karloth asked the guard. “Where is the small one with the white hair?”
The guard turned to the first boy in the line. “Where is Shai?”
The boy swallowed. Voice shaking, he said. “I d-don’t know, sir. He should be back by now. He only went to swill out the buckets.”
Karloth growled something Morn could not hear, then shouted, “Gather your men, Chade. Search the ship. Find him!”
And as quickly as that, they were gone, leaving the chore boys looking around in wide-eyed wonder.
Morn sighed out his relief.
The boy next to him all but fell to his knees. Leaning on the counter, he said, “What could Shai have done to get them in such a state? Do you think he stole something?”
Morn tried to remember what Shai looked like. He was a nervous little boy, always glancing around as if someone were about to hit him. But he was cheeky, too; of the six of them, Shai was the only one who needed asking twice to do a job. The fact Lupan let him off with a friendly clip around the ear made Morn think he might be the boy’s uncle, or older cousin – they certainly seemed to know each other.
That made Morn wondered if the boy had stolen something, would the cook know?
“Have you seen Lupan?” he asked the boy still leaning on the counter.
The boy shook his head. “He’ll be in the store. He always does his count after supper.”
Morn could have left the guards to find the boy. But if they did not, they might throw all of them off the ship. He could not allow that; he had not discovered anything useful, other than the women working in the tower all looked like they had been locked in a room with a hornet’s nest – they were all covered in sores. He had to find the boy, force him to return whatever he had stolen from Karloth and say sorry for what he had done. He would likely get a raw backside for his trouble, but that was better than getting booted off ship.
Lupan was not in the stores, but his parchment and quill were. When Morn looked to see what Lupan had been writing, he found the last line smudge and a big blob of ink on the bottom of the page, as if the cook had put parchment on the shelf then threw the quill down on top of it without bothering to clean the nib – he had left in a hurry.
The stores were under the forecastle, close to the narrow passage leading to the back door of the kitchen. The servant’s quarters were below, and below that was the large cabin Morn shared with the other chore boys. He did not think Shai or Lupan would have gone there; it would be the first place the guards would look. But where else could the boy have gone without the guards noticing him? Yes, he was small, but with that white hair of his, the Kel’mau would easily pick him out in a crowd.
Morn had turned to leave the store when he noticed something on the floor. At first, it looked like spilt syrup of some sort, but when he looked closer, he noticed the by now familiar deep red of fresh blood. Looking around, Morn noticed a bloody handprint on one of the shelves, a box of bandages was open next to it. The handprint was small, two of the fingers oddly bent. Morn knew the print belonged to Shai, but what had the boy been doing to break two fingers?
“He did not steal anything,” Morn said. “Not with a broken hand. He must have seen something he should not have.”
If that were true, the guards would not just give him a red backside.
Suddenly worried for the boy, Morn made his way to the long passage which opened up onto the deck. If the guards were searching the ship, Shai and Lupan were more than likely outside – it would be a good place to hide; nobody went on deck if they did not have to; five minutes in the thick fog would leave anyone itching until they tore their skin off.
Morn turned left at the long corridor – if they were going outside, they would head for the raft.
But before he reached the hatch at the top of the steps, he heard someone whisper his name.
“Eryk. Over here.”
Lupan was squatting under the stairs. He waved Morn down and gestured for him to hide behind the crates which were stacked below the hatch.
Lupan regarded him with narrow eyes. “You’re with Juran’s lot, aren’t you? Reeder said they might send someone, and I could tell soon as look at you, you ain’t no kitchen boy.”
“Who is Reeder?” Morn asked.
Lupan’s lip creased into a sour grin. “Don’t give me that, I know it’s you. They asked me to spy for them, but I wouldn’t do it, not with Shai aboard. So they sent you instead.” His shoulders sank. He seemed to age ten years, his face turning ashen. “You have to help me get him out.”
“What did he do?” Morn asked.
“You’ll help me?” Lupan said.
Morn thought of the risk: Lupan had already admitted en
ough to get himself hung, which meant he had as much to lose by talking to the guards as Morn did. More important, Lupan had known who Morn was working with the rebels, and yet, he said nothing. Sighing, Morn decided he could trust the man.
“Where’s Shai?”
“He heard them coming,” Lupan said. “I had just found the key to unlock the hatch, and he ran off.” He pointed at the thick door opposite the stairs. “He’s in there, with the machine. I’d go in after him, but I’ve been on the ship too long. I can’t get near that thing.”
“What is it?” Morn said, still looking at the thick door.
“I don’t know. Zill’s new toy. I don’t know what it does, but it’s the reason why we are all here, why she’s got them poor women up in the tower working day and night. There’s Power in there.” Lupan gave him a meaningful look. “You know what I mean by Power?”
Morn nodded, he had seen enough of that sort of thing down in Rieg, when Elspeth sent the tidal wave to wash away half the Kel’mau from the harbour.
“You go get him,” Lupan said. “I’ll get the boat ready.”
“You mean the raft,” Morn said, and Lupan laughed dryly.
Again, Morn regarded the big door. “You would think they’d lock it,” he mumbled.
“You’ll not say that when you see what’s inside. No one would set foot in there unless they had to.”
Morn felt a chill. Turning to the cook, he said, “You’re not making this easy.”
Lupan shrugged. “I’m just warning you. Go in, get my boy, get out. Don’t stop to smell the honey cakes. In fact, don’t stop to do anything. Just grab the boy.”
Morn nodded. “And you’ll have the boat ready?”
“I’ll have the boat ready, aye.”
Morn took a deep breath and headed for the door.
* * *
“What do you mean he got away!” Zill shouted. “How can a six-year-old boy escape a ship anchored in the middle of nowhere?”
“He had help,” Karloth said. “The cook has gone, too. Apparently, the boy is his stepson.”
The Ship of Tears: (The Legend of the Nine: Part One) (The Eastern Kingdom Chronicles Book 8) Page 25
