What then happened was so quick that it was more reflex than studied attack. But it was by design. As Acquel struck his dagger at Poule’s hip he also let his grip on Poule’s right arm slip. Poule’s hand shot down and drove his dagger into Acquel’s left thigh even as Acquel’s own blow struck home. The sergeant broke them apart with a push and the combatants threw down their wooden blades.
“Double kill!” he cried.
Acquel didn’t take his eyes from Poule as the sound of whoops and clapping erupted. Suddenly Poule gave a roar and charged at Acquel, just a few paces between them. Acquel froze in place and raised up his arms but Poule pulled up sharp in front of his face and broke into a huge laugh before seizing the monk in a hug.
“Not bad for a little priest! Not bad at all!” He gave Acquel’s hedgehog prickles a rub.
Acquel grinned with relief and looked over to Timandra. As their eyes met across the open space, she nodded and smiled.
Strykar gave a nod of respect and walked away. A few soldiers came up and clapped Acquel about the shoulders in comradely support. He thanked them and walked to Timandra to retrieve his clothes.
“Well done,” she said, handing him back his linen. “I did not think it would end thus.”
Acquel pulled on his shirt, wincing now as the pain began to flare with the heat of the combat passing. “Neither did I. Maybe now they will at least let me bear some steel to defend myself, even if it’s just a knife.”
Timandra handed him his belt and pouch. He shook it and heard the chain jangle inside. “See, nothing to fear,” he said.
She offered him his doublet back. “This time.”
A loud whistle came from across the field. Acquel turned to see Poule shaking himself like a dog, a bucket of water having been poured over him.
“Brother monk! Next time, perhaps, we will have a go with a proper sword!” He laughed and strode off, a camp boy in his wake bearing shirt, doublet, sword and harness.
“You may have found an ally,” said Timandra, a note of disappointment in her voice. Disappointment that Acquel seemed to be straying further from the path of a man in holy orders.
“It was a bit of a gamble, I know. But maybe now I’ve earned the beginnings of some respect, no?”
THAT EVENING, TUCKED comfortably under the widow’s wagon, Acquel sat and watched as Timandra, perched on a camp stool, mended a sword belt with stout thread, a thick needle, and a sailmaker’s glove. The sun, gloriously huge and orange, hung low in the sky and as he rubbed onto his bruises some pleasant smelling ointment she had given him, he reflected on what lay ahead. He had never been to Palestro nor had he heard of this Captain Danamis, former pirate and the king’s admiral. Timandra had been of few words when he had asked about the nature of the business that brought the company there. All he knew was that there were some valuable goods that Strykar carried, something that the pirates paid good coin for, and that it was a trade that had gone on for some time now. He still didn’t trust Strykar. He knew full well that any mercenary worth his salt would opt for profit given the opportunity. What price had the Magister put on his head already?
Timandra caught him watching her. She set down her work in her lap and rolled her aching shoulders.
“So, brother Acquel, have you decided to throw away the greyrobe for good and take up the sword instead?”
Acquel shrugged. “You know what happened. I don’t think there’s much chance of a return to the Temple Majoris now.”
“There are other monasteries in Valdur. You could go elsewhere.”
“The Magister and the High Priest have a long reach. And there is only the One Faith.”
“Well, you could stay here and administer to the company. You would do good work, I know it.”
“You want me to stay?”
“I do. I’ve missed hearing the Word. Missed telling a holy man what troubles me. I’ve felt I have nowhere to turn for comfort. For… forgiveness.”
He grinned. “And what would you need forgiveness for, mistress?
She suddenly looked down again at her work. “Damned stiff leather! I’m running out of needles.”
“And you didn’t tell me what exactly happened to your last holy man.”
Timandra smiled, still avoiding his gaze, a slight look of embarrassment crossing her face. “I know. I did mean to tell you. He fell into strong drink and it killed him after a year.”
“And you’re recommending me as his replacement? Sounds like the office is too demanding for any cleric.”
She laughed softly. “He was weak of will. You would do better from what I have seen of you.”
“Somehow I don’t think my wishes enter into any of this.”
And she knew he was not just speaking of Strykar’s intentions. He was frightened of what he carried, something he could not be rid of.
They spoke little after that as an awkward silence fell between them, born of uncertainty and worry for the future. As darkness descended, Timandra bid him a good night and returned to her wagon. Acquel listened to her feet scuffing the floorboards above as he lay in his woollen blankets, his head resting on a feather bolster (no doubt thieved from a Maresto nobleman’s litter). He toyed with the idea of leaving, taking his chances on the road. But he would first have to steal money and a sword from the very people who had given him refuge. For the moment, far better to stay put and keep a watchful eye. And there was Timandra. He found himself thinking of her and of her long brown neck, her shapely body. Ever since he had flung away his greyrobe and donned the dress of real men, old feelings had returned. But fatigue quickly crept up on him and he was asleep before Timandra had ceased her rummaging inside the wagon. He dreamt long and deeply.
HE FOUND HIMSELF standing on the ocean shore on a stretch of grey sand under a clear azure sky. He had never seen the sea in his life but here it was in front of him in vivid detail, roiling whitecaps dancing far off and more gentle tumbling green waves breaking on the sand of the beach. And most strange of all, he was aware that he was dreaming as he marvelled at the scene before him. There were figures a short way off, further up the beach as it met the treeline of twisted windblown pine and cypress. He walked towards them. As he drew nearer, he saw that they were mainly children, perhaps twenty or more, most running and playing, but a smaller group gathered around a man in a long coarse linen robe.
The scene gained clarity and he saw that not all were the children of men. There were merfolk; young, laughing and playing with their human companions. They were grey of colour, some having no hair upon their heads and others having long, thick whitish-blonde strands like the strands of rope on a mop head. All were immensely ugly to his eyes, with bulging faces and near lipless mouths. A group of adults came through the trees, dressed in the tunics of antiquity he had seen in countless paintings in the great Temple. Some of the children recognised them and ran to them, reunited. And then through him passed another figure to join the group, a towering merman who stood nearly two heads taller than the rest, dressed only in a shaggy brown loincloth. His lanky, well-muscled arms held out a gift of a string of silver fish and he was, in return, clapped about his shoulders in a gesture of goodwill.
Acquel found himself standing over the robed figure who some of the children had gathered round. He looked into the face, dark and long. The man was old, wrinkles having creased his brow and cheeks but his eyes still shone with vitality. He was somehow—subtly—formed in a way that was not quite right. The eyes were too far apart, the mouth thin and wide. And his hands were long with fingers like birch twigs. Acquel knew he was staring at the Lawgiver, Saint Elded, as he had appeared in life. Elded looked up from the children and into Acquel’s eyes. He smiled as if they were sharing the same thought. The thought that this was how the world lay seven hundred years ago when the Word was delivered to Valdur. A world very different from the one he lived in. A world where merfolk and humankind appeared to exist side by side.
A little mer boy approached him and took his hand. Acquel fel
t the cool dampness of the grasp and drew back, frightened that he was losing himself in the dream that he knew was no dream. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again to find himself on his back, the mudstained planks of Timandra’s wagon a few feet over his head. He shivered. Never in his life had he had such a dream nor seen such things.
Breathing heavily, he rolled over and pulled himself out of the tangle of blankets. The dew-soaked grass drenched him as he crawled out from under the wagon into the faint beginnings of the dawn. He knelt, left hand resting upwards, flat in the open palm of his right. He began mumbling the morning prayer, line upon line as he had been taught, willing himself back to the certainties of the old way of life now taken from him.
Nine
NICOLO DANAMIS WAS also dreaming of the sea. He was drowning, tumbling end over end in a monstrous surf, unable to rise to the surface to draw breath. Someone or something was holding his ankles, pulling him down deeper. The grey-green waters churned and bubbled in front of his bulging eyes as panic overwhelmed him. He rose up out of the nightmare, surfacing briefly into wakefulness, before almost as quickly sinking back into slumber.
He was on the Royal Grace, but it was a ship empty of men. He alone stood on the main deck and around him lay a dozen sundered wooden chests, spilling gold coins across the planks. He called for Gregorvero, for the helmsman, for the captains of the castles. But he was alone on board the vast creaking vessel; dead in the water, its sheets furled tight to the spars.
A squadron of ships was bearing down on him under full sail, their bows dipping and rising as they neared. The mainsail of the lead ship bore the sign of the ram’s head—it was a Southlands pirate ship out of Naresis. Danamis knew he was alone against them all, with no means of flying or fighting. He turned to look for his missing sword, only for his eyes to open in the waking world.
Through the long rectangular window the first delicate light of the day shone, illuminating his bedchamber in a faint purple hue. He rolled over on to his side, the silken sheets halfway down his body. His bedmate lay with her back to him and he reached to caress her bare buttocks, the sheets wrapped around her calves. His hand moved gently up her spine and he caressed the thick dark locks of her long hair that splayed wildly across her back. She stirred. His hand moved to her shoulder and he pulled her over towards him. Yet, as she faced him, he recoiled onto his back, crying out. For she was mer, her huge eyes white and staring, bulging out of the wet grey head, and the wide slit mouth gasping. Two small nostril holes flared open and shut as the creature moved to embrace him. The mouth opened fully to reveal needle-like teeth. Danamis screamed.
And awoke. He was alone in his bed, the rays of the morning sun spilling into the high-ceilinged bedchamber. He groaned and rubbed his face. He shuddered and threw off the sheets, rising naked from the bed. Kassia’s gown and slippers were gone. She must have tired of his snoring. He had done nothing for two days except eat a little, drink a lot, and ride his courtesans until he was sore. He shuffled out into the adjoining antechamber, his head lightly throbbing from the Milvornan wine. The servants had left him a basin and water jug and he washed himself and pulled on a red silken gown, the tiles of the floor cold under his feet. As he opened the door to the hall, he saw Kassia standing against the wall near her chamber, her arms wrapped tightly about herself.
“Kassia, what are you doing over there? Come here.”
The girl hesitated then slowly walked to him. Danamis reached out to stroke her long black hair but she pushed his hand away. Gently enough, but her anger was clear.
“What ails you, woman? What have I said now?”
Kassia’s eyes filled with tears. “You have said nothing. That is what is wrong. Since you’ve returned you’ve not been as you were when you left. You mount me like an animal and then leave me. You don’t talk with me; I am as a side of meat to you. Talia is crying in her chamber because you can’t even look her in the eye.”
Danamis swore under his breath. “You want a fight this early of a morning? When my head is pounding away?” He reached out to take her arm and Kassia batted him away again.
“Now, you’d better settle down, my girl. I can damn well do as I please with the both of you. I may not own you but by God I can have you when I will it.”
Her reply was soft spoken. “Nico, you could have had so much more. You could have had my heart.”
And the look on her beautiful olive face was of such perfect sadness that Danamis was stopped short, lost for words. “Kassia…”
She backed away and walked down the wide empty hall, towards her own rooms.
“Kassia!”
Danamis stood, unmoving, as he watched the train of her robe disappear through the doorway. A loud clearing of a throat snapped him back to attention. Halfway up the broad marble staircase leading from the central courtyard came the castellan, his keys jangling at his waist.
Danamis folded his arms as Escalus drifted towards him, already immaculately dressed in a long russet velvet gown, his trim black beard glistening with oil. His father had brought him back from a trip to Perusia, the royal enclave, where he had been at the court. How he had ever become accustomed to a pirate’s den like Palestro was something that Danamis had never understood.
“A good morning, my lord.” Escalus gave a small bow of his head and then his eyes moved towards where Kassia had stood. “Problems?”
Danamis waved his hand. “Not of your concern. What is it you want—at this hour of the day?”
“A messenger has just arrived from the city gate. The company of the Black Rose is making camp on the plain just beyond the wall. We can expect Captain Strykar to arrive sometime later this morning.”
Danamis’s shoulders sank a little. “Hell and blast. I had clear forgotten about the new delivery. I don’t know how I’m going to explain what the hell happened this time. And worse than that I’m sworn to buy the damned leaf from him with little fucking chance of selling it again.”
“He’s more than your partner in the trade, my lord. He is your friend, is he not? You should tell him everything that happened out at sea.”
“And tell him I can’t pay for the shipment? He won’t be my friend long after that.”
“You can pay him for the last shipment now at least. He’ll have to be patient for the rest.”
Danamis looked at Escalus. He was beginning to sound like his father had a few years before. “I’ll have to come up with something. Maybe he’ll take a ship instead… as collateral.”
Escalus smiled. “See, many alternatives if you put your mind to it. Finish dressing and I will get the cook to prepare you smoked herring and some sops in wine.”
“I was joking.”
“You might not be later,” replied Escalus. “Come, my lord, get yourself dressed.”
Danamis mumbled a curse and returned to his bedchamber. Headache or not, and with his women in sullen rebellion, he was going to have to steel himself for what would be a very long day with the mercenaries of the Black Rose.
CAPTAIN STRYKAR WATCHED as the rope-bound oilcloth sacks were thrown onto the two mules and strapped down. He still found it near inconceivable that a mere leaf could be worth so much gold coin, and that he had managed to keep the knowledge of how to obtain it to himself. Around him, the sounds of a camp newly pitched rang out. There was more than the usual joking and camaraderie this morning: the men knew they would get to visit Palestro, in turns, and eat, drink and whore until their money ran out. He had chosen the first to go into the city along with the myrra shipment; forty strong and in full shining harness to impress the pirates if needs must, and he had decided that the greyrobe would come too. Besides, Timandra was coming along to buy her own supplies and the monk could not stay on his own, even with Poule to keep an eye on him. No, this Acquel was too much of a mystery to risk losing and his conjuring trick was still causing Strykar to lose sleep. The Duke would have to see the monk for himself and decide what to do. A few days in Palestro—no more—and they wou
ld take the coast road back to Maresto. A three day journey if the weather held.
He turned as he heard Poule’s braying laugh.
“Don’t go sticking that into just anyone, holy man!” said the lieutenant as he wrapped an arm around a beaming Acquel. Acquel was still dressed like a ragamuffin, but he held a shining dagger with a fine wooden and brass wire grip, balanced with a pretty silver pommel. Acquel slid it back into its leather scabbard and unfastened his belt in order to loop it through.
“The captain gave his permission,” warned Poule, “but don’t you fuck about and make me look a fool. No picking fights.”
“I’ll mind my business, lieutenant. And I thank you.”
Poule shoved him away. “Go help the widow with her pack mule. And bring me back a woman if you find a good-looking one. No fishwives!”
When Timandra saw him and the blade at Acquel’s hip, her face darkened; he seemed to be moving further away from his vows as a cleric. She cursed herself for having burned his robes, leaving him no alternative but to don some dead soldier’s grubby doublet and hose. Perhaps, if there was time in Palestro, she could convince him otherwise. For now though, he was like a child proud of his new toy. She managed to brighten as he approached her.
“See what the lieutenant has given me!”
She pushed her straw hat back high on her forehead. “Yes, I can see that. Just don’t go waving it about.”
The Guns of Ivrea Page 9
