The man wiped his dagger and hurried to the Duke's side.
'Thank you,' the Duke said as the man helped him to his feet.
His rescuer said nothing.
The Duke cringed. How much had he heard? Did he know the full extent of his cowardice?
'I am eternally grateful to you.'
They hobbled together across the grass but his strength was fading with each step as the blood drained from his body and the world swam before his eyes.
'My Lord!' The Duke fluttered his eyes open to see Lord Kalin's pained face in front of him. A surgeon with a broad-axe at his side.
He gulped as his men swamped him, pushing aside the man with the dagger.
'Get back to the line,' ordered Kalin. 'Stop lazing about.'
The man's cold staring eyes sent shivers through the Duke's body. He knew he should have intervened, should have said something in the man's defence. That man was the hero after all. The Duke could have blamed the pain for his silence but he looked away, knowing full well what he was doing.
The Duke woke up hours later in a tent with a physician tying bandages where his thigh used to be.
'The man,' he said, bolting upright. 'Where is he?'
'Rest, my Lord,' said the physician, handing over a goblet of wine.
'I must thank...' His voice trailed off as his stump thumped with pain. 'Who was the man who brought me here?'
'I did not see, my Lord.' The physician shrugged.
'Some peasant. They all look the same,' Kalin said from a chair in the corner. 'Look at you. Proper battle scars. The Old Duke would be proud. Was it one of those new swords? I've heard it takes weeks to fold the steel. Ingenious. We need to capture one of their smiths.'
'Mortu is gone,' he sighed.
Kalin shook his head. 'A fine horse.'
'Did we triumph?'
'We suffered many losses but yes, now the path to Sulun is clear. The final push is tomorrow. If Prince Celso and the Neven have not already run from the Palace with their tails between their legs.'
'Excellent,' the Duke said, collapsing wearily into the cot. Where was he, that man with the dagger? Was he in the camp, celebrating? Telling all of the cowardly Duke who bargained for his life?
Kalin leaned forward in his chair. 'Come on, my Lord. I have been waiting here all night to hear what happened.'
The Duke had wished Kalin would leave him to his pain and cowardice but the tale must be told sooner or later. It was time to start spinning the lies. The more he told his story, the more he convinced himself. Almost. But a part of him always scoured the room for that small man. Months had passed without a glimpse of him and he had started to tell himself a new story: there was nothing to fear. His saviour must have been killed in the Battle of Truinn, along with countless other foot soldiers. He was safe and no one would ever know the truth.
But the Duke was wrong. The man was here, somewhere in Ambrovna and at any moment, his secret could be revealed.
The Duke gestured for more wine, in the vain hope that one more goblet would cure his nightmares.
Chapter Twenty-four
'Will you help us?' Sira said, leaning forward from her tree stump seat. 'The world will be better off without him.'
'You believe that but is it the truth? Only the Great Mother chooses where and when. And who.'
'Rabel is suffering. Your own sister. And your niece. Your nephews. Your blood.'
'Takin' a life? You want that on your conscience? What would your Father say?'
'But He is wrong,' Sira blurted, quickly made a circle on her forehead. 'I mean Iwan. Not the Father.'
'The Great Mother doesn't have right and wrong. No good. No bad. Just what is. There's only one certainty in life. Death. There's a time when death comes for every one of us. A time. A day. Only she knows when and she doesn't like it when we meddle in her plans.'
'What about justice?'
'Justice? Another made-up story. Is there justice in the weather? You build a home to keep out the rain and the wind. For thirty years your little house proves itself until one day the Weather Daughter blows in a storm and destroys it all. Is that good or bad? Everyone, everything must die.'
'We are not animals. We must live by what is right,' Sira said.
'Survival or death. That's all.'
'Life is not so simple.'
'You and the town people like to complicate the world. But if you look closely, your rules are all contrived for their gain. Your Father is dreamed up by men in bronze gowns.'
Sira winced and checked over her shoulder, even though they were alone in the hut.
'We can't change anythin' by sayin' nonsense verses,' Wisia continued. 'I'm glad I'm free of Him and all your rules. I float with the wind because there's no point fightin' it.'
Sira wiped her palm over her face. Her sister reached out and patted her knee. 'This isn't what you want to hear, I know.'
'I am sorry,' Sira said, lowering her eyes. 'I did not help you. Back then.'
Wisia chuckled and shook her head. 'I didn't need your help.'
'I should have stopped them. All the terrible things they said about you. I should have...' Sira dropped her head. 'But I did nothing. And when the same thing happened, I did not help Rabel. But I can make amends. I will make it right this time. All I need is your help.' She sniffled into her sleeve.
'And I'll help you. If I can. But understand that the Great Mother doesn't promise you'll get the result you want.'
Sira's face brightened. 'I am willing to take the risk.'
'But...' Wisia tugged at her lower lip.
Sira swallowed. This was what she feared. She glanced at the grinning skulls on the shelf. 'What do you want in return?'
'I already ate your cake. But you must promise me somethin'.'
'Anything if you will help.'
'Anything?'
'Anything.'
'Promise me you're listenin' to your heart? If you are, that is all I need.'
Sira's heart thumped in reply. The question was like an arrow to her chest. What did Wisia see?
'I am,' she spluttered.
'Your whole heart?' Wisia lifted an eyebrow.
Sira nodded jerkily and Wisia jumped to her feet. 'Come,' she said and Sira stood, groaning as she straightened her stiff knees.
Wisia led her back into the night, under tree branches, between boulders and across ankle-deep streams. A thin sliver of a waxing moon gleamed overhead.
Following as best she could, Sira pondered Wisia's puzzling words. But she breathed easier, feeling as if her apology had set her free after so many years.
They continued along a narrow ridge overlooking perilous cliffs and finally stopped at a grove of walnut trees whose outstretched branches interlocked into a leafy tunnel over the winding path. The ground was carpeted with damp leaves and half-chewed nuts.
'We're here. This is the right time.'
Squatting and rummaging among the layers of red and yellow leaves, Wisia dug into the brown compost, releasing the fertile smells underneath. She plucked out a white-capped fungus and stood up, inspecting it in the dim light.
'Only good for eatin'.'
She pocketed it and moved to the next tree, sweeping aside more mounds of leaves, and uncovering a handful of white puffballs.
'Ah ha.'
Wisia plucked out the smallest one, the size of a daisy eye.
'Puffballs?' Sira frowned as her sister wrapped it in a square of goat hide and handed it over. The fur parcel, secured shut with a thin strap of leather, weighed nothing in her palm.
'Much worse. I've given you enough to slay five large men.'
'Will he taste it?'
'He'll never notice.'
Sira gingerly slipped the pouch into her dress. The all-important contents hummed through the cloth, vibrating against her leg. Life or death in her pocket.
She clasped Wisia's rough hand tightly. 'Thank you, dear sister.'
'Remember what I said.'
Sira nodded
and her stomach roiled. She was too afraid to ask which part her sister meant.
But the details did not matter, Sira had what she came for. She would not let Rabel down this time.
Chapter Twenty-five
'Get off me,' the boy squealed, his voice bouncing off the brick walls and down the dungeon corridor.
'In here, you little toerag,' grunted Seliv.
A tubby guard in a terracotta tunic dragged the kicking boy into the room. The boy skidded on the well-worn bricks and slipped to the ground.
'Takes two of you, eh Seliv? How old is he? Eight?' Lord Kalin said with his boots on the table.
'I'm nine.' The hare-lipped kid scowled. His hessian shirt was stained and ripped under one arm.
'Nine, m'Lord,' the fat guard spat. 'Don't they teach you no manners?'
'I gather this is the culprit.' Kalin rolled his eyes.
'Yes, my Lord. Caught Wilken here red-handed,' Seliv said.
Seliv handed Kalin a slip of paper. He unfolded the ink-smudged note, which was covered in clumsy lettering.
'You aren't what you seem, Duke. I'll tell them all unless you pay.'
'What do you have to say for yourself, boy?'
Wilken stuck out his tongue.
'Answer the Master of the Shield, you little turd.' The guard clipped him across the ear.
'Ow!' The boy clutched his head. 'I've done nothin' wrong.'
'Where did you get this letter?' Kalin waved the paper in his face.
'What letter?'
Kalin narrowed his eyes. 'Do you know how serious this is?'
'It's just a bit of paper,' Wilken said with a shrug of his scrawny shoulders.
'Just a bit of paper, my Lord.' Seliv prodded a hard finger into the kid's chest.
'Do you know what this means? This is treason. A threat to the Duke.'
Wilken lifted his head. 'Treason?' His voice shook. 'But it's just words.'
'Of course. You cannot read. Can you?'
'Look at him, sir,' Seliv said.
The boy bowed his head, all his swagger gone. He suddenly seemed much younger than nine. 'I didn't know, m'Lord,' he murmured, his bottom lip quivering. 'He gave me a copper and asked me to deliver it. Easy coin. That's all.'
'Who?'
The boy shrugged. 'He hangs around the Alleys. Near the Seaweed Arms. Don't know his name. There's lots of new faces back from the war. He gave me a copper. I didn't ask.'
'Details, boy. Old? Young? Tall? Short?'
'Not tall, not short...' he said, his voice wobbling.
'You can do better than that, Wilken,' Seliv said.
The boy pouted.
'Where is your mother? Maybe she can make you talk,' Kalin said.
'Probably on Guts Alley,' chuckled the guard.
'You shut up.' The boy turned and jabbed him in the ballocks.
The guard groaned and doubled over. Seliv guffawed and Kalin let out a little smile.
'You little...' the guard wheezed. He lunged with his doughy forearms outstretched.
Kalin held out his hand and the guard stopped short.
'Would you remember the man again, boy? If you saw him?'
Wilken nodded his head vigorously. 'Yes, m'Lord.'
'Guard. Go with him,' Kalin exhaled. 'Walk around the Alleys. Find this man. And do not tell anyone about this, Wilken. Otherwise we shall bring your mother back here, too. And we will not be as kind. We must find him. Understand?'
'Yes, m'Lord,' the boy repeated.
The guard grabbed Wilken by the shirt and pulled him down the corridor with Seliv following behind.
Alone in the room, Kalin rubbed the back of his neck. He unfolded the note and read it again, chuckling as he pictured the Duke's little indiscretions and remembered a few of his own. The Duke was a man after all, and as a noble, he could do as he pleased. But he wondered why his friend had withheld the details of his colourful adventures.
Kalin headed through the dungeon gate and towards the keep, his head filled with memories of the plump brown-eyed Ishilde from his favourite Sulun pleasure house. He did not hear the Seneschal approach.
'Lord Kalin, I was hoping to catch you.'
His lusty daydream spoiled, Kalin scowled and turned to head in the opposite direction.
'Lord Kalin, I must speak with you. Most urgently. About your expenses.' The stooping coin counter waved his hand, his heavy chain necklace rattling.
Kalin rushed towards the Avenue, calling back over his shoulder. 'I have an urgent matter to attend, Seneschal. I will come to see you this evening.'
'You said that yesterday,' the Seneschal grumbled.
Kalin strode down the Avenue and into the Square. It had been a long time since he'd led an investigation and a little adventure in the Alleys would make for an amusing tale at this evening's meal. If he hurried, he'd easily catch them.
Chapter Twenty-six
For hours Rabel had stared into the darkness, waiting for first light of day to peek through the holes in the thatched roof. When she had managed to doze off, her scraps of sleep were haunted by angry, sweaty dreams. Her eyes were already open when someone knocked gently at the door. She slipped from under the scratchy blanket, careful not to disturb Iwan or the sleeping babes intertwined on the leaf-stuffed mattress. Rubbing her sore eyes and covering her thin shift with her shawl, she cracked open the door to see Sira.
'Good. You're awake,' Sira whispered.
Rabel swallowed hard and closing the door softly behind her as she stepped barefoot into the dirt street.
Sira grabbed her hand and placed a fur pouch into her palm, wrapping her fingers around it. Sira started to speak but Rabel's mind drifted away. The fur was soft against her skin but the gravity of the contents pulsed through her veins. Rabel blinked and tried to listen to her sister.
'More than enough. It will take half a day,' Sira said gently, keeping her voice low.
Rabel gulped. 'How was she? What did she want in return?'
'Nothing. I think,' Sira said, pulling at her bottom lip. 'She did not ask for anything. All those years alone in the hills have made her even stranger.'
'How does she live? What did she say?'
'I must go. There will be plenty of time to explain later. But you have it now. Will you do it today?'
Rabel clutched the pouch to her chest, her hand clammy against the fur. 'Thank you.'
The sisters hugged and Sira slipped her a couple of coppers before disappearing down the puddle-filled Alleys. Rabel stood in the cold, staring at her hand. The answer was here, laying in her palm.
Could she ever be as strong as her sisters? She felt unworthy of their sacrifice, risking eternal damnation to help her. The all-seeing Father knew their devious plans and thoughts, no matter how they repented. Even if her cowardice overwhelmed her and she changed her mind.
'Mornin' Goodwife,' said the rabbit-faced stable hand, unlocking the stable door. 'Out and about early?'
Rabel flinched, shoving the fur pouch into her pocket. 'Mornin' Porvid.'
'Nice day, isn't it?'
Smiling weakly, Rabel looked up at the thin strip of clear sky between the broken roof shingles and squirrel-gnawed thatches. The linen-coloured sky turned bluer by the moment.
Today.
Could she do it today?
She rubbed her hand across her forehead as one of the twins began to cry on the other side of the flimsy wall. She reached for the shack door, the question still resting unanswered on her tongue.
With a child in each hand, Rabel headed for the Square. She bypassed the shiny red apples, the green-topped turnips and the clear-eyed cod from the grocers and turned down the alley, tip-toeing over a rivulet of dirty water. She knocked on the back doors of the shops, just as she did every day.
The stallholders sighed, hands on their hips, wary as soon as they saw her familiar face.
'I can pay. I'm not beggin'.' She'd say, holding out a copper. No one believed her until they saw the coin in her palm. 'Stale bread? Old milk? Ro
tten vegetables? I'll take it off your hands?' Her search for food could take the whole day as she knocked on door after door.
Sometimes she came away with nothing, their produce sold out before she arrived. On other days, she was lucky if she got mouldy cheese, a blackened cabbage or rock-hard bread. Food they couldn't sell to anyone else.
Today she was lucky. Today a single copper bought her stinky fish heads, rubbery parsnips and a caraway cob loaf with a suspicious bite out of one end. Enough for a decent midday meal and a copper left over for tomorrow.
'Come along.' She dragged her twins from their game in the dirty water and wiped them down, ignoring the sneering stall girls who leaned against the laneway walls. Rabel hurried the twins into the town Square and her mind wandered to the pouch hidden inside her pocket.
'Good morning.'
Rabel flinched. Mistress Plesec's face was covered nose to chin by a cream coloured veil, but her black eye was on full display. She had a sullen Irina in tow.
'Mornin', Mistress Plesec.' Rabel cleared her throat. 'A fine day.'
'It is indeed. Irina, go get a round of cheese from Dyntr and do not pay more than six coppers. No matter what he says.'
Bowing her head with a sneer, Irina scuttled off. Mistress Plesec grabbed Rabel by the elbow and pulled her into a corner, away from the earshot of others. Rabel's breath snagged in her throat.
'I passed on your message,' she whispered. Their faces were so close, Rabel sniffed the plum brandy on her breath. 'Has Sira come to see you?'
'I'm very thankful.'
The veiled woman's good eye gleamed. 'Everything is in place?'
Rabel hesitated, her stomach clenching. How much had Sira told her? Did she know about the contents of her pocket?
'I am here to help,' Mistress Plesec said. 'You know you can trust me.'
Rabel nodded, unsure what to say. She kicked the dirt with her boots.
'That's settled.' The merchant's wife raised her voice, loud enough for any passer-by to hear. 'Please come to see me tomorrow morning, Rabel. I may have work for you.'
'I will, Mistress Plesec,' Rabel replied at a similar volume. 'Thank you.'
Women of Wasps and War Page 13
