Path of Revenge

by Russell Kirkpatrick

  ‘No,’ he said.

  Stella sat on a wooden bench in the barge’s cabin and stared at the backs of her hands. A queen no longer, her nails were cracked and split, her skin rough from poling. A disguise of sorts, half-completed but hopefully already efficacious. She had few regrets at leaving Instruere and seventy years of power behind. Even had the Halites not wanted to harm her, she would not have remained long in the Falthan capital, having become heartily sick of the trappings that, despite the king’s best efforts, snarled everything they tried to do. Let someone else carry the burden. Time to find another life.

  Above her the scraping and thumping of cargo being transferred finally ceased. The Wodrani family would make a tidy profit from their month on the Aleinus: court fashions required silk and colourful cloth imported from Sarista, and while a certain amount made it over the Veridian Borders, it was limited in quantity and therefore expensive, beyond the reach of all but the most wealthy. The nobility of Vindicare, such as they were, would have their seamstresses purchase bolt after bolt of the cloth Ma and her sons had brought upriver from Instruere. Good. Such families deserved their share of Faltha’s prosperity.

  The silence left her alone with her thoughts, truly alone for the first time since Leith’s passing. She shook her head angrily: already she found herself applying euphemisms to his death, as though he were a wagon now disappeared from view around a corner. Call it death; that’s what it is.

  In seventy years she had never succeeded in telling Leith the true complexity of her feelings for him. She had loved him, but not with the deep passion of a lover. More that of a grateful, close friend; latterly, as he grew older and she did not, that of a daughter for a father. A great comfort, a generosity beyond what she deserved, but not the love sung of by midsummer bards. Not what she had felt for Wira, or even, Most High forgive her, for Tanghin. Leith knew—he must have known—she did not return his feelings in quite the same fashion he offered them. Must have known.

  Eventually she could stand the silence no longer. She left the bench and made her way topside. Robal had warned her to keep out of sight, but she was destroying herself down in the cabin, the windowless walls mirroring the inside of her head. She would not be recognised sitting here in the lee of the cabin, sheltering from the desiccating simoom wind tormenting the city.

  The docks and slipways were largely empty. Had been since they were greatly enlarged during the barge-building period of the Falthan War, when fifty thousand troops had been poled upriver, from Vindicare to the Aleinus Gates, on massive rafts built here. The forests had been stripped for leagues around, and would take centuries to recover. Another adventure she had missed out on while enjoying the delights of being the Destroyer’s Consort. One other barge, two masted fishing boats and a half-dozen or so small dinghies were made fast to the nearest wharf; she could see other wharfs beyond, stretching hundreds of paces into the river, with only the odd mast visible.

  She sighed. Vindicare had never been a prosperous city, despite the pressure Leith had brought to bear on the King of Straux to spread the kingdom’s wealth. So many failures, so few successes.

  Suddenly uneasy, Stella swung around to face the tiller. No sign of Ma: where had she gone? Jarner had remarked that she would have Ma for company, so it was reasonable to expect the woman to have remained on board. How long had she been gone?

  She tried to relax. Couldn’t the Wodrani woman be allowed to go ashore to stretch her legs? Must she insist on seeing danger everywhere? She was becoming like Robal, seeing threats in every situation. Truth to tell, she had been unsettled since the night of the storm—whatever it was—on the Maremma. It had been as though she’d seen through a window into another world, where ravenous beasts prowled the skies looking for her. The fabric of her nightmares.

  The sound of footfalls on the wharf pulled her attention ashore. Peering around the side of the cabin, into the grit-laden simoom, she could not at first identify the source. There. Ma had company. She led two men in odd grey uniforms along the wharf towards the barge.

  No time to consider. With all the warnings Robal had given her echoing in her ears, Stella dived into the river. The water was surprisingly warm, though somewhat cloudy. She held her breath for as long as she could, then came to the surface and dog-paddled her way under the wharf. There might be some sensible explanation, probably was, for Ma bringing two uniformed men to the barge, but her mind screamed betrayal and she did not want to be found by the men making the heavy-booted sounds above her.

  Three shapes flickered in the narrow spaces between the boards, stopping directly overhead. Were they friends they would have proceeded straight on to the barge.

  ‘She’m not here, missirs.’ Ma’s voice floated down to her.

  ‘Can’t be far away,’ an angry male voice said. ‘We’d’ve seen her if she came along the wharf. Look in the cabin and among the cargo. I’m gonna check the wharf, see if she’s hiding anywhere.’

  Time to move. The thought echoed strangely in her ears, as though spoken by someone else. There was something sorcerous at work here. But she had no time to consider the problem. She stroked her way to the other barge, using it as cover to get closer to the next wharf. Perhaps she could escape to the city, find Robal and Conal…

  No. The sight of a dinghy tethered to the barge gave her a better idea. She struggled her way into the boat, slipped the mooring, eased the oars into the painters and began to row. Even pressure on both oars, smooth strokes, pull the blades through the water, don’t splash…

  ‘There! On the river! In a boat!’

  She looked up to see both men staring across a growing expanse of water at her.

  ‘You! Stop!’ cried one of the men. A cry guaranteed to encourage her continued flight, Stella thought.

  ‘No, you fool. Get us a boat. Quick!’ the other man said, and they sprinted down the wharf and disappeared from view. Within moments a dinghy emerged around the end of the wharf, one man on each oar, making good progress towards her amid a shower of sparkling spray.

  Stella stroked on, pointing her dinghy upstream, searching for the current. A plan dropped into her mind, fully formed, no doubt concocted from her memories of rowing races on the lake near Loulea. Tempt them to spend their energy, draw them closer, make them sprint, use them up. They’ll think they will catch me easily. I’m an old woman. She laughed, then settled to her work. Easy, rhythmical strokes.

  The two guards gained rapidly. At least one of them had experience in rowboats, as it was not easy to pursue a craft when facing the other way. One of the guards shouted repeatedly for her to give herself up, his head half-turned towards her. His shouts became more breathless as they drew closer. Finally Stella felt the current begin to buffet her craft, and she angled the dinghy directly into it. She slowed noticeably, but did not try to overpower the water. The month spent poling in the Maremma had served her well. She felt tired but not exhausted.

  The men were two boat-lengths from her when the current took them unprepared. She watched them panic, both flailing at the water with their oars, taking faster rather than deeper strokes, their blades actually spending less time in the water. It was working.

  Robal groaned as he watched the fool priestling trip over his own feet and fall hard on the cobbles, the grey fellow on top of him. A dry snap indicated a broken bone, a sound familiar to him from the parade ground. Why had Stella trusted this man?

  The grey man lay sprawled on the cobbles. Run, priest, you useless lard-lump, run! Get up, at least! Run, that’s it! A couple of steps and the priest dissolved into whimpers. Robal fingered his sword-hilt. Not his favourite blade; he’d been wearing a three-quarter broadblade when he’d left the city with Stella. Still, it would most likely do. The grey man wore a longsword but would hardly be adept, not in a provincial town like Vindicare. The Austrau were farmers, not swordsmen; he’d nearly become one himself, after all.

  He began to make his way carefully towards the two men, around whom the curious but
nervous crowd had cleared a space. By the time he’d positioned himself at the head of the crowd the two men had begun talking. Good, not a robbery at least. But that grey coat looks like a uniform. Robal listened more closely.

  Koinobia-appointed guards? Koinobia-appointed? Where were the Straux soldiers who normally served as guards? Bully-boys they had been in the main, but at least they were loyal to the King of Straux. What had happened to them? He listened further.

  It could not be. The Koinobia taking power in Faltha? He didn’t believe it. But a churning feeling began to sour his stomach all the same.

  The two exchanged more words, then the grey guard smiled a smile Robal recognised, that of someone intending harm. Time to move. The words doubled in his head, as though Stella said them at the same time. Was she in trouble?

  ‘No,’ said the priest; for a moment Robal hesitated, thinking the denial directed at him.

  ‘Perhaps truth can be won from blade’s edge,’ the grey guard said, and drew his sword. The crowd groaned, took three hurried steps back and then one forward, leaving Robal in an expanded circle with the priest and the guard. So much for surprise.

  ‘You there,’ said the grey guard, ‘step back. I require witnesses, but I do not want anyone else to get hurt.’ His eyes flicked between Robal and the priest as he spoke. They must have seen something soldierly in Robal’s stance, or perhaps the bulge of his sword. ‘Hold this man for me,’ he said to two men in the crowd, thrusting the priest towards them. ‘We have an oaf who thinks he can disobey the rules.’

  ‘And what rules are these?’ Robal said in his best parade-ground growl. Watch the man, see how he holds his sword. Keep him talking and learn his habits, his weaknesses. Well trained, this one, having likely swapped his king’s livery for that of the Koinobia. Of course, he will be watching me, assessing what sort of fighter he faces. Robal kept his stance at ease, his hand away from his hilt, showing nothing.

  ‘Another stranger? This one with a sword, which makes you Robal Anders, a…let me see…’ He pantomimed unrolling a scroll, playing to the crowd. ‘A “middle-aged carouser and troublemaker of the former Instruian Guard. Last seen with the Destroyer’s Consort. Take alive if possible.” Well, old man, let’s see if we can take you alive.’

  Middle-aged? Carouser? Well, there had been a few parties, more than a few in the old days, but he was no habitual drunkard. Though he’d spotted an inn on the waterfront he was looking forward to visiting. No matter. The grey guard adopted a fighting crouch and moved slowly towards him, balanced nicely on the balls of his feet, sword in the left hand but room on the hilt for a two-handed grip. Greaves loosely laced. He could use that if he had to.

  ‘Will you not defend yourself, Robal the Carouser?’

  He smiled, and the grey guard took a step back. Whoever had penned his brief and disparaging description had neglected to mention his years of training under Achtal, the renegade Bhrudwan Lord of Fear.

  Troublemaker? Definitely.

  He waited until he saw the man’s left arm steady, the prelude to a sweeping stroke, then drew his three-quarter sword and was ready with the parry before the stroke arrived. A clash and skitter and the crowd drew back. The fighters disengaged.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, and you are right: I am better than you,’ Robal said conversationally, eyeing the growing unease on the grey guard’s face. ‘I’ve lost count of the number of left-handed Straux soldiers I’ve sparred with. Predictable to a man. Comes from a chronic lack of imagination. Of course, I could make a mistake. But how likely is that in comparison to the blunder you’ve already made? Come now, lad, use your head. Put your sticker away. If you strike at me again with it, I will kill you.’

  The guard glanced around the crowd as though trying to summon courage from something he saw there. Perhaps he wanted them to shame him into continuing with the duel. No one would meet his eye. The tip of his blade wavered, then dropped; he spun and, with a curse, shouldered his way through the crowd. For a moment the only sound in the street was that of the man’s boots slapping the cobbles.

  ‘Out of here, now,’ Robal commanded, grabbing the priest’s collar. ‘He’ll be back with more of the grey-coated fools. Besides, now they know she’s here we’ll have to take her somewhere safe.’

  ‘My arm, it hurts,’ the priest whined. ‘Can’t we get it seen to?’

  Robal gave the collar a sharp tug. ‘You wouldn’t like how I’d see to it,’ he growled as he sheathed his sword. ‘Now come on. This Koinobia takeover smells foul to me.’

  They stumbled their way back up the street, in the opposite direction to which the guard had disappeared. ‘What did he mean, the guard?’ asked the priest, between gasps. ‘How could the Koinobia have taken control of the city? Why would we? We’re not a political organisation.’

  ‘You are now,’ Robal said. ‘And, by the look of the people back there, not a very popular one.’

  ‘So that is what the Archpriest meant about the Kingdom of Hal,’ the priest said, mostly to himself. ‘We—I—thought he referred to a spiritual kingdom. What has he done?’ To his credit, the man carried a concerned look on his face all the way from the central city to the docks, the pain of his arm seemingly forgotten.

  Something odd was happening at the docks. A crowd stood on the riverbank—surely not the same people they had just left behind in the street, though that man with the green jerkin looked familiar—all staring out to the water beyond the docks. They were shouting. At what? Robal squinted against the rippled brightness of the water.

  ‘Stella! It’s the queen!’ the fool priest shouted, tugging at Robal’s arm. ‘Look!’

  ‘Quiet, you bloated bookworm! No one’s supposed to know!’ But he looked all the same. It was her, or someone dressed like her, in a small boat, leading—being chased by—a second boat rowed by two greycoats. He groaned. They gained on her by the second: she had come to a standstill, clearly at the end of her strength.

  But no. Both boats had come to a halt in the rippling current. Clever girl, he acknowledged as he grabbed the priest by his good arm and ran along the nearest wharf, followed by the watching Vindicari.

  And so begins the strangest pursuit in history, Robal thought, helpless to intervene. The two boats were now actually losing ground to the current, a pace every few seconds. Stella seemed to be shouting at the men, taunting them perhaps. She was certainly expending much less effort than they were. Abruptly her boat found a calmer spot and she shot forward, now a dozen boat-lengths ahead—but then slowed down, almost allowing them to draw closer. Conserving her energy while encouraging them to use their remaining reserves. Very clever girl.

  ‘We could grab a boat and row out there,’ the priest said quietly.

  ‘Oh yes? Ever rowed a boat before?’ He did not disguise the scorn in his voice. Useless fellow. ‘It takes a special technique, I’m told. And what will you use for a left arm?’

  ‘We need to do something.’

  ‘You are right. We need to be somewhere else when the grey guards turn up in force. We’ll be no use to her in prison. And I, for one, don’t want to face a certain greycoat without a sword in my hand.’

  With a roar the two rowers redoubled their efforts, but it proved their undoing. Robal watched as one of them accidentally elbowed the other, forcing one of his hands off his oar. In an instant the river plucked the oar from his remaining hand, sending it spiralling lazily downstream.

  ‘Fool!’ came a shout across the water, accompanied by laughter from the crowd. Robal watched as Stella pulled firmly at her oars, turning her boat athwart the current, heading for the far side of the river, which was barely visible in the dust-filled distance. The guards’ boat followed their oar downstream, both men paddling with their hands, trying to manoeuvre closer to shore. Within minutes they had disappeared around a bend.

  Robal led the priest through the festive crowd, many of whom were exchanging coins as though paying out wagers. ‘We have to get across the river,’ he said
.

  ‘They hate the greycoats, don’t they,’ the priest said sadly. ‘I suppose not one wager was placed on the guards to win the race.’ He sighed. ‘What has the Archpriest done?’

  ‘There have to be two sides to every wager, priest,’ Robal said, shaking his head. ‘Even if one person covers all the bets. Now, did you mark where Stella beached her boat?’

  ‘Er, no. Didn’t you?’

  ‘I did, and just as well. You must stop relying on others to do the work and start to contribute yourself. Now, follow me. We have to find a boat.’

  Stella bent over her oars, completely exhausted. She had seen Conal and Robal on the wharf—at least, it had looked like them—and so had forced herself to row as hard as possible straight for the far bank, in the hope they would be sensible enough to notice the place she landed. In retrospect it wasn’t the cleverest thing she could have done, but it seemed of a piece with the plan she’d come up with. Unpredictability sometimes worked as well as cleverness, and the idea of hiding in the rushes had captured her mind like a compulsion. Though she ought not to remain in the dinghy overlong; there may have been more guards keeping an eye on her progress. She would wait here just long enough to regain her breath. Just a little longer. She backed the boat into a thick section of rushes, shipped her oars and curled up lengthways on the seat. Relief and bone-weariness overwhelmed her like birds of prey descending on a carcass. She would wait here. Only for a moment…

  She awoke to a sore head and the sound of the rushes swishing in the wind. What a fool she had been! The hot middle-day sun had burned one side of her face, her lips were dry and cracked, her muscles stiff, the leg that had been curled up underneath her numb.

  The rushes continued to swish all around her. But the clouds…the clouds hung in the air like limp flags. The simoom had died while she slept. Then what had made the rushes rustle?

  Shouts erupted to her left and to her right. Startled, but not yet truly fearful, she took up an oar as defence as two men waded through the rushes towards her. Robal and Conal? Guards?