Stort sensed it.
‘I wanted to say another thing,’ he said, beginning again, ‘but I’m not the one to know how such things are said, and I don’t think that any of us who loved Master Brief can say what he would have said so well. For the gem has been stolen, and with it something of Brum’s great heart, and we want it back . . . we want it back. But I don’t know what words he would have used to lead us forward, or how he would have spoken them, because you see . . . you should know, that he thought this moment would come one day when we’d have to stand up for what’s right in the Hyddenworld and oppose what’s wrong. But it wasn’t me he wanted to say this because he knew I wouldn’t get it right. Anyway . . . anyway . . . it’s my fault that . . . I mean if I hadn’t done what I did he wouldn’t have died and we would, I mean I wouldn’t be here now and be feeling, well . . . so . . . I’m sorry . . . so ashamed.’
Poor Stort, how he began to weep before them all, the funeral pyre behind him, Brief’s body laid out upon it, and no one knowing what to say next or what to do.
Or nearly no one.
Because Old Mallarkhi’s passenger, taller than most of them, stronger-looking too, finally showed himself.
He came calmly, gravely, and only slowly did folk see him, and those few that knew him by sight whispered his name to others there, so that by the time he came to the front all knew who he was.
He reached a hand to the forlorn Thwart, bowed down by grief like Stort, and by that burden no one else would carry.
‘Give me the Master’s stave,’ he said.
Did Stort hear that familiar voice? Did he think he dreamt it?
Certainly, his head still bowed, he murmured, sniffing at his tears, ‘The thing is, you see, Brief read the future better than anyone and he knew it wasn’t me who would . . . would . . . lead you . . . no, not me . . .’
A strong hand touched his shoulder and Stort dared finally to look up and see who he had hoped he would see back in the Hyddenworld and Brum.
‘. . . but Jack!’
There was a cheer for both of them as Jack gave him a hug and Stort wiped his tears.
They turned to the silent crowd, who stood awed and wondering at Jack’s resurrection among them, Brief’s stave in his hand.
‘There is nothing that Mister Bedwyn Stort has, or ever had, or ever will have to be ashamed of,’ said Jack. ‘Nothing! And if there’s a hydden here who says there is let them say so now to me!’
No one spoke and certainly no one came forward.
‘It was the greatest wish of Master Brief’s great life that the gem of Spring should be found and that he should see it before he died. Well, it was found and I’m told he did see it.
‘No one would have been prouder and yet less surprised than he that it was his greatest pupil Stort who did the finding!
‘That Brief died trying to protect the gem, and also the life of Librarian Thwart here, as I was told only a short while ago, was typical of a hydden who battled all his life for the cause of truth and what he once described to me as the right way.
‘Not a bad legacy! Not a bad end to a great life! And yet he was modest, and if he was only remembered as the librarian who rediscovered a recipe for the wickedest mead in the Hyddenworld then that would have been enough for him.
‘But Stort’s right, as he so often is. Master Brief would not stand idle in this hour of Brum’s loss and danger.
‘I believe he would have held up his great stave, as I do now, and he would have said, “Citizens of Brum, we must and shall get that gem back!”’
The mourners began cheering.
Jack raised his voice, the stave now almost alive in his hand, as if Brief himself was back among them. ‘And then he would have said, “If no one else is going to do it I’ll have to do it myself!”’
The cheering grew louder still.
‘But he is not here to say that, we are. Most of all Bedwyn Stort is! He found the gem and he will find it again and bring it back to Brum!’
Stort looked startled at this prospect but managed a smile of sorts, helped by Thwart, who patted him vigorously on the back as if to say that the gem was already as good as delivered back home.
‘Light the flames on Master Brief’s pyre,’ cried out Jack, ‘and let them leap up into the sky as does the spirit of this great city! Let them be a warning to the Empire that when our preparations are made we shall journey to its very heart in Bochum and demand that which has been taken shall be returned to us!’
The flames did not light easily. Perhaps the wood was damp. Perhaps reluctant to burn so great a hydden.
However that might be, it was Old Mallarkhi who once again saved the moment and the day.
‘Daughter, heave me upright. Thwart, give me the Master’s Mead, and you bright and bonny hydden making a hash of lighting a fire, ’ow do you suppose we at the Duck do it day by day? With this, that’s how!’
Once more he held up the bottle and then, tottering by himself to where they wanted to start the flames, he poured the remaining contents of the bottle on the wood.
‘There, me hearties, she be set and ready and Master Brief can go back to the Mirror with the help of his own fiery mead!’
A lucifer was lit, and when it was applied the flames went up with a whoosh! and the pyre roared to life and the body of Master Brief was consumed in its fire.
As night fell and the fire died the crowd began to disperse. Jack was able to give way to the fatigue of his hurried journey from Brum and confess to his reluctance to have left Katherine and their daughter behind and the sadness he felt now he had.
‘I would not have come but that she understood why I must and even encouraged it,’ he said. ‘But this is my adoptive city and if the call comes to any citizen they must answer it! As for a mission to Bochum, it’ll need thought and planning and we should not raise hopes of undertaking it for a long time yet.’
Which Stort thought was an odd thing to say, especially as it was accompanied by a wink.
As the last embers of the pyre smouldered, Jack, Festoon and the others gathered together.
‘That was well said, Jack,’ said Pike, shaking his hand.
‘It was,’ agreed Brunte.
‘It certainly did seem to strike a chord with many,’ observed Barklice, his son wide-eyed and tired at his side, astonished at the amazing and exciting things that seemed to happen wherever his father went.
‘Certainly,’ said Stort, ‘when the dust has settled on this horrible affair and some weeks have gone by, we must discuss the possibility that in time to come, a month or two or twelve, we shall find a way to recover the gem that my foolishness has . . .’
Jack shook his head.
‘I have no intention of waiting twelve months,’ he said, ‘nor even two. But I hope I implied that we were in no hurry . . . Do you think a great crowd like that would not have among it spies for the Empire? Eh? Marshal Brunte?’
He nodded gravely.
‘There were spies here, that’s certain.’
‘And what message will they pass to the Empire?’
‘That in a few weeks we’ll send a deputation of worthy citizens to Bochum, led by Stort, which will politely ask for the gem back, assuming they have it.’
‘Exactly what I hoped you’d say. I wanted to lull them into a false sense of security.’
‘You mean we might go a little sooner?’ said Stort.
‘I mean, Stort, that you and I, and one or two others we shall decide about here and now, will go at once.’
Stort looked unhappy.
‘You mean, I take it, in a week or two.’
‘I mean tonight,’ said Jack. ‘General Brunte, have you someone who can make the arrangements fast?’
‘Backhaus.’
‘Lord Festoon, can you make available the supplies and equipment we’ll need?’
‘Of course.’
‘But Jack . . .’ spluttered Stort.
‘Let’s get on with it,’ said Jack, ‘we’ve lost
enough time as it is. And anyway I need to get back; I have a daughter to think about and . . . nearly . . . a wife! Katherine would not want me back until the gem is in Brum’s safe-keeping once more.’
‘You think this will take so little time?’
‘I think that the longer we take doing it the harder it will become.’
32
ENSHADOWED
Slew’s escape from Brum back to the coast and his rendezvous with Borkum Riff did not go as fast, or as smoothly, as Jack and the others assumed.
Pike had taken swift action to send out alerts along the routes Slew was likely to take, and this slowed down his escape from Englalond by many days.
Even his departure from Brum was not made without difficulty, and had he reached the East Gate only an hour or two later he might easily have been apprehended before he left the city boundary.
Things would have been easier had it been possible for him to maintain the shadow power that he had exercised in the Library against Brief, but even the Master of Shadows may be subject to a loss of the special energy and strength of will needed for that kind of combat.
But the gem’s sudden light, a salvation for Thwart, was debilitating to Slew. Then there was the effect that Brief had on him, or rather Brief and his stave. It surprised him that an elderly hydden should summon such power that it took all Slew’s skill and strength to control and quell it.
But so it had been, and he had shadow strength enough only to escape the Library and cross the main square into the alleys beyond before he was forced to pause in a doorway, catch his breath and recover a little.
Even so, when he heard the sound of pursuit he was not overly concerned. Slew was a hydden who liked to cover all eventualities. He had foreseen that difficulties of some kind might arise during his escape, though a loss of shadow power was never one he thought of. But he had already decided that back-up of some kind might be needed and he had arranged it.
Harald and Bjarne, two of the Norseners he had fought at the Muggy Duck, had been impressed by his superior fighting skills. They were brothers and their original journey to Brum had been less in the cause of pilgrimage than from the desire to find a new direction.
Slew decided they would make valuable travelling companions. His talk of opportunities in Bochum, his natural charisma, and his declared intention to leave Brum soon – he did not say why, or how soon – persuaded them to offer their services.
They arranged to meet in a low tavern in Digbeth that same morning, the Norseners having Slew’s portersac with them, lest it arouse suspicions of his imminent departure at the Library. The moment he arrived, no questions were asked as to what he had been doing, and they left.
When they reached the East Gate its keeper, the fearsome bilgesnipe Tirrikh, did ask questions. It was his job to do so.
Why were the two leaving without the friends they had arrived with? And why were they now travelling with so unlikely a companion as a hydden of the cloth?
He was unimpressed by their explanations, but three against one is no good basis on which to hold such tough-looking hydden against their will, and he let them go. Immediately they were out of sight, however, he sent a description to Pike, as he normally did in such circumstances.
Too late. By the time Pike got back to him two hours later with news of the theft of the gem the three were long gone and the chance to stop them missed.
Slew had guessed what Tirrikh’s questions might lead to, and rightly fearing that pursuit would continue he discarded his monk’s habit and took a longer and less obvious route to Maldon, where Borkum Riff had promised to give him passage back across the North Sea.
Harald and Bjarne were odd twins. The first was tall, broad and fair-haired; the other short, stocky and dark. But they were devoted to each other.
‘We were cast adrift by the murder and mayhem inflicted on our home port by the ill-starred folk of Bergen and have been looking after each other ever since,’ explained Bjarne, the more talkative of the two.
‘And wondering what to do next,’ added Harald.
‘You’ve been wondering all these years?’ asked Slew. ‘You’ve never found a cause or person to follow?’
‘Never found someone could beat us in combat like you did, Brother.’
Slew liked the title Brother. There was comfort in it, and community, and that was something he had felt in need of from the moment he stole the gem.
It sat heavily in its pouch in his inside pocket, but Slew didn’t say so. It disturbed his mind and baffled clear thinking. It washed emotions through him he didn’t like. It put doubts in his head.
So Harald and Bjarne were rather more welcome as companions than he could have expected.
‘The plural of Brother is Brethren,’ he said. ‘Let us see where this first venture of ours together may take us, and if the title Brethren might in time offer an advantage to us all.’
They reached Maldon in those same night hours that saw the conclusion of Brief’s funeral. The tide was coming in fast and the only way of crossing from the mainland was on a causeway already covered by the sea and swept by its strong current.
This was meat and drink to the Norseners, who crossed without complaint, each strong enough to hold his heavy portersac over his head all the way.
To Slew as well such difficulties seemed trivial.
When they reached the far side a brisk, cool wind whipped across the dunes and marram grass, though it was Summer.
‘A hot brew would do us good,’ said Slew, ‘but I want to cross the island and be ready at the quay for the high tide. The moon’s already on the wane and I doubt that our craft will wait beyond tonight.’
When they reached the quay where Slew had first arrived there was no sign of a boat at all. Nor any light, or sign of one.
‘Listen!’ said Bjarne.
It was the clink clink clink of a hawser on a mast somewhere out on the dark waters.
They made a small fire, shielded it such that its flames would only be visible from the sea, a sign that they were there.
‘There’s a swell, a current and a veering wind,’ said Harald. ‘Not easy conditions. Are you sure you’ll be picked up?’
‘My captain’s not the kind to let folk down.’
‘His name?’
Thus far Slew had given nothing away about the boat or its skipper.
‘Would a name mean anything to you?’
‘Some would, yes,’ said Harald. ‘We know the captains for the ports to the north which serve our own, but thisaway there’s only three names worth mentioning.’
Slew waited.
‘Sneek Larsson, Beda Hoorne and . . . well . . . you know the other I daresay?’
‘I daresay I do,’ said Slew.
‘Well, provided it isn’t him we’ll be all right, Harald,’ growled Bjarne.
‘“Him” being?’
‘That bastard Borkum Riff.’
‘What have you against him? He’s the best North Sea sailor alive.’
‘Humph!’ said Bjarne. ‘That’s what folks say, but in a storm and provided she’s had a jar or two I’d put my money on Beda Hoorne. As for Riff . . . ’
Bjarne spat his opinion at their feet.
‘He left us stranded once on the forsaken shore of Ferkingstad. We only asked for a bit of tribute for him making passage that way. Said we were no better than pirates and if we had a wyrd at all it would protect us. Freezing it was. We swore . . . what did we swear, Harald?’
‘To gut and skin the bugger like a codfish and leave him hanging out to dry in the Winter winds.’
The two laughed. Slew, however, did not. He had seen the shadow of a cloaked hydden looming out of the darkness behind them, storm lantern in hand.
‘And that’s still your intention is it,’ a gruff voice asked, ‘to gut and skin me?’
‘By the Mirror, it’s Riff himself,’ cried Harald, grabbing his stave.
Indeed it was, dressed dark and heavy against the night wind and opening hi
s lantern’s shutter to show his face. It was impossible to say if he was half smiling or simply screwing his eyes up against the wind. His beard was as black as night.
Slew stayed Harald’s hand and Bjarne’s too.
‘These are friends of mine,’ he said, ‘so I suggest we shake hands before we leave. Let whatever happened pass. We’ve better things to do now than have an argument before we’ve even set sail.’
‘I never thought these two would fetch up on this shore,’ said Riff, ‘but provided they don’t ask for tribute here as well I’m content to let bygones be bygones and offer you a fish stew that’ll clear us all of lingering ill-feeling and warm your innards true.’
‘Offer accepted!’ said Harald, and there in the dark they shook a good hand.
‘What are you doing onshore?’ asked Slew. ‘We thought we heard your craft lying to out on the water.’
Riff smiled.
‘I thought you might return in company. I like to take a good look at passengers that want my skills afore they embark.’
He sent out a piping call like an oyster catcher roosting on the shore and got an answering one back. Soon after the craft appeared, hove to temporarily by the quay and was off almost before the last of them had boarded.
‘Get her homeward bound, lads, homeward bound!’
The crew sang in low voices as they went round on the wind and rough hands passed up bowls of stew for them all from the galley below.
‘You know the rules on this cutter, boys,’ said Riff as the boat began to take the swell up and down, up and down. ‘Spew it up and you clean it up!’
‘We know,’ said the Norseners in unison.
Slew said nothing.
The food was good, he had never been sick on or off a craft in all his life, but the gem sat heavy with him and darkened his mood, enshadowed his mind, filled him with doubt.
The craft sped on; he stayed outside with the sea wind and spray hard in his face.
‘Witold Slew, what ails you?’ asked Borkum Riff.
‘The days and weeks ahead of this strange Summer,’ muttered Slew, ‘and the seasons after that.’
‘Rough times,’ said Riff. ‘Out here we see the waves large and small, and the driving weather like that ahead of us which you can’t see but which I can hear and feel to my craft’s core. There’s been tremors and quakes across the land and underneath the sea, and one of these days they’ll have a go at me as well, and you.’
Awakening Page 27
