She moved to the bed, raised one corner of the mattress and hid the small knife under it. She had just finished doing this when she heard the door rattle. She stepped quickly away from the bed and turned in time to see one of the women from the kitchen enter. Erlic hovered nervously in the background, peering round the door frame. If she could get out of that door, Lydia thought, she’d be able to deal with him easily enough.
The woman set a large bucket of water on the floor, and tossed a cloth bundle onto the bed.
‘Milo says to clean yourself up,’ she said. ‘And put on the dress.’
She left as abruptly as she had arrived. Lydia stepped to the bucket. It was full of water – hot water, she realised, seeing the vague wisps of steam coming from it. The cloth bundle consisted of a grey woollen dress – old and patched, but clean – a washcloth and a bar of soap, wrapped in a towel.
‘Might as well get clean,’ she muttered. She went to undress, then had second thoughts. She lifted the chair onto the table and studied it for a several seconds. She saw that the legs were connected by thin dowel rods twenty centimetres from the bottom, designed to stop them flexing or twisting. She raised her hand and brought its edge smartly down on one of the dowels, breaking it loose from the chair. Then, armed with the wooden rod, she went to the door.
There had been an interior latch at one time. The hole that used to accommodate it was still in the door. She bent and peered through. Peering up on an angle, she could see the top of the iron latch outside. She worked the rod into the latch hole, angling it up until it sat over the latch, forcing it into the narrow space until it was a firm fit. Then, satisfied that the latch was blocked and the door couldn’t be opened in a hurry, she stripped and washed herself all over, luxuriating in the feel of the hot water.
She worked carelessly, sloshing water in large amounts on the bare boards of the floor. She was almost finished when she heard the latch begin to move, then stop. She smiled at the pine rod protruding from the latch hole. It was moving up and down, a few millimetres at a time, as Erlic tried unsuccessfully to raise the latch. For a few minutes, he failed to notice the splintered end of the broken rod protruding through the latch hole. Then she heard him calling in that annoying, high-pitched voice.
‘What have you done? You’ve broken the lock!’
She pulled on her clothes – the long dress would restrict her movements if she had to leave in a hurry – and moved to the door.
‘Get away from there, you sneak,’ she called. ‘Try and spy on me and I’ll scratch your eyes out.’
She heard his footsteps as he moved away from the door, heard the creak of a chair as he sat in it, mumbling to himself. Then the sound of a brush moving backwards and forwards on leather. Obviously, he was polishing the Gatmeister’s boots. Smiling grimly, she seized the rod and pulled it free. It might come in handy in the future, she thought.
She went to the bed. There was no pillow, so she rolled the grey dress up and used that. She stretched out on the hard, scratchy mattress and made herself comfortable. The light coming through the uncurtained window told her that it was mid to late afternoon. No point in trying to escape in daylight, she thought. She’d wait till night fell. She assumed at some stage they would bring her food. Once that was done, she’d work on getting out of here. She already had two ideas in mind.
Until then, she thought, she might as well rest and conserve her energy.
‘The Wildwater Rift?’ Hal asked Pedr. ‘What’s that?’
The other members of the crew moved closer to listen. Pedr smiled grimly at them.
‘It’s not the sort of place you’d choose to go,’ he said. ‘Not if you had any other choice.’
Hal made an impatient gesture at the theatrical reply. Pedr was obviously a person who enjoyed the sound of his own voice. He wasn’t the type to answer a simple question with a simple answer.
‘Let’s assume we don’t have any other choice,’ he said. As he did, it occurred to him that they probably didn’t.
Pedr glanced round the circle of interested faces, making sure he had their full attention.
‘It’s a small channel that leads off the main river, about four kilometres north of here. You would have passed it on the way.’
Hal shrugged. ‘Can’t remember it particularly,’ he said. ‘We saw quite a few narrow streams leading off the river. I assumed they were dead ends, because they weren’t marked on the map.’
‘This one’s a dead end, all right,’ Pedr said, with a smirk. ‘You could come to a really dead end if you tried to go down it.’
‘Can we cut the dramatics and just get a clear answer?’ Hal asked impatiently.
Pedr drew back, his eyebrows arching. ‘Well, if you’re going to be ill-mannered about it, perhaps I’ll keep my information to myself,’ he said, a supercilious smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. He enjoyed being the centre of attention, as Hal had surmised. And he planned to tell his story in his own time.
At least, that was his plan until Ingvar leaned forward and seized his wrist.
‘I think that would be a bad idea,’ he said quietly, and began to squeeze Pedr’s wrist.
The gambler went pale as he felt the amazing force of Ingvar’s grip. The bones in his wrist twisted and ground together as Ingvar flexed his fingers. The pain was intense. Pedr gasped and reached forward with his other hand, trying to open Ingvar’s fingers. It was like trying to open a rock.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘bad idea. I agree. Please . . . let me go?’
Ingvar held his gaze for a few seconds, then abruptly released his grip. Pedr fell back slightly. Without realising it, he had been leaning towards Ingvar in an instinctive, and ineffective, effort to lessen the pain.
‘So tell us about this rift,’ Hal said.
Pedr rubbed his wrist, glaring spitefully at Ingvar. But he decided it was a better idea to answer the question without excessive embroidery.
‘As I said, it’s a narrow channel that leads off the main river. About four kilometres back. There’s a small fisherman’s hut just this side of the entrance. If you know what to look for, you’ll find it easily.’
‘And what will we find?’ Stig asked.
Pedr glanced briefly at him, then back at Hal, who seemed to be the spokesman for the group.
‘Well, you should know that once the river passes Bayrath, it swings out to the east in a huge winding sequence of bends that go for almost ten kilometres.’ He saw the impatience rising in Hal’s eyes and hurriedly added, ‘You need to know this. It’s relevant, I swear.’
Hal nodded and Pedr continued. ‘As you’re probably aware, we’re on high ground here and the river splits into two streams – the North and South Dan. The northern fork, the one you’ve been travelling on, runs north to the Stormwhite Sea. But the other fork, the South Dan, drops away to the south, heading for Raguza. It winds around and drops about fifty metres over the next ten kilometres. The rift falls the same height, but it goes down a gorge and does it in about three hundred metres.’
‘So it’s a waterfall,’ Hal said.
Pedr frowned, shaking his head. ‘Not so much a waterfall. It doesn’t actually drop vertically. But it angles down in a series of steep chutes. And because of the downhill run and the narrowness of the channel, the water builds up tremendous speed.’
‘Rapids, then,’ Hal said and, when Pedr nodded, he continued, ‘But they are navigable? You can get a ship down them?’
Pedr shrugged. ‘They say that people have managed it. But I’ve never met anyone who did. From what I’ve heard, it would be difficult to get a large ship down the rift. A small boat might have a chance.’
‘Heron’s not very big,’ Edvin said.
Ulf shook his head. ‘She’s no small boat.’
Wulf couldn’t help it, he had to speak up. ‘He didn’t say she was. He said she’s –’
‘Shut up,’ Hal said quietly. Wulf instantly fell silent. ‘So where does the rift come out?’ Hal asked.
Pedr nodded several times, indicating that he considered this was a good question. ‘That’s the thing. After you’ve gone down the rapids, the rift continues pretty well straight for another two kilometres. Then the Dan curves back from that long detour to the east and the rift rejoins it.’
‘So we’d end up back on the main river, and we’d save about eight kilometres of twists and turns by going down the rift,’ Hal said thoughtfully. Pedr looked at him as if he were crazy and shook his head.
‘The only thing that’s likely to make it back to the main river is a handful of splinters and the odd dead body,’ he said. ‘Your ship will be smashed on the rocks and you’ll all drown.’
‘Are you a sailor?’ Hal asked him suddenly.
Taken aback by the question, Pedr hesitated. ‘No.’
‘And you’ve never actually seen this rift, have you?’
‘Well, not exactly. But –’
‘Just answer the question. Have you seen the Wildwater Rift?’
‘If you put it that way, no. I haven’t.’
‘That is the way I put it. Basically, all you can tell us is that there is a rift and that it’s a pretty frightening ride.’
Pedr said nothing. It was a fairly brutal summing up of his information. Hal glanced around his companions’ faces. They were concerned, he could see. But there was no sign of fear there.
‘And after all,’ he said to them, ‘do we have any choice?’
Thorn was watching them all carefully but he said nothing. He realised it was their decision to make and he had no right to influence it with his opinion. Hal was their leader and they were answerable to him.
It was Stig who replied. ‘No. We don’t.’
The others murmured agreement. Edvin offered a voice of reason in the argument.
‘At least,’ he said, ‘we ought to take a look at this rift.’
‘Then that’s what we’ll do,’ Hal said.
Ulf raised a hand in question. ‘Umm . . . aren’t you forgetting something? We have to get out of here first.’
Wulf turned a scornful look on his twin. ‘Do you think Hal hasn’t figured a way out by now?’
Ulf shrugged and turned to Hal. ‘So, Hal, how are we going to get out of here?’ he asked. Hal spread his hands in a defeated gesture and grinned.
‘I really have no idea,’ he said. ‘But I’m hoping Lydia will come up with something.’
There was a sound of footsteps in the passageway, and they all turned as the jailer appeared in the dimness by the door. Behind him, they could see the shadowy forms of several armed guards.
‘Stay where you are!’ he ordered. They were some distance from the door and he wanted them to keep it that way. He rattled the key in the lock and opened the steel grille, peering through the dim light at the group of prisoners seated by the wall. Finally, he made out Hal and pointed to him.
‘You! On your feet! The Gatmeister wants to talk to you.’
Hal began to rise, but Ingvar laid a warning hand on his arm.
‘Don’t go, Hal,’ he said urgently. Hal smiled at him and gently disengaged himself.
‘It’s all right, Ingvar. Talking can’t hurt.’
He had no idea how wrong he was.
Doutro looked up at Hal as he was ushered into the office. As before, the Gatmeister was seated behind his large table, with pages scattered haphazardly on its surface. He pointed to a spot in front of him and Hal moved to it. There was no chair, so he stood and waited. He became conscious of other people in the room. He turned and saw two of Doutro’s soldiers standing, backs to the wall. They had discarded their helmets and armoured breastplates and were wearing short-sleeved, padded linen undershirts. They had retained their sword belts, cinched around thick canvas trousers. Their boots were felt, with leather soles, held in place by criss-cross bindings.
‘Face me,’ Doutro said coldly.
Hal turned back to meet his gaze. The Gatmeister eyed him thoughtfully, his eyes steady and unblinking.
‘I’ve been considering your offer,’ he said. ‘It may have merit.’
‘My offer?’ Hal asked, not understanding.
‘Your friend suggested that you might pay me more than this . . . Zavac character you mentioned.’
Hal smiled, but without any real humour. ‘Why continue this pretence that you don’t know Zavac?’ he said. ‘It serves no purpose now.’
‘Very well. Let’s say I do know him. And let’s say you offer to pay me more than he did. I might well set you free.’
Hal studied the man for some moments. Doutro’s face gave nothing away. His voice was calm and unemotional.
‘Let’s say we did make that offer,’ Hal said carefully. ‘What then?’
‘I’d need to know that you had the money to back it up,’ Doutro said. His manner was matter of fact and he glanced away, seemingly disinterested. Too matter of fact, Hal thought. And too disinterested. And then he knew what Doutro was angling for.
‘You’ve searched my ship,’ he said. Doutro looked back at him, neither confirming nor denying the accusation. But suddenly, Hal knew he was right. Doutro wasn’t interested in extracting a bribe from them. He didn’t need to. They were his prisoners and he could take all that they had. But first, he had to find it. To that end, he had ordered his men to search the Heron, looking for valuables and money. But they had come up empty-handed.
Which wasn’t surprising. The Heron’s strongbox, which contained all their valuables – consisting of Thorn’s canvas sack of coins and jewellery, a few personal possessions belonging to the crew and a small parcel Lydia had entrusted to Hal when they had left Limmat – was hidden under an indistinguishable false panel in the central decking. The hiding place had been constructed by Hal when he built the Heron. The joinery was perfect and the seams were virtually invisible to the uninformed eye. The removable lid to the strongbox consisted of several deck planks of different lengths, so there was no even square set into the decking, which would have been an instant giveaway.
Hal was aware that most people built such hiding places in fairly obvious locations – either in the stern or the bow, and usually centrally located. Accordingly, he had selected a random position for his strongbox. It was positioned almost a third of the length of the ship from the stern, and offset to the starboard side. There was no logic or symmetry to its positioning. To find it, a searcher would have to rip up the entire deck. Doutro’s next words confirmed his suspicion.
‘Where’s your money?’ he demanded coldly.
Hal smiled at him. ‘Where you’ll never find it.’
Too late, he heard the sound of quick footsteps behind him, then felt one of the soldiers grip his arms, pinning them and pulling him back, off balance. The other moved in front of him, hands raised and balled into fists.
‘Beat it out of him,’ Doutro said.
Hal tried to duck the first blow, but the man behind him held him still. The big fist exploded off his cheekbone. He grunted in pain. He saw the fist draw back again, tried to hunch down protectively, but couldn’t manage it. Again, he felt the jolting power of the man’s fist, smashing into his nose. Warm blood ran down over his upper lip. His vision was blurring as tears filled his eyes – a reflex reaction to the blow to his nose. Dimly, he saw the next blow coming, felt a smashing pain in the bony part of his eyebrow. It occurred to him that the man was wearing a ring. He felt it cut the eyebrow, felt more blood running down his face.
After that, he was aware of more and more blows smashing against his unprotected face. But they merged into one continual blur of pain until he was unable to distinguish one from another.
Then, mercifully, he lost consciousness.
The light through the window was fading and Lydia estimated that it must be early evening. There was no source of light in the room – no candle or lantern. She guessed that people in the detention room, as Doutro had called it, weren’t trusted with a naked flame.
The door rattled again and the same woman entered the room.
Lydia sat upright, swinging her legs off the bed.
‘You stay where you are!’ Erlic’s shrill voice came from the doorway. He was watching proceedings, as before. She shrugged and remained sitting on the bed. The woman placed a bucket by the door, then brought a tray to the table. Lydia could smell the hot food. Her stomach rumbled appreciatively. She hadn’t eaten all day and whatever it was on the tray smelled remarkably good.
The woman pointed at it.
‘Dinner,’ she said, unnecessarily. She checked the level of water in the jug on the table and was satisfied that there was enough there. Then she turned back towards the door.
‘Just a moment,’ Lydia said, and the woman turned back to her. ‘I need to use the bathroom.’
She didn’t, but she wanted to know more about the routine in the house, and how much freedom of movement she’d be allowed. The woman pointed to the bucket by the door.
‘There it is,’ she said, then turned and left once more. The door rattled closed behind her.
Lydia rose and walked to the table. The meal was on a tin plate, with a large spoon the only implement provided. No naked flames. No sharp objects, she thought. It was a chicken and potato stew, with a chunk of rough bread beside it. As she had already noticed, it smelled delicious. She sat down at the table, taking care as she set her weight on the now damaged chair, and made short work of it, mopping up the last traces of gravy with a piece of the bread.
She sat back unwarily, and the chair lurched underneath her. It was definitely less stable without that support rod, she thought. She belched lightly. After years spent hunting alone in the woods, Lydia’s manners and social graces left something to be desired.
The Hunters Page 12
