Tower Lord

He ignored her question, eyes tracking around the warehouse. “Where is your usual agent? His face I know.”

“You’ll see it again, soon. When the city is ours and our arrangement complete.”

“I have another stipulation.”

It was just a slight curve to her lips, the smallest crease to her brow, but Frentis saw that this finely dressed lord had just earned himself a swift death. “Stipulation, my lord?”

The man nodded, licking his lips. He kept his hands within the folds of his sable-trimmed cloak, but Frentis knew they were shaking. “Princess Lyrna will soon return to Varinshold. The King will want her at his side when he welcomes his old comrade. She is not to be harmed, not in any way. She will be secured and placed in my care. My continued cooperation depends on this. I hope that’s clear.”

The woman inclined her head. “The princess is famed for her beauty, it would be churlish of us to deny you an additional reward.”

A flash of anger lit his eyes. “She must never know of my part in this . . . enterprise. My survival, and elevation, will be portrayed as merely the wise actions of a pragmatic man.”

The woman smiled and Frentis thought, Slow death. “Yet more stipulations, my lord. But fear not, it will all be as you say.” She guided him back to the door, her face a perfect representation of servile respect, the face a servant shows to a kindly master. “The ship should arrive in the next day or two. Word will be sent when it’s time for you to discover Brother Frentis.”

She held the door open for him with a deferential nod. The lord seemed about to speak again, no doubt earning himself an even slower demise, but thought better of it and made a hasty departure.

“What do you think, my love?” the woman asked Frentis, returning to his side. “Burning or flaying?”

“The traditional death for traitors to the Realm is hanging,” he replied. “But I think burning would suit that one better.”

? ? ?

That night he watched her sleep and implored the Departed to return the itch to his side with every ounce of will he could summon. When they failed to respond he asked their forgiveness and prayed to all the Alpiran gods he could recall, the Nameless Seer the old man had served, Olbiss, the sea god, Martual, the god of courage Vaelin’s mason friend had carved in Linesh. They gave no answer and so he abandoned all hope of ever being accepted into the Beyond and turned to the Cumbraelin World Father. If you’re there, release me, bring back the pain. I will forsake the Faith, I will leave the Order and serve you all my days. JUST SET ME FREE!

But the World Father, it seemed, was as deaf as every other god or departed soul.

For the next two mornings they climbed to the roof of the warehouse as the tide swelled the harbour waters. Ships put out to sea whilst others arrived and all the while the woman’s eyes scanned the horizon.

“My bargain is still offered,” Frentis told her on the second day, hating the desperation in his voice, knowing he was finally a beggar. “Please.”

She kept her gaze fixed out to sea and said nothing.

The sail appeared shortly after the tenth bell, the ship resolving through the mist into a medium-sized trading vessel, Volarian colours flying from the mainmast. It had a somewhat drab appearance, sails and wood darkened with age and use, sitting low in the water, carrying a heavy load.

“Plea—” Frentis began but stopped as she flared the binding.

“No more words, my love.” She turned away from the sea and went to the ladder propped against the warehouse roof. “It’s time.”

? ? ?

They dressed as stevedores, faces shadowed beneath broad-brimmed hats, going to the harbour and waiting for the ship to berth. The gangplank was duly lowered and they went aboard without preamble, attracting no attention from the sailors on deck as they went below. A well-built man of middle years awaited them in the hold, his black jerkin marking him as the owner and captain of this vessel. He gave the woman a deep bow. “Most honoured citizen.”

The woman’s gaze went past him to the contents of the hold, ranks of seated men, silent, waiting. Perhaps three hundred, all Kuritai. “The fleet?” she asked.

“Waiting beyond the horizon,” the captain said. “They attack at nightfall. All other vessels we met on the sea were taken and burned, the crews with them. These ghost-worshippers have no knowledge of our approach.”

She began to undress. “We need clothes, the kind worn by the lowliest of the crew.”

They exchanged their ragged garb for thin cotton trews and shirts which made them look only slightly less beggared than before. “No need for restraint,” the woman told the captain.

“Off my ship, you worthless bitch!” he railed at them, hounding them across the deck, brandishing a whip. “Go and take your Realm dog with you!”

The woman cowered away from him, sheltering beneath Frentis’s protective arm. They hurried to the gangplank and fled to the wharf. “Count y’selves lucky you’re not feeding the sharks!” the captain called after them. “That’s the proper reward for stowaways.”

They stood on the wharf, clutching each other, a few onlookers having paused to watch the spectacle announced by the captain’s tirade. Frentis stared about in amazement. “Varinshold!” he breathed.

The woman embraced him, tears of joy shining her eyes. “We’re truly here, Frentis! After so long.”

A tall man in a sable-trimmed cloak stepped from the small crowd, a frown of recognition on his smooth brow. “Are you . . .” His eyes widened in amazement as he drew closer and he bowed low in grave respect. “Brother Frentis!” He straightened, turning to the crowd. “Brother Frentis is returned to the Realm!” He beckoned a man to him, one of his servants from the way the man scurried to his side. “Run to the palace. Give word to the guard that I will bring Brother Frentis before the King with all dispatch.”

The man bobbed his head. “I shall, Lord Al Telnar.”

The crowd chattered as Al Telnar led them away, their faces joyous, a few even awed. They think me a hero, Frentis realised, offering a tight smile in return as some called out to him, deaf to his silent plea: Kill me!

CHAPTER NINE

Vaelin

They stayed with the Bear People for another three weeks, the first days spent dispelling their hunger with the steady stream of supplies coming from the south, and also the occasional delivery of elk meat from Eorhil hunting parties. Despite their deliverance, the mood of the Bear People remained largely joyless, though some of the children were more given to laughter as the days passed. Others continued to perish from the depredations of their trek across the ice, mostly the old, and a few dozen fur-wrapped bundles were left out on the plain in that first week. The Bear People did not burn or bury their dead, knowing the wild would reclaim any flesh left to it soon enough.

The shaman’s name was far beyond the ability of Vaelin’s tongue to pronounce, but from the visions he divined it as some concordance of bearlike ferocity and great knowledge, so took to calling him Wise Bear. They communicated mainly through visions but Vaelin found it too taxing to share his own with any regularity, so began to teach the old man Realm Tongue, with Dahrena’s help.

“Bear!” he said, thumping a hand to his bone-staff when she had managed to communicate a desire to know what animal it derived from.

“And these?” she asked, her fingers playing over the many symbols carved into the bone. “Words?”

The old shaman frowned, seemingly surprised by her ignorance. Vaelin was beginning to understand that the knowledge of the Dark possessed by this man far exceeded their own. He never seemed to tire from the use of his gift, despite his age, and his facility with Realm Tongue grew rapidly thanks to his ability to share visions of the words they conveyed. This time, however, Dahrena’s question seemed to have stumped him.

“Writing,” Vaelin said, singing a little, a small sensation of words captured in text.

“Ahhh.” Wise Bear nodded in understanding then shook his head. “No . . . words.” His hand smoothed over the myriad markings on the bone-staff. “Power.”

They were ready to move on by the second week, Dahrena leading them on a south-westerly course. “There’s an inlet some fifty miles along the coast,” she explained. “The forest has game and the waters offer good fishing. There was a settlement there many years ago but it was abandoned when the bluestone mine proved too poor to sustain the effort of surviving the winter. I doubt these people will have that problem though.”

During the journey Vaelin was able to piece together a clearer picture of the events which had driven these people from their home. Wise Bear told of countless years on the ice, warring with the Cat People to the west or trading with the Wolf People to the north. Life remained unchanged until the Cat People grew ambitious. It seemed a new shaman had arisen amongst them, great and powerful in his command of beasts. Under his hand the Cat People became ever more discontented, looking with envious eyes on the vast hunting grounds enjoyed by their neighbours. They couldn’t hope to defeat them alone, of course, for all the war-cats and spear-hawks they bred, and so sought alliance with the iron-shapers south of the ice. Traditionally they had been looked on with a mixture of bafflement and contempt, living in the same dwelling all year round, shutting themselves away when the snows fell, valued only for the iron tools they fashioned and traded for furs. But recent centuries had seen them change, seen them range further and further north, and not always with the intent of trade. Children were taken, later seen dragged away south in chains. The Bear People exacted vengeance of course, for a feud cannot be turned from on the ice, many iron-shapers were killed, but there were always more, and the Cat People’s shaman saw an opportunity for alliance.