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Weaver shrugged, paying the man’s prattle no heed. Where the hell had Drew gone?

Rekhart set his men to search the bodies and drew Weaver off to one side, leaving the others to listen to the freemerchant who was still holding forth. “So, Weaver, what brings you east after all this time?”

“Same as ever, looking for work.”

“Heard about Highkell. Bad business, that. But you got clear?” Rekhart made the question seem innocent enough.

“It’s a long story. There were traitors at court.”

Rekhart nodded. “That’s what we heard. Bought by southern money, they say.”

Weaver shrugged. “That’s likely the way of it. You can count on wealthy men to rally to the largest purse.”

“Spoken like a poor man.”

“I wouldn’t be needing work otherwise.” Weaver hesitated. “Anything doing here? In the watch, maybe?”

“These are hard times for honest folk. I’d give you work at the drop of a hat, but there’s a price on your head throughout Highground. If anyone started asking questions…”

“Aye. I thought as much.”

“You’ll need to be careful. They’ve got long memories round here, and they’re still loyal to the old family.” The younger man shuffled the helmet in his hands. “And to the Lady Alwenna. They say you–”

“There’s not a word of truth in it.”

Rekhart raised a hand in a conciliatory gesture. “I never thought there was. But once a rumour gets out… You know how it is. Your name will mean trouble round here.”

“What are you saying? You’re going to clap me in irons and send me back to the usurper?”

“No. We’re still on the same side, you and I. But I must have been mistaken when I thought I recognised you – the light isn’t that good in the square. While you’re in town I can turn a blind eye for a few days. I wish I could do more.”

Weaver nodded. “A word of advice, Rekhart?”

The younger man stiffened.

“You want to see a healer about your eyes before they get any worse.”

The younger man laughed. “The longer I’ve been in this job, the worse they get.”

Weaver, Blaine and Curtis made their way back to camp. They fully expected to find Drew waiting there, but there was still no sign of him.

Blaine was unconcerned. “That lass must have given him a discount after all.”

It was shortly before dawn when Weaver was woken by the sound of someone approaching their campsite through the trees. He reached for his dagger cautiously, easing it from the sheath. He could have sworn Rekhart would be as good as his word, but he wasn’t taking anything for granted. He could hear only one set of footsteps, a little unsteady. Whoever it was stumbled over a tree root and muttered a curse. Drew’s voice.

Weaver slid the knife back into its sheath. “You took your time, lad. Did you get lost?”

“No, not lost.” He dropped down onto his blanket, yawning. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake anyone.” He pulled the blanket over himself.

“Good night, was it?”

Drew grinned. “Yes. It was.” He rolled over and was snoring within a minute.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

The servant knocked at Vasic’s door. Vasic set down the hand mirror, stood up and crossed over to the window so he was standing with his back to the light. He’d never imagined his mother’s vanity would stand him in such good stead.

“Enter.”

The door pushed open and a timid servant stepped just inside. “The Lady Alwenna’s maid is here, sire.”

“Admit her, then leave us.”

As ever, the maid entered the room with her head bowed. She moved silently, as if she wished to leave no trace of her presence in the keep. Vasic would not have chosen her as his agent, but in times such as these even royalty had to work with the tools fate handed to them. The girl halted several paces away from where he stood, hands clasped before her, eyes lowered.

“Well, what have you to report?”

“Nothing new, sire. The Lady Alwenna continues to work on a tapestry. She bathes daily. She… she would have me believe she can help me reclaim my father’s farm.”

Why did the girl hesitate then – was she holding something back? “Have you seen her using any strange amulets, talismans? Anything out of the ordinary? Anything that could be a sign of witchcraft?”

“No, I have not, sire.” The girl kept her eyes to the ground.

“And does she remain calm and even-tempered?”

“Yes, sire. Except…” The girl hesitated again.

This could be it. “Except what?”

“She is restless at night, sire. She talks in her sleep.”

“What does she say?”

“I cannot make out the words, sire.”

“You must try to do so. I want to know everything she says. Leave me now.”

The servant girl hurried from the room as if she meant to be gone before he could change his mind. As if. Once had been enough with that one.

He returned to the table and lifted the mirror once more. It told him no lies. With dismaying honesty it reflected the dark hollows beneath his bloodshot eyes, the gaunt lines over his face, and the lankness of his hair which had developed an alarming tendency to fall away with the comb. The healer had found nothing wrong, and suggested blood-letting. Or that the water at Highkell did not agree with him.

Vasic set the mirror down sharply and picked up the letter from the high seer at Lynesreach.

“It is unfortunate the Lady Alwenna’s guardians did not heed our advice when they established her as a child at Highkell. Had she been raised with us here – as we earnestly advised – Highkell might have continued to prosper. As it is she is no longer of an age to be admitted to our order and we regret that we are unable to offer her sanctuary at this time, despite the generous provisions you are prepared to make.”

No one could nurse a grudge like an old fool. And the seers clung to the remnants of their self-importance like ticks to a dog’s muzzle. Doubtless if they waited long enough every single one of their jaded predictions would eventually come true, one way or the other. Meanwhile Vasic was acutely concerned about which came to pass in his own lifetime. A lifetime which at present he feared might be somewhat attenuated, if not abruptly curtailed. If he couldn’t rid himself of the Lady Alwenna honourably, there were other ways. But they were last resorts. He’d had his fill of kinslaying. It was one thing in the aftermath of battle – a ruler was expected to make his mark in no uncertain terms. That was a lesson Tresilian might have done well to learn for himself, but his cousin had always lacked resolution – look how he’d havered over his marriage to Alwenna. And much good it had done him. And now Vasic found himself vacillating over her. He had no wish to rid himself of her at all. Quite the reverse. He should be bold and seize the moment.

She knew how these things worked. She’d never been keen to take Tresilian as husband but she’d capitulated in the end. Now she was back at Highkell it was only right she should resume her place as queen at his side. Wed her with honour and all due deference, bed her, get her breeding. What more could she ask? With her honour restored, her witchery against him would surely cease. In fact, now he’d reached his decision he felt much improved already. A wedding would be just the thing, unite the people – his aunt had always insisted there was nothing like a good wedding to make trade prosper. And he would ensure the only knives within his happy bride’s reach were blunt ones. She’d come round to the idea. Let Garrad perform the ceremony – everyone would see the match had the blessing of the precinct.

Vasic took up his pen. If this plan failed she would have to go, but really, the more he thought about it, the more fitting it seemed. Of course she wouldn’t yield to him without the blessing of wedlock – that was no more than her due as royalty. Yes, now he was on the right path.

CHAPTER SIXTY

Weaver was to meet the freemerchant in a small kopamid house in the ancient heart of the city. Many eyes followed his progress down the cobbled backstreet. He had no reason to suspect it was a trap, but it wasn’t unusual for a stranger to these parts to become lost in the maze of narrow alleys and never be seen again – never missed, never recognised. Such was Brigholm. The rich lived up on the hill while the poor teemed among these alleys, working when they could, supplying the mine companies with what they needed but earning little in return. Small wonder the city was a source of discontent in difficult times. Vasic’s armies hadn’t ventured this far, but food supplies from the south had been disrupted and bread was costly for poor folk. And bread made peace like no other foodstuff. Full bellies were content ones.

Content or not, no one interfered with Weaver’s progress through the labyrinthine streets. Heads turned when he entered the kopamid shop, but the freemerchant was already there, awaiting his arrival. A youth hovered in the doorway behind Weaver, having followed him most of the way. Perhaps an escort to vouch for his good character if the locals had taken exception to his presence. Or a guide to intervene if he took a wrong turning. Either way, the freemerchant’s eyes flicked towards the youth for a moment and there was the slightest of nods to acknowledge his errand had been discharged. If Weaver had nursed any preconceptions the nomadic freemerchant might be uneasy in the cramped confines of the city he had to revise them, for Marten appeared very much at home here.

“Greetings, Weaver. You found the place without difficulty?” He performed the traditional gesture of greeting, but it was perfunctory at best – he might as easily have been gesturing towards a seat in welcome. A freemerchant who could slip between the worlds of traveller and city dweller with consummate ease. A renegade, or a sign of changing times? Marten may be outward-looking but he had not gone so far as to break with centuries of freemerchant tradition and shake hands – such direct contact led to exchange of disease, the landless people maintained.

Weaver echoed the man’s gesture. “Greetings, Marten.” Weaver took his seat in the booth opposite the freemerchant.

Marten set about pouring spiced kopamid into the ornate globe-shaped vessels favoured in the region. Ritual required it be poured in the presence of the guests, and that the host should drink first. Not that the free people had a tradition of poisoning their guests, but like many rituals this one had its origins in practical matters. Marten set down the pot and took up his cup.

“You are familiar with our ways, then, Ranald Weaver?”

“I served here for several years.” And would have made the place his family home, had they not been destroyed by one of the foremost nobles in the region. Doubtless the freemerchant knew all about that – he was not so artless as he wished to appear.

“Then let us drink. To brisk trade.” He held the vessel beneath his nose for a moment, inhaling the aroma, then swallowed a generous mouthful of the spiced kopamid and set his cup down.

Weaver took up his own. “To brisk trade.” Trade was everything to the freemerchants. They were allowed no other income. He inhaled the aromatic spices, blended in the same way his wife had made it in the tiny room they rented below the barracks. The wave of nostalgia the smell inspired was so powerful it caught him off guard. He gulped a mouthful of the hot liquid. Hot enough to bring him back to the here and now. He replaced his cup on the table.

“Your messenger said you might be able to put me onto some work?”

“Indeed I might.” Marten smiled, undoubtedly intended to charm, but secretive as a snake under a blanket of leaves. “Since our first meeting I’ve made a few enquiries about you, Weaver. Our new king would pay well to see you returned to his hospitality at Highkell.”

A secretive and prudent snake. One to be given a wide berth. But Weaver was hungry, with no prospect of work in sight. He took another sip of the spiced kopamid. He should never have come back, not this far east. He should have gone north, back where he began, price on his head or no. Back where there were no broken dreams to torment him. “And did you learn much else from your enquiries?” It wasn’t too late, he could hang up his sword and learn how to plough again.

“I learned much to confirm what you told me. And more about your deeds in battle than I doubt you would ever own. Farmer’s son risen to King’s Man, no less.”

Weaver shrugged. “Common gossip may be common, doesn’t mean it’s true.”

“Ah, yes, rumour is a fickle mistress. But for our landless people rumours are a commodity – what other stock can a man carry in such quantity that will never burden his mule, yet cannot be seen by would-be thieves?”

“Will your rumours put food in my belly?”

“In time they will. I heard you were loyal and true to the dead king. Am I right in thinking you would seek to displace the usurper who’s taken his throne?”

“My loyalty’s my business. I’ll not discuss it with one who so easily fell foul of a bunch of drunkards. Secrets can be taken by anyone with a will to extract them. And then they’ll hang a man faster than any rumour. It’s true I was loyal to the old king. He’s dead now and I’m King’s Man no more.”

Marten nodded. “There’s a fine discussion to be had about the nature of truth and the nature of rumour – many a truth may prove to be, after all, a rumour substantiated. And armies have mobilised for belief in things no more substantial than rumours. But I see you are in no mood for philosophical debate. Your old cause may not be as dead as you think, if you’ve stomach to continue the fight.”

“You think I’ll fight for an ideal now? I’m ready to turn my hand to the plough. You’ve been listening to the wrong rumours.”

“Is that so, Ranald Weaver? My sources have been reliable in the past. You were unstoppable at Vorland Pass, they tell me. And they told me you lived for battle.”

“That was years ago. People change.”

“This cannot be denied. My own kinsman tells me he saw you riding away from Highkell as Vasic’s army approached from the lowlands. With a fine lady, no less. Now there’s a fascinating tale. So much room for conjecture.”

“What are you suggesting?” Weaver downed the last of the kopamid. He wanted a proper drink, one that would numb his senses and chase away the ghosts. If he didn’t need more coin to buy it, he wouldn’t be listening to this prating fool now.