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Weaver shrugged. “It was bound to happen.”

“There was a lot of talk about an age of peace and prosperity for the people. I guessed you wouldn’t like it, but… I thought you’d want to know. I hope I haven’t done wrong?”

“No, lad.” He’d done it out of consideration, after all. Not from malice. And yes, it was better to learn here, away from the public eye. Here where none would press an advantage because of it. Weaver gave himself a mental shake. “How did the crowd react?”

“They didn’t cheer.” Drew considered. “Some muttered a bit, but I couldn’t hear much of it. They seemed to think they’d be better treated once she was installed as true queen – that’s his intention – queen rather than his consort. If Vasic dies without issue the crown will be hers.”

“Is that so? Generous. I’ll hazard he sleeps with guards by his bed from now on.” Weaver grinned despite himself. “That was ever Tresilian’s mistake: his advisors insisted she shouldn’t be given equal status, even though her claim cemented his. He’d have had less trouble from The Marches if he had.” Perhaps Vasic was not as foolish as he looked. He’d laced Tresilian’s court with his own adherents readily enough, after all. And perhaps he’d treat the Lady Alwenna well enough. He could offer her all the comforts she was accustomed to. Maybe it would be a good thing for the kingdom. Maybe.

Of one thing he could never convince himself: that the Lady Alwenna would welcome the match. Whatever she claimed about duty there’d been times when she’d smiled for Tresilian and he’d felt he was intruding. She’d never smile on Weaver that way. Not now. The match could bring the people the political stability they sought and he ought to welcome it on those grounds. But he never would. His faint hope that he might somehow wrest her untouched from Highkell withered and died.

Blaine returned at that moment with a brace of rabbits which they hung ready for supper. And they set about their unexpected breakfast of fried eggs, slightly smoked-tasting from the green firewood they’d had to use. Weaver’s hands shook as he juggled the food into his mouth – another situation that wouldn’t improve any time soon.

They were lazing about the fire enjoying the luxury of full bellies when Drew sat up, startled.

“That’s horses! Could it be Vasic’s men after all?”

Weaver listened. “It’s just one horse, and too slow. Make yourself scarce, lad. You’ve not been seen with us for a few days now, better keep it that way.”

Drew grabbed his meagre bundle of clothes and ducked away beneath a low branch, pausing. “If you need to find me, the shop’s on Soulard’s Gate. The door’s green–”

“That’s plenty, lad. The less I know, the less anyone can find out from me. Goddess be with you.”

Curtis muttered a farewell as he got to his feet. Blaine grunted something non-committal.

Drew nodded tightly and ducked away beneath the branch, vanishing into the cover of the trees. Weaver stood up, stretching knotted muscles as he buckled on his sword belt. He fumbled the strap into the buckle with unsteady hands. What he wouldn’t give for a drink right now.

Curtis watched him. “Are we expecting trouble?”

“Could be he led someone straight to us,” Blaine grunted.

“No, he’s sound.” Weaver rolled his shoulders. “Trouble wouldn’t move that slowly.”

The three of them spread across the small clearing, between whoever approached and their horses, which were tethered at the other side of the camp. All three held their hands over the pommels of their swords.

A large bay horse pushed into sight between the trees. Weaver recognised the tall figure astride it straight away. Curtis and Blaine glanced towards Weaver in question. He shook his head and moved his hand from the sword pommel.

The freemerchant halted his horse several paces away in the centre of the clearing and smiled. “My greetings, gentlemen. May the Hunter watch over your fires.”

“And so may you be blessed, traveller.”

Marten inclined his head in greeting and Weaver did likewise. Damn the man, what was he up to? The smile playing about his mouth was too smug by far.

“I bring you news, King’s Man. May I dismount by your fire?”

“I’m King’s Man no more, as I’ve already told you.” But he quelled his instinctive reaction to tell him to ride on and take his damned news elsewhere. Rarely had he taken such a dislike to a man. He’d had many dealings with the freemerchants over the years. His own wife’s freemerchant relations had all danced at their wedding, for Goddess’s sake. But he kept his feelings in check. “You may dismount if you’re still of a mind to.”

The freemerchant smiled, and swung down from the saddle, fastening his reins back behind the stirrup leathers. He approached the fire, spreading his empty hands wide. “I come to you unarmed. You may trust me, Weaver, although I doubt you will.”

“Then finally we agree on something. What makes you think I want to hear more of your news?”

Curtis set about boiling water.

The freemerchant crouched down by the fire, warming his hands. “Mornings can be cold this close to the mountains.”

“Aye, they can. But I’d sooner you answered my question.”

The freemerchant glanced pointedly towards Curtis and Blaine.

“You can talk freely in front of them.”

“Very well.” The freemerchant appeared unconcerned by Weaver’s hostility, maintaining his easy smile. “They may find this news of interest, too. Put in simplest terms, Weaver, the king you swore allegiance to is not dead.” He paused for effect, looking round his small audience. “Tresilian lives.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

The freemerchant showed every appearance of believing his outrageous claim.

Weaver shook his head. “I’ve heard some tall tales in my time, but that must be the tallest.”

“Sometimes the truth is the hardest thing to accept.” The freemerchant studied him. “You are disinclined to believe me?”

“Vasic himself bragged to me of stabbing him.”

“And Vasic, is, of course, renowned for his honesty and forthrightness.” He spread his hands over the fire.

The kettle tilted where Curtis had set it in the embers. He reached over and adjusted it. “I carried his body out. He was dead.”

“Ah, yes. And you pocketed a handy sum for putting his body in a freemerchant’s wagon, despite the orders to throw him in the pit with the rest.” The man smiled.

Curtis coughed and spat into the flames. “Could be.”

“The same freemerchant who slipped you a spare set of keys while Weaver was held prisoner? And who waited for you by the gates?” Marten clasped his fingers together, watching the three comrades with a benign expression.

Curtis nodded slowly. “Aye, the same.”

Weaver shifted irritably. “This proves little, freemerchant. Only that you have reliable sources of information. And are meddling in affairs that are not your own.”

Marten shrugged. “Perhaps. As I’ve said before, rumours are our stock in trade. And we pass on only what is accurate – our livelihood depends upon it. Tresilian lives. And he will be in need of loyal men in his army. Loyal men such as you three. Let me take you to him and then you will see for yourselves.”

Weaver rubbed the back of his neck. “And how are we to know you wouldn’t lead us into a trap?”

“If you will not trust me, trust what you know of your king. Hasn’t he always treated the freemerchants with respect? He had a great deal of time for us, did he not?”

“The same could be said of any of his subjects.”

“Your caution does you credit, Weaver. He would not have gullible fools in his new army, but I have nothing to lose by revealing my hand now. Tresilian would have me convince you to rejoin his cause. After all, you never left his service, did you?” The freemerchant studied Weaver’s face.

It was said they, too, had the sight. Weaver turned his attention to the fire. Swearing allegiance to his former master’s widow had been a continuation of his duty to his king. Nothing had changed. Nothing outward, anyway. He met the freemerchant’s gaze again.

“Many saw him dead. I won’t follow you on a fool’s errand without proof.”

The freemerchant sighed. “Of course. You may have tried to lose yourself in the ale barrel, but you haven’t pissed away your common sense with the rest of it.”

Weaver jumped to his feet. “Away and play your cat-and-mouse games elsewhere. You’re under guest rights here at our fire, but next time we meet don’t expect me to show you courtesy.”

The freemerchant got leisurely to his feet, uncoiling long limbs with practised ease. “This is no game. This is about life, and death, and the places between. You and I serve the same king, Weaver, and we always have. The night you took the Lady Alwenna from Highkell, I was there. Who do you think Tresilian sent to cover your backs? Why do you think the men following you didn’t run you down at the watergate? They went the same way Stanton did. And it was my blade that sent them on their way.”

Weaver prowled around the fire, glaring at the freemerchant. Could he have learned this from anyone else? Or was it nothing more than a series of lucky guesses about events that night? “What blade would that be? Your people boast of never carrying them.”

The freemerchant smiled again, mirthless this time. “Indeed. But I would be an imprudent man not to carry some means of defending myself, would I not?” With a theatrical gesture he shrugged, and spread his hands wide. This time his hands were not empty, but in each a throwing blade lay across the palm, held loosely in place by his thumbs. His attitude remained unthreatening.

“A nice trick.” Weaver shrugged. “You are more the courtier than I guessed.”

“But I have yet to convince you?” The freemerchant tucked the blades away inside his sleeves.

Weaver nodded. “Your sources may be every bit as accurate as you brag, but you have yet to convince me.”

“Very well. The night Tresilian ordered you to take the Lady Alwenna away? I was listening from the garderobe the whole time. You had thrown your cloak over the settle. When she entered the room her eyes fell upon it first, in disgust. She protested she had to take the servant Wynne with her on the journey. She and Tresilian whispered, so you could not hear. But I could. She asked if he’d told you everything, and he replied–”

“Enough!” All eyes were upon Weaver now.

“Tresilian handed her a bundle of homespun clothing. Drab, brown stuff, more suited to a merchant’s wife than a monarch. But she wore it when–”

“I said enough.”

“I too had the king’s trust.” The freemerchant smiled again. “My admiration of the lady was open, so he sent her with you, the man who hadn’t looked at another woman since his wife died.”

“What are you suggesting?” Weaver growled.

The freemerchant spread his hands wide again. “I suggest nothing. I seek only to convince you we serve the same king. He would have you rejoin him now. All of you.”

Weaver exchanged looks with Curtis and Blaine. Each nodded, almost imperceptibly. Whether Tresilian lived or no, they all needed to eat.

“We’ll put your rumours to the test, freemerchant. But only if the terms are good enough.” And if the braggart was not telling the truth, Weaver promised himself, he would cut out his lying tongue using the freemerchant’s own deceitful blades.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

From the window of her tower room Alwenna could see the washing green she and Weaver had crossed in the darkness, so many days ago. It seemed like an eternity since the blood-drenched night in the alley, when she hadn’t known for sure whose side the taciturn Weaver was going to take. Today there were washerwomen at work, even though they had no hope of drying their laundry outside in this weather.

She could just make out the dark mouth of the culvert she and Weaver had escaped through. The water was running higher than it had been that night. She felt as though it had been raining forever, rather than a matter of weeks. It reminded her of the weeks following her arrival at Highkell. The rain had been unceasing then. Rainclouds had settled about the citadel, masking the summits either side of the gorge, and the rain had fallen and fallen. And she’d believed Highkell the most desolate place on earth. Now she knew the same sense of despair. Cheerless fog threaded between the trees and ridges of the hillside opposite and the water poured from the culvert over the waterfall in a steady rush that seemed to reverberate through the fabric of the building. She could hear it where she stood on the upper floor of the tower, sense it beating against the stonework of the curtain wall. She rested her hands for a moment on the stone sill: so much water, such power. If it had been like this the night she and Weaver had left it would surely have swept them off their feet and over the edge of the gorge.

And maybe, just maybe, that would have been better for all concerned. And she wouldn’t be facing this farce of a wedding.

Goddess knew she’d done her best the first time round with Tresilian. What was it Weaver had said? They hadn’t managed the business so ill. No, they hadn’t. That didn’t mean she wanted to go through it all again with Vasic. But there were still other people depending on her. The common folk. People whose lives had been torn apart because of what had been, in the end, little more than a childhood squabble. And she’d been the source of discontent. She could make amends. And so she would, although it gave her no joy.

She stared out through the rain. If she leaned to her right she could see the main gate where a merchant’s caravan trudged in, pack ponies laden with barrels. Wine or ale for the common folk at the wedding feast, no doubt. Vasic would never drink anything hauled in so recently.

There was a knock at the door, and Vasic’s new steward stepped over the threshold. He was tall, skinny and nervous, where Hames had been broad and bullish. “My lady, his highness is ready for you to join him.” He bowed hastily.

She’d forgotten it was time to enact the daily farce of dining with her future husband. “Very well. We must not keep his highness waiting.”

Vasic still looked gaunt and pale, but since declaring their wedding date he’d recovered some of his old bravado. He looked her over now with proprietorial approbation, a glass of red wine in his hand. He refused to use the old goblets, claiming they tainted the flavour.