Exile (41 page)

Jaraile gasped. Everyone went very still.

The king tossed back his wine then appeared to be listening. ‘I know.’ He put the empty cup down. ‘He’s the best of the lot, but they’d never accept him.’

The door opened. Sorne drew the manservant inside, then went to the king. ‘Here’s Bidern, sire. Time to–’

‘Mind your tongue, boy, I’m talking to your mother.’

Sorne baulked. The manservant made a strangled sound in his throat. Sorne recovered and helped the king to his feet. His hands were gentle. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

The king wandered out on the manservant’s arm.

Sorne closed the door and turned to face the others. He felt shattered. Without a word, he went to the sideboard and brought the tray with the wine and cups over to the table. He poured them all a drink, his hands shaking very slightly. Was he developing his father’s ailment? He’d kill himself before it took his mind.

He drained his cup.

As if this was a signal, everyone spoke at once, their voices hammering at him.

‘What were you thinking, trying to pass him off as fit to made decisions?’ the older of the two law scholars asked. ‘We cannot witness an agreement if he’s not of sound mind.’

‘More to the point, he cannot rule if he’s not of sound mind,’ High Priest Faryx said. ‘We–’

‘He’s never been like this before,’ Jaraile protested. ‘I’m as shocked as you.’

‘He has grown a little forgetful,’ Nitzane admitted. ‘But his mind has been sound.’

Sorne was tempted to say the king had
never
been of particularly sound mind, but he restrained himself. ‘He was of sound mind the other day and he will be again. This has happened before.’

‘What?’ Jaraile turned to him.

‘When?’ Nitzane asked.

‘During the siege,’ Sorne admitted. ‘It seemed to be triggered by an illness. This time I think it was the rage that triggered it. What happened here must not leave this room. He will come good again.’

Sorne saw they did not believe him. He drained his wine. ‘Come with me. I can prove it is a medical condition.’

The two law scholars exchanged looks.

‘Yes, I want you to come too. Everyone who was here today must see this.’

And he left the chamber with the others in tow. When they entered the king’s outer chamber, Sorne told them to wait and slipped into the bedroom. The manservant was folding the king’s clothes. Charald lay in bed, snoring with his mouth open.

‘What was in that wine?’ Bidern whispered.

‘Soothing powder from Khitan. I’ve been giving it to him for years to help control his rages. Please tell me his urine has changed colour.’

Bidern nodded and glanced to the bedpan. ‘When I saw the colour I left it there.’

‘I don’t know what’s wrong,’ Bidern said. ‘The medicine seemed to be working, but–’

‘Medicine? I thought he didn’t trust the saw-bones.’

‘No, but he trusts me. My father was an apothecary, and my brother has continued in the trade. I’ve been dosing the king since the middle of last year on arsenic powders. When he took ill in camp, I doubled the dose.’

‘Arsenic?’ Sorne repeated. ‘But that’s the royal poison.’

‘It’s prepared as a medication.’

‘Stop dosing him. Stop everything.’

‘But–’

‘Sorne?’ Nitzane peered in and whispered. ‘The others are getting restless.’

‘Tell them to be quiet. The king is sleeping.’ Sorne brought the pan out to them. The urine was deep purple-red.

‘Is that blood?’ Jaraile asked.

‘No, that’s the colour the king’s urine goes when he has one of these fits.’

‘It looks like port wine,’ Captain Halargon muttered.

‘So you see, it is a physical problem,’ Sorne said.

‘What has the saw-bones said?’ the older of the law scholars asked.

‘The king won’t see one,’ Sorne admitted. ‘He’s afraid word will get out and his enemies will move against him. Besides, saw-bones are mostly good for setting bones and stitching up wounds. This...’ – he gestured to the urine – ‘this is beyond their skills. This is why we must protect the king. The longer he can sit on the throne and his enemies believe King Charald the Great is a threat, the longer the kingdom is safe and the more time his son has to grow up.’

No one spoke. Captain Halargon looked grim.

Sorne looked around. ‘For the sake of the kingdom, for the sake of Prince Cedon, I ask you to keep silent.’

‘He’ll be back to normal in a day or two?’ the older law scholar asked.

‘Yes.’ Sorne sincerely hoped so. ‘When the moment is right, I’ll send for you and the decree can be signed.’

‘What of Eskarnor?’ High Priest Faryx looked dubious. ‘If he realises–’

‘Between us,’ Sorne gestured to the baron, the queen and the captain of the guards, ‘we’ll keep Eskarnor away from the king.’

Chapter Thirty

T
OBAZIM PAUSED WHEN
he sensed the build up of male gift aggression behind him. He turned to seeHaromyr and Ionnyn jostling each other on the bottom step of the harbour-master’s building, tussling over who should go up next. If they’d been dogs, they would have been growling. It had been like this ever since they entered port. Everyone was on edge.

‘Io,’ Ardonyx said.

Ionnyn glanced to him, then away.

‘Haromyr.’ Tobazim held his eyes until the other lowered his gaze. With that, he and Ardonyx turned and went up the steps.

Everything felt wrong. Even the stairs were built for Mieren legs; the treads were just a fraction too small and the risers too low, making him take the steps two at a time. And all the while, his gift thrummed through his body, reverberating like the skin of a beating drum.

Ardonyx walked out of the stairwell into the harbour-master’s office, with Tobazim one step behind. Tobazim took in the room at a glance. Built on the fourth floor, the office overlooked the bay. The sun was setting behind the bay’s huge sandstone headlands. Five Mieren worked at desks.

From up here, Tobazim could see the whole port laid out. The ships nestled against the wharves like piglets sucking at a sow’s belly; countless more dotted the bay. Their masts stretched like a forest sprinkled with fallen stars, as the lanterns were lit. He’d had no idea there were so many ships.

Tobazim had felt a sense of dislocation upon entering the fortified port. There were tenements five and seven storeys high, all packed with laughing, fighting, crying, singing Mieren. The weight of their unguarded emotions meant he had to concentrate to maintain his defences. Now he understood why King Charald had no trouble raising an army of ten thousand and gladly sacrificed a thousand warriors to make a point.

It was all so different – he just wanted to climb aboard Ardonyx’s ship and surround himself with familiar T’En things, which he could do soon if this harbour-master would just lift his head and be civil.

Instead, the man continued to write, bald head bent over his desk even as they stood before him. Tobazim bristled on Ardonyx’s behalf. The harbour-master’s four scribes didn’t move.

Finally, the harbour-master pushed his sheet of figures aside and looked up. For a moment his shallow, pale blue eyes met Tobazim’s, then they skimmed past in a dance that was fast becoming familiar.

‘Master Hersegel, I greet you.’ Ardonyx spoke Chalcedonian with the fluency of long use. ‘Today we meet under very different circumstance. I have come to reclaim my ships.’

The little man lifted his hands. ‘An unfortunate misunderstanding. If I’d realised, I would have sent you to the Wyrd wharf. Your ships are there right now.’

‘What of my cargo?’

‘Gone, I fear. Stolen.’ The harbour-master shrugged. ‘You know how I detest dockside thievery. I fight an uphill battle to keep it under control.’

Ardonyx dropped his voice, speaking T’En to Tobazim. ‘With a percentage going into his pocket. The man’s a rogue.’ Ardonyx switched to Chalcedonian. ‘And where is the Wyrd wharf?’

Stiffly, the harbour-master came to his feet. From his bent shoulders and drooping jowls, Tobazim would have said he was past ninety; as a Mieren, he was probably nearer to fifty.

Standing only as high as Ardonyx’s chest, the harbour-master was almost as wide as he was tall, and he rolled from side to side as he walked to the windows. Once in position, he pointed towards the nest of wharves and ships. ‘There.’

Ardonyx joined him, keeping a good arm’s length between himself and the man. Tobazim tried to make out which wharf he meant, but there were too many.

‘It’s not big enough,’ Ardonyx objected.

‘This is a busy port, I can’t spare another.’ It was not an apology. ‘I’ve hired strongarms to guard the entrance. You go in and stay there. I don’t want your people wandering around the city, causing trouble.’

‘Are we forbidden to leave the wharf?’

‘Did I say that?’ He looked far too pleased with himself for Tobazim’s liking. ‘Leave, if you must. But I cannot be held responsible for what happens to Wyrds wandering the port alone. There are brigands in town, especially down near the docks. They see your rich garments, your silver arm-torcs and...’

Ardonyx’s eyes narrowed. ‘We will have to come out to order supplies. Your merchants won’t want to miss out on our custom.’

The solid little man considered this. ‘Very well, but you don’t come out without my strongarms’ permission, and no more than four of you at a time.’

‘And the other T’Enatuath ships? The causare sent a list to the king’s agent.’

Hersegel searched his desk, uncovered a piece of paper and ran a blunt-tipped finger down the list of names. ‘This one, she was sunk. Her, I don’t know. She was confiscated, then the new owner sailed off. This one, I don’t know. This one, confiscated–’

‘Those ships which were confiscated must be returned to my people, by the order of King Charald.’

The harbour-master lifted his head. ‘As I told the king’s agent, I’ve sent messages to the other ports around the Secluded Sea, but...’

Ardonyx looked grim. ‘Remember, Hersegel. We can’t sail without ships, and your king wants us to sail.’ With a curt nod, he went to leave.

‘I’ve already had a delivery of Wyrds,’ the harbour-master said. ‘I told them to wait in the warehouse. I was going to send a message to the king’s agent, but since you’re here, you can pay the bounty.’

‘We’ll do that,’ Ardonyx said. ‘Meanwhile, please let the agent know we are here.’

As they’d hurried down the stairs, with Ionnyn and Haromyr behind them, Ardonyx muttered, ‘He’s a heartless thief. They all are. The Mieren merchants are going to rob us blind.’

Down in the street, they joined their companions and mounted their horses. Twilight had claimed the valley between the buildings. Without street lamps, the only light came from the open doors of businesses and unshuttered windows. Respectable establishments closed up for the night, as bawdy houses opened and taverns did a roaring trade. But Tobazim’s party travelled in a pall of silence. Conversation fell away at their approach, and once they were past, a wave of comments picked up behind their backs.

Passers-by gave the T’Enatuath party a wide berth, the well-dressed holding handkerchiefs to their faces and averting their faces. There seemed to be a fashion for malachite jewellery; everyone wore it. And everywhere Tobazim looked, blue eyes slid away from his gaze.

‘Soon you’ll see my ships.’ Ardonyx seemed cheered by this thought. ‘The
Spring-cusp
is a sturdy vessel, reliable, quick, five masts, three decks. The
Autumn-moons
is a beauty, lovely lines, seven masts. There are ships more richly appointed, but I know every creak, every whisper. My ship, she talks to me.’

Tobazim felt the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. This was why Ardonyx’s gift had felt exotic. It was tied to his ships, and the sea was a foreign country to Tobazim.

Now Ardonyx led them through a narrow street only just wide enough for their wagons. The buildings almost met overhead. The way sloped down into a hollow where boards rattled over fetid water. There was no sign of the stream itself; houses had been built over it, so that the water travelled in darkness to the sea. It struck Tobazim as obscene. He was glad he had grown up under open skies with the mountain at his back and the whole of Chalcedonia laid out at his feet.

Here, surly denizens inhabited the shadows. From narrow doorways, lean, hungry-eyed children watched them. Tobazim was shocked by how ragged and thin they were. If Mieren could treat their own young like this, no wonder they did not balk at murdering the children of Wyrds.

As a boy, his choice-mother had taught him that Mieren callousness and cruelty arose from their lack of the T’En gift or Malaunje gift affinity. They could not feel the pain they caused one another. Even so, the Mieren disregard for each other evident in the faces of these starving children shocked him.

He was relieved when they emerged from the street of top-heavy hovels. An area of open land dotted with charred rubble lay ahead of them.

‘Ah, that explains why hatred burned so fiercely in those Mieren,’ Ardonyx said, gesturing to an area of blackened rubble ahead of them. ‘The harbour-master flattened half their homes, poor rats.’ He saw Tobazim’s expression. ‘That’s what they call this quarter, the rats-nest.’

‘The Mieren call their own people rats?’

Ardonyx jerked his head back the way they had come. ‘Their nest is a den of filth. If you hadn’t been shielding so heavily, you would have felt it. Enough cruelty, greed and desperation to make you physically ill. The harbour-master used us as an excuse to knock down a few blocks of the worst of it, to isolate the area where he’s quartered us. Here we are.’

They’d come to a barricade, defended by the harbour-master’s hired thugs. About a dozen of them lined the barricade and clustered around the gate. At his party’s approach, the strongarms stiffened, reaching for weapons. Once inside that gate, Tobazim’s people would be prisoners.

A lantern hung from a poorly-constructed barricade. A second lantern was hastily lit and raised on a pole and hung from the gate tower – a rickety platform. One of the strongarms sauntered out to meet them. He was not the largest, but the light of cunning burned in his pale eyes.