Exile's Children (62 page)

“Were escape possible,” she said, “yes. It should not be easy, but I suspect the forests are kinder than these mysterious savage folk.”

“Likely you're right,” he said. “But even then—to make a life in the wilderness? That should be no easy thing.”

“No,” she agreed. “And likely harder for you than for me.”

“Eh?” he gasped. “What do you say?”

“That all your life has been lived in cities,” she replied. “That did you flee to some metropolis you'd easily find your way around its streets, its salons. But the country? I was born in the country, Arcole.”

“The wilderness,” he said, “is hardly the
country.
”

“But more akin than city streets,” she gave him back. “Can you find food in a wood, Arcole? Can you recognize those mushrooms good to eat or tell which are toadstools that will poison you? I can. Can you dress a deer, or has your venison always come on a plate, out of the kitchen? Can you cook, or has some ‘damned servant' performed that duty for you? I suspect I am likely equipped better for the wilderness than you,
husband.
”

He stared at her, his jaw dropping. Flysse felt her anger cool a trifle: his expression was so dumbfounded she might have laughed had the circumstance been different. Obviously he had not considered such matters: she began to think he told the truth when he said he had not thought past the making of his map. But even so … He had clearly considered the possibility—the likelihood, even—of leaving her behind. She could not, yet, forgive that. She was no longer even sure she could trust him, and that was a sad notion.

“I suppose …” he muttered. “No—I've not the least idea how to dress a deer. And mushrooms?” He grinned. “Mushrooms come sautéed, no? Or in a sauce, from the kitchen.”

Flysse refused to be mollified, although her anger shifted direction somewhat. It seemed he set his plans afoot without sufficient thought, as if desire for escape overcame his reason. That was foolishness, and such lack of common sense irritated her. “Best to consider such matters, no?” she asked. “There shall be no restaurants in the wilderness. No ‘damned servants' to wait on you.”

Arcole wished he'd not used those words. They had come careless: he did not think of Flysse as a servant. He said, “I'm sorry.”

Flysse shrugged dismissively, not yet ready to be placated. “And the supplies you mention,” she said, “the weapons. Where shall they come from?”

His expression changed, the hopeful grin disappearing behind a veil of uncertainty. Flysse saw on the instant there was more he held back, and her anger flared anew.

“No mòre secrets, eh?” she demanded.

He said, “Flysse, I made a promise.”

She said, “As you made promises to me,
husband
?”

“No,” he said, torn, and, “yes. I gave my word I'd not speak of it.”

Arcole winced as she snorted that awful laugh again. “Your word, eh? Who's had your word now?” Realization then: “Davyd?”

Arcole nodded helplessly.

“Of course! Davyd is indentured to 'sieur Gahame, who's a warehouse full of weapons. In God's name, Arcole, did you plan to take the boy with you?”

His face answered her, and she must struggle not to strike him again. “You planned to take Davyd with you, but leave me? You'd see me safe, eh, but carry the lad into danger?”

“Flysse,” he said, “you don't understand.”

“Then make me.” She was not sure whether she demanded or pleaded. It seemed her world was turned upside down, nothing any longer fixed or sure. “Tell me.”

“I cannot,” he moaned. “I gave my word.”

“On what?” she snapped. “You admit you'd enlist his aid. Because he was a thief? Because he's access to Gahame's stores? Because Gahame has other maps?”

“In part.” Arcole wished she did not guess so much, so acutely; wished, too, he could explain that promise given Davyd. But that must break his word and impugn his honor: he could not.

“Only in part?” Her voice was scornful. “Then what else,
husband
? What more do you hold back?”

He said, “God knows, Flysse, I'd tell you had I not made a promise.
But I did!
I gave my word, and I'll not break that.”

She said, “No, of course not,” and he winced at the contempt he heard. “You'll lie to me, but your word to Davyd—that's sacred, eh?”

“It's not the same,” he protested. “I made a promise on board the ship, when Davyd … told me what he told me.”

Flysse stood a moment silent, perplexed. Arcole seemed genuinely ashamed of his deception, but nonetheless determined in this matter of his promise to Davyd. For all she no longer felt she knew him so well as she had believed, still she believed she knew him well enough to know him obstinate in matters of honor. And even though it irked her, she must grudgingly respect him in this: a promise, after all,
was
a promise.

At last she said, “So then, I'll ask Davyd what this promise is when next I've the chance. Does he not tell me, well … so be it. But understand this, Arcole—you'll not bring the boy to harm. You'll not endanger him, or—” She shook her head. “Fear not I'll betray you; you've
my
word on that. But you'll not harm Davyd!”

“No,” he promised. “I give you my word.”

She looked at him awhile. Then: “And does escape prove possible, you'll take me with you.”

“Flysse,” he said.

“You'll take me with you,” she repeated.

Her tone brooked no dissent: Arcole ducked his head. “We go together,” he agreed.

“I'll have your word on that,” she said. “Your solemn promise before God. Your word of honor, Arcole.”

He was surprised she should accept it still; and pleased: it left him room for hope not all was lost between them. He bowed his head and faced her. “My word on it. Before God, and as I love you.”

Flysse nodded. “And henceforth you'll make me privy to your plans, eh? There shall be no more deception, no more secrecy. I'll have your word on that also.”

“You have it,” he said.

“Then we've a bargain.” She turned away. “And I'll to bed for what's left of this night.”

Arcole said once more, “Flysse, I'm sorry,” but got back no reply.

He watched her climb beneath the quilt. He no longer had any stomach for his cartographic efforts and, after ensuring the ink was dry, stowed the map and his few tools in their hiding place and pinched out the candle. He yawned: the night, indeed, had aged and he felt drained, as if their argument leached out his energy. He shucked off his jacket and clambered into their bed. Flysse presented him her back, and when he put a hand upon her shoulder, she shrugged it off without a word. He lay lonely beside her, contemplating his errors.

Those services attended by the branded folk of Gros theim took place soon after dawn, that the indentured be allowed their devotions without disruption of their duties or discomfort to their masters. Not all attended—cooks must prepare breakfasts and the lowest of the low lay fires and clean stoves—but from Wyme's mansion each Sunday Benjamyn and Chryselle led a shivering procession through the ice-rimed streets to the wooden building grandiosely described as a cathedral. Few free citizens were abroad so early on a winter's morning, and none shared the church—they'd not stoop to worship with common exiles. It afforded the branded folk a rare opportunity to exchange news, albeit in whispers as the priest intoned the prayers and led the ragged chorus of hymns.

Davyd knew something was amiss as soon as he set eyes on his friends. Flysse's cheeks were red with cold, and he thought she had been weeping though her pursed lips suggested contained anger. Arcole looked wretched, and Davyd saw that whilst he stood close beside his wife, they did not, as usual, hold hands. For all their proximity, he sensed a distance between them, and inched through the worshippers to find his usual place beside them, asking softly, “What's wrong?”

It was Flysse who replied, and her response startled him: “What was Arcole's promise, Davyd?”

Her voice was pitched low that only he might hear, but still was
edged with pain and anger. He frowned, confused, and looked past her to Arcole, who shrugged and sighed.

“Arcole made you a promise on board the ship,” Flysse whispered. “He keeps his word; he'll not tell me its nature, so I ask you. What did he promise, Davyd?”

He did not immediately respond, save to gasp and glance with nervous eyes toward the priest. The vicar was reading from a book of prayer, his voice a drone, his gaze intent on the page. He appeared disinterested in his flock, least of all in Davyd.

“How do you know?” asked the boy.

“I discovered … certain things about my husband.” Flysse cast a sidelong glance at Arcole. Davyd thought the man flinched. “He had no choice but to admit a promise was given. I'd know what it was.”

Davyd swallowed the lump that seemed to abruptly clog his throat and licked his lips nervously. He felt Flysse's hand close around his wrist, squeezing. The urgency of her grip was matched by the urgency in her eyes.

“I'd not pry out your secrets,” she murmured, “but this affects us all, I think. I'd not see you come to harm, Davyd; and I fear you may. So I ask you, as a friend—what was the promise?”

He looked from her face back toward the priest, then warily around the church. There was no Inquisitor present to sniff out his secret, nor had the priest such power, but even so … He felt very afraid. Might not the voicing of it in this place somehow reveal him? He shuddered, his eyes darting about as might a rabbit's when a predator's wings shadow the ground.

“Shall you tell me?” Flysse asked. “I swear it shall go no farther, only—” She shook her head and Davyd saw a tear moisten her cheek. “We've a difference, Arcole and I, that needs be settled.”

There was such anguish in her voice that Davyd momentarily forgot his own fears. He looked at her and saw pain in her eyes; past her, Arcole stood miserable. Davyd wondered what had gone on that they seemed so sad. Wondered, too, how that promise Arcole had given him could so affect them. Was he somehow responsible for their distress? He could not understand how that might be, surely hoped it was not. He thought of all the kindnesses Flysse had showed him: surely he could trust her with his secret. Indeed, had he not wished he could discuss his more recent dreams with Arcole, so why not also with Flysse? But not here, not in this place.

Low, he said, “It's important you know?”

Flysse said, “It is,” and then: “Do you not trust me, Davyd?”

He nodded. “Yes, of course. But …” His eyes roamed the church. “I'd not speak of it here. Please?”

“Then where?” she asked. “Where else might we speak?”

Decision then, sudden, prompted by her obvious distress. He said, “Your room, it's on the mansion's yard, no?”

“Yes.” Flysse nodded, confused now. “But how …?”

Davyd hushed her. “You've a window? Tell me where it is, exactly.”

She did, and then he asked: “Describe the yard, and whatever walls there are. Does the governor have dogs?”

As she told him, he felt a mounting excitement. It should be an adventure, and did it heal the rift between his friends, then it should be worth the risk. He had already, after all, contemplated the enterprise: now it assumed a far greater importance.

Flysse said, “I don't understand. How can this help?”

Davyd smiled and told her, “Trust me, eh?”

The day was chill. Spring approached, but winter was reluctant to give up its hold on the city. The sky was a steely blue, the sun denying warmth, a cold wind skirling the streets, where icicles hung from eaves and braziers were set out on porches, smoldering charcoal scenting the frosty air. Arcole considered the day far warmer than his wife.

Flysse had said little to him since that night—indeed, no more than she must, and the other servants cast curious glances their way. Nathanial whispered about lovebirds falling out until Arcole threatened to box his ears, thereby earning himself a reprimand from Benjamyn. She refused to tell him what Davyd had said, only that the boy had agreed to reveal the content of the promise. He could not understand how, and when he asked, Flysse favored him only with cold looks and bade him wait.

It was worse for the need to perform those duties assigned him. That he had sooner taken Flysse aside and pleaded with her, seek to reconcile their differences, was of no account to Benjamyn, or to Governor Wyme or his wife. In this household Arcole was but another servant; his problems were of no relevance to those concerned with its smooth function. He had never thought before how servants were expected to go about their business regardless of their personal circumstances. Save some illness afflict them, their masters took their presence for granted. Wyme had no interest in his indentured folk save they fail in their duty—and below stairs Benjamyn was the governor's representative, and no kinder. So Arcole must hide his feelings and play out his role as if naught were amiss. It fueled his resentment.

Nor were the nights any easier than the days. Flysse remained taciturn, watching in silence when he brought out his cache to add some new detail to the map. When she did speak, it was usually to demand he explain just what he did, and when he attempted blandishments, they were met with cool disinterest. It was, if anything, worse in bed. There, Flysse turned from him so that to his catalogue of woes was added frustration. He knew that he had offended her deeply, hurt her badly, but he thought himself punished enough and he wondered when she might decide to end his suffering. And then if she ever should, or if that happiness they had known was forever lost. That thought chilled him to the marrow of his bones: he came to realize how deeply he loved her and how selfish he had been. But when he tried to tell her, she only faced him with stony indifference or turned her back.