Exile's Children (63 page)

Arcole was not at all accustomed to such treatment, or to such misery as it delivered. It was an object lesson: he was better accustomed to success with women, and on those few occasions he had been spurned, there had always been another to whom he could turn. Here, there was only Flysse—nor would he have it otherwise. But still he cursed himself for his mistakes and wished he might undo the past, for all he knew that country was locked and he must look to the future instead. Yet it was not easy to hope when he lay sleepless, Flysse cold as a statue beside him.

Then one night when a waning moon hung like a crescent of ice over Grostheim, there came a tapping on their window.

Arcole was instantly alert, Flysse not much slower to wake. He shivered as he rose, clad only in his nightshirt. The yard outside was dark, and he thought for a moment gusting wind had rattled the frame or an icicle fallen, but then the tapping came again and he set his face to the glass. Frost rimed the edges of the pane, and at first he did not see the shape, but then darkness coalesced out of shadow and a pale face was revealed. Arcole started back, shocked a moment before he recognized Davyd. Then he slipped the catch and swung the window open. Davyd clambered in on a draft of chill air; Arcole closed the window, gaping.

The boy looked like a savage, or some weird shaggy beast. Furs swathed his body, tied with cords. One spread across his shoulders, the boneless legs wrapped about his throat, the head, still sprouting snarling fangs, surmounting his tousled red hair. His legs, too, were wrapped, and on his feet were hairy boots more like the paws of some wild creature than any footwear Arcole had seen.

“I told you I'd come, eh?”

Davyd addressed them both, grinning hugely. He seemed immensely
pleased with himself, but his smile faltered as Arcole shook his head in bewilderment.

Davyd turned to Flysse: “You didn't tell him?”

Flysse shook her head, her expression confusing the boy. “No, Davyd. But is this safe?” Her expression changed to one of concern. “None saw you, eh? How shall you get back?”

Davyd's grin returned. “It was easy to get out; the return should be no harder. Remember, I was a thief.”

“Even so,” she said. “I didn't expect …” She gestured at his furs, at the window.

“How else?” he asked. “We've not time in church. Nor would I speak of it there. In case …”

Now Flysse grew confused, and Arcole smiled. Davyd settled on the bed; Flysse drew the quilt about her. Arcole donned a coat and took the solitary chair.

“Best we not delay,” Davyd said, loosening his furs. “Sieur Gahame has us wake early, and I'd not chance the streets come light.”

“This is dangerous,” Flysse said.

“Yes.” Davyd could not help but preen a little at his own daring. “But I'm used to danger, no? And you asked me to speak of Arcole's promise.”

Flysse nodded. “We've much to speak of, all of us.”

Davyd wondered at the glance she gave her husband then, but she waited for him and so he said without preamble, “I'm a Dreamer, Flysse.” He paused as she gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. “You know what that means, eh? That was why I begged Arcole he hold it secret—I'd not be burned at the stake.”

“No!” Her eyes were huge with wonder.

“Arcole guessed it,” Davyd continued, “when I dreamed of the sea serpent on board the ship. And when it came, he saw my secret.”

He looked from her to Arcole, aware still of distance between them, sensing it was, somehow, to do with him. So he added, “I swore him to secrecy, Flysse, even to keeping it from you. Do you forgive me?”

She said softly, “Yes. Yes, of course I do. God, what a thing! How have you survived?”

“By telling no one,” he said. “Save Arcole, and now you. Before this, only Aunt Dory knew.”

Flysse reached out to take his hand where it emerged from the swathing pelts. He liked that. Pretending an insouciance he had learned from Arcole, he said, “I've been dreaming again.”

Arcole leant forward. “Of what?”

Davyd shrugged. “The forests, sometimes, as if the wilderness calls me.” He pushed back the skull grinning atop his head and frowned. “Sometimes it's as if the forests want me to go there, as if they promise … I'm not sure … safety, perhaps. But sometimes they seem to threaten me.” He shuddered. “I see things … shadows … that kill folk. They come out of the forests and slay. I've dreamed of them coming here, to Grostheim. They roam the streets like … like monsters.”

Flysse said, “What does that mean?”

Davyd shrugged again. “I don't know. The dreams aren't …”

Arcole supplied the word: “Specific?”

“Yes.” Davyd nodded. “Before—in Evander—they'd warn me of danger. If I planned a robbery and I dreamed of danger, I'd call it off. Save that last time.” He grinned ruefully. “I dreamed of danger then, but I was short of coin and took the chance—and got caught. On the
Pride of the Lord,
I dreamed of danger from the sea.”

“And the sea serpent attacked,” Flysse murmured. “So what of these new dreams?”

Davyd said, “I don't know. Only that there's danger here, and likely in the forests too.”

“Save you spoke of the wilderness calling you,” Arcole said.

“Yes.” Davyd saw Flysse and Arcole exchange a look he could not interpret. “As if … as if they are dangerous, but also safe. I don't understand.”

“Coming here was dangerous,” Flysse said. “Might it not be that?”

“I don't think so.” Davyd's face was pale and small inside his furs. “Those dreams are of the … the shadows that come out of the trees, only they roam the streets.”

“God!” Arcole stared at the youth. “I wonder … Davyd, when you dream of these monsters, do you see aught else?”

“Killing,” Davyd said. “Sometimes here in the city, sometimes … other places. Like farms.”

Arcole said, “The attacks Wyme's noted.”

Davyd looked at him uncomprehending. Flysse said, “We've things to tell you too, Davyd.”

She gestured that Arcole speak, and he told Davyd all he'd learned—of the map and the governor's coded comments, and what he believed they meant.

When he was done, Davyd studied him awhile through narrowed eyes. Then, astutely: “You plan to escape, no?”

“I …” Arcole hesitated, glancing at Flysse. “I hope it might be possible.”

“You'll take me with you?” Davyd looked from one to the other, eyes urgent as his words. “I can help you, I know I can.”

Flysse said, “I'd not see you come to harm, Davyd.”

Arcole said, “It's only a vague hope as yet.”

Davyd heard reluctance in both their voices. He could not believe they planned escape without him; could not believe they'd leave him behind, alone. They were his
friends
! They were as family to him! Mustering his thoughts, he said, “If I've dreamed of these creatures roaming the streets like … like wild animals, then Grostheim's dangerous. And I can steal from 'sieur Gahame's warehouse. And in the wilderness, my dreams must be useful, no? I'll know when danger threatens, so we'll have warning. You can't leave me behind, you
need
me!” He stabbed a thumb into his furs, his voice urgent. “I can get clothes; muskets, even. I can get you a sword, Arcole. I can steal powder and shot. I've heard 'sieur Gahame speaking of Salvation—I know something of the land. I can be useful.”

He thought that Arcole, alone, would have agreed, but Arcole looked to Flysse, as if she held the yea or the nay of it. He said, “Please, Flysse,” and when he saw her hesitate, he pressed on: “I'll not be safe in Grostheim. My dreams warn of that. I'll be safer with you.”

Flysse offered no immediate response, and Arcole appeared still to await her decision. At last Arcole said slowly—cautiously, Davyd thought—“Are the dreams true, then likely he's right. Surely he could be in no more danger.”

“Save there are soldiers in Grostheim,” Flysse said, “who can likely beat any savages, or monsters, or whatever they are. Save we might all starve in the wilderness, or freeze. Or be caught by the Militia. Or be captured by these creatures. Arcole, he's but a boy.”

“I'm nigh sixteen,” Davyd lied. “And you'll need my help.”

Arcole's face was impassive. It seemed to him that Flysse used the same arguments against Davyd's going as he had set regarding her accompanying him, but he'd not risk pointing that out. Davyd looked from one to the other, sensing that Arcole subjected himself to Flysse. When she remained silent, he said, “If you don't take me with you, I'll go alone. I swear it! I'll escape on my own!”

He heard his voice rise and was abruptly afraid he sounded only petulant. He had claimed years he did not own: he must act them, else he be left behind. He thought he could not bear that. Gentler, he said: “Please, Flysse. Take me with you.”

Still she refused a straight answer, but instead asked, “You truly believe there's danger in Grostheim?”

He nodded. “Truly,” he said, and saw her glance again at Arcole, who ducked his head and said, “I've heard of Dreamers. The Autarchy fears them because they've that power—to know something of the future. Davyd foresaw the sea serpent. If he's dreamed of Grostheim under attack, then I believe it shall come.”

“And he should be useful, eh?”

Flysse's tone was bitter: Arcole winced.

Davyd said, “I shall be safer with you than alone.”

Flysse looked him in the eye then. “You'd truly attempt to escape alone?”

He nodded solemnly.

Flysse sighed. She studied Arcole with eyes that seemed to Davyd like blue ice. Then she said: “God knows, Arcole, but you've much to answer for,” and turned to the boy. When it fell on him, her gaze was not much warmer. “So be it, then. Davyd, you shall come with us, does the opportunity present itself.
If
it's possible.”

Davyd beamed: he had no doubt but that it must be possible. Had not Arcole planned it? Happier, he asked, “What do we do?”

Flysse shrugged beneath the quilt and indicated her husband with tilted chin. “He's the mastermind of this venture,” she said.

Davyd saw Arcole wince again, as if Flysse's tone cut him deep, but his excitement burned too hot for him to spend much time pondering what troubled them. He waited for Arcole, impatient.

“I draft this map.” Arcole tapped the sheet he held. “So far, it indicates the attacks are from the northwest. See?” He indicated the sites of the burned holdings. “All have been north of the Restitution. So do we run due west, perhaps south of the river, then we may avoid these mysterious raiders. I'd thought to make alliance with them, but …” He glanced at Flysse as if seeking her approval; it was denied. “.… But Flysse told me better, and I agree it should not be safe. So best we head west.”

“Along the river!” Davyd could not contain himself. “Listen, 'sieur Gahame trades all over Salvation, and when he travels farthest afield he takes barges. The river's swifter than a horse, he says.”

“Indeed.” Arcole nodded approvingly. “Can we steal a boat of some kind … Davyd, what do you know of the Restitution?”

“It's a river.” Davyd shrugged, searching his memory. “Sieur Gahame calls it a waterway—Salvation's heartline, he names it. He hires barges for his longer trips.”

“Yes, yes.” Arcole waved the boy to crestfallen silence. “But it feeds into Deliverance Bay, so it's a tidal river—the ebb and flow of the ocean govern its currents. Do you understand?”

Davyd shook his head and Arcole reached out to touch his hand in apology. “Forgive me. How should you? It means that the river currents are governed by the sea's tides. Did we take a boat on the ebb, we'd find ourselves fighting the current running east. Hard work, eh? We need the incoming flow to speed us on our way, and there you can help.”

Mollified, Davyd smiled and asked, “How?”

“Likely Gahame owns charts,” Arcole said. “Tables that detail the shifting of the Restitution's flow. Could you obtain them, or copies of them?”

“I can't read, Arcole.”

“Dammit! Of course not.” Arcole struck his own forehead, grinning that Davyd not feel embarrassed. “I'm a fool. So—do you but keep your ears open and learn what you can of the river. Without”—he glanced warily at Flysse—“making obvious what you do.”

“That I can.” Davyd nodded solemnly. “Some of my best scores were won by listening.”

“No more than that,” Flysse admonished. “And only carefully.”

Davyd nodded again. “What else?”

Arcole looked first to Flysse, then said, “How easy is it to obtain those supplies you spoke of?”

“I sleep in the warehouse,” Davyd replied, “and there are neither guards nor hexes. It would not be hard to steal, am I careful. Take only a little at a time. How much time do we have?”

Arcole shrugged. “I cannot say. God knows, I cannot even say if this shall prove possible. It's no more than a dream as yet.”

“The forests call me in my dreams,” Davyd said, “so I think it
shall
be done. What should we need?”

Arcole thought a moment. “At least one musket,” he said, “and better three. Also pistols, and powder and shot for all. Can you get me a sword, then good.”

“I can do that,” Davyd said. “What else? Furs? Knives?”

“Knives, yes,” said Arcole. “And hatchets. Not furs, I think. I'd not risk the snow, but wait for spring.”

“Would the snow not slow pursuit?” Flysse asked.

“And us,” Arcole returned. “Besides, this shall all take time, I think. We shall not likely be ready ere winter ends. Even were we, then we'd need furs and tents and food—more than Davyd might safely steal, eh?”