Talus and the Frozen King (14 page)

He approached with caution, keeping as quiet as he could on the shingle. Farrum was certain to have left someone on guard and he didn't want to be heard. Sure enough, there at the prow was the bulky shape of a seated man bundled in furs. Snores rose with the steam of his breath.

Bran stood for a moment, staring at the boat and forgetting to breathe. Apart from that wolf's head, it was very like the fishing boat he'd used in Arvon. Something about it made him want to cry.

The cold bit into him, prompting him to move. He circled behind the sleeping guard and walked the length of the boat. Although its construction was familiar to him, its tremendous size made it truly a wonder. As Talus had observed, the skin of its hull was seal-pelt stretched taut over a sturdy wooden frame. A complex internal supporting structure was visible through the pair of gashes halfway down its length: curved timbers, notched and lashed.

The wolf's-head burner at the prow was an unusual feature. Bran hadn't seen anything like it before. It gave the boat a cunning, animal quality. Boats were bound close to the spirit world, everyone knew that. This was different. The wolf's carved snarl disturbed Bran, and thrilled him too.

The gashes in the boat's hull were long, spanning four or five pelts. No doubt they looked bad to the untrained eye but Bran saw immediately how they could be repaired. Given the right materials, he could do it himself, nor would it take him long. Farrum's claim that he was stuck here was at best an exaggeration, at worst an outright lie.

The boat was lying against a large rock. Bran used the rock as a stepping stone to help him climb aboard. Sea spray misted his face. Silently he dropped down into the hull.

Inside, woven slats overlapped to make a flat deck raised up from the curve of the hull. This aspect of the design was new to Bran. The deck was crammed with clutter: poorly-shipped oars; sodden furs and food pouches; sharp chert tools. Bran waded through the mess, the raised deck giving slightly under his feet. If this had been his boat, he would have kept it a lot tidier. At the stern was a lop-sided structure made of willow panels. Somewhere to shelter in a storm. Another new concept. Bran was simultaneously impressed and contemptuous: such a wonderful idea, so crudely executed.

He lifted the flap of sealskin that served as a door and peered inside. It was too dark to see anything.

A hand shot out of the gloom and slapped his face.

Bran grabbed the flailing wrist and twisted it. A pained yelp emerged from the darkness. He yanked, dragging the hand's owner into the light. In doing so, he nearly lost his balance. He took two awkward steps around a sloshing waterskin, narrowly missed breaking his ankle on a badly-placed oar. But he held on.

His captive was a tall woman wrapped in thick, ivory fur. Her face was angular and seemed very dark under the pale hood. She might have been beautiful if not for the scars crowding her cheeks. She stood erect, shoulders back, a proud posture revealing the long lines of her neck.

Hanging from it on a thong was a fine wooden amulet in the shape of a howling wolf.

Bran released his grip on her wrist. 'I won't hurt you,' he said. He glanced behind him, half-expecting the guard to come vaulting over the boat's weather-edge to the woman's defence.

'Just please don't scream.'

'Why would I scream?' said the woman.

The question took him by surprise. 'Because I grabbed you.'

'You won't do it again.' Her voice was certain, imperious. A force in its own right.

'Is that some kind of threat? Or are you just waiting for your friend to come and knock me out?'

'Who, Lath?' said the woman with undisguised contempt. 'Don't expect him to come running. He drank more last night than most men drink in a year.'

'If you shout loud enough, I daresay he'll hear,' said Bran. His good hand was ready to clamp her mouth if she tried. She bared her teeth.

'I won't hurt you,' Bran repeated. His eyes strayed to the fur she wore. 'Is that ice-bear?'

'Yes.' She looked defiant.

'Where did you get it?'

'It's a long story.'

'I'm sure it is. Now, you're really not going to scream, are you?'

She stared a moment longer. Then her shoulders relaxed. Suddenly she didn't seem so tall.

'No. I ... I hope you won't either.'

'Why would I scream?'

She shrugged. 'To warn someone I'm here. I'm not, you see. Not supposed to be. Here, I mean.' Her eyes flicked first to this side, then to the other.

'You've been hiding on the boat?' Bran looked doubtfully into the willow shanty. 'You sailed all the way from this other island—Sleeth, is it called?—and you're asking me to believe nobody noticed you were in there?'

'There's a secret space.' She ducked back inside and peeled back a long strip of sealskin to reveal a compartment between the back of the shanty and the ribs of the boat's stern. 'And they're men. Men don't see much. You won't tell anyone, will you?'

Bran felt his heart soften, so pained was her expression.

'Why do it in the first place? Why take the risk? Surely if Farrum found you ...'

'He'd have hauled me out and handed me round his crew. They'd have used me up, all of them, and hurled me over the side of the boat and into the jaws of Mir. He's cruel, you know.'

'Then it really is a big risk you've taken.'

'It was worth it. There's somebody I had to see. Somebody in Creyak. A ... a man. He ... I ...'

Bran raised his good hand. 'All right, I understand. You have a lover here. Was it worth risking your life to see him?'

Without hesitation, she nodded. In the shanty's gloom, the white of her ice-bear fur seemed to shine with a light of its own. 'This is my life. This voyage, here and now. I've left everything I've ever known to be with him.' Back went her shoulders again. 'I love him. Without him, I am dead. If you've ever known such love, you'll know why I'm here, and why I did it!'

'I know of love.' Bran sat down heavily, tired all over again. 'So what are you still doing in the boat? I'd have thought this would be the perfect time to make your escape, what with Farrum and his men all sleeping after the feast.'

'I would have done, if Farrum hadn't left Lath watching over the boat.'

'I thought you said Lath was drunk.'

'He is. But that doesn't stop me being cautious. All it would take is one slip. He mustn't tell Farrum I'm here.' Her eyes widened. 'You could help me! Would you? Will you?'

Bran tried to imagine the sea crossing from Sleeth. How many days had it taken? It must have been dreadful cooped up against the hull like that, especially during the storm. While the boat was throwing itself against the rocks, it would have been nothing short of terrifying.

'What's your name?' he said.

'Alayin.'

'I'm Bran. You're safe now, Alayin.'

'Only if I can get out of here without Lath seeing me.'

Bran frowned. 'Things are not well here. The king is dead.'

'I know. I overheard what was said when we landed. It is very sad.'

'What I mean is ... this isn't a good time to be stirring things up.'

'I don't want to stir anything. I just want to be with the man I love.'

They talked a little longer, but Bran's mind was already made up. Alayin knew it too: he'd already seen the hope spring into her eyes. Now it was there, he couldn't bear to see it depart. 'Stay here,' he said. 'You'll know when to make your move.'

He dropped lightly back on to the beach and circled back round the boat. He saw no other damage than those two long gashes. It was testament to the quality of Sleeth craftsmanship that the hull wasn't in worse shape.

Reaching the prow, Bran stood over Lath's slumbering form. He planted his feet wide in the shingle. He coughed. When Lath didn't move, he kicked him.

Grumbles and curses rose up from the tightly-wrapped furs. Slowly, the big man unfolded himself. He stood, tottering, and glared at Bran with red-rimmed eyes.

'Who're you?' he said.

'I'm the one who saved your boat from being smashed to pieces on the rocks last night.

Remember?'

A frown descended over Lath's wide, flat face. He too bore the familiar Sleeth pattern of scars. On Alayin's face they'd carried a certain elegance; on his they resembled a landslide.

'Remember?' Lath repeated.

'The rope. We anchored you on the rock. Me and my friend.'

An enormous grin broke Lath's face wide open. He burped out meaty fumes and slapped Bran on the back.

'You're a mighty, mighty man!' The second slap nearly knocked Bran over.

'Thank you. Now, how would you like to be mighty too?'

Expressions came and went on Lath's craggy face. They settled finally into something resembling puzzlement. 'Mighty? Me?'

'How happy do you think Farrum's going to be if we mend his boat?'

'Mend it? Me?'

'You and me together. What do you say?'

After more uncertainty, the grin returned. 'I say you're a mighty man.'

'All right. I'm not going to disagree. It's not a difficult job, but we're going to need some tools and some materials. I'm going back into Creyak now to see what I can find. Will you come with me?'

The frown descended again. 'I'm on duty.'

'Of course you are. But this is a duty too, isn't it? And, like I said, just imagine how pleased Farrum's going to be. What would you rather see: a happy Farrum, or an angry Farrum?'

Another monumental belch. Some consideration. 'Happy Farrum.'

'Exactly. So, are you coming?'

'Coming, aye.'

Bran helped Lath stagger up the beach. When they reached the path, he glanced back towards the boat, hoping to spot Alayin slinking over the side and losing herself in the fog. He saw nothing. That was all right: it would be safer for her to wait until they were out of sight.

They hadn't even reached the first of the Creyak houses when Lath tripped and fell. He landed hard, cracking his head on a stone. He groaned and vomited last night's liquor on to the icy ground. He staggered to his feet; a red blotch shone on his forehead. He stood swaying, his rolling eyes occasionally making contact with Bran's.

'Why don't you have a rest?' said Bran.

'Good idea,' said Lath. He sat heavily. Within five breaths he was snoring again.

Bran wrapped Lath's furs close around his body and secured his hood over his head; the last thing they needed was another frozen corpse on their hands.

The fog had penetrated deep into the settlement, and Bran stood briefly still, unnerved by the trails of vapour curling through the stone-lined corridors. The sound of the sea had been replaced by a low moaning. At first he thought it was wind. Then, unaccountably, wolves. Eventually he recognised it as human sobbing. It came from the houses, all of them, the collective private grief of the people of Creyak.

He set off again towards the king's house. Lath had done him a favour by knocking himself out. With luck, the meeting he'd left would still be in progress. And Lethriel would still be there. The more Bran thought about her, the more he believed he might find a reason to stay in Creyak once he'd said goodbye to Talus.

Of course, that depended on what Lethriel thought of him.

It was obvious to Talus that Tharn and Lethriel were in love. Their feelings showed in countless tiny ways: each holding the other's gaze just a little longer than necessary; each letting the other speak just a little more than they might; the way their postures matched.

Talus wondered if Bran had noticed it, and resolved to ask his companion when the opportunity next arose.

Talus was as curious about love as he was about all other human affairs. It fascinated him in a way no other subject could ... perhaps because he understood it so poorly. Why did love lead so often to anger, to betrayal and yes, even to death? Talus didn't know. Only by studying it could he ever hope to learn.

Once, he'd undertaken such a study in earnest, although he feared that, before the end, he'd allowed his emotions to interfere with his objectivity. Had even allowed himself—perhaps—to love.

Had Tia loved him back? He had no idea. In any case, it had been long ago.

As for Tharn and Lethriel, it interested him that they felt the need to keep their affair secret.

Why would the king's heir—a man of considerable status—want to hide his passions?

And to what acts might those suppressed passions lead him, if he was driven beyond his ability to restrain them?

And what about Lethriel? She wanted desperately to learn the truth about Gantor's murder, for the sake of both him and Caltie, the man she'd loved. But what about this new man she loved now? If it turned out that Tharn had been involved with the king's murder, how would she deal with it?

Many questions, to which Talus had no answers. So he did what he did best: he talked.

Throughout the discussion, he tried hard to gauge Tharn's reactions to his ideas. But the king-to-be was hard to read, responding to Talus's questions for the most part with grunts and shrugs. For a man who'd said he wanted to find the killer, he showed little interest in what Talus had to say.

'What do you make of Gantor's last words?' Talus said, trying to draw Tharn out. 'Do you believe Cabarrath could be the killer?'

'Cabarrath was closer to Gantor than the rest of us.' Tharn glanced at Lethriel as if for approval. She responded with an almost imperceptible nod. 'They had their differences, but ...' Again he shrugged, and that was the end of that.

At last, Talus could take no more of it. Forcing himself to smile, he stood and spread his hands. 'This is been most useful,' he said. He turned to the shaman. 'I am especially interested in what you have had to say, Mishina.'

Mishina gazed up at him. The heat of the fire had dried his painted mask so much that the slightest movement caused it to flake away. Much more of that and Talus would be able to see what the shaman really looked like.

'I have been of little use,' said Mishina.

'I disagree,' said Talus. 'In fact, I would very much like speak with you alone.'

The corner of the shaman's mouth twitched. 'That would be ... entertaining. If the king-to-be agrees, of course.'