The Copper Promise (31 page)

‘Serves you right,’ he muttered.

There was an answering squawk. One of the black birds was perched on a rock opposite him. It gave him a sideways look, its eye round and yellow, and then it flew off into the darkening sky.

‘If this were Litvania, I’d have you in a pie.’

Frith examined his boot. The lizard had made a decent job of chomping through the leather and had managed to prick the skin beneath, but there wasn’t an awful lot of blood. Just as long as it wasn’t poisonous.

The Lord of the Blackwood rubbed the black sand from his fingers and struggled to his feet, wincing slightly as he put his weight on the injured foot. After taking a moment to curse the island once more, he set off again.

Jolnir found him before he’d even got out of sight of the offending pool.

At first, glaring through the fog of his weary bad mood, Frith thought that part of the landscape was shifting and coming towards him. Certainly the figure was dark and oddly jagged like many of the rocks, and it made no more sense the closer it got. It was short and very hunched, and broad at the shoulders, and it wore a scruffy black cloak which came down to its feet. He could see no head; there was, instead, a huge and intricate mask, covering it from shoulder to shoulder – it reminded him of the figurehead on the small boat that had brought him to Whittenfarne, although as it got closer he saw that the effect was rather more avian. An enormous curved beak made up most of the headdress, painted black and silver and yellow, and a pair of large, staring wooden eyes sat either side of it, varnished to shine wetly. The whole thing looked impossibly heavy, and yet the figure moved easily across the rocky ground, waving a pair of long sticks as it came. These rattled and trembled with dozens of small ornaments; tiny rat skulls, seashells, bird’s feet, bunches of bright auburn hair … all tied to the sticks with twine.

When the figure eventually reached him it nodded rapidly, causing the mask to fly up and down in an alarming manner. It waved the sticks.

‘A traveller comes!’ The voice was deep and booming.

Frith shook the last of the water off his boot.

‘I have to find a man called Jolnir. Do you know where he is?’

‘You have found him.’ The figure nodded again. Frith thought the beak looked vaguely predatory.

‘You are Jolnir?’

‘Who else?’ The figure gestured round at the unforgiving landscape, and Frith had to admit he had a point. There was no one else here. ‘Why are you here, young traveller? What is it you desire?’

Jolnir came over to Frith, waddling slightly. As he walked, he reached up and put one of his sticks through the back of his cloak, so that it stuck out like a pin in a pincushion.
He must have a bundle under there
, thought Frith.
Likely he is not hunched at all
. Jolnir reached out and took hold of Frith’s bearskin cloak, and Frith noted that the man had terribly thin arms and skeletal fingers, covered in tough grey skin so pitted and worn that it looked like leather.
No wonder he wears a mask. How degraded must his face be?

‘I am Lord Aaron Frith of the Blackwood. I have come here to learn from you, Jolnir –’ He paused. Talking to the staring wooden eyes was disconcerting. ‘I have come here to learn from you the lost language of the mages. It is imperative I know the words of power.’

‘Of course it is, of course it is.’ Jolnir nodded. ‘When is it not?’ He smacked Frith on the arm with one of his sticks. ‘Mages, words, power. Yes, I will tell you what you need to know. It will be diverting.’

Frith frowned.

‘You will teach me? I had heard that seekers of this knowledge are turned away from the island. That many never return at all.’

‘But you,’ Jolnir snatched up Frith’s wrist with alarming speed, and squeezed it. He had a very strong grip. After a few seconds it was actually painful. ‘You are worthy, aren’t you, Lord Frith?’ He dropped the younger man’s arm. ‘Yes, we have not seen the likes of you for some time. Come.’ He turned away, head nodding again rapidly.

‘That is most kind.’

Frith followed on behind, rubbing the feeling back into his wrist. For a moment it had seemed like Jolnir already knew everything about him.

Wydrin lay in the bottom of the small boat, propped up on one elbow while she rubbed the pungent fish oil into her hair. She’d already tinted her hair dark brown, and with the thick black lines of make-up over her eyes and mouth she was fairly confident that no one would recognise her. The purple robes had been easy enough to replicate – the uniform of a Graceful Lady was largely unadorned. She just had to hope the guards would be convinced.

With her hair wet and stinking she sat up, eyeing the distant fist of lights that was Sandshield.

I will be far enough from Reilly’s boat by now
, she thought.
And if I’m not, it’s his own bloody lookout.

She started to row. When she was small, Sandshield had been an islet of some notoriety, part of the archipelago that was also home to Crosshaven, and already well known for its dangerous population of pirates and thieves. Now there was one man in charge on the tiny island. That was Morgul, variously known as Morgul the Biter, Morgul the Cruel, and the Menace of Sandshield. He was a dangerous man, one of the worst, and if it was his flag you saw approaching, your best bet was to turn and run, or hope that you died quickly in the initial fight. He had turned Sandshield into a small fortress, the better to protect the enormous plunder he’d taken, and tonight Morgul the Cruel’s eldest son was about to become a man. There was to be a celebration, and that was where Wydrin came in.

She edged closer, until it was possible to see the great hall standing proud on its raised platform, and the small harbour that surrounded it. By torchlight she could see the solid shapes of wooden palisades, and men moving back and forth over the timbers. There were guards in mail hauberks with short swords at their waists, and a number of empty boats tied up at the edge. Many of the guests were already here.

Wydrin lit the oil lamp. After a few moments, one of the small ships circling the island hailed her, and it escorted her into the harbour.

She reached it just as another, larger boat was docking. A flood of men and women poured out, all loud and obnoxious with good humour – few things cheered a pirate, in Wydrin’s experience, than the knowledge that you would soon be drinking vast quantities of another man’s ale – although they did pause to argue with one of the guards. He was insisting that they leave their weapons in a small tethered boat – it was already heavy in the water with swords and daggers – while they were more of the opinion that he could go gut himself. Wydrin climbed onto the dock, accepting help from the man who had escorted her to the island. She listened to the argument carefully, the Bone Whisperer in one hand.

‘It is the rule of Sandshield,’ said the guard. He had the slightly weary posture of someone who had already spent much of the evening explaining this rule. ‘No weapons in Morgul’s hall.’

‘What about you?’ jeered one of the pirates. ‘You’ve still got yours.’

‘Morgul’s men, of course, will still be armed. You want this island to be unprotected? It is our duty, as guards, to protect all of Morgul’s allies. You are his allies, aren’t you?’

The pirates exchanged glances. None of them wanted to be in any group that wasn’t an ally of Morgul. That was generally a dangerous place to be. They grumbled and complained some more, but they untied their sword belts and threw them in the boat. The guard smiled thinly.

‘Very good. There’s going to be a lot of celebrating later, and we don’t want any unhappy accidents, do we?’

‘Are you ready, my lady?’

It took Wydrin a moment to realise that the man was addressing her. She turned to the guard who’d helped her onto the dock.

‘Yes,’ she said, hoping she sounded holy enough. ‘Can you fetch the cask in my boat? It is the wine for the blessing.’

The guard gestured to one of his men, who passed up the cask. Wydrin nodded and made for the wooden steps leading up to Morgul’s hall, but the guard laid a hand on her arm.

‘Just one moment, my lady.’

Wydrin bit her lip. So they were going to search her anyway. Damn Reilly and his stupid plans. She tried to think of a reason why a Graceful Lady would have a dagger and a packet of powder strapped to her inner thigh, but couldn’t think of one.

‘What is it?’

The guard looked apologetic. ‘I must announce you first.’

Wydrin tried not to look too relieved, and let the guard walk up the steps ahead of her. There was a roar of noise coming from the hall, and as he pulled open the wooden doors, Wydrin was hit with a blast of heat, heavily laced with the scent of beer, sweat and roasted meat.

‘Lord Morgul, I bring you our Lady of the Graces!’

The guard had to bellow to be heard, but a huge man at the top table stood and held both arms out for quiet. Morgul was in his late middle years now, old for a pirate, but he looked as large and powerful as ever. His long dirty brown moustaches were tied into plaits and braided into his hair, which was tied back with gold rings. He’d lost an eye since Wydrin had seen him last, and now he wore a patch that glittered with rubies. There was a boy sitting next to him, looking tiny and slender next to his father; Morgul had decided to become a father late in life.

‘Silence, you dogs!’ yelled Morgul. ‘Show some respect for our Graceful Lady, come to see our Morben into manhood.’

Rather than silence the men and women gathered at the tables jeered and shouted rude suggestions, at which Morgul laughed heartily. The boy sitting next to him turned crimson. Wydrin glanced at the tables; they were all heaving with food and drink. Clearly the feast had been going on for some time already.
Time to show them some holiness.

‘Daughters and sons of the sea!’ she called, remembering the woman in the Marrow Markets with the mud-brown eyes. ‘It is time to welcome another into the sea’s salty embrace!’

There were some shouts and laughter at the words ‘salty embrace’, but largely the crowd quieted down. Men and women who made their living from the sea were hard folk who lived hard lives, and they clung to their beliefs and superstitions. When a storm could mean being swept overboard or plummeting from the crow’s nest, the idea that there were bigger forces at play than the sheer uncaring nature of life was somehow comforting to them. The Graces represented the destructive force of the sea, and showing respect to them was saying that you understood what you were dealing with. The oceans gave you a living, and they could take away your life. You mocked that at your peril.

‘Bring the boy to me, and the Graces will see him a man.’

Morgul dragged the lad to his feet, and propelled him down the centre of the hall. Up close Morben looked even younger. Wydrin made a show of inspecting him, holding his chin and looking closely at his jaw line. Some of the watchers at the tables shouted encouragement while his father stood to one side, grinning broadly. He was still wearing his sword, she noticed.

‘He is ready,’ she declared to the room in general. ‘Fetch the sacred wine.’

One of the guards brought her the cask, and a single silver goblet. The cask was opened and a dark red wine poured into the vessel. Wydrin held it out in front of her and shook the Bone Whisperer over it.

‘Fermented from the tears of the children who returned to the sea at the end of their lives, we will drink the blessed wine.’ She paused and drank deeply of the goblet; in truth it was a cheap dry red, but the boy wouldn’t know any different. ‘Your blood is the blood of the sea. Your soul is the soul of the sea. Drink!’ She refilled the goblet to the very top and gave it carefully to the boy, who looked terrified by the whole business, and while he drank it down she circled him, shaking the Bone Whisperer and muttering under her breath. He had to drink the entire goblet before she’d completed the circle, so she walked slowly, her eyes half closed as if in deep concentration.

Thankfully, the boy managed it, so she took the goblet from him and held it up.

‘Morben, son of Morgul, is a boy no longer!’

The hall trembled with the roar of celebration. Men and women threw their drinks at each other, stood up on the tables and kicked plates onto the floor. Morgul demanded that more ale and wine be brought out so that everyone could toast his boy again, and several minor fights broke out over broken tankards.

After that, the party got rowdy.

Wydrin collected her cask of ‘holy’ wine and retreated to the back of the room. Now the serious part was over with, it seemed that Morgul’s crew were determined to get his son as drunk as possible, although she suspected downing an entire goblet of wine on a nervous stomach was a pretty good start. She cast around for a safe path to the door, but Morgul appeared out of the crowd and laid a meaty hand on her shoulder.

‘Good work, my lady, good work. All those words, all proper like, just like when I were a lad.’ For a moment Wydrin thought his one remaining eye was getting misty. ‘We’ve got him a woman up from Crosshaven, to make him a
proper
man, if you know what I mean.’ He squeezed her shoulder and leered. Wydrin wondered how quickly she could slip the dagger from her leg, but, thankfully, he let her go, his attention caught by a brawl happening in the sawdust. ‘Good work,’ he said again over his shoulder as he went off to join the fight. ‘Proper godly, like.’

Wydrin grimaced. It was time to get out of here.

Outside there were only a few guards left on the dock, sitting and supping their ale, or playing cards on upturned crates. She moved silently into the shadows at the side of the raised platform. Above her the rumble of the great hall carried on, but it was the sturdy wooden box it was built on that interested her: Morgul’s loot house.

Circling around to the back she found the guards she was looking for. Three of them, all young and all fairly miserable; rather than the exciting duty of frisking the guests or watching the party, they’d been left to keep an eye on the loot-house door.

She paused behind a stack of barrels where the shadows were darkest, and rolled up her robes to expose her legs. She untied one of the two packets of powder and poured the contents into the cask; combined with the cheap wine the powder made an extremely powerful sedative. Pulling her robes back down she walked round the corner to the three guards. At the sight of her they all stood to attention. Behind them was the door to the loot house, with a heavy bar across it.