‘Who?’ asked Denbe, looking interested. The old soldier had no problem with taking rest when it came his way. While weeks of travelling up to Beran’s Hill had kept him alert, a week of sitting in this hut had made him restless. The hint of a possible upcoming fight made him sit up and take notice.
‘If he’s who I think he is, he’s an agent of the Church.’
Denbe nodded. No further clarification was need: the Church of the One was now simply the Church to most people. ‘What’s his name?’
‘They call him Piccolo,’ said Catharian. ‘He’s Episkopos Bernardo’s man.’
‘I’ve heard of him,’ said Denbe. ‘He’s a murderous swine. Very dangerous.’
‘Odd name,’ said Sabella. ‘He’s a musician?’
Denbe shook his head solemnly. ‘When he was a boy he killed another boy with a piccolo.’
‘Oh,’ said Sabella, taken aback.
‘His brother,’ added Denbe.
‘Oh!’ Sabella blinked rapidly for a moment, as if trying to erase an image from her mind.
Catharian motioned for Denbe to step outside the hut and when they were out of earshot, he asked, ‘She seems to be doing well. Is she?’
‘Surprisingly, yes,’ said the older fighter. His sun-darkened skin made his face look as if it was sculpted from darkly tanned leather, but the brilliance of his smile lit up his face in a stark contrast to his usually stern countenance. ‘I often fretted over what we put those poor girls through.’ Women were the only ones able to use the gift of long-distance seeing. Some men had the power, like the young man known as Hatushaly, and some were trained to hold that power, but the ability to channel and manipulate what was thought of as ‘magic’ was the province of women alone.
Catharian put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘As have I. More than one poor girl has ended up …’ He let the thought remain unfinished. Denbe knew as well as he that there had been brilliant youngsters who had ended up almost mindless, living under the Flame Guard’s care, youngsters left with little coherent thought, skipping from moment to moment in their days with no more than the desires of a child. They had vacant eyes, intense reactions of fear or joy, but they just existed until the day they died. If they were lucky, they passed early, but a few lingered on for decades.
‘Just keep watch for a day or two longer. I think it’s time for me to announce we’re going to build a small shrine to Tathan in Beran’s Hill. When you arrive in the town, I can explain your presence easily, then; you are going to be the protector of the shine, and Sabella is my novice. So, I’ll expect you … the day after tomorrow. Should we need to act sooner, I’ll ride back here.’
‘What if someone else from the Church arrives, someone in an official capacity, not an agent for the episkopos?’
‘I know enough about the bureaucracy of the Church to have them scurrying to send messages back and forth across a continent and an ocean before they decide we are not who we seem to be; ample time to depart safely. Baron Daylon has a far more tolerant attitude towards faith than most others these days and refuses to let the Church establish any sort of control in his barony. There are no members of the Church Adamant in Marquensas, at least not officially, so the burning of heretics as theatre has not become a habit here.’
‘Speaking of messages,’ said Denbe. ‘Should we notify the others?’
‘Not yet. We may need them but sending messages is problematic. One of us would have to ride back to Marquenet as we have no pigeons.’
‘Don’t like pigeons,’ said the fighter. ‘Hawks eat them.’
‘That’s why we send more than one,’ replied Catharian. ‘If all goes according to plan, a boat should put in soon and pigeons will be arriving that can fly to our enclave outside Ithra. From there, if need be, they can send messages quickly back to the Sanctuary.’ He paused as if considering something. ‘Let’s see what tomorrow brings. If this situation remains unchanged it could benefit us doubly. Establishing a presence here in Marquensas before trouble arrives would be of benefit.
‘If we have to depart in a hurry, so be it, but if we can deal with our enemies in a calm and considered fashion, I would prefer that. Until then, we can keep an eye on young Hatushaly, and when the time is right, ensure that he finds his destiny.’
‘Whether he wants it or not,’ Denbe said dryly.
‘’Tis ever thus,’ returned Catharian. ‘Had his father lived and turned him over to us for his early training, as his brothers were, there would be no fear of him arising to full power without our guidance. By any reasonable measure, he should be dead a dozen times over, either from enemies, or simply his inability to contain his fire.’
Denbe shook his head. ‘Nothing easy about this.’
‘No …’ Catharian said. ‘I think you’ve changed my mind.’
‘I have?’ said Denbe with a look of honest surprise.
‘I thought locating the lad would be easy. It wasn’t. I thought scooping him up and carrying him off would be simple. It’s not. We do need pigeons who will home-fly here, so find a breeder and arrange to have at least a dozen eggs sent to our safe house in Marquenet, and another dozen here for our shrine. Once the squabs have matured we can swap them so they can fly messages. Getting messages to the Sanctuary quickly is important, but if we do actually become ensconced here, our brethren will need to get messages to us quickly as well.’ Denbe nodded his agreement. ‘While I look for a pigeon breeder around Beran’s Hill, and sniff around to see what the boy has been up to since I last saw him, you take a quick trip down to Marquenet to send word to Elmish we will take things into our own hands after your soldiers arrive.’
‘Pigeons,’ said Denbe. ‘As I said, I hate sending word by birds. So many things can go wrong.’
‘And as I said, that’s why you send more than one. How many do we have down in Marquenet that can fly to the Ithra enclave?’
‘We’re down to three.’
‘Well, then, send all three. Inform Elmish of the situation here, in as few words as possible.’
Denbe scowled. ‘Another reason I don’t like pigeons. You can’t explain much on a tiny piece of paper.’
Catharian chuckled. ‘True.’
Denbe didn’t look amused. ‘I’ll leave now. You look for a pigeon breeder.’
Catharian nodded. ‘You take the horse to Marquenet. I’ll spend the night here, then Sabella and I will walk into town tomorrow morning, the poor friar and his apprentice.’ He shook his head. ‘Piccolo, here. At least he’s never seen me, as I only saw him once from some distance in a large crowd when he was with Delnocio.’ He forced a smile. ‘All will be well. Now, you’d best leave.’
‘Fare you well,’ said Denbe.
‘You as well,’ replied Catharian.
They went back into the hut and Denbe gathered up his travel bag and took Catharian’s horse.
The false monk of Tathan sat down opposite Sabella and asked, ‘What do you know about the Order of Tathan?’
‘Nothing,’ said the young woman.
‘Well,’ said the older man, laughing. ‘Let’s discuss theology over a meal. All right?’
She found that amusing.
Catharian realized that was the first time he had ever heard the young woman laugh aloud since she had come to the Sanctuary as a child.
HAVA LINGERED IN THE MARKET as the two men who were staying at her inn moved away. She had left the inn under the supervision of the girl Millie, unofficially Jusan’s betrothed. Apparently everyone just took it for granted, including Millie and Jusan. She was a tiny bit of a thing, but she knew the inn and she was under instruction if anything of consequence arose that she was to come straight to the market and find Hava.
Hava wandered over to the vendor who had just been speaking with the two men and looked at his wares, some heavy woollen shirts, trousers, scarves, and capes, some treated with extra lanolin to repel water, which were useful for work outdoors in foul weather and for travel.
‘Hello,’ said the merchant, a stout man who favoured a rust-orange shirt and a wide leather belt which was attempting to prevent his stomach from completely drooping by means of a big brass buckle; it hardly looked comfortable to Hava, but he seemed oblivious to it digging into his gut. His hair was a grey-shot thatch of light brown that was in desperate need of a comb and he sported a few days’ beard stubble.
Hava smiled. ‘Hello. I’m Hava. My husband and I—’
The man laughed, his blue eyes sparkling in his sun-freckled face. ‘I know who you are. You and your man bought the Three Stars from Gwen.’ He smiled as he added, ‘Beran’s Hill isn’t such a big a town that we haven’t all seen you around the last few weeks. I’m Pavek. Now, what can I do for you?’
‘My husband and I came from a place warmer than here in the winter, but even then we didn’t get this much rain. So we need better clothing.’
Pavek chuckled again. ‘Wait a few months until the real rainy season starts. The smart buyers get their gear now, so they’re not scrambling at the last minute. It will be cold!’
Hava nodded, realizing the man had just confessed that business was slow. ‘My husband doesn’t have a decent cloak. He works inside most of the time but given that he’s travelling to Marquenet to stock up on some things we can’t secure here he’ll be out in the open on a wagon, getting drenched, if the rain comes suddenly.’
‘I have just the thing,’ said Pavek, holding up a large, dark grey cloak with an attached hood. ‘Feel that!’
Hava ran her hand over the material and nodded. There was a slightly oily feeling to the wool, so it would repel water for some time. ‘I know from experience that wet wool is the worst thing to be wearing in the cold.’
‘I thought you said you came from a warmer land?’
She kept her smile. ‘My father was a horse trader and we travelled a lot.’
‘Ah,’ said the merchant with a nod of the head.
Hava spent a few minutes looking at other items but had already decided to buy the cloak. It gave her a reasonable excuse to be in the market, and besides it was true that Hatu had nothing to wear outside in foul weather.
The climate in their home island was fairly constant year round, rarely getting cold enough to notice. Rains came regularly, but they were of short duration and warm. Occasionally a storm would come through, lasting a day or two, but they were not often extreme.
Here the weather from the coast came down from the Ice Floes and the Westlands, and it could be very cold. Mostly the climate was temperate, but when it wasn’t, fireplaces were ablaze and warm clothing and heavy boots were the order of the day, according to what Gwen had told her. Short-sleeved shirts, simple cotton trousers, and sandals, common in Coaltachin, were unheard of in Marquensas.
After settling on a price for the cloak, Hava asked Pavek, ‘The two men you were talking to who left as I arrived …’
‘Yes?’
‘They’re staying at our inn, but truth to tell … well, they keep to themselves and I’ve barely spoken two words to them.’
‘That’s odd,’ said Pavek. ‘All they did was chat. Didn’t buy a damned thing.’
‘Odd,’ agreed Hava.
‘They kept talking about travellers who might have passed through sometime recently. A man or a woman, boy and a girl, they couldn’t seem to make up their mind. They only mentioned one thing they agreed on: the man, woman, or child would have bright red hair, copper and gold in the sunlight.’
Hava feigned indifference as she picked up a woollen scarf, which was actually quite nicely made. ‘Quite a few people with red hair around here, aren’t there?’
‘Aren’t there?’ agreed Pavek. ‘I think they’re idiots looking for the legendary Firemane child.’
Hava made an instant decision to pretend ignorance. ‘I’m sorry, the what?’
‘You must come from a long way off. The legend of the Firemane … well, it’s an eastern kingdom, or was,’ began the merchant. He then launched into a quick retelling of the legend of the fall of Ithrace, and the rumour of the lost child. There was even something about a curse involved, he claimed.
Hava was relieved to hear a jumble of facts and fancy that bore little resemblance to what she and Hatu had learned from the baron.
Pavek finished by saying, ‘There’s word that the King of Sandura will pay a man’s weight in gold to learn of the child’s whereabouts. Though, come to think of it, that battle was so long ago, he or she is hardly a child any more, right?’
‘If you say so,’ said Hava. ‘I’ll take this scarf, too. How much?’
The haggling took the merchant’s mind off the story of the Firemane, and as she walked back to the inn, Hava wondered what the two men were playing at. There was something Hatu hadn’t shared with her yet, and she imagined it would make a bit more sense of the story. This wandering about openly searching for the legendary heir must be a bid to draw attention. But from whom? wondered Hava.
Obviously Hatu was doing his level best not to be discovered, and the reason for his hair always being coloured since childhood now made complete sense to both him and Hava. Now that they were clearly alerted, they would be doubly cautious in keeping Hatu’s identity secret.
Agents connected to the Church could never be this artless, so their behaviour must be by design. The men would surely know their outspoken questions would bring a reaction, so again the question: whose attention were they seeking?
Hava was so lost in thought that she almost walked past the inn, and suddenly she realized that the answer was simple: there was another player in this game. Someone beside those already known: two men and their masters in the Church, Hava’s masters in Coaltachin, and the baron and his brother. Before entering the inn she paused, holding her bundle of newly purchased clothing. The key question was: who was the new player?
THE WAGON ROLLED UP TO the gate Declan had used before when delivering weapons to the baron. Hatu said, ‘How long to finish your business, Declan?’ They had spent an uneventful night sleeping under the wagon, so they were arriving in the city just as it was coming alive with the morning’s clamour.
Declan said, ‘The wagon will be unloaded in an hour at most, but I don’t know how long the baron will keep me waiting to make my report.’
Hatu nodded. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can. I don’t have much to secure, just a few things Hava wants that can’t be bought in Beran’s Hill.’
Declan nodded. ‘Leon prided himself on … delicacies, he called them. Some cheeses, strange fruit – at least I thought it tasted strange – exotic nuts, and of course—’
‘His whisky,’ interjected Hatu with a smile. ‘I’ll have some porters lug what I buy here and if you’re not out, we’ll wait for you over there.’ He pointed to a space that stood empty almost opposite the gate.
Declan said, ‘If I finish first, I’ll park the wagon there.’
‘I’m off,’ said Hatu with a wave and started walking towards the old keep.
Declan waved after him, then drove his wagon to the gate. The soldiers on duty recognized him from previous deliveries and motioned him through and he moved his cargo around to the stabling yard where he had first come to visit.
It only took a few minutes to get the unloading started and he walked towards the central keep of the sprawling castle. As he had anticipated, the baron’s body servant, Balven, exited before Declan got there. ‘Declan!’
‘Sir,’ said Declan, still unsure exactly how to address the baron’s illegitimate brother.
‘Full order?’ asked Balven, stopping before the smith.
‘Yes, sir. Twenty-four new swords, and that shield you asked me to make.’
‘Ah,’ said Balven. ‘What did you think of it?’
‘It’s a bit heavy to lug around the battlefield, I think.’ The shield was one of the baron’s notions, for men to stand against a cavalry charge. Baron Dumarch had called it a ‘leaf shield’, though the resemblance to a leaf on any tree Declan had ever seen was vague. It stood to shoulder height, with long sides, a slightly curved top and a pointed end that could be planted firmly in the soil. Trained men in line formed a virtual wall and Declan imagined that men standing just behind with long spears or pikes would stop all but the most determined charge. But the shield was three or four times heavier than the smaller round or heater shields he had been taught to fashion.
‘I’m sure it is, but it may prove useful in defending a position.’
‘Might I suggest a wooden frame instead of this metal one? It would lower costs and be quicker to fashion. Good hardwood would be as effective, even with the reduction in weight. Only your strongest men could lug one of these around all day and not be exhausted.’
Balven considered this. ‘Make one and we’ll test it against lances, side by side with this one.’
Declan nodded. ‘If I might ask, sir, where did the baron come up with this idea?’
‘From a book,’ said Balven with a laugh. ‘The baron is the best-read man I’ve ever known. He got that from his father.’
Declan nodded. The one time he had visited the inside of the castle he’d seen it had shelves full of books, more than he had ever imagined existed in the world.
Balven quickly inspected the swords and nodded his approval. He handed a purse to Declan. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘There is one thing, sir,’ said the young smith. He recounted Molly Bowman’s description of the men who had arrived in Beran’s Hill a few days earlier.
When he had finished, Balven looked slightly concerned. ‘You did well to bring us that news, Declan. Armed men, and … and castellans from what you said, disguised as mercenaries …’ He took a deep breath. ‘This is very troubling. Wait here while I bring this to the baron’s attention.’
‘Very well, sir,’ said Declan as Balven turned back towards the doorway into the keep. He hoped this didn’t take too long as he wanted to start back as soon as Hatu returned. If they pushed on with a lightened wagon they could arrive home a few hours after sunset and he’d much rather spend his night in bed with Gwen than under a wagon with Hatu.
After an hour had passed, without Balven’s return or Hatushaly’s, Declan felt a rising sense of resignation that he would be forced to stay the night and depart the following morning, but eventually, the baron’s man appeared and said, ‘You’re free to go, smith. My lord will investigate this matter.’
Balven turned his back before Declan could ask even a single question and left the annoyed young man alone. Declan took a breath and decided it best to ask the closest soldier where he could stable his wagon and find lodgings.
WHEN HATU GOT CLOSE TO the river that cut through the eastern third of the city he found the Inn of the Gulls. He entered and looked around for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom and doing a quick inventory of faces.
His first thought upon taking in these surroundings was that his inn was a palace compared to this one – a waterfront inn with dockworkers, rivermen, whores and no doubt an abundant supply of criminals.
He took another moment and saw a man standing in the corner behind the bar. He waved away an approaching whore, a girl who looked younger than Hava had been before she was sent to the Powdered Women, and she quickly retreated. Hatu made his way to the barman and said, ‘I bring a message for Grandfather.’
‘I’ll give it to him,’ answered the barman. He was a lanky, blond-haired man of middle years, broad-shouldered and with enough marks on his face and neck to label him a brawler.
‘I bring a message for Grandfather,’ repeated Hatu.
The man pulled a large cudgel out from under the bar and said, ‘He’s not here. As I said, give me the message and I’ll see he gets it.’
‘I bring a message for Grandfather,’ Hatu repeated a third time.
Immediately the barman put the cudgel back under the bar and said, ‘Come with me.’
He led Hatu through a door behind the bar, through a filthy kitchen, and down a flight of stairs. The cellar was below the level of the river, Hatu reckoned, seeing how the stones in the wall seeped. A miasma of mould, stale beer, and deceased rodents left unburied almost made him gag, but he fought back the reflex.
They worked their way through a chaos of empty pallets, stacks of barrels, abandoned crates, and half-filled sacks to reach an unblocked section of wall. It was a maze with a purpose, Hatu decided; you would have to know exactly where you were going down here in order to find this space.
They had reached the other side of the storage room, as far from the stairs leading down from the inn above as possible, Hatu judged. The barman pushed on a stone, and a door revealed itself, swinging away easily, wood painted to look like the bricks that surrounded it.
They walked down a sloping, stone-walled tunnel with a ceiling reinforced with supports and beams like those one would find in a mine. Water dripped from the ceiling so it must run under the edge of the river, Hatu calculated. At last they came to a well-lit room.
A man sat at a table looking at what appeared to be a ledger, which he covered with a cloth as soon as he saw the barman with Hatu.
No words were exchanged as the barman turned and began to make his way back. Then ‘Yes?’ said the man at the table. He was well dressed, looking more like a merchant of some importance than a master criminal, which Hatu knew he must be to hold the position of this city’s crew boss.
‘Who is the message for?’ asked the man behind the table.
Hatu said, ‘Master Bodai.’
‘Alone?’
‘No other,’ said Hatu, ‘save Zusara.’
The man stood and removed the covered book and cloth. ‘I am neither’s man. Can you write?’
‘Yes,’ said Hatu.
The man set the ledger down on a shelf, produced clean paper and a pen and glass inkwell, then fetched a stick of sealing wax and a seal. ‘When you’ve finished your message, fold it twice, and seal it with wax. Leave it here on the table; do not carry it up to the taproom. When you have left the inn, I shall return and send it off. I assume there’s some urgency?’
Hatu nodded. ‘Great urgency.’
The man said, ‘I’ll have a man start downriver tonight. We have a fast ship near the mouth of the Narrows and it will be safely aboard by the day after tomorrow. With favourable winds, it should be in the hands of one of the masters within the week.’ He paused, then added, ‘Should a reply come, where will I find you?’
‘Beran’s Hill, at the Inn of the Three Stars. I am the proprietor.’
The man nodded once and turned and walked up the tunnel.
Hatu moved around behind the table and sat down, as the man departed. He paused for a moment to organize his thoughts, then dipped his pen in the inkwell and began to write.
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