Dawn of the Dreamsmith (The Raven's Tale Book 1) (42 page)

With a growing sense of unease, Cole was about to ask his guide about his attire, when one of the buildings they passed caught his attention. It was the smell that hit him first. An earthy, metallic odour clung to the low, darkened building like an invisible cloud. There was an unpleasant undertone to it that turned his stomach, something rotten. Decay. It had the appearance of a shop of some kind, but there were no distinguishing features to give away its purpose. “Who lives here?” he asked.

“That would be Sullivan. Lives and works there, both.” The balding man continued to clump past the building without slowing. It finally dawned on Cole that his curious, lop-sided gait was due to the disrepair of his boot. “He’s the village butcher, is old Sully.”

That explained the fetid miasma that surrounded the building. Cole recognised it now: the smell of blood, both old and new. He found himself quickening his pace. “A butcher? I know we were in a rush, but as we passed into the village yesterday, I didn’t notice any fields or livestock.”

The older man laughed. “We keep no beasts, that’s true, but we’ve food enough for us and more besides. The forest always provides.”

Cole’s mouth twisted in disgust. He found the idea of eating any of the Spiritwood’s creatures he had seen over the past few days quite repellent. Perhaps there were more digestible animals he had not yet come across. He was about to ask his guide, when the older man stopped outside a large, two-storey building. Muffled voices and laughter drifted out onto the street from within. As Emmett pushed his way inside, Cole glanced up. A painted sign hanging from the eaves of the roof proclaimed the establishment to be The Golden Swine. Below the words a grossly overweight man was depicted, his nose upturned like a pig’s and a yellow crown sitting askew on his head. The man was apparently dancing, sloshing red wine over the sides of the goblets he held in each hand. Perhaps there was meaning behind the name and its accompanying picture, but Cole had no idea what it might be.

Inside, a number of men were gathered around the wooden bar. At first glance, they were not unlike his guide, in mode of dress at least. Most wore shirts, vests and trousers in various hues of grey and brown. These too had worn thin in many places, and were patched with oddments of other cloths. As to their appearance, the men were both distinct and yet similar at the same time. They were all far older than he, but some taller, some shorter. Some were merely greying around their hair, others had gone completely white while one or two had not so much of a strand of hair on their heads. Yet, more than anything, it was the look of them that could have marked them as kin. All were stick-thin, almost skeletal in frame, and bore the same hollow-cheeked visage and sallow complexion.

All eyes went to the door as Cole entered behind his guide, and for a moment he was taken aback by what he saw there. For a mere moment, the look in those men’s eyes was abject terror. Then, as if at some unspoken cue, the denizens of the tavern broke into wide grins as one, and warm welcomes and greetings were showered upon him. Friendly hands patted his back as he was gently propelled to a vacant chair beside the bar. Without being prompted, the leather-aproned landlord set a flagon of foaming ale in front of him, beaming with pride.

Over the next hour or so, all thoughts of Raven’s enigmatic warning went out of his head. He listened as the villagers laughed and joked with one another, occasionally directing a question towards him and nodding enthusiastically at his responses. There was a slightly sour taste to the ale, but it was still very welcome after the privations of his flight eastwards. Every time he drained a flagon another was placed before him moments later. Before long, Cole’s head was swimming pleasantly.

He found himself grinning inanely as the conversation flowed around him. He felt warmed by the fellowship of the villagers. Their names left his head almost as soon as they had entered it, but nobody seemed to mind. They appeared genuinely pleased to meet him, though he could not fathom why.

One of the villagers, a tall, grey-haired man named either Jasper, or Jethro – Cole was almost certain it began with a J – was telling an anecdote involving other people he had never heard of before, when he sat up with a start. One of the men, whose head was as bald as a hen’s egg, stood and went to the door. It was then that Cole saw a large scar on the back of his skull, beneath which something round and green was visible beneath the flesh.

Emmett must have noticed his reaction, as he slapped Cole’s back and chuckled. “Jump any higher and we’ll need to fetch a broomstick to bring you down from the ceiling. No need to worry yourself, we all bear the mark.” He turned away from Cole, and parted the hair on the back of his head. It was true, another object was embedded in the skin. Several of the other men did the same.

“What is it?” Cole asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

“A sign of resolve, nothing more, young master,” Emmett replied, grinning. “A stone of a certain hue that shows our fair village is unwavering in its dedication to the faith.”

“You mean, like this?” Cole removed the pendant from within the folds of his shirt. The villagers gawped and gathered close around him.

“Why, that would be the selfsame stone, I’d bet my eyes on it,” said Emmett, marvelling at the crystal. “Nobody told us you were of the faith,” he went on, half to himself.

“Who would have told you?”

The other villagers cast dark looks towards Emmett, who smiled awkwardly. “Just a figure of speech, young master. I was just surprised, is all. It’s rare for us to meet another believer in these parts.”

The disquiet he had felt walking the village streets rose up again within him. “But why are the stones placed beneath your skin? I have never seen such a practice before.”

Some of the smiles around him faltered. “It wasn’t always the way,” Emmett admitted. “When the Brother first visited us, we wore the stones around our necks just as you do, young master. But then, after he had left, the Baron called for us to make a more... binding show of faith.”

“And he was right to do so,” piped up another villager. “We’ve been showered with good fortune ever since that day.”

Cole glanced around the tavern. Like everything else in the village, it showed signs of age. The tables were bowed, their legs uneven. The roof and the beams holding it up seemed to sag. Dust clung to almost every surface. If this was a village overflowing with good fortune, he would have hated to see it before, he decided. “The Baron?” he asked.

“Aye, a great man,” intoned the landlord, Cowley. As he spoke, his left eye began to twitch. He shook his head as if trying to clear it. “We are lucky to be led by one such as he.”

“I saw a big manor house on the edge of the village, I presume that is where the Baron lives,” said Cole. “It didn’t look as though anybody was home.”

“When the moon is red, he sleeps,” Emmett replied. “He will wake soon, though, if he hasn’t already.”

Cole frowned. “He only sleeps during a blood moon? But that happens only once a year, does it not?”

The villagers looked alarmed. One or two coughed nervously. “Just another expression, young master,” replied Emmett soothingly. “It’s just our way of saying the Baron is such a busy man, it is as though he never sleeps.”

Cole fidgeted in his seat. He had grown uncomfortably aware that half of his companions had taken seats between him and the tavern door. A half-finished flagon still sat before him, and he surreptitiously pushed it away. Suddenly, imbibing so freely did not seem like such a good idea. “Emmett, that night you found us, on the road. Why were you there? Surely you don’t make it your habit to roam the Spiritwood after dark?”

The balding man’s smile drained away. He groped for his temple, and kneaded it with his fingers, as if it pained him. “I...I was told that there might be strangers in need of help. Perhaps your campfire was spotted.”

“Yes, perhaps that was it.” Cole tried to keep the doubt out of his voice.
We didn’t make a fire the night we were attacked,
he thought.
He glanced searchingly at the faces around him. As much disquiet as he was feeling, it seemed as though the villagers felt it more keenly. “We were searching for someone, actually,” he told them. “Perhaps you have seen them?”

“It... is possible,” Emmett replied. “Not many pass through our village, but it is not unknown. Who do you seek?”

“A woman. Fair of face. Lauren is her name.”

“Lauren... fair of face...” Emmett repeated his words, his expression confused. Then, his face cleared as realisation dawned. He beamed at Cole. “Who told you to search in these parts for this... fair Lauren?” The other villagers looked at each other, surprised. One or two began to snigger.

“A friend.” It was Cole’s turn to be puzzled. The villagers in the tavern were openly amused now, hiding their smirks behind their hands.

“I think your friend has been playing a cruel jest on you, young sir,” said the landlord, trying to keep a straight face.

“I’m not sure I understand.”

Emmett chuckled and patted his leg. “I have good news for you and bad, young master. The bad news is that I believe it is not a woman you seek, but a place. And the good news is that you’ve found it.”

“Here?” Cole pointed at the floor, uncomprehending. “This village?”

“Faerloren,” his guide replied. “Our village is called Faerloren. A beautiful name, is it not?”

Just then, the door of the tavern burst open, and three men strode inside. They wore steel chainmail and helms. It did not surprise Cole to see that these were stained with rust. The swords they wore at their sides did also not escape his notice. They wore no sigil that he could discern, but there was little doubt that they were guardsmen.

Two remained beside the open doorway while the third, who carried an air of authority, marched towards the bar. “Evenin’ Cowley,” he said. “I hope that you’ve been making our guest feel welcome.”

“Yessir, cap’n,” the landlord replied. “Me’n the boys have been making him feel right at home, isn’t that right?” There was a chorus of assent from the gathered villagers. “The usual, is it?”

“Not tonight.” The guard-captain came and stood behind Cole’s chair. “We’re here on official business. The Baron has woken, and wishes to extend an invitation for a late supper to all our visitors.”

“That’s very kind,” Cole began. “But I’ve eaten only recently, and so I-”

“Attendance is required,” the captain interrupted. He placed a mailed gauntlet on Cole’s shoulder. The grip was friendly, yet somehow managed to convey the sense that, should the need arise, the pressure could be increased significantly. “We wouldn’t want to keep the Baron waiting now, would we?”

“But, my friends...”

The captain grinned. “Don’t worry, lad, they’re being escorted to the chateau as we speak. They’ll be waiting for you when we get there.” He looked around at the villagers. “Anyone else that wants to come is welcome,” he said. “I understand the chef has been slaving away all night to prepare a feast fit to welcome our guests.”

Cole glanced at the other men. There was a hungry look in their eyes, while Emmett’s brow was slick with sweat. “That’s very kind of the Baron,” his guide said. “We’ll give him a few moments alone with the young master and his friends, then we’ll make our way there.”

“Very good.” Still clutching his shoulder, the guard-captain pulled Cole to his feet and marched him from the tavern. As they left, the other guardsmen fell in step behind them. Walking once again through the cool night air, Cole’s eyes were drawn upwards. The moon still hung high in the sky, full and red.

CHAPTER 18

T
he grim, forbidding edifice bore no sign, but there wasn’t a soul in Ehrenburg who was unaware of its purpose. None feared the windowless, granite frontage more than the denizens of Copperton, a district so far removed from the grandeur of uptown it might almost have been a different city in its own right.

Crime was not unknown wherever you went in the city, though it was true that the magistrates were less busy now than they had been for a very long time. But just like its people, when it came to the law there was a clear class divide. If a noble or wealthy merchant fell afoul of it, then for those with a large enough purse, a hefty fine paid directly to the imperial treasury was enough to see them returned to the streets within days.

For those less fortunate, while a stay in the palace dungeon was not a pleasant experience, as long as they were able to arrange for an occasional gold coin to be dropped into the hands of their gaolers, their status afforded them certain privileges.

Executions were rare, the gallows and headsman’s block put to even less use than the magistrates. Though still occasionally used for political prisoners, their existence served more as a warning to the common folk. Relics of the city’s barbarous past, they had fallen out of favour during Fat Fredi’s reign, less from a desire for social reform than that monarch’s lack of interest in anything that fell outside his decadent appetites. Upon succeeding his father, and aghast at his wastrel predecessor’s popularity among the common folk, Maximilien had been shrewd enough to see the wisdom in maintaining the status quo.

So it was that serious offenders ended up in The Pit rather than upon the gallows; in many respects a less merciful fate but at least one hidden away from the public eye. But for all those too poor to pay their fines, and not villainous enough to warrant ending their days in the abyss beneath the palace dungeons, there was Oldgate Prison; not-so-affectionately known by locals as the Copperton Clink.

On this morning, the heavy oaken door that served as the only feature of the gaol’s grey frontage yawned open with a loud creak, and two figures emerged. The first to appear was a toad-faced man, his jowly cheeks shadowed with stubble. A heavy iron ring thick with keys hung from the belt of the greasy leather brigandine he wore, which was adorned with the imperial crest.

He emerged blinking in the sunlight, then turned to grab a second figure that stood hesitantly in the darkness within. “Gerrout here, before I change me mind,” the jailor growled, pulling his charge onto the street.

The young man stumbled and fell to his knees, landing with a squelch in the cold, papery mush that covered the road. Despite his discomfort, he smiled and breathed in a lungful of the chill air with evident relish.
A shame I missed snowfall,
he thought. He was fortunate the jailor did not see the expression on his face; freed or not, another beating would almost certainly have been his parting gift.

“On your feet, scum.” The ugly man hauled the boy back up and roughly loosed the bonds that held his hands together. “You’re lucky,” he added in low tones, breathing a foul rancid-meat smell into the boy’s face. “I didn’t think you’d ever see daylight again. Like as not the fancy-pants that brought you in has forgotten all about yer. But we don’t forget, does we, Rawls?”

The boy held his gaze. Even a day earlier he might have cowered before one of the men who had done all they could to make the last two years a living hell. But feeling fresh air upon his face brought back some of his former boldness. He turned to leave, but a meaty hand grabbed his shoulder and span him back around.

“So, who was it boy?” the toad-faced gaoler demanded, with a ghastly grin that revealed rows of black, rotting stumps of what may once have been teeth. “Who cares enough about gutter trash to put a fat purse in ol’ Burt’s palm just to set yer loose?”

The boy allowed a thin smile to creep across his lips. “Probably the same one who paid you to drop an extra stale crust in my cell once a week. I know less about it than you do.”

The jailor’s face twisted into a sneer. The boy braced himself for a blow, but it never came. Instead, the gaoler patted his face. “See yer soon, rat,” were his parting words, before his thick frame disappeared back inside the joyless, grey building.

Rawls stood there a moment, shivering. The tattered linen shirt, torn woollen trousers and half-rotted shoes he wore did little to keep out the winter air. Then, he gratefully turned his back on the prison.

He jogged along the narrow, winding streets of the city’s slum district. As the popular Ehrenburgian expression put it, “there’s no silver in Copperton”. Rawls’ feet guided him easily, remembering routes he had travelled more times than he could count; admittedly not a difficult feat to accomplish. He had been born but three streets away from the Clink, and had spent most of his youth in that maze of alleys. Street rat he’d been called, and it was a badge he wore with pride. Rats were cunning, survivors. Having no family of his own, the other street rats had been his brothers and sisters, and he theirs.

His hair streamed out behind him as he ran, and the sensation was so unfamiliar he touched a hand to the locks that tumbled to his shoulders, as black as night. When he’d been taken to the Clink his scalp had been shaved, just like all the rats. It was incredible how much harder it made it for the uptown nobs to identify the waif that had just cut their purse loose from their belt and made off with it, when all were bald.
Keeps the nits away too,
he thought. But two years in that sunless place had seen his hair grow uncut, and in truth he did not mind it. Perhaps he would even keep it this way.

He reached the mouth of an alleyway murkier than most, and after a wary glance in either direction darted down it. His shoes kicked up brown, stinking puddles as he walked towards a blind wall at the farthest end, but he barely noticed. Compared to conditions inside the Clink it was like striding through virgin white snow.

At the end of the alley was a mess of junk; broken wood, old barrels and the like. With practised ease, Rawls pulled aside a old plank and slipped into the shadows beyond. Behind the board was a broken window at ground level, which led to a darkened cellar. He dropped through and landed lightly on the stone floor within.

As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could see huddled shapes all around, and the sound of light, childish snores. It would be some hours yet before the street rats would rise and make their way to the bustling markets of uptown.

Rawls went to one of the sleeping forms, like the others hidden beneath a pile of mouldering blankets. He shook them. “Jax?” he whispered urgently. “Wake up ya scrub!”

The blankets erupted and a shaven-headed boy emerged, a broken bottle in his hand. He held the jagged edge against Rawls’ throat, before recognition dawned. “Well I never,” he said with a grin, lowering the makeshift weapon. “I heard tell that Begrum had paid to spring yer, but none of us ‘lieved it.” The boy’s eyes travelled up to the mass of thick black curls on Rawls’ head. “Cor,” he said in awed tones. “You look like one of the harbour doxies. Is that how you survived the Clink? I’ve half a mind to have a go at yer myself.”

“Fuck you, Jax,” Rawls said mildly. Inside, though, his mind raced. So it was Begrum that had bribed his warders. He knew he threw them a handful of coppers every so often to look after the rats that got sent away, but he’d never heard of the old skinflint coughing up the sums required to buy their freedom. “I came for my stuff,” he added.

The younger boy pointed towards a pile of trash in one corner. Digging through it, Rawls found an old sack with some garments stuffed inside. Eagerly, he pulled off his stinking prison rags, and dressed in the roughspun woollens. He was appalled to find that his wrists and ankles protruded from the cuffs. Even if he had grown no fatter on the meagre scraps the Clink fed its inmates, he had apparently grown taller. Rawls sighed. It would have to do for now. At least his old cloak was there as well, and would help keep him warmer on the streets. After that, though, the sack was empty. “Where’s my cutter?” he asked, turning to Jax.

“Gone.” The boy shrugged. “You’re lucky there’s anything left at all. I hid it deep down so’s no-one would find it.”

Rawls stood, and returned to the window. “Thanks Jax,” he said. Small though they were on him, he felt a bit more like his old self now that he was wearing his own clothes.

“Where’re you going?”

“I guess I’d better go and see Begrum.” With that, he climbed back out into the alleyway, and pulled the plank back down over the window before setting off back the way he had come. There was only one place the man he sought would likely be found at this time of day.

Despite his youth, Rawls was no stranger to many of the city’s taverns and inns. In his time he’d lightened the purses of many patrons whose senses had been dulled by ale, and finding out which landlords were willing to hand out leftover food or dregs of drink to a begging child was one of the first lessons a street rat learned. The taverns of the city were as diverse as its people, running all the way from those grandly decorated, with large hardwood tables and noble clientele, to smoke-filled drinking dens frequented by shadowy, surly patrons, to whom greeting you and slitting your throat were practically interchangeable.

The Charnel Arms sat firmly in the latter camp. Rawls glanced up nervously at the sign hammered crudely onto the front of the building as he approached, that of a hooded figure with skeletal arms crossed over its chest. No name was visible; the locals knew well what it was, and any unwary revellers who stumbled inside never did so a second time.

With a grimace, he pushed open the door, which hung loosely from its hinges, and ducked through the low doorway. The air inside was thick with pungent smoke, through which he could vaguely see a handful of seated forms. He could feel eyes swivelling in his direction as he stepped inside, trying to decide whether he was a threat or a potential mark. With no light source other than a tiny, grime-streaked window, the pub’s interior was plunged into near-darkness as the rickety door swung shut behind him.

Taking care not to bump into any of the figures huddled over their drinks, Rawls picked his way towards the bar. When he mentioned Begrum by name, the landlord, a squat, thickset man, regarded him silently for a few moments before jerking a thumb towards one of the back rooms.

Rawls knocked timidly on the door of the room he had been directed towards. At a barked command from within he pushed it gingerly open. At least here there was light, of a sort. A small, solitary candle sat upon a wooden table, at which a bearded man was seated, the remains of his lunch before him. When he saw Rawls, the man’s face split into a smile that entirely failed to touch a pair of cold, calculating eyes. “Well, well. A lost lamb has found its way back to our little flock.” The man’s speech was rough, like the sawing of logs.

“Hullo Begrum,” Rawls replied, attempting to keep the tremor from his voice. “I just came by to say thanks for getting me out of the Clink.”

“What makes you think it was me?” The bearded man held his gaze as he lifted a morsel from his plate and chewed it slowly.

Rawls didn’t know what to say, unable to express in words that he knew of nobody else with such means, nor any who might care whether or not he stayed behind bars until the day he died. The bearded man smiled again at his confusion. “I jest lad, no need to tax that little brain of yours. So, now you’re free again, what do you plan to do?”

His feet shuffled nervously in the dirt of the floor. “Not sure... I thought I might go back to work, like. I’ll need a cutter though, mine got lost after I got taken away the last time.”

The calculating eyes bore into him. “I don’t think so, lad,” the bearded man said, not unkindly. “I think your cutting days are behind you.” He sighed. “A shame, you were one of my best. You could nab half a dozen purses and be back in Copperton before the first nob realised his coin was missing.”

“I still can,” Rawls blurted. “I might be a bit rusty, but I’ll sharpen up in no time.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it, my little lamb. Talent like yours cannot be taught. It’s a gift.” The bearded man chewed upon another mouthful from his plate. “It is your size that saddens me. You were small for ten, able to move around the marketplaces with ease, unnoticed. What are you now, thirteen?” Rawls nodded miserably. “Nearly as tall as a man-grown. A minute after you start tracking your first mark, you’ll be dragged away back to the Clink. And nobody would bail you out this time, I think.” He continued to chew, his eyes never leaving Rawls’ own. He could feel himself being weighed up. “It is good, though, that you wish to work,” Begrum went on eventually. “On that, our minds are as one.”

Rawls grinned, as pathetically grateful as Begrum had surely known he would be. “What did you have in mind?”

Begrum shrugged. “An upstairs job, nothing difficult. A merchant who took ship last night, who has happened to leave a bedroom full of valuables behind. Can you spring a lock?” Rawls shook his head sadly. “Climb, then?”

“Like a squirrel,” he replied, pleased to be able to offer something in his favour. “Kept myself fit inside, wasn’t much else to do besides.”

“Good,” said the bearded man, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the tabletop. “There’s an upstairs window, and the latch is loose. It should be easy enough to get inside. Our friend has hired a guard, but I’m led to believe he lets himself into his master’s wine cellar in the early evening and is passed out by nightfall, his snoring fit to wake the dead.”