Garzik felt only the slightest satisfaction. It was as if everything happened at a great distance and none of it mattered.
So it didn’t worry him when Lord Travany’s servant negotiated to hire the ship for one more day and they were sent back to the hold.
Chapter Three
A
NOTHER NIGHT IN
the hold meant nothing to Garzik, just as the indignity of being caged up like chickens going to market and paraded through Port Marchand meant nothing.
The good folk of Marchand turned their heads and went about their work. Down every street the cart passed, business boomed as the invaders travelled through the port, sending their war booty back home.
Surely the invasion was not over?
Even if the castle fell, there were still King Rolen’s twin sons. Lence and Byren, with Orrie’s help, would unite the people, call on the warlords beyond the Dividing Mountains to honour their allegiance to King Rolen and strike back.
But all that would take time.
And it was impossible if Lence, Byren and Orrade were dead.
Garzik refused to accept this.
At the seaside-wharves, so many ships had been coming and going, they’d kept the harbour free of ice. Amongst the many fat-bellied merchant ships flying the Merofynian flag, Garzik spotted the sleek lines of sea-hound vessels. Race horses to the merchant plough horses, they were designed to hunt down Utland raiders. And those Utlanders would be waiting along the trade routes to attack unwary captains.
Garzik shuddered. Lence had been going to lead a reprisal raid on the Utlanders this spring. Everyone had been up in arms because a shipload of Utlanders had slipped into the bay and raided Cobalt Estate, killing Cobalt’s father and bride.
Only now that he knew Cobalt, Garzik was not so certain of his facts.
Master Cilaon’s three carts – two loaded with wine, the third with the injured seven-year-slaves – came to rest. Garzik felt the other captives let out a sigh of relief. They were packed so tightly they could barely move. Unable to stand or stretch their legs, other than hanging them through the rails, their only consolation was the way the press of their bodies kept them warm.
They waited.
No one came to let them out.
‘What’s going on?’ someone asked from the far end.
‘Shall I ask Master Cialon where our cabin is and order a hot breakfast?’ Feo demanded.
After that no one spoke.
An argument arose up near the first cart. From what Garzik could overhear it seemed, despite their delayed arrival, Lord Travany’s ship was still anchored, waiting its turn to load at the wharves.
Master Cialon marched towards them, meeting up with his two servants at the middle cart. ‘I’m going to sort this out. Grufyd, stay here and watch over our cargo.’ He beckoned the other burly servant. ‘You come with me.’
He went to stride off.
‘Here, wait up,’ the oldest carter protested. ‘While me carts are sittin’ here, I’m losin’ coin. There’s loads aplenty on the lakeside-wharves.’
After some negotiation, Master Cialon paid for the hire of the carts until midday. As he stalked off in a foul mood, Garzik pitied the harbour master. But the wharves were packed with Merofynian lords and their self-important servants loading spoils of war. Master Cialon would just be one more disgruntled Merofynian.
The moment he was out of sight, the carters retreated to the closest tavern, leaving Grufyd to watch the three carts. With a curse, Grufyd settled himself on the seat outside the tavern and demanded a pot of ale.
This meant he was about three body lengths away, directly facing the second of the three carts.
‘Try the catch,’ someone urged, not far from Garzik.
Of course! The busy wharf was a perfect opportunity to run. Garzik’s heart raced, and the captives went very quiet. He heard rattling, then a curse.
‘Can’t budge it. Freezing Sylion!’
‘Here, let me try. I’m a cabinet-maker.’ Someone on the far side of the cart shuffled through.
Silence followed as they waited for the cabinet-maker to force the gate. ‘No luck. If I had my tools –’
‘Well you don’t, so shut up about it,’ Feo snapped.
After that no one spoke.
Garzik was hungrier than he had ever been. None of them had been fed last night or this morning.
Mitrovan shifted, bumping a youth behind him. ‘Sorry.’
The other gave a glum nod.
‘I’m a scribe,’ Mitrovan offered. ‘What did you do before –’
‘Baker’s boy. Final year of my apprenticeship. I specialised in fancy pastries for the merchant markizes.’
‘You’ll end up in Travany’s kitchen,’ Mitrovan predicted.
Garzik thought the youth looked like he’d been sampling too many of his wares. At least he had some padding. Garzik had always been small and thin. He’d been hoping he would have a growth spurt soon, but if he didn’t get enough to eat...
Whispered conversations began amongst the captives. No one spoke to Feo.
‘Why did that pie seller have to set up her stall right across from us?’ Mitrovan whispered, shifting his weight on the bare boards. The scent of hot pies was torture.
Garzik had been trying to ignore the mouth-watering smells. Apart from hunger, he felt better than he had since he’d first woken. His head was clear and he could think straight.
A cart laden with carpets and chests trundled past. Every pier was busy, every berth in use. Cartloads of seven-year-slaves arrived and were loaded aboard ships, along with famed Rolencian red wine and luxurious furs from across the spars, beyond the Dividing Mountains,
‘I swear they’re stripping Rolencia bare,’ the scribe whispered. ‘It’ll take a generation for the merchants to recover. Between storms and Utland raiders... they’ll need capital to risk a voyage. They’ll have to borrow from one of Ostron Isle’s five families. Master won’t like having to pay a percentage of his profits to the Ostronites.’
But Garzik wasn’t interested in the problems of merchants. ‘Look at all those grain sacks. They must’ve emptied every storehouse between here and Rolenton. What’ll our people eat while they wait for this year’s crops to ripen?’
‘What will
we
eat,’ Mitrovan corrected in an under-voice. ‘Only a lord would say what “will our people eat.”’
Feo pushed his way through the others to their side of the cart. No one dared object. ‘Sod me, those pies smell good. And that pie girl looks as tasty as her pies. Reckon I could get her to spread her thighs, if I wasn’t...’ He gave the bars a shake.
Garzik ignored him.
Meanwhile, the pie seller did a great trade, serving hungry Merofynian men-at-arms, lords and their servants.
‘Pretty pie girl,’ Feo called out. ‘Yes, you with the saucy smile. Spare a pie for a hungry man?’
She laughed and shook her head, but she did cast her eye over the cage.
‘A crust then? Spare a crust for poor Rolencian men-at-arms,’ he wheedled. ‘Take pity on us, this being our last day in our homeland. Some of us might never see Rolencia again.’
The girl shook her head, but Garzik could see she was moved.
Their cart seemed forgotten. The day stretched. Still no food. Master Cialon’s other servant came back, spoke with Grufyd and went into the tavern.
‘What’s happening?’ someone asked from the rear of the packed cart.
‘Grufyd’s ordered a meal,’ Mitrovan supplied.
‘May Sylion freeze his balls!’ Feo muttered.
For once, Garzik agreed with him.
It was the utter helplessness of it. He was faint with hunger, and he was bored to boot.
Mid afternoon, the pie girl passed them with her empty cart.
‘Going home for the day, pretty puss?’ Feo asked. ‘Can you take a look and see if there’s a crust or two for us, for the fighting men of Rolencia?’
She shook her head and glanced significantly over her shoulder. That was when Garzik noticed a bald, barrel-chested man with a cudgel tucked under one arm. He followed about a body length behind the pie cart.
With the king dead, the rule of law had broken down. Every man was out for himself and even a pie girl needed protection.
A little later she returned, her cart freshly stocked, and trade was brisk once more, so the war was not all bad for everyone.
Resentment coalesced in Garzik’s empty belly.
Late in the day, as night closed in, the pie seller closed up her cart. Garzik was no longer hungry; now he felt chilled and lethargic. As the sun set, painting the distant headlands a brilliant pink, the cold closed in.
‘They can’t mean to leave us here overnight?’ Mitrovan muttered. ‘We’ll catch our death.’
The pie girl approached with her cart. She paused at the tavern door. ‘Grab a tankard, Ozig. I won’t tell.’
He ducked his head and darted inside. At that moment, Grufyd happened to be leaning through the open window, chatting to those inside.
Or maybe it was not a coincidence, maybe she’d picked her time, for the moment both men were distracted the girl opened her cart, swept broken pie crusts into her apron and came over to them.
‘Halcyon’s blessings on you!’ Feo told her. ‘May you find a strong husband to give you a dozen children and may they never go hungry!’
‘Fat chance of that, with the Merofynians stealing everything that isn’t tied down,’ she said. ‘The pie shop used to belong to me Ma, now there’s a Merofynian waiting at home to count the coppers we earn!’
Hands thrust past Garzik, demanding their share. Feo ignored them, but Garzik and Mitrovan passed crust backwards to those behind. The girl filled her apron again.
This time Garzik could not hold back. Stomach cramping with pain, he stuffed broken crusts into his mouth, stuffed them in without thought as to whether the fillings were sweet or savoury. Pie crusts had never tasted so good.
Chewing the last mouthful, he leant up against the cage bars. Meanwhile, the girl dusted off her hands, looking pleased, and turned to go.
‘Wait,’ Garzik pleaded thickly. He swallowed. ‘Do you have any news? I know the castle fell, but surely one of the king’s sons is rallying the people?’
She glanced over her shoulder to the tavern door and Grufyd, who was still distracted. ‘I heard the Merofynian say that Lence Kingsheir is dead. But there’s a reward for the king’s other two sons, so we still have hope, even if Halcyon Abbey has fallen.’
‘They desecrated the abbey?’ he repeated, but he shouldn’t be surprised. The Merofynian king had proven he was without honour. Lence dead... He expected to feel grief, yet felt only relief, which was odd. But if the Merofynians were searching for two king’s sons it meant both Fyn and Byren lived. If Byren lived, then he could hold out hope for Orrade and Elina.
If Byren was free, he could hold out hope for Rolencia.
‘Here.’ Feo leant up against the bars. ‘Give us a kiss before we sail. Give us a kiss and I’ll die happy.’
The girl flushed, but caught his face through the bars and kissed his bruised cheek.
Garzik shook his head. He’d never behave so brazenly.
Which was why he’d never been kissed. Now he probably never would, for what girl wanted a seven-year-slave?
But he wasn’t going to remain a slave. He’d escape.
Byren lived!
Garzik’s mind raced. Somehow, he had to make his way to Byren and make up for failing him. Orrade would be with Byren. Only death would stop him. Orrie was smart. He’d lead Byren into the foothills of the Dividing Mountains. Amongst those steep ridges, caves and forests you could hide a thousand warriors. All Garzik had to do was escape.
Just then the pie girl’s protector returned.
‘Here, get away from them,’ he yelled.
She hurried over to where the goat waited patiently in the cart’s shafts. Not satisfied with her ready compliance, the man clipped her over the ear with his open hand. She staggered, but didn’t fall. Without a word of protest, she took the goat’s halter and led him off. Back to the pie shop, her mother and the Merofynian who had installed himself in their home.
Garzik bristled, but there was nothing he could do.
‘This looks hopeful,’ Feo muttered.
Garzik followed the direction he indicated. Master Cialon’s other servant had joined Grufyd, and now the carters came out of the tavern. Garzik’s heart raced. This was it. Soon they’d open the cart and lead them to the ship. Soon he’d get his chance to escape. If he could walk.
His body was cramped from being packed into the crowded cart.
‘What’s happening, Grufyd?’ Feo called as the burly servant came towards them.
‘We’re going home, that’s what happening,’ Grufyd said. ‘An’ about time. Even the ale tastes wrong here.’
In the few moments it took for the carters to climb onto their seats and gather up the traces, Garzik rubbed his feet and hands, to encourage circulation. Curse the thief who took his boots.
As they trundled along the curve of the wharf, he watched the side streets, recognised one and retraced the memory of his brief visit to Port Marchand the previous spring, when they’d visited a merchant markiz. He thought he remembered how to get to the markiz’s house.