‘What’s this I hear? You’ve no right to commandeer my cargo.’ He gestured to Garzik.
‘He’s not your cargo. He’s Lord Travany’s, and you can bet his lordship will thank me for using him to take care of Yorale’s brat.’
Garzik hid a smile. It seemed the captain didn’t like Yorwyth either.
Just then, Sionor returned with a change of clothes for Garzik. Not the torn tabard he’d been captured in, but a sea-man’s serviceable breeches, knitted under-shirt and sealskin vest. No shoes. But then the sailors didn’t wear shoes. They needed a good grip when they climbed the ropes to adjust the sails.
Garzik turned his back, dropped his blanket and dressed, grateful for the warmth that radiated from the brazier beside the captain’s desk.
‘Another thing.’ Master Cialon changed tack. ‘You can’t have Grufyd or his brother, I need them.’
‘Not as much as I do. There’s fifty healthy seven-year-slaves in the hold and a dozen injured in the cabin below us. Who’s going to clean up after them, if not Grufyd and Grudor?’ The captain made a dismissive gesture. ‘I told you not to feed them before we left port, but would you listen?’
‘The injured hadn’t been fed for a day and a night, and the healthy ones had been languishing in a storehouse for two days without food. His lordship’s seven-year-slaves are no good to him if they’re dropping dead from starvation.’
‘Which is why I need Grufyd and Grudor to keep them in line,’ the captain said. ‘I can’t send the kitchen lad down to feed your healthy seven-year-slaves, not after what they tried the first time.’
‘Use the men-at-arms.’
‘They’re warriors, not nurse-maids. They won’t play servant to slaves.’
‘If you take Grufyd and Grudor, who’s going to serve me?’
‘There’s the other scribe,’ Sionor said.
Both men turned to him.
‘Beggin’ yer pardon, cap’n.’ He bobbed his head, then gestured to Garzik. ‘This one’s friend was also a scribe.’
‘I don’t want a filthy Rolencian in my service, let alone my cabin,’ Master Cialon protested. ‘I’d have to watch everything I own. I wouldn’t sleep safe.’
‘Beggin’ yer pardon, Master Cialon, but he seemed more interested in getting a cushy post than which master he served.’
‘A turncoat, just what I need!’ Master Cialon threw up his hands and strode out.
Garzik watched him go, sorry he hadn’t been able to put in a good word for Mitrovan, but he wasn’t even supposed to understand what was being said.
When the captain was alone, he turned to Garzik, switched to Rolencian, and gestured to the injured lad. ‘I’ll thank you to keep him quiet. If his leg festers and we have to take it, I’ll take yours.’
Garzik gasped, biting back a protest. Captain Blackwing would never have laid such an unfair charge on one of his men. But Garzik was no longer among honourable men.
Chapter Five
T
HE NEXT THREE
days passed in a blur, with long passages of boredom, interrupted by passages of intense worry as Yorwyth became feverish and thrashed about, causing himself pain.
Garzik did not leave his side. Surgeon Rishardt came each time the captain called him. By the end of the first day, his hands were shaking and he stank of wine. Despite this, he examined the lad with care and left instructions with Garzik.
Now that he was warm and well fed, Garzik had time to think. With no method of sending messages back to Rolencia, there was no point remaining a slave and spying. Just as soon as he had useful information, he would escape, return to Byren and deliver the news himself.
Maybe then Byren could forgive him for failing to light the warning beacon.
Who was he kidding?
He’d frozen on the tower stairs, and because of it, King Rolen had had no warning and Rolencia had fallen. How could he go back?
Orrade would never have let Byren down like that.
But if he returned with important information, surely he could win back Byren’s respect?
In the dark of night, when he knelt by Yorwyth’s bedroll, spongeing the lad’s hot skin to bring down his fever, the arguments went round and round in Garzik’s head, until he was heartily sick of them and himself.
At least one thing worked in his favour.
Thanks to Byren’s mother, he spoke Merofynian with the accent of a noble. All he needed was the chance to snatch some decent clothing and a coin purse. Then he could impersonate a noble’s son, off to make his fortune in the conquered country and book passage on a ship returning to Rolencia.
On the morning of the third day after the fall, Yorwyth opened his eyes, clear headed. He frowned at Rishardt, who was checking his leg, and tried to sit up.
‘Lie still for the surgeon,’ Garzik advised, taking care not to slip into Merofynian.
Yorwyth’s eyes narrowed. ‘I know you.’
Since he’d spoken Merofynian, Garzik pretended not to understand and offered him water.
‘Your leg is healing well, young lord,’ Rishardt reported. He looked worse today, his skin grey.
There had been a man with a drinking problem back home. If Garzik’s father had known, The Old Dove would have banished him from the estate. Instead, Captain Blackwing had taken the man into the forest, dug a pit, dropped him in and left him there for a week. Ignoring his cries for help, Blackwing provided him with food and water, nothing more. The man’s ravings were terrible to hear. Blackwing had said it was an important lesson to Garzik and Orrade, never to let wine rule them. After a week, they’d thrown down a rope, washed the man in the lake and taken him back to the hall. He’d never touched alcohol again.
‘Careful, you fool!’ Yorwyth grimaced. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘That’s a good sign.’ Rishardt ignored the insult and gestured to Garzik, switching to Rolencian. ‘Go fetch him some broth from the galley.’
Garzik ducked his head and left the cabin.
It was the first time he’d been out on deck since he’d been assigned to serve the lad, and it was good to stretch his legs. The air was fresh and sharp, and the sails billowed in the wind.
Down in the galley, he waited while the cook served up a meal.
When Mitrovan arrived with an empty tray, Garzik hid his surprise.
They exchanged looks and the scribe nodded to the passage. A few moments later Garzik left with Yorwyth’s food and found the scribe waiting for him.
Garzik gestured down the hall to the cabin they’d shared with the injured. ‘They let you out?’
‘Haven’t you heard?’ Mitrovan whispered. ‘I serve Master Cialon now. Thanks for putting in a good word for me.’
‘I didn’t get a chance. One of the sailors suggested you,’ Garzik answered, then frowned. ‘But Cialon was set against having a Rolencian servant. How –’
‘Oh, he’s much like my old master, petty and self-important. The more he despises me, the better he feels about himself. I plan to make myself indispensable. To hear Cialon speak, he’s Lord Travany’s right-hand man. Travany’s not the wealthiest or the most powerful of nobles, but he is part of Lord Yorale’s circle. And Yorale is close to the king. So we’re sure to hear something useful.’
‘You learnt all that in three days?’ Garzik was impressed and felt he’d wasted his time. ‘I’ve done nothing but nurse-maid Lord Yorale’s brat.’
‘Perhaps you should try to get on the lad’s good side. His father...’
But Garzik was already shaking his head. ‘I swear if I had to serve him, I’d end up strangling him.’ He glanced up and down the passage. ‘Keep your ears open. When we learn something useful, we’ll escape and take the news back to Byren. I’ll travel as a Merofynian noble and you can be my scribe.’
‘Let’s hear your Merofynian.’
Instead of taking offence, Garzik obliged him.
Mitrovan nodded. ‘You make a more convincing Merofynian noble than you do a Rolencian scribe.’ Just then, Mitrovan glanced over his shoulder and spotted the kitchen lad coming down the passage with an empty pot. His tone changed immediately. ‘So I don’t mind how often he beats me, as long as I get three square meals a day.’
Garzik went to ask who beat Mitrovan, then noticed the bruise on the kitchen lad’s cheek.
‘There you are, Mitrofan.’ The lad used the Merofynian form of his name. ‘Master Cialon’s looking for you.’
‘Thanks, Arolt,’ the scribe said. As he turned back to Garzik, he sent him a significant look and hurried off.
Taking a leaf from Mitrovan’s book, Garzik nodded to the kitchen lad. ‘Better get this food up to his little lordship, before it goes cold. You should hear him complain, nothing’s ever done to his satisfaction.’
The lad grinned. ‘Pity he didn’t fall and break both legs.’
Pleased with himself, Garzik continued along the lower deck to the ladder, and climbed one-handed, balancing the tray. Yorwyth would surely complain if the broth was spilled.
But up on deck he found Grufyd supporting Yorwyth at the ship’s side as both of them stared towards the headland.
‘Mulcibar’s Gate,’ Yorwyth was saying when Garzik came up behind them. ‘Now I know I’m home.’
Mulcibar’s Gate? The sight stole Garzik’s breath. Of course, he’d heard stories about the river of slow moving hot rock that met the waves in foam and steam, but seeing it was an entirely different thing. Each time a wave dashed itself on the rocks, the water hissed and great gouts of steam shot up.
‘Breakfast at last.’ Yorwyth spotted him. ‘I’ll eat out here.’
In no time at all a table and two chairs had been brought out so the lad could sit with his broken leg elevated, eat his meal and watch the convoy enter Port Mero.
Now that they were safe, Yorwyth complained the sea-hounds had not earned their money. He seemed disappointed the fleet had not run into Utlanders after all. He complained because he had to go home with a broken leg and would have to spend the spring and summer recuperating. From what Garzik could gather, his older brother was serving as a warrior’s squire; he’d been in the thick of the fighting during the Rolencian invasion and would return home a hero.
Then Yorwyth complained because he’d talked so long the broth had gone cold, which meant Garzik had to go below to reheat it.
When he returned, the big bay stretched out around them. Nestled in its many inlets were little fishing villages, just like back home. Lord Travany’s ship made for the wharves on the far side, below Mont Mero.
If Yorwyth had been anyone else, it would have been a pleasant morning. But, just as he’d delighted in teasing the captives, he delighted in teasing Garzik. When he sent him to fetch a book, it was the wrong book and the fault was Garzik’s. Before long, Garzik would have happily thrown the boy overboard.
‘What’s the hold up?’ Yorwyth demanded of a passing sailor. ‘Why are we dropping anchor instead of berthing?’
‘Too many ships trying to unload. We have to wait our turn, young lord,’ Sionor said. As he hurried off, he sent Garzik a sympathetic look.
‘I’m sick of being cooped up on board,’ Yorwyth announced.
He was not the only one annoyed by the delay. Master Cialon confronted the captain. They were up on the rear deck, so Garzik could only catch snippets of conversation, but it seemed for once they were in agreement. Master Cialon had to deliver the Rolencian war booty to Lord Travany and the captain was eager to get back to Port Marchand where there was cargo in waiting to be collected.
A moment later, sailors lowered a boat and Master Cialon climbed overboard, with two sailors to handle the oars.
‘I bet he’s going to speak to the harbour-master,’ Yorwyth told Garzik smugly. ‘My father won’t be pleased when he hears how we were kept waiting.’
Perhaps this was true, because the rowboat returned presently without Master Cialon and the ship was ushered past other vessels to a berth. By this time it was mid-afternoon and Mitrovan had joined Garzik. In Master Cialon’s absence, the scribe had the run of the ship and no one to answer to.
Garzik noticed the surgeon sitting on a bale at the other end of the deck. He had his nose buried in a book. ‘I don’t understand what a man like him is doing on this ship.’
‘Escaping disgrace.’ Mitrovan leant close. ‘Apparently, he fought a duel over a woman. Killed a powerful man. Had to leave Merofynia to save his family’s honour.’ The scribe snorted softly. ‘Nobles and their honour.’ Then he glanced to Garzik, his expression far too knowing.
Garzik felt the injustice of his unspoken accusation. ‘I failed to light the warning beacon. I failed Byren.’ Tears burned his eyes and he fought to hold them back. ‘Because of me, Rolencia fell.’
‘How do you know it wouldn’t have fallen anyway? From what I heard there was a traitor in the castle.’
Garzik shook his head. The scribe was only trying to make him feel better. Shame seared his cheeks, and his throat grew so tight he could hardly speak. ‘I failed Byren, that’s why I have to make up for it with important information.’
‘What are you two whispering about?’ Yorwyth demanded fretfully.
‘We’re looking forward to dinner,’ Mitrovan answered.
Yorwyth wasn’t interested. ‘Fetch me a blanket, Grufyd. I’m cold. And fetch a cushion. This seat’s too hard. Wait.’ He sat up straighter in the chair. ‘Come back here and lift me up. I swear...’