Tower Lord

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lyrna

“I t’s there again!” Murel said, pointing in alarm and making the boat pitch as she rushed to the bow. “Do you see?”

Lyrna looked at the sea, catching sight of the great fin before it slipped under the water once more. They’re always hungry.

“Maybe it likes us,” the outlaw with scarred cheeks suggested. His name was Harvin and he claimed to have once commanded a band thirty men strong, his capture and imprisonment the result of betrayed love for a beautiful woman of noble birth, a story Iltis had greeted with open contempt.

“Sold out by some tavern doxy you forgot to pay, more like,” he had laughed.

They bickered constantly, often to the verge of violence and Lyrna had given up trying to placate their temper. If one killed the other, then at least the rations would last longer.

“Fell in love with the brother’s beautiful face when it rammed the hold,” Harvin continued. “Just couldn’t stay away.”

“You criminal scum!” Iltis bridled.

Lyrna turned away as the argument began its inevitable escalation, eyes scanning the waves for sign of the shark. Four days adrift on the ocean and their only companion a red shark. She wondered why it didn’t simply tip the boat over and eat them at its leisure. If it could sink a ship, what challenge did their boat represent? Her thoughts kept returning to Fermin’s last smile, his bloody teeth. Given all I have to give . . .

Next to her Murel stiffened as the fin reappeared, her scabbed fingertips going to her mouth. It was closer this time, tracking an arcing course towards them through the swell. Murel closed her eyes and began reciting the Catechism of Faith. Lyrna put an arm around her shoulders as the fin grew ever larger, Iltis and Harvin abruptly forgetting their argument. The fin veered away some twenty yards short of the boat, the red-striped body of the shark rising from the water, a huge black eye gleaming above the waves for a moment. Murel opened her eyes, whimpered and closed them again. The shark gave a brief thrash of its tail and disappeared under the surface.

“It’s gone,” Lyrna told a sobbing Murel. “See?”

The girl could only shake her head and slump down in exhausted fear, her head resting in Lyrna’s lap.

Lyrna surveyed her small wooden kingdom of five hungry souls and wondered again if it might have been kinder to abandon them to the hold. They had managed to scavenge some supplies from barrels found bobbing in the water the morning after the ship went down, mostly pickled fish that made her gag the first time she tried it, however hunger had soon overcome such qualms. Her biggest fear had been the lack of freshwater but this soon disappeared under the weight of rain that threatened to swamp the boat on a daily basis, forcing them to bail continually, albeit untroubled by thirst. Their oars consisted of two short splintered planks from the ship’s deck, the outlaw and Iltis spending much of the first day paddling a westward course until a quiet youth named Benten, a fisherman from Varinshold and the only sailor amongst them, pointed to the early evening stars and judged them fifty miles east of where they had started the night before.

“Means we’re a good ways south of Varinshold,” he said. “The Boraelin currents flow east at these climes. Paddle all you want, won’t make any difference.”

East. Which meant Volaria, in the unlikely event their food held out that long. Lyrna had read enough sea stories to know the extremes to which hunger could force desperate people, the tale of the Sea Wraith looming largest in her mind. She had been one of her father’s first warships, built at considerable expense and some said the finest ever to sail from a Realm port. She had disappeared in a storm off the northern coast sometime in the second decade of Janus’s reign, presumed lost for months but eventually found drifting south by Renfaelin fishermen. They had discovered only one crewman on board, a gibbering loon gnawing on the thigh-bone of one of his crew-mates, a pile of skulls stacked neatly on the deck. On her father’s orders the Sea Wraith had been burned and sunk for no sailor would set foot on her again.

Murel’s head shifted on her lap and Lyrna saw that she was sleeping, faint groans of pain coming from her half-open lips as the dreams made her relive the torments she had suffered on the ship. Lyrna resisted the impulse to caress her hair, knowing any touch was like to provoke a flurry of screams. I’m sorry, she thought as Murel’s eyelids fluttered and she jerked in her sleep. Seems I won’t be bringing down their empire after all.

The boat pitched again and Lyrna looked up to see Benten standing in the stern, hand shielding his eyes against the sun as he gazed east.

“The shark?” Lyrna asked him.

The young fisherman maintained his vigil for a moment more then stiffened, turning to her with a grave face. “A sail.”

The others all turned, the boat threatening to tip over with the movement. “Volarian?” Iltis asked.

“Worse,” Benten said. “Meldenean.”

The Meldenean captain rested his arms on the rail and stared down at them with faint curiosity and no small amount of contempt. “I think I prefer you land-bound enslaved, it seems fitting somehow.”

Iltis brandished the chains he had kept at his side, probably, Lyrna suspected, for killing Harvin should it become necessary. “Slaves no longer, freed by our own hand.”

“And the ship?” the captain enquired.

“Sunk, along with our captors.”

“And anything of value they may have carried.” His gaze roamed the boat, lingering first on Murel then finding Lyrna’s scars. “And what use did they have for you, my beauty?” he asked with a grin.

Lyrna forced her anger away, knowing if they sailed on it meant death for everyone in this boat. “I am well learned,” she replied, knowing the true reason would only provoke more laughter. “And speak many languages. The master wanted a tutor for his daughters.”

“Really?” the captain asked, continuing in Alpiran, “Have you read The Cantos of Gold and Dust?”

“I have.” And very nearly once met the author.

“Where does the heart of reason lie?”

“In knowledge, but only when married to compassion.” A word I hope holds some meaning for you, she added silently.

The captain’s gaze narrowed a little. “And Volarian?” he asked slipping back into Realm Tongue.

“Yes.”

“Read it as well as speak it?”

“I do.”

He waved at his crew. “Bring her aboard. Leave the others.”

“No!” Lyrna shouted. “All of us. Whatever you need my skills for, I’ll only help if you take all of us.”

“You’re in no position to bargain, my burnt beauty,” he replied with a laugh. “But, just to demonstrate my generosity, we’ll take the pretty one too.”

One of the crewmen at the rail suddenly straightened, finger shooting out with a shout of alarm. Lyrna turned, seeing the shark’s head break the surface no more than fifty yards away. It rolled onto its side, jaws wide, teeth gleaming. The Meldeneans immediately began to work their rigging as the captain barked orders, glaring down at Lyrna in consternation. She placed a foot on the edge of the boat. “All of us,” she called to him. “Or I jump.”

They took the others to the hold, Iltis and Harvin reluctantly surrendering their chains at the sight of so many bared sabres. The captain pushed Lyrna into his cabin, a cramped space of rolled maps and locked chests, one of which he hefted onto a squat nailed-down desk, turning a key in the heavy lock and lifting the lid. He extracted a scroll with a broken seal and handed it to her. “Read.”

She unfurled the scroll and scanned it, absorbing the contents in barely a few seconds, but deciding it would be best to delay her translation. This man had far too keen an eye for her liking. “From Council-man Arklev Entril to General Reklar Tokrev,” she began in a slow laboured voice. “Officer commanding the Twentieth Corps of the Volarian Imperial Host. Greetings, honoured brother-in-law. I assume congratulations are in order though of course a full account of your inevitable victory has yet to reach us. Please extend my warmest affection to my honoured sister . . .”

“Enough,” the captain said. He took a small leather-bound book from the chest, exchanging it for the scroll. “This one.”

Lyrna turned the first few pages and suppressed a wry smile as she placed a puzzled frown on her brow. “This . . . makes no sense.”

His gaze narrowed further. “Why?”

“The letters are all jumbled, mixed up with numbers. Perhaps some kind of code.”

“You know of such things?”

“My father used codes in his business. He was a merchant, always worried his competitors would discover his prices . . .”

“Can you solve it?” he interrupted.

She shrugged. “Given time, it may be possible . . .”

The captain took a step closer, assailing her with his breath. “Believe me, land-bound, you do not have the luxury of time.”

“I would need to discover the key.”

“Key?”

“All codes require a key, the basis for the cypher. Likely to be known only to a few . . .”

He took her by the arm and pushed her from the cabin, across the deck towards the hold, still clutching the book. She was led past the others, crouched in the shadows and surrounded by crewmen, Murel looking up at her with fearful eyes. The captain stopped at a locked door near the stern, a crewman standing guard. “Open it,” the captain ordered.

The door swung open releasing a powerful stench, her senses assailed by a blend of excrement, urine and stale sweat. She fought down her gorge as the captain pushed her inside. A man was huddled in the dark corner of the cabin, hair long and greasy, his clothes the ragged remnants of a uniform, stained with his own filth. Heavy manacles were fastened to his wrists and ankles. From the stench Lyrna surmised he had been here for several days.

“If he moves, beat him down,” the captain growled at the crewman who drew a cudgel and stepped closer. “Moves like a snake this one. Stuck a hidden stiletto through the eye of the only man in my crew who spoke his pig tongue.” The captain jabbed the toe of his boot into the stinking man’s ribs, drawing a pained gasp. He stepped back, jerking his head at her. “If there’s anyone alive knows this key, it’s him.”

Lyrna crouched down and edged closer to the captive, all too aware of the guard’s proximity, the brass handle of the dagger jutting from his boot gleaming in the half-light. The man squinted at her as she drew closer and she had the impression of a handsome face under the filth and dried blood. “Sending monsters to plague me now,” he muttered.

“How do you come to this?” Lyrna asked him in his own language.

“So they’ve found a clever monster,” he replied. “Tell this pirate dog he’d best kill me soon for when our fleet finds him . . .”

“If you want to live, shut your mouth and do what I tell you,” Lyrna said in as placid a tone as she could manage. “Believe me when I say your life is of no worth to me and I’ll laugh when they throw you to the sharks. However, if I can’t convince the pirate you’re being cooperative, they’re likely to throw me in after you. Now, how do you come to be here?”

He angled his head at her in calculation and Lyrna detected a keen mind behind the arrogant sneer. Like Darnel but with brains, she thought. Not a pleasant prospect.

“Betrayal,” he said. “Deceit. The lies of a slave, for only a fool ever trusts a slave. An island of riches, he promised me. Stolen by the greatest Meldenean pirate ever to live, long thought a legend but he had a map and was willing to trade it for freedom. It was only a few days’ diversion from our route, I didn’t see the harm.”

“But when you get to the island you find this lot waiting instead of the fabled treasure.”

He gave a weary nod.

“You’re right,” she said. “You are a fool.”

He thrashed at her, chains jangling, becoming still when the guard stepped closer and placed his cudgel under his chin.

“I’ll tell them nothing,” the Volarian stated, glaring at her above the cudgel.

“He says he wants passage to an Alpiran port,” she told the captain in Realm Tongue. “In return for the key.”

The captain nudged the guard who removed the cudgel and stepped back. “Well I’m feeling generous,” he said stroking his beard. “So I’ll start with his left hand, one knuckle at a time. Tell him that’s the only payment he’ll get.”

“You don’t have to tell them anything,” she told the Volarian. “Just make them think you have.” She shuffled closer, holding up the leather-bound book. “They want the key to this code. If they think you’ve shared it, I can pretend I’m able to decipher it. But it’ll take time, maybe long enough for your fleet to find us.”

“Keen to be a slave are we?”

“Did it once, wasn’t so bad compared to this lot. The Volarians wouldn’t come near me because of my face, these dogs aren’t so discerning.”

“What’s to stop them killing me when I’ve played this little farce?”

“I’ll tell them they need to keep you alive, that the code is complex and I’ll need more help with it.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“Because I’m not going to tell them they have the son of a Council-man in their clutches.” She gave a pointed glance at the tattered red shirt he wore, the gold-embroidered emblem on the breast a match for the seal on the scroll the captain had shown her. “Quite a prize to carry back to the Isles. Do you think your father’s career will stand the shame of it? Or yours?”

He raised his head, eyes intent and searching. “Who are you, monster woman?”

“Just an escaped slave trying to stay alive.”

He stared at her in silence for several moments, face drawn in anger but otherwise impassive. “Show me the book,” he said finally.

She opened the book and leaned closer, finger tracking along the text. “I’ve heard it said,” she murmured, “that only Volarians who own over one hundred thousand slaves are permitted to wear red.”

“You heard correctly,” he muttered, nodding as if in agreement as she peered closer at the text.

“You are young to have amassed such a fortune.” She raised her eyebrows in apparent understanding.

“My father’s gift on achieving my majority.” His tone was one of reluctant assent. “A third of his assets. He gave me the pick of the pleasure slaves.” He gave her a sidelong glance, eyes tracking over her burns. “Sorry if I disappoint, my dear. But I don’t think I have a place for you.”

Lyrna gave a final nod, sitting back on her haunches and closing the book. “Thank you for that,” she said.

“I keep my bargains,” he replied evenly.

“No, I meant for making it easier.”

He frowned. “Wh-”

Lyrna twisted, snatched the dagger from the guard’s boot and plunged it into the Volarian’s chest. The centre, Davoka had said. Always aim for the centre of the chest and you’ll find the heart.

The air whooshed from her as the captain threw her to the floor, advancing with a drawn dagger. “You treacherous bitch!” Lyrna gasped for air as he dragged her upright, forcing her against the wall of his cabin, dagger poised at her throat. “And they say my people are untrustworthy.”

“You . . .” She coughed and dragged air into her lungs. “You can trust me.”

“I can trust you’ll knife me or my men when our backs are turned.”

“You can trust me to translate the book.”

“What proof do I have of that? All I saw was you exchange some pig talk with that filth before you stuck him.”

She met his eyes. “You were sent for his ship.”

He loomed closer, the tip of his dagger pricking her skin. “What was that?”

“For that book. The Ship Lords sent you to take his ship and that book.”

His face twitched and she saw him bite down his next words. He moved back a step, dagger poised. “You see far too much, burnt beauty.”

She spoke in a rapid tumble, gasping the words out without pause. “Twenty-eight gold bars stamped with the crest of House Entril twelve barrels of wine from Eskethia a ceremonial short sword engraved with a poem of thanks from the Ruling Council to General Tokrev in recognition of his victory . . .” She ran out of breath and stared at him, seeing the hesitation in his knife hand. “That’s what you found in their hold, wasn’t it?”

“How do you . . . ?”

“It’s listed in the book, on the first page.”

“You only saw it for a second.”

“That was enough.”

“It was in code.”

“A substitution matrix based on a descending numerical order. Not especially difficult if you know how. And now I’m the only soul on this ship, and I suspect in this half of the world, who can read it.”

He took the book from where he had stuffed it into his belt and held it out. “Then do it.”

She straightened, waiting for her breath to calm. “No.”

“I already told you, you are in no position . . .”

“To bargain?” She grinned. “Oh I think I am.”

The men from the boat were given their own corner of the hold, plus fresh clothing and food. Lyrna and the two other women, Murel and Orena, were given the first mate’s cabin to share.

“You’re sure?” Murel asked in her soft whisper.

Lyrna held out her hand for the small mirror she had seen the girl trying to hide. “Yes.”

The mirror was backed with silver, ornately engraved in the manner favoured by Alpiran smiths from the northern ports, the motif of a man engaged in combat with a lion typical of the style. She traced her fingers over the image for a moment then turned the mirror over.

She always wondered why there were no screams, no tears, no despair sending her into thrashing hysterics. She felt it all, inside, a raging, burning storm of anguish and pain, but all she actually did was sit and stare at the burnt stranger in the mirror. Most of her hair was gone, the scalp a mottled relief of red and pink flesh. The flames had caught the upper side of her face, the scars ascending from the bridge of her nose, the line of seared skin slanting diagonally from left cheekbone to right jaw, like an ill-fitting mask worn to scare children on the warding’s night.

I am no queen, she thought, staring into the eyes of the burnt stranger. What artist will ever paint this portrait? And what do I tell the mint to stamp on the coins? The thought drew a laugh, making Murel start, no doubt wondering if she had slipped into madness.

Lyrna handed the mirror back to her. “Thank you.”

“What happened in the hold?” Orena asked, a slim woman with dark brown hair and eyes, the abuse she had suffered evident in the bruises on her neck, but less traumatised by her ordeal than Murel. However, she was smart enough to be afraid.

“I killed a Volarian,” Lyrna said, seeing little point in deceit.

“Why?”

“To secure our place on this ship.”

“And where is this ship headed exactly?”

“The Meldenean Isles. From there we can make our way back to the Realm.”

“In return for what?”

Lyrna lifted the book from the bed where she had placed it, thumbing through the middle pages. “A small service. Don’t worry, the captain has agreed none of us will be touched provided I perform adequately.”

“Not so sure about that,” the woman muttered, pacing the cabin, arms crossed. “These pirates . . . I don’t like how they look at us. The slavers were bad enough. Never thought I’d miss my husband, the fat fool.”

Murel slumped onto the bed. “If he was fat and foolish, why did you marry him?” she asked.

Orena gave her a quizzical look. “He was rich.”

Lyrna concentrated on the book as they chattered. For the most part it was the dull minutiae of military correspondence, lists of supplies, expected lines of advance. She took note of the fact that the Volarians had extensive plans for the occupation of all the fiefs save Renfael, recalling Darnel’s final words at their last meeting. Faith help me, I had to try.

Has the steel-clad fool finally given me reason to hang him? she wondered, deciding it was a question for another time. The Ship Lords sent their best men for this. There has to be a reason.

Whoever had written the text was clever enough not to rely exclusively on the code. Certain place names had been substituted. She was able to identify The Eerie as Varinshold due to the description of the street plan, and Crow’s Nest was obviously Alltor; what other city sat on an island? Others were less obvious. Gull’s Perch was barely described as was Raven’s Loft, though mention of mines led her to suspect it as the Northern Reaches. I pity whoever they send to take them, she thought. However, the longest description was afforded to Serpent’s Den, a complicated place of numerous ports and sea channels. The description was also followed by an extensive plan of attack.

It is imperative, she read, that as many ships as possible be gathered for the assault on the Serpent’s Den following the successful investment and pacification of The Eerie. The assault must take place before the onset of the winter storms. Admiral Karlev will take command of the strike squadrons, primary importance being afforded to denying the enemy use of their ports . . .

She rose from the bed and went to the door, hauling it open, the guard outside stepping forward with his hand on his sabre hilt. He had been the one guarding the dead Volarian and seemed keen not to get too close. “I need to see him,” she said.

“I’m trusting you to keep our agreement,” she told the captain in his cabin. “But I think you’ll agree it’s best if I share this now.”

He had needed little persuasion; if anything, she seemed to be confirming a long-held suspicion. He ordered all excess weight cast overboard, even the gold bars captured from the Volarians, and every sail raised. Due to the prevailing currents they had to tack south before striking east, the captain hounding every inch of efficiency from his crew.

“What’s happening?” Iltis asked as the escapees clustered around Lyrna in the hold.

“The Volarians move against the Meldenean Isles,” she said. “We hasten there with warning.”

“And our fate when we arrive?” Harvin enquired.

“The captain has given his word we’ll be released. I have reason to trust it.”

“Why?” the outlaw pressed.

“He’ll need me to convince the Ship Lords.”

Foul weather descended two days later, the captain trimming as little sail as possible as the sea rose in great angry swells and the wind threatened to rip the crew from the rigging. The ceaseless pitching of the ship sent most of her compatriots heaving, only she and Benten remaining immune.

“Sailed before, my lady?” the young fisherman asked during a slight lull in the storm as the others bent over the rail, Harvin raising his head between retches to voice the most colourful curses she was yet to hear.

“Pig-fucking sons of whores!” he ranted, much to the amusement of the crew.

“I’m not a lady,” she told Benten. “And before this my sailing experience consisted of a few barge trips up the Brinewash.” The last with my niece and nephew, before I travelled north. Janus spotted an otter climbing onto the riverbank with a freshly caught trout flapping in its mouth, clapping his hands and jumping in delight . . .

“My lady?” Benten said, a note of concern in his voice.

Lyrna touched a hand to her eyes and found them wet. “Mistress,” she corrected. “Just a simple merchant’s daughter.”

“No.” He gave a slow but emphatic shake of his head. “You certainly are not.”

The storm abated after six full days of fury, all sails hauled into place to catch the westerly winds as the sun dried the deck. Lyrna took to wearing a scarf over her mottled scalp, finding the sun’s heat painful on her scars. It was to lead to a near-disastrous incident when one of the crew offered her a mocking bow, presenting her with a larger scarf. “For your face, Mistress,” he explained.

Iltis had laughed, issuing great hearty peals of mirth as he strode across the deck, proffering an appreciative hand to the Meldenean, who proved fool enough to take it.

“How’s he supposed to work the rigging with both arms broken?” the captain demanded a short while later. The fight had been brief but brutal, the crewman Iltis had crippled resembling a recently landed fish as he flopped about on the deck whilst the brother, Harvin and Benten exchanged punches with his mates. The captain barked out a restraining order when one of the crew drew his sabre.

“One of our number is a sailor,” Lyrna replied. “He can take his place.”

She sensed there was something forced about the captain’s ire, his curt treatment of the injured crewmen evidence of an already scant regard. “He’d better,” he growled but said no more, stomping off to berate the helmsman for letting the bow wander too far from the compass.

She found Iltis being nursed by Murel in the hold, the girl’s slender hands dabbing a reddened cloth to his bruises. Lyrna said nothing but pressed a kiss onto his stubbled head. It was gone in an instant, but she fancied she saw a smile twitch on his lips before he growled and turned away.

It became her habit to linger above as night fell. Orena and Murel had a tendency to jabber away for hours until sleep claimed them, usually about matters of the meanest consequence. Lyrna suspected there was a deliberate shallowness to their conversation, an avoidance of recent trauma in talk of past loves and girlhood escapades, a trauma she hadn’t fully shared thanks to her burns. She didn’t begrudge them their distractions but found she needed the comparative quiet of the foredeck to continue the ceaseless examination of evidence.

At first all contemplation had been coloured by the events in the throne room, a central horror that commanded her every thought, birthing uncomfortable conclusions. A plan years in the making, she decided. To prepare such a perfect assassin. And who would have thought Al Telnar would die a hero? She experienced a momentary shame at her many clipped dismissals of the lord’s approaches over the years. Clearly he had been a better man than she judged him, braving Dark fire to save her without care for his own life. But, hero or not, she couldn’t help but conclude he would still have made a terrible husband.

She began to realise concentration on a single event was obstructing the consideration of other evidence. She recalled a phrase from The Wisdoms of Reltak: “Beware the seduction of the quick conclusion. Do not indulge in the answer you desire until you know all you need to know.”

Subduing a city the size of Varinshold would require an army of thousands, she reasoned. Even with Realm Guard absent . . . The Realm Guard, marching forth with the invasion only days away. A case of remarkable ill fortune brought about by the attack on the Tower Lord of the Southern Shore . . . She strove to recover every scrap of detail she had learned about the attempt on the Tower Lord’s life. Two assassins, Cumbraelin fanatics . . . Two assassins.

She should call it merely a suspicion in the absence of other evidence, but allowed herself a certainty. Brother Frentis and the Volarian woman. They’ve been busy. Incredibly she felt a sense of regret at Frentis’s death. How much more evidence could I have wrung from him if he’d lived? But she lives, no doubt killing ever more as her countrymen rape my lands.

She looked down at her hands, finding her fists clenched, as they had been when she stabbed the Volarian. She recalled the twitch of the dagger in her hand as his heart had given a final convulsive beat after the blade pierced it. She can kill, she mused. But now so can I.