The dragons tooth, p.20
The Dragon's Tooth, page 20
He longed to escape the boat and explore the dark alleys of the most notorious district in Albany. He might find out the truth about his mother... But then, what truth did he seek? His desire would be that no-one had heard of her, and he could pursue his enquiries among the relatives of sea-captains in the more prosperous areas. But what could he ask? How could he describe his mother that would set her apart from any other unfortunate that found herself trapped by the whoremasters of the Dugann? And if he had relatives elsewhere in the city who cared a jot, wouldn’t they have searched him out before now? All the Dugann could do was confirm his worst nightmares.
And he’d promised Pawly he would stay on the ‘Eog’, as the boat was known. He’d never had true friends, for even in the Elite Guard the men kept an emotional distance, knowing that their deaths could not be allowed to impact the efficiency of the unit. But sharing the boat with Pawly, Kevern, and Zethar had already created bonds that he was loathe to break. He was no passenger. He’d manned the oars with them, and soon mastered the skills of changing the sails and reading charts. After a few days battling storms along the coastal border between Morgenley and Albany they moored at the port town of Sloch over the time of Samhainn, and joined in the festivities. It had been agreed that Owain would call himself “Rori of Strathcoul” to reduce the risk that Pawly’s customer discovered that his trip had not been as secretive as expected. The events on that evening were another reason why Owain was reluctant to accompany the crew on their evening out.
The taverns had been full, and the celebrations wild. To Pawly and Kevern’s annoyance, the two most attractive girls they met immediately took to Zethar and Owain. Zethar’s girl was called Elfa, thin and dark-haired with bright blue eyes, who flirted outrageously with the sailor, as soon as she saw him. Blond, well-rounded, blue eyed Lowri took a shine to Owain.
Four tankards of Sloch ale had dulled Owain’s memory of Màiri, and he’d been flattered by Lowri’s attention. She sat on his knee, kissing his cheek every so often, and giving cheery waves to Elfa. After a while, she leaned over and whispered in his ear.
“Tell you what, sailor boy. How about two crowns for sailing your galley under my petticoats?”
Owain regretted that he did not have two crowns. Pawly had advanced him one. He wasn’t sure of the going rate for love in Sloch. Then Lowri made a second offer...
“And another ten for me keeping quiet about who you really are?”
“I’m Rori of Strathdu, I mean Strathcoul. That’s me.”
“No it’s not. No way are you from Strathcoul, and I’ll be cursed if you’re called Rori. I was your favourite maid. You swived with me enough till the bairn came. You’re not foolin’ no-one with that stupid accent!”
“I never swived ye! I dinnae ken ye!” Owain protested loudly in a tone that temporarily silenced the inn.
Someone in the tavern remarked “Now’s your big chance mate”, and someone else suggested to Lowri that if she wanted a good swiving he was her man. Lowri swore at her new admirer, and then someone else advised Elfa that she ought to stick with white men. Zethar jumped to his feet to retaliate, when Kevern blocked his way. Then Kevern turned and coolly laid the speaker out with one enormous blow. Two men standing at the back had a disagreement about the merits of racism and started to fight. Within minutes the tavern became a chaos of flying fists and chairs, and the crew of the Eog were running for the harbour as the local Guardians rushed in to restore order. Owain’s last memories of Lowri had been the girl screaming “I know who you are” as he rushed out of the door.
And then the Eog made its way along the coast to the great city of Lasgard. Owain stood in wonder as the boat turned into the mouth of the Speidhon and he saw the castle crouching on the rock like a huge beast, the Black Tower its one-clawed paw about to tear its prey apart.
He was now studying the parchment he’d taken from the dead man in the tunnels under the Citadel. An oil lamp burned by his side.
It read:
“[TdD]20DA10CBL2Sí200SeSc4,152D83BCL3,47Ga22Ga17GaSí173CSuA[HnRM]D317BC47BDL3, SuCé257D21Ga14Ga21Ga15CéSí10CéGa1CéDL4,78ADCéSí 48CéDL4,56DL2, 23Ga14Ga10DL3, 10CéSu8CéGa53CéGa 15CéCL2,[HnR]D214 BC47BDL3, CéSí50CéCL1483CéSí48CL3[IaT]”
At the bottom was a strange symbol, shaped like the letter ‘M’ with a spiral drawn around it.
He guessed from the formation of the vowels that it was written in one of the old tongues, but whether it was in code or not was uncertain. He suspected that if it was a guide to the tunnels then it could not be encrypted, since anyone travelling the ancient passages would not want the added problem of trying to decipher their route. More likely it was written in plain language but abbreviated. It was doubtful how useful it was. It hadn’t stopped its previous owner impaling himself on a row of sharp wooden stakes.
He heard light footsteps on the boat above. There was nothing much worth stealing, since they’d unloaded the silk and would be taking on a new cargo the next morning. The sails might be of some value, but they were locked behind a bulkhead. Owain grabbed a steel knife from beneath his bench and peered out through a gap in the door.
He could see a dark figure walking slowly across the deck towards him. There was something in the stranger’s hand, and he guessed it was some kind of weapon.
“Whit d’ye want?” he shouted, his breath a white fog in the cold Tuschur night air. At the same time he heard a faint sound behind and instinctively leapt to one side. Another man had been creeping round behind him, moving stealthily on the roof of the cabin. He held the knife out, pointing at each of the men in turn. He couldn’t see them clearly, as the lights of the Dugann were behind them. They could see him, and Owain pulled up his sleeve to show his Guard’s tattoo. He saw something glint in the second man’s hand and realised it was a dagger.
“Come on” said Owain. “I’m ready for ye!”
The man on the cabin roof laughed, but his companion did not. “D’ye see who it be!” he said. “It’s yon... “ It was an Upper Albany accent with something else...possibly Morgenlean.
“It’s nobody” said the other, possibly from Lasgard. “It’s one man. C’mon. Tell us where your cargo is an’ we’ll leave you alone.”
“Gleis! It be him” shouted the man on the deck, slowly edging back towards the quayside. “Kill him an’ they’ll be after us. Nae just the noose! Worse than that! I ken it be him. I seen him when I worked up at the place. He’ll have guards nearby. Just run!” With that he turned and darted off. His companion waved his knife at Owain, snarled, and then followed.
Owain stood watching the figures disappear among the nearby buildings. Someone shouted down at him, asking if he was all right. Owain waved a thanks, and went back inside. He was getting the distinct impression he looked like someone else, someone whose life was obviously just as eventful as his own. And probably a lot more fun by the sound of it.
Four hours later Pawly and Zethar walked back onto the boat, carrying Kevern. Owain waited for them to enter the cabin.
“Whit’s happened?” asked Owain.
“Uldarian best” muttered Pawly. “Gets the better of him. He bets some fat merchant he could be drinkin’ five bottles.”
“How much did he lose?” asked Owain.
“He be winnin’. That be the kidgin’ problem” said Pawly, dropping Kevern on the floor. “All quiet when we be away?”
Owain shook his head. “Two thieves came on board. I chased them off.”
Pawly looked at him. “Ye be chasin’ them? How far be ye chasin’ them?”
“I never left the boat.”
“But ye be on deck, right?
“Yeah, I had tae be, otherwise they’d have stolen something.”
“Oden help us” said Pawly. “Ye shouldn’t have been on deck. Did they sees yer face?”
“One of them thought he knew me.”
“I’ll be the Queen o’ the Fairies! We be not getting’ paid now.”
Zethar sat down unsteadily on the bench. “C’mon, Pawly. They’d only have come in here if the lad had hid. Ye knows that.”
Pawly sat down and put his head in his hands. “Aye, ye be right. We shouldn’t haves left him here.”
“Well, we couldn’t have taken him with us” slurred Zethar.
“So who do I look like?” asked Owain.
“I don’t knows” said Pawly. “Someone big in Lasgard, that be fer sure. All I knows is we be keepin’ ye hidden all the way through Albany. An’ now two kidgin’ people thinks they knows ye.”
“He said he’d seen me at the place and I’ve got guards.”
Zethar slowly raised his index finger to his forehead indicating he’d had an idea. “Pawly, I thinks Owain looks like a gang boss. These people... a tart... a thief... Well they won’t knows anyone proper like. So who’s payin’ us?”
Pawly shook his head. “Some kidgin’ fixer called the Squire. I just don’t knows if he works for someone else. The sooner we gets away from this kidgin’ harbour the better. First light tomorrow, we gets the cargo an’ ons our way. Ye don’t knows the half o’ it, lad.”
“Whit d’ye mean?” asked Owain.
“Last tavern we be visitin’, the one where this stupid Taffy here”... he kicked Kevern with his foot... “be startin’ his stupid bets. Big notice on the kidgin’ wall. I can’t reads, but Zethar here, he can. Says there be a fifty crown reward fer information on the whereabouts o’ one Owain of Strathdu. ”
Owain went white. “Who wants me?”
“Some cove called Lord Chrosal. An’ lad, ye’d better behaves. We be only gettin’ forty fer takin’ ye to the bridge.”
Chapter 39, Lasgard, Twelfth Day of Tuschur, 711
High in the State Chamber, King Tiernan welcomed his two visitors. For once he was sober, but the trembling of his hands and yellowing of his skin indicated that his vices were edging closer to destroying him.
Chrosal and Albrecht went through the usual courtesies, but the mood in the room was as bleak as the leaden skies above.
“We will triumph” said Tiernan. “Albany will never yield to its enemies.”
“Your Majesty”, said Chrosal, “our victory is never in doubt, but only because we recognise the magnitude of the situation we face, and we plan carefully to resolve the problems we face.”
The King banged the table. “Two lesser countries and a race that hides within its borders like a child behind its mothers’ skirts!”
“Your Majesty, we must include our own people in the list of our problems” replied Chrosal. “Your taxes are high, and collecting them is becoming less easy. We have asked the foresters to fell more wood for ships and weapons, but refuse to pay them more, and conscript their young men into the army at every opportunity. You demand the farmers give more food to the army, and take vessels from the merchant fleets to defend our overseas territories. And yet we are not at war. The people ask why.”
The King opened his arms. “I am their King. I have commanded them. That is why.”
Albrecht spoke up. “Your Majesty, Upper Albany sadly does not have as great a love of your rule as this fine city and its outskirts. You risk making an enemy that is both more dangerous and closer.”
Tiernan laughed. “A bunch of woodsmen and hunters! They have no leader. I will instruct the Dukes to deal with any dissent.”
“I fear, your Majesty, the Dukes may be the problem rather than the solution” responded Albrecht. “Smithton, Maastal, and Strathcoul may profess their loyalty but they all have Merlyan blood in their veins, and may dream of greater things.” The Arch-Priest resisted the temptation to cast a quick glance at Chrosal. “If one of them believes he could unite the north, would you trust him to hold back?”
“If the north rebels, we shall destroy them!” screamed Tiernan. “We will burn their villages and take their women to be the playthings of our troops. No males will survive. The Dukes will suffer worst of all!”
Chrosal shook his head. “Your Majesty, half of our army was born north of Midmar and Cathton. We cannot risk a civil war that would destroy us all and leave our land as carrion for the vultures waiting to cross our borders.”
The King thought for a moment then took off a jewelled gold ring from his left hand and looked at the gem in the morning light. His mood seemed to lighten. “And what is your solution? No doubt the usual alliance with Morgenley through my son’s marriage and conceding Cörinan to Grunwalt. And what of the Sidhe? Your solution is for the Lion of Albany to skulk in a hole like a mouse.”
“Better that than be torn apart by the pack of wolves that wait outside your den” said Chrosal. “Our strategy must be to separate the pack, and destroy them one by one.”
Tiernan shrugged. “You want us to mate with the biggest wolf of them all, not destroy it. My son, at least, seems committed to your plan. He seems more diligent as regards his studies.”
Chrosal nodded. “He does well, your Majesty. I would guard against us being complacent, for his desire for joys of the flesh is still present. “
But his desires are not as evil as some, thought Albrecht.
Tiernan laughed. “He is his father’s son, and I will not condemn him for that. Nevertheless, if Artur wishes to test the boy, then he must be ready. But how can we stop Artur assigning him a task that will take his life?”
“We will try to persuade Rhys, his Arch-Priest, to propose a quest that will seem more heroic than it is” replied Albrecht.
“And why would he do that?” asked Tiernan with a smile. “What has Rhys to gain from an alliance? Will you become his apprentice, Albrecht?”
“We will convince the High-Priest that the Church would gain by ensure the marriage takes place.”
“I wish I shared your confidence” said Tiernan. “Very well, let us wait. Halt conscription, but do not let the army stand down. Now Chrosal, another matter. Why do you seek the death of Owain of Strathdu, a man who my generals tell me is already dead?”
Chrosal looked at Albrecht before replying. “I am delighted to see the interest your Majesty takes in my humble activities.”
Tiernan smiled at the compliment. “The man is apparently a hero, slain by the Sidhe while on a mission. I was thinking of finding his family and making some kind of gesture. But now you are offering a reward for his capture. Please explain.”
Chrosal bowed his head. “We have information... secret information... perhaps not true... that this Owain was in fact a would-be leader of the northern rebels and tricked the army into taking him to the Sidhe to plead for aid. Of course, we cannot trust this, but were he to be found it would indeed be damning.”
“And if it is not true, then you malign a hero?”
Chrosal bowed again. “Indeed, your Majesty. If we cannot find him, he will indeed be a hero. “
“And do you know who his parents are?” enquired the King. “I still believe we should make a gesture to show how we value the valour of our northern troops.”
Albrecht walked to the window and looked out over the Speidhon. “We believe his mother is dead, your Majesty. Once we find his father, we will ensure he receives a just reward.” He watched a small sailing vessel slowly making its way up the Speidhon. “If however Owain returns, he is a danger to the Kingdom and must die.”
Chapter 40, Bridge of Culhall, Seventeenth Day of Tuschur, 711
Hamish of Echt sat nursing his broken arm in the darkness of the cabin watching the eight rowers power the Eog against the current of the great river. Hamish, once known as Rori of Strathcoul, and for a longer time before that as Owain of Strathdu, was in fact uninjured, but he needed an excuse to avoid having to man the oars and risk possible identification by one of the six men they’d taken on at Cathton. Before then, they used the winds and tides of the lower reaches to sail to the riverside town. Owain stayed in the boat while the others took their customary tour of the taverns, this time returning without any incident.
They’d hired the oarsmen, and with Zethar and Kevern taking the other two rowing places, and Pawly steering, the Eog made its way up to Smithton. A new crew of rowers was obtained, and Owain again hid under cover guarding the cargo while the others pursued pleasure in the town. They returned with tales of army recruiting sergeants prowling the taverns looking for willing (or incapably drunk) volunteers, and talk of war. Their Morgenlean accents were heard with suspicion in some places, and once or twice the natives threatened a fight, although one Smithtonian allegedly whispered to Kevern that an alliance between Morgenley and Upper Albany might “teach thae rich Lasgard bastards a lesson”.
Pawly asked what the war was all about only to be told that Albanians were going to fight one or all of the Sidhe, Morgenley, Grunwalt, Uldar, or simply each other. The King was a drunken idiot, his son was rumoured to be worse, the Dukes were corrupt, the town officials incompetent. The taxes were too high, but that wasn’t too big a problem for the well-off, as everyone knew the merchants and tavern owners pled poverty while hiding their gold from the authorities. Consequently the number of robberies was on the increase.
They set off from Smithton under leaden skies soon hidden by heavy flurries of snow. Pawly was nervous that the temperature might drop further, and allow ice to form on the upper river. The rowers kept up their steady stroke, the Eog tying up at the bank every hour or so to give the men a rest. Once or twice they found a riverside inn, but Owain remained a virtual prisoner. Some of the oarsmen questioned why he was always left behind but Pawly assured them that with one arm he was still the best guard for their cargo.
The cargo was listed on a bill of sale as ‘pethaus’. When Owain asked what it meant, Pawly just grinned and said it was an old Morgenlean word. From the weight of the boxes, he guessed they were metal swords.
“Pethaus”, Pawly said, “be a fairly broad term. I knows what be in the kidgin’ boxes, but nobody else does, an’ that be the best way. Ye an’ the other boys don’t needs to know. Ye don’t needs to know what be in the kidgin’ boxes, ye don’t needs to knows the kidgin’ seller, an’ ye don’t needs to knows the buyer.”
