‘They have their own horses and wag­ons. Food sup­plies, too.’ He cocked his head at us. ‘But you look to be folk trav­el­ling with what’s on your backs and no more.’

  ‘And a lot easier to con­ceal than a wagon and team. We’ll give you one gold now, and one at the Moun­tain bor­der. For both of us,’ Starling offered.

  He leaned back in his chair and pondered a mo­ment. Then he poured more brandy all round. ‘Not enough,’ he said re­gret­fully. ‘But I sus­pect it’s all you have.’

  It was more than I had. I hoped, per­haps, it was what Starling had. ‘Take us over the river for that much,’ I offered. ‘From there, we’re on our own.’

  Starling kicked me un­der the table. She seemed to be speak­ing only to me as she said, ‘He’s tak­ing the oth­ers to the Moun­tain bor­der and across it. We may as well en­joy the com­pany that far.’ She turned back to Nik. ‘It will have to take us all the way to the Moun­tains.’

  Nik sipped at his brandy. He sighed heav­ily. ‘I’ll see your coin, beg­ging your par­don, be­fore we say it’s a bar­gain.’

  Starling and I ex­changed glances. ‘We’ll re­quire a private mo­ment,’ she said smoothly. ‘Beg­ging your par­don.’ She rose and, tak­ing my hand, led me to the corner of the room. Once there she whispered, ‘Have you never bar­gained be­fore in your life? You give too much, too fast. Now. How much coin do you truly have?’

  For an­swer, I upen­ded my purse in my hand. She picked through the con­tents as swiftly as a mag­pie steal­ing grain. She hef­ted the coins in her hand with a prac­tised air. ‘We’re short. I thought you’d have more than this. What’s that?’ Her fin­ger jabbed at Burrich’s ear­ring. I closed my hand around it be­fore she could pick it up.

  ‘Some­thing very im­port­ant to me.’

  ‘More im­port­ant than your life?’

  ‘Not quite,’ I ad­mit­ted. ‘But close. My father wore it, for a time. A close friend of his gave it to me.’

  ‘Well, if it must go, I’ll see that it goes dearly.’ She turned away from me without an­other word and walked back to Nik. She took her seat, tossed the rest of her brandy down and waited for me. When I was seated, she told Nik, ‘We’ll give you what coin we have now. It’s not as much as you ask. But at the Moun­tain bor­der, I’ll give you all my jew­ellery as well. Rings, ear­rings, all of it. What say you?’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘It’s not enough for me to risk hanging over.’

  ‘What’s the risk?’ Starling de­man­ded. ‘If they dis­cover you with the pil­grims, you’ll hang. You’ve already been paid for that risk in what they gave you. We don’t in­crease your risk, only your sup­ply bur­den. Surely it’s worth that.’

  He shook his head, al­most re­luct­antly. Starling turned and held out her hand to me. ‘Show it to him,’ she said quietly. I felt al­most sick as I opened my pouch and fingered out the ear­ring.

  ‘What I have might not seem like much at first glance,’ I told him. ‘Un­less a per­son were know­ledge­able about such things. I am. I know what I have and I know what it’s worth. It’s worth whatever trouble you’d have to go through for us.’

  I spread it out on my palm, the fine sil­ver net trap­ping the sap­phire within. Then I picked it up by the pin and held it be­fore the dan­cing fire. ‘It’s not just the sil­ver or the sap­phire. It’s the work­man­ship. Look how supple is the sil­ver net, see how fine the links.’

  Starling reached one fin­ger­tip to touch it. ‘King-in-Wait­ing Chiv­alry once owned it,’ she ad­ded re­spect­fully.

  ‘Coins are more eas­ily spent,’ Nik poin­ted out.

  I shrugged. ‘If coins to spend are all a man wants, that is true. Some­times there is pleas­ure in the own­ing of some­thing, pleas­ure greater than coins in the pocket. But when it is yours, you could change it for coins, if you wished. Were I to at­tempt it now, in haste, I’d get but a frac­tion of its worth. But a man with your con­nec­tions, and the time to bar­gain well, could get well over four golds for it. But if you’d rather, I could go back to town with it and …’

  Greed had kindled in his eyes. ‘I’ll take it,’ he con­ceded.

  ‘On the other side of the river,’ I told him. I lif­ted the jew­ellery and re­stored it to my ear. Let him look at it each time he looked at me. I made it formal. ‘You un­der­take to get us both safely to the other side of the river. And when we get there, the ear­ring is yours.’

  ‘As your sole pay­ment,’ Starling ad­ded quietly. ‘Though we will al­low you to hold all our coins un­til then. As a surety.’

  ‘Agreed, and here’s my hand on it,’ he ac­know­ledged. We shook hands.

  ‘When do we leave?’ I asked him.

  ‘When the weather’s right,’ he said.

  ‘To­mor­row would be bet­ter,’ I told him.

  He rose slowly. ‘To­mor­row, eh? Well, if the weather’s right to­mor­row, then is when we’ll leave. Now I’ve a few things I need to at­tend to. I’ll have to ex­cuse my­self, but Pelf can see to you here.’

  I had ex­pec­ted to walk back to town for the night, but Starling bar­gained with Pelf, her songs for a meal for us, and then to pre­pare us a room for the night. I was a bit ill at ease to sleep among strangers, but re­flec­ted it might ac­tu­ally be safer than go­ing back to town. If the food Pelf cooked for us was not as fine as we had en­joyed at Starling’s inn the night be­fore, it was still far bet­ter than onion and potato soup. There were thick slices of fried ham and apple sauce and a cake made with fruits and seeds and spices. Pelf brought us beer to go with it and joined us at table, speak­ing cas­u­ally of gen­eral top­ics. After we’d eaten, Starling played a few songs for the girl, but I found I could scarcely keep my eyes open. I asked to be shown to a room, and Starling said she, too, was weary.

  Pelf showed us to a cham­ber above Nik’s elab­or­ate room. It had been a very fine room once, but I doubted it had been reg­u­larly used for years. She had star­ted a fire in the hearth there, but the long chill of dis­use and the must of neg­lect still filled the room. There was an im­mense bed with a feather­bed on it and grey­ing hangings. Starling sniffed crit­ic­ally at it, and as soon as Pelf left, she busied her­self in drap­ing the blankets from the bed over a bench and set­ting it by the fire. ‘They will both air and warm that way,’ she told me know­ledge­ably.

  I had been bar­ring the door, and check­ing the latches on the win­dows and shut­ters. They all seemed sound. I was sud­denly too weary to reply. I told my­self it was the brandy fol­lowed by the beer. I dragged one chair to wedge it against the door while Starling watched me with amuse­ment. Then I came back to the fire and sank down onto the blanket-draped bench and stretched my legs to the warmth. I toed my boots off. Well. To­mor­row I’d be on my way to the Moun­tains.

  Starling came to sit be­side me. For a time she didn’t speak. Then she lif­ted a fin­ger and bat­ted at my ear­ring with it. ‘Was it truly Chiv­alry’s?’ she asked me.

  ‘For a while.’

  ‘And you’d give it up to get to the Moun­tains. What would he say?’

  ‘Don’t know. Never knew the man.’ I sud­denly sighed. ‘By all ac­counts, he was fond of his little brother. I don’t think he’d be­grudge me spend­ing it to get to Ver­ity.’

  ‘Then you do go to seek out your king.’

  ‘Of course.’ I tried in vain to stifle a yawn. Some­how it seemed fool­ish to deny it now. ‘I’m not sure it was wise to men­tion Chiv­alry to Nik. He might make a con­nec­tion.’ I turned to look at her. Her face was too close. I couldn’t bring her fea­tures into fo­cus. ‘But I’m too sleepy to care,’ I ad­ded.

  ‘You’ve no head for merry­bud,’ she laughed.

  ‘There was no Smoke to­night.’

  ‘In the cake. She told you it was spiced.’

  ‘Is that what she meant?’

  ‘Yes. That’s what spiced means all over Far­row.’

  ‘Oh. In Buck it means there’s ginger. Or cit­ron.’

  ‘I know that.’ She leaned against me and sighed. ‘You don’t trust these people, do you?’

  ‘Of course not. They don’t trust us. If we trus­ted them, they’d have no re­spect for us. They’d think us gull­ible fools, the sort who get smug­glers into trouble by talk­ing too much.’

  ‘But you shook hands with Nik.’

  ‘I did. And I be­lieve he will keep his word. As far as it goes.’

  We both fell si­lent, think­ing about that. After a time, I star­ted awake again. Starling sat up be­side me. ‘I’m go­ing to bed,’ she an­nounced.

  ‘Me, too,’ I replied. I claimed a blanket and star­ted to roll up in it by the fire.

  ‘Don’t be ri­dicu­lous,’ she told me. ‘That bed’s big enough for four. Sleep in a bed while you can, for I bet we aren’t go­ing to see an­other one soon.’

  I took very little per­suad­ing. The feather­bed was deep, if a trifle smelly from damp. We each had a share of the blankets. I knew I should re­tain some cau­tion but the brandy and the merry­bud had un­loosed the knot of my will. I fell into a very deep sleep.

  To­wards morn­ing, I awoke once when Starling threw an arm over me. The fire had burned out and the room was cold. In her sleep she had mi­grated across the bed and was pressed up against my back. I star­ted to ease away from her but it was too warm and com­pan­ion­able. Her breath was against the back of my neck. There was a wo­man smell to her that was not a per­fume but a part of her. I closed my eyes and lay very still. Molly. The sud­den des­per­ate long­ing I felt for her was like a pain. I clenched my teeth to it. I willed my­self into sleep again.

  It was a mis­take.

  The baby was cry­ing. Cry­ing and cry­ing. Molly was in her nightrobe with a blanket draped over her shoulders. She looked hag­gard and weary as she sat by the fire and rocked her end­lessly. Molly sang a little song to her, over and over, but the tune had long since gone out of it. She turned her head slowly to the door as Burrich opened it. ‘May I come in?’ he asked quietly.

  She nod­ded him in. ‘What are you do­ing awake at this hour?’ she asked him tiredly.

  ‘I could hear her cry­ing clear out there. Is she ill?’ He went to the fire and poked it up a little. He ad­ded an­other piece of wood, then stooped to look in the baby’s small face.

  ‘I don’t know. She just cries and cries and cries. She doesn’t even want to nurse. I don’t know what’s wrong with her.’ There was misery in Molly’s voice far past the use of tears.

  Burrich turned to her. ‘Let me take her for a while. You go lie down and try to rest a bit, or you’ll both be ill. You can’t do this night after night.’

  Molly looked up at him without com­pre­hen­sion. ‘You want to take care of her? You’d truly do that?’

  ‘I may as well,’ he told her wryly. ‘I can’t sleep through her cry­ing.’

  Molly stood up as if her back ached. ‘Warm your­self first. I’ll make some tea.’

  For an­swer he took the babe from her arms. ‘No, you go back to bed for a while. No sense in all of us not sleep­ing.’

  Molly seemed un­able to grasp it. ‘You truly don’t mind if I go back to bed?’

  ‘No, go ahead, we’ll be fine. Go on, now.’ He settled the blanket about her and then set the in­fant to his shoulder. She looked very tiny with his dark hands against her. Molly walked slowly across the room. She looked back at Burrich but he was look­ing into the baby’s face. ‘Hush now,’ he told her. ‘Hush.’

  Molly clambered into bed and pulled the blankets up over her­self. Burrich did not sit down. He stood be­fore the fire, rock­ing slightly on his feet as he pat­ted the baby’s back slowly.

  ‘Burrich,’ Molly called to him quietly.

  ‘Yes?’ He did not turn to look at her.

  ‘There’s no sense your sleep­ing in that shed in this weather. You should move in­side for the winter, and sleep by the hearth.’

  ‘Oh. Well. It’s not so very cold out there. It’s all in what you’re used to, you know.’

  A small si­lence fell.

  ‘Burrich. I would feel safer, were you closer.’ Molly’s voice was very small.

  ‘Oh. Well. Then I sup­pose I shall be. But there’s noth­ing you need fear to­night. Go to sleep, now. Both of you.’ He bent his head and I saw his lips brush the top of the baby’s head. Very softly he began singing to her. I tried to make out the words, but his voice was too deep. Nor did I know the lan­guage. The baby’s wail­ing be­came less de­term­ined. He began to pace slowly around the room with her. Back and forth be­fore the fire. I was with Molly as she watched him un­til she too, fell asleep to Burrich’s sooth­ing voice. The only dream I had after that was of a lone wolf, run­ning, end­lessly run­ning. He was as alone as I was.

  FIF­TEEN

  Kettle

  Queen Kettricken was car­ry­ing Ver­ity’s child when she fled King-in-Wait­ing Regal to re­turn to her Moun­tains. Some have cri­ti­cized her, say­ing if she had re­mained at Buck and forced Regal’s hand, the child would have been born safely there. Per­haps if she had, Buck­keep Castle would have ral­lied to her, per­haps all of Buck Duchy would have presen­ted a more uni­fied res­ist­ance to the Outis­lander Raid­ers. Per­haps the Coastal Duch­ies would have fought harder if they had had a queen at Buck. So some say.

  The gen­eral be­lief of those who lived in Buck­keep Castle at the time and were well in­formed of the in­ternal polit­ics of the Farseer re­gency is very dif­fer­ent. Without ex­cep­tion, they be­lieved that both Kettricken and her un­born child would have met with foul play. It can be sub­stan­ti­ated that even after Queen Kettricken had re­moved her­self from Buck­keep, those who sup­por­ted Regal as king did all that they could to dis­credit her, even to say­ing that the child she car­ried was not Ver­ity’s at all, but had been fathered by his bas­tard nephew FitzChiv­alry.

  Whatever sup­pos­i­tions might be made about what would have happened if Kettricken had re­mained at Buck­keep are but use­less spec­u­la­tions now. The his­tor­ical fact is that she be­lieved her child would have the best chance of sur­viv­ing if born in her be­loved Moun­tain King­dom. She also re­turned to the Moun­tains in the hopes of be­ing able to find Ver­ity and re­store her hus­band to power. Her search ef­forts, how­ever, only yiel­ded her grief. She found the battle site of his com­pan­ions against uniden­ti­fied at­tack­ers. The un­bur­ied re­mains were little more than scattered bones and draggled bits of cloth­ing after the scav­en­gers had fin­ished with them. Among those re­mains, how­ever, she found the blue cloak Ver­ity had worn when she had last seen him, and his sheath knife. She re­turned to the royal res­id­ence at Jhaampe and mourned her hus­band as dead.

  More dis­tress­ing to her was that for months af­ter­wards she re­ceived re­ports of sight­ings of folk in the garb of Ver­ity’s Guard in the moun­tains bey­ond Jhaampe. These in­di­vidual guards were seen wan­der­ing alone by Moun­tain vil­la­gers. They seemed re­luct­ant to have con­ver­sa­tion with the vil­la­gers and des­pite their ragged con­di­tion of­ten re­fused of­fers of aid or food. Without ex­cep­tion, they were de­scribed by those who saw them as ‘pathetic’ or ‘piteous’. Some few of these men trickled in to Jhaampe from time to time. They seemed un­able to an­swer her ques­tions about Ver­ity and what had be­come of him co­her­ently. They could not even re­call when they had par­ted com­pany with him or un­der what cir­cum­stances. Without ex­cep­tion, they seemed al­most ob­sessed with re­turn­ing to Buck­keep.

  In time she came to be­lieve that Ver­ity and his guard had been at­tacked, not only phys­ic­ally but by ma­gic. The am­bush­ers who struck at him with ar­row and sword, and the false co­terie that dis­heartened and con­fused his guard were, she sur­mised, in the em­ploy of his younger brother, Prince Regal. This is what pre­cip­it­ated her un­ceas­ing ill will to­ward her brother-in-law.

  I awoke to a ham­mer­ing on the door. I shouted some­thing back as I sat up dis­or­i­en­ted and cold in the dark. ‘We leave in an hour!’ was the reply.

  I fought my way clear of wel­ter­ing blankets and Starling’s sleepy em­brace. I found my boots and pulled them on, and then my cloak. I snugged it around me against the chilly room. Starling’s only move had been to im­me­di­ately bur­row into the warm place where I had lain. I leaned over the bed. ‘Starling?’ When there was no re­sponse, I reached down and shook her slightly. ‘Starling! We leave in less than an hour. Get up!’

  She heaved a tre­mend­ous sigh. ‘Go ahead. I’ll be ready.’ She shouldered deeper into the blankets. I shrugged my shoulders and left her there.

  Down­stairs in the kit­chen Pelf had stacks of griddle-cakes keep­ing warm by the cook­ing hearth. She offered me a plate with but­ter and honey and I was only too glad to ac­cept. The house, so quiet a place the day be­fore, was now thronged with folk. From the strong re­semb­lances, this was a fam­ily busi­ness. The small boy with the spot­ted kid was sit­ting at a stool by the table, feed­ing the goat bits of griddle-cake. From time to time, I caught him star­ing at me. When I smiled back, the boy’s eyes got wide. With a ser­i­ous ex­pres­sion he arose and car­ried his plate off, with the goat skit­ter­ing after him.

  Nik strode through the kit­chen, black wool cloak swirl­ing about his calves. It was dot­ted with fresh snow­flakes. He caught my eye in passing. ‘Ready to go?’

  I gave a nod.

  ‘Good.’ He gave me a glance on his way out. ‘Dress warmly. Storm is just be­gin­ning.’ He grinned. ‘Per­fect trav­el­ling weather for you and me.’

  I told my­self I had not ex­pec­ted to en­joy the trip. I had fin­ished my break­fast be­fore Starling came down the stairs. When she reached the kit­chen, she sur­prised me. I had ex­pec­ted her to be sleepy. In­stead she was brightly alert, her cheeks flushed and mouth laugh­ing. As she came into the kit­chen she was trad­ing quips with one of the men, and get­ting the best of it. She did not hes­it­ate when she got to table, but helped her­self to a hearty serving of everything. When she looked up from her empty plate, she must have seen the sur­prise on my face.

 

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