Hiding herself the first night had been challenging: at a loss for any other option, Brexan had slipped into the squalid chamber where the tavern staff bedded down and, stripping off her tunic and leggings, she had dived into bed with that same waiter who had been her antidote to loneliness: too much wine and sex with a stranger. She shocked the young man near to death as she helped him out of his bed clothes and began fondling him beneath the blankets, but when the soldiers burst into the room and she had feigned shock and terror along with the others, they were in no doubt about what the kitchen maid and the waiter were up to.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Brexan had kissed the confused boy affectionately and slipped back into her clothes, then headed off to retrieve Sallax.
That evening, the young man had looked at her questioningly. Not knowing whether she would be forced to take refuge beneath his covers of his bed again, she smiled at him. ‘Shame we were so rudely interrupted,’ she whispered, ‘but I guess that’s what we have to put up with these days.’ She didn’t want him to know she was the target of the raid.
This morning all the tavern staff were already awake when she arrived, stirred by the sounds of raiders stomping upstairs and through the guest chambers. Several had lit bedside tapers, and no one appeared surprised when Brexan entered the room.
‘Oh, lords, you aren’t going to make me do this with the candles lit, are you?’ She didn’t wait for a response from the bleary-eyed staff but steeled herself, pulled her tunic over her head and slipped into bed with the young waiter. As she settled beneath the covers, Brexan found him already stripped and waiting for her.
‘I thought you might be back,’ he said as seductively as the clumsy encounter permitted.
‘I would be so grateful if you help me make this look as convincing as possible,’ she said, smiling down at him.
When the door crashed open a moment later, two Seron tried to press inside, but stuck in the doorway until the larger of the two pushed the other violently out of the way, clearing a path for himself. Behind them, a Malakasian officer dragged the elderly tavern owner by one arm. The innkeeper made eye contact with Brexan briefly, and then looked away.
‘See? I told you,’ he said to the soldier, ‘just these five.’
‘But only four beds?’ The Malakasian moved through the room, tugging down blankets, moving piles of clothing, and peering behind the crates the employees used for storage. ‘Does someone always share a bed in here? What kind of place is this, eh?’
‘These two…’ The old man stammered as he pointed at Brexan and her young waiter with a quivering finger. He was too nervous; Brexan held her breath. At least her bare shoulder was exposed outside the blanket – more convincing than finding her there in a tunic and boots. ‘These two came together from Strandson,’ the tavern owner said.
The officer nodded, and Brexan exhaled slowly. He didn’t care about who she was or what she was doing in this filthy, malodorous chamber: he was upset at having been deployed on a pointless search by a spy who outranked him in the field and strutted around in a rich man’s wardrobe. The man and woman had obviously slipped through the barricade around the city – anyone could these days, with Prince Malagon gone and his generals bickering about it like elderly women.
He glanced down at Brexan, hoping to see more than just her shoulder, then turned back to the tavern owner. ‘The one in the kitchen?’
‘My overnight worker,’ the old man said. ‘He comes in late and cleans until dawn. He’s addled, kicked in the head by his father’s horse. I let him clean the trenchers and keep the fire going. That’s about all he’s good for.’
The officer whistled softly, then said, ‘Fine,’ and to the Seron, ‘You two, let’s go. Find the others and move on.’ A moment later, they were gone.
Back in their room, Brexan rewrapped Sallax’s shoulder. She was tired, and desperately wanted to sleep another half-aven, but the dishevelled hillock of abandoned blankets thrown across the floor did not look very appealing. ‘You did well this morning,’ she said. ‘I don’t think they’ll be back now – they’ve been here three times. It’s Jacrys sending them.’
Sallax growled threateningly under his breath. ‘He tried to fool. He tried to be nice. Sallax knew him from Rona.’
‘I know.’
‘Praga, too.’
‘Praga?’
‘Sallax is from Praga, not Rona. Brynne too.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ she said. ‘I thought you were from Rona.’
He grimaced as she pulled the bandages close around his shoulder.
‘Does it still hurt?’
‘Not like before.’
‘What happened?’ Brexan felt that she was making progress with Sallax, building his trust and helping him face whatever nightmares had changed him from the proud, tough freedom fighter to the crippled, filthy dock scavenger she had met south of the city. This was more than he’d said in eight days.
‘The wraiths found Sallax.’ He stared at a point in the woodwork.
‘A wraith?’
‘Many wraiths. They were hunting for the old man.’ Since the night she helped him escape from Carpello’s warehouse, Brexan had not heard Sallax use Gilmour’s name. ‘There were many, and they came across the hills and up the river valley. Sallax was in the river.’
‘In the river? Why?’
‘This needed cold.’ He indicated his shoulder with a tilt of his head, but his eyes never left the opposite wall. ‘It was broken that day. Lahp, a Seron, broke it. Sallax tried to fix it on the rock, but it didn’t work, and he needed to make it cold.’
‘The wraiths found you in the river? In the cold water?’
‘Very cold. He was in there a long time. Everything was blue and white, even the old man. There was nothing but the blue and the white, and the cold did it. The river. This only felt better there.’ A tilt of his head again.
‘Why did the wraiths want to find Gilmour?’
‘They thought he had the stone. He didn’t. They wanted to find him and the others. Sallax doesn’t know if they did or not. They found Sallax and hurt him.’
‘Your shoulder? They hurt your shoulder again?’
‘No, here.’ He tapped at his forehead. ‘They wanted to kill the others, but when they found Sallax, they didn’t kill him. It was more-’ He stopped.
‘Entertaining.’ Brexan completed his thought, ‘more entertaining to make you think-’
‘About the old man,’ he reciprocated.
‘Gilmour.’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Dead?’
‘Sallax helped to kill him. The wraiths thought that Sallax’s pain was funny. They wanted to kill the others, but they let Sallax live.’
‘They were ghosts?’
‘Lost souls. People once. They were trapped, and it made them angry. They wanted to get free but couldn’t. They wanted to find their friends and children, their families. When they realised what Sallax had done, they went wild. It was mad, a raving spirit dance there at the river. They had been trapped a long time. Sallax was not as good as they were, but he was free. They didn’t like that.’
‘So they trapped you in here.’ She tapped two fingers on his forehead as well. ‘We have to find you in there, Sallax. You have too much strength, you’re too valuable to be wandering lost and alone like this. People need you.’
‘People needed the old man.’
That tack backfired, so Brexan decided to change the subject. ‘Tell me about Brynne.’
A hint of a smile graced the big man’s face. ‘She was just a baby when her parents died. She needed lots of nappies.’
‘Babies do.’
‘She had a lunatic’s hair. It was curly and all over. Nothing could tame it.’ He twirled one finger above his head, sketching a crop of unruly locks badly in need of a trim.
‘Did she follow you that day along the river?’