‘I have done so. The orders have been issued.’
‘Ah, but will they be carried out?’
Imladrik smiled coldly. ‘Have a care, Caradryel. I am not some simpleton ripe to be lectured — I am your master. Remember that.’
‘Master?’ asked Caradryel, slyly. ‘So we do have an arrangement?’
‘Perhaps. Some tasks that need to be performed are difficult; I had not yet decided who to assign them to. One in particular might serve as a test: perform it well, and I will look on your application with favour. I need to contact someone. It must be done quietly, and it must be done quickly. It will be dangerous.’
‘Perfect,’ said Caradryel. ‘Who?’
‘His name is Morgrim Bargrum,’ said Imladrik. ‘He was a friend, once.’
‘A dwarf?’
‘If our scouts have it right, he is marching towards us even as we sit here. He will not be coming to talk.’
Caradryel smiled, though a little less assuredly. ‘A challenge, then. We will have to change his mind.’
‘To change a dwarf’s mind,’ Imladrik remarked dryly. ‘If you can achieve that, my friend, then I may start to believe your boasts.’
Chapter Ten
Thoriol woke late. The sunlight hurt his eyes and he squinted against it, holding his hand up to the window. There were no drapes. He had no idea why.
He felt sick, as though the floor were pitching under him, and let slip a weak groan of wine-sickness.
He opened his eyes wider, getting used to the glare slowly. It was then that he realised the floor really was moving. For a few moments he had no idea what was happening. A stab of panic shot through his stomach.
Then he smelled salt, saw the narrow window in one wall of the chamber, and felt the rough planks of decking beneath him.
At sea, he realised, which made him scarcely less panicked. How, in the name of Isha…?
He pushed himself into a seated position, head hammering from the rush of blood. The wine-sickness at least was no illusion — he felt like vomiting.
So he did. He managed to get to the far corner of the tiny cabin before his guts rebelled, then retched for a long time, leaving a foul puddle of saliva-strung bile against the curved wall of the ship’s hull.
Finishing made him feel only a little better. His whole body felt shivery and feverish. He had a dim recollection of a female elf with silk-like hair offering him something, but he couldn’t remember what it was. It had smelled good, that he did recall.
Hands shaking, he clawed his way back to where he’d awoken. He’d slept in his robes, the same ones he’d worn coming down from the Dragonspine. He peered cautiously at the window again. The movement of the horizon made his nausea worse.
What day is this? How long have I been asleep?
He got to his feet, bracing uncertainly against the movement of the cabin around him. The space was barely big enough to house him and he cracked his head on the low roof. Cursing, he fumbled for the clasp on the door. After a few false starts, he managed to push it open, and staggered out into a larger space beyond.
Three figures turned to face him, all seated around a long table covered in charts. Leaf-shaped windows ran down the two sides of a larger cabin, each running with spray as the ship pitched.
‘Good morning,’ said one of them, looking at Thoriol with a smile.
Thoriol stared back at him. The elf had strangely familiar features: a scar on his right cheek and a blunt, tanned face. For a minute he was taken back to that evening in the House of Pleasure. How long ago was that? Last night?
‘Who are you?’ Thoriol managed to blurt out. He had to grasp the doorframe to keep from falling. ‘Where am I?’
The elf with the scar motioned to his companions, who rose silently and left the cabin by a door at the other end. Then Scar-face beckoned Thoriol to join him at the table.
‘Come,’ he said. His voice had an earthy quality, rich with the accent of Chrace. ‘You look like you could use a seat.’
In the absence of better options, Thoriol tottered over to the table, collapsed onto the bench and slumped to his elbows.
‘Who are you?’ he asked again, feeling like he might be sick a second time.
‘Baelian.’
Thoriol stared stupidly, wondering if that should mean something to him. ‘That all?’
Baelian shrugged. ‘What do you want to know? This is my ship. The archers aboard are my company. As are you, of course.’
‘As am I,’ Thoriol repeated. He felt thick-headed. Some of what Baelian said resonated faintly with him, as if he’d dreamed of it a long time ago. ‘I have no idea what has happened, but I warn you, sir, my father is-’
‘Yes, you explained all of that,’ said Baelian. ‘Do you not remember?’
Thoriol managed to summon up the energy for a cold look. ‘Obviously not.’
‘You had taken a lot of it. Your first time, perhaps? It can do that to the unwary.’
As Baelian spoke, some recollection began to filter back through Thoriol’s addled mind. The dream-philtre. The poppy.
‘How long have I been out?’ he asked nervously.
‘Three days.’
Thoriol felt dizzy. He stared at the rough grain of the wood, trying to latch on to something certain. ‘If you have taken me against my will,’ he said, as deliberately as he was able, ‘you will suffer for it.’
Baelian laughed. He pushed back, hands behind his head. ‘Do I look like the kind? This is what you wanted, lad. You may not remember it now, but you will.’
As Baelian spoke Thoriol began to have the horrible feeling that he had done something very rash. His memory began to come back in slivers — he recalled speaking to Baelian in the House, watching the scar with fascination in the light of the lanterns.
‘Why don’t you remind me?’ Thoriol suggested. ‘That might save some time.’
‘As you wish.’ Baelian reached across the table and rifled through some leaves of parchment before drawing one out. He pushed it across to Thoriol. ‘Your scroll of warrant. You signed it before we left Lothern.’
Thoriol stared at the sheet. It was covered with a dense screed of runes and had a wax seal at its base. Just above the seal he could see his own scrawled handwriting.
‘We spoke for a long time,’ explained Baelian. ‘You wanted to escape, I made you a proposal. You were very keen to take it up. It’ll all come back in time.’
‘What does this mean?’ Thoriol asked, struggling to decipher what he’d been given — the words seemed to swim before his eyes.
‘You are a member of my company of archers. You’ve had the training, you know how to use a longbow. The pay’s good, and in gold. You’ll get it, too: ask anyone. Nothing to worry about, lad. You wanted to escape, and this is your chance.’
Thoriol ran a shaking hand through his blond-grey hair. His nausea got worse with every revelation. Some of what Baelian told him resonated, some of it didn’t.
‘You took advantage,’ Thoriol accused, putting as much authority as he could into his voice. ‘I was not in my right mind. You have no hold over me.’
Baelian looked amused. ‘Is that right? That’s not what the parchment says.’
‘I had taken a… dream-philtre.’
‘A dream-philtre? I’m shocked. You know they’re prohibited?’
Thoriol looked up into Baelian’s eyes and saw the mockery there. ‘So that’s how this works.’
Baelian sighed. ‘Look, lad, this can be as easy or hard as you make it. You’re one of the company. You can’t change that, not until I release you, but you’re no slave. Like I say, you’ll be paid, you’ll be trained. The captains aren’t too picky about who serves these days, not with two wars running at once, so you’ll be fine. Anyway, I look after my own.’
Thoriol barely listened. Already thoughts of his father’s vengeance were running through his head. He guessed that this Baelian didn’t fully understand who he’d taken on; telling him again would do no good, as he’d surely not convince him now. A familiar voice of derision echoed through his head.