Tolly? Were they collecting him for Hendon Tolly? Had Elan’s tormentor found out what he had done? Matt Tinwright’s heart was suddenly beating so fast he felt dizzy and sick to his stomach. “Honestly, you have made a mistake.” He tried to squirm away but the guard reached out his other big hand and buffeted Tinwright so hard on the head that for long moments he could see nothing but a glare of white light, hear nothing but a loud ringing sound, as if his head had become a giant bell tolling the hour. When his wits returned he was being dragged through the streets, his feet stumbling and scraping as the two men all but carried him.
“Anymore talk and I’ll happily do that again twice as hard,” said the pasty-faced one. “In fact, next time I’ll just twist your stones until you shriek like a wee girl. How will that be?”
Tinwright stuck to silent prayer. Zoria heard from him, as did Zosim, the Three Brothers, and every other deity he could think of, including some he might have made up for his own poems.
Instead of them taking him toward the castle, though, it quickly became clear that the unpleasant men had some other destination. They frog-marched Tinwright down a succession of narrow streets, then across the bridge to the east side of the lagoon, finally arriving at a tavern on pilings that jutted right out over the water. The place had no name on it, only a long, rusted gaffing hook hung above the front door. It was dark inside, and when they first lifted him roughly across the threshold Tinwright felt as though he were being carried down into the frozen throne room of Kernios himself. He could not help noticing that it smelled more like something belonging to the sea god Erivor, though, as the cold, damp airs of the place rose and surrounded him, a miasma of fish and blood and brine.
All the tavern’s clients seemed to be Skimmers. As he and his captors walked through the low-ceilinged main room the boatmen turned to watch with heavy-lidded, incurious eyes, like a pond full of frogs waiting for an intruder to pass so they could resume their croaking song.
Why have I been brought here? Tinwright wondered. I know nothing of any Skimmers except that tanglewife. I have never done any of them harm. Why should someone here mean me ill?
A tall but bent-backed Skimmer stepped out in front of them. He was old, to judge by his hard, leathery skin, and wore an actual shirt with sleeves, somewhat unusual among men who often wore no clothes on their upper bodies at all, even in cold weather. “What do you need, gentlemen?” he asked in a throaty voice. All the eyes in the room still seemed to be watching them, calm but intent.
The dough-faced guard did not bother to sound respectful. “We’ve got business in the back room, fish face. And you’ve been paid already.”
“Ah, of course,” said the old Skimmer, backing out of their way. “Go through. He’s waiting for you.”
The back room’s door was so low that Matt Tinwright had to bend to go through it. His captors helped him, shoving down on his head hard enough to make his neck crack. When they allowed him to straighten up once more he found himself in a small room mostly taken up by a single large, bearded man sitting at a table of scarred wood.
“You found him, I see.” Avin Brone’s grin made Tinwright think of toothy wolves or hungry bears. “Coming out of his… bower of love, eh?”
Matt Tinwright, already terrified, almost gasped aloud. Did Brone know? No—he couldn’t! He must think Tinwright was having some illicit assignation by the docks.
“Don’t know about that, Lord,” said the guard who had expressed interest in helping Tinwright fall against a wall several times. “We just waited on the street you told us and there he was.”
“Good. Come see me later and you’ll get your finder’s fee. Sound work, men.”
“Thank you, Lordship,” the guard said. “Tonight? Shall we come tonight?”
“What?” Brone was already thinking of something else. “Oh, very well. Do you not trust me till Lastday?”
“ ’Course, Lordship. Just… we need things.” Doughface turned to his companion, who nodded.
“Certainly, then.” He waved his hand and the two men went out.
The little room was silent for an uncomfortably long time as Brone stared at Tinwright, looking him up and down like a butcher examining the carcass he was about to cut into chops. Matt Tinwright, knees trembling, couldn’t help but wonder if this was some kind of trick being played on him. Now that the guards had been sent away was he supposed to make a run for it, try to escape? Was Brone seeking an excuse to kill him? No, that made no sense. The time Brone had threatened him was long past and much had changed since then. Avin Brone no longer ruled over Southmarch in all but name—Tinwright knew he had lost his post of Lord Constable months ago to one of Tolly’s allies, the cruel Berkan Hood. The Count of Landsend’s beard now contained far more gray than dark, and he looked, if anything, even stouter than before. Why should he still mean harm to poor Tinwright?
“Why am I here, my lord?” he at last found the heart to ask.
Brone stared at him a moment longer before leaning forward. His frowning eyebrows seemed like they might suddenly leap from his face and take flight like bats. He lifted up his hand, pointed his thick finger right at his captive. “I… don’t… like… poets.”
It took quite a while for Tinwright to finish swallowing. “I-I-I’m s-sorry,” he said at last. “I didn’t mean to…”
“Shut your hole, Tinwright.” Brone abruptly slammed his hand down on the table so hard it made the walls of the small room tremble. Tinwright had to acknowledge that he himself might have given forth a small, girlish scream. “I know all about you,” the big man went on. “Cozener. Flatterer. Layabout and ne’er-do-well. What small success you have had comes from your having suckled up to your betters, and most of those were men like Nevin Hewney and his lot, who are the scum of the earth.” Brone frowned hugely; if he had told Tinwright he was going to eat him alive, like a wicked giant in a children’s tale, the poet would have believed it. Instead, the Count of Landsend’s voice became quieter, deeper, throbbing with an anger that seemed to threaten worse things to come than Matt Tinwright could even imagine. “But then you came to the palace. Arrested. Involved with a criminal intent to take advantage of the royal family. And instead of having your head lopped off like the gutter-rolling traitor you are, you were given a gift fit for a hero—the patronage of Princess Briony herself and a place in the court. Oh, how you must have chuckled at that.”
“Not… not actually chuckled, my lord…”
“Shut it. And how do you repay this astounding kindness? By kidnapping a high-born woman right out of the royal residence and keeping her as your prisoner! By the Three, man, the torturers are going to be staying up late every night trying to think up new ways to tear the flesh from your body!”
He knows! Tinwright couldn’t help it—he burst into tears. “By all the gods, I swear it is not that way! She was… she is… Oh, please, Lord Brone, do not let them torture me. I’m a poor man. I meant only good. You do not know Elan, she is so good, so fair, and Tolly was so cruel to her…” He stopped in horror, thinking he might just have made things worse by denouncing the current lord of Southmarch. “No, I… she… you…” Tinwright could think of nothing else to say—his doom was utter and complete. He fell silent but for quiet whimpering.
One of Brone’s bristling eyebrows crept upward. “Tolly? What does this have to do with Tolly? Speak, man, or I will start proceedings here myself and leave just enough left of you for you to gasp out your confession in front of the lord protector.”
And Tinwright did speak, the words hurrying out of him with none of his usual pretense to cleverness, explanations and excuses bumping against each other and sometimes tumbling flat, like sheep hurried down a steep mountain path. When he had finished he sat wiping at his face, peering between his fingers at Brone, who was silent and thinking hard but still scowling fiercely, as if reluctant to let the expression leave his face because he knew he would be using it again soon.