The Malakasian royal family believed an uneducated public was less threatening to the government. Hoyt wasn’t sure he agreed, because he had never known how threatening an educated populace could be, but the Pragans were a sensible people, and Malagon underestimated their good nature and compassion. They were intelligent enough to know what would be possible if they governed themselves. Recognising the difference between where they were under Malagon and where they might one day be, culturally speaking, did not require a degree in advanced literacy.
Hoyt believed the Pragans would eventually rise up against Malakasia, but as much as he hoped they would succeed in that fight, he planned to be far from the conflict when it erupted. He was torn between his love for the Pragan people and his desire to look out for himself; for him and Churn, Resistance was a lucrative business – and he enjoyed pillaging weapons and silver from wealthy merchants and sea captains.
Deep inside, Hoyt knew he had the potential to give much more: the Pragans were disorganised and desperately needed true leadership. He frowned as he thought of the current array of men and women vying for that status among the Resistance forces. They were passionate and outspoken, and essentially devoid of any leadership skills. Blacksmiths, farmers and sailors, all with their hearts in the right place but their heads in the mist, they were working to raise an army, but any army marching against Malagon would be torn to shreds by his well-trained and merciless occupation forces.
Victory, if it could be won, would only be possible if guerrilla strikes on land and sea focused attention away from a small group of highly trained assassins and magicians infiltrating Welstar Palace to kill off the Whitward line for ever. Hoyt was plagued by a conscience he fought to sublimate as often as possible. It wasn’t that he felt any compassion for Malagon – quite the contrary: he found it surprising he could so absolutely despise someone he had never met. But a Pragan uprising would mean a great many lives lost, and as much as he wished for a chance at real freedom, he could not bring himself to hoist the flag and join his brothers on the front lines.
So instead of battling for Pragan independence and opening his coveted medical practice, Hoyt remained a thief. It was ironic that in so doing, he perpetuated his own myth and retained his position as one of the most sought-after enemies of the Malakasian state: a healer-thief with a long history of nursing the crown’s enemies back to health and robbing its supporters of critical resources and silver.
His reading time in the quiet shelter of his protected copse provided him with an opportunity to wrestle his emotional grettans while perfecting his medical arts. Now he shrugged to himself and, thrusting the ever-present guilt to the back of his mind, began preparing for the trip back to Southport.
Hearing leaves rustle behind him, Hoyt peered up into the trees. No wind. He turned quickly, drawing a short, razor-sharp dagger. One benefit of studying medicine for the past fifty Twinmoons was his advanced knowledge of the human body: Hoyt could disable an attacker in a heartbeat with just a couple of carefully placed slashes. His favourite targets were the tendons in an assailant’s wrists. Even the most passionate soldiers ran from battle when denied the use of opposable thumbs. Hoyt never killed anyone, but an ever-increasing number of Malakasian soldiers made the trip home with a clumsy grip on their reins. The dagger held before him, Hoyt dropped into a protective crouch and looked between the trees towards the coastal highway; he sighed in relief when he saw Churn Prellis lumbering in his direction. Churn was his best friend and business partner.
His dagger disappeared as quickly as it had been drawn, and Hoyt smiled a welcome as he watched his companion trudge through the forest. He was the complete antithesis to Hoyt: he looked like a section of granite cliff face that had broken off and walked away. A full head shorter than his friend, with a barrel chest and broad shoulders, rippling with dense muscle: Churn was blessed with enormous strength. Hoyt thought he was probably the most physically imposing man in all the Westlands.
In contrast with his almost inhuman strength, Churn was somewhat simple-minded – not disabled, but rather, slower than average when it came to thinking, solving problems or processing information. He was unable – or unwilling – to speak, Hoyt didn’t know which, but he communicated using hand gestures, and over the Twinmoons, their ability to carry on interesting and detailed conversations had grown.
Churn had joined Hoyt after the healer had saved his life. Hoyt had found him lying in a drainage ditch off a field near Churn’s family farm, bleeding badly from multiple stab wounds and lashed to several sections of wooden plank Hoyt guessed had been ripped from the walls of his own barn. Churn never discussed what had happened, but Hoyt guessed Malakasian soldiers had most likely tortured and murdered his friend’s family. The young doctor nursed the bigger man back to health and from that moment, Churn, in his simple mind, had been motivated by two things: the desire to serve Hoyt, and the overwhelming need to physically tear Malagon’s still-beating heart from his chest. Hoyt assumed Churn’s silence resulted from being forced to witness his family’s torture, and he had been unable to prescribe any remedy for his friend’s sense of grievous loss.
He knew Churn wasn’t deaf, but he learned the hand gestures anyway. It was something he did initially out of courtesy and friendship, and it became extremely useful in business, providing a silent means of communication when stealth was called for.
Unlike Hoyt, Churn had killed. Sometimes the Pragan giant disappeared for several days at a time. Hoyt never asked any questions, but news of Malakasian soldiers missing or murdered always followed in the wake of Churn’s absences. His rage was rarely evident, but it simmered there, beneath the calm, friendly mask Churn wore most days. Hoyt supposed murdering Malakasian warriors was cathartic for his muscle-bound companion, a therapeutic act of vengeance that brought a sliver of peace to Churn’s simple soul, and who was he to deny peace to a troubled man?
Now Hoyt waved to the lumbering giant and called out, ‘Perhaps if you walk a bit heavier you can bring an entire brigade of occupation soldiers in here. Or should I just fetch you a rampart horn and you can announce our hiding place with a fanfare?’
Signing, Churn replied, ‘None around. I checked the road.’
Hoyt laughed. ‘I know. They went by earlier this morning. I don’t expect them back for another half-aven. How are things in town?’
Moving his fingers in a rapid pattern, Churn said, ‘Rumours about the new galleon. Silver, silk and tobacco.’
Hoyt sat up, interested. ‘Is it heavily guarded?’
‘A full platoon, but they look lazy. Maybe too long at sea.’
‘Is Branag at the shop?’ Hoyt was already planning his assault on the cumbersome Malakasian ship. ‘Let’s go there right now. We’ll need his help if we are to pull this off tonight.’ He picked up his pack.
Churn was confused. ‘Rob it or sink it?’
Hoyt tossed a few handfuls of leaves over the log sheltering his illegal library. ‘Both, Churn. We’re going to do both.’
‘All right, but I’m not going up in the shrouds.’
‘Oh, you great hulking baby,’ Hoyt teased. ‘Well, the plan will never work then. We’ll just have to let them sail off to Pellia free as a bird.’
‘I’m not going up there.’ Churn was agitated now and sweat beaded his forehead.
‘Fine. Fine. All right. You don’t have to go up in the rigging. I will take care of that.’
‘What do you mean, “he didn’t call again today”?’ Howard was furious and Myrna Kessler was trying to stay out of his way, an impossible task in the small bank office.
‘I’m simply telling you, Howard, he didn’t call again today.’ Myrna glanced past Mrs Winter at the long line of customers waiting for counter service. ‘C’mon Howard, we’ve got quite a queue forming out here.’