‘I hate lying to them,’ Kellin said.
‘So do I.’ Brexan was glad for the chance to bare her soul a bit. ‘I don’t know how we’ll convince them to make for Pellia.’
‘We won’t have to,’ Garec said. ‘Steven and Gilmour will take care of that.’
‘It doesn’t seem right,’ Brexan said, pressing the point. ‘These are good people.’
‘This is bigger than us, Brexan,’ Garec said. ‘You know that. If a guilty conscience and the loss of their trust is all we have to suffer from here on in, then I’m all for it. Unfortunately, there’s much, much worse waiting for us in Malakasia; trust me.’ Garec blurred for a moment, his shadowy doppelganger, the Bringer of Death, appearing, flickering and then fading like Orindale harbour. He had seen and suffered more than either of them knew; that much was apparent. If he could stay focused on their goal, surely they could too.
‘Come on,’ he said and started towards the helm. ‘Let’s see if we can help.’
A GIFT
The Wayfarer Inn wasn’t one of Pellia’s most popular watering holes, but it enjoyed a steady business letting out rooms to merchants, sailors and the occasional naval officer. The front room was comfortable, and warm even in the worst winter Twinmoons, and the bar was well-stocked with an interesting selection of wines and well-kept beer, and hearty food was always on offer. Yet the inn lacked the one thing that brought drinkers in droves: it lacked women. It was situated two streets away from the marketplace and four blocks from the waterfront, far enough from Pellia’s shipping and market districts that young people ignored it. There was little tourist trade, even in summer, so the Wayfarer relied on its regulars, the dinner-aven crowds, and the letting of rooms to cover the Moon’s overheads. It was a lean living for Erynn Kestral’s family, but most Twinmoons the bills were paid, the firewood replenished, the larder restocked and the casks refilled.
Once or twice in every ten Twinmoons, Erynn’s parents planned a Moon party, not on the Twinmoon itself – there were too many festivities planned by the waterfront and marketplace taverns, and the Wayfarer couldn’t possibly compete with them – but a few days afterwards. Morgan Kestral liked to wait just long enough for Twin-moon hangovers to fade, wine shakes to subside and indigestion to pass. Then he and Illia would spread the news that they were slaughtering a pig, or a dozen fat gansels, and there’d be a few extra casks, from the Peeramyde Brewery in south Pellia.
The locals, many of whom worked in the marketplace or on the wharf, carried word of the party across the city and on the eve of the festivities, assuming Morgan and Illia’s timing had been right, the district was abuzz with anticipation.
The street in front of the Wayfarer was clogged with hawkers and revellers. Musicians played for spare Mareks; prostitutes – men and women – worked the shadows and the street corners, and after dark, people dragged out wood, old furniture, once even a broken-down cart, and built a great bonfire on the cobblestones. The city guards would carry off anyone who flagrantly broke the law: stabbings, gang assaults and too-public negotiations for fennaroot were generally frowned on, but the mood was usually good and the party raged on until dawn.
When the street reopened the following morning and the debris was shovelled away, Morgan and Illia were exhausted, looking ten Twinmoons older, but the locals were happy and the Wayfarer’s future was secured for a bit longer, thanks to the great pile of copper Mareks secreted under a floorboard in the Kestrals’ bed chamber.
As a young girl, Erynn had envied the older children in her street on festival nights, for she was confined to her room upstairs, where she would sit for avens watching the partygoers, drinking and eating and dancing and groping one another, their voices growing louder and louder as the night wore on until the whole street was just one teeming, screaming mass of roiling pleasure. Watching from above, Erynn was entranced by this fundamental, basic kind of revelry. For her, it captured the essence of Pellia’s dockers, fishermen and merchants. It was sexy and violent and fun and dangerous all at once, and the girl longed to be there, smelling, tasting and feeling the myriad sensations.
Now Erynn was old enough to work the party, and she was exhausted, constantly moving from the open fire-pit for trenchers of meat to the bar for fresh tankards. She was inside the Wayfarer just long enough to break into a sweat, then as she pushed her way between the partygoers outside, she felt the layer of moisture on her skin threaten to freeze and she realised she’d wake the following midday with a thundering cold. Already her throat felt sore – as did her budding breasts, which had been pinched and fondled so many times Erynn worried that they might not be there at all. Only the pain assured her that they were still attached. And her backside was so bruised that she might never sit down again. I’ll fall down, she thought; that’s how I’ll get some rest.
Yet the heavy apron pocket full of coppers heartened her. With every new tray of beer or spitted pork, Erynn braced herself for another go at the crowd. More copper, she told herself, just keep collecting their money. She was careful to empty the coins out every third or fourth lap, in case she was robbed, or jounced so hard she tumbled over. Her legs ached so much that it wouldn’t take much to knock her to her knees, and Erynn didn’t want to risk losing a night’s wages across the cobblestones if that happened.
And then there was Karel, the soldier. He was only a few Twinmoons older than she, but he was finished with school – the gratis Twinmoons, anyway – and had already enlisted in the army. He came around a lot, stopping in for a meal or tankard of beer, and he was always polite, greeting Erynn’s parents and using a napkin while he ate. He wasn’t attractive; with his wide eyes and a sloping forehead beneath a tangle of tiny curls, he looked a bit dough-headed, but Erynn liked him immensely, and had already decided to let him kiss her tonight – if he was still around when the party finally died. He had tried to kiss her already, in the shadows across the street, but Erynn had been in a hurry, and her tray had been full of dirty trenchers and half-empty tankards. She didn’t want their first kiss to be over a filthy trencher filled with uneaten bread crusts and pig-fat and discarded pipe ashes.
And then there was Hoyt, who was older than her, old than Karel, even. Erynn thought the dashing, witty Pragan was gorgeous, even if he was a bit unkempt, and he set her heart thrumming. She had been smitten at first sight. Now she made a point of going via the fireplace and Hoyt’s table, adding unnecessary distance to each hurried lap, but that didn’t matter. Passing by the fire helped to banish the cold, and this way, she never had to go more than a few moments without seeing him. If this was how people were supposed to behave when they drank and told the truth and coveted one another, then Erynn Kestral wanted to be as near as possible to Hoyt Navarro in case he decided to join the fray and maybe even come looking for her.
Hoyt was in a sour mood. Grimacing into his beer, he kneaded his shoulder, trying to shift the pain. ‘I don’t know why it still hurts,’ he grumbled. ‘Alen stitched it neatly enough, it’s been treated with querlis and I’ve kept it immobile. It ought to be feeling better by now.’
‘You were stabbed,’ Alen said, ‘and by a nasty rutting Seron; that’s going to take time to get over properly. Finish eating, then you can head back upstairs to bed. I don’t like the idea of Milla alone up there, anyway.’
‘She’s all right,’ Hannah said, peeling back Hoyt’s collar to get a look at his stitches. ‘She was sound asleep when I checked on her.’
‘You need the rest, Hoyt.’ Alen sounded determined.
‘I guess you’re right,’ Hoyt said as he nibbled at a piece of pork. Erynn had brought them great slices from the spitted animal roasting out back as soon as it was ready. Now she collected Alen’s empty trencher and checked they all had drinks.