A Solitary Journey (35 page)

Alone, Sunlight watched the lines of children labouring in the sun, their grey smocks stained with sweat and dust as they lifted stones and carted planks. They were repairing the market square in the Northern Quarter, making it look as if it was not the site of a bloody battle but a thriving commercial area. The difficulty was that there were no people left to make it what it had been. The Kerwyn king would ride through a city of ghosts when he arrived.

‘One man’s hero is another man’s butcher. A martyr for a just cause here is a maniac there. You may worship a man I see as the harbinger of destruction. It’s easy to judge the intention of others when the measure we use is what we consider is best for ourselves.’

FROM
C
HASING THE
C
ASE FOR
H
ERESY
BY PRINCE SHORTEAR

F
or the first time Meg was walking through the streets of a large town—a city—dodging the bustling people and carts and horses that seemed oblivious to her presence. She was immersed in the morass of odours—sweat, dung, baked breads and dust—and the jangling sounds of voices, hooves, cartwheels rattling and dogs barking. The time she spent in Port of Joy all those years ago she was confined to the palace, only glimpsing the reality of city life from horseback when she entered or left in the company of the Queen’s Elite Guards. Back then, the city was a mystery—a living organism seen from a protected distance. Now that she was wandering through a city’s heart—through its bowels—it repulsed her even as it fascinated her. She pulled the ragged brown shawl tighter around her chin and lifted it over her mouth in a vain effort to keep the dust and unpleasant stenches from her face, and pushed on through the marketplace crowd towards the tavern with the sign of three emus above its entrance. Inside her dress, Whisper shifted uncomfortably, restless because she wanted to see what was happening beyond the cloth that kept her securely in place.

Beside Meg was the solid presence of Blade Cutter, his armour and weapons gone, replaced by a rustic fisherman’s garb of half-length ragged blue trousers and a rust-hued short-sleeved tunic. On her left was A Ahmud Ki, dressed in a dark grey cloak with its hood up and tattered black trousers. Only Talemaker was wearing his original clothes. As a minstrel with a reputation, he could walk relatively freely through Westport.

They had bartered for the clothes at the only fishing village they found intact, half a day from Westport. The villagers were reluctant to talk to strangers when they arrived, but eventually they welcomed the party. ‘The Kerwyn came and took what they wanted—girls and boys included,’ an older woman named Ocean told them as they asked for clothes.

‘They burned every other village,’ Talemaker said.

‘So we heard,’ an old fisherman chimed in. ‘We thank Jarudha we weren’t so badly treated.’

‘They still took the children and the young men,’ said Ocean angrily. ‘We know what they did with the young men.’

‘What?’ Meg asked.

‘You’ll see the mound out the northern side beyond that hill,’ Ocean replied, pointing beyond the dunes around the village.

‘And the children were sold into slavery,’ Meg added.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Ocean confirmed. ‘Poor little buggers. They won’t know what it feels like to grow up like we did.’

They swapped what little they could—mainly Cutter’s military equipment—for old clothes that would disguise them enough to avoid drawing attention when they entered Westport. They ate fresh fish and crabs with the surviving villagers and headed for Westport, joining the traffic along the road into the city.

The Kerwyn were everywhere—soldiers in red armour walking in groups of four or five, loitering on street corners, randomly inspecting carts and the bags of people entering and leaving Westport. Meg kept her shawl tight to hide her red hair and mask her face, but she was still conscious of eyes following her as she passed the soldiers because of her height and she walked in fear of being stopped and asked to lower her shawl. They carefully avoided an incident in the street when two men resisted the Kerwyn soldiers who wanted to look inside their cart. A brief brawl started, quickly quelled by the soldiers who gave their victims brutal beatings. Meg was horrified at the injustice and hesitated when she saw the soldiers beating the men, but Cutter pulled her on, whispering, ‘There is nothing you can do. Keep walking.’

Only when they reached the busy marketplace and were in the middle of the throng did she feel safe from prying eyes. They headed for the Three Emus tavern because Talemaker knew the owner from previous visits and he was sure that they could get news from him regarding the situation in Westport. ‘One thing Oak Wheatbeer is good for is gossip and solid information,’ Talemaker promised when they were making their plans. ‘If there are refugee ships operating in Westport he will know who is running them and where and when they’ll be leaving.’

‘And if there’s not?’ A Ahmud Ki asked.

Cutter grunted, and said bluntly, ‘We make other plans.’

The Three Emus was busy and patrons were sitting in the street with tankards of ale. ‘You wouldn’t think there’d been a war,’ said Cutter as they prepared to enter.

‘The war was over up here more than a year ago,’ said Talemaker. ‘The Kerwyn just marched in and took
over. The King’s army wasn’t anywhere to be seen.’ He winced when he realised to whom he’d made the flippant observation.

‘I was in the south,’ Cutter said without malice.

As Meg went to follow the men into the tavern, Cutter took her aside along with A Ahmud Ki and said, ‘You two best wait outside, over at the stalls. Look like you’re buying something. Don’t look too obviously like you’re only waiting for us.’

‘Why can’t I come in?’ Meg asked.

‘Women only go into a city tavern for two things,’ he explained quickly. ‘Wait here.’

‘What two things?’

Cutter grunted and looked at A Ahmud Ki, who shrugged. ‘Drunk husbands or some easy work. Wait here,’ Cutter insisted.

Meg glared at Cutter as he retreated and watched him enter the tavern with Talemaker before she turned to head for a small shop displaying clothes. A Ahmud Ki followed as she searched through the wares, pretending to be looking for a good buy. ‘Cheap cloth,’ an older woman called from among the jumble of haberdashery in the right-hand corner of the shop. ‘Nothing too much here.’ Meg looked up and saw the woman’s dark eyes on her, her hair tied back in a green scarf. A brindled cat emerged from behind a bolt of orange cloth, mewing. Meg felt Whisper squirm inside her dress and looked at the cat warily. ‘That’s Mouser,’ the shop woman said cheerily. ‘Mouser loves people, don’t you, Mouser?’ she continued as she scooped up her cat and let the animal drape over her shoulder. ‘Are you looking for something particular?’ she inquired as she came closer to Meg.

‘Nothing at all,’ Meg said quickly, and she led a bemused A Ahmud Ki away to the next shopfront which had pottery and ironware for sale.

‘What fancy takes the lady?’ a raspy voice asked in greeting. A ruddy-faced man stood beside a tower of cooking pots, smiling to reveal that only half his teeth were in place.

‘Which way to the docks?’ A Ahmud Ki asked to Meg’s astonishment.

The potter pointed along the street. ‘You go to the big fountain and turn to your left onto Fisher’s Way, and follow it around until it spills into the harbour. Can’t miss it.’

‘Thanks,’ said A Ahmud Ki.

‘You two new in Westport?’ the potter asked.

A Ahmud Ki glanced at Meg. ‘And if we are?’

The potter beckoned A Ahmud Ki to come closer and said in a hoarse whisper, ‘The Kerwyn are watching.’ He nodded to his left and when A Ahmud Ki and Meg looked in that direction they saw six Kerwyn soldiers standing in the crowd staring at them. ‘Play along with me then,’ the potter added, and straightened up. ‘So six cooking pots and you want me to make them for six pennies?’

A Ahmud Ki stared at the potter. ‘Say something,’ the potter hissed. Meg saw the Kerwyn soldiers step forward. ‘We can’t afford more,’ she blurted.

The potter flashed a brief grin. ‘Come on, lady. You’ve lived here as long as me. You know my goods. You can’t get better than this.’

Meg glanced at the advancing soldiers. ‘I can down in Fisher’s Way. Six pennies is all I got.’

‘Take four for six pennies, lady. That’s a fair deal,’ the potter argued and whispered as best as he could without moving his mouth, ‘Pretend to take it. Pass me the pennies.’

‘I haven’t got any money,’ Meg whispered.

‘Pretend,’ the potter hissed and straightened up to say loudly, ‘Come on, lady, you can’t say I’m not being fair.’

Meg fumbled inside her dress, pretending to find the coins and held out her hand as if to make the exchange as the soldiers closed in. A Ahmud Ki shuffled beside her. ‘Now what?’ he asked.

‘Thanks, lady. You won’t regret it,’ said the potter and he began to bundle four cooking pots together.

‘You!’ a Kerwyn soldier called. Meg looked at him. ‘Come here.’

The potter hissed, ‘Stay where you are,’ and stumbled out of his shop into the soldiers’ path, asking, ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Not you,’ the soldier growled and pushed the potter back to crash among his pots. People stopped to watch and those closest stepped back.

I’m too tall,
Meg cursed silently and fumbled with her shawl.
My red hair. Somehow they’ve seen it.
Whisper wriggled inside her dress, wanting to get down.
Not now,
Meg projected to the bush rat.

Yes, now,
the rat replied and wriggled. Meg let her slide to the ground. The soldier at the forefront watched Meg’s dress shuffle and stepped back as the bush rat suddenly appeared at her feet. Whisper ran straight at the soldier and up his trouser leg, throwing the man into panic and the crowd into hysterics.
Run,
the rat projected to Meg. Meg grabbed A Ahmud Ki’s arm and plunged into the amused crowd, pushing through towards the tavern. ‘No!’ A Ahmud Ki yelled and pulled her to the left. ‘Don’t lead them there!’ She understood as she looked back and saw that the Kerwyn were already pursuing them. She followed A Ahmud Ki who headed for a narrow alley between a farrier and a tanner. The alley dog-legged to the right and then back to the left and they emerged in another street, this one with far less people. ‘Give me your hand!’ A Ahmud Ki demanded.

‘Why?’ Meg asked.

‘Now!’ he ordered.

She held his hand, but as he faced the alley and she realised what he intended to do she frantically tried to pull away. A Kerwyn soldier appeared. A Ahmud Ki pointed his finger, uttered an Aelendyell word, and a bolt of energy shot through the startled soldier’s chest. ‘No!’ Meg screamed. She ripped her hand from his grip and bolted down the street. She dodged a horse, pushed through a group of merchants and scattered a flock of chickens before she cut across the street and rushed into an open shop, stopping behind a high shelf. Catching her breath, she stared into the street through the doorway, watching for Kerwyn soldiers, her heart racing.

‘Got some trouble?’ An elderly woman with long grey hair and a wizened, skinny face squinted at her. ‘I think you better come this way, lovey,’ the woman said, gesturing for Meg to follow.

‘Who are you?’ Meg asked, glancing into the street, ready to run again.

‘Roo,’ the old woman said. Three Kerwyn soldiers came into view in the street. ‘You’d best come now,’ Roo insisted. Meg checked the Kerwyn soldiers who stopped to talk to a man leading a pony and dogcart, before she warily followed the old woman between the shelves to a rickety back door. ‘Go out and climb into the loft up the ladder on the left,’ Roo instructed as she opened the door into a narrow alley. ‘Stay there until I come for you.’ Meg stepped into the alley which was barely wide enough for a person to pass along and a brown dog got up and stared at her. ‘That’s Onebark,’ the old woman explained. ‘Ignore him. He won’t bite,’ and she closed the door behind Meg.

A forlorn ladder, the bottom two rungs snapped, leaned against a wooden shed. As Meg went to it, Onebark growled. ‘It’s all right,’ she crooned and held
an enticing hand towards the dog, but Onebark backed away. ‘Suit yourself,’ she said. She clambered up the ladder into an opening in the shed loft where startled starlings erupted in a mad flutter of black wings and flew out of the opening. The loft was little more than two arm-spans width of bird shit-spattered wooden planks nailed to the ceiling beams, perching precariously like a mezzanine space above the shed floor. The pungent odour of animal faeces filled the shed cavity and when Meg risked peering over the edge she saw six sheep sitting in straw. The loft was crammed into the roof peak so she could only sit or kneel in the space. She shifted until she could sit leaning against a beam to gaze out of the opening across the neighbouring rooftops.

Where is A Ahmud Ki?
she wondered.
Whisper,
she remembered. Where did the rat go? She wanted to climb down and search the streets for them, but self-preservation warned her to remain where she was, at least for a while.
Why did he do that?
she wondered, remembering A Ahmud Ki’s impulsive channelling of her energy. Where were Talemaker and Blade?

She watched two magpies cavorting on the peak of a nearby roof, dancing along the wooden beam.
What do you know of the worries of the human world
? she contemplated.
Being a bird would be so much better.
A Ahmud Ki tried to show her how to take the shape of a bird through her magic. The concept was absurd, but he was familiar with power and the longer she spent in his company the more it was obvious that he had been a powerful being, a man who believed that magic was immeasurable, limitless—the magic of the old ballads and legends. She never believed in magic until the Conduit was passed to her and she received the Blessing. Even when she discovered that she could conjure spells to heal people and manipulate the
weather she struggled to accept that magic was real. Only when she summoned the Demon Horsemen through her grief and rage, and they unleashed their awesome energy on the battling armies, obliterating everything and everyone, did she understand what was possible and she had run from it, abandoning the terrible burden of responsibility that holding such power brought.

She gazed at the white clouds. It was midday. The weather was clear and pleasant, the kind of Ejasot day she remembered enjoying in Summerbrook. These were the days of renewal. Grass flourished, wattle blossomed among the eucalypts, the wildflowers budded through the bush and across the plains and sections of the Summerbrook valley turned shades of purple and crimson and yellow. Baby animals frolicked and hounded their mothers for feeding, blissfully ignorant of what lay ahead in their lives. The days gained heat and rain clouds dried up in readiness for the long hot season of Fuar that stretched across four cycles of the Shessian calendar. She remembered that Button Tailor brought her flowers for the first time in Ejasot. Or was it later? She was fifteen then. It was hard to believe that was more than thirteen years ago—although it was even harder to believe that she had been that young girl: before the Blessing, before the wars and the killing in the name of Queen Sunset, before everything she knew and loved was changed irreversibly by the amber.