Karel watched it intently.
The rowboat drew close. Three men were in it. They secured the boat and clambered out.
The sailors walked halfway down the wharf and entered a ship chandler’s warehouse. Karel followed. The smell of the warehouse filled his nose. New rope, pitch and tar, tallow. He browsed the offerings—barrels of iron nails, of turpentine, of lard, of peppercorns—listening to the three men.
One sailor was giving orders. “Salt,” he said. “And lamp oil.” His vowels were round, his consonants guttural. He had a broad, ruddy face and a pointed sandy beard.
Karel fixed the man in his memory and strolled out of the chandler’s. He waited on the wharf, listening to the gulls and the slap of waves against the piles. Yasma’s voice whispered in his ear:
Please, Karel, come with us
. Hope stung in his breast, bright, painful. The All-Mother knew he
wanted
to leave Osgaard.
He went over her plan in his head. It could work. If it looked like he’d died trying to prevent the princess’s escape, there’d be no penalty to his family.
But the risk...
And if he went with them, he could never return to Esfaban.
It was more than eight years since he’d left. Were his parents even alive? His mother, mute after her bondservice, his father with his scarred, broken hands.
If they weren’t already dead, they would be before he returned. They’d all known that when he left.
Grief filled his eyes with tears. He blinked them back, scowled at the chandler’s warehouse.
If their plan worked, Yasma would never return to Esfaban either. Her family would think her dead. They’d mourn her. But their debt of bondservice would be erased and they’d move to the next step, sending a son to train as armsman or guardsman or soldier. And after his service, they’d be free.
If it looks as if I’ve died for Osgaard, my family will be free
.
Free, seventeen years early. Wasn’t that worth never returning?
But the risk. The
risk
. He could plunge them all into bondservice if anything went wrong. Not just his parents again, but his sisters, his aunts and uncles, cousins.
It was a problem without a solution. Karel shoved it aside and focused on the chandler’s warehouse. “Come out, come out,” he muttered under his breath.
Quarter of an hour later, the sailors emerged and split up. Karel followed the man who’d given the orders. He lengthened his stride, caught up to him, then slowed, matching his steps to the sailor’s. “You from the schooner?”
The man halted. “Who are you?”
“I’m looking to hire a ship. Departing in four days to Lundegaard. Could you do that?”
“What cargo?”
“A few people.”
“A whole ship for a few people?” The sailor studied his face, and then glanced at his cloak and boots. “Doubt you could afford it.”
“I’ll pay in gold.”
“How much gold?”
“You the captain?”
“First mate.”
“I’ll discuss payment with your captain.”
The man stared at him, narrow-eyed, and then shrugged. “All right.”
“Now?”
The sailor shrugged again. “If you wish.”
T
HEY ROWED OUT
to the schooner. Her name was
Sea Eagle
. Karel spoke with the captain and examined the ship.
“What do you think?”
The captain was darker-skinned than an Esfaban islander, but his eyes were light gray. He had a clipped, pointed beard like the first mate’s, and a melodic accent.
“You’re familiar with Lundegaard’s ports?”
“Sailed into the Hook a few times, and Forsmouth once.”
“How many days to get there?”
“Five to the Hook and another one to Forsmouth. Less, if the wind favors us.”
Karel nodded and glanced around the deck, noting the stained planks, the messily coiled ropes, the bucket rolling on its side. “What cargoes do you usually carry?”
“All sorts.”
“Such as?”
“Our last load was spices.”
“What were you planning on carrying from here?”
“Hadn’t found a cargo yet.”
Karel turned to face the man fully. “I heard a rumor you’re privateers.”
“Us?” The man laughed. “Of course not!”
Something in his laugh struck Karel as false. If these sailors weren’t privateers, they were close to it. Opportunists, ready to do dirty work if they could see a profit in it.
“I want to see the cabin again.”
He inspected it carefully; a large room, with a closet off one end where a chamberpot could go. The bed was built into a wooden alcove, wide enough for the princess and the boys to sleep in together. Only one entry point, unless one counted the window looking out to sea, which was too small for a man to enter through.
The door was solidly built and had a crossbar. With the bar in place, it would be almost impossible to break down.
“Well?” the captain asked.
The ship was perfect. The cabin was perfect. But the crew...
Karel looked at the captain.
I don’t trust you.
He walked to the window and looked out. Choppy gray sea, stone wharf, whitewashed houses. The palace wasn’t visible, but he could imagine it—creamy marble and golden roof tiles, armsmen in their scarlet tunics, bondservants.
Please, Karel, come with us
.
He’d have to, if he hired this ship. If he didn’t, there was a chance Yasma and Princess Brigitta wouldn’t reach Lundegaard. Two beautiful young women. What would these men do to them? Honor the contract? Sell them into a brothel?
One of the larger merchant ships would be safer. But he’d questioned men from most of them, and not found one that was leaving when he needed, in the direction he needed. The merchant ships had cargoes, schedules to keep. And they were slower. The naval vessels would easily outstrip them.
Karel stared at the sea and thought of his family.
The risk...
But if it worked, they’d be free.
Wasn’t that worth never seeing Esfaban again?
He turned to the captain. “I’ll need two extra beds. Mattresses or pallets or truckles.”
“Easily done.”
“Oil lamps or candles. A brazier. A couple of chamberpots.”
The captain nodded.
“I’ll pay you ten gold pieces now, another twenty when we set sail, and twenty more once we reach Lundegaard.”
B
ACK ON LAND
, Karel headed to Rakhamn’s market square. A mixture of hope and panic churned in his chest. He walked past the weaponmonger’s shop, glancing at the swords hanging there. He’d need new weapons if he was to flee the palace.
He took a turn around the market square, weaving his way between stalls and wagons, past bleating sheep in pens, piled skeins of wool and bolts of fabric, cartloads of turnips and dried fish. A traveling metalsmith’s wagon was drawn up on the northern side of the square. Pots hung on hooks, shovel blades and hammer heads and scythes. Karel paused. “You have any daggers?”
The metalsmith looked up from sharpening a long-tined fork. “A few.” He hauled a wooden crate out from inside the wagon, pulled out a hessian-wrapped bundle and opened it, laying five daggers out.
Karel inspected them. They were plain, sturdy, sharp. “How long are you here for?”
“Leaving tomorrow,” the man said. He was chewing a wad of tobacco. He shifted it from one cheek to the other as he spoke.
“What? Not staying for the coronation?”
The man shook his head, cleared his throat, and spat. The brown phlegm on the cobblestones seemed an indication of his feelings for the Rutersvards.
“When will you be back?”
“Couple of months.”
“I’ll take this one. I don’t suppose you have any swords?”
The man glanced at him, trying to see his face beneath the hood. “Might have a couple.”
“May I see them?”
The metalsmith brought out three swords. Two had decorated hilts, the third was plain. Karel inspected them carefully, examining the blades. “You made these?”
“Just that one.” The metalsmith pointed to the plainest sword.
“It’s the best of them.”
The man glanced at him again, his eyes narrowing as he tried to see Karel’s face. “I know.”
Karel hefted the weapon in his hand. The weight and balance were similar to his armsman’s sword. “I’ll take it.”
The metalsmith stowed the other two away and put the daggers back in the wooden crate. A curving gleam of metal at the bottom of the crate caught Karel’s eye. “Is that a throwing star? May I see?”
The man handed it to him silently.
“Ah...” Karel said, disappointed. “It’s not real.”
“Iron,” the metalsmith said with a shrug. “Made it for fun.”
Karel turned the throwing star over in his hand. It was no weapon. The balance was wrong, the blades not sharp enough, but it
looked
real...
Possibilities spun in his head, decisions clicked into place. “I’ll take it. My son will love it.”
He paid for his purchases with the last of the gold coins. The metalsmith wrapped the weapons in hessian and tied the bundle with twine.
“I wish you safe journey,” Karel said.
The man nodded and went back to sharpening fork tines.
After that, the afternoon sped by so quickly that Karel almost felt dizzy. The large wooden trunk and padlock and bolt of red fabric he purchased himself, openly, with his hood pushed back, but everything else was bought by sailors leaving Rakhamn before the coronation. He spun tales, bought tankards of ale, gave out pennies and groats. In exchange they brought him clothes, food, a sword belt, a leather rucksack, a second smaller trunk and padlock. The edge of panic faded. In the late afternoon, he walked through the town, towing a hired handcart. On it were the trunks, one inside the other, and inside them, all the purchases except for the apothecary’s parcel tied to his belt. The padlock he’d bought dangled from the hasp of the outermost trunk, rattling as the handcart lurched over the uneven cobblestones.
As dusk approached, he reached the gates used by wagons travelling to and from the palace. Here the cottages were poorer, the whitewash gray, the shutters hanging crooked. He glanced at the town wall. It was lower than the towering palace walls, the mortar crumbling around the blocks of stone. No guard patrolled its ragged top, no guards stood at the inward and outward gates stopping wagons. Such security measures were for the palace.
Karel stepped aside as a wagon piled with grain sacks passed. He watched it lumber through the right-hand gate, rumbling on the cobblestones. The sound of the wheels changed as it passed onto the paved road to the palace.
Another wagon labored up the street towards the gate. Coal, this time.
Karel listened as it passed beneath the gate. The rumble of wheels on stone became smoother.
Good to know
.
He turned his attention to the nearby dwellings. He wanted one with a shed and no dog.
There were a number that suited his needs, but one that he preferred. The yard was a small wedge of weedy ground between the back of the cottage and the town wall, not overlooked by any windows. The shed was in the farthest corner, lopsided, half tumble-down.
Karel knocked on the cottage door.
A woman answered, a crying baby on her hip and a toddler clutching her skirt. Her face was thin and tired. Wisps of hair straggled from her bun. “What?”
Karel pushed his hood back and smiled at her. “I’m an armsman at the palace. I wondered if I might pay you to store this trunk for me in your shed.” He opened his hand, let the woman see the pennies he held.
Her eyes fastened on the coins, then lifted to his face. She squinted at him suspiciously. “You’re an islander.”
“Yes. My parents were bondservants; I’m an armsman.”
The woman shifted the baby to her other hip. It didn’t stop wailing.
“I want to send this trunk to my family once I’ve filled it.” Karel gestured to the trunk on the handcart. “It’ll take me a few years. Is there perhaps space in your shed for me to store it?”
The woman looked at the trunk, at the copper coins on his palm, and lastly at his face again. “Mebbe.”
“Shall we have a look?”
The woman led him round to the yard, the baby wailing on her hip. The toddler came too, silent, dirty-faced, bare-footed, clutching at her skirt. Two wagons rumbled past from the palace, empty and rattling.
The shed held firewood, old tools, broken buckets.
“If you can fit it in, you can store it,” the woman said, lifting the crying baby from one hip to the other.
“Your husband...?”
“He won’t mind. Anything for a few pennies.”
“You don’t have a dog?”
“No. We got too many chil’en to want another mouth to feed.”