Half the World (Shattered Sea, Book 2)

POISON

She Who Sings the Wind sang one hell of a wind on the way over from Skekenhouse and they were washed leagues off-course.

They rowed like fury while Rulf roared abuse at them until his voice was hoarse and their oars were all tangled and every one of them was blowing like a fish and soaked with Mother Sea’s salt spray. Thorn was most extremely terrified but she put a brave face on. The only faces she had were brave, though this was a green one, as the thrashing of the ship like an unbroken horse soon made her sick as she’d never been sick in her life. It felt as if everything she’d ever eaten went over the side, over her oar, or over her knees, and half that through her nose.

Thorn had a fair storm blowing on the inside too. The giddy wave of gratitude at being given back her life had soon soaked away, leaving her chewing over the bitter truth that she had traded a future as a proud warrior for one as a minister’s slave, collared by her own over-hasty oath, for purposes Father Yarvi had no intention of sharing.

To make matters even worse, she could feel her blood coming and her guts were stabbed through with aches and her chest was sore and she had a rage in her even beyond the usual. The mocking laughter of the crew at her puking might’ve moved her to murder if she could’ve unpeeled her Death-gripping fingers from the oar.

So it was on wobbling legs she staggered onto the wharf at Yaletoft, the stones of Throvenland pocked with puddles from last night’s storm, twinkling in this morning’s sun. She blundered through the crowds with her shoulders hunched around her ears, every hawker’s squawk and seagull’s call, every wagon’s rattle and barrel’s clatter a knife in her, the over-hearty slaps on the back and snide chuckles of the men who were supposed to be her fellows cutting deeper still.

She knew what they were thinking. What do you expect if you put a girl in a man’s place? And she muttered curses and swore elaborate revenges, but didn’t dare lift her head in case she spewed again.

Some revenge that would be.

‘Don’t be sick in front of King Fynn,’ said Rulf, as they approached the looming hall, its mighty roof beams wonderfully carved and gilded. ‘The man’s famous for his temper.’

But it was not King Fynn but his minister, Mother Kyre, who greeted them at the dozen steps, each one cut of a different-coloured marble. She was a handsome woman, tall and slender with a ready smile that did not quite reach her eyes. She reminded Thorn of her mother, which was a dark mark against her from the off. Thorn trusted few enough people, but hardly any had ready smiles and none at all looked like her mother.

‘Greetings, Father Yarvi,’ said King Fynn’s handsome minister. ‘You are ever welcome in Yaletoft, but I fear the king cannot see you.’

‘I fear you have advised him not to see me,’ answered Father Yarvi, planting one damp boot on the lowest step. Mother Kyre did not deny it. ‘Perhaps I might see Princess Skara? She can have been no more than ten years old when we last met. We were cousins then, before I took the Minister’s Test—’

‘But you did take the test,’ said Mother Kyre, ‘and gave up all your family but the Ministry, as did I. In any case, the princess is away.’

‘I fear you sent her away when you heard I was coming.’

Mother Kyre did not deny that either. ‘Grandmother Wexen has sent me an eagle, and I know why you are here. I am not without sympathy.’

‘Your sympathy is sweet, Mother Kyre, but King Fynn’s help in the trouble that comes would be far sweeter yet. It might prevent the trouble altogether.’

Mother Kyre winced the way someone does who has no intention of helping. The way Thorn’s mother used to wince when Thorn spoke of her hero’s hopes.

‘You know my master loves you and his niece Queen Laithlin,’ she said. ‘You know he would stand against half the world to stand with you. But you know he cannot stand against the wishes of the High King.’ A sea of words, this woman, but that was ministers for you. Father Yarvi was hardly a straight talker. ‘So he sends me, wretched with regret, to deny you audience, but to humbly offer you all food, warmth, and shelter beneath his roof.’

Which, apart from the food, sounded well enough to Thorn.

King Fynn’s hall was called the Forest for it was filled with a thicket of grand columns, said to have been floated down the Divine River from Kalyiv, beautifully carved and painted with scenes from the history of Throvenland. Somewhat less beautiful were the many, many guards, closely watching the South Wind’s dishevelled crew as they shuffled past, Thorn most dishevelled of all, one hand clutched to her aching belly.

‘Our reception in Skekenhouse was … not warm.’ Yarvi leaned close to Mother Kyre and Thorn heard his whisper. ‘If I didn’t know better I might say I am in danger.’

‘No danger will find you here, Father Yarvi, I assure you.’ Mother Kyre gestured at two of the most unreassuring guards Thorn had ever seen, flanking the door to a common room that stank of stale smoke.

‘Here you have water.’ She pointed out a barrel as if it was the highest of gifts. ‘Slaves will bring food and ale. A room for your crew to sleep in is made ready. No doubt you will wish to be away with the first glimpse of Mother Sun, to catch the tide and carry your news to King Uthil.’

Yarvi scrubbed unhappily at his pale hair with the heel of his twisted hand. ‘It seems you have thought of everything.’

‘A good minister is always prepared.’ And Mother Kyre shut the door as she left them, lacking only the turning of a key to mark them out as prisoners.

‘As warm a welcome as you thought we’d get,’ grunted Rulf.

‘Fynn and his minister are predictable as Father Moon. They are cautious. They live in the shadow of the High King’s power, after all.’

‘A long shadow, that,’ said Rulf.

‘Lengthening all the time. You look a little green, Thorn Bathu.’

‘I’m sick with disappointment to find no allies in Throvenland,’ she said.

Father Yarvi had the slightest smile. ‘We shall see.’

Thorn’s eyes snapped open in the fizzing darkness.

She was chilly with sweat under her blanket, kicked it off, felt the sticky wetness of blood between her legs and hissed a curse.

Beside her Rulf gave a particularly ripping snore then rolled over. She could hear the rest of the crew breathing, wriggling, muttering in their sleep, squashed in close together on dirty mats, tight as the fresh catch on market day.

They had made no special arrangements for her and she had asked for none. She wanted none. None except a fresh cloth down her trousers, anyway.

She stumbled down the corridor, hair in a tangle and guts in an aching knot, her belt undone with the buckle slapping at her thighs and one hand shoved down her trousers to feel how bad the bleeding was. All she needed to stop the mocking was a great stain around her crotch, and she cursed He Who Sprouts the Seed for inflicting this stupid business on her, and she cursed the stupid women who thought it was something to celebrate, her stupid mother first among them, and she cursed—

There was a man in the shadows of the common room.

He was dressed in black and standing near the water butt. In one hand he held its lid. In the other a little jar. As if he’d just poured something in. The place was lit by only one guttering candle and he had a bad squint, but Thorn got the distinct feeling he was staring right at her.

They stood unmoving, he with his jar over the water, she with her hand down her trousers, then the man said, ‘Who are you?’

‘Who am I? Who are you?’

Know where your nearest weapon is, her father used to tell her, and her eyes flickered to the table where the wreckage of their evening meal was scattered. An eating knife was wedged into the wood, short blade faintly gleaming. Hardly a hero’s blade, but when surprised at night with your belt open you take what you can get.

She gently eased her hand out of her trousers, gently eased towards the table and the knife. The man gently eased the jar away, eyes fixed on her, or at least somewhere near her.

‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ he said.

‘I’m not? What’re you putting in our water?’

‘What’re you doing with that knife?’

She wrenched it from the table and held it out, somewhat shaky, her voice high. ‘Is that poison?’

The man tossed down the barrel’s lid and stepped towards her. ‘Now don’t do anything stupid, girl.’ As he turned she saw he had a sword at his belt, his right hand reaching for the hilt.

Perhaps she panicked then. Or perhaps she thought more clearly than she ever had. Before she knew it she sprung at him, caught his wrist with one hand and drove the knife into his chest with the other.

It wasn’t hard to do. Much easier than you’d think.

He heaved in a wheezing breath, sword no more than quarter drawn, eyes more crossed than ever, pawing at her shoulder.

‘You …’ And he crashed over on his back, dragging her on top of him.

Thorn tore his limp hand away and struggled up. His black clothes turned blacker as blood soaked them, the eating knife wedged in his heart to the handle.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but when she opened them, he was still there.

Not a dream.

‘Oh, gods,’ she whispered.

‘They rarely help.’ Father Yarvi stood frowning in the doorway. ‘What happened?’

‘He had poison,’ muttered Thorn, pointing weakly at the fallen jar. ‘Or … I think he did …’

The minister squatted beside the dead man. ‘You have a habit of killing people, Thorn Bathu.’

‘That’s a bad thing,’ she said in a voice very small.

‘It does rather depend on who you kill.’ Yarvi slowly stood, looked about the room, walked over to her, peering at her face. ‘He hit you?’

‘Well … no—’

‘Yes.’ He punched her in the mouth and she sprawled against the table. By then he was already throwing the door wide. ‘Bloodshed in King Fynn’s hall! To arms! To arms!’

First came Rulf, who blinked down at the corpse and softly said, ‘That works.’

Then came guards, who blinked down at the corpse and made their weapons ready.

Then came the crew, who shook their shaggy heads and rubbed their stubbled jaws and murmured prayers.

And finally came King Fynn.

Thorn had moved among the powerful since she killed Edwal. She had met five ministers and three kings, one of them High, and the only one to impress her was the one who killed her father. Fynn might have been famed for his anger, but the first thing that struck Thorn was what a strangely shapeless man the King of Throvenland was. His chin melted into his neck, his neck into his shoulders, his shoulders into his belly, his sparse grey hairs in wafting disarray from the royal bed.

‘Kneeling isn’t your strength, is it?’ hissed Rulf, dragging Thorn down along with everyone else. ‘And for the gods’ sake fasten your damn belt!’

‘What happened here?’ roared the king, spraying his wincing guards with spit.

Thorn kept her eyes down as she fumbled with her buckle. Crushing with rocks looked inevitable now. Certainly for her. Possibly for the rest of the crew too. She saw the looks on their faces. This is what happens if you give a girl a blade. Even a little one.

Mother Kyre, immaculate even in her nightclothes, took up the fallen jar between finger and thumb, sniffed at it and wrinkled her nose. ‘Ugh! Poison, my king.’

‘By the gods!’ Yarvi put his hand on Thorn’s shoulder. The same hand he had just punched her with. ‘If it wasn’t for this girl’s quick thinking, I and my crew might have passed through the Last Door before morning.’

‘Search every corner of my hall!’ bellowed King Fynn. ‘Tell me how this bastard got in!’

A warrior who had knelt to root through the dead man’s clothes held out his palm, silver glinting. ‘Coins, my king. Minted in Skekenhouse.’

‘There is altogether too much from Skekenhouse in my hall of late.’ Fynn’s quivering jowls had a pink flush. ‘Grandmother Wexen’s coins, Grandmother Wexen’s eagles, Grandmother Wexen’s demands too. Demands of me, the King of Throvenland!’

‘But think of your people’s welfare, my king,’ coaxed Mother Kyre, still clinging to her smile, but it hardly touched her mouth now, let alone her eyes. ‘Think of Father Peace, Father of Doves, who makes of the fist—’

‘I have suffered many indignities on behalf of Father Peace.’ The flush had spread to King Fynn’s cheeks. ‘Once the High King was the first among brothers. Now he gives a father’s commands. How men should fight. How women should trade. How all should pray. Temples to the One God spring up across Throvenland like mushrooms after the rains, and I have held my tongue!’

‘You were wise to do so,’ said Mother Kyre, ‘and would be wise to—’

‘Now Grandmother Wexen sends assassins to my land?’

‘My king, we have no proof at all—’

Fynn bellowed over his minister, doughy face heating from pink to blazing crimson. ‘To my very house? To poison my guests?’ He stabbed at the corpse with one sausage of a finger. ‘Beneath my own roof and under my protection?’

‘I would counsel caution—’

‘You always do, Mother Kyre, but there is a limit on my forbearance, and the High King has stepped over it!’ With face now fully purple he seized Father Yarvi’s good hand. ‘Tell my beloved niece Queen Laithlin and her honoured husband that they have a friend in me. A friend whatever the costs! I swear it!’

Mother Kyre had no smile ready for this moment, but Father Yarvi certainly did. ‘Your friendship is all they ask for.’ And he lifted King Fynn’s hand high.

The guards cheered this unexpected alliance between Throvenland and Gettland with some surprise, the South Wind’s crew with great relief, and Thorn Bathu should no doubt have applauded loudest of all. Killing a man by accident had made her a villain. Killing another on purpose had made her a hero.

But all she could do was frown at the body as they dragged it out, and feel there was something very odd in all this.