The Shewstone Page 18

  Chapter Seven

  Ship’s crew and other transients must stay in the docks precinct throughout their stay in Sideamuda. Those hoping to enter the town must first get permission from the portgerefa. Anyone found on the streets during the hours of darkness, or in a state of drunkenness will receive one hundred lashes and be barred from future disembarkation. Any damages or losses incurred in the town will be recouped from the ship’s cargo. Please follow these rules. It will make your stay here more pleasant for all. Good day.” The harbour official turned on her heel and strode down the gangplank.

  “Pleasant!” Captain Joachim spat over the side.

  “Watch out. There’s probably a rule against that too,” Matt said.

  “You sure about getting off here?”

  “I have to. This is where the trail leads.”

  “I won’t be able to take you home. We’ll be steering clear of here, what with the new taxes.”

  “Don’t blame you.”

  “Take care then.”

  “Of course.” Matt clasped Captain Joachim’s hand in farewell. She called to the foredeck, “You ready?”

  Eawynn left her vantage point and joined Matt at the top of the gangplank.

  This port was different. Matt felt it before her foot hit the quay. The white daub and red tiles were similar to other mainland towns the Blue Puffin had called by, but the scale of the harbour dwarfed the rest, though not all was in use. Sideamuda had been the biggest seaport of the Rihtcynn Empire; all trade with Cyningesburg had gone through it. After the empire collapsed, the vast harbour was no longer needed. Currently, less than a tenth of the berths were occupied. Ranks of mansions covered the hills overlooking the sea. Yet many were no more than empty shells. The civic buildings were overblown marble constructions of porticoes and colonnades, but everywhere showed signs of poor maintenance.

  Yet the mood rather than the architecture was what struck Matt. The bustle flowed across the docks as furious as anywhere, but the sounds were muted. People were talking, but nobody yelled at the top of their lungs. Porters looked around, rather than over their carts, literally keeping their heads down. Everyone was trying not to be noticed. The upstanding folk, the merchants, traders, and sea captains, kept to the sidelines. The rovers, sneaks, and the rest had to be about as well, but for once Matt had trouble picking them out. Most surprising of all, no beggars were tagged on the edges.

  What she did see were soldiers in the black cloaks and silver conical helmets of the Rihtcynn Empire. Their large oval shields carried the old imperial crest. Everywhere Matt looked clumps of them were standing sentry. All the harbour officials strutting across the flagstones had their own personal bodyguard.

  A high wall rose above the red tiled roofs, protecting the town. Matt guessed the streets between sea and wall made up the docks precinct. It did not leave a lot of space for the ship’s crews. How difficult would getting permission to move on be? At least she had a name to ask for. Maybe Fish Eye Ellis could help. She would look for him once they had accommodation sorted.

  Matt headed for a wide street where a couple of promising signboards were hanging.

  Eawynn tagged along. “Where do we go for transport to Cyningesburg?”

  “We don’t.”

  “What?”

  “Frigging stupid rules. We have to stay in the dock area outside the city walls.”

  “You’re saying we’re stuck here?”

  “For a while. From what sailors in Fortaine told me, Sideamuda was on the edge of the area the Rihtcynn still controlled, and they mostly let the port go its own way. Things must have changed. The Rihtcynn have tightened their grip and made things awkward for everyone else. If we want to go into the town, we have to get a special permit from someone called the portgreffer, or something like that.”

  “The portgerefa?”

  “That was it.”

  “It means harbour master, in Cynnreord.”

  “Then why didn’t they say so?” Matt was losing patience.

  “Because it sounds better.”

  They reached the first swinging inn sign. However, the door and windows were boarded up. A dozen yards farther on, the second inn was still in business, but a small wooden red hand hung in the window, the universal token for No Vacancies.

  “Damn.” Matt looked up and down the street. No other inn signs hung above the passing heads.

  “What?”

  “Rooms are in short supply.” Which might have been predictable, had Matt given it thought.

  “Are there other inns around here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can we get a pass from the portgerefa so we can look for a room in town?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who do we ask to find out?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is there anything you do know, that you’d like to share with me?”

  “We need to find somewhere to stay before nightfall, else if we’re caught on the streets we’ll be flogged.”

  “Wonderful.” Eawynn’s voice oozed sarcasm.

  “And don’t get drunk.”

  “I didn’t intend to.”

  “Really? I’d been thinking I could use a drink.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We stand here and ask each other pointless questions, until someone with a big stick comes to collect us.”

  “There’s no need to take that tone.”

  “It’s the one I reserve for people acting like idiots.”

  “And where does wasting time, throwing abuse around come in your scale of idiocy?”

  “Somewhere below—” A heavy hand landed on Matt’s shoulder. Their raised voices had attracted attention.

  “Haebbe thu aenigne wea, freo?” The soldier was clearly asking Eawynn a question.

  “Eall is wel, thance thu.”

  “Sy beonde heo sum dracu?”

  “Na.”

  The soldier let go of Matt’s shoulder, though he kept a stern eye on her, while continuing his conversation with Eawynn. Whatever she said had an effect. The soldier stood up straighter and adopted a courteous manner. After a few minutes of animated talking, with much gesturing between the quay and the town, he smacked his fist on his chest in a salute and marched away.

  “Neat trick. What did you say?” Matt asked once he was gone.

  “I apologised for my oafish servant.”

  “Servant!”

  “You.”

  “I guessed.” Matt bit back anything else she might say. With Eawynn’s looks it was undeniably the best way to play things. “What else did he say?”

  “He told me where the portgerefan office is. Also a couple of recommendations for lodgings in town.”

  “Do you think you can get an entry permit?”

  “He thought there’d be no problem for a visiting priestess and her servant. Come on. Follow me.” Eawynn handed over her pack and smiled sweetly. “And it’ll look best if you carry all the baggage.”

  *

  The guard captain at the gate studied the permits Eawynn held out, taking slightly longer over the one for Matt, and then waved them through.

  “Welcome to our city, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.”

  They strolled up the street, with Matt staying a deferential two steps to the rear, carrying both packs. Eawynn fought to control her grin. A pity walking backward was impractical. She could not see Matt’s face and had to settle for imagining how little her current role would be to the brash thief’s liking.

  The nearest of the recommended lodgings, Se Seofan Steorran, was within sight of the gates. Even in this short distance, Eawynn could tell the pace of life was noticeably different inside the city wall, quieter and more sedate. Cynnreord was all she heard spoken loudly, although she caught mutterings in Tradetalk and other languages.

  The social stratification was evident. With few exceptions, those making a display of their wealth were of Rihtcynn descent, and the richer the attire, the redder
the hair. Knee-length tunics in red and purple, covered in intricate gold embroidery was the predominant fashion.

  The Thraelas, the servants and workers, came from all over the known world, a legacy of empire. Skin colour varied from dark cream to jet black. Most hair was brown, but Eawynn spotted one or two yellow heads from the far north.

  Many of the poorest had iron collars around their necks. Eawynn frowned and looked away. Slavery was not unknown, even on Pinettale, although it had fallen into disuse and was no longer officially condoned. Those who owned slaves did not flaunt the fact. But of course, it had been commonplace in the old empire.

  The dark-skinned owner of Se Seofan Steorran spoke Cynnreord fluently, but with a strong accent. She bobbed up and down as she talked, as if fearing one curtsy was not enough. “You do us honour by your presence, my lady.”

  “You have a free room?”

  “Yes, my lady, if it please you. Allow me to show you the way.”

  “My servant will take care of the payment. Settle the bill with her.” Matt had assured her money would not be an issue.

  “Very good, my lady. Do you know how long you’ll be staying?”

  “No. Is that likely to be a problem?”

  “Oh no, my lady. As long as you wish to stay. We would be honoured, my lady.”

  The servile grovelling was all decidedly wearing. Eawynn was relieved when they finally shut the door. A feeling apparently shared by Matt, who dropped both packs and collapsed onto the larger of the two beds with a groan.

  “I think that’s supposed to be mine.”

  Matt lifted her head. “You’re joking.”

  “No. Supposing someone comes in. Don’t we need to maintain the show?”

  “They’ll knock.”

  “And you want to scuttle across before I call enter?”

  Matt stomped four steps to the narrow bunk and threw herself down in the identical position as before without uttering a word, but her face said it all. Again, Eawynn had to fight to hide her grin. She looked out the window, which commanded a view of a small square with a well in the middle.

  After a while, Matt sighed and swivelled into a sitting position on the edge of her bed. “I guess the first thing is to see if Oswald Husa Eastandune is still here. He’s a priest of Liffrea. We could go to the temple. I’d say it’s a safe bet there’s one in town.”

  Liffrea had been the patron god of the Rihtcynn emperors. Predictably, his worship had declined with the empire’s collapse. On Pinettale, his following had held up better than in most other places, partly because King Swidhelm had adopted him, and partly because in all the myths, he had a boat. Despite this, even on Pinettale Liffrea had lost his place as King of the Gods. However, in lands where the Rihtcynn stayed in control, his position would be unchanged.

  Eawynn nodded. “I’m sure there is. But I should go on my own.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because we don’t have the clothes to pass you off as rich, and you don’t have the looks to pass yourself off as Rihtcynn.”

  “What does that count for?”

  “From what we’ve seen so far, pretty much everything. The soldier at the docks was ready to arrest you, just for raising your voice to me.”

  “Yes. And I’ve learned that lesson, thank you.”

  “Could you fall over yourself grovelling to me, like the landlady here?”

  Matt’s expression was her answer.

  “You won’t be able to understand what anyone we need to talk to is saying. All you can do is attract unwanted attention.”

  Matt gave in. “What do I do while you’re gone?”

  Eawynn walked out, smiling. “You could unpack my things.”

  *

  Matt glared at the back of the door after Eawynn left. “If that’s what you want.” She spoke aloud.

  At the foot of Eawynn’s bed was a large chest. Matt lifted the lid, then upended Eawynn’s pack into it. For good measure, she tossed the empty bag on top. It was very childish and did not make her feel any better.

  Matt wandered to the window and looked out. Summer was approaching, and Sideamuda lay far south of Pinettale. The midday sun was high overhead, and the building’s shadows were no more than narrow bands along the edge. She should have gone with Eawynn, Matt thought. Maybe she did not speak the language, but she understood the streets in a way an ex-priestess could not. The games were being played in a different style here, but they would be the same games at heart. Should she go out and explore, or would it be more sensible to wait for Eawynn’s return?

  A door opened below, and an elderly woman tottered out, dressed in old sacks and carrying a wooden bucket. The hostel employee hooked the bucket on the rope over the well and turned the crank. As she did so, her long, unbraided hair fell forward, revealing the iron collar around her scrawny neck. Not a hostel employee—hostel property. Matt felt her lip curl in distaste. The Rihtcynn had not changed.

  A couple of red-haired adolescents strolled into the square, a boy and girl arm in arm, clearly enjoying the warm sunlight as much as they were enjoying each other’s company. They passed the well as the elderly slave completed winding up the full bucket, but the rope slipped in her hand as she tried to unhook it, and a splash fell on the girl’s shoe.

  The reaction was immediate. The boy’s backhand sent the old woman flying. She lay, curled on the ground, as a succession of kicks followed. Her only action was to shield her head with her arms. All the while, the boy shouted in Cynnreord. Without knowing the words, Matt had no trouble understanding the meaning.

  After a final kick, the boy stepped back, but instead of leaving the old woman alone he drew a short sword. Matt took a half step, about to run down, but what could she do? Even if she got there in time, would the boy pay any attention to her? Matt was not a slave, but neither was she Rihtcynn. It was not as if she could speak any language he would admit to understanding. What was the risk she would simply become a second victim?

  Two new figures appeared in the square, soldiers in their black cloaks, presumably attracted by the shouting. They stayed by the entrance and called over. “Hwaet alimpende?”

  “Ic alaere hie beon eadmedlic.” The boy showed not the slightest concern at being caught attacking an old woman.

  Another couple of exchanges followed. The last was clearly a funny joke, since the soldiers laughed loudly and went.

  The boy turned back to the slave on the ground. He placed the tip of his sword against her flat chest and shouted some more. Matt could see the hopeless fear in the woman’s eyes, but at last the boy stepped back and sheathed his sword. He settled for kicking the bucket across the square, then linked his arm with the girl who had watched impassively throughout. Smiling, the pair continued their midday stroll in the sunshine.

  The old woman rolled painfully to her knees. She stared at the alleyway where the adolescents had gone. Her expression was bitter, but resigned. Her hand lifted to the iron band around her neck as she adjusted its set on her collar bone. The gesture was habitual, Matt sensed, possibly the woman was unaware she was doing it.

  Matt drew a deep breath and turned from the window. Her permit from the portgerefa lay on a table where Eawynn had dropped it. Maybe she would not go out on the streets, not until Eawynn had translated every last word for her. Matt looked over her shoulder. Down in the square, the slave reclaimed her empty bucket and hobbled back to the well. Matt watched her repeat the drawing of water.

  The Rihtcynn had not changed.

  *

  Once satisfaction at getting one up on Matt had worn off, Eawynn experienced a twinge of anxiety. The sensation did not begin to compare with the first days after her expulsion from the temple, but she did not feel at ease, out alone on unfamiliar streets. Maybe she should have brought Matt along. Not that she experienced any difficulties. The rich ignored her and everyone else got out of her way.

  The temple of Liffrea was unlikely to be anywhere other than the centre of town. Eawynn still thought it best
to check. She stopped a young man, pushing a hand cart full of pots.

  “Excuse me.”

  He cowered as if wanting to hide under his cart. “Yes, m-m-ma’am, m-m-my l-lady.”

  “The Temple of Liffrea, which way is it?”

  He pointed up the street. “Th-th-th-”

  He dared not meet her eyes. Was he simple-minded, terrified, or both? Then Eawynn noticed the iron collar around his neck.

  By the time she reached the temple, her feeling of unease had shifted. She was no longer so anxious for herself, but she was less happy about what she was seeing. Her father had spoken of the centuries under Rihtcynn rule as a time of wonder, enjoyed by all. Eawynn had been doubtful whether life was ever so harmonious. These doubts were hardening. The number of slaves was disconcerting. They acted docile, even content, but it was an act, Eawynn was sure. A couple of times she caught angry, hostile expressions, quickly concealed.

  Meanwhile, the Rihtcynn and their rich allies seemed oblivious to the fact they were outnumbered by people who had no reason to feel anything but ill will for them. The soldiers were in control for now. The Thraelas were not challenging the social order, but given the right prod, things could change quickly. Eawynn could sense it in the air. She hurried on her way. Perhaps she should be a little more worried for herself.

  The Temple of Liffrea was built along familiar lines. Eawynn entered the main sanctuary, dominated by a statue to the god. The open space was three times that belonging to Anberith, back in Fortaine, but the state of repair was poor. The surrounding wall was crumbling in places, and grass sprouted between cracks in the flagstones.

  A ceremony was in progress when she arrived. Eawynn stayed through the cycle of chants, analogous to those she knew, although sung in Cynnreord. This, to her mind, was an improvement, unlike the sacrifice of a bull at the climax. The bellowing of the dying animal and blood spraying into the air was something she was very pleased they had abandoned in Fortaine.

  When the ceremony ended, Eawynn hurried to catch up with one of the priests before they left the sanctuary.

  “Excuse me, Holy Brother.”