In the morning, they were let out for good behaviour. Chel shuffled into the hold with tender steps, his entire body racked with aches and jolts. Lemon checked his dressings again and worked his strapped arm at the elbow. She muttered constantly as she worked, before finishing with a ‘No big moves for at least a week – you’ll have to train the other hand,’ then departed with a mucky chuckle.
Tarfel was munching on some kind of radish. ‘I’ll admit,’ he said between crunches, ‘this could be worse.’
Chel surveyed the now-deserted hold. Its doorway to the deck lay open and unguarded. His shoulder throbbed and his face itched. ‘We’ve been locked in a box on a riverboat for hours, while people have taken turns in trying to kill us, highness.’
‘But they haven’t, have they? Killed us, I mean. If they really had it in for us, they’d have done it by now. Karaman of Tawal was set upon in Lauwei, dragged off his horse in the street. They stabbed him up so much he was dead before he hit the ground. So I heard, anyway. All I need to do is sit tight until we reach Kurtemir, then it’s a quick ransom and off to the nearest palace. You’ll be a free man, I can start plotting my royal revenge.’
Chel shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t put anything past this lot. Don’t confuse the absence of immediate cruelty with kindness, highness.’
Tarfel nodded, mouth full of radish. ‘I’ll try not to.’
***
The vessel in daylight was revealed as a low, wide-bodied barge, a smuggler’s crate. The crew avoided them all, for the most part. They were professionally unobservant. The Black Hawk Company were dotted around the vessel, which was making steady progress up the wide, curving river, past countless churning watermills, small riverboats with oars and poles, toll points and ferries. Chel and Tarfel were allowed the run of the deck in the dazzling morning sun. The rocky red shore was several hundred yards away on either side, and Chel doubted he’d get very far if he tried to swim one-armed. He glanced at Tarfel, who was wandering around the upper deck looking relaxed, almost cheerful, as if performing a royal inspection. Chel doubted the prince could swim either. He couldn’t even ride. How could a prince not ride?
Chel wandered along the vessel’s edge, his good hand on the high rail, his eyes on the distant shore. Drifting around a cluster of barrels he almost trod on Spider. He and a dark, hollow-eyed girl of about Chel’s own age were sitting in the shade of the barrels, almost comatose. Dried pods crunched beneath Chel’s feet, and Spider’s eyes snapped open. He snaked out a claw-like hand and grabbed the front of Chel’s shirt, dragging him forward and down to his level.
‘You.’ Spider’s eyes were bloodshot, unfocused.
‘Me,’ Chel said. His heart was already beating faster.
‘You.’
Spider smiled then, a dreamy, inward smile, and his grip relaxed as his eyes closed and his head lolled back against the barrels. Chel backed away, tasting sour adrenaline, then skirted around to the far side of the barge, as far away as possible from the barrels and their occupants. He bumped into Tarfel, coming the other way. The prince was singing, and for a moment Chel flashed back to their trip in the mule cart to Omundi. It all seemed a very long time ago. It must have been all of five days.
The princed finished off the final lines of ‘Red Runs the River’ with a beatific smile, took a breath, then launched into the opening of ‘The Ballad of the White Widow’. Chel liked this one; it was reasonably new.
Lemon came racing across the deck, waving her hands and making a hissing noise. Chel and Tarfel turned to watch her approach, the prince pausing his singing. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Just, ancestors …’ She put her hands on her knees, took a couple of long breaths. ‘Just don’t sing that one, yes?’
‘Whyever not?’
She waved a hand and blew orange fronds from her face. ‘Just … anything else, all right?’
The prince shrugged, turned and sauntered away across the deck, the reedy strains of ‘Blessed are the Liberators’ going with him. Chel hovered.
‘What’s the problem with that song?’
Lemon stood, her breathing back under control, and shook her head. ‘Boss-man doesn’t like it. And you’d be voyaging on the right side of prudent to skirt his ire, given we’re all trapped on this wee boat together. Last time he heard a minstrel sing it, he threw a chair at his head.’
‘All … right …’ Chel nodded, no less puzzled. ‘Hey, who’s that girl? The one over with Spider. A bit … thousand-yard stare.’
‘She’s the Fly.’
‘Oh, that’s convenient.’
‘Not really. He always calls them that.’
‘Them?’
But Lemon was already walking away, leaving Chel alone on the deck. He clambered, painfully, up the short ladder to the forecastle, where he found Loveless in the shadow of the mast, apparently in conversation with herself.
‘Keep on south, I suppose,’ she said. She was leaning back against the prow, beside a tall stack of crates, looking off toward the distant shore. ‘What would you do?’
She paused, then shrugged. ‘Well, you know me. Whatever works.’
Chel heard no reply, but Loveless snorted with laughter. Then she saw him.
‘Are you lost, bear cub?’
He wanted to turn and run. ‘Who are you talking to?’ he said instead.
She arched an eyebrow. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’
A shout came from the barge’s stern. It sounded like ‘Sail!’
Loveless’s eyes narrowed. ‘Go and see what that is.’
Chel went.
***
He found Rennic and Foss already on the rear deck, staring out over the rail at the pale wash of water that trailed them. Neither looked over as he approached.
‘What’s going on?’ he said.
‘How far back?’ Rennic said to Foss.
The man-mountain tipped his head from side to side, his bundled braids swaying. ‘Half a day, maybe?’
‘Any chance it’s local?’
Foss shook his head. ‘They closed the port, boss, and the river with it. That one has a dispensation.’
Rennic grimaced. ‘How long until they catch us?’
Again, Foss looked uncertain. ‘Depends on the currents and the wind. But she’ll be faster than us, no doubt. We chose this one for profile, not for speed.’
‘How long?’
‘Two days. Three at most.’
‘Fucking hells. We’ll be lucky even to reach the lake mouth in that time.’ He gripped the rail, knuckles white. Chel squinted in the early orange sunlight. He thought he could make out a pale smear at the distant curve of the glittering river. It might have been a sail, he supposed.
***
Lemon roused them sometime in the small hours of their third night aboard the barge. Chel and Tarfel were still confined to the store, but they’d at least been allowed a couple of bedrolls and some blankets and had carved out a snug corner each among the sacks and barrels.
She led them up onto the rear deck without speaking, and the humourless glitter of lamp light in her eyes made her silence contagious. There stood the rest of the company: Foss and Loveless by the tiller, gazing out over the lightless waters that lapped in their wake; Spider and his dead-eyed companion, looking at least more alert than Chel had seen since they pushed off; and Rennic, in low conversation with the captain, a hard-faced woman in her middle years, her thick, silver-black braids gleaming in the low deck light.
‘What’s happening?’ Tarfel whispered to Chel as they came to a stop by the top of the stairs. He could offer no reply. The night air was chill, the rippling sky overhead thick with dark veins of moonless cloud, and he found himself stuffing his good hand beneath his bandages to try to keep his fingers warm. The dwindling heat of the northern autumnal days was long gone by this hour, and the cool breeze blowing along the river left him shivering.
Rennic looked over at them. His sharp features were exaggerated by the deep shadows cast by the fluttering lanterns, and for a moment he looked truly monstrous. ‘Gather your shit,’ he said. ‘We’re going ashore.’
Chel turned toward the barge’s prow. They were still half a day or more from the lake, although he was sure he could see the amber glow of the lights of Kurtemir on the distant horizon. Then he looked back, beyond the figures at the rail. There, now only a few hundred yards behind, the forelights of the chasing vessel shimmered in the midnight fog.
‘They’re going to catch us,’ he said.
‘Not if we’re not here. Now get your shit.’
Tarfel looked panicked. ‘But we don’t have anything!’
‘Good. The boat’s tied at the rail. While the mist holds, come on.’
They were bundled swiftly down the rope ladder to the long, narrow vessel that had brought their would-be assassins, still tied at the barge’s flank. Spider and the Fly went first, squeezing around the bundles of supplies that were already packed along the boat’s centre. Lemon and Foss sandwiched Chel and the prince, no doubt to keep them from any rash action, and finally Loveless and Rennic descended. Rennic looked up and back, gave a signal of acknowledgement, and Loveless began to cast off.
‘What about them?’ Chel said, his eyes on the handful of crew up on the decks. The water seemed so much louder in the boat that he had to raise his voice.
Rennic didn’t look at him. ‘They’ll be fine.’
‘If we’re pursued, they’re at risk.’
‘They know what they’re doing. Now shut your mouth.’ He looked around in frustration. ‘We need to be away. Where in hells is she?’
Chel frowned. Loveless had untied them, and they had begun to drift on the rising waves of the barge’s wash. Everyone he expected was already aboard.
A shadow detached itself from the great dark shape of the barge that loomed over them, then with a hissing sound it spooled itself down the loose rope that dangled from the rail until it was only a foot from the waterline. A moment’s flexion, then the shadow pushed itself away from the barge’s hull and out over the water, arcing around. As it passed over the boat, the shadow detached itself and dropped onto them. The boat bucked and rocked as the shadow landed with a thump, then unfolded itself between Rennic and Loveless at the rear of the vessel.
‘God’s breath!’ Tarfel shrieked. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Keep your voice down,’ Lemon said, and cuffed the prince around the head.
‘A fucking show-off, that’s who,’ said Loveless, before clamping an affectionate arm around the new arrival. A patch of starlight revealed their latecomer to be a spare-framed woman, her shaven head gleaming almost blue. Chel spotted an unstrung bow poking up from her back, along with the dark-fletched arrows he’d seen thumping into the last occupant of their current vessel. She grinned at Loveless, then made a series of curious gestures with her fingers. Loveless laughed and said, ‘Would I bollocks.’
‘Voices down, eh?’ Lemon growled again, then she and Foss slid their paddles over the side and they began their slow voyage through the mist to the shore.
***
‘I don’t understand,’ Tarfel said, slapping water from his boots on the rough loose stone of the river bank. ‘How is this any faster? It’ll take much longer to get to Kurtemir if we’re walking, surely?’
‘We’re not going to Kurtemir,’ Rennic said. ‘Not any more.’
‘But … Well, where are we going then?’
Rennic pointed. Not upriver, toward the lake, but inland, and upward. Giant black shapes blotted the western horizon, little more than jagged crests of darkness against the predawn bruise of the sky.
Tarfel followed his finger. ‘We’re going toward the mountains?’
‘No. We’re going over them.’
‘What? Are you mad? There are savages up there, wild animals, storms!’ The prince was almost screaming, and Chel stepped between him and Lemon before a cuff arrived. ‘Well, clearly you are mad – you kidnapped a prince of the realm, for God’s sake – but … but …’
‘Oh, don’t worry.’ Rennic stepped close to them both, his hard face expressionless in the gloom. ‘Safer to cross at the Low Passes than stay on the river. I hope those noble legs of yours were bred for climbing. Now grab a pack and get moving.’
‘I won’t, you can’t make me! There are rules.’
‘Is. That. So.’
‘Just take me to any of the Names, hells, anyone with a pennant, a castle and an oath.’
Chel pursed his lips. Grand Duke Reysel had been a Name, and his own son had offed him. Would any other Name be safe?
‘Thrice-damn it,’ Tarfel went on, ‘I’m a prince and I’m worth a fortune.’
‘From where I’m standing, you’re neither.’
‘What?’
Loveless slung one of the supply packs onto her back. ‘See, that’s the funny thing, princeling,’ she said.
Tarfel looked befuddled. ‘What is?’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘you’re only a prince, as it were, because people agree you are.’
‘Nonsense. I’m a prince because my father is the king.’
‘Right. And people agreed he was.’
‘Nothing of the sort! He’s the heir of the true king of Vistirlar. My grandfather Akko reunited the provinces, reforged the kingdom.’
‘That’s the thing, though, isn’t it? We can all look back on it and talk about true kingy-ness, but you ask Old Man Rennic here about which of half a dozen company men or Horvaun warlords might have sat on the throne in those days, he’ll tell you some stories.’
Rennic grunted. ‘Not that old.’
Loveless scooped up another pack and pressed it against Tarfel’s midriff. ‘Here. And here’s where we have our current predicament. ’Cos you might have missed this part, but word’s been spreading of your princely demise at Denirnas in the Nort attack.’
Tarfel shuffled the pack onto his back, almost unconsciously. ‘But that’s no issue. I’m alive! People will be pleased to see me!’
Loveless raised an eyebrow, stretching the forked scar at her temple. ‘No one is ever truly pleased to see a prince, you can take my word for it.’ She reached out and steered him around, toward the dark spread of the woods that fringed the top of the bank. Already the rest of the company were shuffling through the darkness toward them. Chel picked up a sack with his good hand and slung it over his shoulder with a wince, then followed.
‘But your true problem is this, o princeling,’ Loveless continued as she began to walk. She had one hand on Tarfel’s lower back, herding him forward. ‘A dead prince is no longer one that anyone need concern themselves with, and it clearly suits someone’s agenda that you become such. To wit, you might not personally be dead, but the popular conception of Tarfel Merimonsun, Prince of Vistirlar, has passed on. And once no one agrees you’re a prince any more, well … you’re not a prince any more.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I’m sure you will soon.’
‘Why bother ransoming me, then? Why not just let me go?’
She smiled, stunning, chilling. ‘Don’t worry, princeling. You’re still valuable to someone. Someone with the heft to make you matter again.’
***
They made it through the woods into the foothills by dawn, the pale light in the north-eastern sky barely troubling the persistent darkness of the clouds. They were higher still when they saw the column of thick black smoke rising behind them, down in the valley. From the next rise, they saw the angry scarlet and orange flames roaring at the choking column’s base, before the ravaged hulk of the barge cracked and split and sank into the river, sending thick white clouds up after the black.
Rennic avoided Chel’s eye. ‘Keep moving. We don’t stop until dusk.’
***
The going was hard, especially an arm down. It was no surprise that the mercenaries were far hardier than Chel or the prince, capable of keeping an even, untroubled pace over the steep and broken ground as they wound their way higher. Whenever Chel or Tarfel lagged, one or two of Rennic’s crew would appear behind them with a firm nudge or grip on an elbow to drag them forward. The cuffs weren’t frequent. They didn’t need to be.
When not stumbling, sweating and feeling like his legs were aflame, Chel kept an eye out for the new woman, the silent late arrival. Already he was thinking back to the one-sided conversation he’d seen with Loveless. Had this woman been on the barge with them for three days without him seeing her? He thought of the arrows from above that had saved him from being on the wrong end of the boatman’s crossbow. If that was the case, he was glad of it.
He struggled to see her most of the time as they climbed through the trees, and not just because he spent most of the time with his eyes on his feet, blinking away sweat. The day was cool and clouded, at least. He saw the shaven-headed woman only sporadically, appearing at Rennic’s side for a moment, or walking beside Loveless for a few paces. Then she was off again, ahead, around, above, he couldn’t tell. The woman moved like a mountain creature, sure-footed, and eerily silent. Chel couldn’t shake the feeling that she was all around him, watching and laughing a silent laugh at his floundering.
‘Who’s that?’ he said to Lemon.
‘Whisper.’
‘Sorry, who’s that?’ he whispered.
‘Oh, you’re a right funny fucker, aren’t you?’
Chel continued in uncertain silence.
Despite his decree, Rennic allowed them an hour of rest at the day’s peak. Spare rations were shared, and both Tarfel and Chel collapsed against the hard, red earth of the slope and slept. Spider kicked them awake after what seemed like a moment, but the sun had moved into the north-western clouds and already the day was cooling. ‘Plenty miles to go,’ he said with his nasty grin. Spider, like the others, seemed unaffected by the climb. Even the Fly seemed no more blank than usual. Only Lemon gave voice to complaint, a steady stream of muttering and grumbles floating from her direction as she marched. Yet her pace never dropped, and while she seemed a little pinker when they stopped, she was up and off again the moment they resumed.
Chel staggered after, trying to force his aching legs back into motion. He watched Lemon’s boots stomp along in front of him and let the sound of her utterances lull him into a steady rhythm.
‘Oh aye, right, into the mountains we go. No bother there. Not like there’s fucken wolves and bears and whatnot. Always fucken wolves. Wildlife, shitehawks all. If I see a fucken wolf I’m gonna brain it with a fucken hammer and wear its flat head like a fucken hat. No fucken wolf better come near me. Lemon the wolf-hammer, that’s what they call me. Too fucken right, wolfy, just you try it. Just you show me your little wolfy teeth. I’ll have your fucken tail to clean my arse.’
‘Lemon, please, hush,’ Foss sighed from a few paces over.
‘No,’ said Lemon.