It wasn’t until the cloaked escorts had drawn thick coverings over most of the opening to the sea and lit candles around the cave that Chel could register the surroundings, and it wasn’t until two iron braziers were aflame in the cave’s edges that he felt the numbing cold and concomitant anxiety ease.
The light revealed a stack of dovecotes along the far wall, beside the great window out to the sea, the occasional coo or flutter from within. Still their host lay wreathed in shadow, the candle at his desk dim and futile. He wore a thick, dark cloak, his face hooded, and on the desk before him lay no papers, only small slabs of wood, some coated with wax on one side, as well as a collection of small bells of varying dimensions.
‘Please forgive the draught. I do enjoy the feeling of the sea air sometimes.’
The escorts laid out low chairs, then withdrew to the cave’s fringes, leaving the party standing before the desk. Tarfel almost hung from Palo’s resting grip, his face expressionless, eyes vacant and downcast. Dalim stood close behind with his men, the glaive resting against one foot, his damaged face trying to betray no curiosity. Rennic and Chel stood the other side of Spider, uneasy but unbowed.
‘Please, take a seat. Ayla, why don’t you tell me who you’ve brought. Let me hear how you sound.’
Chel frowned as he seated himself behind the others. He found the hooded man’s manner disconcerting. Palo sat, then leaned forward, almost dragging Tarfel with her. ‘You received my message?’
The hooded man’s fingers traced over one of the wax-covered boards before him.
‘Indeed.’
‘Then you know who sits before you.’
The hooded figure sat back in his chair. It was high-backed, almost regal, carved from dark wood and shining with moisture. Chel guessed it was lacquered, some measure of protection from airborne seawater.
‘Let me hear it from him.’
Dalim reached forward and jabbed Tarfel with a finger.
‘Tell him who you are, worm.’
Tarfel looked up, then around, as if waking from a dream. Dalim jabbed him again, repeating the instruction.
Tarfel told him.
The man grinned, his smile gleaming from the darkness beneath the hood.
‘Truly, it is you. The lost prince of Vistirlar is among us.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘This is wonderful, wonderful!’
Rennic leaned forward, jaw set. ‘Now that we’ve established we’re not brimming with horseshit, how about you return us the favour?’
The man nodded. ‘By all means, Master Rennic, by all means.’ He stood, one hand on the desk, revealing a stocky, portly figure, probably an inch or two below Chel’s height. He reached up and drew back the hood, revealing a wide, jowly face, thinning hair and pitted skin. His eye sockets were completely empty.
‘My name is Raeden Torht, although you will know me by other names. You can guess which.’
Spider began to chuckle, becoming a reckless, uncontrolled laugh that echoed around the cave. ‘He’s blind. The Watcher in the Wind, the Grey Owl of Freemen, He Who Sees … you’re blind!’
Torht nodded, his empty eyes pools of utter black. He seemed unruffled by the outburst.
‘The Rau Rel welcome you, your highness.’
***
The shadowy servants brought out food while Palo gave a full report to Torht, the man in the high-backed chair. The platters laid before them were surprisingly rich, fine pastries and grilled meats, and once again Chel’s thoughts went to the great holy building that stood somewhere above them, and its relationship with those in the dark caverns below.
Torht ate and listened in silence, his fingers reaching for dishes without hesitation, as if everything was simply where he expected it to be. He gave no indication that anything Palo told him was either news or familiar, letting her speak uninterrupted, his rubbery mouth working in constant chewing procession.
‘… we allowed an evening of recovery at Wavecrest, then sailed with the morning tide today. The prince’s sworn insisted in coming with us, as did Master Rennic, who believes his company’s efforts have been insufficiently rewarded.’
Palo sat back, her report completed. She hadn’t yet touched any of the food. Chel flicked a glance to Rennic beside him. The big man’s eyes were narrow, but he made no move to speak.
Torht finished chewing, wiped grease from his lips and steepled his fingers. He swept his sightless gaze across the group, and Chel felt himself flinch away as it passed over him.
‘Who, apart from those here present,’ the so-called Watcher said, ‘knows that Prince Tarfel is alive?’
Palo looked to Rennic.
‘The remainder of my company. The lady there, and her people.’
‘And those you encountered in your journey here?’
Chel thought back to everyone they’d seen since the Nort attack on Denirnas, and the massacre at the winter palace. The men who’d boarded the riverboat, the last of whom Foss had thrown overboard; the boat’s crew, slaughtered and scuttled. The Fly had been murdered by Hurkel and the Mawn, whom in turn they’d ambushed in the mountains. The Nanaki hunters, dead and burned to ash, and the runner left for the buzzards. Things had not gone well for those whose path Prince Tarfel had crossed.
‘In theory, the grand duke’s son, Esen, the slippery shit, and whoever sent that meat-stack Hurkel after us.’
‘And what became of Brother Hurkel?’
‘The boy here broke his knees, and another of our number took his hand. Wolves got the rest of him.’
‘I see. Anyone else?’
Figures loomed in Chel’s mind. The Mawn. What had been the woman’s name? Grassi. Grassi of the Mawn.
Rennic’s eyes glittered dark in the candlelight.
‘No one.’
Torht stood, and Chel caught himself flinching backward. The blind man turned to address Tarfel directly. The prince was staring at his boots, his eyes rheumy, his posture a compound slump.
‘Prince Tarfel, you are a dead man.’
Tarfel stirred, blinking but long-inured to new terrors.
Torht spread his hands wide. ‘And this, your highness, is the best thing to happen to you in a long while.’
Tarfel’s chin lifted, a frown creasing his pallid brow.
‘It is an open secret that something rots at the heart of our kingdom, your highness, and I’m sure you know it better than most. The provinces have been riven by plague and warfare, nigh without interruption, for more than two decades. The loss, the destruction, the wasted lives, all incalculable.’ Torht began a slow walk around the wide table, one hand tracing its edge. ‘And to what end? Who has profited from all this suffering? Certainly not the common man, who has seen armies rampage criss-cross over his lands, scouring food and populace. Not the local liege, who is crushed for tithe and forces while her sworn wither and die among the plague-borne.’
Torht came to rest before the prince, who watched him with undisguised curiosity.
‘Not even the Names, the great lords and ladies, whose promised plunder from new conquest has given way to ever more demands for service and manpower, who are driven from their grand homes on unending campaigns against former brothers, sisters, cousins, from the blood-crazed redoubts of the savages of the far south to the ruthless stone-holds of the northern reaches. Whose sons murder their own fathers in a power-play, in the hope of winning the favour of those one rung up this greasy ladder of horrors. Who profits? Who sits at the apex of misery?’
Tarfel only blinked. Chel wasn’t sure himself if the question was rhetorical, but he was pretty sure he knew who the Watcher meant: Primarch Lo Vassad and his Order of the Rose.
Torht’s smile returned, pulling at the glistening corners of his mouth as he spoke. ‘I suspect you know very well the answer, highness, when you set your mind to truth. For now, let me assure you that you have not been taken for ransom. You have been spirited to safety by the only group who truly care about you, and who truly care for the fate of the kingdom. For restoring peace and prosperity to all.’
Chel glanced at Rennic. The big man’s bushy eyebrows were raised, a sceptical lip curled.
‘Let us acknowledge,’ Torht said, ‘that were it not for the efforts of those around you, you would truly be as dead as the Church’s proclamations claim. It is our collective good fortune that you are not. Which brings us to this young man.’
Torht leaned back against the table and turned his sightless gaze on Chel. Chel started, then swallowed. The others were looking at him.
‘Hello?’ he said.
‘Chel, isn’t it? Vedren.’
Chel nodded, then remembered to add words. ‘Yes. Do you know me?’
‘Eldest of Justina and the late Antonin Chel of Barva, Andriz inheritors. Usurped as heir by remarriage to Amiran Dalimil.’
Chel felt his cheeks flushing. ‘Do you mind? That’s intimate.’
Torht smiled his unpleasant smile again. ‘Nothing is intimate to me, Vedren Chel. The Watcher sees all.’ He waved a hand. ‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘Well, you don’t have to say everything out in public then,’ Chel said, his jaw set. The sudden attention was making him petulant; he found something irksome about the man’s manner. ‘Is there anything you need to tell me?’
Torht’s mouth narrowed. ‘Only that your efforts are appreciated, and we hope the prince is grateful for the sacrifices you have made for him.’
Chel nodded. ‘Oh. Thanks.’
‘So what now?’ Rennic was sitting forward again, his dark eyes shining in the torchlight. ‘What are you planning? And what’s your budget for company work?’
Torht’s grin returned, as wide as his face.
‘Now, Gar Rennic, we save the kingdom.’
‘How?’
Torht pointed one chubby finger in Tarfel’s direction.
‘With him.’