The Copper Promise Page 27

  ‘I just need to know the lay of things, Nelly. What’s the talk tonight?’

  Nelly pursed her lips. ‘You could come in and buy a drink and find out the same way everyone else does.’

  ‘Oh, give me a break, Nell.’ Wydrin reached into her coin purse and gave the old woman a silver bit. ‘I’ve done plenty of drinking under your roof, I reckon you can spare me a few words now.’

  Nelly adjusted her grip on the tankards. ‘It’s a bloody mess is what it is. Morgul’s dead, so’s half his men, and those that are left are set on revenge. We’ve already had three fights in the harbour and one boat on fire.’

  Wydrin cursed under her breath.

  ‘They know who attacked Sandshield, then?’

  ‘Course they do, gel. Reilly’s still alive, from what I’ve heard, but I doubt he’ll live long enough to spend that plunder of his.’ Nelly paused for dramatic effect. ‘And I’ve heard your name bandied about some.’

  Shit.

  ‘Oh yes,’ continued Nelly. ‘Who else but the Copper Cat? That’s what they’re saying. Who else would dare to impersonate a Graceful Lady? Who else would be so rash, and stupid, and irresponsible, and—’

  ‘Yes, all right, thank you.’ Wydrin glanced down the alley again. She thought she’d heard a footstep. ‘Here, take this.’ Wydrin passed the old woman the rest of the coin purse. ‘I might not be around to drink in The Steaming Pot for a while. And if my name comes up, do me a favour and mention how I was in here getting drunk at the time, or at least try and convince them I’m not that stupid.’

  She left Nelly goggling at the coin purse and made to move off up the alley, but the old woman called her back.

  ‘’Ere, there was someone else too. A right rum sort.’

  ‘Rummer than Morgul’s men?’

  Nelly sniffed.

  ‘Skinny, young, pale hair. Looked like he was running a fever, although I expect that was because he was missing half his arm.’ She made a downward chopping motion halfway up her forearm. ‘He was very keen to know where you was, but he wasn’t a pirate.’

  Wydrin felt her stomach turn over. Roki. But she’d taken off his fingers with her dagger, not his entire hand – although, of course, if the wound had got infected, it could have led to a date with a cleaver and a leather strap to bite on. Given that she’d also killed his twin brother, it was unlikely Roki was tracking her down for an idle chat.

  ‘Thanks, Nelly.’

  She turned and walked swiftly up the street. This just gets better and better. She would have to lie low for a while. Deny all knowledge, wait for the rumours to disperse, or get replaced with better ones, as usually happened.

  She paused at the mouth of one alley, peering into the soggy dark. There was a noise, but it was soft, barely audible over the muffling drizzle, and she put it down to a cat or a stray dog.

  ‘Jumping at shadows now,’ she muttered, and turned round to face three men blocking her way.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  ‘Hello, Wydrin,’ said the man standing at the forefront of the group. She didn’t recognise any of them, although they all looked to be men who habitually hung around dark alleys looking unpleasant. ‘Or would you prefer our Lady of the Graces?’ He grinned, revealing a fine set of cratered teeth.

  Wydrin gathered her cloak closer around her, using the movement to pull her dagger from its sheath at the same time. She held it under the fabric, poised. Glassheart was still at her hip.

  ‘You think I’m the Copper Cat? I must say I’m flattered.’ She shifted her weight, ready to run. ‘I’ve heard that she’s devastatingly clever and very good at cramped fights in damp alleyways.’

  The man with the teeth laughed, and pulled a small throwing axe from his belt. His cronies to either side revealed wicked-looking scimitars. Light from the subdued lamps rolled along their edges like liquid gold.

  ‘I’ve heard that Morgul’s men are paying a great deal of coin for the Copper Cat’s body. Extra if it’s cut up into amusing pieces.’

  ‘I’m glad they’ve got a sense of humour about it at least.’

  The man with the yellow teeth held the throwing axe above his shoulder, still grinning. Wydrin braced herself to jump back into the shadows, hoping she could move fast enough to avoid its bite. If she tried to run past them the other two would take her down. The man’s arm tensed.

  Suddenly a shadow broke away from the darkness and stood in front of her. The axe, already flying through the air, struck the figure square in the middle of the chest. Wydrin heard the solid, meaty thunk it made, and grimaced.

  ‘’Ere,’ said Yellow Teeth. ‘What’s your bloody game?’

  The man from the shadows, still with an axe blade protruding from his chest, pulled a sword from a scabbard at his side and lunged at the three men, slashing the one on the right across his arm. He dropped the scimitar and yelped.

  ‘No one said anything about this. Witchcraft!’

  The three men seemed to think better of the entire venture, and as one turned and legged it up the alley. Wydrin raised her eyebrows, impressed.

  ‘That’s some serious armour you’ve got there, mate. I could do with some of that myself.’

  The man turned to look at her and the words died in her throat.

  ‘Gallo?’

  In a heartbeat Wydrin had Frostling held to Gallo’s throat. She pushed him against the alley wall, pressing the edge of the blade beneath his Adam’s apple.

  ‘You!’ she hissed. ‘How are you even alive? How are you here?’

  ‘I am not,’ said Gallo plaintively. ‘That’s to say, I’m not alive. Look.’ He pointed to the axe in his chest. Without taking the pressure from his throat, Wydrin pulled on the handle of the axe with her free hand. It came out with a bit of tugging, and she saw something black and sluggish in the wound, but no blood. She took the axe and held that to his throat too.

  ‘What,’ she said, ‘are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m already dead, Wydrin. Cutting my throat won’t do you any good. Stab me, if it makes you feel better.’

  She took Frostling and sank it into his shoulder. Gallo didn’t move.

  ‘See? It’s very important that I talk to you—’

  She stabbed him again.

  ‘Was that really necessary?’

  ‘I thought so, yes.’

  ‘I must talk to you, Wydrin.’

  ‘And no matter how much I stab you, you’ll keep talking?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t know. I reckon I could cut out your vocal chords. That would make it difficult.’

  Gallo sighed. Wydrin felt a puff of air escape from the hole in his chest.

  ‘Your reaction is understandable.’

  Wydrin stood away. She had just noticed how bad Gallo smelled.

  ‘You nearly killed him, Gallo. You nearly killed Sebastian. I thought you were friends. Hell, I thought you loved him.’

  Gallo raised a hand and pushed his hair back behind an ear. Even in the gloom Wydrin could see that the ends of his fingers were turning black.

  ‘There is a lot to explain. Can we get out of the rain? It takes me ages to dry off now I have no body heat.’

  ‘And you think I’ll believe all that?’

  Wydrin paused and rubbed her hair with her cloak. They were in the parlour of a pillow-house just off Eel Street. Wydrin knew the Madame well, and only had to endure a few questions before securing some time alone in their smallest and least popular room. It was filled with overstuffed sofas and more cushions than anyone could ever need. Small lamps burned incense that smelled of spice and citrus fruits: Madame Rosalie did her best to invoke exotic lands far away from the fishy reality of Eel Street, although Gallo’s presence was rather spoiling the effect.

  He sat on the edge of a sofa, his hands folded carefully on his knees. Inside, under stronger lights, Wydrin could see more clearly how terrible he looked. His skin wasn’t just pale, it was thin, so she almost fancied she could see the flesh and bones bene
ath. His blond hair, always his pride and joy, had lost its lustre and even appeared to be falling out in places. The clothes he wore were ragged and torn, but still holding up better than the man wearing them. He looked at her steadily with eyes buried in pits of shadow.

  ‘I remember entering the Citadel with my guide, Chednit, and I remember losing him to something in the ceiling. There was a great force in the dark, rushing towards me –’ He paused. ‘After that it was like being in a nightmare where the world turns around you and you can do nothing to stop it.’

  ‘So you claim.’

  ‘The entity that existed beneath the Citadel entered my mind and sent me down pitch-black corridors after her own purposes. I was a rider within my own head, being dragged along by a mad steed.’

  ‘You know it turned out to be a dragon in the end, right?’

  The expression of horror that moved over Gallo’s face was terrible to behold.

  ‘I saw the shape of her in my head. It was awful. Can you imagine being so close to a creature that enormous? That dangerous?’

  ‘I can, actually,’ she replied sourly. ‘And she made you stab Sebastian?’

  ‘Wydrin.’ He flexed his fingers. They made dry popping sounds. ‘You and I may not have always got along, but you know me. Knew me. Would I ever have harmed Sebastian?’

  ‘You hurt him,’ she said simply. ‘You went off by yourself. If you hadn’t done that, none of this would have happened. Besides, I saw you plunge the dagger into him. I can hardly forget that.’

  ‘And I cannot forget the despair of watching that happen.’

  Wydrin sighed and picked up a glass from the table. Madame Rosalie had filled it with a potent plum brandy.

  ‘Let’s pretend I believe you. Why are you here?’

  ‘I watched the Citadel come down around me. I was knocked out by debris. When I woke up, the entity was gone from my head, but it was clear I had not … survived.’

  ‘You knew you were dead?’

  ‘Believe me, you know these things.’

  Wydrin took a sip of the brandy. It was the good stuff, burning away the chill. ‘How is that possible?’

  Gallo shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know. I think it is a remnant of her, like a fever. It keeps my body moving somehow. I feel it surge through me sometimes in waves.’

  ‘All sounds like a steaming pile of dung to me,’ said Wydrin. ‘I think I would be best chopping your head off and burying it somewhere, just in case you keep talking.’

  ‘Please Wydrin, I must find him and make amends before whatever is moving this body runs out.’

  ‘Wherever Sebastian is, I’m sure he’s just fine without having to speak to you.’

  ‘There is more. I believe he is in danger.’

  Wydrin paused and took another sip of the brandy.

  ‘What danger?’ she asked eventually.

  ‘I will tell him, not you.’

  ‘Gallo.’ Wydrin casually pulled Glassheart from its sheath and held it up to the light as if examining it. ‘I’ve no doubt Madame Rosalie would be annoyed with me if I decapitated you in here and ruined her cushions, but I can always buy more.’

  The dead man on the sofa wrung his blackened fingers together.

  ‘It was his blood that was used to awaken the brood army, yes? You saw them?’

  ‘I saw them. Killed a few.’

  ‘They are her children, but their blood is his. I fear it has formed a link between them, so that their minds are touching. As mine was with … her. It will drive him mad. I’m sure of it.’

  Wydrin thought of Sebastian in Pinehold, so ill and distracted. She’d assumed it was the shock of nearly dying under the Citadel. What if it was something else? After all, he’d appeared to get worse over time, not better.

  ‘Please, Wydrin. I must find him and warn him. I have to make amends.’

  She put the empty glass back down on the table. ‘Fine. It seems I need to get out of Crosshaven for a while anyway.’

  Hope briefly animated Gallo’s ravaged face.

  ‘You know where he is?’

  ‘Of course I do. He’s wherever that bloody dragon is, isn’t he?’

  Gallo seemed to collapse back into the sofa. The hope on his face was replaced with terror.

  ‘He has gone to find her? By all the gods, why would he do that?’

  ‘Because he’s a big stupid brave idiot, of course. You know that.’ She stood up, and when Gallo didn’t move, she reached down and grabbed his sleeve, dragging him to his feet. ‘Come on, we have a boat to catch.’

  50

  Frith watched them approach across the rocky ground and steaming pools with a sinking feeling in his gut.

  Jolnir made his home in the middle of a strange patch of tall blue grass, sprouting incongruously in the natural valley between two black hills. The grass was tough, so much so that the old mystic had constructed a series of conical huts from the material; they made Frith think of strange barnacles, clinging to the dark soil. They were, like his walking sticks, bedecked with all sorts of strange objects – shells, skulls, mummified animals – and inside wasn’t much tidier. The black birds, perched on the pointy roofs, squawked and chattered at each other.

  ‘And who are these?’ asked Frith, gesturing at the dishevelled figures emerging from the grass.

  ‘Friends, I suppose you would say. Yes, my friends and assistants both. Look lively now, my boy, we’ll get this fire roaring.’

  Jolnir had three ‘assistants’, and they all looked oddly similar. Two were thin and wiry men dressed in dusty black cloth, grey hair held back from their temples with thick white headbands covered in symbols Frith didn’t recognise. They both had mild, ageless faces free from lines. The last was a woman, dressed nearly identically to the two men but with wilder hair, sticking out in all directions. She had added a few seashells and ribbons to her headband in an effort to brighten it up. All three of them stared at Frith with unblinking interest.

  ‘Now then! This,’ Jolnir tapped the woman on the shoulder with his stick, ‘is Luggin. This is Muggin,’ a tap to the shoulder of the first man, ‘and this is Dobs.’ The last assistant bowed jerkily. ‘And this is Lord Frith, come to learn all about the mages.’

  The assistants said nothing.

  ‘Weren’t there other mystics on the island?’ asked Frith. Luggin, Muggin and Dobs were warming their hands by the fire.

  ‘Hmmm?’ Jolnir twirled his sticks idly, mask nodding. ‘Oh yes, there were some once. Around here somewhere. Always asking me questions, getting in the way.’ He paused. ‘They all appear to have wandered off, though. It’s not for everyone, life on Whittenfarne. Still!’ He poked one of the sticks into the flames. ‘I have these three here to keep me company, and they’re kind enough to tidy for me, and fetch my documents. Aren’t you, Muggin?’ Muggin glanced up from the fire, the faintest of smiles at the corner of his lips.

  Frith cleared his throat. He was unnerved by the silence of the assistants.

  ‘You will teach me, then?’ He despised the hesitancy in his own voice, but he wasn’t sure what to make of Jolnir and his friends.

  ‘Teach you, boy?’

  The woman called Luggin had removed a packet of powders from her coat and was throwing small handfuls onto the fire, turning it red and green while Jolnir nodded with approval.

  ‘Yes.’ Frith bit down on the word, making it sharp. ‘I need information on the mages. It is essential I know their secret words of power, the ones that are no longer generally known. A Regnisse of Relios sent me here. She said you could tell me.’

  ‘The secret words, the words of power.’ Jolnir waved his hands over the fire in what, Frith suspected, he thought was a mystical fashion. ‘Those of destruction and control.’ Jolnir nodded rapidly. ‘Those words are not to be given lightly.’

  ‘I must have it. I must have that knowledge.’

  ‘My dear friends.’ Jolnir held up his strange, withered hands, addressing the three assistants. ‘I have decided to
teach this good boy all I know of the mages and the old gods, and indeed, the language they used to talk to each other. It is time the words were passed on to someone worthy, don’t you agree?’

  Luggin, Muggin and Dobs looked back with polite smiles, just as though he were telling them how he’d decided to take up knitting, or collecting seashells.

  ‘Right, good, excellent!’ cried Jolnir. ‘Get to work, then, my lovelies. Luggin, I wish you to bring me all the relevant books and papers, and as much linen and ink as you can rustle up. Muggin and Dobs, we shall have ourselves a feast this eve. Off to the waters with you, and bring back as many of those tasty little fish as you can find. Oh, and some clams too. It is a night for clams!’

  The three assistants scrambled off on their assigned missions, still not saying a word. Luggin disappeared into one of the conical huts, while Muggin and Dobs walked back through the grass towards the coast. Jolnir and Frith were left alone again, save for the ever-present black birds.

  ‘And what,’ said Frith, ‘was all that about?’

  ‘I like to keep them busy,’ Jolnir chuckled. It sounded like a marble rolling around a wooden basin. ‘I hope you like seafood, lad. You’re going to be here a while.’

  ‘Tell me what you know. Of the mages, of the old gods. A man who comes all the way to Whittenfarne must know much, is that not so?’

  They walked in the last of the evening’s light, heading out to the north of the island. Frith doubted the sense of trying to get anywhere on this godforsaken rock in the dark, but Jolnir had just listened to all his protests courteously, and then insisted they go anyway. Frith had attempted to construct a torch from the stiff blue grass but Jolnir had hit him with his stick until he stopped.

  Frith sighed. The mists were drawing in again, while the sun’s last breath of light turned the sky a sickly mauve. He looked down, watching for holes and hungry lizards.