They camped between villages that night, but Declan knew he was not far from an inn and a proper bath and bed when they reached the city. Jusan stayed awake for most of the evening, and promised he was well enough for an early start the next day, then promptly fell asleep after their meal.
The next morning they passed through the first town of any great size they’d seen in Marquensas. ‘This is Aoldomon,’ said Ratigan. ‘I usually don’t stop here. My late master didn’t stop here; didn’t like the inn and the innkeeper, for some reason. Besides, we always carried enough provisions to reach Ilagan.’
‘When will we reach Marquenet?’
‘Around midday.’
Declan sat back and nodded.
THEY REACHED THE FIRST CITY gate just after noon, as Ratigan had predicted, and were halted by a guard. He inspected the anvil and tools alongside Jusan and the bag of oranges and waved them through. As Ratigan started to move the wagon forward, a sergeant came forth and said, ‘You’re Milrose’s man?’
Ratigan reined in the team and said, ‘Yes.’
‘Didn’t I see you two drive out together less than a month ago?’
Ratigan sighed, and Declan knew that he was anticipating trouble. ‘My master is dead. Murdered by slavers.’
‘Where?’ asked the sergeant, a look of concern on his face.
‘In the Covenant,’ answered Ratigan.
After a moment, the man said, ‘That’s one for the baron, then. See that you go there first, boy.’
Ratigan’s good judgement overcame his desire to get back to his master’s business. He said, ‘Yes, Sergeant,’ and urged the team forward.
As they wended their way through the streets, Declan could see the ancient keep, Caer Marquenet, on top of a steep hill in the centre of the ancient city. Declan decided that it made sense that most cities grew up around forts that were on top of hills, or at least it seemed that way to him. Apart from its acropolis, Marquenet was unlike Ilagan and other towns he had glimpsed on this journey. It was a city of plastered walls, white in the noon sun, with tiled roofs of red, grey, and blue, and cobbles that also showed their colours when not covered by dust or mud. The streets they used were narrow, but Ratigan knew the city as well as he knew his own face and easily navigated a course that skirted the worst of the city traffic. Glancing to the west, Declan could see throngs of people on a larger street jostling their way past carts and wagons while Ratigan proceeded unimpeded towards the castle.
They cleared the narrow street, which emptied into a large market square, and Ratigan said, ‘Now things get slower. Keep an eye out for trouble.’
‘What sort of trouble?’ asked Declan.
‘Any sort,’ said Ratigan. ‘There are all manner of mountebanks, thieves, and thugs in the market.’
Jusan looked up from his makeshift bed and said, ‘I see soldiers over there.’
‘Aye,’ replied Ratigan. ‘City Watch. They’re the worst of them.’
They moved slowly to the right and Declan saw a vast area covered with stalls and tents; they were erected in what at first appeared to be a haphazard fashion, but after a while resolved into an intersection of two walkways, encircled by a broad road into which all the streets in this area of the city terminated.
‘Docks are to the west,’ said Ratigan. ‘Freight from all manner of places arrives there, and the local fishermen deliver their catch there in the evenings. I used to work near there, for my master brokered the delivery of fish as well as fruit. The orchards run for miles to the north of the city. The east is farmland, some of the best in the world, so I’ve been told. And we just came through the hill country. The Wild Border, we call it.’
‘Didn’t seem so wild when we passed through,’ said Jusan.
‘I don’t know why it’s called that, boy. It just is.’
Declan said, ‘Probably an old story.’
‘Almost certainly,’ said Ratigan. ‘There’s an old story for most things. I pay them no mind. I have other concerns.’
Declan said, ‘You’ve been getting more agitated since we came within two days of here. What is it?’
‘My master’s dead and I have no claim on this team; if some bunghole city magistrate doesn’t like my looks, I might well be blamed for my master’s death. But my master had no family in this city, and I put my life and freedom at risk for his business, so I’m as entitled to make a claim on it as any man. Aren’t I?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Declan, deciding not to pursue the matter further. He had travelled with the teamster long enough to know that any hint of disagreement would only make things worse. It was in Ratigan’s nature to take a well-intended remark and put the worst interpretation on it when he was in a dark mood.
They made their way slowly through the press of the crowd, towards the broad northwest road that led up the hill to the keep. Declan looked around at the metalwork on display and saw a lot of decently made kitchen items: pots, knives, metal plates, and other simple but profitable goods. A few weapons merchants also displayed their wares, which, from a distance, Declan judged to be fair. He saw a few of the men at those booths take note of their wagon as it passed, seeing the large anvil and tools peeking over the edge of their boxes.
Ratigan saw Declan’s reaction to those glances and said, ‘No doubt, before sunset, every blacksmith, metalworker, weapons crafter, and armourer will know a new smith is in the city.’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘Could be.’ Ratigan shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’
Leaving the market and moving up the hill, Declan noticed that the buildings, inns, and other businesses looked a bit more prosperous. He decided they must be the longest established, since anyone who built anything after the keep was finished would have tried to stay close to the safety of the fortification.
Jusan had regained much of his usual self and said, ‘Must be nice living up here. Air is fresh.’
Declan was used to the lad’s condensed manner of speaking, having practically raised him as a younger brother. ‘Very nice,’ said Declan.
‘What are you two going on about?’ asked Ratigan.
‘Jusan was saying that it’s nice up here on this hill. The air doesn’t stink.’
‘Gets a breeze off the ocean most days,’ said Ratigan. ‘It can get hot and damp down in the city sometimes, that’s for certain.’ He clucked his tongue and urged the horses on as they came to the summit of the road; another hundred feet of flat road lay before them, running straight towards the merchants’ gate in the keep wall.
Declan said, ‘We felt the ocean breeze where we grew up; cool, but carrying a lot of dead fish.’ He inclined his head and added, ‘This smells different.’
Ratigan took a deep breath and nodded, as much of an agreement as Declan was likely to get from the contentious man.
The wagon slowed as they reached the outer wall surrounding the baron’s keep. Two massive wooden gates with iron bands and hinges faced them, surrounded by a large square barbican with a double iron portcullis, which was currently raised. From the look of it, Declan guessed it hadn’t been used defensively in years, perhaps not in any living man’s lifetime. He wondered if it would even submit to being lowered, there was so much rust in evidence. His curiosity made him wish for a moment to climb up and inspect the chains and pull mechanism, though he knew that was never likely to happen.
Two guards waited; they wore the now-familiar tabards of Marquensas, a golden rose on a light blue field. Both held up their hands as one of them said, ‘Your business?’
Before Ratigan could answer, Declan said, ‘Your lads at the city gate ordered us here when they heard our tale of slavers in the Covenant, wearing the colours of Sandura. Do we tell you our story?’
The two sentries exchanged glances, and one turned and called over his shoulder, ‘Sergeant! Merchants’ gate!’
The call was echoed by other soldiers and a few minutes later an old soldier in a long surcoat with three chevrons sewn above his heart ambled into view. He de
manded, ‘What is this?’
‘A report of slavers in the Covenant, sergeant,’ said one of the soldiers, tilting his head at Declan.
The sergeant shook his head slightly as if being presented with a problem he’d rather not deal with, but approached to inspect the three young men in the wagon. Declan had met a fair number of soldiers over the years, for many escorted nobles who needed their horses shod or their gear repaired as they passed through Oncon. Declan had seen this sergeant before, or at least half a dozen men like him, and judged him a stern, no-nonsense type. He had a grey beard and his hair reached his collar, and while his muscle now ran to fat around his girth, Declan had no doubt the man was still very dangerous in a brawl. Finally, the old soldier said, ‘What tale is this?’
Declan glanced at Ratigan, silencing him before the teamster could speak. ‘I come from the village of Oncon, in the Covenant near the Ilcomen border.’ He gave them a concise report about the attack of the slavers.
The old sergeant sighed, then said, ‘My lord will wish to hear this. Leave your wagon there.’ He pointed to a spot just inside the gate. After Ratigan had moved the wagon, the sergeant motioned to Declan. ‘You, follow me.’
Declan climbed down and followed the sergeant through the large bailey that surrounded the ancient keep. As they rounded the corner, he could see that a two-storey building had been added to the original six-storey tower, and that some other new outbuildings also nestled against the wall. Their need to hold a defensive position had apparently lessened with time, as over the centuries the city grew to surround the home of the first ruler of Marquensas.
As they turned another corner, they walked into the marshalling yard. The stables lay against the north wall of the fortification, and the soldiers’ commons against the west wall.
Declan saw a man and a boy dressed in tunics and trousers standing before two horses being readied for a ride. The sandy-haired man nodded at the sergeant and said, ‘What’s this about?’
‘News from the Covenant, my lord.’ He waved at Declan.
From the honorific, Declan assumed that the man was Baron Dumarch, and that the boy was his son. There was a resemblance: the boy appeared to be about eighteen years old, his shoulders had begun to broaden, and his carriage was very similar to the older man’s.
Declan gave an awkward half bow, then said, ‘Slavers have raided the village of Oncon, my lord. They wore the colours of Sandura.’
‘When was this?’ asked Daylon.
‘Over three weeks ago, my lord,’ answered Declan. ‘My apprentice was almost killed in the fight and so we had to travel slowly. The village has been abandoned; everyone has dispersed. I do not know if the slavers returned, or if the village stands.’
The baron’s son appeared on the verge of asking a question, but his father raised his hand and silenced him. Baron Daylon appraised Declan for a moment, then said, ‘Apprentice? What is your trade?’
‘I’m a smith, my lord.’
‘What do you fashion?’
‘Whatever my lord requires.’ As Declan answered, another man appeared from around the corner and approached them. His clothing marked him as a man of stature but not a noble. Declan had seen his like before travelling with nobility; this man was a highly placed adviser or servant. Declan studied him silently, as there was something oddly familiar about him, though Declan was certain they had never met.
‘Weapons, armour?’ asked Daylon as the man came to his side.
‘Yes, my lord.’
The newcomer said to Declan, ‘You look young to be an armourer.’
‘I am …’ said Declan. ‘Sir.’
‘Balven is my body man,’ said the baron.
Declan inclined his head. ‘Sir, I know I am young, but I am a master smith. The raid occurred just after I finished my masterpiece, my lord.’
‘Master,’ echoed Daylon. ‘I have my own smith in residence, but should … trouble come our way, we’re likely to need every able smith in Marquensas.’ He stared at Declan for a long moment, then asked, ‘Do I know you?’
Declan was taken by surprise. ‘I think not, my lord. This is my first journey outside the Covenant, and I would most certainly have remembered had you passed through our village.’
‘There’s a look about you; something familiar.’ He studied the young smith some more, then said, ‘Perhaps you remind me of someone.
‘Now, another question: you could have chosen many destinations after leaving the Covenant, so why here?’
‘The man who owned the wagon that we arrived in, Milrose, he was of Marquensas. He was killed when the raiders took his wagon and driver; I believe they were hauling fruit to Dunkeep. We freed Ratigan, the driver, and he felt the need to return here.’
Daylon turned to his son and said, ‘Wait here. We will have to delay our ride for a few more minutes.’
The youngster looked disappointed but said nothing. Daylon said, ‘I would see this wagon.’ He walked past the sergeant, Balven, and Declan, who all turned and followed him.
Reaching the wagon, he looked it over and said to Ratigan, ‘You’re Milrose’s man?’
Ratigan tugged his forelock and bowed his head. ‘Yes, my lord.’
‘I recognise the name,’ added Balven.
Daylon nodded. ‘Tell me what happened.’
Ratigan glanced at Declan, who remained impassive, then said, ‘Well, we were just coming out of Ilcomen, heading through the Covenant to Far Avaran, where we had a buyer for a wagon-load of oranges and pears. We were in a hurry, you know, because the fresher they are, the higher the price. Usually only takes a week of fast travel.
‘Got just outside of Ilagan, near Dunkeep, maybe half a day away, when the slavers jumped us. They killed Master Milrose and dumped half of the fruit on the roadside. Wanted the wagon for captives. So they loaded me up with half a dozen other miserable wretches and off we went. I was only with them for two days before they ran into Declan and the other villagers in Oncon. Killed every one of those bastards and … well, I knew I’d best come back to tell you about it, my lord. And then there’s the business of the wagon and its team.’
‘Did Milrose have any family?’
‘A daughter, but she’s married to a tailor over in Julland Town, raising kids.’
Baron Daylon was silent for a moment, then turned to Balven. ‘I want a fast rider ready to travel to Ilcomen in an hour. I’ll have a message for King Bucohan. He might not know that slavers were bold enough to raid across his border and into the Covenant.’
Balven said, ‘Yes, my lord,’ and, with a slight nod to the sergeant, indicated that he should see to the order. The sergeant hurried away.
Daylon shouted after him, ‘And tell my son we’re postponing the ride today.’
Looking at Ratigan, he said, ‘A tailor’s wife needs no wagon, and you did us a service by reporting this. Keep it, and should any other carter or teamster dispute your right, tell them I sanctioned it. Be your own master.’
‘Thank you, my lord,’ said Ratigan, obviously pleased. Declan knew that the cost of a good wagon and team was more than Ratigan could earn in three years as a driver.
Declan said, ‘One last thing, my lord.’
‘Yes?’ said Daylon, turning to Declan.
‘My master said that I needed to see you to honour his pledge.’
‘Who was your master?’
‘Edvalt Tasman.’
Daylon looked at his half-brother, who raised an eyebrow and gave him a short nod. Daylon was silent for a moment, then said, ‘He was as gifted a smith as I’ve ever known. I made him promise he’d send me his best apprentice. So, that would be you?’
‘He judged me fit to be named master,’ said Declan. ‘I was an orphan and he was like a father to me, and so because of that, I honour his pledge to you, my lord.’
Daylon was again silent, then he said, ‘You tell me this more from duty than from any desire to seek service.’
‘Truth to tell, my lord, I promised him I woul
d do this, but my ambition is to set up my own forge and be my own man.’
Daylon smiled. ‘Much like your master, it seems.’ Balven nodded in agreement. ‘When you’ve settled somewhere, hopefully within our borders, send word to the sergeant of your whereabouts: we may possibly need your service.’
‘I will, my lord.’
Declan mounted the wagon and Ratigan turned the horses, heading towards the gate and out of the marshalling yard.
As the wagon drew away, Balven turned to his half-brother and said, ‘You thought you recognised him?’ His tone was slightly mocking.
‘Do you recognise him?’ asked the baron.
With a half-laugh, Balven put his hand on the baron’s shoulder and said, ‘Daylon, that boy looks more like our father than you or I.’
Daylon’s eyes widened as recognition struck. ‘Another bastard brother?’
Balven said, ‘You didn’t think there was only one of us out there, did you?’
‘Now that you’ve said it, no, not really; I just never thought I’d meet another.’
‘Well, after the fit your mother threw when Father brought me here, I suspected he’d leave his other bastards where they were, but I always thought we might chance upon one sooner or later.’ Gazing after the wagon, Balven said, ‘Father certainly had an eye for the ladies.’
‘This is true,’ said Daylon, then he fell silent.
After a moment, Balven said, ‘You’re thinking.’
‘I do, upon occasion,’ the baron answered dryly. ‘Let’s not mention the boy’s identity to anyone. It may hold some advantage for us in the future, but if not, let’s make sure the young smith doesn’t become a disadvantage.’
‘As you wish,’ said Balven with a slight bow, ‘my lord.’
‘Now, I need to send missives to Bucohan and a few other nobles, to apprise them of Lodavico’s latest nonsense. I was content to ignore his idiocy as long as he kept it in the east, but now it’s coming too close to our borders.’
Balven nodded agreement and walked back to the keep with his half-brother. He took a moment to glance over his shoulder at the retreating wagon and then returned his attention to his brother. ‘The smith?’