Brotherband 3: The Hunters (20 page)

‘What do you think happened?’ Wulf asked angrily. ‘He was beaten up. That’s what happened. Even a fool can see that.’

‘Which is why you can,’ Ulf replied, with some spirit. ‘What I mean was, who did this, and why?’

‘Then why didn’t you say that?’ Wulf shot back. ‘What you said was –’

‘Shut up,’ Ingvar said. There was a distinctly threatening tone in his voice and the twins turned quickly to look at him. He was standing right behind them. His hands were loosely curled into claws in front of him and the brothers both had the same vision – of Ingvar grabbing them by their collars and banging their heads together.

They shut up.

Hal let out a weak cackle of laughter, wincing once more as his split lip warned him against excess movement.

‘Good to see things haven’t changed,’ he said.

‘Good to see you can laugh about it,’ Stig said. ‘When we get out of here, I’m going to beat the ballast stones out of Doutro.’

‘You’ll be queuing behind me to do it,’ Ingvar said warningly.

Stig glanced quickly at the big boy. He had never seen such a look of fury on Ingvar’s normally placid face. Stig made a placatory gesture.

‘Anything you say, Ingvar. Happy to let you have first dibs,’ he said.

Ingvar’s only reply was a rumbling growl, a primitive sound that came from deep in his massive chest. Hearing it, the twins were glad they’d stopped arguing as quickly as they had.

Edvin finished cleaning the last of the blood from Hal’s face, soaked the cloth in water again and wadded it up, placing it in Hal’s left hand.

‘That’s about all I can do,’ he said. ‘Keep that cold water against your cheek. It’ll take the swelling down.’

Gently, he guided Hal’s hand, placing the cold compress over the purple swelling on his cheekbone. That, and the cut on his eyebrow where the ring had hit him, were the worst of his injuries. The cut was already scabbing and there was no point in trying to work on it.

‘That’s better,’ Hal said. ‘One good thing about being in a dungeon – it keeps the water cold.’

A ripple of laughter ran round the crew. It was a pretty feeble attempt at a joke, but the laughter was more from relief that their skirl was well enough to make even a feeble joke.

‘So why were you beaten?’ Thorn prompted, seeing that Hal was able to talk.

Hal looked up at him. ‘He wanted to know the location of the
Heron
’s strongbox,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid he became a little testy when I wouldn’t tell him.’ He took the wet cloth away from his cheekbone for a few seconds, then replaced it when it had cooled. ‘Mind you, if I’d known it was going to hurt this much, I probably would have.’

‘That probably wouldn’t have stopped him,’ Pedr said from his position against the wall. They all turned to look at him and he explained. ‘Doutro likes to see people suffer.’

‘Does he now?’ Thorn said, his eyes narrowing dangerously. ‘I think before we leave Bayrath, we may have to change his attitude.’

‘Easy to say,’ Pedr replied, an edge of sarcasm in his voice. ‘But so far I don’t see any sign that you’ll be leaving. Doutro will try you on first day next week, convict you on second day and string you all up on third day.’

There was a moment’s silence. Then Stefan spoke.

‘You know, you’re sounding a little too pleased with that whole idea,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure I like that.’

Ulf nodded. ‘I agree. I rather think it might be a good idea to kick your backside around the cellar a few times.’

Wulf nodded. ‘For once, I agree with my brother completely.’

The two of them rose and moved towards Pedr, who tried to shrink away from them against the wall. Unfortunately, the wall didn’t provide a lot of shrinking room. Thorn considered telling them to stop, then shrugged. Pedr’s constant, sarcastic, know-it-all attitude was wearing thin, he decided.

Ulf was leaning down over the unfortunate Pedr, reaching for his shirt collar to drag him away from the wall, when something hard bounced off his head, then rattled on the stones of the floor.

‘Ouch!’ he said, standing up and rubbing the sore spot, staring around the cellar. ‘What was that?’ He looked down and saw a large pebble on the floor of the cellar. It hadn’t been there a few seconds ago, he thought. Someone had thrown it at him.

‘Who did that?’ His voice grew louder as his anger built.

‘Wulf, is that you?’ It was Lydia’s voice, coming from the narrow window above him.

‘Lydia? Did you throw a rock at me? And anyway, I’m Ulf!’

‘For Gorlog’s sake, does it matter?’ Stig said angrily, moving quickly to a spot beneath the window. ‘Lydia, is that you?’

‘Yes. Sorry I hit you, Wulf, I was just trying to attract your attention. I wasn’t sure who was in there.’

‘It’s Ulf,’ Ulf repeated, annoyed. Stig muttered something inaudible and shoved him aside. He looked up. Lydia’s fingers were visible now between one of the narrow gaps in the bars above him. She fluttered them to draw his attention.

‘Is Hal there?’ she said.

Stig glanced around to where Hal was still lying, supported on Thorn’s knees. Thorn shook his head.

‘He’s here. But he’s been hurt,’ Stig said. He heard the worried note in Lydia’s voice as she took in that information.

‘What’s happened?’ she asked. ‘Is it bad?’

‘No. He’s bruised and cut up, but he’ll be all right. How did you get away?’ he asked.

‘Oh . . . easy enough. I climbed out a window and jumped across an alley to the next roof. Made my way down from the roof and came back here to find you.’

Stig raised his eyebrows. ‘Easy as that?’

She ignored the sarcasm and continued. ‘Question is, how do I get you out? What’s your situation? I can’t see in. This window is too narrow and it’s right at ground level.’

Stig glanced around. It was a reflex action. By now, he was totally familiar with the large room.

‘We’re in a big cellar,’ he said. ‘Stone walls and floor and just this window and a barred gate. It’s locked, of course,’ he told her. There was a pause while she considered this.

‘Where’s the key?’ she said. ‘Could I get to it?’

He shook his head, instantly aware that the movement was a useless one as she couldn’t see him.

‘Shouldn’t think so. The turnkey keeps it on his belt and he’s always got three or four guards with him.’

There was a long pause while she considered this information. When she spoke again, he could sense her growing frustration. After all she’d gone through, and the risks she had taken, it was beginning to seem that there was no way she could help them.

‘Maybe I could say I was a friend or something, and see if they’d let me in to visit you?’ she suggested. But before she even finished the idea, it was plain that she considered that any such plan was unworkable.

‘And then you could overpower all five of them and let us out?’ Stig said.

She retorted angrily. ‘All right! I’m just putting ideas out here! Do you have any that are worthwhile?’

Stig had to admit that he didn’t. But he didn’t feel it was necessary to say it to her. Jesper had risen and he made his way across the cellar to stand beside Stig.

‘Lydia, it’s Jesper. Do you think you could find your way back to the ship?’

‘Of course I can!’ she said. She was obviously still angry and thought the question was a waste of time. ‘It’s only a few blocks back to the harbour. But I can’t sail it on my own, can I?’

‘No. You can’t,’ Jesper replied patiently. ‘But if you could get on board without being seen, you could fetch me something that might solve the problem.’

Instantly, Lydia’s anger dissipated. She replied now with new interest.

‘What is it, Jesper? Where will I find it?’

‘It’s a small canvas wallet – a tool kit actually – and it’s in my pigeonhole, beside my rowing bench. Port side, second from the bow.’

Each crewmember had a pigeonhole, or small locker, beside his crew station. They kept personal items there. Valuables, of course, were kept in the strongbox.

‘Okay. Port benches, second from the front,’ Lydia repeated.

‘The bow,’ Stig corrected her automatically.

‘Does it matter?’ came the waspish reply. ‘What’s in it, Jesper?’

Now Jesper hesitated. ‘It’s my lock-picking kit,’ he said, with some embarrassment.

Stig looked at him, his eyebrows arching. ‘Your lock-picking kit? I thought you’d given all that sort of thing away?’

Jesper shrugged. ‘It’s a souvenir,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it.’

‘Just as well,’ Lydia said from above them. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can. Stay put.’

They heard the soft scuff of her feet on the cobbles as she left. Stig and Jesper exchanged a look.

‘What else does she expect us to do?’ Jesper asked.

L
ydia ghosted through the streets leading back to the river. She stayed in the shadows by the buildings, slipping from one to another, her deer-hide boots noiseless on the cobbles. As she moved away from the official buildings and back towards the working area of the docks, the streets became narrower and darker. Houses and offices gave way to warehouses and small manufactories. Often an entire block would be illuminated by one lantern, set in a glass box at the end of the street. It was a mean, dangerous-looking part of the town. Occasionally, she saw other dark figures, slipping in and out of the side alleys.

Once, she came face to face with a heavy-set man, wearing a hooded short cloak. They came level with each other under one of the infrequent lanterns and she could make out only the lower half of his face. The upper half was shaded by the hood. She had an impression of a dark, full beard. In the shadow of his hood, his eyes were unblinking, staring at her.

He paused, and for a moment it looked as if he was going to move towards her. She slipped the small knife out of her pocket and held it, blade angled up in the classic knife fighter’s position. The blade was short but it caught the light of the lantern, sending a reflection of light rippling across the far wall. The position of the knife, and the unconcerned, confident expression on her face, seemed to decide him. He grunted and hurried away, pulling the hood closer over his face.

She turned and watched him go. Like hers, his shoes made virtually no sound on the street and she wanted to be sure that he had gone and wasn’t doubling back behind her, to take her by surprise. But he hurried on his way without looking back, eventually swallowed by the dark shadows.

By comparison, the riverfront, when she reached it, seemed to blaze with light. There were taverns and eating houses spread along the bank, each one with its illuminated sign and lighted windows. Sounds of laughter and occasional angry shouts came to her, accompanied at times by the sound of breaking glass and furniture. From time to time, laughing or shouting figures emerged onto the street, some staggering, and made their way towards the docks. The side of the street that fronted the river was bare of buildings. Ships and smaller vessels were moored directly alongside and, at intervals, jetties ran out at right angles into the semi-circular basin that served as a harbour. More craft were moored alongside these finger wharves.

She moved to the river side of the street, not wanting to be continually accosted by patrons leaving the taverns. There was less need for secrecy here, as the riverfront street was a busy thoroughfare.

The ships and smaller craft all carried lights, set high on their masts. She paused for a moment to get her bearings, then headed towards the toll office, where
Heron
had been detained. She remembered a few landmarks from the previous day, when they had been marched along the riverfront to Doutro’s office, and she strode out more confidently.

Looking through the forest of masts and halyards, she could see the money sign that stood above the toll office, illuminated by flaring torches set on either side. She increased her pace, then stopped, aghast.

Heron
was no longer moored alongside the jetty where the toll office stood. She looked around frantically, in case there were two offices and she had come to the wrong one. She quickly realised that this was where they had been detained.

But the ship was gone.

She stopped, leaning against a waist-high pole that had several heavy ropes looped over it. A large fishing smack bobbed gently on the river beside her as she racked her brain, trying to figure out why the ship had gone. And where.

Then it came to her. The jetty that served the toll office provided short-term mooring only. Ships would moor there for five or ten minutes while their skippers paid the toll, then move on, leaving room for the next ship to pay. Doutro would hardly want the jetty space taken up by a ship that was going nowhere and paying no toll. He would have had it moved.

But where?

She cast around the bobbing masts and figureheads. The basin was crowded with ships and they merged together into one amorphous mass under her gaze. She knew a trained sailor, like Hal or Stig, would be able to differentiate quickly between them. But she wasn’t a seafarer and ships all tended to look the same to her.

‘Think,’ she told herself. ‘Think. Then look.’

Logic told her that the
Heron
wouldn’t have gone far. Doutro struck her as a person who would make a habit of detaining ships to squeeze extra payment out of them. Therefore, he would have a holding area somewhere close by.