David Wragg - Articles of Faith

‘And he lived?’

‘Well, no, but he didn’t lie down and die at the first blow, did he?’

‘So what’s the big secret? If you’re hit by an arrow, don’t die?’

‘Aye. That’s the secret: don’t die. Now budge your skinny arse, before I help you along.’ She gave a meaningful wave with a fat-headed hammer, and Chel began to drag himself back into the store. The door closed behind them, and Lemon bolted it.

‘Hey, Lemon?’

‘What do you want, bugger-bear?’

‘What about the big guy? He got any names?’

‘Oh, Rennic? Hundreds. More than the rest of us combined.’

‘And what do you call him?’

‘We call him boss.’

Chel and the prince sat in the stuffy gloom of the barge store, surrounded by vegetables.

‘Why did you antagonize them?’

‘Sorry, highness?’

‘You were riling them up, Chel. I’ll be ransomed in Kurtemir – ghastly place, but accessible at least – and until then all you have to do is be quiet and meek. I’m assuming you’ll be included in any arrangement, of course, but I can’t see why you wouldn’t.’

‘Thank you, highness.’

‘Didn’t they teach you manners, etiquette, politesse ? Where was it you grew up?’

‘Barva.’

‘And they taught you nothing of diplomacy, of catching more flies with honey than vinegar? It’s simple, Chel: it’s important for people to like you, or they won’t do what you want.’

‘Nobody does what I want anyway, highness.’

A moment of relative silence passed. Chel lay back against bumpy sacks, feeling the soft advance of sleep, lulled by the barge’s gentle rock and the river’s wash. Even the dull agonies that racked his body couldn’t stave it off. ‘Highness, when the Norts attacked, you were down in the stables … Why were you hiding in the mule cart? Why not just take one of the horses if you wanted to flee?’

‘Oh, that’s simple enough. I can’t ride.’

Chel blinked in the darkness, long and slow. ‘You can’t ride?’ How could a prince not ride?

‘No, never learned. Mendel promised to teach me, but well, the brigands, his injury, Corvel’s death, et cetera. You know. Anyway, why do all your insults revolve around intercourse with animals?’

‘Highness?’

‘It’s always “pig-sucking this”, “horse-stroking that” with you. Is there something I should know?’

Chel coughed, shifting against the scratchy bulk behind him, feeling throbbing aches all over. ‘I suppose I picked it up from Lord Sokol’s regulars. Most were from the fields, I imagine that sort of thing came up a lot.’

‘I’d like you to cut it out, Chel. You’re sworn to a prince now, and such vocabulary is …’

‘Unseemly?’

‘I can see we understand each other, Chel. Chel?’

He was already asleep.

***

Somewhere in the small hours, hazy dream images slipped away: Heali falling over and over, the knife glinting in his hand, while soft yellow flames licked at a slumped form on the stones below. Chel rubbed his eyes and winced. The prince was snoring beside him on the floor of the store, their legs pressed in the gaps between crates and barrels. The darkness was near-absolute, only a sliver of indigo starlight lighting the boards where they lay. The starlight moved, and Chel turned his head to look up at the deck grille above them. A shape blocked most of it. A man-shape.

‘Your highness?’ The voice was low, whisper-soft. The barge creaked and flexed around them, the sound of the river’s wash now dominant, and Chel had to strain to hear. ‘Are you there?’

Chel nudged the prince, who woke after a couple of shunts. Chel motioned to keep quiet, then upward at the grille.

‘Highness?’ came the voice again.

‘Who’s there?’ Tarfel said in as soft a voice as he could manage.

‘A loyal servant, highness. Here to rescue you.’

‘How many are you? We’re well-kept.’

‘There’s a boat coming, but we must be ready for it. I’ve opened the hatch on this side – unbolt it on yours and I’ll raise it.’

Tarfel and Chel exchanged glances. The prince was beaming in the gloom. One-handed, Chel clambered onto a barrel, then reached up and ground open the lower latch on the grille. Slowly, the man above them levered it out, and a wider swathe of starlight flooded the hold.

The man’s arm thrust down into the gap. ‘Highness, your hand. Quickly, please.’

Tarfel went to climb for it, but Chel shook his head in the gloom. Let me check. The prince nodded, twitching with impatience. Chel steadied himself, then reached up to take the man’s outstretched hand. It was cold to touch, and rough, but it gripped him with an iron strength and dragged upward. Chel braced his feet against the wall of the store, hoping its creaks would be covered by the noise of the barge’s passage.

As soon as his head and good shoulder crested the hatch in the deck, he found himself looking up at the face of their rescuer. He was rangy, shaven-headed, a single gold earring glinting in the starlight. His eyes widened as the light caught Chel’s face.

‘Who the fuck are you?’

Still Chel dangled in his grip, one-armed, his toes braced against the wall below the hatch. ‘I’m s—’

His gaze caught the knife in the man’s other hand, wheeled back to strike.

The man’s eyes followed his, then they locked stares. Without a word the man thrust forward with the blade, and Chel did the only thing he could think of. He drove back with his legs, pushing away from the wall, and yanked the man into the hatch after him.

His attacker slammed his head on the lip of the opening as he fell, and for a split-second Chel congratulated himself before his own thumping impact, spread across a splintering crate and a sack of something solid. The man fell straight onto him like a dead weight, crushing the air from his lungs, the knife vanishing into the darkness.

‘Chel? Chel? What’s happening?’ Tarfel’s voice was urgent and timorous in his ear.

He tried to answer, but his abdomen was in spasm and he could barely breathe, let alone speak. Instead he honked in what air he could and wrestled his good arm free. The man was moaning and stirring, and Chel swung feeble, one-armed punches past his head.

‘Hoy, what’s going on in there?’ It sounded like Lemon on the other side of the door. ‘Don’t make me come in and sort you out, you pestilent pissants.’

Tarfel looked at Chel with fearful eyes. He did his best to look reassuring while gasping like a harpooned seal and jabbed a finger toward the door with what he hoped was encouragement.

‘Get Lemon?’ the prince said.

‘Get … Lemon …’ Chel croaked.

The man crushing his lungs shook his head and pushed himself up, and for a moment Chel managed a real inward breath. Then he couldn’t tell which bangs were Tarfel thumping on the door and which were the assassin landing punches into his sides as he flailed his good arm and struggled beneath the man’s weight.

Light burst brilliantly across the store as the door to the hold flew open. Lemon stood framed in the doorway, a small, wiry silhouette, an orange halo around her head.