The Heir To The North Read online

  So Hetch ran free, apparently not caring one way or the other on the matter of his schooling. He apprenticed for his father, who had started life as a soldier’s son before founding a small bakery in the town. Rann Almoul had become involved in Guild matters and lent money to other traders, putting on airs that clashed colourfully with his drab and mean features. These days he walked in the same circles as Attis the moneylender and even the Factor himself.

  Hetch stood at the foot of the wall, hands balled against his sides. Since Cassia had last visited the town a few months ago he had filled out, his chest broader and his biceps more prominent than before. The only thing he had inherited from his father was the thatch of wispy brown hair that threatened to blow away in the slightest breeze.

  “Ma said she saw your father stomping around this morning,” Hetch said. “I guessed you’d be here.”

  Cassia shrugged. It wasn’t as if she had many other places to go. “That thing wanted to come here, not me.” She pointed to the mule, which chewed on the contents of its feed bag.

  Hetch grinned, an expression he had definitely not acquired from his father. “You here for long?”

  She shrugged again. “Maybe. Maybe not. It depends.”

  One of Norrow’s greatest skills lay in his ability to wear out any welcome given to him. With the best will in the world, any man generous enough to open his door to Cassia’s father would find his hospitality sorely tested by the third day. Norrow could be charming enough when he really tried, but there was a petty, vicious streak in his nature that sat too close to the surface to be contained for long. Catty comments, deliberate slights, outright insults; all would come pouring forth, aimed with the studied accuracy of a master knife-thrower.

  Hetch’s grin widened. “Ma spoke to Norrow, too.”

  “What about?”

  “She offered your Pa dinner tonight, and a floor too,” Hetch explained. “I think it were my father’s idea.”

  Cassia stifled a groan, her heart sinking. If Hetch was right then his father was plotting something. Rann Almoul didn’t make such invitations lightly.

  “Are you going to sit up there all afternoon?” Hetch asked, still staring up at her. His gaze was starting to make her feel uncomfortable, even though they had known each other since Hetch was old enough to run his father’s errands on his own. He was a little younger than Cassia, but he was fast becoming a grown man. And he should have more important things to do than wait around for her. Suddenly she felt quite exposed.

  “Maybe,” she hedged.

  “We could go for a walk around the market,” Hetch suggested. “There’s a fellow on the far side who’ll let you take some chicken stew if I’m there with you.”

  Cassia sighed. “I’m not that hungry right now,” she lied. “But thank you anyway, Hetch. I’ll see you when we come up to the house this evening, won’t I?”

  For a moment he looked hurt, frustrated by her refusal, but then the easy smile returned and he nodded. “Of course. Look, I’ve got to do something for Pa, so I’ll see you tonight, yes?”

  She waved as he jogged off towards the crowds. Her stomach growled rebelliously and she almost regretted turning down his offer, but not quite enough to climb down and follow him.

  Cassia sat there for the remainder of the afternoon. She watched the gentle rhythm of Keskor’s markets and tried not to think too hard about what might lie in wait that evening. She felt saddened by the sudden change in her relationship with Hetch, but with hindsight she thought she should have seen it coming. These days, every time she led the mule through the gates of a town or down the main street of an outlying village she felt eyes upon her, weighing her up, judging her. A week ago there had been a few whistles aimed in her direction, and her father had alternated between narrow-eyed calculation and glaring balefully at everybody who dared come near for a full day after that.

  There had been something just as speculative in Hetch’s eyes, she decided, and she wasn’t sure she liked it. She drew her feet up, tucking them under the frayed hem of her dress and wondered if she should feel flattered by the attention.

  The sun sank towards the rolling foothills, silhouetting shepherds as they guided their flocks back towards the farms on the outskirts of the town. Cassia desperately wanted to head down between the stalls to see what she could filch as the markets slowed down for the evening, but now she feared running into Hetch again, so she didn’t move.

  At last she spied her father entering the square and she almost sighed with relief. Almost.

  He walked slowly along the edge of the square, another passer-by, peering at the stalls of nuts and drying herbs, eyeing chickens that stared beadily back at him, oblivious to their fates. He weaved back and forth with no discernible aim, almost certainly drunk. Every so often he would clap his hands once, loudly, and Cassia knew he was humming and chanting under his breath. Just enough to attract attention to himself.

  And people were taking notice: a small group slowly gathered around Norrow, following him as he threaded between the stalls. As the crowd grew larger Cassia thought she saw Rann Almoul’s sour features, which meant Hetch and his older brothers would also be there.

  Dear Ceresel, she prayed silently to the goddess of fortune, please don’t let him make them angry this time. Please let it go well.

  It hadn’t gone well in Varro. Fortunately for Norrow Varro was too far to the east of Keskor for rumour to have reached here so soon. There, he had told tales guaranteed to antagonise the locals, alluding to their complicity in the last wars against the Hordes. Cassia watched with mounting horror as the crowd began to shout to drown him out. Yet Norrow had continued loudly and remorselessly – until someone at the back of the audience cast the first stone.

  At that point Norrow screamed, calling a curse on all of Varro’s sons and daughters. Quite how he escaped both the lynch mob and the resultant riot in the town square Cassia would never know. Norrow claimed he remembered nothing of the night, but Cassia would never forget their panicked flight over the town’s walls, leaving their packs and all of their possessions behind. And their mule, too – Cassia missed that animal. This replacement Norrow had bought cheaply a couple of days later was good for nothing but skinning and roasting.

  Norrow led the crowd of men and boys – his crowd, now – into the space before the gibbet, where the starved old soldier still sat, helmet outstretched in his trembling hand. Nobody paid him any mind. They were hooked, one and all, by the low, ululating chant of the storyteller.

  An answering chant rose from somewhere in the crowd. Even from her elevated position Cassia could not tell where it emanated from. It was taken up by the rest of the crowd, and Norrow’s voice soared above it, calling out the ritual prayer to Movalli, the patron of all storytellers. Cassia echoed the prayer silently, careful not to let her lips move, lest her father see her speaking it. It had been bad enough when he overheard her singing it while she washed her clothes one day, and the bruises had taken a week to fade. The prayer wasn’t hers to call, and the stories weren’t hers to tell.

  Norrow raised his arms high above his head, and the crowd hushed. Now he was not a selfish, malicious drunkard with no home and no sons. He was transformed and refreshed, a king amongst men.

  That would not last long, Cassia thought darkly.

  “Who remembers the days of old?” Norrow spoke in a deep tenor that reached easily across the crowd to Cassia’s ears, but she still found herself straining to hear every word.

  “Who remembers the great and the good? Their deeds and their trials? Who remembers the battles of times long past, when the heroes and generals have gone to dust once more? Who will remember our times, when we too are gone from the world, when our lives are done and our last breaths escape to rise past the tallest peaks of the mountains?

  “One may only wonder if such were the thoughts of the great Lords of Stromondor as they gazed down for the last time from their towers of gold and silver at the mighty host besieging the gates of t
he glittering city that once – it is said – took tribute from no less than five of the Nine Talons!”

  So, Stromondor it was. Cassia let herself relax. Her father was on solid ground tonight. As far as she knew Keskor had not sent any men to help lift the siege, over three centuries ago, but the town always rose to the aid of Brael when Stromondorian galleys harried there, and so tales of Stromondor’s fall always went down well here.

  “Was there ever a sight to rival the dawn over Stromondor?” Norrow asked his audience. “The rising of the sun caused such shimmering and blinding reflections to be seen as far west as the isle of Kalakhadze. The people of this great city walked on streets lined with gems of every hue, their wonderful gowns woven by young girls of such beauty that the Lords kept them locked away behind strong walls, in lush gardens of boundless tranquillity.”

  Cassia had only to look around at the muddy lanes of Keskor, at the rough linen and woollen shirts and gowns of the crowd, to understand the magic Norrow weaved. She yearned to travel there herself every time she heard these tales told, to see the fabled towers and gardens of the wonderful city of Stromondor.

  But it could never be so.

  “As the sun rose this day, the great Lords met in their council, in the highest of the glittering towers.” The crowd was silent, entranced by his descriptions and eager to hear the tale. “They looked out upon the host camped beyond their gates, and they knew fear. A vast forest of spears and shields stood firm upon the plain before their walls. The Lords turned to the sea, which they had always commanded in the past, and saw to their dismay that to the west was another fiery sunrise – their great fleet of galleys and dromonds set ablaze and destroyed, and the Hordes owned the harbour. Thus were the invincible hulls of Stromondor burned down to their waterlines.”

  Cassia shifted her legs from underneath her and began to climb down the wall, moving slowly to avoid breaking her father’s concentration. It wouldn’t do to distract him in full flow, especially since this sounded like it would be one of his better tellings.

  “Jathar Leon Learth was the eldest and richest of the Lords of Stromondor; a famous warrior of tremendous wisdom and courage, yet he trembled and fell to his knees as he beheld the carnage deep in the bay, exclaiming that there was nothing to be done! On that day he wore a cloak of the finest silvercloth, the sigils of his house emblazoned in scarlet upon it. He unfastened the delicate clasp and let the cloak slip, along with his steely resolve, to the floor of the tower. And he said to the Lords, I am not fit to lead men on this day.”

  Cassia made her way to the mule and pulled her own cloak and hat from one of the bags. The cloak had belonged to her father’s father and was poorly patched and faded. Once it had been decorated with a fine embroidered depiction of Movalli’s First Tale, but the stitching was torn in many places and obscured the design. Now the ragged old thing helped identify her as the storyteller’s assistant, while at the same time hiding her shape and her curves. She scraped her hair up under the ill-fitting cap, and her transformation was complete. She dug into the bag again to find her bowl, and then walked to the edge of the crowd.

  “The Lords looked around to the last of their number,” Norrow was saying, having described the cowardice of several of the councillors by now. “This was a man of the North, wreathed always in black. His voice was cold, his eyes stone and ice. He carried himself with the bearing of a king, yet he had no title save those whispered by men in the dead of night, in dark corners where they could not be overheard. This was Malessar the warlock, the destroyer of ancient Caenthell.”

  The mood of his audience shifted; indrawn breaths, murmured prayers to Pyraete. The Fall of the High King of Caenthell was a tale known in all the towns under the mountains, though the old kingdom of the North had not existed for more than six centuries. The high ranges of the mountains, where Caenthell had once been, were said to be cursed and were avoided by all. Cassia held back for a moment, waiting for the right moment to enter the crowd.

  “Jathar was the first to speak to him. Malessar, will you not lead us to safety and salvation? the old hero implored him. He held out his fine, rich cloak. Will you not take up the mantle of Champion of Stromondor?”

  Cassia spotted Rann Almoul near the edge of the crowd. Hetch and his brothers would be near him. She circled further around the fringes until she judged she was far enough from them to not be seen, then edged forward past the first onlookers, ducking her head and holding up her bowl.

  “Why should I do anything for you, Jathar Leon Learth, when you have never thought to lift a hand to aid me? the warlock asked in a voice so low the Lords strained to hear his words. Why should I do anything to save Stromondor at all?”

  Cassia passed slowly through the crowd, and the first coin clinked against the lacquered wood. Many of the men ignored her, their arms folded across their chests, their purses unopened. More than once she was pushed aside, and she kept her wits about her for the callous type that would try to trip her or grab the bowl. That had happened before, and she had come away with nothing. Norrow’s beatings on those nights had been especially vicious.

  It would have been different had she been born a boy, as her father had wanted. A boy to be taught the storyteller’s trade and to carry on the proud tradition. A boy to be a true and proper companion for her father; to grow into a man who could earn him money and support him in his old age. A boy, rather than a weak, unwanted, useless girl. Norrow had never forgiven her for being born first. There would have been a boy – a brother for her – but her mother had never been strong. The two bodies, one inside the other, were marked by a crude shrine on a plain hillside. And there were never any stories told of Cassia’s mother. Norrow would tolerate no mention of her. Cassia could not even remember her.

  Given the chance, Norrow would gladly abandon her, but he needed somebody to work his audience and drag the mule between towns, and his reputation was so poor that no man would apprentice a son to him. Who would want to be apprenticed to a man who had no home, who had no prospects?

  Sometimes Cassia wished she had been born a boy. Perhaps then she could try her hand at storytelling – at the very least she could shake this damned bowl without needing to disguise herself.

  And maybe, just maybe, her father might actually like her.

  He was done describing the fall-out of the Council of Lords now, moving on to Jathar’s desperate search through the terrified streets of Stromondor for a hero to lead the city’s armies against the besieging Horde. This gave him plenty of opportunity to digress into scenes of comedy or romance, inserting new, transitory characters as he wished; rehashing jokes or giving blow-by-blow accounts of gutter brawls. There could be a mysterious, doom-laden encounter with a disguised god, foretelling Jathar’s eventual end, or even a chance meeting with a fair maiden who would seek to woo him from his purpose. This was the meat of Norrow’s tales – the setting might change, the characters may differ, but if he really wanted to he could keep a story going for hours using his incidental scenes, never once losing the narrative thread, or his audience.

  Cassia hoped he wouldn’t stretch his tale too much tonight – she was hungry, and even though the invitation had to be double-edged she had started to look forward to Ma Almoul’s dinner.

  One circuit of the crowd brought five small bits. Not an encouraging haul. People tended to be freer with their money towards the climax of a tale, perhaps because they thought they’d had value by then, but this was disappointing by Keskor’s usual standards. She pushed her way between a pair of men, deeper into the audience, working her way back around in the opposite direction.

  “A man sat in the darkest corner of the inn, at a small table crowded with emptied tankards.” Norrow hunched his shoulders, drew himself in. “At the other stools sat huddled, miserable men, asleep in their reek, hiding behind their fears and cowardice. But this one man stood, and he cried, I shall lead your armies!” And Norrow strode around the cleared space at the centre of the crowd, his uncertai
n gait only half an act as he took on this new character.

  Cassia was surprised by how quickly he had progressed his tale – a lot faster than usual, even given the promised meal. She wasn’t unhappy, though she would now have to work with more speed.

  “Jathar Leon Learth was amused by the man’s words, for the man was unkempt and ragged, clearly no hero. You? he exclaimed. But sir, what is your quality? You are a vagabond, sir. How will you lead even a latrine detail beyond these gates, let alone an army?

  “The decrepit old man rose from his seat and flung back his holed cloak, and now Jathar saw he wore armour underneath. Battered and plain it was, with gouges and dents and scored lines that spoke loudly of the man’s long experience on the field of battle. And now he looked more closely at this man, as he came into the light to make clear his challenge, Jathar saw too the scars upon his flesh. And there, deep within his eyes, were older, more ancient wounds, that Jathar judged had never healed.”

  Norrow stared fiercely into the crowd, daring each man to meet his gaze. “Look upon me, Jathar Leon Learth, this grizzled warrior said quietly. I will not recite my pedigree to you, for this city would fall ere I finish. I can see the demons that war within your soul, that demand you surrender your courage to them. I can lead your army, sir; I can lead them into places where you will not tread. Look upon me, and tell me that this is not truth.”

  Cassia had not paid attention to her wanderings. She was close to where Rann Almoul and Hetch stood, and she ducked her head even further, hoping to avoid being seen. But both were hooked too deep within the tale and did not notice as she passed behind them.

  Her eyes came to rest on a fine pair of leather boots, almost new by their look. Low-heeled and rising high up their owner’s legs, they bore the dust of the road but very little mud. She lifted her gaze, surprised to see such good workmanship here. Why would anybody so obviously wealthy stop in Keskor’s town square to hear a storyteller?

  A narrow, emotionless pair of brown eyes stared back down at her. They were set into a strong, chiselled face, with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose. The man’s mouth and chin made her think of carved images of Pyraete she had seen at the few roadside shrines still dedicated to the god of the North. His shoulder-length brown hair was tied back in a tight tail to emphasise his noble features.