Page 1 of Witchcraft and Fury (Chronicles of the Divided Isle #1)
THE SMUGGLER
Though their magic be unique in its evil, witches die like any other monster; their blood runs red and their innards reek.
‘What have we here, Watchman Feran?’ demanded Captain Grubber.
‘This man claims he is a wool merchant, sir. Yet on his cart, sir, I also found three silk scarves, undeclared. They’re worth more than their weight in gold, they are, sir, and ought to be taxed.’
‘Bring me the silk for inspection.’
‘I’ve already paid my tax!’ protested the bald man. ‘I paid it at port, to the king’s men! You have no right to tax me again for merely entering the city.’
‘Quiet, unless you want to spend market day in the city dungeon.’ The merchant fell silent, and Grubber glared balefully at him.
‘Now, at current rates in the city market you could earn thirty gold coins for those scarves. But markets thrive only in peaceful cities. My men and I keep the peace, and it is only right that we should be well paid for our … diligent service. Pay fifteen gold coins now and I will let you pass without further trouble.’
‘Fifteen?’ repeated the bald man, his voice quaking with rage and shock at the extortionate charge. ‘You will ruin me! I have a wife to support, and two young girls!’
Feran returned with the scarves folded in his arms. The captain took one and let it unfurl, eyeing the intricate pattern that shimmered in the sunlight.
‘Twelve, and I will keep this scarf. I also have a wife to please.’ He mopped his sweaty brow with the scarf before stuffing it into a pocket.
He looked up to see the merchant glowering at him.
The captain glared back and said in a quiet, icy tone, ‘Well? Pay up.’
The bald man did not move, and for a moment it seemed as if he might argue. The captain’s fingers strayed to his sword hilt and the soldiers of the city watch closed in, surrounding the man .
The merchant realised it was hopeless protesting further.
This was the king’s representative, cheating honest people.
He could go to no one for help. He counted out twelve gold coins from a money pouch, handed them to the captain and, with one final look of disgust, turned on his heel and climbed back onto his cart.
Lifting the reins, he urged his two horses through the gate and into the city of Falcontop with an angry cry.
The crowd plodded forwards a few paces, horses neighing, chickens clucking and children complaining about the lack of shade.
A portly wine merchant and his teenage son reached the captain, and soon they were protesting at having their goods inspected.
One of the guards raised a threatening fist at the boy.
Watching these events unfold was a seventeen-year-old girl clad in a faded brown tunic, who stood next in line behind the wine merchants.
She was small and skinny, and her face had the pinched look of most low-born adolescents, as if she never quite had enough food to make up a full meal.
She had bony knees and straggly, dirty blonde hair.
Her face was grimy from days on the road, and she possessed no remarkable features or characteristics to differentiate her from the hundreds of other waifs in the long line of traders.
This anonymity was something she welcomed; as she liked to remind herself, no smuggler determined to avoid the gallows wished to draw attention to themself.
Solar licked her lips, trying to work a little moisture into them.
It did no good. Her mouth was as parched as the dusty road she stood on and her lips were cracked.
It had been a long journey, and the basket of eggs she carried on her shoulder was getting heavier by the minute.
She dared not put it down for one second though, for what lay at the bottom of the basket, hidden by the eggs, would raise more coin than she had ever seen in her life.
‘I work for Mr Bovill,’ she murmured to herself, practising her lines.
‘I’ve been trusted to bring his eggs to market.
Mr Bovill’s not a rich man but, if it pleases you, sir, please take half a dozen home for your family.
’ She spoke with a strong Falcon accent.
It was an accent often heard in the city’s industrial quarter, as craftsmen bellowed to one another over the clanging of their tools, or in the back-alley alehouses that served the city’s poor.
‘I work for Mr Bovill,’ she began again, reciting the words like a prayer. ‘I’ve been trusted…’
Would this cover story work? If her basket was searched thoroughly by the captain’s men she would not merely be taxed – she’d be lucky to escape with her life.
Being left to rot in the dungeon would be the best she could hope for.
For beneath Solar’s eggs lay something that had been all but illegal in the Kingdom of Ashwood for a hundred years – something you could only own if you belonged to a noble house or attended the royal court as an adviser to the king.
It was a book, bound in luxurious leather, its pages lined with gold. Its contents were more extraordinary still: incantations of a power few could even dream of, potion recipes that brought the drinker limitless fortune and curses that could blight a family for generations.
It was common knowledge that in the distant past magical instruction had been available to all.
But a century ago King Campion the Austere ordered that all spell books were to be confiscated from the common folk, and all witches to be burned at the stake.
Since that day, all magic academies and encampments had to be royally approved.
It soon became tradition for these institutions to be attended solely by the youngest sons of lords and ladies, whilst their elder brothers trained to become knights or waited to inherit lands and titles.
Books of magic could still be purchased by ordinary folk on the black market, providing they had both the money and appetite for risk. That was the market Solar hoped to access in Falcontop. She had little interest in the official market of eggs, wool and wine.
In front of her the wine merchants were being subjected to a thorough investigation.
Solar could see that they clearly had something to hide.
The father sweated in the morning sun and bit his nails incessantly; his son hovered around the guards, watching their every move.
The guards, however, evidently found nothing that they could impose an extra tax on, for they tossed the crates of wine they had unloaded back onto the wagon and shut its doors.
The wine merchants breathed sighs of relief, but the next thing they knew a commanding voice rang out.
‘Halt!’ Grubber, a smirk plastered over his face, strode round to where the guards stood at the back of the wagon.
‘Not so fast,’ he said, giving his men a conspiratorial wink.
‘I haven’t had some fine red wine from Oriva for far too long.
In fact, if I recall correctly, not since our two friends here last visited the city.
’ He patted the two merchants on the back and reopened the doors.
The father and son exchanged nervous glances as Grubber lifted a bottle off the dusty blanket that covered the wagon floor.
‘1115, very good year,’ he said, reading the label.
He tucked the bottle under one arm, enjoying the merchants’ unease.
His eyes roamed carefully over the interior of the vehicle, taking in every detail.
Finally, he spotted something that made him grin.
‘Well, well, well. Master wine merchant, are you concealing a trapdoor in your wagon?’
The son, standing closest, peered inside and gave an involuntary groan. When removing the bottle, the captain had disturbed the blanket slightly, and now an iron latch protruded quite clearly.
‘I wonder what you might be hiding in there?’ The captain’s words were mild but his tone was menacing, his voice so quiet that Solar, standing next in line, could only just hear.
The father hurried to the captain’s side and whispered, ‘There’s nothing there that you’d be interested in, your honour.
That’s where my lad and I keep empty wine bottles, that’s all.
’ As he spoke, he produced from inside his jacket a large leather pouch and pressed it into the captain’s hands.
‘There’s twenty gold coins there, your honour.
I’m sure a man of commerce such as yourself understands my meaning. ’
Grubber looked the man in the eye for what felt like an eternity, but then he closed his fingers around the pouch and pocketed it. ‘Done. But I’m warning you, if you mean to play this trick again next time you come to market you had better have a pouch of equal value waiting for me.’
The captain raised his voice so that all could hear. ‘Guards, let this man and his lad through. Gods, at least we found one pair of honest traders today.’ He gave an ugly bark of a laugh.
Solar felt as if she’d had the wind knocked out of her.
Twenty gold coins! So that was the price for having the captain look the other way.
She didn’t have that kind of money. She didn’t even have a silver coin at present.
She stood rooted to the ground. Grubber watched the wine merchants’ wagon pass through the gate, then turned to face Solar and her basket of eggs.
‘Step forward, girl. Let me see what you’ve got.
’ He uncorked the Orivan wine with his teeth and took a great gulp straight from the bottle.
A dark-red stain trickled down his chin and dripped onto a silver, crescent-moon amulet he wore over his leather jerkin.
With his other hand he beckoned for Solar to come closer.