“Aye… I picked up how by watching Learned Bocali before me. The gods don’t seem to mind.” He regarded his visitor with new suspicion, as if he expected some sacramental critique.
Given that Pen looked and smelled neither learned nor divine just now, Pen supposed it must be the convincing Lodi accent. He just said, “I expect not.” And added, “The children should have clean water first, though. Food when you can. Then we need to talk.”
“Huh.” With this dubious monosyllable, the temple man retreated.
He returned in a few minutes to tap almost inaudibly on the chamber door, wordlessly handing in a water jug. Pen murmured thanks, and turned back to take stock of his revised set of problems. Again.
“Are we safe?” asked Seuka.
Pen rubbed his tired face and answered honestly, “Not till we reach Vilnoc. But I don’t think we can do better right now.”
The girls had only had a couple of hours of rest last night, and Penric none. When he’d watered them, had them wash up a bit, and tucked them into one cot, a yawning young head at each end and bare feet tangling, they quickly recaptured the sleep they had almost managed in the temple hall. Pen, lying down tensely on the other cot, envied them for that.
Could they do better for a hiding place? On his own, Pen could probably have gone to ground in his choice of a dozen different holes, feigning any of a dozen different roles. As it was… maybe not. By training and habit, temples felt like refuge to Pen, though it was true that the gods were no more present at Their altars than they were everywhere else. Nor less, I suppose. Temples were for the convenience, and perhaps concentration of mind, of their human builders. Pen by his rank also usually had the silent backing of a formal Temple hierarchy that appeared to be lacking here; Godino seemed a very slim reed to lean upon.
Despite his doubts, his exhausted body apparently decided this place was safe enough, because Pen couldn’t tell when he slipped into sleep.
He came awake abruptly when the door squeaked open, shooting up in his cot with a gasp, gathering Des the way some men might reach for a sword. Right here, Pen. But it was only Godino, returning with a basket on his arm. Alone, not shoved forward by some gang of murderous pirate rowdies. The room was dim, but the angle of the dusty sunbeams and bright patterns of light splashing on the rugs from the latticed window suggested it was a little past noon.
“Food,” said Godino gruffly, setting down the basket on the washstand. He stood back and stared at Pen as if afraid he might set something on fire again.
“Thank you,” said Pen, sitting up on the edge of his bed as his heartbeat slowed. He investigated the contents, finding flat bread rounds, olives forever, cheese, some of those dried fish planks that people around here thought were food, and, blessedly, boiled eggs. The basket also harbored a jug of red wine and four clay beakers; the number was explained when Godino pulled up two stools, sat on one, and conscripted the other for a table. Maybe Pen wasn’t the only man who wanted to talk?
Pen’s shaky reserves, drained by last night’s exertions, voted for eating first. He peeled an egg and popped it into his mouth while Godino watered wine for two. The temple man cast a glance at the still-sleeping girls and lowered his voice to a murmur.
“There was gossip at the services about the escape of a ship named the Autumn’s Hand last night. Some say the crew was freed by a poisoner. Some said it was a magician, cloaking himself in smoke and light, casting terrible spells. Some think it wasn’t either, just the guards making excuses for themselves for being overpowered. Which given they’re bound to be punished, seemed pretty likely.” Godino regarded him steadily, and not for the first time Pen wished Des’s skills extended to mind-reading.
“And which do you think?” mumbled Pen around a mouthful of bread and cheese.
“If you hadn’t shown up here, I’d have guessed the last, too.”
Pen cleared his voice with a swallow of watered wine. “Any suggestion the pirates are still looking for this magical smoky poisoner here on Lantihera?”
“Not so far,” Godino admitted grudgingly.
“How reliable is your gossip?”
“Some in the neighborhood work for the Guild, one way or another. Lots of folks, really, all over Lanti Harbor, since the rovers are the ones with the money to hire. Not just as crew or rowdies, either, or taverners, but decent work like boat carpentry or ship chandlers.”
“How did the pirates come to control this island?”
Godino shrugged. “There were always a few put in here, to offload their goods or captives, and resupply. Smugglers as well. When Carpagamo kept a garrison here, they regulated them and collected the port fees. Rathnatta the same, whenever one of the princes held us.
“Then about ten, fifteen years ago Carpagamo had one of its wars with Adria, and withdrew their men for work closer to home. Usually that’s a signal for Rathnatta to move in, but they were having their own war just then among three brother-princes for succession to their dead father’s seat. And that’s when the pirates ganged together and set up their own conclave.”
“Did no one on the island resist this?”
“Eh. Better the rovers should work in one crew than fight each other all over town and make a wreck of the place. And with no taxes being paid to either Carpagamo or Rathnatta, money was less tight, profits rose, and more pirates came. Before we knew it, the town belonged to them, either by coin or by the sword.” Godino sighed. “At some point I expect either Carpagamo or Rathnatta will remember us, and muscle back in. No one’s much looking forward to that, either.”
“Hm…?”
“When Carpagamo’s here, the Quadrenes suffer. When its Rathnatta, it’s us Quintarians. At least the Guild makes sure any preying on the local girls gets paid-for.” Godino frowned at the sleeping sisters. “And the pirates leave both temples alone, pretty much. Unless someone does something really stupid, like trying to hide runaway captives.” His mouth tightened.
“You said this temple once had a divine. Was he under the rule of the archdivine of Carpagamo? Did he leave with the garrison?”
“He wouldn’t. Later, I wish’t he had.” Godino stared at his sandals. “I started here as a boy groom, looking after the holy animals. We had some really nice ones, then. I rose to head groom pretty quickly. After the Guild moved in, some escaped captives came one night to beg sanctuary in the temple just like you did. Learned Bocali stood right there in the portico and told the Guildmen that if they wanted the supplicants, they’d have to go through him.
“So they did. It was a short fight, since he had no weapon but a brass candlestick. Our acolyte was struck down trying to defend the altar treasures, which the rowdies said they were taking for a fine.”
The current altar gear, candle- and incense-holders and oil lamps, had all been cheap pottery, Pen realized when he thought back.
“Theirs were the first two funerals I ever conducted by myself, next day, for lack of anyone else. And then I just… kept on. Since people didn’t stop being born or needing ease or dying. Carpagamo Temple never came back for us, never sent anyone else out”—he looked briefly as though he wanted to spit—“and Rathnatta, well, I sure don’t wish for them.”
Pen massaged the back of his neck, which was tight and aching. “I see.” Godino might be an unlettered man, Pen thought, but he was neither stupid nor unobservant. Nor unfaithful. Just… vastly overmatched. It sounded as though he’d been eyewitness to the bloody murders, too, which clearly had left a deep impression.
Pen’s glance at the other cot discovered both girls with their eyes open, listening worriedly to the baffling Adriac. He told them in Roknari, “Brother Godino has brought us some food. It’s after noon, so time to get up. Try not to thump too much.”