Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [228]
The pilgrims' route lay overland, northeast. But there was another way, a swifter way. Merchant ships were plying a route across the Eastern Sea, forging trade routes all the way from Vralgrad to the Skaldic port of Norstock.
"There's a Flatlander caravan bound for Norstock on the morrow," Adelmar said. "Carrying wool for a Vralian trade-ship. They've got a writ of safe passage and an escort of men loyal to me. I reckon I could allow one or two of you to ride with them as far as Norstock without causing too much trouble. One or two.”
"What about passage to Vralgrad?" I asked.
Adelmar shook his head. "No business of mine. But Vralians are a curious folk. I reckon if you kept your mouth shut about hunting pilgrims, you'd find passage aboard their ship, all right. And if you happen to find yourself in Kargad before the pilgrims arrive, whatever you do there—and whatever happens to you afterward—well, it's no business of mine.”
It was a risk, a major risk. "Can I give you our answer on the morrow?”
"I'll send word to the wool-merchant." Adelmar gave his thin smile.
"Ernst's his name. If you want to take my offer, find him in the camps before sunset. If not, I don't want to hear another word unless it's accompanied by a counter-offer. A very generous counter-offer.”
I nodded. "Fair enough. Thank you, my lord.”
With that, he dismissed us.
Betimes in life, there are no good choices. After our dismissal, I settled our account with the innkeeper Halla—much to the dismay of her daughters—and the four of us headed back to the camping ground to discuss the matter with the others.
For the most part, I listened and thought, while everyone else covered the same points, over and over. The surest course for catching Berlik was to follow his trail now. It was also the surest course for dying. Eamonn mac Grainne had managed to cross Skaldia only by passing himself off as Skaldi, and even at that, he'd gotten captured. If it hadn't been for Brigitta's determination, like as not he'd still be toiling as a carl, or dead. The surest course for surviving was to tarry and wait for aid from Alba and Terre d'Ange. And the course with the greatest uncertainty, but the greatest possible merit, was to take Adelmar's offer.
Berlik could part ways with the pilgrims anywhere, at any time. Berlik was unlikely to part ways with the pilgrims in Skaldia. He spoke Cruithne, he bore woad tattoos that could be mistaken for a warrior's markings. Only Adelmar's token kept him safe, and it meant he didn't dare linger in Skaldia, but must continue on to Vralia.
Berlik, everyone agreed, must look immensely silly in his muslin cap.
But it was also possible that Berlik could still turn himself into a bear. And without the aid of Skaldic countryfolk, a pale-eyed bear could survive undetected in the wilds of Skaldia for many, many years. Even with their aid—which could only be obtained if we tarried—he would be difficult to find. Talorcan had failed in Alba.
Which left Vralia.
One or two men.
I thought about Vralia. It was a mad venture. I knew next to nothing about the land. I didn't speak their tongue, whatever it was. Not a word of it. Except that I did speak some Habiru, and the land was increasingly full of them. And Micah ben Ximon, who served as Tadeuz Vral's warlord, had been trained in the Cassiline fighting style by Joscelin Verreuil. Long ago, when I was yet a babe, and the Yeshuites in La Serenissima had been forbidden to carry swords. And from there, Micah ben Ximon had led his people to freedom and renown in a distant land. Impossible as it seemed, we might have an ally there in faraway Vralia.
It was a thin, shining thread of hope. There wasn't much time to make a choice. The sun was hanging low over the tree-tops. I fished in the purse at my belt until I