by Jude Fisher
Saro frowned, but said nothing. Night’s Harbinger was the best of their bunch, a rangy runner with a fine turn of speed, likely on a good day to win any race they set him to. Besides which, he’d long since learned never to get in the way of his brother’s frequent tempests of rage; even commenting on them had earned him cuts and bruises as a child. Instead, he gathered up the grooming kit, replacing each brush and flask of oil carefully into the pockets in the soft cloth roll in which he kept them, and said: ‘So, which contest do you think you have the best chance at?’
A climate change came over Tanto. It was as if all the black clouds had blown away and a sun shone down upon the world. A handsome, athletic lad, and well aware of it, nothing pleased him more than to have someone showing interest in him, even if it was only his measly little brother. He shook his head and the light played dutifully upon each black curl; upon the taut plane of his cheek and the hollow of his smooth throat, and came to rest finally upon his prized choker of sardonyx, its alternating bands of finest red chalcedony and lucent quartz a perfect foil to the dark warmth of his skin. His expression relaxed into a wide, delighted smile.
‘Why, all of them, brother! I’ve been training, you know.’
It was true: he had. While Saro and the younger boys had their knuckles rapped by their humourless tutor in the dull, cool silence of the learning house, outside in the sunshine Tanto was ploughing a furrow in the lake with his effortless backstroke; or casting a carefully-weighted spear across the homefield into distant straw targets under the discerning eye of their Uncle Fabel; punching mercilessly some poor slaveboy who’d been wrapped in padded leather and given some rudimentary fist-training; or out with their father, Favio Vingo, in the hills, triumphantly shooting rabbits full of quills from his short-bow. Seeing in his eldest son the Allfair champion he had never quite been, Favio lavished upon Tanto the finest of weapons – sabres of Forent steel and pattern-welded daggers from the north; bows crafted from aged oak and arrows fletched with the feathers of geese bred specifically for the purpose at Lake Jetra, way down on the Tilsen Plain. Tanto had the pick of everything – from the first cut of the roast, to the most exclusive of his father’s courtesans: it was only fair, he said, when you considered the riches and the glory his prowess would bring to the family name.
Saro smiled back at his brother (a smile that did not quite touch his eyes), feeling for his sibling the usual resentment simmering quietly away beneath his quiet exterior, and let the neverending flow of boasts pass like hot air above his head. Saro himself had always failed miserably in the contests at which Tanto excelled. He didn’t appear to have the necessary physical strength or coordination to compete with his brother, or anyone else, for that matter; his fear of water made him sink, stiffmuscled, to the lake floor; spears left his hand on unpredictable trajectories which had the slaves running wildly out of the way; the delicate southern swords – too light, surely, to be effective as a weapon? – slipped awkwardly from his fingers; and as for fist-fighting . . . Maybe it was just that he lacked the will to win. Probably it had more to do with the fact that with Tanto around, there was hardly any point in competing: why try and fail, only to be beaten and chastised? It seemed easier to accept his limitations and live with his father’s inevitable disappointment. ‘Saro: you will never amount to anything,’ Favio Vingo said constantly, and Saro had now come to accept that as an ineluctable truth.
Besides, Saro thought to himself, seeing how his brother’s chest was swelling from his inability to draw breath while talking so about himself, if you had to be like Tanto in order to succeed, who wanted to be a champion?
‘. . . so it’s the swordplay in which I should really excel, with that new damascened blade of mine, even though Fortran’s father gave him a gilded guard for his sabre, and Haro’s been taking lessons all summer from that swordmaster from Gila,’ Tanto finished in a rush.
‘Clearly brother, who could possibly match you?’
Tanto grinned in agreement, then uncoiled himself and strolled across the enclosure to supervise the slaves who were completing the stockade. Tall and muscular, he walked with an easy grace Saro knew he’d never possess, though as children kind aunts, the glint of their eyes bright through the veils of their sabatkas, their hands all aflutter with affection, had often remarked upon how alike the two boys looked: ‘like fircones from the same branch!’ Which had not pleased Tanto, and even though they shared a superficial similarity, Saro found himself feeling a fraud, guilty at the aunts’ obvious error of judgement.
Now, Tanto was firing off loud commands at the work-crew without the slightest hesitation or doubt as to his right to do so. At once, the slaves redoubled their efforts, careful not to meet his eye. The colts, meanwhile, trotted to the other side of the pen, blowing through their noses and looking expectantly at Saro. With a quick glance to make sure that Tanto’s attention was safely engaged elsewhere, Saro slipped his hand into the bag inside his tunic and drew out some of the horse-nuts he’d smuggled over with him. Neither Tanto nor their father approved of ‘spoiling’ the animals thus. ‘They’re here to make us money,’ Favio had said. ‘A great deal of money. They’re not pets.’ Fine-bred horses were considerable assets in Istria, for status, for spectacle, for racing and as a sweetener to attract the best officers for the standing armies that each province prided itself upon, and the trading of stock such as these was one of the Vingo family’s major income sources. Only family members were allowed to tend the animals, for Favio, a superstitious man when it came to money, was convinced that the touch of an outsider’s hand upon his bloodstock would somehow taint or subvert the purity of their Falla-dedicated breeding-lines. And so it was that both lads had travelled to the Moonfell Plain the long way, this year, along with several of their compatriots: for the livestock barges were too slow and cumbersome to deal with the fast waters of the Alta River, or the open sea, and instead had to make their meandering way up the wide, placid Golden River. Tanto, of course, had complained bitterly at not being allowed passage on the Vingo ship, The Maid of Calastrina, with the rest of the clan, but in this alone his father had not indulged him. ‘My boy,’ he had said, ‘your marriage payment and future success may rest on the price we get for the bloodstock this year. Remember that: care for the animals with all diligence, and ride the river with a hopeful heart, for if all goes to plan, by Allfair next year you will be lord of your own domain, owner of a noble wife and a fair castle.’
Tanto had stopped complaining after that; but he’d avoided the horses as soon as they were out of sight of the family estate and had cheerfully left all the work to Saro, spending his time instead peering at charts and maps of the river’s course, and delivering orders to the crew. Cognizant of Tanto’s famous temper, the men deferred to him silently, though Saro caught them exchanging amused glances: for everyone knew a child could steer a barge up the Golden River.
As soon as they scented the horse-nuts, the colts were crowding around Saro, pushing at him with their velvety muzzles, until he had to drop the treats down inside his tunic and fend them off. Night’s Harbinger, however, had hung back from the rest and regarded him warily. Slowly, Saro moved between the other horses till he was within arm’s reach of the bay. He held out his hand to him, empty, palm up. The bay rolled his eyes. When he stretched out to rub Night’s Harbinger on the cheek, he threw up his head, but did not back away. Carefully, Saro reached into his shirt and drew out a handful of the horse-nuts. When he scented them, the bay became strangely compliant. A few seconds later, Saro felt questing lips graze his hand, and then the horse-nuts were gone, as if by magic, and the next thing he knew, the bay was pressing his head against his chest, nosing deep into his tunic, until he had to push him away. As he did so, his shirt pulled loose from his belt, and horse-nuts scattered everywhere.
They made a sound like a miniature rockfall.
Tanto’s head whipped around, and took in with a face like thunder the sight of six of the Vingo family’s finest bloodstock ye
arlings scoffing worshipfully at his little brother’s feet.
Aran Aranson’s daughter ran until a sharp stitch under her ribs slowed her down. Rage had carried her a mile or more from the family booths, to the edge of the fairground and beyond. No one had taken much notice of a girl running urgently through their midst, since there were so many other people scurrying in all directions on errands and assignments; like the Aransons, setting up their stands, raising tents and pavilions, building temporary stockades for the livestock, tethering horses and dogs.
From the top of a rocky knoll, Katla looked back at the activity of the fair and pummelled her abdomen with a hard knuckle, trying to shift the stabbing pain. Stupid! She’d been so angry she’d forgotten to breathe properly. At home she ran for miles, tireless and steady, her long legs loping like a hound’s across moorland and meadow, up hill and down dale. She never got stitches, not like this. Damn her father for his bullying ways! She was a grown woman now, and surely due some respect: how dare he manhandle her as if she were a wayward ewe at shearing-time! And damn Fent and Erno, too, for standing by like the useless wretches they were, not even bothering to lift a hand to stop him. It didn’t surprise her that Fent wouldn’t stand up to their father, for Aran’s rages were elemental in their force; but she was disappointed in Erno, who might at least have remonstrated with him. She’d thought, from his shyness around her, that he might care a little for her: but clearly he was as cowardly and ineffectual as the rest of them. She ran a distracted hand over her head, feeling for the first time its strange new configuration, the remains of her hair uneven and spiky. Her head felt oddly light. It was – she noted with some surprise – quite a pleasant sensation.
Well, at least washing it wouldn’t be the tedious chore it usually was, with the long tail hanging plastered like a wet cat down her back for hours on end. As short as it was now, it would dry in minutes. She laughed as another thought struck her: for clearly her father had no intention of parading her around before King Ravn, as a marriage prospect! When Breta, Jenna and Tian had heard she’d be coming to the Allfair, it had been all they’d talk about – King Ravn Asharson: so handsome, so dashing, and by all accounts as wild as a stallion in heat for a mate – and they’d giggled and blushed and gone on at tedious length fantasising about what dresses they’d wear to be presented, how they’d curtsey and gaze up at him; how they’d prime their fathers to put their case to the lords. Remarkably, Jenna had managed to persuade her father to let her come with him to the Fair this year as well, though Katla doubted she’d ever be able to talk him into entering her into the marriage contest. The Fairwater clan, though wealthy and with an old heritage, were a shipbuilding family, and Katla suspected they already had their eye on one of her brothers for Jenna. Halli, probably, as the older of the two, rather than Fent. Katla anyway suspected her dour older brother had something of a soft spot for the coy and flirtatious Jenna. And Jenna, with her liking for dark men would most likely choose Halli, if she were given her say; though not until she’d had her foolish infatuation with Ravn Asharson conclusively quashed. They would all be going to the Gathering: that much Katla knew, for any Eyran family who paid tithes to the King or provided him with ships, crews or fighters was welcome to attend any court event. The northerners were not much for ceremony, Sur be praised.
Though quite what she would do with her tousled crop for the royal reception, she didn’t know, and it was only a couple of days away. She’d been planning to braid it up in the latest style, shown to her by Jenna when she’d come back from Halbo last month with a gorgeous new dress in the best southern silk – glossy as a holly leaf and edged with framings of Galian silver lace. Katla had no gorgeous new dress at all. She had prided herself on her own hair being more lustrous and vibrant than Jenna’s, and that what she lacked in finery she’d make up for with her crowning glory, as her mother so proudly termed it. Not much of a crowning glory now, she thought ruefully. Bera would be furious when she got home, would no doubt start castigating Aran for ruining his daughter’s marriage chances, and not only to the King! Which, as far as Katla was concerned, was no bad thing in itself: she didn’t think any husband would be so generous as to allow her travel to the Allfair with him, as her father, for all his complaints, had done; let alone run wild around the islands, climbing cliffs and riding wild ponies. No, she’d be the one saddled and harnessed, with a brace of children before she could blink, and then more and more and more until she’d mothered an entire clan. The Eyrans regarded large families as a sign of Sur’s blessing: a hard enough achievement, since they lost so many to feuding and the wicked seas.
The girls she knew talked about nothing other than weddings, it seemed: which lads were the nicest looking; which had the best prospects; what their settlements would be and what they’d wear for the handfasting; how many children they would have; what they’d call them all. To Katla such discussions were no more than a catalogue of constraints, and that the girls should conspire in their own confinement seemed perverse, to say the least. It was hard to maintain friends when you shared none of their dreams. Recently, she’d found herself drifting away from them, to pursue more and more solitary interests, and she hadn’t really missed their idle tattle at all.
Oddly enough, she’d come to count her brothers and their cronies as closer allies than her own sex, finding with them a fine sense of companionship in the sharing of active tasks around the homestead; or adventures on the island. One day she’d taken Halli with her to climb the headland at Wolf’s Ness, certain she’d seen a rock-sprite in a cave near the overhang. Using combined tactics and a rope made out of sealskin, with Katla wobbling badly on her tall brother’s shoulders at the crux, she’d managed to grasp the ledge and haul herself over, only to be confronted by a furious gull which had rushed at her, wings spread wide, its squawks of outrage splitting the air and its mad little chick, with its huge eyes and ridiculous fluff, pecking bravely at her hands. So much for the rock-sprite. Halli had laughed so much he’d fallen off the ledge: but luckily the rope had caught over the lip of the overhang and, with Katla as a counterweight, the two of them had swung out over the sea, giggling at their recklessness till they were weak.
And that had been only last year. Not very dignified behaviour for a young woman of marriageable age.
She smoothed her hands down her tunic, saw where the salt-stains from the oars had left round, almost fungal patches; where sweat and food and animals had all left their marks. Even aside from its sorry state, she probably wouldn’t be able to wear this tunic much longer, for propriety’s sake: it was getting a bit short in the leg now, and surprisingly tight around the chest. Perhaps she’d sell enough knives to afford some new clothes at the fair. She’d seen leather brought back from the Allfair that was as supple as the finest cloth and could be sewn with an ordinary needle, instead of the vast, unwieldy bodkin used for tacking Eyran horseskins together. With such leather could be fashioned a luxurious jerkin. Not that Katla had any intention of sewing it herself: rather, she’d persuade her mother to sew it for her: sewing was not something at which Katla excelled: left to herself, she’d produce great long stitches half a knuckle long in order to get the garment finished, and when challenged would reply crossly: It’ll do the job. Of course, she’d have to admit that there was more than one item of clothing she’d made for herself that had sprung apart at the seams, often in embarrassing circumstances; but it made her no more patient. Maybe, she thought, returning to her buying fantasy, I’ll get a good shirt or two; and an embroidered waistcoat and some suede leggings, as well. And a pair of pointed shoes. And some fine, long boots to ride in . . .
She laughed: she’d have to sell the entire stand to afford such a collection!
Knowing that she should swallow her pride and return at once to the family booth and join the workers, but still smarting from her treatment, Katla stayed on the knoll and watched the clouds burn away from a sky revealed at last to be as blue as a robin’s egg. The distant hills emerged fro
m their grim shadows to expose slopes clothed in purple and russet, where most likely at this time of year bilberry and heather vied for space with brackens and grasses, like the hills at home. The thought came to her unbidden, that climbing the Rock had perhaps been a reckless act, since she had thought nothing of the circumstances, and that maybe she deserved her punishment: but she pushed it away, feeling instead a sudden, burning urge to keep on running, away from the fairground, out into these strange hills, to take one of the long, meandering black paths at random and run to the summit, there to look out over the vast southern continent on which she now stood. So she did.
‘Who was that man?’ Fent asked, his face sharp with curiosity. The Istrian lord had been everything he had expected from a member of the old enemy’s nobility: arrogant, dismissive, outright rude, and fanatical to boot.
At the water’s edge, Aran Aranson shaded his eyes and watched as his two ships’ boats crested the surf towards him, packed to the rims with crew and cargo. Some moments passed and the question hung, answerless, on the breeze.
At last, Fent was forced to repeat his enquiry.
Aran turned to regard him, taking in the volatile light in his younger lad’s eyes, his balled fists and chancy temper. ‘He’s a man you should avoid,’ he said mildly.
This merely served to irritate Fent further. ‘Why should I want to avoid him? I’d say I was more than a match for a soft southern man like that, lord or no lord.’ And when his father’s face went blank and unresponsive: ‘In Sur’s name, who is he?’ Fent persisted, goaded by the memory of the foreigner’s haughty demeanour, his contempt of Katla, his strange fervour.