by Jude Fisher
Disgusted, she pushed his hand away.
‘They say if a virgin tastes a man’s blood, she’ll be bonded to him forever.’
‘Oh they do, do they?’
‘Aye.’ He laid the sword down with exaggerated care, then quickly turned and caught her by the chin. Furious, Katla sprang back, her eyes flashing, but Tor hung on, his fingers clenching on her jaw, trying to angle his head for a kiss.
When she dropped her head for a moment as if in defeat, Tor closed upon her. Under her spiky new fringe, Katla smiled wickedly. He obviously hadn’t been paying too much attention to her wrestling bouts. She brought her head up sharply and dealt him a hard crack on the chin.
‘Ow!’
His hands flew to his mouth. Blood was spurting from a split lip where he appeared to have bitten himself.
‘Looks as if you’ve bonded with yourself there, Tor. Never mind; they say there’s no better love than to love oneself, and I’m sure you’ve already had plenty of practice at that.’
Tor wiped his hand across his face, smearing blood grotesquely into his beard, then stalked off between the booths, Katla’s laughter ringing in his ears.
How his brother could possibly claim to have ‘nothing to wear’, Saro could not imagine, standing in front of the enormous carved wardrobe the slaves had erected in Tanto’s tent. He had never seen so many rich clothes – tunics and cloaks in fabulous brocades and plush in every colour of the rainbow; trimmed with silver; with copper wire; fine linen undershirts, soft leather boots in a dozen different styles; even a pair of jewel-encrusted slippers in what some exploitative Ceran designer had dubbed to be just like those worn by the lords of the Far West (though since no living man had set foot in that legendary land, let alone some fat merchant who could barely even walk up a flight of stairs, it was hard to see how anyone could have come by such arcane knowledge) and were now all the rage throughout the richer Istrian social circles. Personally, Saro thought they looked ridiculous, with their restrictively narrow toes and uncomfortable concretions of gems – it would surely be like wearing some gaudy crustacean on your foot – a cooked lobster, maybe, or a spidercrab.
Still, these slippers, plus a cerise tunic studded with pearls, a pale-green shift and a pair of pink hose, were what he had been sent to salvage, once his brother had calmed down enough to despatch him imperiously on this errand. Saro tossed the clothes down onto a goose-down quilt with disgust. Clearly, Tanto had no intention of helping with the horses today.
There was a short burst of swearing outside the tent and the sound of skin striking skin: clearly a slave had inadvertently stepped in Tanto’s path, and then:
‘Idiot boy: you’d think he’d gone blind in his other eye for all the care he was taking . . . Ah, excellent, brother: not quite as fine as the purple, but it’ll have to do. Now help me out of these stinking rags: I am determined to make the best possible impression.’
Tanto tore at the wet tunic, ripping the fine lace at its neck in his haste to be rid of it. Twenty-five minutes later, after much prinking and preening and poor Saro running around to find warm lavender-scented water and the right jewellery, Tanto stood ready.
Saro surveyed him with ill-disguised amazement: did he really want to look like a stuffed flamingo in front of his future wife?
‘Should make a fine impact, eh, brother?’ said Tanto, seeing Saro’s slack-jawed expression.
‘Ah, yes, indeed. Not one she’ll forget in some time, I’d say.’
‘She? What do I care what the girl thinks? It’s her father I want to impress, not some silly trollop.’
‘Are you ready, son? We should be on our way.’
Tanto strode confidently out of the tent. If Favio thought his appearance a little unusual, he said nothing; but the one-eyed slaveboy who accompanied him gawped like a simpleton and almost dropped the pannier he was carrying.
Lord Tycho’s pavilion was as far from the Eyran quarter as it was possible to be; clearly his people had arrived early at the Moonfell Plain with strict instructions, and had established the great tents on a grassy rise that gave a fine view of the fairground, and of the shining sea beyond. Here, too, the air was a little fresher; even a little cooler: down amongst the stalls and stock pens the midday sun had made for stifling conditions. None of this had improved Tanto’s mood, which had been blackening steadily ever since they had set out. First of all, an Eyran urchin in a stained leather tunic and carrying an armful of knives had laughed openly at his appearance, and had called out to a rather plump girl with a towel wrapped about her head to come and see what the mummers were wearing this year; then a thin blond man with plaits in his hair and beard had run past them and stared at Tanto so hard he had run into a group of mercenaries and fallen over; they in turn had pointed and guffawed, and a small fat one had run along behind them for a while, aping Tanto’s stiff-backed stalk; then, to crown it all, Tanto had lost one of the stupid slippers in the loose sand while they walked up the slope to Lord Tycho’s tent, and Saro had had to scrabble around on his knees to retrieve it for him and when he had tried to refit the thing, Tanto had merely stuck his foot out, all resistant and obstructive like a spoiled brat. By the time they reached the pavilion, Tanto was scowling and silent: never the best of signs.
A slave in perfect white linen with the Lord of Cantara’s mark on his cheek stepped smartly out of the shade of the pavilion’s awning and ushered them wordlessly inside. Within, it was silky-cool. Two more slaves stood unobtrusively to the sides of the main room, wafting great fans; while an ingenious flap in the top of the pavilion had been opened to allow both the through-flow of air and a shaft of bright sunlight, which fell, as though by intent or supernatural power, upon the Lord of Cantara himself: a neat man of middle-height with darkly burnished skin, a hooked nose, and an impeccably understated style of dress.
‘Welcome, my lords Vingo,’ he said, bowing politely to each of them in turn. Tanto nodded back with the barest minimum of courtesy, and hurled himself down onto the nearest cushion-strewn bench, legs splayed wide.
Saro waited to see what the Cantaran lord’s reaction to his bizarrely dressed and ill-mannered brother would be, but if Tycho Issian noticed anything out of the ordinary in Tanto’s behaviour or appearance, he gave no sign of it.
There followed niceties of small conversation and the serving of several goblets of attar-flavoured araque, which Tanto and Uncle Fabel took straight, and which tasted sumptuous and powerful, though like nothing Saro had ever previously encountered. He noticed, however, that Lord Tycho watered his serving down almost to nothing and, having seen this, Saro placed his own glass down on the table, hardly touched.
At last, Favio said, ‘We have considered the terms we would wish to offer, my lord, for this excellent match. To keep such matters plain and above board, my scribe has made a note of them for your scrutiny,’ and handed the Lord of Cantara an extravagantly ribboned scroll.
Tycho pulled the bindings apart with long, careful fingers, unrolled the scroll slowly and cast his eyes down the thick black figurings within. ‘Twenty thousand: very generous; and the bloodstock, too. Also the fort and lands at Altea, in exchange for the castle at Virrey. An interesting location, if a little . . . remote . . .’ He perused the rest of the document silently, his sharp eyes flicking across the complex marks and columns. Then looked up. ‘There’s no mention here of the land bordering the Golden River at Felin’s Bluff,’ he said softly.
Favio and Fabel exchanged an uncomfortable glance. Saro had the sense they had somehow been caught out.
Favio held his hand out for the scroll and ran his eyes down the listings. ‘Stupid creature! – my scribe, my lord, I mean – such a foolish oversight. I knew the man was not paying attention.’ He reached across the table, poured himself another glass of the smoky, rose-flavoured liquid, and knocked it back in a single gulp as if to divert attention from the lie.
Lord Tycho took the scroll back. ‘As I thought,’ he said smoothly. ‘An unfortunate omissio
n. But do not concern yourselves: I have my own scribe here: he shall make the correction.’ He gestured minutely to one of the slaves, who melted away into the darkness at the back of the tent, returning a moment later with a thin young man with his head bound in the Jetran fashion bearing a goose-quill, a small pot and another, unornamented document.
Favio grimaced. As Tycho bent to take his seat again, Fabel shrugged minutely.
‘And the land from the village of Fasal, extending to . . . to Talsea in the north and in the south bounded by the cliff at Felin’s Bluff, with access to the Golden River, its toll-bridge and barge station,’ Favio dictated, his voice flat and resigned.
‘Excuse me, Father.’ Tanto leaned across and gripped him by the arm. ‘What about the woman?’ he hissed, audible to all present. ‘I want a good look at the baggage before you sign my inheritance away—’
Tycho’s eyes narrowed then bored themselves into the side of Tanto’s sun-kissed head. ‘Let me call my daughter,’ he said silkily. ‘She is eager to see the young lord to whom she may be betrothed.’ He paused to allow the veiled repayment of the insult to find its mark. ‘Perhaps your lordships would like to peruse the terms of my share in our agreement while the Lady Selen is brought to attend our audience?’ Taking the sheet of unrolled parchment from the scribe, he passed it to Favio Vingo, then turned and sharply called his daughter’s name.
Saro watched as his father blinked: once, twice, then held the document at arm’s length and stared at it. Oh Falla, Saro thought suddenly; he’s drunk.
‘Father,’ he said softly. ‘Would you like me to read it to you? I know your eyes have been paining you of late.’
Favio gave him a curious look, but did not relinquish the parchment.
‘Don’t interfere,’ Tanto said loudly. ‘You’re just a hanger-on here: it’s none of your business.’
As if she had been waiting in the anteroom throughout the preceding hour, the Lady Selen materialised suddenly at her father’s side. She wore a sabatka of a dark hue – black with just a hint of aubergine to it – very plainly and severely cut, but of the finest linen. Entirely unornamented, it covered her from head to foot, and had the appearance more of funereal garb than a dress befitting what might by others be regarded as a joyful occasion. With her head held low, all that was visible of her at this moment were her hands.
She took a step forward, her hands held palm-out in the tradition greeting, and bobbed her head first to her father, then to the elder Vingos, and at last to Tanto and his brother.
Tanto leaned forward, his eyes keen to scrutinise.
In silhouette, her form was tall and slim, which in itself was pleasing enough, he noted; and when she moved it was with silent grace: altogether a good thing in a woman. But when she stepped into the shaft of light, his mouth fell open in wonder. From behind her came a hiss of disapproval: the first emotion Lord Tycho Issian had shown during the visit.
The single allowable slit in the sabatka’s veil revealed that Selen Issian had painted her lips like those of a street whore. The shape – exaggerated to a more than generous bow – had been filled in with a rainbow of glittering colour. Sunlight played over gleaming yellows and purples, scarlets and greens, every opposition of the spectrum represented at once as though by the model for a cosmetics pedlar. Just to the right of her top lip – currently quirked in a humourless smile – a silver beautyspot in the form of a crescent moon had been stuck to the pale olive skin: the universal symbol of those prostitutes who preferred to offer a very particular, and irregular, service.
Tanto’s regard travelled hungrily across this palette; and came to rest on the beauty-mark. His eyes widened; then he beamed.
‘She is a treasure, my lord,’ he breathed, turning to Lord Tycho. ‘A veritable treasure.’
Selen Issian’s mouth became a long, hard line.
Favio Vingo looked surprised. Fabel seemed rooted to the spot. Lord Tycho’s brows were drawn together in a single dark furrow. He looked as if he might explode. Saro stared from one to another, and back to the dark column of the girl. There was an electric charge to the air, a sense of challenge and sexual tension, but he did not fully understand its import.
Favio coughed, once, and returned his attention to the document.
‘Ah, this all seems in order, my Lord Tycho. Shall we sign our respective offers and seal our bargain?’
From behind the veil there came a sharp intake of breath. The slim figure began to sway. Then Selen Issian crumpled to the floor.
When she came to the pavilion was empty. Except for her father, who was standing over her, his face grim and vivid with intent.
In his hands he carried a leather strap.
PART
TWO
Five
Gold
Tycho Issian strode through the Fair, looking neither to right nor left until he reached the slave blocks which, appropriately enough, it seemed to him, were situated close to the livestock pens. By midday – barely even the start of the Fair – they were already thronged with interested customers thinking to make themselves a cheap deal. The smell from the nearby animals was lofting pungently into the windless air.
At the first blocks, a fat merchant from the south was showing off a mountain girl of nine or ten. Even shrouded by the seller’s voluminous standard sabatka, she looked painfully thin, and one shoulder stood significantly higher than the other: hardly the ‘sturdy scullery maid’ he termed her. No one was bidding. Behind her were arrayed a motley collection of chained men, dark and wiry, all apparently from the same hill clan, no doubt captured and enslaved during the recent insurrections in the south, dressed to appeal to those looking for herdsmen or body servants, but such was not Tycho’s goal.
He passed on swiftly.
The next seller had more likely merchandise: all women, all very properly dressed and presented. They huddled together on the raised dais. Two of them held hands, as if seeking some human comfort in the face of their inquisition. Tycho could just make out the glint of manacles on their wrists. He threaded his way to the front of the small crowd who had gathered to listen to the merchant’s spiel.
‘. . . ladies from the Farem Heights: beauteous, bounteous, housebroken and willing, and all from the same family. As long-limbed and finely fettled as their horses: and the blood of desert chieftains runs fiery through their veins: how can you resist their charms? Falla knows I couldn’t!’ And here he leaned forward to leer at his audience, many of whom roared with laughter; some surreptitiously counted the money in their purses, while others stood unmoved and stony-faced, ready to strike a hard bargain. ‘I am content to sell the ladies singly or as a group. But imagine the pleasure, gentlemen, you could have from the whole job lot. Do I have any bidders for the group of five?’
Herded by the merchant’s assistants, the women shuffled forward. Tears had streaked the cosmetics that had been so carefully applied to their mouths. Tycho turned his back on the scene and walked on . . .
It was not, he thought as he went, that he objected to such crude displays; rather that the obvious did not appeal to him, even aroused as he was at the moment, had been, indeed, ever since the shocking sight of his daughter’s provocatively painted mouth. Had been, particularly, since he had beaten her for her defiance, quietly and painstakingly, not to leave marks that would last or be noticed, even by her attendants. The memory of her, cowering away from him, trying hard not to show her weakness, keeping her tears in check, made his loins boil with blood.
He must surely try to find a woman with whom to worship the Goddess, and quickly. He castigated himself silently for having left his favoured bed-partner behind in Cantara, but it had been necessary, given her current predicament. The foolish woman had thought to trick him, tried to hide the softness of her belly and breasts under sabatkas of a stiffer fabric that would not cling to her curves. But he did not pay his staff well for nothing: the housemistress had come to him as soon as she saw Noa vomiting one morning. Just in time: it became da
ngerous to abort the child beyond sixteen weeks; and while he was angry at Noa for trying to keep it, he would still not see her die under the chirurgeon’s knife. It would be a waste of resources: and, Falla knew, he had little enough of those to spare at the moment.
Always he hoped, when he visited the slave blocks, to find another Alizon: a proud, quiet, intelligent beauty, who would stir more than just his desire; who might even prove a stimulating companion for those soft, dark evenings by the lake, amongst the lemon groves. Not a wife from slavery: not again. His position, though weak, was too public now; and would be more so with the increase in status the Vingo alliance would bring him, and the place on the Istrian Council they would surely award him once he had cleared the debt. He had, by strenuous efforts, secured considerable respect amongst his peers and the elders of the Council; he was known for his oratory, and for his piety. Indeed, he had thought in his youth to combine the two and enter the priesthood; but events had conspired against that. He brushed those unpleasant memories swiftly away.
The women on the next dais were dark-skinned, and not to his taste. Impatient now, and with his member pushing insistently against his tunic, he turned for the nomad quarter.
Aran Aranson took a critical look at the position of the sun and, judging that he had sufficient time to spare before trading in the Eyran quarter started in earnest, set off purposefully. He knew exactly where he was going: Edel Ollson had mentioned seeing a Footloose man setting out a collection of maps and maritime charts and the like. Unusual, they were, Edel had said: parchment so old it was fragile to the touch, yellowed to the brown of a hazelnut around the edges, as if lapped by a tongue of fire. As to what others were made from, he had been less sure: goatskin, maybe; or – and here he’d brought his head close to Aran’s, his eyes darting apprehensively – perhaps even a man’s skin!
Edel Ollson had a wayward imagination, Aran thought dismissively. He was a man who was always coming up with schemes and plans and never seeing them through. You could not trust the word of such a man; they might not even be maps at all; probably they were old love songs written for noble ladies; sheets of tabla music or even playscripts. Edel, like most Eyrans, had never learned to read, preferring to keep record with the traditional use of knots and braids, and Aran himself had hardly more than a rudimentary knowledge of letter-making. But surely even a man like Edel could tell the difference between music and nautical charts? It was certainly worth a brief investigation.