Sorcery Rising

by Jude Fisher

  Katla had looked on, unmoved. Halli, useless lump that he was, had gone out in only the second round. Of all the Rockfall clan, the wrestling was her event, the one at which she excelled in the island Games. She might even have given the Istrian a run for his money: not for strength – for he was fearsomely muscled – but certainly for agility and technique, though she doubted she’d have been able to pin him, even if she’d got him down. Here, though, they wouldn’t let women participate, and without the opportunity for disguise: even with her flat chest, she reckoned they’d notice the difference, stripped to the waist. As it was, even to come and watch the sport, she’d had to wind a length of coloured fabric about her head, on her father’s orders, after the officials had visited their booth. ‘It’s either that or dye black what’s left,’ he’d said grimly. Fent, meanwhile, drew glances wherever he went – though the charge for affray had long been dropped by the wounded Istrian boy, who was recovering well. No, it was the red hair – in conjunction with his finely cut features and slim build – that drew their eye. The sacrilege of a woman setting foot atop the Rock had struck some atavistic chord in the more fundamental southerners: now that word had spread and still the offender had not been caught, they were all talking about it. Fent noticed how many Istrians watched him sharply as he passed, as if determined not to be taken in by his mannish clothing or masculine stride. Twice, he’d been stopped, but one close look at the rough red stubble on his chin and he’d been waved on his way. Tor, accompanying him on one of these expeditions, had suggested that Fent don one of Katla’s tunics and affect a provocatively sway-hipped gait in order to really give them something to talk about, and had earned a sore jaw for his trouble.

  More seriously, the previous morning two flame-haired sisters from the Fair Isles had also been stopped and taken into custody. At only twelve and fourteen years of age, and having no skill in the Old Tongue, they had been kept in the holding cells for the best part of a day, crying out piteously in Eyran while stern-faced southern officials fingered their hair and asked them unfathomable questions in the musical Istrian language they had been admiring only that morning, as they listened to a pair of southern swordsmen exchanging pleasantries between heats.

  At last, the family had noticed they were missing, and after scouring the fairground, had gathered themselves quite a large group of searchers, who had eventually converged upon the Allfair officers’ booth, more to report the girls’ disappearance than out of any suspicion they might be held there. The furore that had ensued had resulted in somewhat greater circumspection from the officials since then; even so, the incident had sparked brawls that night, and even now the mood was tense.

  ‘Did you see me, Saro?’

  Tanto Vingo leapt the rope and clapped his brother on the back so hard that Saro yelped.

  ‘I was magnificent, even if I say so myself. Did you see how I wrong-footed him at the last? Feint, feint, block, turn—’ he mimed out his win for Saro’s benefit ‘—let him catch me a glancing blow on the dagger, then bam! Straight in under his arm. If it wasn’t for that stupid competition button they make you put on the point, I’d have skewered him nicely.’

  Saro stood there, swaying, his eyes unfocused, feeling the triumph and bloodlust sweep through him from Tanto’s touch; and then it ebbed away as abruptly as it had come, leaving him feeling empty, stranded.

  ‘Wrecked the dagger though.’ Tanto pulled the blade from its sheath and waved it under his brother’s nose.

  The blade, albeit slightly notched, was otherwise undamaged, though little spatters of blood had dried along its length and Saro found himself wondering whether it had come from his brother’s opponents in the swordplay, or from the old mood-stone-seller Tanto had so needlessly killed. It was typical of his brother that he would not bother to clean the weapon properly: that was a job for a slave to do, if he had thought to make the instruction.

  ‘Have to buy another before tomorrow’s final: can’t afford to get some bastard’s weapon caught in the nick.’

  ‘But Tanto, you can’t afford a new dagger, not if—’

  ‘I shall win the swordplay, and you, my dear Saro, will win the horserace, and then I shall have the bride-price and plenty to spare, so don’t give me a hard time over one small dagger.’

  And with that he grasped Saro by the arm and marched him towards the Istrian quarter.

  ‘I have seen the Vingos, my dove, and we shall complete our alliance tomorrow evening. I had hoped it would be today, but for some reason, they appear to be delaying. No doubt they’re juggling their money, as are we all!’

  Selen Issian observed with some distaste that her father appeared to be in an unusually jubilant mood. She supposed he was already counting the money, was already deciding exactly how to split the payments to the Council in order to keep as much of the dowry for his own uses as he possibly could.

  Tomorrow evening. This would be her last day and night as a free woman: then she would be bundled off to some cushion-strewn tent and – how did they so delicately put it? – initiated into womanhood. She felt the rage rise up in her again and had to stare hard at the floor, for if her father saw the resistance in her eyes, she knew he would beat her again. It was no surprise that he’d taken the strap to her after she had painted her lips so crudely, but clearly her act of defiance had rebounded upon her.

  Knowing she had made the Vingo boy so avid was somehow worse than the beating.

  ‘I’ve bought you something special, my dear, for the ceremony.’

  Tycho clapped his hands and two of the slaveboys came running in: Felo and Tarn, Selen noted with a little flutter of emotion. She would even miss them.

  They had been captured three years ago in the raids on the hill tribes, she recalled suddenly, feeling for the first time a twinge of empathy. What were they now – seven or eight years of age? To be only four or five and see your family killed, your village burned, to be sold into slavery: worse, to be sold to foreigners whose tongue you could not even speak, and be whipped until you could: it was a terrible fate. She tried hard to feel better about her own in comparison, and failed.

  They laid a bundle at their master’s feet, and with clever hands untied the multitude of knots that held it all together, then rose without a word and stepped obediently backwards and out of the door.

  Tycho quirked an eyebrow at his daughter.

  ‘Don’t you want to see what it is?’ he invited smoothly.

  Selen stared at him, then at the bundle. Her feet felt rooted to the ground.

  Tycho made a moue of disappointment then himself bent to the package, grasped the contents, and, with a flourish, rose and shook out a robe of the most perfect orange silk Selen had ever seen. She caught her breath.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

  She nodded tightly, feeling the tears well up. Her marriage dress, the orange symbolising Falla’s holy fire, the generative force of the world, which would be invoked at the ceremony. There were embroidered slits at breast and hip level, the top one horizontal, and lower vertical, for now held closed with ribbons of fine satin. She knew what they were for. Her women had been most specific in their descriptions.

  King Ravn rolled his shoulders, stretched and sighed. His eye passed wearily over the charts and maps they had been perusing for the last two hours, amid heated debate (between his nobles, at least) as to the finer benefits and disadvantages of possible alliances with the south. The words on the maps, and in the air, had long since stopped making any sense to him. He had found some while back that if he relaxed his focus, the parchments, sandy and faded, became muzzy and indistinct, stretching across the table in their rolls and folds to become a kind of desert, the inky details upon them shimmering as if in the midst of a heat haze or Fata Morgana. He yearned for the days before he became king, when he could take to the high seas at will.

  ‘Aran Aranson of the Rockfall clan is here to see you, sire.’

  Ravn’s head came up. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘A
Westman Islander, sire.’

  ‘An interruption, at last.’ Ravn grinned. ‘Send him in.’

  Stormway and Southeye looked annoyed at this sudden intrusion into such crucial political discussions; but Egg Forstson was on his feet with alacrity at the sound of his old friend’s name.

  ‘Aran, my dear fellow!’

  As the tall Westlander ducked under the canopy, he found himself engulfed in a bearhug, encompassed by smells both musty and animal, though whether they emanated from the man himself, or from the vast, yellowing fur he insisted on wearing even in the height of summer, it was impossible to tell.

  Egg stood back, still gripping Aran by the arms, and regarded him with delight.

  ‘It’s been a long time, old friend.’

  ‘A year, almost to the day, at the last Allfair.’ Aran grinned back, his dark, stern face creasing suddenly into a rarely-used expression. Against the weatherbeaten skin and dark beard, his teeth gleamed as white as new ice. The Earl of Shepsey, on the other hand, looked tired, Aran thought, tired and grey, as if in the intervening year time had been running at different rates for the two of them, as if the older man was willing himself towards the grave, while he, Aran, was running as hard as he could in the opposite direction. They had fought together, side by side, back to back, in some of the bloodiest fighting of the last war, lads thrown into one another’s company when the ship Aran had been on had been set ablaze and sunk as they made their raid on the Istrian port of Hedera, and he and the survivors of the Dragon’s Tooth had been taken onto the She-Bear, Egg’s father’s fine old vessel. The Istrians had managed to blockade the harbour entrance behind the She-Bear so that they had been hemmed in, naming arrows raining down on all sides, setting alight the sail, the deck, items of clothing; grappling hooks coming over the side and howling men hurling missiles from the swarms of little boats crowding around them, waiting for the fire to catch and the crew to jump. From their diverse armour and weaponry it had been clear that the larger part of them were hired freeswords. He could even have sworn some of them had once been Eyran. It was curious how the Empire always had enough money to pay others to fight for them, Aran remembered thinking, as the first mercenaries began to board them; and then there had come a great roar from behind them and the old King’s ship – the Seafarer – had broken through the blockade and come crashing through the lightweight Istrian vessels, scattering them like chaff to the wind.

  Great days, Aran thought, and now we are reduced to diplomacy and deal-making with the old enemy. How he longed to set out on a great quest again. He touched the map beneath his tunic, like a talisman, and stepped forward.

  ‘I have a request to make of you, sire.’ He bowed his head with all the deference due a liegeman to his king.

  Ravn regarded the top of Aran’s dark head. ‘Out with it, then, Westlander. Tell me what it is you would ask of me.’

  Aran looked askance at the other men present. ‘It is a private matter, my lord.’

  ‘These are my most trusted advisers: surely you can speak your suit before them?’

  Aran looked uncomfortable.

  Ravn grinned. ‘Perhaps it is something too personal for an audience.’ He turned to his lords. ‘Go and fetch wine, lads: my throat feels like the bed of a dried-up lake! Go to Sorva Flatnose’s stall and make sure he gives you his best cask of stallion’s blood: he’ll swear he has no such thing, but you’ll find he’s got it stashed there somewhere: I heard him boasting to Foril Senson. And if he demands payment, remind him he still owes me duty for his last two shipments. It’ll be a big cask, if I know Sorva: it’ll likely take the three of you to carry it!’

  The three lords exchanged glances. None of them looked entirely happy with their chore. Stormway gave Aran his hardest stare and Southeye groaned as he rose from the table; but Egg Forstson clapped the Westlander on the back and wished him luck.

  ‘He doesn’t say a lot,’ he said over Aran’s head to the King, ‘but what he does say is usually worth listening to. The keenest edges whistle least.’

  When they had gone, Ravn motioned Aran to a settle and regarded the man curiously. He thought he might have encountered Aran Aranson once before: at the court at Halbo when he had first taken his throne and the lords and landowners had all come to pledge their loyalty. If this was the man, he’d thought him dour, hard and dour, looking ill at ease in his fine clothes, out of place amidst the luxuries and merrymaking; but all the same, impressive, in his own way. One of the old breed, though he was not an old man. He recalled that his father had spoken highly of him.

  ‘So what is this secret request, Aran Aranson?’

  After a moment’s hesitation, during which he searched for the words that would convey his desire, and failed entirely, Aran reached into his tunic and withdrew the map, as if it had the power to speak where he had none. Unrolling it with infinite care, he spread it over the other charts that papered the table. Then he took up four of the stones the men had been using to weight down the corners and shifted them to his own map so that it lay as flat as he could make it. His fingers traced the outlines of the landmasses lovingly. He knew each line, marked reef, each indentation of the coast, by heart now: he had spent his last three nights awake, a lit candle for illumination, going over and over every beautifully-drawn detail – the windrose, the decorated margins, the navigation points and projections.

  The King looked on boredly. Yet another map. He was sick of the sight of them all. The only map he was interested in was the one that would finally chart a passage through the Ravenway and into the Far West. But perhaps, he mused, if he were to take the wife they wanted for him and got himself a swift heir, he’d be able to join the expedition force himself. . .

  Aran looked up expectantly and was shocked to see the glaze in the other man’s eye. ‘I got it from a nomad map-seller,’ he said quickly, trying to catch Ravn’s interest. ‘It is a most wondrous thing. See here—’ he indicated the outline of an island ‘—Whale Holm, most accurately drawn. And here—’ he moved his finger south and east ‘—your capital, sire: Halbo.’

  The King bent to peer at the mark on the map. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said listlessly. ‘Though it appears to be spelled wrongly.’

  Aran stared at the familiar letters. The map-maker had put a cross through the ‘o’, but that seemed to be all that was unusual about it. He said nothing. ‘And up here, sire—’ his fingers flew to the top of the map, amidst the words ‘Isenfelt’ and the repeated mantra ‘ise’, and then swept to the right ‘—look at this extraordinary windrose.’

  ‘Very nice work,’ the King said flatly. ‘Most accomplished, I’m sure. Why are you showing me this, Aranson? Can’t you see I have plenty of maps of my own?’

  ‘Look more closely, sire,’ Aran insisted. His finger touched the word inside the directional legend. ‘There, lord.’

  ‘Sanctuarii,’ the King read. He looked up. ‘Sanctuary?’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  Ravn laughed. ‘Fairytales for children! The last resting place of King Rahay and his cat!

  “Rahay grew weary of the land of gold

  He took his cat and put to sea

  Into the north where winds are cold

  To the island known as Sanctuary!”’

  Aran bowed his head. ‘Yes, sire.’

  Ravn thumped his leg with delight. ‘And you have the map to the magician’s secret land?’

  Aran looked up, hope gleaming in his eye. ‘Yes, sire.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Also, this—’ he dug into his tunic pocket and fished out the lump of metal the map-seller had given him. It glittered in his hand, brazen and gaudy in the noon light. It felt weightier than he remembered, too; heavy and urgent.

  The King stared at it, then took it gingerly from the Westlander’s grip. It seemed to vibrate in his hand like a live thing. Ravn frowned; tried to concentrate.

  Without the gold in his possession, Aran felt suddenly dislocated, at a loss. He watched Ravn hold it up to the light, squint at it; weigh it
in his palm. Then he handed it back, almost reluctantly. A pained expression crossed his face. ‘Pretty enough,’ he said at last. ‘But a treasure only to those who wish to believe in it.’

  Gripping his little piece of treasure once more, Aran felt charged with energy. Fury churned inside him, but he kept his face still and unreadable. Without the King’s support he could never raise the funds he needed. He stowed the ingot carefully in his tunic pocket. ‘I would ask you for a ship, sire. To make the passage. I would dedicate the region to you, once I set foot upon it, claim it in your name. King Ravn’s Land.’

  ‘And bring me all its treasures?’

  ‘Aye, sire, that too.’

  Ravn laughed. ‘A ship, in exchange for a cargo of shining rock?’

  ‘Gold, sire,’ Aran said mulishly.

  The man was so adamant: it would be easy to be carried along by his fervour. Ravn brought to mind the royal sceptre, remembered how the ancient artefact seemed freighted with magic in his grasp on the occasion of his crowning. He’d been drunk with funeral wines and barely steady on his feet; but even so, he recalled how the sceptre had had a lustre of a different order, like a piece of the sun held in the hands. The ingot, though had made him feel suddenly imbued with power . . . He felt his certainty waver, but only for the briefest moment. A king must be resolute in what he believes and show no indecision. Brushing the pebbles from the map’s corners, he rolled the thing up roughly and thrust it back at Aran Aranson.