by Jude Fisher
‘We must spread the word. We must pack up and leave, Mother: now, as soon as we can.’
Fezack Starsinger gave her daughter a wan smile. ‘You saw what I saw. Murder and blood and flames. The old ones are waking, daughter: I can feel them stir. The magic is back, and it brings death in its wake.’
Eleven
Affiliations
‘You’ve done what?’
Too stupefied to do anything else, Katla sat down on the bench with a thump. It was as if her knees had absorbed the shock of her father’s pronouncement before any other part of her had had a chance to.
‘Finn Larson is a good man, and a wealthy man, to boot.’
All the colour had gone from Katla’s face, except for two burning spots just upon each cheekbone. Her eyes were as black and hollow as two fishing-holes in ice. All she could manage was: ‘But he’s an old man.’
Aran bridled. ‘He’s a couple of years younger than me—’
‘Why would I want to marry a man as old as you?’ Katla stormed. Against her will, tears started to well up. She gulped them down, furious at her own lack of control. ‘When I asked you if you’d brought me here to marry me off, you said you had other plans for me,’ she accused.
‘I did. I was going to take up Finn’s offer to foster you, have you attend court classes with Jenna. Your mother and I discussed it. We thought it might teach you to be more of a lady—’
‘So that you could marry me off for a better deal?’
‘For your own good, Katla. Take a look at yourself: you’re no better than a hoyden. You run and climb and fight with the boys; you can’t cook or sew or even wear a decent dress. It was Finn himself who made the suggestion to turn the fostering to a marriage offer, which certainly surprised me. But he seems remarkably keen.’
‘I won’t do it. I’ll run away.’
‘You’ll do nothing of the sort. I gave him my word. The promise is shaken on.’
‘Your word? What care I for your word? I’ll give you my word!’ Now Katla was on her feet. ‘And my word is NO. Never.’
She tried to run past him, out of the booth, but he stepped into her path and pushed her back down onto the bench. ‘Listen to me, Katla. It’s a good offer. He has three greathouses, the shipworks at Fairwater, and high standing with the King. And we’ll do it all properly. He’ll bring betrothal rings to the Gathering tonight and we’ll make a formal announcement. You’ll sail with Jenna back to Halbo on the Mermaid, and he’ll join you there for the blessing and bedding on the first full moon of Shoaling month.’
The bedding. Katla shuddered. Shoaling. She made a quick mental calculation. Less than thirty days away. She turned wildly to Halli, standing behind their father’s left shoulder, looking almost as stricken as she.
‘Halli – you can’t let him do this! You were to marry Jenna and now you won’t be able to, for I’d be your wed-mother. Can’t you stop this?’
Halli dropped his head, would not meet her eye. ‘I’m sorry, Katla. Father’s pledged the honour of our clan on this. It cannot be gone back on.’
‘Honour? Is that all you care for? What about your heart, Halli? I thought you loved Jenna, that you were going to commission a ship and sail to make your fortune so that you and she could marry?’
At that, Halli looked up. His eyes were bereft. ‘All that’s gone now,’ he said flatly. ‘Father has other plans.’
Katla turned to Fent. ‘And what about you? You’ll stand by and let him do this to me, will you?’
Fent shook his head slowly. ‘He’s our father, Katla. He’s made the trade, and his word is law. I’m sorry.’
An uncomfortable silence fell over the group. No one looked at anyone else. It was Tor whose voice broke the lull. ‘Whatever Finn’s offered you for Katla,’ he said to Aran Aranson, ‘I’ll match it.’
Katla’s head shot up. ‘So now I’m a prize cow to be bargained over, am I?’ Her eyes shot sparks at him.
Tor shrugged. ‘I thought you might rather have a younger man than old Finn Larson. One with no belly and a bit of fire still inside him.’
‘I don’t want you!’ Katla spat back. She hugged her arms about herself as if feeling a sudden chill. Her entire family, it seemed, had betrayed her: those she thought would defend her to the death. Where, she wondered all at once, was Erno? Perhaps he’d rescue her. Surely he couldn’t love little Marin Edelsen: she couldn’t believe that. No. He loved her: she was sure of it. He could help her run away. The thought came out of nowhere, roiled around in her head, then took firm hold. Erno: he was the answer. She’d wait until the Gathering and amidst all that social chaos they could slip away unnoticed before the betrothal was announced. Erno could take an oar with her on one of the faerings: they’d row down the coast. She’d wear her breeches and tunic under her dress, pack her things and leave them somewhere convenient. She began to make a mental note of what she’d need: the dagger with the topaz set into the hilt; her best short sword; her leather jerkin – too heavy to wear beneath the dress – her boots . . .
Seeing his daughter with her face downcast thus, Aran felt his heart contract. He’d expected the fiery outburst, the denial, the fury. What he hadn’t expected was this sudden resignation, this surrender. She was a good girl, underneath all the high spirits and horseplay, and she was his favourite. It had been hard to make the trade, whatever she might think, hard emotionally, despite the potential rewards. He found he could not let himself think too closely on how she would fare with Finn. For all he seemed a decent man, there had been rumours about the demise of his first wife: in childbirth, for sure; but there were those who said she’d come to bed earlier than her full term as a result of a fist in the belly. She’d lost the baby first; and then her life when the blood refused to stop, for all the women could do with their lichens and hawkweed. Some said she’d made up her mind to go, and that the will was stronger than any herb in such cases . . .
He dragged his mind away. Katla would have Jenna there with her for some of the time at least, and they were such good friends.
But in the back of his skull the thought nagged on: that in promising Katla thus, and denying Halli all he had dreamed of, he had done a wrong thing indeed. His hand strayed to his tunic pocket and his fingers curled for a moment around the lump of gold he kept there until everything seemed right again. With a bark of command to his sons, he pushed back the flap of the tent and strode out into the light. Halli and Fent exchanged a brief, uncomfortable glance and went after him. Tor made a half-step towards Katla, but when she didn’t look up, he turned and followed the others.
It was only some minutes after they had gone that Katla realised she had not asked about why it was she had been traded. What on Elda could be so precious to her father that he would sell his only daughter?
Saro leaned his hand against Night Harbinger’s glossy neck and felt the pulse beat there, hard and strong, eager for the race, excited by the presence of the other horses against whom he would race. He would outrun them all, for none were as fleet as he; he was lord of the wind and all the mares wanted him. The boy on his back had no more weight than a flea: nothing could stop him. He expelled the air through his nostrils with a great snort and tossed his head with impatience.
Saro found himself smiling. If only he had the stallion’s confidence . . .
But it seemed all he had to do was to let Night’s Harbinger have his head, for here they were now, the rope holding them all back – Leonic Bakran on Filial Duty; Ordono Qaran on a great white beast with its mane all plaited with red; Calastrina’s eldest son on a neat piebald gelding with a rolling eye and a twitchy gait; and a dozen or more others, northerners and hillmen, even a desert-rider on a horse that was gold from ears to tail. Saro thought of Guaya. He thought of a home without his bullying brother in it. He had to win. He had to. He reached down and touched the bay’s neck and tried not to let his own feelings of panic intrude themselves into the stallion’s mind.
Lord Tycho Issian smoothed the front of t
he robe he had donned for the Gathering. It was his finest, though he planned to attend the event for only a short while. Just the time it took, in fact, to obtain the dowry from the Vingos and go find the nomad map-seller and make his trade. He had the priest standing by: he would marry the woman before he bedded her, sanctify their union in the eyes of the Goddess. What could be more proper?
He snapped his fingers and one of the slaveboys appeared promptly, dressed neatly in the velvet suit Tycho had bought the lad for the occasion, his unruly black ringlets sleeked down with scented oil. Which one was he? Felo or Tarn? He really couldn’t remember. His thoughts were befuddled: all he could think of was the woman. ‘What’s your name, boy?’ he said sharply to the child.
The boy stared up at him in surprise. He’d worked in the lord’s household for over four years, ever since the lord had acquired him and the others at the blocks in Gibeon. For the last two he’d been the master’s personal attendant, along with Felo, his cousin, a member of the same hill tribe. It was the first time the lord had ever forgotten his name. ‘Tarn, lord,’ he said hurriedly.
‘Tarn: you will walk directly behind me at the Gathering, and when we collect the coffer from the Vingo family, you will carry it for me, without stooping or stumbling, no matter how heavy it may be, and follow wherever I take you, as quickly as you can. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, lord.’
Tycho nodded. They would have to get the money away to the nomad quarter as swiftly and smoothly as possible if he was to secure his bride; for only that morning a Council official had come to his pavilion asking for an audience. Tycho knew what that was about: other lords at the Fair had been complaining about the recall of debts, and he had no intention of paying over the money he owed them at this time. He had sent a boy to turn the man away – with all the correct observances, of course – and only after a glass of rose-araque and an almond wafer; and then had slipped silently out of the back exit of the pavilion.
He let his mind stray to thoughts of the Rosa Eldi. It was a peculiar name, even for a nomad woman, he mused, for the thousandth time since that fateful kiss; though she had not the dark looks of most of that rabble. Rose of Elda, Rose of the World, he translated from the Old Tongue. It suited her well enough, he had to concede, with her fragile colouring and graceful neck. Ah, Rosa Eldi. I shall soon fold back those petals and bury myself in your scent. Soon you will be mine . . .
‘It was a stupid thing to do. Mad. Irresponsible. What your father would have said, I cannot imagine. And now look at you: how will we explain this to the lords who come to do you honour this evening?’
Stormway had been ranting on in like vein for the last two hours or more, and that was after the Earl of Shepsey had had his say and stalked out.
King Ravn Asharson sighed, took the bandage away from his face, examined the latest outpouring, refolded it to expose a slightly less bloody section, and pressed it hard against his cheek again. The damned wound just would not stop bleeding, and the blow had also caused the skin around his eye to blacken and swell. He would indeed look a sight at the Gathering tonight; but for that he cared not a whit. It had been sheer bad luck that the boy’s dagger had shattered so: he’d made damned sure otherwise the Istrian would not damage him, for all his fancy footwork and that furious charge.
‘And whatever will your prospective bride say to see you thus, all bruised and bloody? You’re lucky you did not lose that eye.’
‘For Sur’s sake, man, stop your nagging. You sound like my mother when I fell down the castle stairs chasing Breta at the age of seven.’
‘Sire, you’ll forgive me, but even a seven-year-old would have had more sense than to do what you did this afternoon.’ Stormway sat down with a thump, as if all the energy had suddenly run out of him. He looked old, Ravn thought, a tedious old man.
‘It was only a bit of fun. I’m going out of my mind with the boredom of this place. I can’t wander the Fair, for fear of being assassinated by some shadowy villain, just because one of your so-called spies has picked up a rumour; I can’t take part in the Games for fear someone will run me through or break my neck; I can’t tup any women for fear of the scandal—’
‘You’re our only king,’ Stormway said more gently. ‘You have no heir, yet. If we were to lose you, there would be civil war in the north. You know this, sire: you must understand our concern.’
‘And if I marry Keril Sandson’s girl?’ Ravn regarded his chief adviser challengingly. He knew it was the last thing Stormway wanted. Or perhaps the next-to-last thing . . .
The Earl of Stormway rubbed his remaining hand across his face in a weary gesture. ‘In the end it will be your choice, sire; but you must know that that is exactly what Sandson has been planning for these last few months. Why do you think he’s been seen at court so frequently? It’s not for love of you, sire, whatever you may think. I have seen him whispering in corners to the Earl of Fall’s Head, and to that snake Erol Bardson, too. And we all know Bardson’s spent the last few months adding to his private army—’
‘Ah, my beloved cousin. Also trying to push his girl at me. It’s a shame, she’s quite a pretty little heifer, that one. Which is more than I can say for all the rest. Well, if it’s any consolation, Bran, I don’t think I shall pick any of the beauties they are trying to force upon me.’ He watched the old man’s face relax. ‘But do not think that means I shall choose your Breta, either.’ He pictured her now: a sturdily-built young woman, which he did not mind in itself – a bit of flesh to hold onto in the midst of the deed was no bad thing; nor the softness of a woman’s inner thighs to pillow you as you dozed – but, Sur, her face! Even as a child, when he had chased and teased her all around the palace at Halbo, she had been as ugly as an elk. Give her a beard, and it would be like tupping her father . . .
‘You know our advice,’ Stormway said stiffly. ‘Take one of the Eyran girls – Ella Stensen or Filia Jansen, or the Earl of Ness’s daughter; or even Jenna Finnsen, for all her father’s only a shipmaker, he’s still a damned fine shipmaker, and I believe the girl herself is not unattractive. Take one of them, no matter what the south offer. We cannot trust the Empire lords, as those of us who remember the last war will remind you.’
Ravn rolled his eyes. Why were his advisers all such old men? All they could think of was the old wars, the old ways. ‘Have you no adventure in your spirit, Bran? Do you not sometimes hanker for change, for surprise in your life? Could you not fancy finding out what one of those southern girls have under their robes?’
‘I had enough of “surprises”, as you term them, Ravn, twenty-two years ago,’ Stormway said sourly, waving the stump of his hand in the King’s face. ‘And I’ll wager the southern women have exactly under their robes what the northern ones do.’
‘You cannot tell me, Bran, that you never found out for yourself when raiding the southern ports? That you didn’t indulge in a little defilement and depredation, a bit of rape and pillage?’ Ravn eased himself back against the pillar and watched the Stormway’s face cloud over with some enjoyment. If it served to deflect the old boor from his ranting, and embarrass him into the bargain, it was time well spent. And the truth was, he did rather fancy finding out what the southern women were hiding, whatever his lords might advise. The idea of a foreign girl in his bed, one who smelled and looked different to the big blondes and redheads he was so used to, one who might have unusual practices in her armoury, and who wouldn’t prattle on at him in endless Eyran platitudes, was an attractive proposition – and damn the consequences. If it meant stirring up the pot and letting old enmities and new conspiracies float to the surface, then so be it.
It was not that he did not understand the theories and counter-theories his lords rehearsed so endlessly before him: how the different factions would side with one another; how an alliance here would bring strife there; how the choice of a bride from the Western Isles would inflame the Earl of Ness; how taking Ness’s daughter would prompt hostility from Erol and his schemers; how
taking any of the southerners’ women would turn his traditional supporters against him and leave him open to dissent and uprising in his own country, and possibly to some unseen machination in the Empire. It was that he truly didn’t care. Life had been dull for a long time in the northern court. He’d bedded every woman he liked the look of, and a few he didn’t, he’d fought duels and started blood-feuds that had all but bankrupted the coffers to bring conciliation between the clans, and the only prospect that held out any spark of interest to him was the chance to take passage to the Far West. Which his lords would not allow him to do until he had safely got himself an heir to secure the damned kingdom.
So a wife – any wife – was now his first priority. Perhaps he’d take the Swan of Jetra, after all; so long as she didn’t look like a walrus underneath those all-enveloping robes.
The Rose of Elda lay on her bunk in the map-seller’s wagon, with the black cat stretched out beside her and a dark green shawl artfully deposited over the damp patch where she had poured the greater part of the sleeping draught that Virelai had given her before he left. A huge rumble rose from the cat, where her hand travelled its silky fur. When Virelai was not around, she noticed that the cat was happier, more relaxed. Now, it lay on its back with a line of drool falling like a spidersilk from its mouth, with all four paws splayed under the touch of her fingers. Did she, she wondered, regarding the sliteyed creature askance, have the same effect on beasts as she did on men? Was the cat also captivated by her? Her hand stopped its rhythmic course as she pondered on this, not knowing quite how she felt about such a proposition. It could be troubling to see men reduced to slack-mouthed wonder, to see their pupils flood with desire; to watch the stirring in their breeches, and know that they responded only to her aura, to the sight and the sense of her, not to the woman she was.
And who was she? The Rosa Eldi’s beautiful brows knit themselves in frustration. Her recollections were so vague, so recent. She sometimes wondered whether the Master had deliberately induced a kind of memory-loss in her, with all his potions and charms, to keep her from straying. To prevent her from feeling any sense of loss, or displacement, or wishing to return to her own folk, wherever they might be.