by Jude Fisher
Saro Vingo.’
Favio stared at Tanto, who had gone white. ‘What does he mean by this?’
Tanto tore the note from his father’s unresisting hand and scanned it desperately as if in the three intervening seconds the words might somehow have changed their import.
‘It means I am lost.’ He sat down heavily on the cushions and buried his head in his hands. The note fluttered to the ground.
Favio, bemused, sat down beside him. ‘Lost? Nay, it is I who am lost, my boy: what’s this bit about “obligations”? And why isn’t he coming with us to the Gathering, rather than saying he’ll meet us there?’
Tanto shoved himself to his feet. ‘I’ll find the little bastard and wring the bloody money out of him, I will!’ And so saying, he ran from the central chamber to the side-room where Saro slept, ripping open the door-flap so violently that it tore. His father stared after him with a pained expression on his face, then retrieved the note from the floor and read it again.
Saro was gone: his cloak was missing. Tanto stared furiously about the room for places where his brother might have cached the money. First he flung open the chest in which Saro stored his belongings, but all he found inside were some neatly folded smallclothes, some hose, a plain pair of doeskin slippers and some candles and flints. Beside the chest, on the rush-matted floor, the inkpot and quill had clearly been discarded in some haste, for a single drop of black ink had stained the matting, spreading out like a canker across the delicate green surface. Saro kicked at the chest viciously and it went over, taking the inkpot with it, spattering the white linen and pale suede beyond salvage. Tanto surveyed the damage grimly, then went to work on Saro’s bed. He stripped the cover from it and slung it across the room. He felt under the pallet with desperate hands: to no avail. He was just rising when a glint of something silver caught his eye. Grabbing up the pillow, though, he found not coins, as he had for one ecstatic moment anticipated, but a pattern-bladed dagger. He picked it up and weighed it in his hand, his brows knit in confusion. The pommel fit his palm with a rare and perfect balance. Something about it tugged at his memory. He’d been looking for such a blade as this, knowing the other flawed. Damn Saro: if he’d had this blade, he’d never have lost to the desertman – instead by now he’d have had a further two thousand cantari in his pouch and no headache. He rubbed at his temples. Why would his pathetic, unwarlike weed of a brother have a superb weapon like this? Why would he have any weapon at all, let alone under his pillow? Was he so very afraid of him? The thought almost made Tanto smile. He was right to be afraid; for if he ever caught up with him, he’d soon be sorry he’d ever bought the thing, sorry that its blade was so sharp. He could exactly imagine the sort of cut he could inflict with an edge like this. The sort of cut that would leave a scar, somewhere none too visible – a buttock, maybe, or the sole of a foot. And if Saro had given the money to the nomad girl, then she’d soon be joining her grandfather. Tanto stabbed the dagger down into the pillow and ripped it sideways so that a cloud of white goose feathers came billowing out into the air. They spiralled lazily, then drifted down to cover the room in what appeared to be a light covering of snow.
At this point, Favio came in. He stared around in dismay.
‘By Falla, what chaos! I have never seen such a disgusting sight. The boy must have run mad with the headiness of his win. I always said he was not strong of spirit, but this! This is a disgrace. That pillow alone cost me a cantari, and what is this?’ He bent to pick up the white linen shirt, now covered in patches of dark, sticky ink. ‘The Goddess abhors a sloven. Saro should be ashamed of himself for mistreating the good things he owns in such a way, and he shall be sorry when next I see him.’
‘Sorry for what, brother?’
Fabel had appeared at Favio’s shoulder. He peered around the chamber, gave a short whistle.
‘Dear oh dear. Bit of a mess. Still, he’s not a bad lad, our Saro, not by a long stick. What a ride, eh? Fine ride, I’d say. And I’ve had two very decent offers for the beast, too. Should make a good sale tomorrow.’ He tapped Tanto on the shoulder with the piece of parchment. ‘I see he’s going to meet us at the Gathering with the rest of the money. Good lad, eh? Saving you from yourself.’ He winked. ‘Might spend it all on women and wine otherwise, eh Tanto?’
Tanto gave him a wan smile. ‘Ah, indeed, Uncle.’
Favio looked suddenly relieved. ‘Of course, of course. He’ll meet us there with the money. What a good lad he is. Come on then, Tanto, hurry along. Let’s get you looking your best, make Lord Tycho proud to give his daughter to you.
‘Fabel: those gifts for the northern king—’
As Tanto left, he distinctly caught the words, ‘sold, brother, and at less than we paid for them,’ and his father swear in a most impious manner.
Thirteen
The Gathering
Even preoccupied as she was by her plans for escape, Katla was wonder-struck by the crowds at the Gathering. It was not just the sheer number of folk, though there were more people here than she had ever seen in her life, crammed into the grand pavilion, with its rippling fabric roof and tall mast-pillars, but the riot of colours, the phenomenal display of finery. Everyone, it seemed, had overdressed for the occasion. Or rather, she corrected herself, every Eyran had done so; for while the Empire men wore their rich robes with a nonchalance that bespoke a complete unconcern with the evening’s proceedings, the northerners by contrast had bedecked themselves with all the jewellery and decoration they could ladle on, as if to show the old enemy they were not such barbarians after all.
The fabrics you usually saw in the north were coloured by the natural dyes of the islands, from the lichens and pulped weeds that produced soft shades of green and yellow and pale mallow-pink; and from the summer berries, lilacs and reds that promised much, then faded to a dull brown. But it was clear that everyone here tonight had cast their Eyran-bought clothes aside in favour of the gaudiest colour clashes they could manage. For many folk it had clearly been a good Fair, for such fabrics did not come cheap. She saw Falko and Gordi Livson in quartered tunics of crimson and yellow, standing next to Edel Ollson and Hopli Garson in doublets of violent green and orange. Edel Ollson had also treated himself to a hat trimmed with the most ridiculous feathers – vast green things with great blue eyes bobbing at the ends. They could not possibly be real, she thought: no bird could hope to survive with such flamboyant plumage.
Jenna’s eyes were shining. As were her cheeks and her nose. She was already on her third goblet of southern wine, Katla noticed, still nursing most of her first. She would have to eke it out if she were to keep a clear head; but Jenna had no such inhibitions. Now she was pointing across half the tent, her voice shrill. ‘See that man there? He must be vastly wealthy.’ Katla followed her finger and saw an Istrian nobleman of middle height and dark-brown skin. His black hair was held back from his face with a simple silver circlet, so it was clearly not his jewellery that had attracted Jenna’s attention. ‘That purple cloth is terribly expensive. They say it’s made from sea snails.’
Katla stared at her in disbelief. ‘Snails? I can’t believe that’s so: Gramma Rolfsen and I experimented with snails. The dye came out a horrible, watery brown.’
Jenna clicked her teeth impatiently. ‘Not ordinary snails, you dolt; sea snails. They’re found only on a remote stretch of coast bordering the eastern ocean, and each one has to be squeezed by hand.’
Katla made a face. ‘Can’t fancy that much. Doesn’t the cloth stink?’
Jenna laughed. ‘Do you think a man like that would wear it if it did? Anyway, I don’t know what you’re so disgusted about, considering that dress you’re wearing.’
Katla coloured. ‘It was not my choice, you know. It was your father’s.’ Jenna seemed to have taken this new development remarkably well in her stride, Katla thought. But more likely she was so absorbed with being presented to King Ravn, she could hardly concentrate on anything else. Katla knew how she felt. It was all she cou
ld do to make conversation herself. There was still no sign of Erno, and she was beginning to feel decidedly edgy.
‘Don’t you know how they get the crimson so bright?’
Katla picked up a handful of the cloth and examined it, as if by doing so she might divine the answer. ‘I dare say it’s something horrid.’
Jenna smirked. Her teeth and gums were all stained to an odd greyish-purple by the wine, Katla noticed. Grinning away like that she looked like an afterwalker, one of the perambulating dead of the northern islands, who, unless you buried them securely under the porchstones of the house, would wander your lands after the sun went down keeping their semblance of life by sucking the blood out of animals.
‘Lice,’ Jenna said cheerfully.
Katla grimaced.
‘They crush a million shield lice to gain a cup of dye.’
‘No!’
‘They do.’
If Jenna had thought to disgust Katla, she had reckoned without her friend’s robust constitution.
‘Sounds expensive, that,’ Katla said thoughtfully. ‘The dress should fetch a decent price, then.’
Jenna looked at her oddly, but then Katla cried: ‘Oh, look!’
A bevy of Istrian women had appeared in the doorway, surrounded by a great crowd of Empire men. There were maybe half a dozen of the women, all dressed from top to toe in their voluminous sabatkas. Katla saw the paleness of their hands fluttering like moths as they spoke, and their lips were bright through the slits in their robes. The men ringed them about as if, like her, they might otherwise escape. Katla stared at them, wondering if their trammelled lives were really any more confining than the one that awaited her, if she failed to get away this night. There was a peal of tinkling laughter and one of the women waved her hands around as if in delight at what another had said. She saw a tall woman’s mouth work, and then there was another gale of laughter.
‘Which one do you think is the Swan of Jetra?’ Jenna asked rather belligerently, as if annoyed by their good spirits. ‘They say she’s tall and thin, but they all look much of a muchness to me.’
‘I don’t know.’ Nor did she care. Where was Erno? Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t seen him all day. Could he have given up on her so easily? Perhaps it really was Marin Edelsen he liked. The thought made her cold. She had never really thought what she might do without his help. It would be hard to manage a faering on her own: they were wide boats and needed two at the rowlocks, one oar apiece. Katla fought her panic down determinedly. She’d find a smaller boat if she had to. She balled her fists. Damn it, she’d swim!
She stared out over the crowd. Somewhere to her side Jenna’s voice was buzzing on and on like a gnat, describing the folk coming in – Kitten Soronsen and Fara Garsen, big Breta Bransen; the Earl of Ness and his daughter; Earl Sten and his daughter Ella; Ragna Fallsen – reputed to be the King’s mistress, a statuesque woman with a magnificent fall of black hair and uptilted grey eyes; and the Earls Stormway and Southeye; Egg Forstson, the Earl of Shepsey, with Filia Jansen, his great-niece, on his arm.
Katla watched them stream into the already-crowded tent, take wine and pastries from the long tables, gather into small groups to gossip. She watched an odd-looking woman in a gigantic green dress stride in, followed by a small man looking deeply uncomfortable in a close-fitting doublet and tight breeches. Behind them, three more Istrian ladies bobbed in and stopped at once, no doubt finding it hard to adjust to the low light of the candles through the thick gauze of their veils. And then she held her breath, for there was the nobleman’s son who had come to their stall; she’d forgotten his name now, if she’d ever known it. He was in the company of two older Istrian men, both dressed very finely, one a head shorter than the other and sporting a bright silk turban rather like her own. They entered the pavilion and stared around. The taller man suddenly narrowed his eyes and pointed, and they all gazed towards the back of the crowd. Katla turned to see who they were looking at, and found herself staring straight into the eyes of Saro Vingo. She felt a powerful thrill run through her, but she put it down to the wine. In contrast to the rest of what she took to be his family, Saro wore an ordinary-looking tunic and carried a cloak over his arm. He looked uncomfortable, Katla thought, apprehensive, almost. And then they began to move towards him through the crowd like a small flotilla through a choppy sea.
‘Where is my money, Saro?’ Tanto arrived first, his face grim.
Favio and Fabel appeared in his wake.
‘Yes, come along, lad,’ Favio called from a few paces behind. ‘We’re keen to get this done.’
Saro looked from one to another and finally focused on his brother. ‘You know where the money is, Tanto,’ he said quietly. ‘I thought you’d thank me for not spelling it out for all to see.’
‘You little bastard.’ Tanto’s hiss was inaudible to any but the two of them. ‘You know I need every coin. How could you put a worthless nomad whore before your own family?’
Time stilled. Saro could feel the beating of his own blood in his ears. He could feel his heart beating, with a steadily rising pulse. He could feel his shoulders squaring, as if to withstand a blow. He had known it would come to this: to a denial and the furious argument that would follow. Perhaps he had even sought this confrontation for the excuse it would afford him; for the clandestine punch he had so satisfyingly landed on his brother’s chin the day before had somehow freed something in him, made him stronger. There was a mottled red swelling on Tanto’s jawline, he noticed now, for the first time, but Tanto had clearly not made the mental connection. Still he said nothing.
‘The money,’ Favio prompted, standing at his elder son’s shoulder, his face now looking pinched and anxious. ‘We’re still considerably short of the bride-price, son, and our family honour rests on this agreement.’
Saro surveyed them all silently. Then he gave them a long, slow smile. His gaze lingered a moment longer on ‘Uncle’ Fabel, met a new wariness there, a sudden shrewd calculation. ‘I am sorry, Father, Uncle, brother. I no longer have the money. Tanto knows why and if you question him hard enough I am sure he will tell you one tale or another. Whether you choose to believe it or not is up to you. I no longer care. It seems that to save my family’s so-called honour means acting with cruelty and deceit, and I like that not.’ He shrugged. ‘So, I have made a decision, and it is not one you will like. I bid you farewell.’
He gave them a cursory bow, shook out the cloak he carried over his arm, and donned it as he might a second skin. Then he turned on his heel and vanished into the crowd.
Favio and Tanto exchanged stricken looks. Fabel stared after Saro, his eyes gleaming with some unreadable emotion. At last he addressed his brother: ‘Favio, I’m afraid Lord Tycho is even now bearing down upon us. I hope you have your excuses at the ready.’ And he ducked away, leaving Favio and Tanto to face the Lord of Cantara.
‘My lord, greetings.’ Favio tried to hide his consternation beneath an extravagant bow.
‘My lord. Tanto.’ Tycho’s eyes were unnaturally bright, expectant. His face was flushed, the colour visible even beneath the darkness of his skin. Perhaps, Favio thought, clutching at a desperate thread, he had been drinking hard; perhaps they might yet negotiate a lower rate, or a day’s grace.
But the Lord of Cantara was in no mood for time-wasting. ‘Do you have my bride-price?’
Tanto’s gaze scanned the gaggle of Istrian women by the musicians’ dais. One of them must surely be Selen Issian. He could feel himself hardening at the very thought.
‘My lord—’ he started, but Lord Tycho was staring intently at his father.
‘Twenty thousand cantari, this night, I believe was our agreement, Lord Favio.’
‘Indeed, my lord. However—’
‘I must have it now.’ Tycho’s eyes narrowed, boring into the older man’s with a frightening intensity.
Favio Vingo laughed nervously. ‘We do not have all your money here, my lord; but we will have it for you tomorrow.’
A dark hand snaked out and grabbed the robes below his chin, tightening the cloth to the point of asphyxia.
‘Now, or never!’
Favio tried to speak, but no words would come out. His eyes began to bulge.
‘My lord, I beg you.’ Tanto put his hand upon Tycho’s arm. He was sweating, and looked almost as desperate as the Lord of Cantara. ‘Let my father go. I swear we will get the money to you this very hour.’
Tycho shrugged the boy’s hand away angrily, but he let go of Favio’s robe. Favio Vingo’s face had gone the colour of a mandrill’s arse. He shook himself, cleared his throat, rearranged the cloth, and the circlet that had slipped down over one eye, and took a hasty step backwards, away from the madman. People were starting to take notice, pointing out the scene to others and muttering excitedly.
He stared at his son. Tanto looked appalled; terrified – but whether at the prospect of his father being throttled before his very eyes, or at the thought of losing his bride, it was impossible to tell.
‘One hour,’ declared the Lord of Cantara. ‘A moment later and I will sell her to the first man who bids me well for her.’ He barked an order at his diminutive slave, and strode off in the direction of the dais. Folk scattered before him, like a sea parting.
Favio wiped his hand across his face. ‘The man is deranged,’ he said, quite loudly. He stole a look at the people closest to them, but they would not meet his eye. ‘We must call the whole arrangement off. What the Lord of Cantara just did to me cancels any obligation we may have had. We can do better for you, my son.’
‘No, Father.’ Tanto was aghast. ‘We cannot do that. I must have her: I have set my heart on it.’
But Favio was adamant. ‘I will not have our family allied to that man. He is clearly unhinged; and they say madness runs in a family. You will find yourself with a crazy wife on your hands, Tanto, with crazy children to plague you. I suspected something of the kind already, from the mark the creature had applied to herself, when her father presented her to you. No sane noblewoman would dream of disporting herself thus; and no sane father would allow his daughter to treat her future family with such disrespect. I will not have it, and that’s an end to the matter. You will go after him, Tanto, and tell him that the Vingo family has decided against this match.’