Taste of Lightning

by Kate Constable

‘Yes.’

  ‘Any questions? Not that I’ll guarantee to answer them.’

  ‘Who’s the boy?’

  ‘The Priest-King of Cragonlands. The Balts abducted him five years ago. Now we’re going to take him back.’

  ‘Back to Cragonlands?’

  There was a slight pause; the two officers avoided looking at each other. Tugger said, ‘That’s right. Eventually.’

  Perrin could smell a lie; he’d told enough of his own. He didn’t care. He wasn’t particularly interested in the boy or his fate; he just wanted to sound intelligent in front of Tugger.

  ‘Why me? Specifically?’

  Tugger’s eyes crinkled. ‘You never heard of the Guardians of Arvestel? I thought every kid in Rengan heard those stories at his mother’s knee.’

  ‘I wasn’t brought up in Rengan,’ Perrin reminded him. He felt sick again.

  Tugger lowered his voice. ‘They do bad magic down there, Snake. Not nice. Stitch things together that don’t belong. The Guardians of Arvestel are half-man, half-beast. Surroans that run on two legs, horses with men’s heads. Dogs with hands that can hold a sword. We don’t know what other filth, what abominations there might be.’

  Perrin swallowed. ‘And you want me to – to sing to them?’

  The Commander barked, ‘If you think you’re not up to it, now’s the time to speak.’

  There was a long pause. At last Perrin said, ‘No sir, I can handle it.’

  Tugger smiled slowly. ‘Lucky you said that. If you weren’t up to it, well . . . Let’s say we couldn’t let you leave this tent with a tongue in your head after what you’ve heard tonight.’

  The Commander said, ‘You should know that if you return without the boy, there will be consequences. Fatal consequences.’

  ‘You mean I’ll hang, sir,’ said Perrin bleakly.

  ‘Yes, you’ll hang,’ said Donn brusquely. There was a short silence. ‘But on the bright side, if – when you succeed, High Command will show their appreciation. Promotion, naturally. Land on the east coast, perhaps. Sort that out later. Any other questions?’

  Perrin looked blankly into the darkness that hedged the tent. A question – could he think of a question? He dredged one up from the depths of his mind. ‘Yes, sir. When do we leave?’

  ‘Tonight.’ Tugger nodded to the door of the tent. ‘There’s your kit.’

  Perrin spun around. There was his bed-roll and his knapsack. He could even see the distinctive outline of his finger-harp wedged under the canvas. Whoever had done his packing hadn’t forgotten a thing.

  CHAPTER 4

  A Hair from His Head

  IT was the dead of night when Skir woke. He knew it must be long after midnight, because the dancing on the terraces had ceased. The small uncurtained window by his bed let in faint light from a single moon. Dawn was still far away.

  ‘Beeman?’ he whispered. ‘Is that you?’

  There was no reply, only a sinister silence. Skir found himself thinking assassins.

  Beeman had warned Skir a thousand times to be alert for danger, and every time Skir scoffed at him. ‘Arvestel’s stuffed so full of guards you can’t walk down the corridor without poking your eye out on a spear. Not to mention the dogs. An assassin couldn’t get in here unless they flew up to the balcony.’

  ‘Stranger things have happened. Just be careful.’

  There: a definite noise. A rustle in the outer room. Skir’s heart skipped a beat. He opened his mouth to croak for Beeman, but no sound came out. Then, with a surge of relief, he remembered that he’d left a plate of pancakes from supper half-eaten on the table. Not assassins – mice. He almost laughed.

  The scuffling came again. Stealthily Skir groped for a slipper and hurled it through the doorway.

  There was a thud and a squeak. But not from a mouse.

  Skir gasped, ‘Beeman! Beeman!’

  Silence.

  ‘I’m calling the guards!’ cried Skir.

  ‘No!’ came an urgent whisper out of the darkness. ‘They’ll kill me!’

  ‘Assassins deserve to be killed,’ declared Skir. Then, ‘You’re a girl.’

  ‘I ain’t an assassin,’ hissed the unseen girl indignantly. Then, less certainly, ‘Least, I don’t think so. Not exactly.’

  ‘Oh, good, I feel completely reassured.’ Skir lit a candle. How many times had he wished something would happen? And this was certainly something. ‘Come in here and let me see you.’

  The flare of the flame showed a girl of about Skir’s age, with fair hair cropped close to her head, and fine, straight features. She didn’t look at all frightened; she stared at him fiercely. She was wearing a cloak with the hood pushed back, and, underneath it, a man’s shirt and breeches, too large for her. The breeches were held up with a twist of rope. Her hands were empty; if she had a weapon, it was well hidden. Her eyes were large and grey, with long lashes. There was a dent above her lips; suddenly feeling faint, Skir imagined laying his finger gently on that dent.

  He cleared his throat. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Tansy.’

  ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘You’re called Skir.’

  This unexpected familiarity took Skir by surprise. ‘Well, yes. But my formal title is the Priest-King of Cragonlands.’

  The girl looked at him blankly, clearly unimpressed. Skir felt a flicker of annoyance. ‘What are you doing here?’

  The girl looked down, and a pink flush spread over her cheeks and up to her hairline. She muttered something.

  ‘Sorry? I couldn’t hear you.’

  ‘I said, do you want to touch my bosoms?’

  ‘What? No.’

  There was an awkward silence. ‘I’m sure they’re very nice,’ said Skir. He wished he’d said yes, now.

  The girl bowed her head lower.

  ‘Did you come to – to see me?’

  ‘No. I thought you were asleep.’

  ‘Oh. But then why –’

  ‘Listen,’ said the girl in a desperate rush. ‘I don’t mean you no harm, I swear it. I didn’t know what she wanted, what she’d do. I didn’t know it were for her.’

  ‘Wait, slow down. Who’s her?’

  ‘Her. The Witch-Woman. Lady Wanion.’

  He’d heard of Wanion, of course; she was one of the King’s most powerful advisers. But he’d never met her. Wanion didn’t attend feasts and concerts; she had other work to do. He hadn’t heard she was supposed to be a witch. Interesting.

  Skir thought for a moment. ‘Wanion has magical powers, does she? Well, I’m a magician too, a very strong, very powerful magician.’

  Tansy looked up, and such a fierce hope blazed in her eyes that Skir was almost frightened. He managed to keep his voice steady. ‘Yes, as long as you’re with me, within these walls, no harm can come to you. These rooms are part of Cragonlands. No Baltimaran magic can reach you here. But you must swear to tell me the whole truth.’

  Tansy’s chin went up. ‘I don’t tell lies.’

  ‘All right,’ said Skir. ‘Sit down. Go on, there’s plenty of room. Now, who are you? Where did you come from?’

  ‘I’m a laundry-maid,’ said Tansy dully.

  ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘Followed your supper tray up from the kitchens. Then I hid in a cupboard outside till it was quiet. I’m good at keeping quiet.’

  ‘Not that good. I heard you, didn’t I?’

  Tansy covered her face with her hands.

  ‘Don’t cry!’ said Skir in alarm.

  ‘I ain’t crying,’ said Tansy in a muffled voice. ‘It’s just – her magic’ll get me, or yours will. Either way I’m good as dead.’

  ‘I won’t hurt you, I promise. As long as you tell me the whole story.’

  Tansy took her hands from her face. ‘It were – someone. Not from the laundries. I don’t want to say her name. She knew what I wanted more than anything; she knew I wanted to be with the horses. She told me she were courting a groom in the stables, and she could arrange f
or me to go down there in the mornings early and help out. And I did. All through spring. I rode Bray, and Thimble, and Kite, the Queen’s own mare, and once I held Penthesi’s leading rein . . .’

  ‘That’s good, is it?’ The names meant nothing to Skir. His own riding lessons were conducted on the ponies of the little princesses; he didn’t know their names.

  ‘Penthesi’s the King’s best hunter. You must have seen him. Black, with a white star. He’s huge. The cleverest horse in the stables, old Ingle says.’ Tansy’s voice was reverent.

  ‘They all look the same to me. Anyway, what happened? Did someone scold you? I assume you’re forbidden to hang around the stables.’

  ‘I weren’t hanging around. I had a job to do, same as the stable-hands. Tern said I was handy as any of the lads, handier than some. There was one day I calmed Kite when none of them could get near her, not even Ingle. But then Lor – the person who arranged it all, she said she weren’t courting with Tern no more, and if I didn’t want to get into trouble, I better do as she said.’

  ‘And?’ Skir was fascinated by this glimpse of life on the other side of the servants’ doors, the hidden world to which even Beeman had hardly any access. He’d never realised that the servants had lives as complicated, as riddled with secrets and intrigue and strict rules of behaviour, as their masters and mistresses in the golden and ivory rooms of the Palace. And he was fascinated by this girl who spoke to him as frankly and easily as if – well, as if they were equals.

  Tansy jumped. ‘What’s that?’

  A clink of armour and the muffled whine of dogs floated up from outside the window.

  ‘Just a patrol. Don’t they go past your quarters?’

  ‘I guess I sleep through it,’ said Tansy with a shiver. ‘I sleep pretty hard, most nights.’

  ‘Go on. Tell me what happened next.’

  ‘Lori – the person, well, she only asked for little things at first. Boot wax, a cake of special soap. She said it weren’t stealing, because it weren’t taking off a person. She said, don’t I ever help myself to a bit of leftover meat from the platter? Don’t I ever have a nice warm wash in the hot laundry water? Don’t I ever take a rag out of the basket?’

  ‘And do you?’

  ‘Course I do. Everyone does. Can’t get by in this place unless you do. Still, it’s different taking stuff for someone else. She said she’d give me gold, but I didn’t do it for that. It were so I could work with the horses.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Skir. ‘No one’ll miss a cake of soap here and there, surely. They give me a fresh soap in my own bathroom every day. No one’d throw you in the Pit for that.’

  Tansy stared at him. ‘Course they would,’ she said flatly. ‘If I got caught. And that’s nothing. I ain’t told you the worst yet.’ She took a breath. ‘She asked me to take something of yours.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I waited for something to come by the laundries, but nothing did.’

  Skir glanced down at his grey silk pyjamas, stained with hot chocolate and paint and jam. ‘Well, it’s true, I’m not very good at putting things in the wash-hamper. And Beeman’s told the maids not to do it for me. It’s supposed to teach me self-discipline.’

  ‘I knew it. Just like my brothers.’

  Skir jumped up and yanked open some drawers. ‘If it’ll save you getting into trouble – here, help yourself. Take a necktie or a scarf or something. I’ve got thousands I never wear, look.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ said Tansy. ‘It’s worse than that now. She don’t want clothes no more. She wants a piece of you. Hair, or fingernail trimmings.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I reckon what she’d really like is blood or – something like that.’

  Skir laughed. ‘That’s mad. What’s she want that for?’

  ‘You say you’re a magician, and you don’t know! It’s for her, for the Witch-Woman to do magic with. Dark magic.’ Her voice became lower still. ‘She cuts off people’s fingers for her magic, too. Peels the skin off them like carrots. Then she can do what she wants with you.’

  Skir sank back onto the bed. His skin prickled. Tansy was so distressed that for an instant he actually felt frightened too. But Beeman would say the only true magic was chantment; the Baltimaran superstitions of hair and bone and rhyme were powerless. Weren’t they? Poor Tansy obviously believed it, though. The price of ignorance is fear, Beeman would say. Skir suddenly felt immensely old and wise.

  He said, ‘There’s a hairbrush in my bathroom, it’s full of hair. Disgusting. I’ll get it.’

  Tansy straightened herself up. ‘No, don’t! I don’t want it no more. Stop. It’s different now I met you. Call the guards if you want, I deserve it. But I’d rather die quick than rot in the Pit. And I’d rather rot in the Pit than go back to her.’ Tansy shuddered.

  Skir sat down again. ‘Well, it makes no difference to me. Give Lady Wanion handfuls of my hair if you like, I don’t care, but if that’s how you feel . . . Why don’t you just say no?’

  Mutely, Tansy fished under her cloak and held out the tiny, exquisite luckpiece on her hand. She whispered, ‘That come from the Witch-Woman. Now I’m bound to her. It’s watching me all the time, see? And if I don’t give her what she wants, she’ll take a piece of me.’

  The two of them stared at the little doll. Silent, malevolent, it stared back up at them from Tansy’s palm.

  Skir shook himself. ‘Rubbish,’ he said briskly, and before Tansy could stop him, he plucked up the luckpiece between finger and thumb and held it over the candle-flame.

  ‘No! No!’ Tansy shouted. The flame sizzled up the threads of white silk. Tansy made a frantic grab for the burning doll, but Skir held her off; in desperation she snatched up the crystal water jug by Skir’s bed. Water fanned through the air, hissed onto the burning luckpiece, but it was too late; charred fragments of ivory and mother-of-pearl fell to the carpet.

  ‘Hey!’ Skir ducked away, knocking over the candle and snuffing it out.

  Tansy scrabbled on the floor. ‘Where is it?’

  Skir caught up his other slipper and smashed the heel down as he’d seen other people squash spiders. As a priest, he was forbidden to kill any living thing, but grinding the burned, sodden fragments of the little doll into powder was extremely satisfying. He sat back on his heels, breathless and triumphant.

  Tansy clapped her hands over her mouth; in the moonlight her eyes were like saucers. Then she took a deep, sobbing breath, and ran her hands up and down her arms. ‘I ain’t burned,’ she whispered. ‘I ain’t hurt at all. You are a sorcerer.’

  ‘Of course I am,’ said Skir, and for the briefest moment he almost believed he was a chanter after all, a master of magical power, holding life and death between his finger and thumb.

  The doorknob of the outer room rattled.

  Skir forgot he was a master magician, and panicked. ‘What do we do?’

  ‘The bed.’ For a heartbeat they both stared at the shadowy, curtained expanse of Skir’s bed, heaped with quilts and cushions. Three or four girls could have hidden in it quite easily. Tansy dived under the covers.

  Breathless and dishevelled, Skir scrambled back into bed, acutely aware of Tansy’s warm, breathing body close to his own beneath the quilts. ‘Come in!’ he called, just as Beeman poked his head around the door.

  ‘I am coming in,’ said Beeman mildly. ‘What’s the matter? I heard shouting.’

  ‘I had a bad dream. I must have screamed.’

  ‘Odd. I could have sworn it was a woman’s voice.’

  ‘I dreamt, yes, you know, I dreamt I was a woman. Yes. It was a very strange dream.’

  ‘Are you all right? Would you like some water?’

  ‘If I want water I can pour it myself, I’m not a child. Go away, Beeman. Wait. Beeman? Where were you?’

  ‘In my bed next door, of course.’

  ‘Were you? I thought you must have gone out.’

  ‘Gone out? Where?’

  ‘That’s what I wondered.’

/>   ‘I didn’t go anywhere. Are you delirious? Do you have a fever?’

  ‘No. I’m perfectly all right.’

  ‘Goodnight then.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  The door clicked closed as Beeman withdrew. At once, Tansy shook herself violently free of the covers.

  ‘I hate that, hate having stuff over my head,’ she whispered. ‘I couldn’t breathe . . . He did go out, your servant. I was watching. He sneaked off without a light. He must have a woman.’

  ‘Beeman’s my tutor, not my servant. And he doesn’t have women,’ whispered Skir. ‘At least, he never has before.’

  ‘There’s a first time for everything,’ whispered Tansy, and for some reason this struck them both as supremely funny. They had to stifle their laughter with pillows.

  Then Tansy sat up and gazed at him soberly in the moonlight. ‘I can’t leave here now. Madam’ll know I destroyed her luckpiece. You’ll have to protect me, like you said.’

  ‘Well – yes, all right,’ said Skir, taken aback. He felt cornered. ‘Fair enough. But you can’t stay in my bed forever.’

  At once his face grew hot. He hoped Tansy couldn’t see.

  ‘No, not in your bed.’ Tansy frowned, deep in thought. ‘Only for a few days.’

  ‘A few days! But Beeman is always here.’ He paused. ‘I could tell Beeman. I think I should tell Beeman.’

  ‘No! You mustn’t tell anyone! What about under the bed?’

  ‘No – wait. There’s my bathroom. The maids don’t clean in there, I’m supposed to clean it myself, to teach me responsibility and humility. Beeman won’t use it because it’s too filthy; he goes to the gentlemen’s baths in the east wing.’

  Tansy considered, then nodded her head. ‘The Witch-Woman’s going away after tomorrow. While I’m with you, she can’t hurt me. And in four days the wagon comes that goes up north. Once I get away from Arvestel, she won’t find me, not now the luckbit’s gone. You better give me some gold.’

  ‘Gold? I don’t have any jewellery.’

  ‘Not jewels. I mean money. To buy my ticket home to Lotch.’

  ‘Oh. I don’t have money either. They give me everything I need.’ Skir stared gloomily around his luxurious bedroom. ‘Beeman could get some, I suppose. But he’d want to know what it was for.’