by Duncan Pile
Against all the odds, life in the caves was strangely good – far better than the one the girls had known in the city above – but after long years of contentment, their peaceful little community was finally under threat. Elijah, one of the more powerful among the Eleven, was raising an army. There’d been no public announcement, but there was no hiding the movement of thousands of men. Somehow Elijah had co-opted Stringfellow’s miners, who had gathered in force outside the city walls, and every day their numbers were swelled by dozens of mercenary crews.
The encampment looked well-organised. Tents had been pitched in orderly rows, latrines had been dug and men scurried about with purpose, all at the direction of the Man in Black – Antoine they called him. Madame knew two things about the Man in Black; that he was a vicious killer, with weapon-skills that were second to none, and that he had never attended her brothel.
Madame didn’t know why Elijah was raising an army, but until it left, her girls were in terrible danger. It wouldn’t be long before Antoine sent men to the brothel, under orders to round up every girl and draft them into the camp following. They would be forced to tag along behind the army and keep its men satisfied at night. Madame had seen what happened to such women, forced to pleasure man after man, and she wasn’t having that for any of her girls.
There was only one thing she could think of to do – she needed to move every one of them into the caves. She couldn’t afford to attract attention, and would have to slip them down in ones and twos while keeping up the appearance of a working brothel until the very last. Once everyone was safely down the ladder, Madame would collapse the entrance from the Happy Drunk behind her, at which point her life in Namert would be at an end.
Overcrowding would be an issue, but not nearly so much as managing their resources. How many fish would it take to feed a hundred women? Surely more than the Daypool and Nightpool could provide. And then there was sanitation, which was bound to become a problem with so many women cooped up in one place. Ultimately they’d have to devise a way to escape the caves and flee Namert altogether, but that was tomorrow’s problem.
Madame massaged her temples, feeling the onset of a throbbing headache. Troubled times had found them, and it was her job to get the girls through it. All she could do was pray to the Lady for strength.
Sixteen
“Not long to go now, Taurn,” Gaspi said, with a knowing smile.
Taurnil grimaced, suspecting that Gaspi knew exactly how uneasy this conversation was making him. “I wish it were over already.”
Gaspi laughed. “Come on mate. Lydia will never put up with that kind of attitude.”
“I’m not sure she’d even notice,” Taurnil said.
“You reckon?”
“Honestly, she’s got this wedding sewn up – every last detail – and has never once asked my opinion.”
“Do you want to be asked?”
“No way! Gypsies take this Soul-bound business seriously. If I interfered I’d probably mess up one of their sacred traditions.”
Gaspi looked at him quizzically. “Don’t you believe you and Lydia are Soul-bound then?”
Taurnil shrugged. “It’s Lydia’s tradition, not mine. All I know is she loves me and I love her. If being Soul-bound means we can get married then that’s all the better, but I don’t have to think about it in those terms.”
“Does Lydia know you see things differently?”
“We haven’t talked about it openly but it doesn’t matter Gasp,” Taurnil said. “People talk about things in different ways, and think about things in different ways, but that’s just window-dressing. It’s the love that matters, and what Lydia and I have is for real.”
Gaspi nodded slowly. “You have a nice way of putting things sometimes.”
“And the rest of the time?” Taurnil asked, raising an eyebrow.
“You talk out of your arse,” Gaspi said with a grin.
Taurnil considered pushing him off the bench – his favourite form of retribution where Gaspi was concerned – but decided to let him off, just this once.
…
The day of the wedding dawned fair and clear. The first autumn chill had cooled summer’s ardour, and the grass of Helioport’s floodplain lay heavy with dew. Gaspi pulled his cloak a little tighter, filling his lungs with crisp, clear air as he looked out over the grounds. It was the perfect day for a wedding. Sure, it was a little chilly, but the rising sun would burn off the dew by mid-morning, and it would be balmy enough during the ceremony itself. The celebrations would go on long into the night, when the temperature would drop again, but by that time the fires would be lit, keeping the revellers warm in the cooler hours of the evening.
Gaspi smiled in anticipation. After all the waiting, his best friend was finally about to get married. He knew how much Taurnil had longed for this day – not for the wedding itself, which clearly terrified him – but to be Lydia’s husband. He’d made every effort to abide by Lydia’s traditions during the preparations for the wedding, however uncomfortable they made him.
The wedding was going to be a gypsy ceremony in every respect. As far as Lydia’s people were concerned, the marriage of a Soul-bound couple was a momentous occasion and messengers had been sent far and wide, inviting other families to join the celebration. Over the past few weeks, wagons had rolled in from every direction. Roland had directed the encampments, arranging the mother of all gypsy circles – an open space that was two hundred yards across, within which the ceremony would be performed. The morning light reflected from a myriad of brightly painted wagons, sparkling on their dew-dampened sides. A colossal stack of wood had been gathered and piled at the heart of the circle, ready to be lit for the ceremony itself.
The door to Roland’s wagon opened and the rangy gypsy stepped out, yawning and stretching in the dawn light. “Ho, Gaspi!” he called. “Big day!”
Gaspi grinned. “Hi Roland.”
Roland shook his long locks and pulled them back into a ponytail, tying them together with a leather thong. “Where’s the man of the hour?”
“Sleeping,” Gaspi said. “I’m about to go wake him up.”
“Make sure to keep him away until the ceremony,” Roland said.
“I will,” Gaspi said, setting off towards the gates.
…
Gaspi knocked on the door to Taurnil’s room in the barracks, which swung open to reveal a dishevelled-looking groom.
“What time is it?” Taurnil asked. His eyes were wide and helpless and his face was pale.
“It’s dawn,” Gaspi said, letting himself in. “Didn’t sleep huh?”
“Not a wink,” Taurnil said, moving to his washstand. “Let’s get on with this.”
“Slow down Taurn,” Gaspi said. “The ceremony’s not for hours yet.”
Taurnil spun around. “Hours? I’ve got to wait hours?”
“What’s got you so wound up? Tell me you’re not having second thoughts!”
“Are you kidding?” Taurnil said. “I love Lydia more than life itself. It’s this blasted ceremony. I never thought it would get this big. With all these other families turning up, we’ll have a bigger audience than the Measure!”
Gaspi wasn’t surprised. Taurnil hadn’t grumbled about the ceremony at all initially, but his discomfort had increased with the number of guests. Taurnil hated being the centre of attention. He’d have been happy with a quiet ceremony, limited to close friends and family, but he was determined to give Lydia what she wanted, which meant a full gypsy ceremony. Now that the day of the wedding had finally dawned, the reality of what that meant was hitting him pretty hard.
“You’ll be fine mate, I promise,” Gaspi said, patting Taurnil ineffectually on the arm.
“Yeah, right,” Taurnil muttered.
“Look, why don’t you have a shave? I’ll leave you to it and come back in a short while.”
Taurnil showed him a trembling hand. “Not a chance. You’re here to help, so help. You can start by shaving me.” He took a foldin
g razor from the washstand, flipped open the lethal-looking blade and handed it to Gaspi.
Reluctantly, Gaspi accepted it. “Fine, I’ll help you shave, but when you need to use the privy, I’m out of here.”
…
Taurnil stood at the heart of the enormous gypsy circle. Sweat trickled down his forehead, his temples and the nape of his neck – in part because he was more nervous than he’d ever been in his life, but also because he was only twenty yards from a blazing fire. The fire was a fundamental part of the ceremony, symbolising the very heart of gypsy life – the fellowship of the circle. Wherever they travelled, gypsy communities gathered their wagons in a circle with the setting of the sun. At the heart of each circle blazed a fire, around which the whole Family gathered, ate and fellowshipped. Weddings were rare among gypsies – a special ceremony reserved for the union of Soul-bound couples – and the blaze was fitting for the occasion, long tongues of flame leaping a dozen feet into the air.
Taurnil swallowed noisily, wondering where he could safely direct his gaze. He didn’t want to look at the gathered gypsies, perched on the steps, benches and roofs of their wagons, and the sight of their musicians, instruments at the ready, only made him more nervous. Nor did he want to look at his fellow guards, seated on dozens of folding chairs brought down from the college. He’d hoped to escape their scrutiny in this, his most vulnerable moment, but Drillmaster Trask was having none of it. He’d reduced the garrison to a skeleton crew and given everyone leave to attend.
Painfully aware of the eyes upon him, Taurnil didn’t know what to do with his hands or where to place his feet. He was on his own in the middle of the gathering, the object of everyone’s attention. He’d attended a few weddings in his time, and in each of them the groom had a best man at his side to steady the nerves, but gypsies didn’t follow that tradition, which meant that until Lydia arrived he was stuck out here on his own. Feeling more self-conscious than he ever had in his life, Taurnil planted his feet in what he hoped resembled a solid, confident stance and clasped his hands behind his back.
He glanced impatiently at Roland’s wagon, festooned with elaborately tied ribbons. When the time came, the door would open and Lydia would step out, but there was no sign of movement from within. He looked away and his gaze fell next on the marital hut – a long, low structure, draped with dozens of woven rugs; one from every Family that had travelled to join the celebration. He wanted nothing more than for the day to be over and to disappear into that hut with Lydia.
At last, his gaze found a safe place to rest. At the very forefront of the crowd, seated on wooden chairs, were his parents. He hadn’t intended to invite them, knowing that they wouldn’t miss his wedding for the world, and that the city could be under siege at any time. He hated the idea of putting them in danger, but Lydia had talked him round, saying that if half the Gypsies in Antropel were invited, then his parents should be as well. It was their choice to make, not his, and now that the day had arrived, he realised that it wouldn’t feel right without them. His ma clung tightly to his da, but she only had eyes for him. She met his gaze and smiled at him through happy tears. His da gave him an approving nod, his eyes fierce with pride. Taurnil nodded back, feeling suddenly choked. Gaspi sat by his da’s side, along with Emmy, Adela and Jonn – his family here in Helioport. Gaspi and Emmy were smiling, aglow with happiness on his behalf. Taurnil smiled back – the first he’d given that day. Whoever else was watching, these few onlookers knew him and loved him, and in the light of their gaze he felt steadied.
The door to Roland’s wagon swung open and the crowd quieted. One of the musicians raised a flute to his lips and began to play a crystalline, fragile melody that carried on the breeze and sent a shiver down Taurnil’s spine. He hadn’t heard the Song of the Soul-bound until that moment, but now that he did he found himself moved. It dipped and soared, carrying him with it until it came to a wistful cadence at the end of the first stanza. The steady boom of the tibor drum ushered in a second stanza, underpinning the simple, piercing melody. At the sound of the drum, Lydia emerged from the dark interior of the wagon. Taurnil watched her with wide eyes as she descended the steps, a faint jingling sound accompanying her movements. Garbed from head to toe in fitted silks, she looked more radiant than ever before. Her hair was piled up on the crown of her head, wound into a delicate knot, and she wore a single golden torque around her neck, gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. Taurnil was transfixed, the flush of her cheeks and the joy dancing in her eyes stealing his breath. He had never seen her look more beautiful.
Lydia walked alone, stepping lightly across the ground until she joined him before the fire. She took his hand with a smile of encouragement, and together they turned to face the gathered crowd. Taurnil’s nerves were back in full force. He’d rehearsed his part in the ceremony until it was drummed into his skull, but his voice shook as badly as his hands when he opened his mouth to speak.
“We the Soul-bound…” he started.
“Louder!” Lydia muttered.
Taurnil cleared his throat. “We the Soul-bound seek the blessing of our friends. Who will stand with us?” This part of the ceremony had been well-rehearsed. Their nearest and dearest would step out from the crowd and form a smaller circle around them, along with community leaders from Helioport and from among the gypsies. Jonn, Gaspi and Emmy were already making their way towards them, as were both sets of parents and the head of every gypsy Family present. Hephistole joined them too, resplendent in robes of sunshine yellow, along with Trask, who grinned at Taurnil as he approached. Taurnil grinned back. In the midst of all this lofty tradition, the sight of Trask, a man of grit and steel, was grounding. Everyone took their places without needing to be directed, joining hands as they formed the circle.
Roland stepped out from the group and the circle re-joined behind him. From hereon-in, he would lead the ceremony. “Taurnil and Lydia, today we celebrate your love and pledge our friendship to you, the Soul-bound. Should you need succour, our homes and hearts are yours, now and forevermore.”
“Now and forevermore,” the rest of the circle intoned.
Taurnil bowed his head, deeply moved.
Roland stepped forward, producing a cup and a gourd from within his robes. He handed the gourd to Lydia and the cup to Taurnil. “This cup, carved long ago from ancient oak, has only ever been used in this ceremony. This wine, infused with the most sacred of herbs, represents the hallowed love of the Soul-bound. In sharing this cup, you cleave to each other, never to be parted.”
Taurnil lifted the small oaken cup and Lydia uncorked the gourd, pouring out a stream of deep, crimson wine until the vessel was full. It was Taurnil’s turn to speak. “Drink with me, my love, for we are Soul-bound.”
Lydia took the cup from him and took a long, reverent swallow. She held it out to Taurnil. “Share this cup with me, for we are Soul-bound,” she repeated. Taurnil took the cup in trembling hands and lifted it to his lips. It smelt acrid, but when it hit his tongue it was as sweet as honey. A great warmth suffused him, and one look at Lydia told him she felt it too. Her cheeks were afire, her eyes wide with pleasure.
Roland took the cup and gourd from them. “In joining with one another, you forsake the pursuit of personal pleasure and choose instead to consider each other’s needs first. Your decisions will be made jointly, your future forged by the joining of two wills. It’s time to present your trinkets.”
Taurnil reached into the interior pocket of his jacket and felt his fingers close over the smooth wooden object he’d chosen for this moment. The trinket was meant to represented his independence, and after much thought he’d settled on a koshta seed. It spoke to him of his carefree childhood, and of the freedom he once had to do what he liked, when he liked. If he and Gaspi felt like playing a game, they’d pick up their gear and rush to the pond without a second thought. The seed represented his choice to put Lydia first in all things.
Lydia reached down to her ankle and untied a small string of bells, tied
to colourful strands of silk. Lydia had explained their significance to him when planning this part of the ceremony – they were a gypsy girl’s dancing bells, worn only by single girls before they met a partner. To Lydia, presenting them in the ceremony was a symbol of her clear and lasting commitment to Taurnil.
The bells tinkled as she held them out, just as Taurnil offered his seed.
Roland’s voice rang out. “As you cast these trinkets into the fire, you say goodbye to independence and embrace the life of the Soul-bound with all your heart.”
Taurnil met Lydia’s gaze and smiled, his heart bursting with joy. Her eyes were dancing with happiness. “Ready?” he said.
“I’ve been ready for a long time,” Lydia said. They raised their hands and, as one, flung their trinkets into the flames. To Taurnil’s astonishment, the fire received them hungrily, sending great spears of flame into the air amid a tremendous shower of sparks. He took a step back, pulling Lydia with him, and looked at her in amazement.
Lydia smiled. “The fire spirit,” she said, pointing into the flames. Taurnil squinted against the glare and saw the elemental at the heart of the blaze, its body coruscating with brilliant waves of light. The glow grew brighter by the moment until the spirit shone like the sun, exuding an ecstatic flood of energy. The crowd gasped in astonishment – this was a portentous moment if ever they’d witnessed one! – and broke into a loud cheer. The gypsies clasped each other and thrust their fists into the air, crying out in joyous abandon; the union of their Soul-bound couple was blessed by the gods!