by Jude Fisher
He could bear to watch their inexorable progress no longer. Appalled by Alisha’s lunatic determination, by the continued, unnatural existence of Night’s Harbinger, he pulled his hands away from the stone, tied it into the spill of cloth and retrieved his waterskin.
If anything, the sightings of Bëte and of the nomad woman confirmed his resolve. He could never go south: there lay potential horrors even worse than those he had foreseen in the Eternal City. Dragging the heavy crystal behind him, Virelai started northwards again.
Thirteen
Among the Houris
‘Wha— Get off! Get off me!’
Katla Aransen came awake in a fury, her fists striking out to right and left. One made solid contact with something which gave beneath the blow and a voice cried out sharply in a foreign tongue.
She sat up and stared about her. She was surrounded by what appeared to be a swarm of gigantic butterflies – fluttering figures swathed in coloured robes – all of which now seemed to be keeping a wary distance.
Disorientated and confused, she wondered suddenly if she had ingested something which was making her hallucinate.
The fluttering things were closing in again. ‘Go away!’ she shouted, and winced as her loud voice echoed off the stone.
The creatures gathered in a knot.
Katla felt as though she had stepped into a dream. Someone else’s dream, and not a pleasant one, at that. She decided to search for an immediate escape. Looking around, she found she was in a large, tall-ceilinged stone room, an unusual thing in itself for a girl raised in a turf-roofed steading. On the opposite side of the chamber a fire crackled in a soot-stained hearth. To her right ran a long wall with a huge iron-bound wooden door set into the middle of it. A pair of narrow arched windows gave a distant view of cloud and pale grey sky. In the centre of the chamber a large metal container belched clouds of aromatic steam into the air.
None of it made sense. Where was she, and how had she got here?
She recalled climbing the shale cliff, Kitten Soronsen’s treachery, watching her mother fall prisoner to the raiders. She remembered feeling very, very ill and worrying how Hildi, Breta and Magla could possibly fend for themselves if she slept. Beyond that, she could remember nothing at all.
She looked down. Her situation got worse. Her clothes – rags, really – were tumbled in a heap beside the couch on which she sat.
All of them.
She could not remember the last time she had been naked in anyone else’s view. Then she could. Keel Island. Tam Fox. But even then, she thought, pushing the pain of that rich and sensual memory away, I still had a sock left to me . . .
Grabbing her clothes to her, she leapt to her feet and made for the door.
‘And where do you think you are going?’
A familiar voice. Katla came to an abrupt halt as one of the voluminously robed figures moved between her and the door. Whoever it was, they knew the Eyran tongue, though no Eyran woman worth her salt would ever be found wearing a bizarre draping of turquoise silk which left only the lips and the hands visible. The lips were painted, too: a bright and sparkling damson-red. They looked like – well, the effect was oddly obscene. Even so, Katla found herself staring at that mouth as though it might hold the key to the whole conundrum. Its chiselled lines, the swell of the lower lip; the way it curved into a contemptuous smile. Though men might admire such a mouth, it seemed to Katla cruelly set, and she knew it only too well . . .
Suddenly it felt as if her entire ribcage was filling up with bile.
‘Kitten Soronsen!’ she snarled. ‘I might have known you’d survive. And looking just like an Istrian whore!’
‘I hardly think you’re in a position to claim the moral high ground, standing there all naked and filthy, a woman who opened her legs to a mummer!’ Kitten sneered.
Katla’s hands became hard claws. She flew at the other girl with loathing, ripping and rending the flimsy silk as if she wished it was Kitten’s own flesh. Soon the turquoise robe was no more than a ruined mess tangling around Kitten’s feet. Tripping in its silken folds, Kitten went down, shrieking with rage and Katla fell upon her, consumed by thoughts of how glorious it would be to bury her fingers in flesh, in hair, in eye—
At this, the robed women intervened, pulling Katla away and clucking fiercely in their unintelligible southern language. No butterflies, these. Even in the depths of her bloodlust, Katla was surprised that these seemingly fragile creatures should be possessed of such a powerful grip. But Gramma Rolfsen had always warned her never to judge a horse by its colour, a man by his hair or a woman by the cut of her dress, and Katla learned yet again how appearances could deceive. She struggled hard, but the fever was still in her and before long her arms and legs felt like lengths of wet rope: against the determination of the Istrian women she could do nothing at all.
A taller figure, all in black, came forward. ‘Cover yourself!’ she barked at Kitten Soronsen, throwing a dark robe at her. ‘Your body is gift of Goddess, not to parade wantonly in such manner!’
The blonde girl bowed meekly. There was something very wrong about this; something wrong, too, about Kitten Soronsen’s palely naked body. Katla could not think what it was, but it niggled at her. She craned her neck for a better view, but then the harridan strode forward to interpose herself between the two of them. Taller and wider than Katla, she seemed almost to block out the light. She inclined her head and regarded her captive minutely. Katla could feel the weight of the woman’s gaze upon her even through the veil she wore, raking up and down, taking in every detail, every bruise, every flaw. It was an unpleasant experience: she felt like one of her father’s prize mares being sized up at Sundey Market. Any minute now, she thought, the creature will start feeling up my legs and commenting on the shape of my fetlocks . . .
Indeed, the dark-robed woman started to bark out commands to the other women, commands which set them scurrying here and there about the chamber, gathering items, preparing for a task. Katla did not like to think what that task might be. Now the woman leaned in closer. Her lips, revealed through the unflattering slit in the veil, were pale, unpainted, shapeless and ugly. Two thick black hairs sprouted from a mole beside her mouth.
‘You northern women like demons,’ this creature spat, her words heavily accented. ‘You have no manners, no restraint. You should be ashamed. How your men can love you, when you so rough and nasty?’
Katla laughed. ‘And how much do you think your men love you when they wrap you up in these awful robes and shut you away like prisoners?’
The black-robed woman pursed her lips. ‘We choose to wear Goddess’s robes: it a matter of respect.’ She gestured to two of the other women and together they advanced upon Katla.
Katla put up her fists. Tremors of fever ran through her so that she shivered where she stood. ‘Come any closer, and you’ll learn the meaning of “rough and nasty”,’ she promised.
‘Do not be afraid of her,’ Kitten Soronsen called out.‘She’s too ill to do you harm: see how she trembles and shakes.’
As if cheered by this the women advanced again. With deceptive speed, the black-robed woman dodged Katla’s flying fists, ducked beneath her elbow and caught one of her arms painfully behind her back.
Katla yelped. I must be getting slow, she thought miserably, as her arm was forced yet higher. But damn me, I don’t feel well.
Even as she thought this, her knees buckled, though with the tall woman holding her up, she could not fall. The others came now, sensing her weakness, caught her feet, lifted her off the ground. The next thing she knew, there was an immense splash and she was engulfed.
Not again, she thought. Lashing out desperately, Katla erupted from the perfumed bath with liquid gushing from her hair, her ears, her mouth. The women stepped back, alarmed, but Kitten stepped forward, clutching a wicked-looking long-handled brush.
‘Hold her down and I’ll do the honours,’ she announced, and a cruel smile curved those chiselled lips.
&
nbsp; Katla stopped thrashing, she was so appalled. ‘When exactly was it that you turned traitor, Kitten Soronsen? When the Istrians caught you, or when you slipped from your mother’s womb?’
Kitten shrugged. ‘I decided to make the best of a bad situation.’ She winked at Katla. ‘I think I might quite like it here. But I can’t imagine you will.’
Katla glared at her. ‘And what about the others?’
‘They’re downstairs with the lesser houris, being scrubbed down and prepared for the slave-blocks,’ Kitten said coolly.
The blood rose in Katla’s head till all she could hear was a buzzing in her ears like a hive full of bees. She wanted to leap from the bath, stark naked, and stop Kitten Soronsen’s cruel little mouth; she wanted to pummel her to pleading submission; she wanted—
But the women’s grip tightened as though the intent that trembled through Katla’s muscles spoke directly to them, and she could do nothing at all.
Kitten laughed and the candlelight played off her sparkling lips. Inconsequentially, Katla marvelled that a captive northern woman like any of the rest of them should have had such luxuries as paints and perfumes lavished upon her. Just what had Kitten Soronsen said or done to have won such favourable treatment? It was very disturbing. In her befuddled state she couldn’t see the logic in any of it at all. And why were they treating her to a bath, too? A swift dunking along with the rest of her compatriots would surely suffice for a trip to the slave-blocks . . .
Then Kitten set about Katla so ferociously with the bristle brush and lye that Katla had no further opportunity for logical thought, and for a long time in that room there were no further words of Eyran uttered which did not consist entirely of profanity and threat.
Katla had never been so clean in her life. It was not a natural state of affairs and she did not like it at all. Life on Rockfall – or at least a life spent running, climbing, riding, fishing, gathering ragworm and bilberries and generally grubbing around – did not much feature scented baths and the liberal use of wash-cloths. Skin which had never been fully exposed to the air since Katla had learned to crawl fast enough to escape the attentions of her mother and grandmother now glowed uneasily in the candlelight. She had never felt more naked in her life. It was as if all her protective camouflage had been stripped away; no prize mare now, she felt like a sheared sheep staked out for the wolves.
By the time they finally pulled her out of the steaming tub she was too exhausted to fight any more, though she took childish pleasure in having splashed as many of them as she could with the scummy water. Then they held her down and dried her with soft towels and two women rubbed some strong-smelling oil into her skin with strong fingers which gouged her muscles and left her aching and wrung out. And all the time they kept on muttering away in their sibilant tongue.
‘They say you not look after yourself,’ the tall woman in black told her at last. ‘They say your skin like plucked chicken. Not soft. Not smooth. More like boy’s, all rough and hard. No man want bed with such woman!’
‘Bed?’ said Katla suspiciously. ‘What do you mean, bed?’
But the woman turned away without answering and gestured to her helpers. A few seconds later, the sharp scent of lemons wafted through the air, and something sweeter, too. After a lot of milling about, a low table bearing a small stove and a sturdy pot appeared.
Katla frowned. What were they at now? It seemed odd that they should stop in the midst of their ministrations to brew up a drink; but these southerners were strange folk.
One of the women began to dip strips of white cloth into the mixture with a pair of tongs. Then she lifted it out of the pan and advanced upon Katla.
‘Lie back and don’t fight,’ the leader of the women advised her, ‘and it will hurt less.’
Every muscle in Katla’s body tensed as tight as a spring. What on Elda could anyone do to hurt her with a little strip of wet cloth? A moment later, two of them had her on her back and the woman had applied the hot cloth to her groin. Katla was outraged. How much cleaner did they require her to be for whatever bizarre ends they had in mind? This was appalling, absurd treatment; and far past humiliation. Fingers dug into her skin, smoothing and pressing into intimate areas no Eyran woman would ever have had the gall to touch, and the next thing she knew, someone had ripped the offending cloth away and her groin was on fire.
‘Aaaaaarrrgh!’
Shock gave her monstrous strength. The tight-sprung muscles now fuelled with adrenalised fury, Katla threw off her captors and charged across the room, bellowing like an enraged bull. She stood with her back to the wall, a woollen tapestry harsh against her skin, her breath coming in great heaves. When the women did not immediately advance upon her, she chanced a look down at the wounded region. A wide band of red, hairless flesh glowed where there should have been a nest of tawny curls. Now she realized why it was that the glimpse she had been afforded of Kitten Soronsen’s long, pale body had disturbed her so.
‘Feya’s tits!’ she shrieked. ‘What perverse and filthy practice is this?’
The black-robed woman put her hands on her hips. ‘It is your people who filthy and perverse are,’ she declared. ‘Covering Falla’s gift with dirty old hair like some smelly bear. There should be nothing between a man and a woman when they come together to worship the Goddess.’
That was a phrase she’d heard before, and she had a fair idea of what it meant. Suspicion hardened into certainty. ‘Your precious goddess can rot in hell,’ Katla snarled. And she made a dash for the door.
Hauling it open, she flew out into the corridor, and collided with a richly dressed man of middling height, with sharply carved features and raven-black hair held back by a silver circlet. The two of them went down in a tangle of limbs, but desperation made Katla the quicker to her feet. She turned to run down the passageway, but the dark man lunged out and caught her by the ankle. She hit the ground so hard that all the air rushed from her lungs, and all she could do was to curl into a ball, choking for breath.
The man sprang to his feet, grabbed her by the wrists, dragged her upright and held her at arms’ length. He looked her up and down, then turned to the black-robed woman. ‘Whatever have you been doing to her, Peta? She looks as appetising as a scalded cat!’
‘My lord!’ the woman in black exclaimed, hurrying out into the hallway with her head bowed. ‘We had not finished preparing her. It is unseemly that you should look upon her sinful body in this forbidden state.’ In her hands she carried a piece of shimmering fabric which she draped hastily over Katla’s angular form.
Far from hiding her body from the newcomer’s gaze, the robe was sheer and clinging. If this was ‘seemly’ then these southerners had some very strange ideas about propriety. When she looked up, the richly dressed man was regarding her with a half-smile which suggested both amusement and faint disgust. He pushed Katla back towards Peta, who took her by the wrist, her sharp nails digging unnecessarily hard into Katla’s skin.
‘I have seen quite enough,’ he said shortly in Istrian, wiping his hands on his velvet tunic, ‘to know that this one won’t do. You should know by now that my tastes do not run to scrawny little northern hell-cats. I have had my doubts about your ability to run this harem for a while now, and brawls and naked women escaping down corridors just won’t do.’
Katla stared at the lord while he addressed the black-robed woman, her mind working rather more slowly than she would have wished. She had no idea what he was saying, but he did not seem overly impressed by her, which was a relief; for she recognised his face from somewhere, and the sight of him made her feel even more anxious than current circumstances seemed to demand. Her temples throbbed and she was engulfed by a wave of nausea. When she closed her eyes images swam up at her, haunting and disorientating – memories of the Allfair, brief, hallucinatory glimpses of a journey, men in blue cloaks, trees flashing past, flames, faces, tall buildings and lit sconces, Hildi’s weeping face, the Rosa Eldi coiled like a serpent around the Eyran king, Istrian
lords striding and shouting . . .
Her eyes flew open. ‘Rui Finco,’ she croaked before she could help herself, and was rewarded by a look of utmost surprise on the dark man’s face.
The Lord of Forent recovered himself swiftly. He inclined his head. ‘Indeed,’ he acknowledged in the Old Tongue. ‘I am flattered that you should know me, for I am quite sure I do not know you. Perhaps you might like to share your name with me so that I am not at such a disadvantage.’
Katla bit her lip and cursed her slow wits. What could she say? If she gave her name he would surely remember who she was and her current indignities would fade to nothing by comparison with the likely punishment that would ensue. Speak too loudly or give a false name and Kitten Soronsen would score the ultimate revenge upon her.
Katla Aransen was a tough girl and a pragmatist, rarely given to histrionics. She did not flirt, she did not dissemble, she did not play games. But with nowhere to run or to hide, and with no weapon at hand, it was the only ruse she could think of.
‘My lord,’ she said softly in the Old Tongue. ‘Forgive me . . . I feel most unwell.’ She clutched her hand against her forehead to keep the flimsy veil in place and crumpled to the floor.
She hit the ground harder than she had planned: so much for all those pratfalls learned in the mummers’ troupe. She’d be bruised from knee to hip from this; but so much the better for verisimilitude.