by Jude Fisher
To this Goddess-forsaken place Tycho Issian had come, and soon the folk of the region began to realise that the grim existences they had lived till now had been days of wine and roses compared to the time which was to follow. Before long, the gibbets lining the road from the north bore swollen, rotting fruit: it was said that when the wind blew from the south, you could smell Cantara’s justice as far away as Gibeon and Pex.
The able-bodied gathered their scant belongings and headed for the hills; the slower either perished from famine, or were put to the labour of scratching out a citadel for their new lord from the very rock itself. Many perished from exhaustion and accident. Four hundred lives were lost in the creation of Cantara’s castle: the foundations were reputedly built not of rock and sand, but blood and hair and bone.
When the lord travelled north – which was blessedly often – the town breathed a collective sigh of relief and handed itself over to the more tender mercies of the lord’s mother, the redoubtable Flavia. This lady had taken it upon herself to succour the needy, to take in refugees and wayfarers and even to offer hospitality to nomads as they passed through the Issian lands.
Which was why, for want of any other option, the caravan had been heading for Cantara.
‘Coroman Piedbird and Redita Fullmoon say the lady has emptied out her grainstores and cellars and bade her seneschals carry loaves and cheeses to the poor,’ Persoa explained as they rode. ‘As far away as Galia the Wandering Folk honour her name; and from all over the Empire they have come now at the hardest of times when there is nowhere else to turn.’
They passed no soldiers on the road, nor any other travellers. Everyone, it seemed, had already gone north, in preparation for battle. Two days brought them within sight of the town. At first glimpse it was an impressive sight. A turreted fortress spanned the breadth and depth of a great tongue of red rock which thrust itself out from the hills behind it and towered up into the pitiless blue sky. Below sprawled the town itself, a great ramshackle collection of dwellings carved into the myriad sandstone pillars which littered the plain, and hundreds of meaner buildings of baked mud and wood filling the gaps between the pillars and creeping up the side of the outcrop. The entire place was teeming with life: it was like riding into a termite mound.
Women, children, old folk, dogs, chickens, cats, geese and goats crammed the streets and filled the air with their noise. No one seemed much surprised by the appearance of another group of travellers, even one so motley as to comprise both sellswords and Footloose.
Saro stared about in amazement. Despite its proximity to Altea, he had never visited this southern town, nor wished to, while its lord was in residence. The Cantara of his imagination and his studies was a far different place to the Cantara he found before him: for far from being the miserable frontier town where only the desperate and defeated fetched up, this was a thriving hub. And something seemed very foreign about it, something he could not quite define. He stared about at all the activity, at the people hurrying here and there on errands, at the traders and their stalls, at the stacks of baked bread and rounds of cheese, the baskets of dried fruit and the panniers of grain; at the children playing catch-frog and where’s-the-wolf, and then it came to him with a sudden shock that was almost physical.
The women went unveiled.
Saro was not the only member of their troop to notice this. Mam caught Persoa’s arm and said something in a quiet voice which made the hillman shake his head and look disconcerted. For her part, Katla stared frankly about with her mouth open. A small flame of hope beat suddenly in her chest.
No one challenged them as they rode into the castle’s courtyard. Indeed, there seemed to be no guards in sight in this inner sanctum; only a great many women and a few old men. The old men looked up sharply from their tasks as if caught in the performance of an illicit act. The majority of the women sat in concentric circles around the smaller group in the centre. Some wore robes of fine silk and satin, others the plain black sabatka of the slave class. The eyes which turned to survey them were outlined with kohl so that their regard was bold: but their lips were pale and unpainted. Some of the women had let their hair fall loose about their faces, as if compensating for the missing veil, but others had defiantly braided their hair tightly across their heads, the better to be able to view the objects they held in their laps.
Books. Books and parchments, old and new. Tablets and styli and quills.
Mam frowned. ‘What is this?’
Beside her, the hillman grinned in sudden comprehension. ‘A class,’ he said softly. ‘The women of Cantara are learning to read and write.’
Katla Aransen looked mightily unimpressed. Reading had never been her strong point: she knew enough knots to get by in a tavern or a market, and no one had ever managed to introduce her to the arcane art of writing.
Abruptly something caught her eye; and at the same moment Saro Vingo gasped.
‘Mother!’ they exclaimed in one breath.
In the second row of women, a head turned sharply. Illustria Vingo locked eyes with her second son. Her hands flew up to her face like two white doves, pressed themselves over a mouth which could suddenly form no intelligible words.
And at the heart of the circle, a tumble of red hair streaked with grey flew wildly as Bera Rolfsen leapt to her feet.
The two women of the Rockfall clan regarded one another across the sea of faces, eyes wide with disbelief. Behind Bera, a tall white-haired woman rose gracefully from the stool on which she had been seated, a small leatherbound volume in her hands.
‘None enters this place bearing weapons,’ she declared in a voice which carried clearly through the dry desert air. ‘Speak your names and your business. If you come in goodwill you are welcome to our hospitality; if not, I can assure you there are no riches here left to rob.’
Mam strode to the front of the group. ‘Mercenaries, my lady. On our own business, and with no violence in mind, if we are left to ourselves. We come to ransom Saro Vingo to his family, or what is left of it.’
‘Ransom?’
‘He is our prisoner, and his actions have cost us dearly.’
Flavia of Cantara raised an eyebrow. Then she turned to the small, elegant dark-haired woman whose fingers were still pressed to her lips. She smiled. ‘What say you, my dear Illustria? What price is worth the release of such a son? Does not rumour have it that he took the life of his elder brother, a crime which usually bears the penalty of being sent to Falla’s fires?’
The woman peered earnestly at the Lady of Cantara, blinking rapidly, apparently still in shock.
The tall woman turned back to Mam. ‘I do not believe in the buying and selling of human flesh,’ she said coolly. ‘Every soul belongs to itself and no other. And every soul must bear responsibility for its actions. Saro Vingo, if you be he, step out and speak what truth you may about the matter of your brother’s death.’
Saro slithered from the mule more because his fingers lost their grip on the saddle than out of any direct volition. Once on the ground, he found that his trembling legs would not bear his weight. Sinking to the ground, he bowed his head: a supplicant before his judges.
In a low voice he said: ‘The rumours are true. I killed my brother, Tanto Vingo. In the dungeons of the Eternal City, where he had imprisoned me, I did this terrible thing. Had I left him to live many thousands of innocents would have succumbed to his tortures; but I know that however good my intentions, in killing him I have not only damned myself, but also broken my mother’s heart, for he was always her favourite—’
‘Oh, Saro . . .’ Illustria Vingo’s voice rose in a wail.
Flavia Issian’s basilisk gaze fell upon the wailing woman and her noise tailed away into stifled sobs. At last she turned back to Saro. ‘So,’ she said dispassionately, ‘you admit yourself a murderer?’
Saro stared at the ground. Then he lifted his eyes to the women, his jaw set decisively. ‘I fear it is not only my brother’s death for which I am responsible. I kille
d a man called Erno Hamson to stop him speaking a dangerous truth. There was a soldier who attacked a troop of nomads with whom I was travelling, and a Jetran guard who was trying to prevent my escape. And I caused the death of two men at the Allfair. I was trying to save Katla Aransen from the pyre to which they had unjustly consigned her for the attack upon your granddaughter, my lady, Selen Issian.’
Flavia Issian’s eyes narrowed.‘I have heard strange rumours about my granddaughter Selen. Tell me what you know of that affair.’
‘Only that it was not the Eyrans who attacked her, but my own brother, frustrated that the marriage settlement that had been arranged between the two of them had fallen through.’
‘So you would add rape to the other crimes of which you would condemn your dead brother?’
Saro nodded mutely.
‘And the girl, Katla Aransen.’ Flavia’s sharp eyes roved over the lithe form of the Eyran in her borrowed leather armour, taking in her fierce expression and the way her fist clenched around the hilt of her undrawn sword, and drew a swift conclusion. ‘What was your interest in trying to save her? Mere justice, or something perhaps a little . . . more personal?’
Saro flushed. The old woman’s eyes seemed to bore right through him as if she were indeed weighing the measure of his soul. ‘I . . . ah . . .’ he started, then gathered himself and in a firm tone declared: ‘I loved her.’
The crowd of women breathed as one, entranced by his words.
‘You, the son of an Istrian noble, would admit to loving a barbarian woman to the extent of risking your own life?’
‘Yes.’
The women looked from Saro to Flavia, and then to Katla. For her part, the red-haired girl at the heart of all this appeared to be deep in thought, as if the old woman’s inquisition and the boy’s subsequent response had answered some question of her own.
Flavia’s lips curved into an amused smile. ‘It appears,’ she said, and it seemed that she addressed the entire gathering, rather than Saro Vingo alone, ‘that the differences between our two peoples are less than others would have us think. An Empire boy may share his heart with a northern girl, just as northern women may share their experiences with Empire women, and turn about.’ She indicated the visitors. ‘And who would ever have expected to see a troop of nomads travelling with a female sellsword of Eyran extraction, a Galian dwarf, a giant Northern Islander, and a Farem hillman?’ Her black-eyed gaze passed assessingly from one to the next. ‘But is this not what the forbidden text of Aspian tells us?’ She flourished the battered-looking volume in her hand. ‘That long ago we were all one and the same, a single race of folk who lived and loved in harmony? Before the balance of Elda was disrupted and men’s greed and distrust rose to the surface and violence became the order of the day?’
The women began to murmur. Some looked down at the tablets on their laps, as if the scratches upon them echoed the same dangerously subversive ideas.
‘Falla would not smile upon our so-called “justice”, nor the blood-sacrifices we make to gain her favour. The Lady is a gentle goddess, who wishes love and plenty for all her people.’
Saro stared at the woman who made this pronouncement in amazement. Such sentiments would surely consign her to the fires of which she spoke, the fires her own son had fanned to blazing pyres.
‘Nor would she condone this ridiculous war our men are fighting in her name. Liberating the women of the North – what nonsense!’ Now she turned her attention back to Saro, her black eyes coming to rest on him in deep contemplation. ‘We have heard unpleasant rumours and reports of your deceased brother from far and wide, young man. From merchants and refugees, from those Wandering Folk who have been lucky enough to elude persecution, and from the women my seneschal and his staff have been bringing here from all over the Empire. It has not been an easy time for your mother: she felt she had lost her beloved son long before your violent action took him from this world.’
Saro looked from the Lady of Cantara to the woman who stood at her shoulder, eyes brimming with unshed tears. He could not remember the last time he had seen his mother unveiled. He felt his own eyes filling up in response. Staggering to his feet, he lurched towards her, and the crowd parted to ease his passage. Flavia Issian stood aside to allow Illustria Vingo to slip past her, and a moment later mother and son stood face to naked face.
After a while, Saro whispered, ‘Forgive me, Mother.’
In response, Illustria gave him a crooked smile and tears began to spill down her cheeks. In a gesture of infinite tenderness, she raised her hands and cupped Saro’s face between her palms.
‘My son, my beloved son. I always knew, you know . . .’
‘Knew what, Mother?’
‘About Tanto. I knew his little cruelties. I knew his lies. I always knew what he was, what he might become. But I hid that knowledge from myself. I thought that if I loved him enough, he would become the better for it.’
‘Perhaps you loved him too much, Mother.’
‘And you not enough?’
Wordless, he nodded.
‘I loved you so much I could not bear to show you how much.’
‘Because I was Fabel’s child, not Fario’s?’
Illustria’s eyes went round with shock. She clenched her hands over her heart. ‘How could you know this?’
Saro’s mouth twisted in pain. ‘I have been shown many things I had no wish to know.’
‘And your fa— and Favio, does he know?’
Saro shook his head.
Illustria Vingo looked away. ‘It was hard to lose both of them in swift succession. Hard indeed. I do not think I could bear to lose Favio as well. There is too much hurt here for recrimination, Saro: can you forgive me for all these years of deception?’
Now Saro’s tears fell, too. ‘Can you forgive me, Mother? Because I do not think I can forgive myself.’
Mam watched this touching scene with a glint in her eye and the world’s most cynical smile. Then she stepped up to the Lady of Cantara, hands on hips. ‘It is hard to come so far without some form of reward,’ she said. ‘My men and I have precious little to show for all our efforts. If you will not allow us to ransom the boy, we may have to come to some other arrangement.’ She scanned the crowd. ‘That lady there,’ she pointed to Bera Rolfsen.‘How about we exchange like for like? Release her into our care and we will return her to the bosom of her family.’
Flavia Issian laughed and turned to face the woman Mam indicated.
‘Well, Bera Rolfsen,’ she said with a smile, ‘what say you? Shall I “release” you from my employ and give you over to this rabble?’
Bera smiled back at the Lady of Cantara. Then she said to Mam, ‘I am no prisoner here. More than that, I have no wish to return to Rockfall. That part of my life is done. My steading is burned, my mother is dead, my husband gone away; and my errant daughter stands with you, looking like the hoyden she is. What is there in Eyra for me to return to?’
Mam saw a fat purse slipping swiftly away. ‘Your brother Margan charged me with finding you and bringing you safely home.’
Bera snorted. ‘Margan! My dear brother merely thinks to marry me off to some rich trader and make himself a tidy profit into the bargain. Keep whatever he has given you and forget the rest, for my work now is here with Flavia and these women. I like being a teacher: it is more satisfying to bring understanding to those who crave it than to those who would rather be scaling rockfaces or wrestling with their brothers.’
‘Mother!’ Katla was stung.
Bera Rolfsen cocked her head and regarded her daughter gravely. Then she burst out laughing. ‘Ah, Katla, you were ever easy to tease. But what I say is what I wish, for now; until we know which course this mad conflict will take. Flavia has been more than kind, and I would like to do what little I can to repay that kindness. Take a look around the folk gathered here, for you may see other familiar faces.’
Katla gazed around the group of women and was surprised to realise she had failed at first
glimpse to see fair heads among all the dark. Over by the horse trough stood a somewhat thinner Magla Felinsen and Kit Farsen; sitting amidst a knot of Istrian women poring over a parchment, Forna Stensen, always the most attentive of her classmates; and grinning like a well-fed cat in the middle of the circle was Fat Breta, who now heaved herself to her feet and launched herself at Katla, wrapping her arms around the taller girl’s torso.
‘I never thought I’d see you again! I never thought I’d see any of my friends again.’
Katla had never really thought of Fat Breta as a friend, had never considered that she had any friends at all – just her brothers; one of whom was drowned, and the other just as surely lost. Bemused, she hugged Fat Breta back, then carefully detached herself.
‘But how did you get here?’
‘The Lady sent out her seneschals to buy us back from the men who bought us at the slave-market – Kit and Forna all the way from Ixta; me from Feria in the Blue Woods; and poor Magla . . .’ She tailed off.
‘Poor Magla, what?’
Breta lowered her voice. ‘From a whorehouse in Gibeon,’ she whispered.
Katla remembered Magla’s cruel jibes about Tam Fox. It took some effort to compose herself, but she managed it at last.
‘Have you come to take us back to Rockfall, Katla? I would like to see the sea again.’ She paused. ‘And though they’ve been very good to us here, I’d dearly love to get my teeth into a good shank of mutton.’
Katla smiled. ‘I don’t think so, Breta. Not yet, at any rate.’
‘So, daughter, will you stay here with us?’
‘All I know is weaponcraft and how to be contrary,’ Katla returned. ‘I never was much good with books, or even knots.’
‘We are all learning different things from each other,’ Bera said softly. ‘We are sharing our skills. Some of what I have discovered is quite remarkable. It is a pity your father has vanished off into the blue yonder . . .’ She coloured prettily.
Katla caught her breath. ‘Mother! But I thought you had divorced him.’