by Patty Jansen
Ruko pulled on the hooded cloak with jerky movements that oozed anger. While he stepped back up onto the driver’s seat, his eyes met Tandor’s. They both knew that Tandor’s threat was useless. He needed Ruko to be a servitor for his plan to succeed.
Ruko flicked the reins. Even that simple gesture made Tandor’s skin creep. With every step the bear took towards the city, the boy’s power grew.
The bear started moving again.
The Outer City lay on a hillock to the right, a jumble of snow-covered humps which were houses built by those who had been exiled from the city after the Knights had taken over power. Initially, it had been nothing more than a camp, frequently razed by Knights to weed out the last remains of Thillei blood. These days, the settlement was a decent town in its own right, a gathering of buildings that had been thrown together without plans or foresight, home of commerce, and crime.
The traditional festival grounds were a temporary town made of colourful tents on the plain separating the Outer City from the City of Glass proper. It was busy; the breeze brought shards of music and clapping, and grumbles of bears from the sled parking area. There were fences, a course for racing Tusked Lions. They even had igloos for the animals. Tandor spotted the flapping wings of an eagle, and the grey and red uniform of a Knight. Yes, they would be out here in force, too.
Newlight meant free unlimited girls, most of whom were throwing themselves at the Knights, so most of them wouldn’t look so closely at what went on in the Outer City.
Ruko steered the sled along a track that had many marks from passing traffic, no doubt made by Lion-catchers returning to the city with the first of the to-be-slaughtered animals.
Soon, they had reached the ramshackle collection of houses, with Ruko negotiating the twisty streets. Getting lost was easy in the Outer City. No street was straight and the houses, structures locals called limpets, all looked the same from the outside: large conical shapes of ice. The ones that had just been resurfaced were pristine white, while the older ones had gone dirty and grey. Usually, the only other thing that distinguished individual houses was the colour of the doors, but during the Newlight festival, most doors were yellow.
There were people everywhere: talking on street corners, watching artistes in colourful clothing juggling balls while standing on each other’s shoulders.
The sled progressed at walking pace. The people would see a noble and a girl heavy with child—a man from the city proper with his breeder woman, nothing out of the ordinary. Nobles came to the Outer City for shady business, and as such they were best ignored when they were there.
A juggler performed an act with a set of black coals and a huge butcher’s knife. At his feet lay a stuffed pillow made from bear fur, symbolising the animal that would be ritually killed at the height of the celebrations. Newlight celebrated the end of the long, dark winter, when the sun rose above the horizon and hunting trips were again possible. It was the start of a time of plenty, of new life, and of fertility.
The sled had gone past the juggler before the man got to the part of his act that involved stabbing the stuffed bear and ripping it apart. Usually, there was something inside for the children. Chevakian sweets, or bits of saltmeat. Tandor could taste it on his tongue.
By the skylights, the memories. His mother used to take him here for visits almost every year.
Myra looked wide-eyed at the scenery sliding past. For a short time at least, she seemed to have forgotten to complain.
They crossed the markets, with busy stalls and roaring fires, where people were eating hot food and warming themselves. Tandor felt the pull of icefire from the merchant who usually had his stall in the very corner. To the common people in the street, he sold crockery and bits and pieces he scavenged from old estates, but under his benches, he held forbidden items from the past. Little portraits of the King, a piece of cutlery with the Thillei emblem, scavenged from the palace storerooms. Today there was no opportunity for Tandor to see the man, but he’d come back later. First he must deposit this complaining child in mistress Loriane’s hands.
Ruko halted the sled in front of a newly-covered limpet with a blue door. So familiar, down to the white snowflake patterns on the blue paint—Tandor had painted them—and the mark on the door which he had made trying to manoeuvre a chair inside. So many times had Tandor stepped through that door into Loriane’s soft arms. He could taste her lips against his, he could feel the softness of her breasts under his hands. He could—
“Is this it?” Myra asked, frowning.
Tandor shook himself out of his memories. “Yes.”
He jumped off the sled. A young couple came past and stared at him as he lifted the knocker and let it fall on the door. Why would a noble come to mistress Loriane’s house? Good question.
Tandor ignored the gazes. He imagined the big round stove that was the centre of the limpet, where Loriane would make her heavenly soup. He could almost see her determined face, the cheeks red with cold, the slightly crooked mouth and the way one of her eyes always seemed to squint. No, Loriane wasn’t pretty either. Her beauty was on the inside.
Why had no one opened the door yet?
“Well, your woman obviously isn’t at home.” Myra’s voice sounded peevish.
Tandor wanted to snap at her. Yes, he was sore and tired, too—and how was he to know that Loriane would be out?—but he bit on his irritation.
“She might be at the festival,” he said.
The remaining Imperfect boy would be fifteen. He might take part in some of the competitions. Loriane’s brother was a butcher. He would have an important role in the festivities. Yes, that was it.
He climbed back into the sled.
Ruko’s questioning mind touched his.
Tandor forced his thoughts back on the snow-covered field where the crowds and the tents had been. And the eagles. The place crawled with Knights, since a lot of them would be competing. Well, that was not to be helped.
Ruko steered the sled away from the house, and they went back through the same busy streets, drawing annoyed glances from pedestrians.
When they reached the festival grounds, the sled could go no further. The designated parking area was already full and the igloos occupied with bears. But never mind; they wouldn’t stay long.
Tandor jumped out, after which Myra pulled up her legs and settled sideways on the bench. “You go and look for her. I’ll stay here.”
“No, you won’t.” He couldn’t risk losing her now.
“I’m tired.”
“No, you come. I promised your father I’d look after you.” And I didn’t take you to play stubborn adolescent either.
Her face scrunched up briefly, but then she pressed her lips together and rose. “I don’t know why you wanted me to come. So far, you’ve only been disgusting and nasty to me.”
“You’ll find out.” He held out an arm. She took it, clambering awkwardly from the sled. A man walking past shot him a look that might have been disdain. Noble men of the City of Glass paid their breeder women to have their children but did not, ever, fall in love with them. He wanted to scream at those curious people the child isn’t mine.
A man walked past pulling a sled full of barrels. Bloodwine. That load was worth a lot of sore heads tomorrow morning.
To his right, at the bottom of the slope, stood several bright-coloured tents. Clouds of steam rose into the air from food stalls.
A bit further away over the plains, a group of eagles were coming in. The tail end of the long-distance race for Apprentice Knights, Tandor picked up from a shard of conversation.
A couple of youngsters were walking in the snow in bare feet, with bare legs protruding from blankets. Ah, the swimming. Didn’t they make that race harder every year? Jump in the water, swim to the ice f
loe, climb on, get the token, jump back in and return to the start? By that time, most of the competitors were so cold they needed rescuing, to loud jeers of the audience. Oh, the memories were coming back.
Soon, they were amongst the thick of the activity. Tandor wanted to run from tent to tent. Now he was so close, he hungered for Loriane’s touch, the twinkle in her eyes and the caress of her hands.
Loriane had once said she manned the drinks booth, so they looked at the food stalls. It was so busy that Tandor had to hold Myra close for fear of becoming separated in the throng. She shuddered under his touch.
The crowds at the swimming were so thick that even he, tall as he was, could only hear the splashes and the shouts. Further past the tents, nurses’ sleds marked with green were doing a brisk trade shipping contestants off to the various Outer City healers.
Ah. As midwife, Loriane was a healer of sorts. Maybe she was on duty in the medical post.
A huge queue lined up there. Tandor pushed past the line. People glared, but said nothing at the sight of the golden curls on his cheeks. The advantages of being a noble.
In one tent, a couple of frazzled nurses were treating a young man with cuts all over his upper body. Tandor guessed he had fallen on the ice.
In another tent, a group of young men continued to brawl while Tandor tried to make himself heard. Where was Loriane? The young nurse thought maybe in the main post. Where was that? Her reply was interrupted by a loud burp. The next thing one of the brawling youths projecto-vomited bloodwine all over his mates and collapsed face first onto the floor. Then everyone started yelling.
Tandor retreated. The smell of vomit made him feel sick.
“Have you seen anything that might look like a main medical post?” he asked Myra.
She didn’t reply. Her face was pale; she seemed not to have heard anything.
A stab of irritation shot through him. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong? Well, you’re so good at being crude. In case you haven’t noticed, having a child inside you puts a lot of pressure on your rear end. In case you don’t understand that: my butt hurts and I feel like pissing myself with every step. I want to use the outroom.” Her voice spilled over.
“But you did only just before we came here.”
“Didn’t you listen to what I said? I feel like that. All. The. Fucking. Time.”
People were stepping back, leaving a small circle around them, keen expressions on their faces. At Newslight, fights were entertainment, no matter who was fighting.
He grabbed her arm. “Come. You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”
“No, I’m not coming anywhere. I’ve had enough.”
She yanked her arm out of his grip and ran, shouldering people aside. Oh, by the skylights!
Tandor pushed between curious onlookers, but she had vanished. Great. That was just what he needed.
He stood there, gnashing his teeth when a shiver crawled over his arm. Icefire. A brief golden thread snaked through the air. That had to be from Myra, but the thread had not come from the direction of the sled. Where was she going? Was she lost already?
Women.
He pushed through the crowd. The sensation grew stronger. Golden threads shivered and dissolved into sparks. At that point he realised that this icefire didn’t come from Myra: the boy was here.
Stupid. He should have realised that. Myra had Thillei blood, but it wasn’t half as strong as the boy’s. Isandor had turned fifteen and would be out here looking for girls, maybe drinking if he had money, or taking part in a competition or two.
All Tandor needed to do was follow the tug of icefire and collect another of his children. Except the strand led him . . . to the eagles’ pens.
Tandor spotted Myra before he found Isandor. She was at the fence, staring into the pen where at least thirty eagles were tied up on bars. She was even leaning her Imperfect arm on the fence. By the skylights, get away before anyone sees you. The place was crawling with Knights. There were at least ten of them in their distinctive red tunics with grey cloaks.
“Myra, come,” he hissed at her. “I promise we’ll go back to the sled now.”
She didn’t move, but stared ahead.
Tandor followed her gaze. In a group of a few young Knights stood a distinctive young man, lean and quite tall. His skin was milk-pale and his hair black as lowsun night. Since Tandor had seen him last, his face had become more mature. He even sported a dark fuzz of hair on his chin. But his eyes were the clearest, darkest blue, that colour people called royal blue. It was Loriane’s boy Isandor, and he was wearing an Eagle Knight uniform.
Chapter 7
* * *
ICE FLOES, belly slithers, what would they think of next?
Loriane pulled the thread and knotted it close to the young man’s skin. She cut the needle free and covered the wound with a dab of paste to stop it going bad.
“That will become a nasty scar, I’m afraid,” she said. On his forehead, too. Stupidity forever engraved on his face.
The man blinked, looking up at the canvas ceiling of the treatment tent. Light from the central fire flickered in his eyes. He was too drunk to respond, too drunk to feel pain. He also had been too drunk to swim probably, otherwise he would not be sitting here.
“I’ve finished with him,” she said to his friends who waited by the fire, hands outstretched to warm themselves. “Take him home and make sure he rests for a tennight.”
They mumbled agreement.
Loriane heaved herself to her feet and tossed her instruments—scalpel and needles—into the cooking pot that hung over the fire.
“Help me put his clothes back on.”
One of the young men came forward and pulled his mate up from the chair while Loriane wrestled unwilling limbs back into armholes, sliding cloth over wounds she had bandaged earlier. The stench of bloodwine around the men made her gag.
The man’s cloak, blood-splattered and dirty, went over his clothes. The two shuffled out with the patient.
Loriane sighed and sank down in the chair that still held the young man’s lingering warmth. Rest. Like that would ever happen. More likely, she’d see him back here tomorrow with . . . Let’s see . . . alcohol poisoning, cuts from the ice, bruises from his fellow’s fists or deep ugly scratches from trying to mount an eagle. Seriously, had she ever been that stupid at that age?
She so much preferred her usual patients: pregnant women who came to her for advice and who asked her to come to the palace birthing rooms to help deliver their children.
She should pack up and go home before someone brought the next victim. During the Newlight festival, there was always a next victim. She had been on her feet since this morning. They hurt. Her belly hurt.
As she picked up her cloak, the tent’s outer flap whispered like it did when someone entered. A girl stood there, barely out of adolescence. Loriane knew her; she lived a few streets away, the daughter of a merchant.
“Mistress Loriane! Am I too late?”
Loriane sighed. “I was about to go home. Be quick.”
“I’d like to get my ichina.” The girl’s eyes shone. “I got my first bleeding, just in time for Newlight.”
All girls went through this trial, the ritual deflowering of their innocence. When they bled, they were allowed to consort with whomever they liked whenever they liked during the Newlight celebrations.
Loriane went to her medicine chests. She rummaged through her medicines for the jar of ichina, and measured out a small quantity of the red powder on her scales.
“You must take it on the first day you stop bleeding. You should mix it in a drink. It’s most effective if you use it in the morning.”
The girl nodded sol
emnly, but her eyes shone.
“Are you sure you want it now? Because you would have more chance next year. A girl’s bleeding usually takes some time to settle before you can conceive.” If that happened at all. Far too many women went barren.
“No, I want it now.” The girl blushed.
All right—she fancied someone.
“Anyone important? If it is, you have to make sure you get a contract negotiated if you fall pregnant. Don’t ask too much. They might use you again if they’re happy with you.”
The tent flap rustled again, letting in Aera, one of the Outer City’s regular healers, an older woman with a severe bun on top of her head. She advanced silently into the tent, put down a bucket and peeled off her cloak. Underneath, she wore a study dress. She rolled up the sleeves and started transferring chunks of ice from her bucket into a large pot of water that hung over the fire.
Loriane rattled off the other things in a business-like manner. The girl left, happy and red-cheeked, clutching the treasure in her pocket.
“You go home,” Aera said into the silence. “I’ll take over. You look tired.”
Loriane nodded. She was tired. Somehow, this child exhausted her more than the previous nine had.
“How long until you drop that child?”
“A tennight, no more.” Or tonight, she wished with all her mind, but so far none of the concoctions she gave her girls had worked.
“Urgh. Rather you than me. Whose is this one?”
“Yanko.”
“Good catch. Hope he’ll pay well for the suffering.”
Loriane nodded non-committally. The world of breeders was far removed from this woman’s life. Most of the bright-eyed girls who came to ask Loriane for ichina never came back again. Like so many of the city’s women, they were barren. If they were lucky, they would snare a decent husband who would pay a breeder to have his children. If they found no husband, well, there was always the street, the pleasure parlours and the merchants were always looking for workers in poorly-heated warehouses.