Wild Magic

by Jude Fisher

  ‘Harder, boy, harder. Put some muscle into it!’

  ‘Oh, for the Lady’s sake!’

  Saro Vingo hit the ground of the practice field with a thud, sending a little cloud of red dust spiralling into the air. Captain Galo Bastido stood over him, grinning maniacally out of his lopsided, broken-nosed face, his vast fists wrapped around the gigantic wooden sword with which Saro had just been thwacked. His arms ached; his shoulders ached; his head ached. And now his shins had added their own protests to his body’s general groan of complaint: they had been out on the field for well over an hour and a half without halt, and in all that time Saro had done little more than land a few glancing blows on his opponent. Quite the opposite was the case with the captain. The Bastard sweeping his legs from under him in this last ignominious fashion had been the latest degradation in a long sequence of humiliations that seemed designed to prove to the men watching – his father, his uncle and a visiting group of horse-traders – that the younger Vingo son would never have the strength, skill or guts to make up for the tragic lost promise of the elder; and that instead of passing the title of captain of the Altean militia to this pathetic specimen, Galo Bastido should reclaim the prestigious (and remunerative) role he regarded as his by right.

  Saro reached for the sword he had dropped and used it to lever himself wearily to his feet.

  ‘Again!’ the Bastard called, and took up his stance.

  Saro looked to his father for respite, but Favio stared at him stonily; indeed, appeared to be looking right through him to the enclosure beyond where the finest of the Vingo bloodstock cropped contentedly at the only green grass for miles in any direction. Saro knew this to be the case: he had last year helped to dig the irrigation system which kept it watered while the rest of the land parched in the late autumn sun. Tanto, of course, had not been expected to engage in such menial labour: he had spent the baking afternoons while Saro hacked at the rocky ground with pickaxe and spade riding one of the geldings over to the neighbouring estate and seducing their newest acquisition, a slavegirl purported to have spent time in the seraglio at Forent, and therefore a most accomplished and imaginative courtesan; or at least, that was how Tanto had reported the use of his time. Saro had had his doubts even then as to the veracity of his brother’s lurid tales of conquest. Now, after weeks of being subjected to the filthiest corners of Tanto’s memory and imagination, which entities appeared to be almost indistinguishable, Saro was becoming convinced that the tales his brother had told of those sultry afternoons had been very edited indeed.

  Tanto was seated now in the contraption that Favio and Fabel had commissioned for his use: a long, wickerwork chair with two small cartwheels attached in which the invalid would be able to propel himself along the flatter pathways surrounding the villa. That had been the idea, anyway; but Tanto had made no great effort to be self-sufficient, but had instead insisted on having two servants follow the chair at all times to lift it down steps or over thresholds, or even to push the vehicle along if he could no longer be bothered to do it for himself. A lever at either side brought the chair to rest and anchored it firmly; and if Tanto was overcome with exhaustion from all this exertion, another lever allowed the back of the chair to tilt until the thing had become a perfectly comfortable bed-on-wheels. Favio had worked on the design for long hours, sketching on parchment with goose quills and expensive inks, before handing over his plans to a man in Altea town who specialised in the construction of horse-drawn racing carts. It had cost the family a small fortune they simply did not have: Saro had heard his father and uncle arguing into the small hours about the grievous nature of the family’s finances. The deal for Night’s Harbinger, their finest horse, had fallen through, and no one seemed to be buying much at the moment anyway. There was too much uncertainty in the air, too much talk of war for anyone to be committing their capital to breeding programmes or such frivolities as racing; but Favio had been insistent about the need to provide his beloved son with his own means of transport around the grounds. ‘It will do him a power of good to regain a little independence, you’ll see.’

  But as far as Saro could see, it just afforded his brother more excuses to follow him around the estate to ensure his torments never became stale.

  Wincing, he pushed himself to his feet now and brought his sword up to signal his readiness to continue the bout. He was so exhausted that when the Bastard came at him again, instinct took over and had him moving out of the man’s way without his conscious mind intervening in his response at all. Suddenly, he found the captain’s wide back offered to him and his wooden blade descending in a stinging blow as he passed. His arms tingled with the momentary contact, then he was back in himself again, bemused by the shouts of surprise from the stockade.

  ‘A hit!’

  ‘By the Goddess, boy, you got him!’

  He looked up to see Fabel there, grinning widely.

  ‘Go on, lad!’ he called. ‘You’ve got the measure of him now.’

  This seemed palpably unlikely to Saro, but he could not help but experience a brief moment of amazed selfcongratulation. A moment later, he found himself unable to breathe. Under the guise of a complicated spinning attack, the Bastard had caught him with a vicious fist to the gut. Out of the onlookers’ view, it was designed to seem that Saro had been caught napping in his moment of triumph. The audience at the fence groaned in resigned acceptance. The strike on the captain had clearly been an aberration; a lucky blow.

  Finding his knees giving way, Saro clutched for balance at his opponent’s arm. He knew it was a mistake even as his fingers closed on Bastido’s hard muscle. Ravening ambition spiked through him, as bitter as bile; hurt pride, overweening arrogance – for here he was, Captain Galo Bastido – the finest warrior in the province – forced to play-fight this piteous creature grovelling in the dirt before him when by rights he should be training the troop he was born to lead, parading through the streets of Altea town in a red-plumed helmet and silk-lined cloak, with the ladies remarking favourably on the fine figure he cut, and the men in proper awe of his discipline. It was insupportable. It was unfair. He could not allow the plume to pass to this worm of a boy—

  Saro saw the disabling stroke – a neat, twisting downward cut designed to detach the plate over the knee—

  He rolled away just in time. The Bastard’s heavy practice blade came whistling down, grazed his shin and buried itself in the red soil with a thud. The look in the man’s eyes as he backed away was quite enough to confirm his suspicions: Galo Bastido would cheerfully have crippled him in that moment.

  ‘Enough!’

  Favio Vingo strolled wearily into the enclosure, every line of his body speaking his disenchantment, and his resignation. The boy was hopeless, but it would be shame indeed to have the Altean militia led by any other than a Vingo, as Tanto kept reminding him . . .

  The messenger had arrived from Jetra that afternoon. The Vingos were summoned to join a Council gathering in the Eternal City. ‘They must be scraping the barrel, brother,’ Fabel said, looking up from Cera’s missive, ‘to require our presence.’

  They were not members of the Ruling Council, but only of the extended governance of the provincial states: Altea provided scant revenues to the Council’s coffers even in a good year.

  ‘It must surely mean war,’ Favio returned gloomily, taking the scroll from his brother and casting a suspicious eye over the curt invitation as if seeking some further message written in an ink only he might perceive. ‘But if it does, why don’t they come right out and say it? I don’t want to haul myself all the way to bloody Jetra for no good reason.’

  Tanto thumped the table. ‘I hope it does!’ He grinned at Saro, who was balanced precariously on the bench on one buttock, trying desperately to avoid even the slightest touch from his brother. For his part, Tanto had been edging his way minutely along the bench they shared during the course of the meal and was thoroughly enjoying Saro’s obvious discomfort.

  ‘Why so, my son?’ F
avio turned a puzzled face to his favourite.

  ‘Then Saro may avenge my injuries on the barbarians who brought me to this lamentable plight.’

  Fabel nodded sagely. ‘Indeed, I am sure your brother is eager to do just that. Has he not been training hard these past weeks for just such an opportunity?’

  I certainly had no such thing in mind, Saro thought. Quite the opposite: were it not for the torment I’ve suffered as a result, I’d bless the one who brought my beloved brother to this pass. Rather than say such, he smiled dutifully and inclined his head. ‘Of course, Uncle, although it seems to me that I have little talent for war.’

  In normal circumstances, Tanto would have delighted in taking up this chance to humiliate his sibling further; but instead of agreeing with Saro’s unchallengeable statement, he said: ‘Excellent, brother. I knew you would not fail me. You will make us all proud.’ And the look he gave him then was opaque and hard to read. But Saro knew him well enough to sense some other game at hand. And so he watched through narrowed eyes as Tanto leaned across the table to their father and said something in a low tone that he could not quite catch. Then, with cumbersome care, the invalid swung his apparently lifeless legs over the settle and snapped his fingers at the two body-servants currently lolling beside the hearth, who sprang into action with an alacrity born of long experience of Tanto’s impatient rages and swift fists, installing him in the rolling chair before he had had time even to utter the command.

  Favio rose; but as Saro got to his feet, too, he waved his hands. ‘No, no – stay here and entertain our guests, my dear son. We’ll be back shortly.’

  Saro could not remember the last time Favio had addressed him thus. Something was surely afoot. He sat back down and watched his brother and father disappear through the chamber’s door with cold dread seeping into the pit of his stomach.

  Their guests for the evening were a pair of bloodstock traders from the north-east. Some sort of deal had been struck for three of the mares to augment their stud; but they had no need of more stallions, so the Vingos were left with Night’s Harbinger and precious little money to show for the day’s discussions. The cost of the meal alone – a lavish affair – would probably undo what little profit the family had taken; but at least the men were good company. They were a lively pair: one portly and wicked-humoured, the other as thin as a fence-post with a laugh like the rattle of a pied crow. They had been in business together since the last war and seemed closer than man and wife, for when one started a sentence the other was likely to finish it for him, and they seemed to delight in setting up each other’s jests and punchlines. It hardly seemed necessary to entertain them, but as ever Fabel played the good host.

  ‘So,’ he said now, rubbing his hands together as if in anticipation of a treat, ‘what’s been your best deal of recent weeks?’

  The squat man – Dano – winked at his partner. ‘Better not mention the widow, eh Gabrio?’

  The thin man’s rattle echoed off the walls. ‘Or her silly daughter – ah, no; but the bay—’

  ‘—with the star; thought its spine would surely snap!’

  ‘Thirty cantari—’

  ‘Thirty-one – don’t forget the one!’

  ‘Thirty-one: you are correct as ever, my friend.’

  ‘She was a big woman—’

  ‘Quite huge. I’m sure Figuero’s back looked bowed when she finally clambered off him.’

  ‘No more than her legs even before she got aboard—’

  ‘She might fit you, then, Dano!’

  And they were off and chortling again. Saro exchanged a look with his uncle, who rolled his eyes and tried a different tack. ‘So you say you came down through Jetra then, gentlemen?’

  The thin man – Gabrio – swallowed his clattering laughter and regarded Fabel solemnly. ‘Ah yes, the Eternal City, flower of the Empire. Strange to see a town so renowned for its tranquillity in such a ferment.’

  ‘Ferment?’

  ‘I’ve never seen so many lords gathered in one place: Cera, Prionan, Gila, the Bear – even one of the Circesian lords; and the Dystras, of course – all preparing for this Council meeting, I suppose.’

  Fabel frowned. ‘What about Rui Finco, Lord of Forent?’

  Dano leaned across the table. ‘Taken up with a madman, they say.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The Lord of Cantara – who never used to be one of the Ruling Council, unless my memory’s poorer than I remember?’ Gabrio scratched his head. ‘Anyway, they were both travelling south when we left, preaching and railing all the way.’

  ‘Preaching? Rui Finco? Surely not? The man’s a libertine – about as different to Tycho Issian as can be.’

  Dano quirked an eyebrow. ‘The Lord of Cantara a friend of yours?’ he asked carefully.

  Fabel snorted. ‘Hardly.’

  An expression of relief crossed the trader’s face. ‘That’s all right then. Nutter. Crazy as they come. Whipping them into a frenzy all the way around Forent, calling for a holy war against the North.’

  ‘Holy?’ Saro asked. The last he had heard of the southern lord, he had been urging raids upon Eyra in response to the abduction of his daughter Selen. Understandable vengeance; but hardly a sacred cause.

  ‘Takes a tall, pale man with him—’

  ‘—wherever he goes. He just stands there—’

  ‘—behind him. With a cat.’

  ‘With a cat in his arms, all trussed up like a roasting bird—’

  ‘—poor thing.’

  ‘Poor thing.’

  ‘And what do they do, the pale man and the cat, I mean?’ Saro asked.

  ‘Why, nothing,’ Dano said. ‘It’s like . . .’

  ‘. . . theatre,’ finished Gabrio, and the two men grinned at one another. ‘A bit of stage-dressing. Catches the eye and draws a crowd. Keeps ’em riveted, too: spellbound.’

  Saro and his uncle exchanged glances. ‘A strange alliance,’ Fabel said at last. ‘And there’s really talk of war?’

  ‘The people seem to want it,’ Dano said simply. ‘Not the Council, not really: they’re more cautious.’

  ‘Older lords have been there before,’ Gabrio added. ‘They’ve seen what war can do, the atrocity and the disruption. They’re less keen. Plus, they know the state of the country’s treasury. Not good.’

  ‘Not good,’ Dano echoed. ‘War’s expensive.’

  ‘Affords opportunities, though,’ Gabrio said brightly. ‘Money to be made—’

  ‘—power to be mongered.’

  Saro shivered. If there were a war then he’d have to fight in earnest. He imagined having to fend off some huge veteran northerner with a bloodstained axe, a big man with murder in his eyes and death in his hands. He’d better start learning how to run faster.

  There was a commotion at the doorway and an exchange of voices heralded the return of his brother and father. Then Tanto’s wheeled chair came into view, heaped high with unfamiliar objects which glittered in the flickering gold light of the candles like a treasure-horde.

  The traders whistled.

  ‘For you, brother,’ Tanto said softly, positioning himself in such a way as to block any escape. ‘All for you.’

  It was the armour of Platino Vingo, legendary hero of their house, Lord of Altea, Pex and Talsea and head of the Ruling Council in those days before the Vingo fortunes had plummeted and drought had gripped their land like a rabid dog. On top of a faded linen surplice in the family colours of blue and silver lay a breastplate of bronze all chased with silver in the form of a rising hawk, its talons encircling a coiling snake. Tooled leather vambraces and greaves lay jumbled in Tanto’s lap; gauntlets and mailed boots. On top of the whole pile sat the helm: a mighty lump of bronze and iron as forbidding as a severed head, its eye-slit a vacant gash, its horsehair plume the faded red of sun-bleached plush.

  Saro felt the breath ooze out of him.

  ‘Since I will never have the honour of bearing these arms, it is only fitting that they pass to yo
u, brother,’ Tanto said, smiling. For all his pallor and sunken cheeks, he looked as sunny and innocent as a child offering meadow flowers to its mother.

  Unable to meet this unnerving regard, Saro stared down at the helmet instead, taking in the little dents and scrapes that marred its polished surface; at the gouges in the crest and cheek-guards where the weapons of enemies had glanced off; at the jagged widening at the right of the eye-slit.

  When he looked up again, he found Tanto’s gaze upon him; and now the pupils were black with some powerful emotion.

  ‘Here,’ Tanto said. He picked up the helmet and held it out. ‘Take it. It’s yours now, brother.’

  Saro glanced past Tanto to where Favio stood in the doorway. His father gave him a chilly look, then nodded almost imperceptibly.

  ‘Go on, lad,’ Fabel said cheerfully from behind him. ‘It may be an antique, but you’ll never see better. It was forged by Culo, you know: they say it was his apprentice piece before he became Constantin’s smith.’

  It had been a hundred and sixty years since Istria had deposed its last emperor; which made the armour over a hundred and eighty years old, Saro calculated rapidly. He stared at the thing, unwilling to take it into his hands, which had begun to shake.

  ‘A little bit of history, that helmet,’ Fabel went on, apparently unaware of Saro’s discomfort. ‘Been through the Battle of Six Hills, the Fords of Alta, the War of the Ravens. Lady knows how many other conflicts.’

  There was no escape: Saro could feel the room closing in, could sense the weight of four pairs of curious eyes upon him. Gritting his teeth, he reached for the artefact, but Tanto was faster. With a feint, he brought the helmet up past Saro’s extended hands and, with a remarkably swift and deft manoeuvre for an invalid, jammed it down over his brother’s head.