Sorcery Rising (31 page)

‘The violet is a fine choice, Tanto: I swear you’ll look like the young Alesto.’

Tanto frowned and put the robe back down on the display in a crumpled heap, which made the stallholder tut and fuss. Even from the little attention he had paid in his classes he knew that scriptures told that Alesto had been Falla’s lover, the man she had chosen to couple with from among all mortal men for his beauty rather than his brains. His father had clearly forgotten that Alesto, as a result, had come to a rather unfortunate and crispy end . . .

‘We must get back, Father,’ he said impatiently. A doubt about Saro and the prize money had been nagging at the back of his mind this last hour.

‘Ah, yes, preparations to make for tonight. And we must congratulate young Saro on his win.’ It was a shame they’d missed the actual race, Favio mused. It had seemed so unlikely to him that Saro would ever triumph in anything that he’d allowed himself to be distracted by some exotic dancers Tanto seemed keen on watching, and as a result they’d arrived at the course only in time to see Night’s Harbinger making his victory progress. ‘It was a fine performance, by all accounts. I always said the boy had it in him.’ He knew this to be an untruth even as he said it, but he was feeling generous, in the circumstances. ‘And lucky for us, too, though I doubt we’ll be making much of it to my lord of Cantara: we don’t want him thinking he’s got the wrong son-in-law, eh, Tanto?’

But his elder son was in a world of his own. Tanto’s mind had strayed yet again to the beauty mark Selen Issian had worn; the beauty mark, and those lips . . .

‘How long before we can have the wedding, Father?’ he asked suddenly.

Favio Vingo smiled. He remembered how eager he had been to take Illustria to wife. Ah, Illustria . . . the thought stretched away into the distant past, became uncomfortable, and was pushed away. ‘Well, my boy. It’ll need some planning, that’s for certain: a lot of nobles and their retinues to be taken into account; a suitable date; auspicious omens; the right sacrifices, all that sort of thing. I suspect we’ll not be able to secure a date that suits all before Harvest.’

‘Harvest?’ Tanto almost howled, it was such a shock. He’d been expecting to bed the woman tonight, tomorrow at latest. Harvest was still four moons or more away, and though passing up on a lavish ceremony in which he would be the centre of all attention was hard to do, to find out whether Selen Issian would perform the perversion that beauty mark actually denoted was worth the renunciation.

Favio saw his son’s dismay with some amusement and took pity on him. ‘But of course, that’s just the Goddess’s ceremony, Tanto. No need to wait so long to bed your bride: we’ll find a priest this very night to consecrate the match, if her father’s willing. We’ll soon have you fornicating away like a pair of mountain cats! It’s praise to the Goddess herself for a girl to make the Joining with her belly full of her husband’s seed.’

Tanto felt a fire in his groin. He might still have her tonight! Even though he’d groped his way through a hundred prostitutes, he had never experienced the sort of anticipation he felt now for the act, which before had been impersonal, perfunctory. No, this would be different. This would be
ownership
. He felt himself a larger man already.

They left the stalls behind them and made their way back to the Istrian quarter. Even as they did so, the criers were beginning their evening observances, a mournful wail that rose into the twilight air. Favio, a pious man, dropped immediately to his knees and started to chant. Tanto rolled his eyes. Yet another delay! Even so, he followed suit as dutifully as he could, and hurried through the prayers so quickly that he finished his incantations a good half minute before his father. As soon as Favio pronounced the final ‘safe in your fires forever’, Tanto had leapt up, grabbed him by the elbows and hauled him upright. ‘Come along, now, Father: the evening’s drawing in and I’d not want you to catch a chill,’ he announced with false solicitude.

Back at the Vingo pavilion the sconces were burning brightly, and they could smell the sweet safflower incense from twenty feet away. ‘They are wasting that stuff,’ Favio muttered crossly. ‘Do they have no idea how expensive it is?’

It was the only occasion on which Tanto had ever heard his father complain about the cost of anything. Obviously the calling in of the Vingo debt had made a significant hole in their family finances, that he would complain so. For the first time he realised just how important this alliance must be to his father, that he’d stake so much on the settlement. He smiled. It would be worth it, he knew. The joining of the estates would make them a formidable force in the power-play of the provinces, and he and Selen would found a dynasty to be remembered down the centuries . . .

Inside, a pile of money glittered on the table, the candlelight sparking off its curves of shining silver. Propped up against it was a note in Saro’s workmanlike hand. Tanto took in the scene at a glance. The pile of coins clearly amounted to rather less than the sum Saro had won.

Favio picked up the note and read aloud:

Favio stared at Tanto, who had gone white. ‘What does he mean by this?’

Tanto tore the note from his father’s unresisting hand and scanned it desperately as if in the three intervening seconds the words might somehow have changed their import.

‘It means I am lost.’ He sat down heavily on the cushions and buried his head in his hands. The note fluttered to the ground.

Favio, bemused, sat down beside him. ‘Lost? Nay, it is I who am lost, my boy: what’s this bit about “obligations”? And why isn’t he coming with us to the Gathering, rather than saying he’ll meet us there?’

Tanto shoved himself to his feet. ‘I’ll find the little bastard and wring the bloody money out of him, I will!’ And so saying, he ran from the central chamber to the side-room where Saro slept, ripping open the door-flap so violently that it tore. His father stared after him with a pained expression on his face, then retrieved the note from the floor and read it again.

Saro was gone: his cloak was missing. Tanto stared furiously about the room for places where his brother might have cached the money. First he flung open the chest in which Saro stored his belongings, but all he found inside were some neatly folded smallclothes, some hose, a plain pair of doeskin slippers and some candles and flints. Beside the chest, on the rush-matted floor, the inkpot and quill had clearly been discarded in some haste, for a single drop of black ink had stained the matting, spreading out like a canker across the delicate green surface. Saro kicked at the chest viciously and it went over, taking the inkpot with it, spattering the white linen and pale suede beyond salvage. Tanto surveyed the damage grimly, then went to work on Saro’s bed. He stripped the cover from it and slung it across the room. He felt under the pallet with desperate hands: to no avail. He was just rising when a glint of something silver caught his eye. Grabbing up the pillow, though, he found not coins, as he had for one ecstatic moment anticipated, but a pattern-bladed dagger. He picked it up and weighed it in his hand, his brows knit in confusion. The pommel fit his palm with a rare and perfect balance. Something about it tugged at his memory. He’d been looking for such a blade as this, knowing the other flawed. Damn Saro: if he’d had this blade, he’d never have lost to the desertman – instead by now he’d have had a further two thousand cantari in his pouch and no headache. He rubbed at his temples. Why would his pathetic, unwarlike weed of a brother have a superb weapon like this? Why would he have any weapon at all, let alone under his pillow? Was he so very afraid of him? The thought almost made Tanto smile. He was right to be afraid; for if he ever caught up with him, he’d soon be sorry he’d ever bought the thing, sorry that its blade was so sharp. He could exactly imagine the sort of cut he could inflict with an edge like this. The sort of cut that would leave a scar, somewhere none too visible – a buttock, maybe, or the sole of a foot. And if Saro had given the money to the nomad girl, then she’d soon be joining her grandfather. Tanto stabbed the dagger down into the pillow and ripped it sideways so that a cloud of white goose feathers came billowing out into the air. They spiralled lazily, then drifted down to cover the room in what appeared to be a light covering of snow.

At this point, Favio came in. He stared around in dismay.

‘By Falla, what chaos! I have never seen such a disgusting sight. The boy must have run mad with the headiness of his win. I always said he was not strong of spirit, but this! This is a disgrace. That pillow alone cost me a cantari, and what is this?’ He bent to pick up the white linen shirt, now covered in patches of dark, sticky ink. ‘The Goddess abhors a sloven. Saro should be ashamed of himself for mistreating the good things he owns in such a way, and he shall be sorry when next I see him.’

‘Sorry for what, brother?’

Fabel had appeared at Favio’s shoulder. He peered around the chamber, gave a short whistle.

‘Dear oh dear. Bit of a mess. Still, he’s not a bad lad, our Saro, not by a long stick. What a ride, eh? Fine ride, I’d say. And I’ve had two very decent offers for the beast, too. Should make a good sale tomorrow.’ He tapped Tanto on the shoulder with the piece of parchment. ‘I see he’s going to meet us at the Gathering with the rest of the money. Good lad, eh? Saving you from yourself.’ He winked. ‘Might spend it all on women and wine otherwise, eh Tanto?’

Tanto gave him a wan smile. ‘Ah, indeed, Uncle.’

Favio looked suddenly relieved. ‘Of course, of course. He’ll meet us there with the money. What a good lad he is. Come on then, Tanto, hurry along. Let’s get you looking your best, make Lord Tycho proud to give his daughter to you.

‘Fabel: those gifts for the northern king—’

As Tanto left, he distinctly caught the words, ‘sold, brother, and at less than we paid for them,’ and his father swear in a most impious manner.

Thirteen

The Gathering

E
ven preoccupied as she was by her plans for escape, Katla was wonder-struck by the crowds at the Gathering. It was not just the sheer number of folk, though there were more people here than she had ever seen in her life, crammed into the grand pavilion, with its rippling fabric roof and tall mast-pillars, but the riot of colours, the phenomenal display of finery. Everyone, it seemed, had overdressed for the occasion. Or rather, she corrected herself, every Eyran had done so; for while the Empire men wore their rich robes with a nonchalance that bespoke a complete unconcern with the evening’s proceedings, the northerners by contrast had bedecked themselves with all the jewellery and decoration they could ladle on, as if to show the old enemy they were not such barbarians after all.

The fabrics you usually saw in the north were coloured by the natural dyes of the islands, from the lichens and pulped weeds that produced soft shades of green and yellow and pale mallow-pink; and from the summer berries, lilacs and reds that promised much, then faded to a dull brown. But it was clear that everyone here tonight had cast their Eyran-bought clothes aside in favour of the gaudiest colour clashes they could manage. For many folk it had clearly been a good Fair, for such fabrics did not come cheap. She saw Falko and Gordi Livson in quartered tunics of crimson and yellow, standing next to Edel Ollson and Hopli Garson in doublets of violent green and orange. Edel Ollson had also treated himself to a hat trimmed with the most ridiculous feathers – vast green things with great blue eyes bobbing at the ends. They could not possibly be real, she thought: no bird could hope to survive with such flamboyant plumage.

Jenna’s eyes were shining. As were her cheeks and her nose. She was already on her third goblet of southern wine, Katla noticed, still nursing most of her first. She would have to eke it out if she were to keep a clear head; but Jenna had no such inhibitions. Now she was pointing across half the tent, her voice shrill. ‘See that man there? He must be
vastly
wealthy.’ Katla followed her finger and saw an Istrian nobleman of middle height and dark-brown skin. His black hair was held back from his face with a simple silver circlet, so it was clearly not his jewellery that had attracted Jenna’s attention. ‘That purple cloth is terribly expensive. They say it’s made from sea snails.’

Katla stared at her in disbelief. ‘Snails? I can’t believe that’s so: Gramma Rolfsen and I experimented with snails. The dye came out a horrible, watery brown.’

Jenna clicked her teeth impatiently. ‘Not ordinary snails, you dolt; sea snails. They’re found only on a remote stretch of coast bordering the eastern ocean, and each one has to be squeezed by hand.’

Katla made a face. ‘Can’t fancy that much. Doesn’t the cloth stink?’

Jenna laughed. ‘Do you think a man like that would wear it if it did? Anyway, I don’t know what you’re so disgusted about, considering that dress you’re wearing.’

Katla coloured. ‘It was not my choice, you know. It was your father’s.’ Jenna seemed to have taken this new development remarkably well in her stride, Katla thought. But more likely she was so absorbed with being presented to King Ravn, she could hardly concentrate on anything else. Katla knew how she felt. It was all she could do to make conversation herself. There was still no sign of Erno, and she was beginning to feel decidedly edgy.

‘Don’t you know how they get the crimson so bright?’

Katla picked up a handful of the cloth and examined it, as if by doing so she might divine the answer. ‘I dare say it’s something horrid.’

Jenna smirked. Her teeth and gums were all stained to an odd greyish-purple by the wine, Katla noticed. Grinning away like that she looked like an afterwalker, one of the perambulating dead of the northern islands, who, unless you buried them securely under the porchstones of the house, would wander your lands after the sun went down keeping their semblance of life by sucking the blood out of animals.