Sorcery Rising (41 page)

Sitting on the top rail of the animal stockade, Saro Vingo watched the coils of thick black smoke rising from the other end of the fairground. He’d been wandering aimlessly for the past hour and more, at first in a fury, which had since cooled to confusion and doubt. It would, he had considered, be hard to go back, given what he’d done, what he’d said. In the heat of the moment – hating his brother for everything, hating his uncle for the vision he’d given him of his mother, hating his father for his unquestioning preference for Tanto – he’d truly meant to walk away from his family, from their greed and lack of principle, once and for all. But now he was unsure. For a start, where would he go? His first thought was of Katla Aransen: that hawklike face and strong hands, the way her touch had shivered on his skin. But Eyra was too foreign to him: he spoke none of the northerners’ harsh language, had no skills by which he could survive amongst such a tough, warlike people. To wander with the Footloose, watching the world go by from the back of a wagon, traversing mountain passes and broad river plains, pine forests and high plateaux was a temptation indeed. But what nomad would welcome him – an Istrian nobleman’s son; member of a race which had persecuted the Wandering Folk down the ages; brother to the man who had cold-bloodedly cut down Guaya’s grandfather – into their caravan? Even Guaya had not wanted to speak with him.

He was still embroiled in this stew of indecision when he saw the smoke rising in the east.

He started to walk back through the fairground, at first curious, then touched by a strange compulsion. Deciding it would be quicker to go along the strand than to weave between the tents, Saro ran directly downhill and out into the open, and then turned towards the Istrian quarter and the grand pavilion. Illuminated by the bright moon above, a long northern rowing boat was cresting the surf about thirty yards out from the shore. A tall man was pushing it through the shallows, the pale light turning his hair and beard to silver; while in the bow sat a woman in a deep red dress. Saro stared at them intently, a horrible suspicion forming.

Katla Aransen had been wearing a dress very like that when last he saw her. And the man was surely the one who had come to her stall, the one at whom she smiled so warmly . . .

Saro felt his heart plummet as if he had just stepped over a long, sheer drop. The moment at which he had first seen her, up on the Rock in the pale dawn light, curved through to this moment of departure and loss in a smooth and perfect arc.

She was gone; and with the same tall northerner he had met at her stall.
Even then
, he thought bitterly,
even then I knew
. The smoke forgotten, he turned on his heel, putting his back to the scene that had given him such sudden, unexpected pain. Feet crunching on the black pumice, he trudged back towards the Istrian quarter, and prepared himself to face his family’s collective wrath.

Mam slipped her dagger out of the folds of her preposterous green gown, slit the vile thing from neck to waist, and shrugged out of it like a mantis shedding its husk. Beneath it was her more natural carapace of mail and leather; her favourite sword strapped to one thigh, her throwing knives to the other. She grinned. A good fire always contributed nicely to the confusion. She’d tried to set it to create maximum smoke and minimum harm, but the canvas was parchment-dry after four days in the baking sun, and it had gone up rather more vigorously than she’d anticipated. As it was she took a robust view of such matters. Most of the folk here were at the Gathering for their own advancement – fat merchants finalising fat deals; fat nobles trying to sell off their fat daughters, everyone grasping after one thing or another. She had little sympathy with such people. From the age of eleven she’d lived off her wits, orphaned by war and raids. Her Uncle Garstan had taken her in for a while; but she soon found out why and it had not taken much soul-searching to decide that a life lived sleeping cold and hungry in hedge or ditch was preferable to one under a warm roof with a lecherous old hog.

Excellent vipers that they were, Joz and Knobber and Doc moulted their Istrian skins, and looked to their leader. She gave Dogbreath the signal. Dogo was immediately off and running, scrambling up onto the dais. Stormway and Southeye were busily bundling the King and his pale woman through a gash in the canvas, while Egg Forstson corralled another group of Eyran men and women, including the burly shipmaker and his pale-haired daughter.

As the others came storming through the milling throng, Mam made a quick gesture in the hand language they’d developed for use in the din of battle, and Knobber peeled off to the left to join Dogo, who was even now leaping enthusiastically through the hole in the tent like a trickster’s terrier through a flaming hoop. Mam smiled. Her troop was the best, just as the bastard Istrian lord had said. She waited for Joz and Doc to win through to her, then leapt onto the dais and followed the King’s group into the darkness. Ahead of her she could see the luminous glow of the nomad woman’s robe, a beacon in the gloom. Very considerate, Mam thought. They caught up with them in seconds.

‘Let us assist you, sire,’ she called.

The King turned slowly. ‘Who’s there?’

‘We should get you and your woman away from here,’ Mam said smoothly, ignoring his question.

Southeye inserted himself between Mam and his king. ‘Mercenaries, sire,’ he said. ‘You and your lady keep going. Bran and I will see to them—’

In the fey moonlight, Ravn Asharson saw his trusted old adviser slump to his knees, eyes bulging in shock. Blood began to cascade from his mouth. Then he fell to the ground. With the sound of metal grating on bone and gristle, Mam wrenched her blade clear of the old man’s ribs. She gave the King a formal bow. ‘Allow me, sire.’

Moving to Ravn’s right side, she stepped over the body of Southeye and took the King by the arm. Doc wiped his sword on his leg. ‘Nice night for it, eh sire?’

Joz grabbed up the Rose of the World, slinging her over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

‘We shall now escort you to a place of greater safety, my lord.’ Mam grinned with lupine ferocity. Twelve years ago it had taken her weeks to file her teeth to the points she owned now, but she’d never regretted it. Being a pretty child had resulted only in misery; but having the teeth of a wolf had extricated her from any number of difficult situations. She’d often thought about revisiting Uncle Garstan, but just knowing she could do so at any time was all she needed to keep her cheerful.

Blinking and confused, still in thrall to the bewitchment of the Rosa Eldi, King Ravn Asharson, Stallion of the North, followed her like a lamb.

Rui Finco looked up in surprise as Mam came shouldering through the door of his pavilion, pushing the northern King before her. He leapt up from his couch so fast that the slave who had been in the process of removing his boots catapulted backwards into Mam’s knees. ‘Outside!’ he hissed to the boy. ‘Fetch Lord Varyx.’

Mam noted with a certain pleasure that the suave lord’s garb was in less than perfect condition. A sleeve of expensive Galian lace was charred and frayed; streaks of black marred the pale blue doublet. ‘We’ve brought your delivery,’ she grinned.

‘You weren’t supposed to bring him
here
!’

‘How else to ensure we get the rest of our money in all this chaos?’

King Ravn Asharson stared around him like a man woken from a sleepwalk. ‘Why have you brought me here?’ he demanded. ‘Where’s Southeye?’

‘I fear the Earl had inescapable business elsewhere,’ Mam said cheerfully. ‘So we’ve brought you to this fine gentleman instead.’

The Lord of Forent gestured for the northern king to take a seat. As Joz appeared in the doorway with the Rosa Eldi slung over his shoulder he said sharply, ‘Stay outside, you, with the Footloose whore. I need the King’s mind focused.’

Mam nodded. Joz winked. ‘She’s a rare one, this, Ravn. I can’t say I blame you.’ And he ducked his seven-foot frame out of the pavilion.

As soon as he felt he had the King’s undivided attention, the Lord of Forent reached into a small drawer in the table, extracted something from it, and placed a small marquetry box on the table between himself and Ravn Asharson. ‘Open it,’ he said.

With a frown, Ravn picked it up. He examined it for some moments before finding the secret mechanism. Part of the box sprang open and he stared inside. The Istrian lord pushed a candlestick across the table. ‘In case you need a little more light,’ he said helpfully.

Ravn closed the box. His face looked drawn. ‘Where did you get this?’

Rui Finco smiled. ‘Shall we say, a family connection?’ He held Ravn’s gaze intently.

From the other side of the pavilion, Mam watched the interplay between the nobles with growing interest. Seen in profile, she noticed for the first time, they shared a certain resemblance, though the Lord of Forent had several years on the northern king. Similar reputations, too. Rui Finco had no wife, but it was said he’d spawned a hundred children, that in a short time he’d have bred his own private army. She narrowed her eyes and watched Ravn Asharson consider possibilities and consequences, alarm gathering about him like a stormcloud.

‘Who else knows of this?’

The Lord of Forent dropped his voice. ‘I’m so glad I haven’t had to spell out the whole sorry tale,’ he said. ‘Unpleasant times . . . Let me see: your father of course, Falla rest his soul; my father, too: though being a proud man he took the secret to his grave. Not before he’d roasted a few hundred nomad magic-makers, however . . .’

‘Anyone else?’

‘A small and trusted consortium of my peers . . .’

‘You bastard.’

Rui Finco laughed. ‘An interesting choice of phrase!’ He paused. ‘And of course your lady mother. I’m sure if you ask her about it when you return she’ll be delighted to tell you all. Such a burden to carry for what – twenty-three years? Hard on her to be barren as the Bone Quarter and have to accept another’s child as her own. Discretion is a marvellous thing in a woman,’ he added, raising his voice for the mercenary leader’s benefit. ‘And I shall pay you for yours, madam, shortly. But first King Ravn has a certain document to sign.’ He unrolled a parchment and held it out for scrutiny. ‘I think the rights to half the goods you bring back through the Ravenway a fair trade for my continued silence, do you not, my lord king’? Though I would be curious to watch the repercussions in your kingdom were your true parentage to be revealed.’ He stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘I have heard the bloodlines of Eyra are much vaunted: how fascinating it would be to match the shock and bloodshed that would surely ensue were it to be revealed that Queen Auda is not, in actual fact, your mother.’

Ravn paled. ‘My father told me this before he died: but who else would believe you?’ He threw the parchment down. ‘You know I will never sign this.’ The light had come back into his eye.

The Lord of Forent’s smile widened. ‘If you do not, I shall merely have this good lady run you through where you sit and dump your cadaver in some conveniently compromising location—’

There was a rumpus outside the tent, followed by a shriek of female outrage. A moment later, a woman with long tousled hair came stumbling in at such speed it suggested a hand had helped her on her way.

The candlelight illumined a round, ruddy face and golden hair with the faintest tinge of green to it.

‘Ah yes, the lovely Lady Jenna,’ Rui Finco said carelessly. He rose to his feet and swept her a bow. ‘Welcome, my dear.’ He regarded Ravn’s confusion with amusement. ‘Jenna is going to make a prolonged visit to Forent as my guest,’ he said smilingly. ‘To ensure her good father’s cooperation, though Falla knows I’ve already paid him a more than decent sum.’

‘I am not!’ Jenna cried hotly.

‘Shut her up,’ Rui Finco said to Mam.

Mam made a gap-toothed grimace at Jenna. ‘You choose, my dear. Shut your hole or I’ll be forced to make you shut it.’

Jenna quailed.

‘Good girl.’

The Lord of Forent turned back to the northern king. ‘Now then, my lord, the document.’ He took a quill and inkpot from the table’s drawer.

‘And if we fail to negotiate the passage to the Far West?’

Lord Rui Finco shrugged. ‘We shall have to come to some other arrangement.’

A slave appeared at the door. ‘My lord Varyx, sir,’ he announced, and the thin Istrian noble stepped through the entrance, ran his eye over the occupants of the room and laughed. ‘Excellent, Rui. We shall be as rich as Rahai!’ He nodded to the northern king. ‘King Ravn, my honour entirely. Delighted to see you have so sensibly acceded to our scheme. Shall I act as witness?’ He leaned over the table to peer at the parchment.

Ravn Asharson looked the southern lord up and down, his features as still as stone. Then he smiled. He nodded to Lord Varyx in turn. And then he pushed the document aside. Just as Varyx had started to frown, there came a sudden flurry of motion. The table went over, the inkpot flew through the air, and a moment later a gleaming swordpoint had appeared under Rui Finco’s chin. Ravn’s hand was on the hilt. Lord Varyx stared down at his empty scabbard like a simpleton. ‘Falla’s tits!’ he exclaimed.

Without taking his eyes off the Lord of Forent, Ravn retrieved the marquetry box with his free hand and slipped it into his robe.

‘Do something, woman!’ Rui Finco screeched at the mercenary leader, all sang-froid gone. ‘I’ll pay you a bonus!’

‘I’ll double whatever he owes you,’ Ravn grinned at Mam.

She laughed. ‘Three times!’ she cried.

Ravn’s eyes shone. ‘One of Finn Larson’s finest ships,’ he countered, ‘and enough to buy yourself a crew: a king’s word on it.’

Mam leered. ‘Done!’

‘When we’re done here, take the girl back to her old man,’ Ravn ordered. To Jenna he said kindly, ‘You will tell your father I know about his treacherous arrangement with the old enemy, but that there will now be a new one.’

Jenna, flustered and tongue-tied in the presence of her idol, merely nodded and blushed a deep scarlet.

To the Istrian lords, Ravn inclined his head. ‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said, pressing the sword a little harder against Rui Finco’s windpipe. A thin line of red flowered along the blade. ‘Good Forent steel,’ he mused. ‘It would be most ironic were you to meet your end thus. But I’ll not be called kin-slayer.’ He withdrew the blade, tossed it lightly to the mercenary leader, then leapt over the fallen table and thence to the exit, noting with some satisfaction as he did so how the spilled ink had entirely spoiled Lord Varyx’s fine silk cloak. ‘Watch them for ten minutes,’ he said to Mam, ‘enough time for me to get my bride safely to the ships.’