Sorcery Rising (32 page)

‘Lice,’ Jenna said cheerfully.

Katla grimaced.

‘They crush a million shield lice to gain a cup of dye.’

‘No!’

‘They do.’

If Jenna had thought to disgust Katla, she had reckoned without her friend’s robust constitution.

‘Sounds expensive, that,’ Katla said thoughtfully. ‘The dress should fetch a decent price, then.’

Jenna looked at her oddly, but then Katla cried: ‘Oh, look!’

A bevy of Istrian women had appeared in the doorway, surrounded by a great crowd of Empire men. There were maybe half a dozen of the women, all dressed from top to toe in their voluminous sabatkas. Katla saw the paleness of their hands fluttering like moths as they spoke, and their lips were bright through the slits in their robes. The men ringed them about as if, like her, they might otherwise escape. Katla stared at them, wondering if their trammelled lives were really any more confining than the one that awaited her, if she failed to get away this night. There was a peal of tinkling laughter and one of the women waved her hands around as if in delight at what another had said. She saw a tall woman’s mouth work, and then there was another gale of laughter.

‘Which one do you think is the Swan of Jetra?’ Jenna asked rather belligerently, as if annoyed by their good spirits. ‘They say she’s tall and thin, but they all look much of a muchness to me.’

‘I don’t know.’ Nor did she care. Where was Erno? Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t seen him all day. Could he have given up on her so easily? Perhaps it really was Marin Edelsen he liked. The thought made her cold. She had never really thought what she might do without his help. It would be hard to manage a faering on her own: they were wide boats and needed two at the rowlocks, one oar apiece. Katla fought her panic down determinedly. She’d find a smaller boat if she had to. She balled her fists. Damn it, she’d
swim
!

She stared out over the crowd. Somewhere to her side Jenna’s voice was buzzing on and on like a gnat, describing the folk coming in – Kitten Soronsen and Fara Garsen, big Breta Bransen; the Earl of Ness and his daughter; Earl Sten and his daughter Ella; Ragna Fallsen – reputed to be the King’s mistress, a statuesque woman with a magnificent fall of black hair and uptilted grey eyes; and the Earls Stormway and Southeye; Egg Forstson, the Earl of Shepsey, with Filia Jansen, his great-niece, on his arm.

Katla watched them stream into the already-crowded tent, take wine and pastries from the long tables, gather into small groups to gossip. She watched an odd-looking woman in a gigantic green dress stride in, followed by a small man looking deeply uncomfortable in a close-fitting doublet and tight breeches. Behind them, three more Istrian ladies bobbed in and stopped at once, no doubt finding it hard to adjust to the low light of the candles through the thick gauze of their veils. And then she held her breath, for there was the nobleman’s son who had come to their stall; she’d forgotten his name now, if she’d ever known it. He was in the company of two older Istrian men, both dressed very finely, one a head shorter than the other and sporting a bright silk turban rather like her own. They entered the pavilion and stared around. The taller man suddenly narrowed his eyes and pointed, and they all gazed towards the back of the crowd. Katla turned to see who they were looking at, and found herself staring straight into the eyes of Saro Vingo. She felt a powerful thrill run through her, but she put it down to the wine. In contrast to the rest of what she took to be his family, Saro wore an ordinary-looking tunic and carried a cloak over his arm. He looked uncomfortable, Katla thought, apprehensive, almost. And then they began to move towards him through the crowd like a small flotilla through a choppy sea.

‘Where is my money, Saro?’ Tanto arrived first, his face grim.

Favio and Fabel appeared in his wake.

‘Yes, come along, lad,’ Favio called from a few paces behind. ‘We’re keen to get this done.’

Saro looked from one to another and finally focused on his brother. ‘You know where the money is, Tanto,’ he said quietly. ‘I thought you’d thank me for not spelling it out for all to see.’

‘You little bastard.’ Tanto’s hiss was inaudible to any but the two of them. ‘You know I need every coin. How could you put a worthless nomad whore before your own family?’

Time stilled. Saro could feel the beating of his own blood in his ears. He could feel his heart beating, with a steadily rising pulse. He could feel his shoulders squaring, as if to withstand a blow. He had known it would come to this: to a denial and the furious argument that would follow. Perhaps he had even sought this confrontation for the excuse it would afford him; for the clandestine punch he had so satisfyingly landed on his brother’s chin the day before had somehow freed something in him, made him stronger. There was a mottled red swelling on Tanto’s jawline, he noticed now, for the first time, but Tanto had clearly not made the mental connection. Still he said nothing.

‘The money,’ Favio prompted, standing at his elder son’s shoulder, his face now looking pinched and anxious. ‘We’re still considerably short of the bride-price, son, and our family honour rests on this agreement.’

Saro surveyed them all silently. Then he gave them a long, slow smile. His gaze lingered a moment longer on ‘Uncle’ Fabel, met a new wariness there, a sudden shrewd calculation. ‘I am sorry, Father, Uncle, brother. I no longer have the money. Tanto knows why and if you question him hard enough I am sure he will tell you one tale or another. Whether you choose to believe it or not is up to you. I no longer care. It seems that to save my family’s so-called honour means acting with cruelty and deceit, and I like that not.’ He shrugged. ‘So, I have made a decision, and it is not one you will like. I bid you farewell.’

He gave them a cursory bow, shook out the cloak he carried over his arm, and donned it as he might a second skin. Then he turned on his heel and vanished into the crowd.

Favio and Tanto exchanged stricken looks. Fabel stared after Saro, his eyes gleaming with some unreadable emotion. At last he addressed his brother: ‘Favio, I’m afraid Lord Tycho is even now bearing down upon us. I hope you have your excuses at the ready.’ And he ducked away, leaving Favio and Tanto to face the Lord of Cantara.

‘My lord, greetings.’ Favio tried to hide his consternation beneath an extravagant bow.

‘My lord. Tanto.’ Tycho’s eyes were unnaturally bright, expectant. His face was flushed, the colour visible even beneath the darkness of his skin. Perhaps, Favio thought, clutching at a desperate thread, he had been drinking hard; perhaps they might yet negotiate a lower rate, or a day’s grace.

But the Lord of Cantara was in no mood for time-wasting. ‘Do you have my bride-price?’

Tanto’s gaze scanned the gaggle of Istrian women by the musicians’ dais. One of them must surely be Selen Issian. He could feel himself hardening at the very thought.

‘My lord—’ he started, but Lord Tycho was staring intently at his father.

‘Twenty thousand cantari, this night, I believe was our agreement, Lord Favio.’

‘Indeed, my lord. However—’

‘I must have it now.’ Tycho’s eyes narrowed, boring into the older man’s with a frightening intensity.

Favio Vingo laughed nervously. ‘We do not have all your money here, my lord; but we will have it for you tomorrow.’

A dark hand snaked out and grabbed the robes below his chin, tightening the cloth to the point of asphyxia.

‘Now, or never!’

Favio tried to speak, but no words would come out. His eyes began to bulge.

‘My lord, I beg you.’ Tanto put his hand upon Tycho’s arm. He was sweating, and looked almost as desperate as the Lord of Cantara. ‘Let my father go. I swear we will get the money to you this very hour.’

Tycho shrugged the boy’s hand away angrily, but he let go of Favio’s robe. Favio Vingo’s face had gone the colour of a mandrill’s arse. He shook himself, cleared his throat, rearranged the cloth, and the circlet that had slipped down over one eye, and took a hasty step backwards, away from the madman. People were starting to take notice, pointing out the scene to others and muttering excitedly.

He stared at his son. Tanto looked appalled; terrified – but whether at the prospect of his father being throttled before his very eyes, or at the thought of losing his bride, it was impossible to tell.

‘One hour,’ declared the Lord of Cantara. ‘A moment later and I will sell her to the first man who bids me well for her.’ He barked an order at his diminutive slave, and strode off in the direction of the dais. Folk scattered before him, like a sea parting.

Favio wiped his hand across his face. ‘The man is deranged,’ he said, quite loudly. He stole a look at the people closest to them, but they would not meet his eye. ‘We must call the whole arrangement off. What the Lord of Cantara just did to me cancels any obligation we may have had. We can do better for you, my son.’

‘No, Father.’ Tanto was aghast. ‘We cannot do that. I must have her: I have set my heart on it.’

But Favio was adamant. ‘I will not have our family allied to that man. He is clearly unhinged; and they say madness runs in a family. You will find yourself with a crazy wife on your hands, Tanto, with crazy children to plague you. I suspected something of the kind already, from the mark the creature had applied to herself, when her father presented her to you. No sane noblewoman would dream of disporting herself thus; and no sane father would allow his daughter to treat her future family with such disrespect. I will not have it, and that’s an end to the matter. You will go after him, Tanto, and tell him that the Vingo family has decided against this match.’

‘I . . . cannot—’ Tanto began, but his father had already turned his head away and was striding in the opposite direction.

Erno lagged behind Aran Aranson and his sons, his feet weighing like lead. In truth, he had not wanted to attend the Gathering at all. Why come to such a public event just to see the woman you loved given away to another man? The hair amulet, dangling on its thong beneath his tunic, itched against his skin as if to remind him of the futility of it all. He had never believed in magic, and now here was his conclusive proof. Katla clearly had no thought of him at all – for there she was with Jenna Finnsen, laughing and drinking wine as if she had not a care in the world. It was hardly any consolation at all to see that she had bound her head in the scarf he had bought her. His eyes swept over the crimson dress, with its panels of lace and embroidery, its wide skirts and fashionably loose sleeves, and came to rest on the swell of brown flesh cresting the top of the tight bodice.
A beautiful woman
, he thought suddenly,
for all her skinniness and her wicked eyes. Her beauty will now be as clear to other men as it always has been to me
. The realisation came as something of a shock. Katla’s beauty – for him – had revealed itself in unconventional details: in the silver intensity of her gaze as she watched a mackerel line; the way bright sunlight softened the hard planes of her face, the way the lost red hair, tangled and threaded with pine needles, had bobbed like a horse’s mane when she ran. It revealed itself in the way she chewed her lip when examining a weld; or the sweat that sheened her upper arms in the orange fires of the smithy. He loved that she could make a sword, and wield it as well as any man; he loved her for her unpredictability, her sharp tongue and her savage delights: in short, for being so very different to the other women he knew. But this orthodox elegance made it clear that her old wildness was gone, put away so that she could follow the traditional path of every other young woman – to be packaged up and traded away by her family for what he could never offer: money, prestige, a useful clan alliance. To see her so made him want to weep; or to run mad through the crowds, dagger drawn, to carry her off into oblivion.

And now she had seen them. He watched her smile fall away, her lips fold themselves grimly. As they approached, he noted, too, how her knuckles whitened from gripping the goblet.

‘Daughter.’

‘Father.’

‘Finn is a little delayed. He had some last-minute business to attend to.’

Was it a flicker of relief Erno saw cross her face? When Aran turned to say something to Fent, Erno found Katla’s eyes upon him, bold and urgent. He returned her gaze as steadily as he could manage, but felt the telltale blood flushing up the fair skin of his neck. What did she want of him, now, when it was too late? He tried to order his scattered thoughts. Her eyes were huge, the pupils so dark they had almost eclipsed the irises. The silver-grey coronas blazed at him.

‘I’m hungry,’ Katla enunciated very clearly.

‘Ah, so am I,’ said Jenna, taking Katla’s arm.

Katla shook her off. ‘Stay here, Jenna. I’ll bring something back for you. Erno, give me your arm and accompany me to the tables.’

Jenna stared at them, speechless, then turned as Aran offered her a compliment on her dress. Erno mutely offered Katla his arm and her fingers settled upon it like a hawk’s talons into a rabbit, the nails digging into his flesh. He could feel her trembling, feel the pulse of her blood – fast and strong – through the pads of her fingers. Somehow, he managed to coordinate his feet and move away from the family group towards the provisions tables. Katla seemed to float beside him, the red dress gliding across the floor, all her weight, it seemed, in the electric touch of the fingers on his arm. When they were ten feet or so away from the trestles, she broke the contact and turned to face him.

‘Erno, I need your help.’

‘You have only to ask. Anything.’

‘I have to get away from here. Tonight. Now. Before they affiance me.’

Erno looked around quickly, but Jenna and the Aransons were engaged in various conversations. No one seemed to have noticed that his heart had suddenly become such a beacon of hope that his whole body was aflame with it. He caught Katla by the elbow and ushered her quickly through the crowd towards the entrance. They paused to allow a tall woman go by, a woman wrapped so well in a long robe and silk shawl that only a glimpse of her pale face and a flash of green eyes was visible as she ducked past them, and then they were outside the grand pavilion in the darkening air.