Taste of Lightning (2 page)

Tansy had to stifle a cough in her sleeve. The enormous, dimly lit room was full of sweet, sickly smoke, and crowded with objects: cabinets with glass doors, boxes and crates of all sizes, tables piled with jars and vials. Just in front of Tansy and Lorison stood an immense bowl, waist-high. Its contents shimmered in the candlelight: water, or oil, or some kind of liquid. Surely it couldn't be – could it be
blood
?

Tansy recoiled, but Lorison pushed her forward. Now she could make out the figure of a woman, seated on a high, throne-like chair. There were candles behind the woman's head, so it was difficult to see her face. Tansy had an impression of a massive, squatting presence, like a toad. The woman's face was broad and flat, and her wide, thin-lipped mouth turned down. Her head was wound around with a silk turban, her eyes half-closed. The hands clutching at the arms of the chair were no more than withered claws, incongruously attached to the bulky body. The woman wore an embroidered robe of rich brocade, and huge jewelled earrings dragged the lobes of her ears almost to her shoulders.

‘This is the girl I told you about, Madam. Tansy, the laundry-maid.' Lorison's voice squeaked with fear. She gave Tansy a vicious nudge, and whispered, ‘Bow down to Madam!'

Tansy bowed so low she almost lost her balance. Everyone in Baltimar had heard tales about Lady Wanion. Tansy knew she was a witch; that she wove powerful, secret magic and prisoners were sent to her if they refused to co-operate: not just Renganis and Cragonlanders captured in the war, Baltimaran criminals too. Lady Wanion, they said, was very persuasive. One old soldier had told Tansy that Wanion
persuaded this one Gani's
eyeballs clean out of his skull
. Tansy's stomach had lurched.

‘I see it is the laundry-maid. Why have you brought her here?' To Tansy's surprise, the voice that issued from the toad-like mouth was deep and rich and full of music.

‘She didn't do what she was told, Madam.'

‘I see.' There was a pause; Tansy was too frightened to look up. She stared at the ground. Shadows slithered and scuttled at the edges of her vision.

‘This is the girl who likes to ride horses, yes?'

‘That's right, Madam,' said Lorison promptly. ‘Every morning, since the start of spring, down to the stables she goes, rain or shine. She loves it, don't you, Tansy? Speak up, girl. Answer Madam when she talks to you.'

Tansy whispered, ‘Yes, Madam.'

Wanion's taloned nail tapped softly on the arm of her chair. ‘Perhaps Tansy does not understand that her mornings with the horses are my gift to her. Does she not wish to show her thankfulness?'

Tansy swallowed, unsure if she was supposed to reply, until Lorison dug her sharply in the ribs. ‘Yes, Madam. Yes, I'm very grateful.' A lump rose in her throat. When Lorison had told her she could go to the stables before dawn and help with the horses, her miserable life at Arvestel had become worth living at last. Those precious times were the only happiness she'd known since she'd come here.

The low, musical voice filled Tansy's ears. ‘I have given you a great gift, yes? A great gift. And in return, I asked this little thing only. One small task. Remind me what it was we asked of you. Perhaps you did not understand.'

Tansy's mouth was dry. ‘You – Lorison asked me to, to steal something. A piece of clothes, from the laundries. Something grey.'

‘Yes.' Wanion let out a long sigh. ‘Yes. That is all. A small thing only. A stocking, a glove. Something worn next to the skin. Only this I asked of you, and the mornings with the horses would be yours for as long as you wished so long as you lived at Arvestel.' Wanion laughed, a warm, embracing laugh. Lorison gave a nervous snigger. ‘And more than this I promised, yes? Gold, to buy whatever you wished, to buy horses of your own one day, and a farm to raise them?'

‘Yes, Madam.' Tansy stared at the floor. She didn't care about the gold Lorison had promised as much as she cared about being near the horses.

Wanion gave another sigh, heavy with disappointment. ‘You work in the laundries, yes? Washing and ironing, soaping and rinsing, starching and folding.'

‘Yes, Madam.'

‘Washing the dirty clothes of everyone in Arvestel, yes? The servants, the noble lords and ladies. Even the King's stockings are washed there, yes?'

‘Not – not by me,' said Tansy, with a stab of confusion. Must she steal the King's clothes now?

‘No, no, I do not ask you to interfere with the undergarments of the King.' Once again that rich, warm laugh filled the room. ‘The token I asked for belongs to a boy. Not a Baltimaran noble boy, a foreigner. What is his name? Steer, Sneer? No – Skir, that is it. You have not heard of him, no?'

Tansy shook her head.

‘No. You see how unimportant he is. But his clothes pass through the laundries, like everyone's, yes? You have seen them? All grey he wears, like a little mouse.'

Tansy opened her mouth, and closed it again. She
had
seen him, just once, last autumn, before her own rides began: he was the red-haired, skinny boy, about her own age. He'd been taking his first riding lesson, on a grey pony. He was hopeless – hands everywhere, no seat at all. Strange to think that she'd envied him then, envied him the fat docile pony.
Skir
. The name meant nothing to her. But yes, she had seen his clothes in the wash-troughs and on the drying-lines. No one else in Arvestel wore grey, grey, nothing but grey.

Wanion said, ‘I see in your face that you do know him, that you know his clothes, yes? You must be careful, my dear. Your face is easy to read. So. You have seen this boy's clothes. Why is it you could not find even one grey sock or a glove or a vest?'

‘I did look, Madam, truly I did. But there was nothing grey at all.'

‘Was it fear of the Pit that prevented you? Because you must know that the Pit belongs to me.' Wanion laughed, and this time the laugh was not pleasant. ‘Those who do my bidding must have no fear of
that
, even for thieving.'

‘I – I'll try again, Madam,' said Tansy. ‘But you know how boys are. Likely he didn't send nothing to the wash these last days. I got five brothers and they never –'

Lorison was pulling furious faces at her and she fell silent.

Wanion said heavily, ‘It is too late for that now.'

The room grew very still. Tansy heard the hiss of a lamp, and a faint whisper as the thick curtain behind Wanion shifted slightly in the draught. She wondered what lay behind that curtain. She felt sick from the perfumed smoke; she longed to run out of this too-hot, too-sweet room into the fresh night air.

‘I gave you a chance, yes, and you did not take it. Now I must ask another thing. Still a small thing, but not so easy. You must fetch for me something else. A lock of hair, a fingernail. You understand? Something that belongs to his
body
.'

Tansy gasped. ‘But Madam, how can I do that?'

‘You must find a way. You will find the token, and bring it to me. You have two days, no more. After that, I go back to the Fastness of Rarr, to my home. I must have the token before I leave. And, of course, no one must know about this, especially the boy himself. Do you understand? If you do this simple thing, then there are horses for you. To ride now; later, to own. But if you fail –' Wanion sucked in her breath. ‘Do not fail,' she said.

Tansy whispered, ‘Yes, Madam.'

‘That is good. We understand each other, yes? I have another gift for you. Lorison!'

‘Yes, Madam.' Lorison darted across the room and returned with something clutched tightly in her hand. ‘Here, girl, take it.'

Dazed, Tansy opened her hand, and Lorison dropped something into her palm: a luckpiece. Almost everyone in Baltimar had at least one luckbit, a little doll strung around their neck or tucked into a pocket. But even in the wavering light, Tansy could see that this was no ordinary luckpiece. It was made of mother-of-pearl, ivory and white satin, stitched with white silk. Without meaning to, Tansy closed her hand around it, and Wanion let out a pleased, hissing sigh.

‘It is good. This little one is my friend, you understand? It listens to you, watches with my eyes. It is part of me. Even when I am far away, I am with you. Do not try to destroy it, or you will be destroyed also. Now you are bound to me, yes?'

Wanion's beady, almost invisible eyes were fixed on her. The little doll seemed glued to Tansy's hand; she was sure that if she tried to drop it, it would tear the flesh from her bones. Tansy's mouth opened, and she heard herself say, ‘How can I get what you're asking for? I'm a laundry-maid. I ain't even allowed upstairs. How can I get near this boy?'

Lorison giggled in pure terror. Tansy's head swam. Wanion leaned forward in her massive chair, tipped slowly toward Tansy like a boulder about to crush her. She hissed, ‘You will help me, Tansy. Or it will not be a piece of this boy's hair I take from you. It will be a piece of
yourself
.'

Lorison seized Tansy by the arm and tugged her to the door, gabbling. ‘She'll do it, Madam, I'll see to that, don't you worry, we'll have it for you, night after next, I promise. She don't understand, see, she's a country girl, off a farm, she don't mean no disrespect, just a bit simple in the head is all. Don't you fret, Madam, I'll see she does what she's told this time.'

With a flurry of curtsies, Lorison hustled them out into the secret corridor and slammed the iron-studded door. Then she shook Tansy so fiercely her teeth rattled. ‘You lost your senses? I picked you cos I thought you was a bright one! Would've done better to ask Pipkin the halfwit!' She thrust Tansy away so hard her head banged on the stone wall and she saw stars. Lorison was crying. ‘See that? See that, you lackwit?' She waved her left hand in Tansy's face. All that remained of her little finger was a neat stump. ‘I tell people I got my hand caught in a hinge. But
she
did it. Oh, you stupid girl. You don't know what she does. You got no idea. You know where my finger is now?
Do you?
'

‘No,' said Tansy faintly. The sickly smoke had followed them into the corridor, or perhaps it clung to their clothes. Lorison's face rippled.

‘
She's
got it. So I ain't never out of her power, and I never will be, so long as she's got a piece of me. Why do you think she wants a bit of that boy? The part rules the whole, that's why. She wants to make him her puppet –'

‘Why? Why him?'

Lorison flipped her hand impatiently. ‘I don't know. I don't care, neither. All I know is, better him than me. That's what you gotta think, too, better him than you. Oh you fool. You want her magic on you? You want to be like me? Want her finger and thumb pinching on your shoulder day and night like I got?' Tears coursed down Lorison's face as she pulled Tansy through the darkness. ‘Just you do what she says. Find a way. Don't ask questions, don't
answer back
. Who do you think you are? You're a servant, same as me. Only I serve
her
now. She owns me. You, you might be lucky. Just this one thing she wants from you, a bit of this boy's hair.'

Tansy stumbled along, feeling stupid. ‘But how can I?'

Lorison snorted. ‘You'd be pretty enough if you didn't chop your hair so short. He's a foreigner, they got strange tastes, maybe he'll like you. What is he, halfway to a man? That age, they'll touch anything with bosoms, even little ones like yours, if you let em. Oh, you'll see. Get close enough and he'll let you take more than a bit of hair. She'll like that better, that'd please her.'

‘But I ain't never even kissed a boy.'

‘Well you better learn, girl, and learn fast. You get what Madam wants, you give it to her, and that's it, all over, and you can ride your precious horses till they drop dead under you. Me, I got no choice. She got a piece of me, see?
Don't let her get
a piece of you
.'

The white luckpiece grinned up at Tansy from the palm of her hand; it burned her like a coal from the fire, and when she thrust it into her shirt pocket, it burned through the cloth like a brand above her heart.

They emerged from the secret passages into a broom cupboard near the women-servants' quarters. Lorison vanished, and Tansy was left, dizzy and sick, to grope her way to bed, with the thunder of the Witch-Woman's laughter rolling in her ears.

CHAPTER 2

The Priest-King of Cragonlands

SKIR watched the storm crawl across the horizon. Thunder rumbled like distant drums, and sheet lightning flickered in purple and silver fireworks over the northern sky.

Skir's heart raced. The hair prickled at the back of his neck, and he tasted a metallic tang on his tongue. He gripped the windowsill, forcing himself not to turn away, not to sweep the heavy curtains closed. It would be so easy to shut out the storm, and enclose himself instead in this safe, luxurious room.

Beeman came in quietly. ‘All right, Skir?' He knew how his pupil hated and feared thunderstorms. He came to stand beside Skir at the window. ‘A long way off,' he said after a few moments. ‘You can count twenty between the lightning and the thunder. And it's moving east. It won't come any closer to Arvestel.'

‘I know,' said Skir crossly, annoyed that his tutor felt the need to reassure him, as if he were a little boy hiding under the quilts. Yet he was grateful. After a moment he said, ‘It's not near, Skir, as you can hear. No need to fear, or shed a tear.'

Beeman gave a snort of laughter. ‘You still remember that?'

‘I remember.'

Together they watched the convulsions of the storm as it drifted across the shallow hills. The mountains of Cragonlands were invisible from this far south, but Skir's rooms faced north, holding the promise of a view that he would never be able to see. Actually, if anyone had asked, he would have preferred south-facing rooms. Then he might have glimpsed the sea, or at least the river-mouth. But a view of the water was not prized among the Baltimarans, and his northern rooms were considered a privilege: the windows framed the famous gardens of the Palace of Arvestel. Skir couldn't understand why the Baltimarans took such pride in them: they were all hedges and fountains and geometric patterns; not a single wild thing growing anywhere. Even the flowers were grown in hothouses, all lined up in neat rows waiting to be drowned with fertiliser.