Taste of Lightning (4 page)

‘Sometimes the gift lies dormant through childhood. When you become a man –'

‘But my voice has dropped. There are hairs on my chest.' There was an edge of desperation in Skir's voice. ‘Do you think I should grow a beard? Or lie with a woman?'

‘I'd wait a while for the beard, if I were you. As for the woman – well, that would be easy enough to arrange, if that's what you want.'

‘Well, of course I
want
it. But would it do any good?'

Beeman put the tips of his fingers together. He said carefully, ‘I don't believe that is the answer. There have been Priest-Kings who married, and those who fathered children without marrying. And there have been some who lay with men, like Devenwey. But there were also many who never lay with women or men, and their magic was supposed to be all the stronger for it.'

‘Maybe I should do it anyway. It might cheer me up.'

‘You would regret it. It is not an action to be taken lightly. Not by you.'

Skir stared at the fire. In some ways that was a relief. The Baltimarans expected him to hop from bed to bed the way they did; the painted bosomy girls at Court giggled about nothing else all day long. In fact it would have been easier to do it than to keep
not
doing it. But he was nervous about it, and it was good to be able to tell himself that he shouldn't – for the sake of his sacred office, for his magic . . . Just in case.

There was one girl he'd seen. She'd been standing on the fence when he had his first riding lesson. Skir had taken her for a stable-hand at first, her hair was so short. She had no bosoms to speak of, and no paint either. She'd looked
clean
. She was watching, very steadily. Critically, as if they were equals. But then something went wrong with Skir's stirrups, and when he looked back, she was gone. He'd never seen her again.

Skir shifted restlessly in his chair. ‘Have you ever been in love, Beeman?'

‘Yes,' said Beeman shortly. ‘She died.'

‘Oh.'

Beeman gazed into the fire. In the soft glow of the firelight he seemed oddly young and vulnerable, hardly older than Skir himself. ‘Don't worry about your chantment, Skir. It will come.'

‘Beeman?'

‘Yes?'

‘What if – what if there's no such thing as chantment? You say the Baltimaran magic is a sham, why not chantment too? What if the priests have been tricking everybody all these years?'

Beeman smiled. ‘When I was your age, I didn't believe in chantment either. But it is real. Just because we rarely see it here in the Threelands, doesn't mean it doesn't exist.'

‘I suppose if we were across the seas in the Westlands, in the middle of the Chanters' Rising, we'd be
surrounded
by magic,' said Skir. ‘Magic battles in the streets, the Witch-Singer shrieking out her songs of ice to freeze the enemy in their tracks –'

‘I
don't
think so,' said Beeman. ‘You shouldn't listen to banquet gossip. And the leader of the Rising is the Singer of All Songs, not the Witch-Singer. Name the Ten Powers,' he rapped out, suddenly becoming a tutor again.

‘Oh . . . um. The Power of Signs, of course. The Power of Tongue, which is speech and singing. Power of Winds. Power of Beasts. Power of . . . um, Ice. Power of Fire, Power of Iron, of course. Power of Healing.'

‘You mean the Power of Becoming.'

‘Becoming – yes – that's what I meant. Power of Seeming, which is illusions. And the Great Power, which is served by the Faith.'

‘Very good, though you put them in the wrong order. Revision tomorrow.' Beeman unfolded himself from his chair. ‘Time for bed. Goodnight, Skir.'

‘Night.'

Skir watched his tutor withdraw to his own room, which opened off the large one. Beeman never allowed Skir into his room. Perhaps he kept a woman in there. Or a horse. More likely it was lined with all the little contraptions Beeman had put together over the years. Good old Beeman . . .

It had never before occurred to Skir that Beeman's life was not particularly happy either.

He sat hunched beside the fire, thinking. Whatever Beeman said, and whatever luxuries surrounded him, he was a prisoner. Until the last rust-maker pulled up the last chaka-weed, or the last Baltimaran addict sniffed the last pinch of rust, until the last shreds of resistance in Cragonlands were wiped out, the Baltimarans would keep him. Skir was their insurance for the future. He was the luckbit in their pocket.

If I was an ironcrafter
, Skir thought,
I could escape from here
. He knew the chantment that would punch a hole in the wall. He crossed over to the window, and gathered his breath the way Beeman had taught him. Deep inside, hope flickered like a candle flame. Maybe this time, maybe at last, the gift would surge up inside him. He would deserve to be the Priest-King after all.

He held out his hands and sang.

The chantments of iron were guttural and growling, sung in the throat and the nose. Skir sang with all his might, grinding out the noises that were supposed to summon magic, supposed to shift stones, supposed to hurl rocks through the air. He screwed up his face as he sang, forcing breath from deeper and deeper in his lungs. The room closed in around him – Suddenly he was lying on the carpet, and Beeman was bent over him.

‘Skir! Skir, are you all right? Here, drink this.'

Skir's hands shook as he took the tumbler; water spilled down his chin and onto his dressing-gown.

‘I heard an almighty crash – look, you knocked over the side table. What
were
you doing?'

‘Practising chantment,' mumbled Skir.

‘I told you it was too hot in here.' Beeman tugged at the window and a fresh breeze flowed into the room. ‘There, that's better. Are you sure you're all right?'

‘
Yes
. Go away.'

‘Should I ring for some warmed wine?'

‘
No
. I said go away. Leave me alone.' Skir sat up. ‘Why are you always so calm? Why don't you ever get angry with me?'

‘Why should I be angry? You fainted.'

‘Typical, isn't it? I wanted to make something
happen
, and instead I pass out! What's the
point
?'

‘Keep your voice down, Skir.'

‘Why should I? Who cares?
They
wouldn't care if I went stark raving mad in here; in fact, they'd probably prefer it –' The possibility struck him for the first time. ‘Perhaps I'm mad already, and you're my keeper! Am I, Beeman? Am I mad?'

‘Don't be absurd.' Beeman's face went red, then white. ‘You spend altogether too much time thinking about yourself, Skir.'

Skir hurled the tumbler across the room as hard as he could. But instead of the satisfying smash of broken glass, it landed with a soft thud on the thick carpet. There was a brief silence.

‘I'm sorry,' said Beeman at last.

‘
You're
sorry? What are
you
sorry for?'

‘I should be more patient. I know how difficult it is.'

Skir lowered his head and mumbled into his chest. ‘You know the worst of it? I – I actually quite like it here, sometimes.'

Beeman hung his head, and laughed. He gave Skir's shoulder a brief, rough shake. ‘Change will come, you know.'

‘I know,' said Skir; but he didn't believe it.

CHAPTER 3

Perrin's Orders

‘PERRIN! Anyone seen Perrin? Frug it, where is the little –'

The expletive was lost in a mutter of derision as half the mess tent turned to stare at the wild-eyed, filthy soldier.

‘Shut yer frugging trap, mate, he's here somewhere. What do you want him for?'

Several obscene suggestions followed, and a ripple of bitter laughter.

‘Frug you! This is serious. I need Perrin, the one who tames snakes. Is he here or not?'

The jokes died away into wary muttering. Someone jerked a thumb to the trestle, crusted with stale food, where Perrin sat wiping his tin plate with a hunk of grey bread.

‘Out the way, you frugging idiots.' The ranker shoved through the men milling about the greasy, bubbling cauldrons of stew. ‘Perrin. Hey. Perrin?'

Swordsman Perrin, Second Class, gave his plate a final swipe and looked up coolly. With his long eyelashes, fine features and curling dark hair, he was known as a pretty boy. Since being drafted into the Rengani Army two years before, he'd learned how to handle soldiers who were interested in pretty boys.

‘I'm Perrin.'

‘You the frugger that tames snakes?'

Perrin grinned lazily. ‘Got a snake, have you?'

A few of the men guffawed.

‘Ah, frug off. Come on, quick!'

Perrin gazed around at his audience, gave a theatrical shrug and rose from his seat with the lazy grace of a surroan cat. But once they were outside the mess tent Perrin seized the other man's arm and broke into a run past the long, straggling rows of muddy tents.

‘So what about this snake?' panted Perrin as they ran.

The wild-eyed soldier gasped, ‘Digging latrines on the west side of camp – near them woods there – Bayley screams –'

‘What kind of snake?'

‘One of them big black ones, with red on the tail.'

Perrin slowed his pace when he saw the ring of men gathered; by the time he reached them, he was sauntering, hands in pockets, cool and unhurried.

‘Let him through!' shouted the wild-eyed soldier. ‘It's the one that tames snakes. I got him, let him through.'

The small crowd parted. Perrin saw a terrified ranker huddled on the ground beside the half-dug pits. He was holding out his muddied spade with two hands to fend off the serpent. The red-tailed snake rose high and swaying, poised to strike, only three paces away.

‘Everyone quiet,' said Perrin, and the buzz of the onlookers subsided. Calmly Perrin stretched himself flat on the ground, with his cheek pillowed on his left arm, not far from the snake, and much closer to it than the ranker, Bayley.

Someone hawked, and spat a juicy gobbet near Perrin's head. ‘What, going to take a nap now, is he? Little snooze?'

‘Quiet,' said Perrin. The snake swayed, and turned its shining head toward the vibration. Softly, Perrin began to sing a song in a foreign tongue none of the men present could understand. The words rose and fell, a crooning lullaby, and the snake swayed to the song's rhythm, forward and back.

Perrin lay still, eyes half-closed, as he sang. He looked drowsy, but he was as alert as the deadly snake itself. The soldiers began to sway slightly too, without realising it, and Perrin allowed himself a private grin. He sang louder, and his right hand crept across the grass, out of the snake's view. The snake's head swayed in wide, sleepy arcs.

Perrin's right hand crept nearer; it touched the snake. His gentle song rose and fell, and the snake swayed as his hand slid along its glossy body. He was just about to grasp it behind the jaws –

Whack!
The snake exploded into spatters of blood and writhing muscle. Two more blows from the spade and the snake was dead. Bayley sneered in triumph.

Perrin sprang up. ‘You frugging idiot! I nearly had it.'

‘It's dead now, you frugger! What were you going to do, let it loose in the forest so it could slink back at night and fang us all in our tents?'

Perrin said nothing, but his blue eyes burned with cold fire.

‘Settle down, mate. It's just a frugging snake.'

‘You could have taken my hand off.'

Someone jeered, ‘Pretty Boy's upset you spoilt his show.'

Perrin swung around, and again there was an air of a wild cat about him, tensed to spring and tear its prey apart. But then his face fell into an easy, charming smile, and he laughed. ‘You got it. I was having frugging fun playing with that deadly red-tail. I wanted to sing to that damn snake all night long.'

Laughter bubbled and lapped around Perrin like warm water. The men were on his side again. Perrin made an elaborate bow. ‘Any more wildlife you'd like me to deal with – spiders, roaches, bears? No? Then I'll go back and see if those bastards have left me any dinner.'

One of the men slapped his back as he departed. That was all the thanks he'd get; but Perrin knew the whole camp would be humming with the story before morning. A square-headed sergeant with a scarred cheek and a missing ear began shouting. ‘All right, lads, show's over! Still got three pits to dig by nightfall. Frug off back to your stations. Unless you fancy digging pits and filling em in all day tomorrow . . .'

The Fifth were back in Rengan at last, after a long stint in Cragonlands. Officially, they'd come home for extra training, to learn more about the new exploders that High Command had brought across from Mithates, in the Westlands. Unofficially, as everyone knew, they'd been driven back across the border by the Balts. With the exception of a handful of special agents who remained behind to help the local insurgents plan their resistance, the war was as good as over – for now. There'd be a fresh offensive next spring. There always was.

Perrin, like most of the men, was just glad to get away from the fighting. Especially if they could pretend it was a strategic withdrawal rather than a defeat. But the absence of fighting meant other work had to be invented, and no one liked digging pits.

Grumbling and swearing, the men melted away into the dusk.

Someone cleared his throat quietly, and the sergeant swung round to see an officer with a tanned brown face. Hastily the sergeant touched his shoulder in salute.

‘Sorry Major, didn't see you there.'

The major shrugged aside the apology. ‘I saw the trick with the snake. You know him?'

‘Swordsman Perrin? Don't think it's a trick, sir. Seen him do it once before, down on Wilker's Plain. Only a grass adder that time, not a big fr – big one like this.'

‘Just snakes?'

The sergeant pulled a face. ‘Lads say he can charm a fish out the water. Let's say, he don't mind showing off what he can do.'