Moontide 02 - The Scarlet Tides (12 page)

‘I did. I had a fair reputation myself, but I pretty much got bullied into going a bout with her. “For the honour of Men”, or so it was put to me. Not that I felt her unworthy – I knew the blademaster who’d assessed her was honest and a hard taskmaster. If she’d impressed him, she was good enough. I was curious, though, and by then, I was something of an admirer.’

‘What happened?’

‘I let my admiration weaken my sword arm, and she broke it.’

‘The arm?’

Muhren chuckled. ‘Yes, the arm, not my admiration. She sent me flowers while I was with the healers. It was the tradition then for an unwanted suitor to be sent white flowers, and that’s what she sent.’ He grinned. ‘Though she tucked one red rose into the bunch. Perhaps to tease me, perhaps to convey some measure of respect, but I never found out which. The Revolt began and she joined the Grey Foxes and disappeared.’

Alaron had been born during the Revolt, while his father was away fighting, but his earliest memories were post-Revolt: country life at Anborn Manor, with his father always with him, teaching, instructing, playing and laughing. His mother had been a frightening figure even then, moody and withdrawn, cowering in shadows, too volatile and unpredictable ever to love.

‘I saw Elena again from time to time. The Grey Foxes started off as a scouting unit, before they became a guerrilla force later in the war. She always handed me a flower if there was one at hand, just to remind me that she’d beaten me. They started out pink, which I took to mean that she was still considering me, then in the second year, when the war turned ugly, they became white. She was sleeping with Gurvon Gyle by then.’

Alaron thought he had heard that name before, but he’d not met the man. ‘Who was he?’

‘You’re asking me about the man who stole the girl I wanted?’ Muhren said with a faint smile. ‘I didn’t like him. He was cold, ruthless and mercenary – though to be fair, he never sold out, despite being one of Belonius Vult’s confidants. He fought to the end and then went into hiding rather than surrender – all the Foxes did. They were the last unit to be given amnesty after the Revolt, and only then because the Rondians wanted Gyle as an advisor for the Second Crusade.’

‘Aunty Elena would visit us sometimes, when she was on the run,’ Alaron told him. ‘I was very young, but I remember her turning up out of the blue some nights. She’d bring me sweets.’

Muhren grunted. ‘I’ve not seen her since the Revolt. The Foxes went on the Second Crusade, but I stayed in Norostein with the Watch. I don’t know where she ended up.’

‘In the east,’ Alaron replied. ‘She used to send money, to help Mother. She visited twice, but never for long.’

‘She had the body of a dancer,’ Muhren mused. ‘Not an ounce of fat on her.’

‘Still none, last I saw her.’ Alaron grinned. ‘I watched her practise, that last time. She moved like lightning.’

Muhren nodded slowly. ‘Is she still with Gyle?’

Alaron shrugged. ‘I’ve never met him – I’ve heard of him, of course; everyone knows the Grey Foxes. They were heroes.’

‘They were killers,’ Muhren replied, and his voice sounded haunted. ‘They’d kill enemy soldiers in their sleep, murder informants, burn buildings with people inside them. They destroyed bridges and burned windships. I’m not saying we didn’t need them, and it was war, but they did some evil things. And word is now they’ve turned to crime.’

Alaron found himself wanting to protest,
Not my Aunty Elena!
But he could hear how that sounded, like the naïve protestations of a child. ‘I wish she was here anyway,’ he said eventually. ‘She’d kick those Inquisitors back to Pallas.’

Muhren smiled wryly. ‘Likely she would, lad.’

*

Next morning they moved at a faster pace, heading for an Alpine pass into Silacia Muhren knew of. Alaron still thought they should have gone northeast to the Brekaellen and on to Pontus, but he’d never be able to resist the scryings of their pursuers without the Watch Captain, so he had to acquiesce.
And maybe he’s right
, he told himself.

It took four days more to reach and traverse the pass, mostly at walking pace as the steepness of the hills precluded the horses moving any faster. There were clear wheel-ruts marking the road south; traders and the Rimoni caravans came this way. Occasionally they came upon an inn or a small village, but they avoided them all. ‘What they don’t know, the Inquisitors can’t learn,’ Muhren grunted. Game was plentiful, supplementing their hardtack and grain, and as far as they could tell, they passed unseen.

On the tenth day they began to see larger-scale cultivated land again. Goat herders waved out to them, lonely men surrounded by flocks perched high on the rocky slopes. Olive groves started to appear, clothing the land. It was hotter here, and the sea winds carried more salt and rime than moisture. Muhren told him that the gulf-winds were mostly southeasterlies that tore up the Verelon coast and watered Norostein: Silacia got much less rain, and almost none in summer.

Flocks and fields meant villages, and more eyes to see them, but if they were to learn where the di Regia caravan was this summer they were going to have to chance meeting people. Muhren’s affinities, Theurgy and Fire, meant he was poor at Clairvoyance. Alaron had a little affinity for it, but he didn’t know Mercellus and trying to scry Cym had yielded nothing.

They knew Cym’s family tended to work the vineyards near the coast, so that was where they started. Muhren had a smattering of Silacian, so he went into the villages and estates, cloaking himself in illusion to disguise his appearance. Alaron stayed with the horses, waiting anxiously.

The second afternoon, the twelfth of their flight, they finally got
the information they needed: the di Regia caravan had passed that way, going south.

Three days later, they found them.

*

Silacian houses were built of stone or clay bricks, painted pale cream, with baked red clay roof-tiles. The vines, now heavy with fruit, fanned out in neat rows about the residence. They had courtyards to the rear, with long trestle tables set under trees and screens to shade from the blazing sunlight. In the summertime meals were always served outdoors and the scents of cooking flowed down the road to greet them, the succulent smell of roasting meat setting their mouths watering. They could hear laughing children and women singing. The sun was still high in the sky, beating down on the wide-brimmed straw hats they’d purchased at the last town to shield their eyes.

In a field below the house, a dozen wagons had been drawn up in a circle. The horses were grazing placidly, ignoring the gypsy children buzzing about them like a swarm of insects and shrieking with laughter and energy. The older ones were busy with chores, hauling water and chopping wood. The men all had curling black hair and wore white or dun shirts. The women wore white blouses and colourful patchwork skirts, and headscarves confined their hair to long cascades down their backs. They had dark, lean faces with big noses, and heavy brows above hard, wary eyes.

‘Are they working for the vintner?’

Muhren nodded. ‘Rimoni are forbidden to own or rent land, so they travel, mostly doing seasonal work.’

‘Do we go to the house or the caravan?’

‘The house first,’ Muhren replied. ‘Politeness dictates that the landowner is made aware of any newcomers.’ He pointed towards the house, and Alaron could see a tall man with long grey hair and a heavy moustache waiting on the stairs at the front. ‘And in fact the owner awaits us.’

Muhren dismounted and went to talk to the landowner. The conversation was brief, and entirely in the local tongue. Muhren turned and translated for Alaron, while the landowner, who had a
scar across his left cheek and a distant air, waved a boy over and sent him pelting towards the caravan. ‘His name is Torrini. He has sent for Mercellus.’ Muhren smiled. ‘We’ve found them.’

Alaron looked about him with renewed interest. Was Cym here? He saw eyes and faces at the windows of the house: the family and servants perhaps. A young boy waved at him when their eyes met and he waved back. Then a voice called aloud in Rondian and he turned to see a man striding up the slope towards them, a big smile on his face.

‘Jeris, my friend!’ called Mercellus di Regia, as Muhren hurried to greet him. As he embraced Cym’s father, Alaron remembered that Mercellus had been involved in the Revolt somehow; that was how he knew Muhren. They certainly looked like old friends. Master Torrini visibly relaxed when he saw Muhren’s welcome.

Introductions were made, and Alaron found himself summoned forward to shake hands with Mercellus. Cym’s father was a big man, almost as tall as Muhren, but a little stouter, with massive sweeping moustaches and a mane of hair shot through with veins of silver. His hands were powerful as they gripped Alaron’s.

‘Welcome, young Mercer! I know you, si? You and my daughter made the windskiff last year!’ He laughed aloud at the memory, and Alaron did too, a little less wholeheartedly – he had after all made a total fool of himself by colliding with Anborn Manor during the test flight. Once they’d managed to repair everything, they’d sold the skiff to Mercellus. He didn’t see it here though. And Cym hadn’t appeared.

He began to put two and two together. ‘Is Cym—?’

Mercellus cut him off with a finger to the lips, a friendly smile still on his lips, but his eyes were harder. The gypsy clan leader turned back to the landowner and gushed a torrent of Rimoni, to which the owner gave a crooked nod of assent.

‘Signor Torrini gives us permission to accommodate you with us,’ Mercellus explained, and Muhren shook hands again with the vineyard owner before following Mercellus towards the circle of caravans in the field below.

The children flocked towards them like sparrows as they entered
the field, and the youths and adults all paused in their work, no less curious. Alaron thought he recognised some of the faces from the windskiff tests, when the boys had all glared at him in mute warning, that if he overstepped with Cym he was dogmeat. They looked no friendlier now.

But one of the girls surprised him by smiling right at him. She had a wide, almost moonlike face, and daring eyes. When she tossed her head and thrust her chest out a little he found himself colouring. Mercellus noticed and barked at the girl, ‘Anise!’, and she lowered her gaze in a flutter of eyelids.

Mercellus paused in midstride and faced Muhren. ‘I can guess why you are here, my friends,’ he said in Rondian, including Alaron in the conversation. ‘Cymbellea has gone. She left for the east six days ago.’

Muhren groaned softly. ‘How is she travelling?’

‘Now? By skiff.’

Alaron felt the tiny hope he’d had quickly fade away.

Mercellus put a hand on Muhren’s shoulder. ‘I am sorry you missed her. I would have felt better if she had been travelling with others. But my daughter is a law unto herself.’ There was a certain rueful pride in his voice as he said this. ‘Tonight, though, you will be our guests.’ He made a gesture towards the wagons. ‘You will experience true Rimoni hospitality.’

‘Then it was worth the trip for that alone,’ Muhren replied warmly.

*

Rimoni food was like nothing Alaron had ever experienced, full of tastes that made his mouth sizzle. The meat and vegetables were rubbed with dry seeds and pastes, then barbequed. Fruit filled the baskets on the tables. There was even Silacian white wine, gifted by Signor Torrini for the occasion. The first tiny glass tasted a little sweet to Alaron, but he soon got accustomed to the taste, and by the third glass his head was floating.

Mercellus sat with them at the head of a long bench-table in the middle of the circle of wagons. Several of the men had musical instruments that they played with verve and incredible skill, and Alaron found his feet tapping in anticipation. His eyes
strayed to a cluster of giggling young women and he realised with a shock that they were all staring at him, passing whispered comments behind their hands. The moon-faced girl smiled coyly at him.

Anise
…

‘So, Jeris-amici,’ said Mercellus di Regia with an ironic smile, ‘how much trouble is my daughter in?’

Muhren puffed out his cheeks and pulled a face.

Mercellus winced. ‘That bad, my friend?’

‘Worse,’ Muhren admitted. ‘She has something very valuable, and some dangerous people want it back.’

‘She was being very mysterious,’ Mercellus replied, sipping his wine. He sounded calm, but Alaron could see worry-lines appearing as he spoke. ‘She was carrying something she wouldn’t show me. I did not press the issue. She was anxious to take the skiff and go.’ His eyes shifted to Alaron: ‘She has been learning how to pilot the craft you and she created.’

‘Where is she going, Mercellus?’ Muhren asked.

‘To Pontus, and then to Hebusalim,’ Mercellus replied in a low voice. ‘I could not dissuade her, nor could I stop her.’

Alaron didn’t think there was much Mercellus di Regia couldn’t do if he set his mind to it. But he also knew Cym.
And if she really is Meiros’ granddaughter, that makes her – what? A half-blood? No wonder she was always better at the gnosis than Ramon and me
.

‘Is there aught I can do to aid your search?’ Mercellus asked, after a few moments of reflection.

Muhren frowned. ‘Something of hers that she wore or used constantly, perhaps?’

Mercellus tilted his head thoughtfully. ‘I know just the thing.’ He waved a woman over and whispered to her, and Alaron watched her walk to the largest wagon. She returned holding a small wooden doll, an ugly thing with tattered clothing and chewed legs. The thatch of hair was almost all gone and the face-paint had been scuffed away. ‘This doll is named Aggi,’ Mercellus told them. ‘She loved Aggi when she was a child; she slept with her, played with her, talked to her,
took her everywhere.’ He smiled to himself and placed the doll in front of Muhren, who pushed it towards Alaron.

‘We’ll find her,’ Alaron said earnestly, pocketing the doll reverently.

‘It’s a big world, lad,’ Mercellus replied. ‘Don’t make promises you cannot be sure of.’ His eyes held all the worry a father could have over a wayward daughter.