Sorcery Rising (13 page)

Favio and Fabel exchanged an uncomfortable glance. Saro had the sense they had somehow been caught out.

Favio held his hand out for the scroll and ran his eyes down the listings. ‘Stupid creature! – my scribe, my lord, I mean – such a foolish oversight. I knew the man was not paying attention.’ He reached across the table, poured himself another glass of the smoky, rose-flavoured liquid, and knocked it back in a single gulp as if to divert attention from the lie.

Lord Tycho took the scroll back. ‘As I thought,’ he said smoothly. ‘An unfortunate omission. But do not concern yourselves: I have my own scribe here: he shall make the correction.’ He gestured minutely to one of the slaves, who melted away into the darkness at the back of the tent, returning a moment later with a thin young man with his head bound in the Jetran fashion bearing a goose-quill, a small pot and another, unornamented document.

Favio grimaced. As Tycho bent to take his seat again, Fabel shrugged minutely.

‘And the land from the village of Fasal, extending to . . . to Talsea in the north and in the south bounded by the cliff at Felin’s Bluff, with access to the Golden River, its toll-bridge and barge station,’ Favio dictated, his voice flat and resigned.

‘Excuse me, Father.’ Tanto leaned across and gripped him by the arm. ‘What about the woman?’ he hissed, audible to all present. ‘I want a good look at the baggage before you sign my inheritance away—’

Tycho’s eyes narrowed then bored themselves into the side of Tanto’s sun-kissed head. ‘Let me call my daughter,’ he said silkily. ‘She is eager to see the young lord to whom she may be betrothed.’ He paused to allow the veiled repayment of the insult to find its mark. ‘Perhaps your lordships would like to peruse the terms of my share in our agreement while the Lady Selen is brought to attend our audience?’ Taking the sheet of unrolled parchment from the scribe, he passed it to Favio Vingo, then turned and sharply called his daughter’s name.

Saro watched as his father blinked: once, twice, then held the document at arm’s length and stared at it. Oh Falla, Saro thought suddenly; he’s drunk.

‘Father,’ he said softly. ‘Would you like me to read it to you? I know your eyes have been paining you of late.’

Favio gave him a curious look, but did not relinquish the parchment.

‘Don’t interfere,’ Tanto said loudly. ‘You’re just a hanger-on here: it’s none of your business.’

As if she had been waiting in the anteroom throughout the preceding hour, the Lady Selen materialised suddenly at her father’s side. She wore a sabatka of a dark hue – black with just a hint of aubergine to it – very plainly and severely cut, but of the finest linen. Entirely unornamented, it covered her from head to foot, and had the appearance more of funereal garb than a dress befitting what might by others be regarded as a joyful occasion. With her head held low, all that was visible of her at this moment were her hands.

She took a step forward, her hands held palm-out in the tradition greeting, and bobbed her head first to her father, then to the elder Vingos, and at last to Tanto and his brother.

Tanto leaned forward, his eyes keen to scrutinise.

In silhouette, her form was tall and slim, which in itself was pleasing enough, he noted; and when she moved it was with silent grace: altogether a good thing in a woman. But when she stepped into the shaft of light, his mouth fell open in wonder. From behind her came a hiss of disapproval: the first emotion Lord Tycho Issian had shown during the visit.

The single allowable slit in the sabatka’s veil revealed that Selen Issian had painted her lips like those of a street whore. The shape – exaggerated to a more than generous bow – had been filled in with a rainbow of glittering colour. Sunlight played over gleaming yellows and purples, scarlets and greens, every opposition of the spectrum represented at once as though by the model for a cosmetics pedlar. Just to the right of her top lip – currently quirked in a humourless smile – a silver beautyspot in the form of a crescent moon had been stuck to the pale olive skin: the universal symbol of those prostitutes who preferred to offer a very particular, and irregular, service.

Tanto’s regard travelled hungrily across this palette; and came to rest on the beauty-mark. His eyes widened; then he beamed.

‘She is a treasure, my lord,’ he breathed, turning to Lord Tycho. ‘A veritable treasure.’

Selen Issian’s mouth became a long, hard line.

Favio Vingo looked surprised. Fabel seemed rooted to the spot. Lord Tycho’s brows were drawn together in a single dark furrow. He looked as if he might explode. Saro stared from one to another, and back to the dark column of the girl. There was an electric charge to the air, a sense of challenge and sexual tension, but he did not fully understand its import.

Favio coughed, once, and returned his attention to the document.

‘Ah, this all seems in order, my Lord Tycho. Shall we sign our respective offers and seal our bargain?’

From behind the veil there came a sharp intake of breath. The slim figure began to sway. Then Selen Issian crumpled to the floor.

When she came to the pavilion was empty. Except for her father, who was standing over her, his face grim and vivid with intent.

In his hands he carried a leather strap.

PART

TWO

Five

Gold

T
ycho Issian strode through the Fair, looking neither to right nor left until he reached the slave blocks which, appropriately enough, it seemed to him, were situated close to the livestock pens. By midday – barely even the start of the Fair – they were already thronged with interested customers thinking to make themselves a cheap deal. The smell from the nearby animals was lofting pungently into the windless air.

At the first blocks, a fat merchant from the south was showing off a mountain girl of nine or ten. Even shrouded by the seller’s voluminous standard sabatka, she looked painfully thin, and one shoulder stood significantly higher than the other: hardly the ‘sturdy scullery maid’ he termed her. No one was bidding. Behind her were arrayed a motley collection of chained men, dark and wiry, all apparently from the same hill clan, no doubt captured and enslaved during the recent insurrections in the south, dressed to appeal to those looking for herdsmen or body servants, but such was not Tycho’s goal.

He passed on swiftly.

The next seller had more likely merchandise: all women, all very properly dressed and presented. They huddled together on the raised dais. Two of them held hands, as if seeking some human comfort in the face of their inquisition. Tycho could just make out the glint of manacles on their wrists. He threaded his way to the front of the small crowd who had gathered to listen to the merchant’s spiel.

‘. . . ladies from the Farem Heights: beauteous, bounteous, housebroken and willing, and all from the same family. As long-limbed and finely fettled as their horses: and the blood of desert chieftains runs fiery through their veins: how can you resist their charms? Falla knows I couldn’t!’ And here he leaned forward to leer at his audience, many of whom roared with laughter; some surreptitiously counted the money in their purses, while others stood unmoved and stony-faced, ready to strike a hard bargain. ‘I am content to sell the ladies singly or as a group. But imagine the pleasure, gentlemen, you could have from the whole job lot. Do I have any bidders for the group of five?’

Herded by the merchant’s assistants, the women shuffled forward. Tears had streaked the cosmetics that had been so carefully applied to their mouths. Tycho turned his back on the scene and walked on . . .

It was not, he thought as he went, that he objected to such crude displays; rather that the obvious did not appeal to him, even aroused as he was at the moment, had been, indeed, ever since the shocking sight of his daughter’s provocatively painted mouth. Had been, particularly, since he had beaten her for her defiance, quietly and painstakingly, not to leave marks that would last or be noticed, even by her attendants. The memory of her, cowering away from him, trying hard not to show her weakness, keeping her tears in check, made his loins boil with blood.

He must surely try to find a woman with whom to worship the Goddess, and quickly. He castigated himself silently for having left his favoured bed-partner behind in Cantara, but it had been necessary, given her current predicament. The foolish woman had thought to trick him, tried to hide the softness of her belly and breasts under sabatkas of a stiffer fabric that would not cling to her curves. But he did not pay his staff well for nothing: the housemistress had come to him as soon as she saw Noa vomiting one morning. Just in time: it became dangerous to abort the child beyond sixteen weeks; and while he was angry at Noa for trying to keep it, he would still not see her die under the chirurgeon’s knife. It would be a waste of resources: and, Falla knew, he had little enough of those to spare at the moment.

Always he hoped, when he visited the slave blocks, to find another Alizon: a proud, quiet, intelligent beauty, who would stir more than just his desire; who might even prove a stimulating companion for those soft, dark evenings by the lake, amongst the lemon groves. Not a wife from slavery: not again. His position, though weak, was too public now; and would be more so with the increase in status the Vingo alliance would bring him, and the place on the Istrian Council they would surely award him once he had cleared the debt. He had, by strenuous efforts, secured considerable respect amongst his peers and the elders of the Council; he was known for his oratory, and for his piety. Indeed, he had thought in his youth to combine the two and enter the priesthood; but events had conspired against that. He brushed those unpleasant memories swiftly away.

The women on the next dais were dark-skinned, and not to his taste. Impatient now, and with his member pushing insistently against his tunic, he turned for the nomad quarter.

Aran Aranson took a critical look at the position of the sun and, judging that he had sufficient time to spare before trading in the Eyran quarter started in earnest, set off purposefully. He knew exactly where he was going: Edel Ollson had mentioned seeing a Footloose man setting out a collection of maps and maritime charts and the like. Unusual, they were, Edel had said: parchment so old it was fragile to the touch, yellowed to the brown of a hazelnut around the edges, as if lapped by a tongue of fire. As to what others were made from, he had been less sure: goatskin, maybe; or – and here he’d brought his head close to Aran’s, his eyes darting apprehensively – perhaps even a man’s skin!

Edel Ollson had a wayward imagination, Aran thought dismissively. He was a man who was always coming up with schemes and plans and never seeing them through. You could not trust the word of such a man; they might not even be maps at all; probably they were old love songs written for noble ladies; sheets of tabla music or even playscripts. Edel, like most Eyrans, had never learned to read, preferring to keep record with the traditional use of knots and braids, and Aran himself had hardly more than a rudimentary knowledge of letter-making. But surely even a man like Edel could tell the difference between music and nautical charts? It was certainly worth a brief investigation.

Aran Aranson loved a map. Maps were to him a marvel, with their rhumb lines and wind roses, their intricate coast-lines and stylised mountain ranges; their scattered islands and fantastically rendered monsters of the deep. But, most of all, he loved maps for all the promises they held out to him of journeys still to be made.

He walked briskly through the Eyran stalls, nodding to a man here, exchanging a greeting there, his eyes constantly watchful and intent: there seemed to be less sardonyx around this year – were supplies running low? It might drive the price up. On the other hand, the first two sardonyx stalls he passed – manned by Hopli Garson and Fenil Soronson – were deathly quiet. Halli might yet be looking elsewhere for the price of his longship, Aran thought ruefully. The third one, however, against the time and all the odds, was thronged. Aran craned his neck. Stacks of the dark, banded stone stood on each side of the display, ignored by the bystanders. Instead, they were almost falling over each other to lay hands on a small piece of glittering rock in the centre. Aran Aranson stood up on the balls of his feet. His heart skipped a beat. It was gold – or what looked like it – a great, gleaming lump of yellow ore. Gold: that rarest of all commodities. They had dug pits all over the Istrian plains in search of it on the flimsiest of rumours; they had opened mines into the roots of the Golden Mountains, only to find those dour peaks once more misleadingly named. In Eyra, men had gone mad skimming for it in glacial streams and moorland tarns. The only examples of the lovely metal had been gleaned by the brave and fortunate from the wrecks of ancient ships come long ago to grief on the treacherous skerries of the Eyran islands: ships that bore little relation to the simple vessels of either north or south, bearing gorgeously-crafted artefacts that spoke of a bygone age and a lost civilisation. He remembered the fabulous sceptre he had once seen in the palace at Halbo, massive and jewel-encrusted, so heavy it took two men to carry it, found generations ago in the shallow waters off South Island and now used for the investiture of the Eyran kings; and once at the Allfair six or seven years since when one of the Istrian lords had paraded around in a golden collar of bizarre design that made him stoop under the weight. The next day, the man lay dead down on the strand, his blood congealing into sticky pats that drew the attention of the flies and skuas. The collar, of course, was gone; and no one had seen it since; it had surely been broken up, Aran thought, broken up and melted down and incorporated in a hundred other pieces of jewellery and dagger-hilts, sold, and most likely worn, clandestinely.

He frowned. Surely no one would have the gall to display such unusual treasure so openly, unless he was the wealthiest man in all of Eyra; yet Aran did not recognise the man behind the stall; and in addition he was simply dressed, and the two guards who stood behind him were clearly not professionals: their gear was old and obsolete: the pommel of the first man’s sword finished in a rounded end, a style that had been out of fashion two generations or more. Neither did the weapon look so splendid that it would be a family heirloom, passed from father to son down the years. Still, you never could tell, and he knew well that appearances could deceive.