Songs of the Earth (46 page)

‘I can imagine.’

‘Believe me, you can’t. Some of the things people were
prepared to pay to see or do, or have done to them …’ She shuddered. ‘Anyway, I decided I’d give myself where I chose and took up a trade to earn my way. Once I’d learned to drop my voice an octave and walk without swinging my hips it was easy enough to pretend.’

‘Weren’t there boys in the pleasure-houses too?’ he asked carefully. ‘Some men incline that way.’

‘There were, but indentured prentice-boys were left alone. Not that I didn’t have one or two handsome offers,’ she added, flashing him a wicked glance. ‘Although Jalal had a habit of standing at the back of the shop stropping his largest razor when certain individuals came to call, and for some reason they never wanted to stay long.’

‘Do you miss him?’

‘Jalal? Yes, I think I do. He had gold teeth and a glass eye that he would pop out and polish on his shirt if he didn’t like the look of you. He let half a dozen of us street children sleep in the back of his shop. In return we took care of him, swept the floor and cooked his meals, that sort of thing.’ Her voice had the warmth of real affection and her eyes were briefly a thousand miles away.

Watching her, Gair felt an odd little twist of pain in his chest. ‘I know so little about you,’ he said.

‘Oh, I think you know pretty much everything now,’ she replied lightly, with just enough emphasis on the ‘know’ to make him curse his fair complexion again.

Saints, that took some getting used to. She was so matter-of-fact about what they did in private, and so open and earthy when they did it, that she left him breathless.

She took a step back to scrutinise his hair fanned out over the towel and make sure the cut was even. Then she smiled at his reflection. ‘There. Much neater.’ Aysha folded up the towel and flicked it across his back and chest to clear it of cut hair, then dropped it on the floor. ‘Wait here a moment. I’ve got something to finish it off.’

With that she limped out into the bedroom. Gair fetched his shirt from the hook on the back of the door and pulled it on.

Aysha’s private bathroom resembled a grotto, tiled in undersea shades around the walls, sandy-gold underfoot. It did not take much imagination to picture her in the deep tub. Her bath-oil scenting the air was enough to quicken his pulse.

When she returned she carried a blue velvet pouch which she held out to him.

‘What’s this?’

‘Your name-day gift.’ She laughed at his expression. ‘Don’t tell me you forgot what day it was.’

‘We weren’t encouraged to remember anything but saints’ days in the Motherhouse. I’d completely lost track. How did you know?’

‘I asked Alderan.’

He upended the pouch into his hand. It contained a silver object the shape of an oversized finger ring, engraved with borders of Leahn knotwork. Round the middle ran an inscription in Gimraeli, all jagged peaks and hooked descenders with ripples between like a child’s drawing of waves.

‘It’s called a
zirin
. It’s for your hair.’

She showed him how to work the concealed catch and the sprung grip inside. Then she gathered his hair into a horsetail and clipped the
zirin
in place.

‘There,’ she said, smoothing his hair through her hand. ‘Better than that ragged piece of cord, eh?’

‘I don’t know what to say. Thank you.’ Gair fingered the cool metal as he studied his image in the mirror. The
zirin
was heavy on the back of his neck, but it looked secure. Handsome too, gleaming against his shirt. He didn’t dare think how much it must have cost her. That sort of quiet elegance usually came at a price.

‘What’s the inscription?’

‘Oh, just a quotation from a poem about the desert.’

‘Al-Jofar?’

‘Ishamar al-Dinn. Fourth century.’

‘I’ve not heard of him.’

‘He wrote the
Rose of Abal-khor
verse cycle and was banished from the Gimraeli court for it, on pain of death.’

‘Were the poems that bad?’

‘Actually, al-Dinn wrote some of the most beautiful verse I’ve ever read. He’s a favourite of mine.’

‘So why was he banished?’

‘The
Rose of Abal-khor
was the name given to the prince’s third wife, and the poems are profoundly erotic.’

Gair clapped his hand over the
zirin
and stared at her.

‘Please tell me the inscription isn’t a quotation from that!’

‘Relax,’ she laughed. ‘It’s nothing you couldn’t repeat at the dinner table, I assure you.’ Lifting herself on her toes, she wrapped her arms around his neck and offered her lips for a kiss.

‘Joyous remembrance, Leahn,’ she said, touching his face. ‘Now get out of here before I give in to temptation and muss up your haircut.’

‘I like the sound of that.’ He kissed her playfully, nibbling his way down her neck.

With a girlish giggle, she twisted out of his arms. ‘Stop that. You haven’t got time.’

‘Later?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Will you tell me what it says?’

‘Maybe that too. Now go, or you’ll be late for chess with Darin again.’

Alderan cupped his hands and scooped warm water over his face and neck to rinse away the last of the soap, then checked his reflection in the looking-glass above the washstand. Better. His beard now ended in a neat line below his jaw and he’d shaped it
over his cheeks so that it was symmetrical. Much better. He turned his head left and right to check for stray whiskers – ah.

Picking up his razor, he leaned towards the mirror with his head angled. Carefully he set the edge against his skin.

Guardian
.

Damn it! He dropped the razor into the basin and stared at the thread of scarlet trickling down into his beard.

Yes?

Forgive me for intruding
. The accent was as lilting as birdsong and the colours presented to him were sea-foam and sunshine over aquamarine blue. Not a pattern he recognised.

I am K’shelia, Shipsinger to the
Morning Star.
I have a message for you from the Gatekeeper
.

Masen? What was he doing on a sea-elf ship? Unease prickling down his spine, Alderan straightened up, the cut on his cheek forgotten.
I am listening, my lady
.

Assemble the Council. The Veil is failing
.

Saints and angels.
This is the whole of the message?

Yes, Guardian. The
Morning Star
will reach Pencruik in two days, if the winds are willing. We shall make the best haste we can
.

I understand. Thank you, Shipsinger. Our Order is in your debt
.

Do you have a message to convey to the Gatekeeper?

Tell him I will do as he asks. We will convene as soon as he arrives. I pray Goddess we will not be too late
.

Very well. Until we meet, Guardian, I bid you farewell
.

And the lady was gone. Alderan leaned on the washstand and let his head fall forward. Well, all things ended in time. Men did not choose the when. He could have wished that it were not quite so soon, though, that he had had a better chance to prepare. He would just have to make the best of it with the tools he had. Unheeded, blood dripped from his neck into the water, spiralling into threads, disappearing from view.

The third book was incomplete.

Ansel let it drop into his lap and kneaded his eyes. According to the date at the top of the page, the journal ended abruptly on the eve of the battle at River Run. Malthus was known to have survived, though wounded, so why did it stop? The first two volumes had been crammed with his musings and observations; what had occurred to make him set down his pen? Had the book been misplaced in the furious advance, put away by his steward and somehow overlooked? Would he have started again with a new notebook, and did that mean there was another volume still waiting to be found in the archive, sleeping amongst the Apocryphae?

Ansel muttered a curse that he had not used since the battle-field, then followed it with a prayer for forgiveness for the coarseness of his language, although he was sure She would understand his frustration. How cruel fate could be, to bring him so far along the path then abandon him so close to his goal. How bitter the taste of disappointment on his tongue.

He flicked back a page or two and re-read the final entries. Malthus’ descriptions of the march from Mesarild had been perforce brief, but even those few hasty words scratched into the book at the end of each day had been potent as spells. Ansel had felt the desperation, been harrowed by the sight of men and horses falling through sheer exhaustion and having to be left where they fell because the legions could not stop. Men marching until their feet bled through their boots, marching well into the night, then seeing the first league of the next day behind them before the sun even crested the horizon. And then to expect them to fight when they reached their destination!

But they had fought. Somehow, with wooden limbs and weapons that weighed them down as if forged from lead, the legions had fought. They had secured first one road into the valley, then another, and they had lifted the siege. The city’s defenders had committed everything they had to a final sally from the gates
and the two-pronged attack had caught Gwlach with his back to the river and his warriors in disarray.

How sweet the taste of our first victory! Like water from a spring on the mountainside, so fresh and invigorating, it washes the tiredness from our limbs and dulls the sting of our hurts, which have been many. Tomorrow we will grieve for them and say prayers for their souls, but tonight we will celebrate, for we have done good, if bloody, work this day. Who knows how many lives we have saved? Could that number be reckoned, we might consider we have bought them cheaply indeed. Without Fellbane, I fear we would have seen a very different end
.

Then the next day’s entry:

Gwlach has withdrawn to the north of the valley and regrouped. He knows we cannot press our victory just yet. Men and beasts must rest, be fed, for us as well as him. I have sent out scouts to watch him and they report that he has sent riders north, west and east. Intelligence from Caer Ducain’s garrison commander suggests this is where he has placed his reserves, numbering at least ten thousand more men. This tips the odds in his favour, in weight of numbers at least. We cannot know how many more sorceresses he can call upon. If we are to strike against him we must strike hard and strike soon, before his reserves can be ranged against us
.

On the eve of River Run, when the tide of battle irrevocably turned in the Order’s favour, the day’s entry was short. Two paragraphs, no more:

I spoke with Fellbane again today. He is a simple man, by which I mean uncomplicated. He sees his task very clearly: it is the right thing to do. To do otherwise would be to do wrong. Oh, for such clarity of purpose! I must perforce look beyond the morrow. The need is great, the end is just, of that I have no doubt. It is the means that tears at me like wolves in my soul
.

He accepts the task with which I have charged him with such equanimity, his strength of faith puts mine to shame. I am humbled by him. I pray to the Goddess Herself that one day his shade may find the grace to forgive me for what I have asked him to do in Her name
.