Authors: Jude Fisher
Fent stared at the piece of hair he was still grasping – warm in his hands, like a little living creature of flame – then dropped it slowly to the ground. He looked up at his father.
Aran grimaced. ‘It’s for her own good. If they find her they’ll want to burn her.’
He stuck the dagger into his own belt and rubbed his hands conclusively on his leather jerkin. Fine strands of red gold drifted away on the breeze. Aran watched them spiral away with an unreadable expression on his face, then, with a barked order to the lads, started down to the strand to see to the sardonyx.
Erno exchanged glances with Fent, his face white and strained. Fent stared back, his fair features in sharp contrast to his father’s. ‘You heard what he said.’ And when Erno hesitated, ‘It won’t come to that. If they try to take Katla all of Eyra will be up in arms.’ He kicked dust over the lock of hair, then stowed the mallet and remaining pegs swiftly inside the tent. ‘Come on.’
They ran to catch up with the receding figure of the clan leader.
Two
The Footloose
S
aro Vingo and his older brother Tanto had just finished grooming the second group of Vingo family bloodstock – a dozen of the finest Istrian colts: all dainty narrow heads, sheeny coats, long-limbed skittishness and sharp yellow teeth – and thanks to the latter, specifically a one-year-old beauty called Night’s Harbinger, a tricksy beast with a dubious temperament, Tanto was sitting on the ground, nursing a bitten forearm.
‘Bastard creature!’ He rubbed the skin ferociously. Distinct toothmarks showed up purple-red against the brown, testament to where Tanto had lost his temper with Night’s Harbinger – a fine-boned bay with a single white star on its forehead – and gripped him too hard when trying to brush out his forelock. Saro knew better than to force his will upon the animals thus: consequently they never bit him. It was a curious fact, though, that animals did not much like his brother. Tanto was always getting kicked or bitten by something. It was noticeable, too, how at home cats would slink silently past him, low on their hocks, close to the walls; while in the long, warm Istrian evenings, when the last rays of sun spilled through the tall windows to make honey-coloured pools of light on the polished floors, the greyhounds would watch him out of the corners of their anxious black eyes whenever he moved from his chair, which was rare enough, so long as there was a pitcher of bier or a flask of araque at hand.
‘It’ll be a killer, that one,’ Tanto muttered darkly. ‘I told Father the last time it bit me that we’d be better off serving it to the dogs than shipping it all the way to the Allfair on the bastard barge.’ He picked up a piece of black stone, walked it adroitly between his fingers for a few seconds, then threw it with sudden vicious force at the offending animal. Accurate as ever, Tanto’s shot hit the horse on the tender spot between haunch and flank, and the creature shied up and sped off to the other side of the enclosure, white panic encircling its eyes. ‘Worthless runt!’
Saro frowned, but said nothing. Night’s Harbinger was the best of their bunch, a rangy runner with a fine turn of speed, likely on a good day to win any race they set him to. Besides which, he’d long since learned never to get in the way of his brother’s frequent tempests of rage; even commenting on them had earned him cuts and bruises as a child. Instead, he gathered up the grooming kit, replacing each brush and flask of oil carefully into the pockets in the soft cloth roll in which he kept them, and said: ‘So, which contest do you think you have the best chance at?’
A climate change came over Tanto. It was as if all the black clouds had blown away and a sun shone down upon the world. A handsome, athletic lad, and well aware of it, nothing pleased him more than to have someone showing interest in him, even if it was only his measly little brother. He shook his head and the light played dutifully upon each black curl; upon the taut plane of his cheek and the hollow of his smooth throat, and came to rest finally upon his prized choker of sardonyx, its alternating bands of finest red chalcedony and lucent quartz a perfect foil to the dark warmth of his skin. His expression relaxed into a wide, delighted smile.
‘Why, all of them, brother! I’ve been training, you know.’
It was true: he had. While Saro and the younger boys had their knuckles rapped by their humourless tutor in the dull, cool silence of the learning house, outside in the sunshine Tanto was ploughing a furrow in the lake with his effortless backstroke; or casting a carefully-weighted spear across the homefield into distant straw targets under the discerning eye of their Uncle Fabel; punching mercilessly some poor slaveboy who’d been wrapped in padded leather and given some rudimentary fist-training; or out with their father, Favio Vingo, in the hills, triumphantly shooting rabbits full of quills from his short-bow. Seeing in his eldest son the Allfair champion he had never quite been, Favio lavished upon Tanto the finest of weapons – sabres of Forent steel and pattern-welded daggers from the north; bows crafted from aged oak and arrows fletched with the feathers of geese bred specifically for the purpose at Lake Jetra, way down on the Tilsen Plain. Tanto had the pick of everything – from the first cut of the roast, to the most exclusive of his father’s courtesans: it was only fair, he said, when you considered the riches and the glory his prowess would bring to the family name.
Saro smiled back at his brother (a smile that did not quite touch his eyes), feeling for his sibling the usual resentment simmering quietly away beneath his quiet exterior, and let the neverending flow of boasts pass like hot air above his head. Saro himself had always failed miserably in the contests at which Tanto excelled. He didn’t appear to have the necessary physical strength or coordination to compete with his brother, or anyone else, for that matter; his fear of water made him sink, stiffmuscled, to the lake floor; spears left his hand on unpredictable trajectories which had the slaves running wildly out of the way; the delicate southern swords – too light, surely, to be effective as a weapon? – slipped awkwardly from his fingers; and as for fist-fighting . . . Maybe it was just that he lacked the will to win. Probably it had more to do with the fact that with Tanto around, there was hardly any point in competing: why try and fail, only to be beaten and chastised? It seemed easier to accept his limitations and live with his father’s inevitable disappointment. ‘Saro: you will never amount to anything,’ Favio Vingo said constantly, and Saro had now come to accept that as an ineluctable truth.
Besides, Saro thought to himself, seeing how his brother’s chest was swelling from his inability to draw breath while talking so about himself, if you had to be like Tanto in order to succeed, who wanted to be a champion?
‘. . . so it’s the swordplay in which I should really excel, with that new damascened blade of mine, even though Fortran’s father gave him a gilded guard for his sabre, and Haro’s been taking lessons all summer from that swordmaster from Gila,’ Tanto finished in a rush.
‘Clearly brother, who could possibly match you?’
Tanto grinned in agreement, then uncoiled himself and strolled across the enclosure to supervise the slaves who were completing the stockade. Tall and muscular, he walked with an easy grace Saro knew he’d never possess, though as children kind aunts, the glint of their eyes bright through the veils of their sabatkas, their hands all aflutter with affection, had often remarked upon how alike the two boys looked: ‘like fircones from the same branch!’ Which had not pleased Tanto, and even though they shared a superficial similarity, Saro found himself feeling a fraud, guilty at the aunts’ obvious error of judgement.
Now, Tanto was firing off loud commands at the work-crew without the slightest hesitation or doubt as to his right to do so. At once, the slaves redoubled their efforts, careful not to meet his eye. The colts, meanwhile, trotted to the other side of the pen, blowing through their noses and looking expectantly at Saro. With a quick glance to make sure that Tanto’s attention was safely engaged elsewhere, Saro slipped his hand into the bag inside his tunic and drew out some of the horse-nuts he’d smuggled over with him. Neither Tanto nor their father approved of ‘spoiling’ the animals thus. ‘They’re here to make us money,’ Favio had said. ‘A great deal of money. They’re not pets.’ Fine-bred horses were considerable assets in Istria, for status, for spectacle, for racing and as a sweetener to attract the best officers for the standing armies that each province prided itself upon, and the trading of stock such as these was one of the Vingo family’s major income sources. Only family members were allowed to tend the animals, for Favio, a superstitious man when it came to money, was convinced that the touch of an outsider’s hand upon his bloodstock would somehow taint or subvert the purity of their Falla-dedicated breeding-lines. And so it was that both lads had travelled to the Moonfell Plain the long way, this year, along with several of their compatriots: for the livestock barges were too slow and cumbersome to deal with the fast waters of the Alta River, or the open sea, and instead had to make their meandering way up the wide, placid Golden River. Tanto, of course, had complained bitterly at not being allowed passage on the Vingo ship,
The Maid of Calastrina
, with the rest of the clan, but in this alone his father had not indulged him. ‘My boy,’ he had said, ‘your marriage payment and future success may rest on the price we get for the bloodstock this year. Remember that: care for the animals with all diligence, and ride the river with a hopeful heart, for if all goes to plan, by Allfair next year you will be lord of your own domain, owner of a noble wife and a fair castle.’
Tanto had stopped complaining after that; but he’d avoided the horses as soon as they were out of sight of the family estate and had cheerfully left all the work to Saro, spending his time instead peering at charts and maps of the river’s course, and delivering orders to the crew. Cognizant of Tanto’s famous temper, the men deferred to him silently, though Saro caught them exchanging amused glances: for everyone knew a child could steer a barge up the Golden River.
As soon as they scented the horse-nuts, the colts were crowding around Saro, pushing at him with their velvety muzzles, until he had to drop the treats down inside his tunic and fend them off. Night’s Harbinger, however, had hung back from the rest and regarded him warily. Slowly, Saro moved between the other horses till he was within arm’s reach of the bay. He held out his hand to him, empty, palm up. The bay rolled his eyes. When he stretched out to rub Night’s Harbinger on the cheek, he threw up his head, but did not back away. Carefully, Saro reached into his shirt and drew out a handful of the horse-nuts. When he scented them, the bay became strangely compliant. A few seconds later, Saro felt questing lips graze his hand, and then the horse-nuts were gone, as if by magic, and the next thing he knew, the bay was pressing his head against his chest, nosing deep into his tunic, until he had to push him away. As he did so, his shirt pulled loose from his belt, and horse-nuts scattered everywhere.
They made a sound like a miniature rockfall.
Tanto’s head whipped around, and took in with a face like thunder the sight of six of the Vingo family’s finest bloodstock yearlings scoffing worshipfully at his little brother’s feet.
Aran Aranson’s daughter ran until a sharp stitch under her ribs slowed her down. Rage had carried her a mile or more from the family booths, to the edge of the fairground and beyond. No one had taken much notice of a girl running urgently through their midst, since there were so many other people scurrying in all directions on errands and assignments; like the Aransons, setting up their stands, raising tents and pavilions, building temporary stockades for the livestock, tethering horses and dogs.
From the top of a rocky knoll, Katla looked back at the activity of the fair and pummelled her abdomen with a hard knuckle, trying to shift the stabbing pain. Stupid! She’d been so angry she’d forgotten to breathe properly. At home she ran for miles, tireless and steady, her long legs loping like a hound’s across moorland and meadow, up hill and down dale. She never got stitches, not like this. Damn her father for his bullying ways! She was a grown woman now, and surely due some respect: how dare he manhandle her as if she were a wayward ewe at shearing-time! And damn Fent and Erno, too, for standing by like the useless wretches they were, not even bothering to lift a hand to stop him. It didn’t surprise her that Fent wouldn’t stand up to their father, for Aran’s rages were elemental in their force; but she was disappointed in Erno, who might at least have remonstrated with him. She’d thought, from his shyness around her, that he might care a little for her: but clearly he was as cowardly and ineffectual as the rest of them. She ran a distracted hand over her head, feeling for the first time its strange new configuration, the remains of her hair uneven and spiky. Her head felt oddly light. It was – she noted with some surprise – quite a pleasant sensation.
Well, at least washing it wouldn’t be the tedious chore it usually was, with the long tail hanging plastered like a wet cat down her back for hours on end. As short as it was now, it would dry in minutes. She laughed as another thought struck her: for clearly her father had no intention of parading her around before King Ravn, as a marriage prospect! When Breta, Jenna and Tian had heard she’d be coming to the Allfair, it had been all they’d talk about – King Ravn Asharson: so handsome, so dashing, and by all accounts as wild as a stallion in heat for a mate – and they’d giggled and blushed and gone on at tedious length fantasising about what dresses they’d wear to be presented, how they’d curtsey and gaze up at him; how they’d prime their fathers to put their case to the lords. Remarkably, Jenna had managed to persuade her father to let her come with him to the Fair this year as well, though Katla doubted she’d ever be able to talk him into entering her into the marriage contest. The Fairwater clan, though wealthy and with an old heritage, were a shipbuilding family, and Katla suspected they already had their eye on one of her brothers for Jenna. Halli, probably, as the older of the two, rather than Fent. Katla anyway suspected her dour older brother had something of a soft spot for the coy and flirtatious Jenna. And Jenna, with her liking for dark men would most likely choose Halli, if she were given her say; though not until she’d had her foolish infatuation with Ravn Asharson conclusively quashed. They would all be going to the Gathering: that much Katla knew, for any Eyran family who paid tithes to the King or provided him with ships, crews or fighters was welcome to attend any court event. The northerners were not much for ceremony, Sur be praised.