Authors: Jude Fisher
‘They are
not like us
!’ he was crying now, his hands striking the air as if it were a solid mass. ‘They are an abomination! They treat their women like the cheapest Footloose whores, exposing their most intimate features to the lascivious gaze of every man who has the shame to look upon them, unveiled as they are. Any man who has visited the Allfair can vouch for the truth of this – you can see every detail of their faces, and sometimes their bare arms and breasts—’
The crowd sighed as one.
‘You could brush a woman’s cheek or touch her hair; you could even stare into the very pupils of their eyes, these women have been raised to be so brazen, and to have so little knowledge of the true way of the Goddess.’
‘Shame!’ someone cried, and others echoed the sentiment.
‘And rather than cherish them in the safety of fine houses, keeping them away from temptation and trouble as we do with Falla’s own, they have no care for their charges at all – they let them walk where they will; they allow them to work in the fields, on ships or even – and I find this the most shocking evidence of their barbarism of all – to go as warriors and fight alongside men in conflicts all over the world.’
Rui was granted a sudden vision of Mam – that most delicate of Eyran ladies – in her boiled leather and scars, spitting into her fist and grabbing his hand, and missed the next pronouncement; which was unfortunate, since it had raised a great cry of outrage.
‘Yes, the Swan of Jetra!’ Tycho roared, leaving the Lord of Forent in no doubt as to the current subject of discussion. ‘When she had offered herself as the ultimate sacrifice of our people, the very symbol of the hand of friendship we had extended across the Northern Ocean; the Swan of Jetra was left weeping in the care of her family, while the filthy barbarian king chose himself a Footloose woman as his bride!
‘Shall we stand idle and watch heresy and sacrilege committed before our eyes? Shall we shrug and walk away as the flower of Istrian womanhood is spurned in favour of a foreign whore? Shall we merely pray that Falla will bring them gently to their senses in time? Rather I say we should offer ourselves as her messengers, the bearers of her fire! I say that we should carry a holy war against these worshippers of false gods – these monsters who treat civilised peoples with such contempt that they will even abduct noble women at a peaceful assembly and carry them away for their vile pleasure—’
A murmur of consternation rose in the gathered men.
‘My daughter!’ Tycho shrieked. ‘My beautiful, devout daughter Selen, stolen by northern brigands and rapists from my own tent at the Allfair, and never seen again. She may even now be stripped naked amid a baying pack of northern wolves, her face and body bared to their greedy eyes, her tongue ripped away so she may not even speak Falla’s name, her back bloody with welts—’
Rui felt himself swaying like one intoxicated, felt his mouth open to echo the horrified shout of the crowd, and wondered, with the small piece of his mind that remained unaffected by the man’s strange tirade, what on Elda was happening here.
‘She may be thrown to the ground and pawed over by these beasts, with their feathers and shells and their braided beards. She may be set upon by a dozen of them at once; she may be impregnated! Forced to bear the child of monsters! Imagine: a noble Istrian woman treated so; as they treat all their women; as they would have treated the Swan!
‘Shall we allow this foul behaviour to go unpunished? Shall we not rather take Falla’s fire to them, and cleanse them of their sins? Shall we not rescue their women and put their men to the sword? Shall we not expunge their kind from Elda?’
‘We shall!’ shrieked the crowd.
‘Falla’s fire!’
‘Put them to the sword!’
‘Save the women!’
‘Cleanse the world!’
Rui felt the words buzz in his head and began to shake it rapidly from side to side as if to dislodge a wasp that had become trapped there. He took a step backwards, then another and another, and with each step the buzzing receded, until he found himself once more beyond the crowd, in the cool eaves of the chestnut trees, an area that seemed to be untouched by whatever spell the man’s words had cast. From the safety of the shadows there he watched for another ten minutes with interest as Tycho Issian whipped a crowd of upstanding Istrian citizens into a crazed rabble, baying for the blood of the old enemy. He listened carefully, and as he did so the suspicion that had first come to him at the Gathering hardened into a belief, and he felt a plan of his own beginning to form.
‘My Lord of Forent.’
‘Lord Issian, a pleasure,’ Rui Finco returned, lying through his grin-bared teeth. ‘I am delighted that you acceded to my invitation.’
The southern lord entered the Lord of Forent’s luxurious chambers (Rui liked to live well whenever he was in the capital, and although he did not much himself care for ostentation, it impressed others no end) as wary as a cat entering another’s territory. Rui watched with satisfaction as Tycho took in the carved and gem-encrusted settles; the silver-framed mirrors and lush Circesian carpets, the expensive Santorinvan candles, the beautifully decorated shrine to the Goddess, all wound around with gold-and-red silk to look like sacred flames; and the priceless wall-hanging depicting the Battle of Sestria Bay (chosen most carefully from his small private collection this very afternoon for a most specific purpose). At least, Rui found himself thinking,
he has not brought the pale servant with him
, and felt a considerable relief.
Tycho crossed the room and arranged himself with fastidious care on the finest settle beneath the ornate candelabrum, spreading his robe around him to show it in its best light and to ensure that the Lord of Forent was made well aware of its fantastic cost. That it was a most expensive garment was in truth hard to ignore, for despite the conservative cut and sober midnight blue of the cloth, the candlelight picked out every silver thread in its facing, every bit of hem and cuff and collar, and played off the tiny, intricately-worked silver buttons adorning the breast of the tunic in numbers too great for pure functionality. It was a robe that had surely set the southern lord back by several hundred cantari, Rui thought, and it was designed to speak its message:
the Lord of Cantara is a man of both excessive wealth and fine taste; in the right cause, he will spend his money generously, and be trusted to keep a secret close
. It did not encourage the Lord of Forent to trust him any the more; but trust was hardly the issue here.
‘In Falla’s faith I serve your lordship,’ he now said: the traditional greeting between peers of similar rank, and thus a blatant flattery, since little was known of the southern lord’s heritage, where Rui’s noble lineage was impeccable.
Tycho smiled, a small, tight smile that barely twitched the polished muscles of his face and made no attempt to reach his eyes. ‘You should ask rather how I may serve
you
, my lord.’
This was neither a traditional nor a polite response. Rui bit back the retort that sprang too easily to his tongue, and returned the cold smile. ‘You must think me remarkably inhospitable,’ he said with chilly grace, and clapped his hands.
An instant later a pair of willowy serving girls in identical sabatkas of such a sheer, pale pink gauze that it made a mockery of the very concept of the veiling nature of such garments, wafted into the chamber bearing a flask of araque spiced with attar and ginger, another of springwater, beakers of expensive frosted glass and a dish of sweetsmoke. With some satisfaction, Rui watched his guest’s avid eyes scour the women as they set each item down on the low table, bending almost double before the Lord of Cantara’s face. He could smell the rosewater and musk they had bathed in from nigh on twenty paces away. It was the closest concoction he had been able find to the perfume with which the Rosa Eldi had filled his pavilion at the Allfair on that fateful night before he had – by immense effort of will – sent her away with the mercenary, and it was clearly having the desired effect on the southern lord, for Tycho’s eyes – usually so black and fierce – had gone wide and dreamy, and his mouth had fallen open like a tomcat’s tasting a scent. It was all the Lord of Forent needed to prove his theory.
The women bowed low, white hands fluttering in gestures of extreme politesse, and made their exit. The second girl, unseen by the visitor, made a pout of her mouth as she passed her lord, the very tip of her tongue protruding for an instant to leave a small bubble of saliva on her full lower lip; then she too was gone. With effort, Rui kept the smile he felt from his face. Maria: she was a provocative imp. He would look forward to enjoying that mouth later.
While the Lord of Cantara was still flustered, Rui poured out a tall beaker of araque, barely drizzled a few drops of diluting water into it and handed the beaker to him. Tycho took it from him mutely and drained off a good half of the pure spirit before coming fully to his senses. With a start he stared at the glass in his hand and in that second Rui knew his thoughts.
‘I would never stoop to poison, my Lord Tycho; besides, as you say, we may be of assistance to one another. And what man does not need an ally in these turbulent times?’
Tycho replaced the glass carefully on the table and wiped his mouth. He was not used to araque; he could already feel it going to his head. Taking up another of the beakers, he poured a long measure of water into it and drank it down quickly.
‘Allies, yes.’ He glanced quickly at the door, which was closed; and then back at the Lord of Forent where he had sat down opposite him, thinking even as he did so in this strangely heightened state how very like the northern king this smoothfaced eastern lord suddenly appeared, despite the discrepancy in their ages and races. He found himself staring for a moment, taking in the high planes of the cheeks, the bone that shelved so close to the eye and hollowed itself out so elegantly beneath, the long, straight nose and powerful, dented chin, which in the northerner was obscured by the close dark beard; the lupine jaw and sharp teeth . . . It was a disconcerting comparison, since whenever he thought of the barbarian who had carried off his love a red tide of hatred swept through his heart. ‘You would welcome war in the north, then, my lord?’
Rui raised an eyebrow. He did not usually encourage such a direct approach. However, the man was from the deep south of the continent and little was known of his heritage; he had much to learn of the ways of court intrigue. ‘There are . . . certain advantages to be gained,’ he said carefully. ‘But of course to wage such a war is an expensive affair, what with ships to be built and mercenaries to be paid, let alone the cost of arming ourselves against our enemy, and the disruption to trade . . .’
Tycho smiled. It was a smile of great contentment and confidence; it made gimlets of his eyes. He leaned forward. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I do not think that money will be the problem.’
‘And what does your lordship think may provide an obstacle?’
‘Men’s hearts and minds. It will take much persuasion to raise the Council to war: not everyone will see the right of it.’
Now it was Rui Finco’s turn to smile. ‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘Men’s hearts. And loins.’ His smile became unpleasantly personal. He leaned across the table and touched the Lord of Cantara on the arm so that the man recoiled. ‘Do not be alarmed, my lord: I harbour no desires for my own sex. A willing woman – or even an unwilling one – eh, my lord? – is all I ever crave. Women hold a great mystery, do they not, my friend? Veiled or unveiled, we are blind to their true natures; but how they draw us in, with their subtle signs and their perfect hands, their mellow voices and their soft lips; their seductive scents and the promise of that slippery, hot flesh beneath.’
Tycho looked appalled.
‘You see, my lord of Cantara, I know your inner mind; I have seen into your heart: I know your true desire and motivation.’ Rui stood up, set his palms flat on the low table and bent across to place his mouth an inch from Lord Issian’s right ear. ‘The Rosa Eldi,’ he whispered, and withdrew.
Tycho’s face became a mask of stone, his turbulent emotions betrayed only by the draining of the colour from his skin, leaving it an unhealthy, sallow colour in which the veins stood out like marbling.
Rui Finco settled back upon his bench with his back against the wall and stared pointedly at the tapestry over the Lord of Cantara’s head showing scenes from the Battle of Sestria Bay, a campaign fought during the Third War which had saved the north coast of Istria from the Eyran invaders. Above his head, ancient galleys cut through the azure water of the Istrian Sea, their serried rows of oars delineated in precise lines, their sails furled for close-range fighting and to prevent damage from the northerners’ fire-arrows.
Using the enemy’s own weapon against him
, Rui thought with a vicious inward smile. Unbeknownst to the Eyrans, the commander of the southern fleet – his own grandfather, Luis Finco, Lord of Forent – had armed his ships with great iron battering rods, fitted to the keel beneath the waterline, and thus invisible to the eye. He had invited the northern fleet to engage them at close quarters, and then, with the rowers suddenly ordered to full speed, the Istrians had rammed and holed the great Eyran vessels, and a vast slaughter had taken place. It was one of Istria’s most famous victories: the only Eyrans to survive had been gelded and sold as slaves. Men whose grandfathers had fought in the Third War still heralded the Battle of Sestria Bay as Istria’s finest hour, citing it as proof that Istrian vessels were as fine as those made in the north; but Rui knew the truth: they had won that engagement only because of his grandfather’s wiliness, and because it had taken place in Istrian waters, close to home. There was no skill in the south at making the sort of ships at which the northerners excelled – the sort of ships that would breast stormwaves and hurricane winds, that would skim the ocean like great birds – and no great skill at sailing them, either. Carrying war to the north would require the services of another Eyran ship-maker turned traitor, and enough mercenary northerners to navigate them there. And if the Lord of Cantara had the money and the will – for whatever reason – to help to fuel that war, he was just what Rui had been looking for. Especially, he thought, since Tycho would owe him the very great favour of keeping his correct deductions to himself, and Rui liked to have others owe him favours.