The Rose of the World (18 page)

Again the voices came, such a racket she could hardly think what to do next. Gritting her teeth, she shut them out, shooed them into that quiet place in the back of her skull where she deposited her fears when she climbed. She moved up, swapped feet in an incut, tested the hold above her head and, finding it was a huge, secure jug of a thing she could get her fingers sunk in, she swung up on it, ran her feet up to meet it, then pushed down on a straight arm, and with her right hand wedged in a crack in the shale, levered herself upright and onto the big hold. In no time at all, it seemed, she was thirty feet up the cliff.
Better not fall now
, came a small voice in her head, one Katla recognised as belonging to what small sense of self-preservation she owned. The other voices were right alongside it, groaning away like scolding relatives.

‘Oh shut up!’ she told them all, then realised she had spoken out loud.
Must be going a bit mad
, she thought. A shudder passed through her, then another. Her knees felt weak.
Not good. Not good at all
.

Determined now – and trying to ignore the thought that she probably couldn’t reverse the route now even if she wanted to – Katla pushed herself onward and upward, hands and feet in bare contact with the rock delivering little jolts of energy up through her spine. These, in conjunction with the benevolence of the rock’s configuration, seemed to conspire to offer her the power and grace she needed to dance her way up the rest of the route. Near the summit, she glanced back over her shoulder, relieved to see there was still a tail of rope on the ground. Shifting her gaze, she took in the wreck of the
Rose of Cera
, now a roosting place for a whole host of gulls.
Nature is greedy
, she thought suddenly.
It will take everything back to itself in the end
.

That thought seemed to rob her of the last of her strength.

At the top, she rolled over the edge and lay there for a moment, weak and panting with the sweat pouring off her and her limbs trembling uncontrollably.
It wasn’t even that hard
, came the little voice again.
You’re not well. Not well at all
.

Go away
, she told it fiercely.
I’m fine. I have to be
.

She pushed herself to her feet and looked around for a useful anchor point. Not much to choose from: a couple of stunted bushes and some worried-looking sheep. She opted for the bushes, found a boulder hidden amongst them and made a fairly safe belay. Though whether or not it would hold Fat Breta remained to be seen . . .

Garnering her strength, she ran along the edge till she came in line with the women and began shouting. For some reason, they were milling around in various states of confusion, some of them still struggling upright, some staring vacantly out to sea. They turned their faces up to the sound of her voice like flowerheads turning to the sun. She waved, indicated the rope, ran back towards it. When she returned to her anchor-point, she glanced down again, and was surprised to find them all following swiftly along the beach. She’d been expecting delay and protest, from Kitten Soronsen at least; but by some strange overnight change of character, the blonde girl was leading the charge up the strand and the rest of the women were with her. In the midst of the group her mother was waving frantically, first at Katla, then at the sea.

Katla frowned, then shrugged and watched as Thin Hildi beat Kitten to the end of the rope and tied herself on with such alacrity Katla feared for her safety.
Two granny knots, and she’ll be off the end of that
, she thought. But Hildi was already climbing before she’d had a chance to take the rope in tight. Casting all else from her mind, Katla gave herself over to the task of belaying the girl, who was moving up the cliff like a rat up a haystack.
She’s a natural
, Katla thought with amazement, for Thin Hildi had never seemed much use for anything other than gossip, turnip-peeling and sewing neat seams. Using her back as a brake, she took the rope in, breathing hard to keep up with Hildi’s frantic upward progress, until the girl’s head popped into view, her cheeks bright red with exertion and her eyes out on stalks. When the cliff edge came within reach, she launched herself at it, rolled over the top and lay there winded like a beached seal. Then: ‘Men . . . in boats!’ she wheezed as Katla fiddled at the inexpert knots she’d tied around her waist. ‘Come back . . . to look for us.’

Alarmed, Katla looked out to sea. ‘Oh no,’ she groaned. She leapt to her feet and threw the rope down again, watched Bera push Kitten Soronsen back and tie Fat Breta onto the end and the girl start scrabbling hopelessly. This time, Katla had to haul with all her strength. As she did so, the details of her glance out across the shining waves came back in fits and starts: three skiffs, stuffed with men. Istrians. Raiders. Too far away to count or identify them. Out beyond the wreck. Rowing around it, not fast.

Two more enormous heaves and Breta was safely up. Katla untied her and let the rope down again.

They don’t know we’re here
, she realised with sudden delight.
They’re still checking the ship. With any luck they’ll think we’ve drowned.

By now the boats had circled the wreck and one was heading west. She grinned to herself; but then she saw the giant, Casto Agen, striding down to the shore and wading into the shallows. Puzzled, she watched as he breasted the breakers, then seemed to search for something. A moment later he appeared to find whatever he had been looking for. It was the rest of the rope which was still attached to the ship. Her heart sank. She watched him grab it up and start to haul himself toward the wreck, hand over hand and without a word, it seemed, for the raiders remained oblivious to him.

Then it dawned on her: the big man was mute.

But he certainly wasn’t invisible. She watched as one of the raiders stood up in his skiff so that it rocked wildly, and pointed in the direction of the ship. The next thing she saw was the boat changing course.

‘Climb quicker!’ Katla yelled down to the girl on the rope.

It was, of course, Kitten Soronsen, and she stared up at Katla with fierce loathing.

‘I’m climbing as fast as I can!’ she screeched; then, under her breath, ‘Bitch.’

Katla wasn’t listening. She was watching with horrified fascination as the boat’s crew hauled the giant raider into the skiff, then started in towards the shore with a great splashing of oars. The others followed suit. Katla looked down at the beach again. There were still four women down there, including her mother, and she knew that no matter how fast they climbed they’d not all make it to the top before the men reached them.

‘Get the rope undone!’ she shouted.

Kitten threw the end at her harder than was strictly necessary.

‘Mother!’ Katla yelled, throwing the rope down. ‘You next!’

Without pause, Bera Rolfsen calmly tied Magla Felinsen on. With her muscles burning and the sweat running into her eyes, Katla cursed her mother’s selflessness, the raiders’ persistence and Magla’s ineptitude in equal and obscene measure. ‘God’s tits, Magla,’ she declared, dragging the girl over the edge at last, ‘you weigh more than our prize ewe!’

She pushed the trembling girl to a place of safety then set about the knot around her waist. But the weight of Magla Felinsen combined with her own vicious hauling had tightened them impossibly. Katla stamped her heels with rage and frustration. ‘No knife!’ she muttered furiously, madly, to herself. ‘Where’s my sodding knife when I need it?’

Kitten Soronsen approached now. ‘I have a knife,’ she said softly. ‘I took it from the big Istrian when he brought me through the sea.’

‘Thank Sur,’ Katla breathed. She held her hand out expectantly, but Kitten looked away.

‘I’ll remind you now of how you left me till last in the hold,’ she said. ‘And of your insults, too.’ She took the knife from the rag she wore as a belt and let the sun play across its blade.

It was a small piece, and cheaply made with a great deal of ornament around its handle, too small to make a weapon, too large to peel an apple.
Typical piece of Istrian tat
, Katla thought inconsequentially, even as she yearned towards it.

‘A sharp-tongued witch, am I?’ mused the blonde girl, running her finger up and down the blade.

‘My mother’s down there,’ Katla said through gritted teeth.

‘I know. She was pretty rude to me, too.’ Kitten tilted the metal so that its sheeny surface reflected her face.

The first boat was making its way through the breakers now, threading a passage between the horns of the reef where Katla had swum through, as directed by the giant in its bow. Time was running out. While Kitten was engaged by her own image in the knife, Katla made her move. But as soon as she put her weight on her injured ankle, it buckled under her and she fell back gasping.

Kitten stood over her, her shadow blocking out the sun. ‘I never liked your mother,’ she said silkily. ‘She has a nasty temper. But perhaps hard labour in an Istrian brothel will temper her spirit.’

Growling like a bear, Katla launched herself at Kitten Soronsen, who stepped neatly out of reach, tipped up her palm over the edge of the cliff and let the little blade slide off into clear air. Katla watched it tip end over end, twinkling silver, until it hit the ground eighty feet below.

Tears rose to her eyes. With a trembling hand, she rubbed them away.

‘I’ll kill you for that, Kitten Soronsen,’ she declared. And she meant it.

‘You’ll have to catch me first.’ And with that, Kitten took to her heels and pelted away into the Istrian countryside, scattering the watchful sheep.

Magla, Hildi and Breta watched her go, their eyes wide with shock. Katla stared at the diminishing figure as if the power of her regard might wither her to ashes. Her head throbbed and her limbs ached and she was so tired she could barely speak, let alone move, but somehow she hauled herself over to Magla and began to apply her fingers to the knots again. There was nothing else to do. By sheer force of will (and her teeth) she got the first loosened, then the next; but the third was stubborn. By the time she’d searched out a suitably sharp piece of slate and sawed through it, it was too late. Baranguet and his men had her mother, Kit Farsen, Forna Stensen and Leni Stelsen pinioned face-down on the strand.

‘Are you all right, Katla? You’re as pale as milk.’

Katla blinked and stared, blinked and stared again. Thin Hildi’s face swam into view. Then a hand came at her, laid a cool palm across her forehead.

‘But by Feya, you’re burning up!’

‘I’m fine,’ Katla replied abruptly, though she felt terrible. She pushed Thin Hildi’s hand away and stared out to sea. Two of the raiders’ boats were rowing eastward, laden with their captives and the rescued giant; of the third there was no sign. She couldn’t think clearly, couldn’t think at all. The options came to her slowly, as if her thoughts were veiled from her. They could make a run for it across the clifftops and out into the Istrian countryside beyond; they could stay here and fester and wait for an Eyran vessel to pass by, which she dismissed immediately; or they could go back down the rope, back to the beach, and try to make their way along the strand and around the headland to the east, which the raiders would hardly expect. And get cut off by the tide, or starve to death.

‘What are we going to do?’ wailed Magla.

‘Shut up,’ said Katla, more fiercely than she’d intended.

Not east: the raiders were heading that way. West or south, then. Kitten had gone south. Katla never wanted to see Kitten Soronsen again, unless it was with her foot on her neck and a good blade in her hand. Using Magla’s shoulder as a crutch, she levered herself to her feet, noting the shooting pains in her limbs as she did so.

‘Follow me,’ she croaked.

Under other circumstances – in other words, not inflicted with shaky limbs, a fever and a throbbing head; and not on the run from a band of cut-throat slavers – she would have found this part of the Istrian continent lovely. It was rugged and yet picturesque, combining some of the rough beauty of Eyra with the softer lines of good arable country. Secret dells and steeply wooded hills gave out onto wide fields dotted with sheep and prosperous-looking farmsteads. Under other circumstances – that is, on her own and unencumbered by three hopeless creatures who followed her like sheep, bleating, ‘Where are we going?’ ‘How are we going to get home?’ and ‘I’m so cold I may die!’ – Katla would have thoroughly enjoyed the prospect of sneaking into one of those farmsteads, liberating a decent pony or two and trotting off through the countryside to see what sort of mischief she might get into. But the likelihood of stealing four horses and sneaking away with three women who had likely never sat an ancient, stumpy little island pony, let alone a fine-bred Istrian beast with a full set of teeth and a mind of its own, seemed an absolute impossibility. But what choice did they have? Before they had even covered half a mile, she was so exhausted she could drop.

‘I’m hungry,’ complained Fat Breta.

‘You’re always hungry,’ returned Thin Hildi spitefully.

‘I’m frozen half to death,’ added Magla, shivering. ‘And we need to eat.’ She said this in the most accusatory tone, as if their situation was all Katla’s fault.

Katla wiped a hand across her face. Her cheeks were burning; she felt lightheaded. The idea of food made her nauseous, but she knew Magla was right. That they all expected her to provide for them made her suddenly indignant. ‘What do you want me to do, run down a sheep and strangle it with my bare hands? Rip it to pieces so we can eat it raw?’

They had the grace to look abashed at that, sheepish even. Katla found herself grinning lunatically at the poor pun; and it was at this point that she knew she really was unwell. A moment later she was sitting on the ground with her head between her knees. Everything inside her skull was spinning. She opened her eyes. Everything out there was spinning, too. Then she fell over on her side and lay like one dead.

‘What’s wrong with her?’ said Magla peevishly.

‘She’s sick,’ Hildi replied in a low voice. She sounded scared. ‘Very sick.’