The Rose of the World (21 page)

By the time they finally pulled her out of the steaming tub she was too exhausted to fight any more, though she took childish pleasure in having splashed as many of them as she could with the scummy water. Then they held her down and dried her with soft towels and two women rubbed some strong-smelling oil into her skin with strong fingers which gouged her muscles and left her aching and wrung out. And all the time they kept on muttering away in their sibilant tongue.

‘They say you not look after yourself,’ the tall woman in black told her at last. ‘They say your skin like plucked chicken. Not soft. Not smooth. More like boy’s, all rough and hard. No man want bed with such woman!’

‘Bed?’ said Katla suspiciously. ‘What do you mean,
bed
?’

But the woman turned away without answering and gestured to her helpers. A few seconds later, the sharp scent of lemons wafted through the air, and something sweeter, too. After a lot of milling about, a low table bearing a small stove and a sturdy pot appeared.

Katla frowned. What were they at now? It seemed odd that they should stop in the midst of their ministrations to brew up a drink; but these southerners were strange folk.

One of the women began to dip strips of white cloth into the mixture with a pair of tongs. Then she lifted it out of the pan and advanced upon Katla.

‘Lie back and don’t fight,’ the leader of the women advised her, ‘and it will hurt less.’

Every muscle in Katla’s body tensed as tight as a spring. What on Elda could anyone do to hurt her with a little strip of wet cloth? A moment later, two of them had her on her back and the woman had applied the hot cloth to her groin. Katla was outraged. How much cleaner did they require her to be for whatever bizarre ends they had in mind? This was appalling, absurd treatment; and far past humiliation. Fingers dug into her skin, smoothing and pressing into intimate areas no Eyran woman would ever have had the gall to touch, and the next thing she knew, someone had ripped the offending cloth away and her groin was on fire.

‘Aaaaaarrrgh!’

Shock gave her monstrous strength. The tight-sprung muscles now fuelled with adrenalised fury, Katla threw off her captors and charged across the room, bellowing like an enraged bull. She stood with her back to the wall, a woollen tapestry harsh against her skin, her breath coming in great heaves. When the women did not immediately advance upon her, she chanced a look down at the wounded region. A wide band of red, hairless flesh glowed where there should have been a nest of tawny curls. Now she realized why it was that the glimpse she had been afforded of Kitten Soronsen’s long, pale body had disturbed her so.

‘Feya’s tits!’ she shrieked. ‘What perverse and filthy practice is this?’

The black-robed woman put her hands on her hips. ‘It is your people who filthy and perverse are,’ she declared. ‘Covering Falla’s gift with dirty old hair like some smelly bear. There should be nothing between a man and a woman when they come together to worship the Goddess.’

That was a phrase she’d heard before, and she had a fair idea of what it meant. Suspicion hardened into certainty. ‘Your precious goddess can rot in hell,’ Katla snarled. And she made a dash for the door.

Hauling it open, she flew out into the corridor, and collided with a richly dressed man of middling height, with sharply carved features and raven-black hair held back by a silver circlet. The two of them went down in a tangle of limbs, but desperation made Katla the quicker to her feet. She turned to run down the passageway, but the dark man lunged out and caught her by the ankle. She hit the ground so hard that all the air rushed from her lungs, and all she could do was to curl into a ball, choking for breath.

The man sprang to his feet, grabbed her by the wrists, dragged her upright and held her at arms’ length. He looked her up and down, then turned to the black-robed woman. ‘Whatever have you been doing to her, Peta? She looks as appetising as a scalded cat!’

‘My lord!’ the woman in black exclaimed, hurrying out into the hallway with her head bowed. ‘We had not finished preparing her. It is unseemly that you should look upon her sinful body in this forbidden state.’ In her hands she carried a piece of shimmering fabric which she draped hastily over Katla’s angular form.

Far from hiding her body from the newcomer’s gaze, the robe was sheer and clinging. If this was ‘seemly’ then these southerners had some very strange ideas about propriety. When she looked up, the richly dressed man was regarding her with a half-smile which suggested both amusement and faint disgust. He pushed Katla back towards Peta, who took her by the wrist, her sharp nails digging unnecessarily hard into Katla’s skin.

‘I have seen quite enough,’ he said shortly in Istrian, wiping his hands on his velvet tunic, ‘to know that this one won’t do. You should know by now that my tastes do not run to scrawny little northern hell-cats. I have had my doubts about your ability to run this harem for a while now, and brawls and naked women escaping down corridors just won’t do.’

Katla stared at the lord while he addressed the black-robed woman, her mind working rather more slowly than she would have wished. She had no idea what he was saying, but he did not seem overly impressed by her, which was a relief; for she recognised his face from somewhere, and the sight of him made her feel even more anxious than current circumstances seemed to demand. Her temples throbbed and she was engulfed by a wave of nausea. When she closed her eyes images swam up at her, haunting and disorientating – memories of the Allfair, brief, hallucinatory glimpses of a journey, men in blue cloaks, trees flashing past, flames, faces, tall buildings and lit sconces, Hildi’s weeping face, the Rosa Eldi coiled like a serpent around the Eyran king, Istrian lords striding and shouting . . .

Her eyes flew open. ‘Rui Finco,’ she croaked before she could help herself, and was rewarded by a look of utmost surprise on the dark man’s face.

The Lord of Forent recovered himself swiftly. He inclined his head. ‘Indeed,’ he acknowledged in the Old Tongue. ‘I am flattered that you should know me, for I am quite sure I do not know you. Perhaps you might like to share your name with me so that I am not at such a disadvantage.’

Katla bit her lip and cursed her slow wits. What could she say? If she gave her name he would surely remember who she was and her current indignities would fade to nothing by comparison with the likely punishment that would ensue. Speak too loudly or give a false name and Kitten Soronsen would score the ultimate revenge upon her.

Katla Aransen was a tough girl and a pragmatist, rarely given to histrionics. She did not flirt, she did not dissemble, she did not play games. But with nowhere to run or to hide, and with no weapon at hand, it was the only ruse she could think of.

‘My lord,’ she said softly in the Old Tongue. ‘Forgive me . . . I feel most unwell.’ She clutched her hand against her forehead to keep the flimsy veil in place and crumpled to the floor.

She hit the ground harder than she had planned: so much for all those pratfalls learned in the mummers’ troupe. She’d be bruised from knee to hip from this; but so much the better for verisimilitude.

Even so, she could feel the lord’s gaze on her, as sharp as a knife.

‘She’s neither pretty nor healthy,’ the Lord of Forent chided his harem-keeper. ‘Why is she up here and not downstairs being readied for the marketplace?’

‘My lord . . .’ Peta hesitated. ‘I thought . . . I thought her unusual colouring might appeal to you . . . You have no red-haired women here. I think once she is properly presented, it may be worth your trouble. She is . . . shall we say, spirited?’

Rui Finco laughed. ‘I shall take your word for that.’ He peered past her shoulder to the women crowded by the door. ‘Jana, Pala, you shall have the honour of my company tonight.’

Two of the women detached themselves from the group and ran to his side. He flung an arm around one; gave the other a lingering kiss through the slit in her veil. Then he leaned in close to the black-robed woman.

‘You have three days to make her ready for me. If you fail me in this, Peta,’ he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl which made the hairs rise on Katla’s neck, even though she could not make out the strange Istrian words, ‘you will join the Eyran on the slave-blocks: you’ve run my harem for too long; maybe a fresh hand will do them good.’

Then he hoisted the smaller of the two houris over his shoulder, slapped the other on her capacious rump and stalked off down the corridor.

There were several moments of anxious silence, then the houris ventured out to gather around Katla and Peta, clucking like hens. They lifted Katla with more care than she had expected, carried her back into the chamber and set her down on the couch. She heard the door swing to with a soft thud. This time the bolt was shot home.

‘Well, now, madam,’ Peta said softly, laying her lips close to Katla’s ear, ‘you may fool the Lord of Forent, but you not fool me. Now my future depend on you. Do not think you bring me down and survive. I will see you dead first.’

Then she hit Katla so hard in the gut that the air rushed out of her. Even as she retched and choked, Katla marvelled at the woman’s power: Peta had struck her with the flat of the hand, not with a fist which would leave a lasting bruise. Years had refined a technique like that: years of bullying and brutality.

That night they depilated all her body-hair. There was nothing she could do about it: six of them held her down while Peta applied and then ripped away the sugared-lemon cloths with a ferocity which left Katla in no doubt as to her dislike for her captive. By the end of this torment, Katla had a fairly good idea of what was in store for her, for the black-robed woman took immense pleasure in telling her at length in her broken Old Tongue: she would be oiled and perfumed and prettied up and presented to the Lord of Forent as his sexual plaything. She was to satisfy his every demand without complaint and with a smile on her face or, as Peta put it, waving a wicked-looking little curved dagger under her nose, ‘I will cut off your women’s parts and send you to the Sisters. Then you will wish you had done as I bade you, for there will never be pleasure for you in the world again.’ Katla had no idea who the Sisters might be, and she had no wish to find out; wished still less to have anyone tamper further with her person. Whatever Rui Finco might say about sending the two of them to the blocks (an infinitely more attractive proposition), in these quarters, at this time, Peta’s word was law.

After they had degraded her as much as was required by their weird customs, they sat her up and poured some vilesmelling concoction down her throat which stung and burned, and made her sleep till past noon the next day.

When she awoke, it was with a clear head and no fever. She felt weak and thirsty; but even so, better than she would have felt after a night on the stallion’s blood. She looked around. She was in a different room, and two other women – one in a blue robe, the other in lilac – sat guard in cane-woven chairs by the door, their hands busy with some sort of intricate tatting. Their fingers moved with deft purpose; and Katla remembered how Gramma Rolfsen had been proficient at the same art, sitting by the central fire in the steading’s hall, her handsome, lined old face intent on the patterned strip which was growing moment by moment in her hands. At this memory, and the flood of thoughts which followed it, Katla’s jaw clenched. Her grandmother was dead, her mother taken prisoner, her father was Sur knew where in the arctic seas; she had only herself to rely on and here she was, trapped in an excruciating double bind. If she was true to her nature and fought her captors tooth and claw, she risked her life or mutilation; if she complied and saved her neck (and parts), she would have to submit to the very man who had sent her to be burned.

Simple rebellion would not do. She would have to bide her time, feign compliance, wait for an opportunity. She sighed: Bera and Hesta had between them tried for years to train her to patience, but it seemed after all that life was going to be her most effective teacher.

As soon as she sat up, the two women put down their tatting and got swiftly to their feet, alert to her every move. Clearly, they had been trained well. The woman called Peta ruled her harem with a certain degree of menace. That in itself might prove useful.

‘Hello,’ said Katla. She forced a smile.

The two women appeared to exchange a glance, for their veiled heads turned minutely to one another. Then the one in the lilac robe approached the bed.

‘You feel better?’ she asked. Her voice was mellifluous, her lips painted a lush rose-pink. A tiny silver star had been affixed to the runnel above her mouth. It glittered in the pale light.

Katla nodded. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

‘Mela,’ the woman replied. ‘I called Mela. What your name?’

That gave Katla pause. If she lied, they had only to ask Kitten Soronsen. But it still seemed foolish to part with the information lightly. In response, therefore she smiled and frowned, as if she had misheard the question. Then she said, ‘What is that thing you wear above your lip?’ She touched her finger to the corresponding spot on her own face.

The woman put her hand over her mouth and as she did so, Katla could see that the top of her hand had been painted with a myriad of fine reddish-brown lines which radiated out from the wrist and curled in undulating patterns to the base of each finger. Her nails were short and exquisitely shaped and painted with some rosy colour. If the hand was anything to go by, the rest of her must be sleek and polished to perfection. If this was how they presented their houris for his lordship’s pleasure, they were certainly going to have their work cut out dealing with her!

The two women gabbled something at one another in the southern tongue, then laughed.

‘It means . . .’ Mela started, then hesitated, giggling. ‘I suck well.’

Katla wasn’t entirely sure she’d heard this right; but she had a nasty feeling that she had. ‘Oh.’ It was hard to think of anything else to say on
that
subject which would not elicit details she had no wish to know. She tried again. ‘Have you always lived here?’