The Rose of the World (55 page)

‘Ransom?’

‘He is our prisoner, and his actions have cost us dearly.’

Flavia of Cantara raised an eyebrow. Then she turned to the small, elegant dark-haired woman whose fingers were still pressed to her lips. She smiled. ‘What say you, my dear Illustria? What price is worth the release of such a son? Does not rumour have it that he took the life of his elder brother, a crime which usually bears the penalty of being sent to Falla’s fires?’

The woman peered earnestly at the Lady of Cantara, blinking rapidly, apparently still in shock.

The tall woman turned back to Mam. ‘I do not believe in the buying and selling of human flesh,’ she said coolly. ‘Every soul belongs to itself and no other. And every soul must bear responsibility for its actions. Saro Vingo, if you be he, step out and speak what truth you may about the matter of your brother’s death.’

Saro slithered from the mule more because his fingers lost their grip on the saddle than out of any direct volition. Once on the ground, he found that his trembling legs would not bear his weight. Sinking to the ground, he bowed his head: a supplicant before his judges.

In a low voice he said: ‘The rumours are true. I killed my brother, Tanto Vingo. In the dungeons of the Eternal City, where he had imprisoned me, I did this terrible thing. Had I left him to live many thousands of innocents would have succumbed to his tortures; but I know that however good my intentions, in killing him I have not only damned myself, but also broken my mother’s heart, for he was always her favourite—’

‘Oh, Saro . . .’ Illustria Vingo’s voice rose in a wail.

Flavia Issian’s basilisk gaze fell upon the wailing woman and her noise tailed away into stifled sobs. At last she turned back to Saro. ‘So,’ she said dispassionately, ‘you admit yourself a murderer?’

Saro stared at the ground. Then he lifted his eyes to the women, his jaw set decisively. ‘I fear it is not only my brother’s death for which I am responsible. I killed a man called Erno Hamson to stop him speaking a dangerous truth. There was a soldier who attacked a troop of nomads with whom I was travelling, and a Jetran guard who was trying to prevent my escape. And I caused the death of two men at the Allfair. I was trying to save Katla Aransen from the pyre to which they had unjustly consigned her for the attack upon your granddaughter, my lady, Selen Issian.’

Flavia Issian’s eyes narrowed.‘I have heard strange rumours about my granddaughter Selen. Tell me what you know of that affair.’

‘Only that it was not the Eyrans who attacked her, but my own brother, frustrated that the marriage settlement that had been arranged between the two of them had fallen through.’

‘So you would add rape to the other crimes of which you would condemn your dead brother?’

Saro nodded mutely.

‘And the girl, Katla Aransen.’ Flavia’s sharp eyes roved over the lithe form of the Eyran in her borrowed leather armour, taking in her fierce expression and the way her fist clenched around the hilt of her undrawn sword, and drew a swift conclusion. ‘What was your interest in trying to save her? Mere justice, or something perhaps a little . . . more personal?’

Saro flushed. The old woman’s eyes seemed to bore right through him as if she were indeed weighing the measure of his soul. ‘I . . . ah . . .’ he started, then gathered himself and in a firm tone declared: ‘I loved her.’

The crowd of women breathed as one, entranced by his words.

‘You, the son of an Istrian noble, would admit to loving a barbarian woman to the extent of risking your own life?’

‘Yes.’

The women looked from Saro to Flavia, and then to Katla. For her part, the red-haired girl at the heart of all this appeared to be deep in thought, as if the old woman’s inquisition and the boy’s subsequent response had answered some question of her own.

Flavia’s lips curved into an amused smile. ‘It appears,’ she said, and it seemed that she addressed the entire gathering, rather than Saro Vingo alone, ‘that the differences between our two peoples are less than others would have us think. An Empire boy may share his heart with a northern girl, just as northern women may share their experiences with Empire women, and turn about.’ She indicated the visitors. ‘And who would ever have expected to see a troop of nomads travelling with a female sellsword of Eyran extraction, a Galian dwarf, a giant Northern Islander, and a Farem hillman?’ Her black-eyed gaze passed assessingly from one to the next. ‘But is this not what the forbidden text of Aspian tells us?’ She flourished the battered-looking volume in her hand. ‘That long ago we were all one and the same, a single race of folk who lived and loved in harmony? Before the balance of Elda was disrupted and men’s greed and distrust rose to the surface and violence became the order of the day?’

The women began to murmur. Some looked down at the tablets on their laps, as if the scratches upon them echoed the same dangerously subversive ideas.

‘Falla would not smile upon our so-called “justice”, nor the blood-sacrifices we make to gain her favour. The Lady is a gentle goddess, who wishes love and plenty for all her people.’

Saro stared at the woman who made this pronouncement in amazement. Such sentiments would surely consign her to the fires of which she spoke, the fires her own son had fanned to blazing pyres.

‘Nor would she condone this ridiculous war our men are fighting in her name. Liberating the women of the North – what nonsense!’ Now she turned her attention back to Saro, her black eyes coming to rest on him in deep contemplation. ‘We have heard unpleasant rumours and reports of your deceased brother from far and wide, young man. From merchants and refugees, from those Wandering Folk who have been lucky enough to elude persecution, and from the women my seneschal and his staff have been bringing here from all over the Empire. It has not been an easy time for your mother: she felt she had lost her beloved son long before your violent action took him from this world.’

Saro looked from the Lady of Cantara to the woman who stood at her shoulder, eyes brimming with unshed tears. He could not remember the last time he had seen his mother unveiled. He felt his own eyes filling up in response. Staggering to his feet, he lurched towards her, and the crowd parted to ease his passage. Flavia Issian stood aside to allow Illustria Vingo to slip past her, and a moment later mother and son stood face to naked face.

After a while, Saro whispered, ‘Forgive me, Mother.’

In response, Illustria gave him a crooked smile and tears began to spill down her cheeks. In a gesture of infinite tenderness, she raised her hands and cupped Saro’s face between her palms.

‘My son, my beloved son. I always knew, you know . . .’

‘Knew what, Mother?’

‘About Tanto. I knew his little cruelties. I knew his lies. I always knew what he was, what he might become. But I hid that knowledge from myself. I thought that if I loved him enough, he would become the better for it.’

‘Perhaps you loved him too much, Mother.’

‘And you not enough?’

Wordless, he nodded.

‘I loved you so much I could not bear to show you how much.’

‘Because I was Fabel’s child, not Fario’s?’

Illustria’s eyes went round with shock. She clenched her hands over her heart. ‘How could you know this?’

Saro’s mouth twisted in pain. ‘I have been shown many things I had no wish to know.’

‘And your fa— and Favio, does he know?’

Saro shook his head.

Illustria Vingo looked away. ‘It was hard to lose both of them in swift succession. Hard indeed. I do not think I could bear to lose Favio as well. There is too much hurt here for recrimination, Saro: can you forgive me for all these years of deception?’

Now Saro’s tears fell, too. ‘Can you forgive me, Mother? Because I do not think I can forgive myself.’

Mam watched this touching scene with a glint in her eye and the world’s most cynical smile. Then she stepped up to the Lady of Cantara, hands on hips. ‘It is hard to come so far without some form of reward,’ she said. ‘My men and I have precious little to show for all our efforts. If you will not allow us to ransom the boy, we may have to come to some other arrangement.’ She scanned the crowd. ‘That lady there,’ she pointed to Bera Rolfsen.‘How about we exchange like for like? Release her into our care and we will return her to the bosom of her family.’

Flavia Issian laughed and turned to face the woman Mam indicated.

‘Well, Bera Rolfsen,’ she said with a smile, ‘what say you? Shall I “release” you from my employ and give you over to this rabble?’

Bera smiled back at the Lady of Cantara. Then she said to Mam, ‘I am no prisoner here. More than that, I have no wish to return to Rockfall. That part of my life is done. My steading is burned, my mother is dead, my husband gone away; and my errant daughter stands with you, looking like the hoyden she is. What is there in Eyra for me to return to?’

Mam saw a fat purse slipping swiftly away. ‘Your brother Margan charged me with finding you and bringing you safely home.’

Bera snorted. ‘Margan! My dear brother merely thinks to marry me off to some rich trader and make himself a tidy profit into the bargain. Keep whatever he has given you and forget the rest, for my work now is here with Flavia and these women. I like being a teacher: it is more satisfying to bring understanding to those who crave it than to those who would rather be scaling rockfaces or wrestling with their brothers.’

‘Mother!’ Katla was stung.

Bera Rolfsen cocked her head and regarded her daughter gravely. Then she burst out laughing. ‘Ah, Katla, you were ever easy to tease. But what I say is what I wish, for now; until we know which course this mad conflict will take. Flavia has been more than kind, and I would like to do what little I can to repay that kindness. Take a look around the folk gathered here, for you may see other familiar faces.’

Katla gazed around the group of women and was surprised to realise she had failed at first glimpse to see fair heads among all the dark. Over by the horse trough stood a somewhat thinner Magla Felinsen and Kit Farsen; sitting amidst a knot of Istrian women poring over a parchment, Forna Stensen, always the most attentive of her classmates; and grinning like a well-fed cat in the middle of the circle was Fat Breta, who now heaved herself to her feet and launched herself at Katla, wrapping her arms around the taller girl’s torso.

‘I never thought I’d see you again! I never thought I’d see any of my friends again.’

Katla had never really thought of Fat Breta as a friend, had never considered that she had any friends at all – just her brothers; one of whom was drowned, and the other just as surely lost. Bemused, she hugged Fat Breta back, then carefully detached herself.

‘But how did you get here?’

‘The Lady sent out her seneschals to buy us back from the men who bought us at the slave-market – Kit and Forna all the way from Ixta; me from Feria in the Blue Woods; and poor Magla . . .’ She tailed off.

‘Poor Magla, what?’

Breta lowered her voice. ‘From a whorehouse in Gibeon,’ she whispered.

Katla remembered Magla’s cruel jibes about Tam Fox. It took some effort to compose herself, but she managed it at last.

‘Have you come to take us back to Rockfall, Katla? I would like to see the sea again.’ She paused. ‘And though they’ve been very good to us here, I’d dearly love to get my teeth into a good shank of mutton.’

Katla smiled. ‘I don’t think so, Breta. Not yet, at any rate.’

‘So, daughter, will you stay here with us?’

‘All I know is weaponcraft and how to be contrary,’ Katla returned. ‘I never was much good with books, or even knots.’

‘We are all learning different things from each other,’ Bera said softly. ‘We are sharing our skills. Some of what I have discovered is quite remarkable. It is a pity your father has vanished off into the blue yonder . . .’ She coloured prettily.

Katla caught her breath. ‘Mother! But I thought you had divorced him.’

Bera came back to herself, set her jaw. ‘I have, yes, and there’s an end to it.’ She paused. ‘You have not heard anything about the expedition, have you?’ There was a note of yearning in her voice which did not pass her daughter undetected.

But all Katla could do was to shake her head.

They stayed in Cantara for a few days, resting and exchanging stories with the Eyrans and the women of the town, listening to the songs of the Wandering Folk and watching their puppetry, their dancing and their acrobatic feats. Katla learned to juggle, badly. Saro found he could carry a tune with the best of them. The two of them eyed one another nervously and could not find anything to say which would not make things more awkward between them. Guaya watched them, narrow-eyed, but with the sort of half-smile which might denote either regret or resignation. Bera fashioned herself a reed whistle for the first time in twenty-five years and joined in with the musicians. Dogo sought out the nomad woman who had bedded him for free and sampled her delights so noisily in the back of one of the wagons that he drew a crowd of curious children who, seeing him entering the wagon from afar, had thought him one of their number for his small stature. Mam got tipsy and tried to undress Persoa in the full view of the women of Cantara, who crowded around to stare at his strange tattoos, exclaiming and cooing. Some of the bolder ones even reached out to trace their fingers over the designs.

‘What does this show?’ asked one coyly, touching the black tail of a beast disappearing below the waistband of his breeches.

‘It is the tail of the Lady’s cat, Bast,’ he replied with all courtesy, and had to push Mam away when she offered to show them the rest.

‘And this?’

An older woman with her hair braided in many plaits moved her fingers across a tattoo on his shoulderblade.

Persoa considered. It was hard, sometimes, to remember the designs that had been inked on his back. ‘Tell me what you think it is,’ he said softly. The woman squinted. ‘Look like sword, but on fire.’

‘That will be the flaming sword, then,’ Persoa said, trying not to smile.

‘And this one, down here?’ She prodded him in the small of the back.

‘Coming out of the Mountain of Fire?’ Persoa knew that one: he checked its progress regularly, could tell by the itching of his skin when the designs began to change. Sirio must have found a way to exit the volcano if this was where the figure was now.