She hadn’t enjoyed the ride on the Heaven Road; clung to the basket’s sides and stared ahead, never down. She’d been relieved when it had broken, a problem with a tower, and she’d had to walk the last stretch, in the rain. But all discomfort vanished when she climbed the last hill of Agueros, and saw the red-walled Sanctum at its summit. The beauty of the world beyond the gates! From narrow winding streets where linked wood and plaster houses leaned so far over that their eaves nearly joined, to these wide, straight roads and single stone structures; from cracked and broken cobbles underfoot to smooth paving stones; from elbowing crowds hurrying everywhere to men and women, singly and in pairs, strolling under the shelter of awnings along tree-lined avenues. Chaos against calm. The man who guided her was happy to pause and smiled indulgently at her gasps and exclamations, patiently answering her many questions.
It was when he brought her to the innermost sanctum, in the entrance hall of a building he called the Study, that the warmth of her excitement had left, cold returned, with the greatest chill around her heart. For a man came, someone noble and high up by the way her guide fawned, a man as dark as night with a small grey beard and eyes like algae-filled ponds in a forest. He’d told her, as if it were a favour, that Ferros was not there to meet her. That he would return … sometime. And that she could wait there, or return later, as she wished.
His manner annoyed her. ‘And where is he?’ she’d asked, forcing the man to turn back. And he’d answered with the words that brought that deeper cold to her heart.
‘He is riding.’
When he’d gone, she asked her guide to do her a last kindness – and take her to the stables.
Riding? Riding was theirs, a shared joy from the moment he’d taught her, their escape, their delight. How dare he do without her the thing she most longed to do? She’d been cramped in a ship’s cabin, cramped in their lodgings, squeezed in by people and walls. She dreamed of home, of letting Saipha have her head, of racing Ferros across the dunes outside Balbek. Was he going to ride and not tell her? She’d have smelled horse on him the moment he returned. In some ways it would have been worse than perfume.
Then he had returned and her anger and her hurt had doubled. It was like a hoof in the chest, when he rode into the stable yard … with a woman. A tall woman with skin so dark it was almost black, like the man who’d been rude to her before, eyes as green, swathed in glistening leather and riding with an ease that Lara, for all her skills, knew she’d never possess.
Ferros had not just been riding. He’d been riding with another woman.
She watched them dismount, talk feverishly, watched them move towards each other. She stepped out and she saw him see her, his eyes widening in shock.
‘Lara,’ he said.
She feared she would explode. Took too many shallow breaths before managing a deeper, longer one, then another. If she let out half the things she wanted to say, she would embarrass herself, embarrass him: Ferros’s jealous, foul-mouthed provincial girl, here in the beauty of the Sanctum. Worse, before one of its queens. Even though there was no longer such a title – had not been since the immortals had come to Corinthium – this giantess carried herself like one.
Ferros came to her. ‘Lara, I am sorry.’
‘For what?’ she asked, proud how her voice disguised her emotions.
‘I … forgot that today was the day we arranged for your visit.’
‘You forgot.’
It was a statement, not a question. And her eyes were on the queen when she said it.
‘I was offered a ride. I—’ He raised his arms, let them fall. ‘I am sorry. This is—’
‘Roxanna.’
She said it coming forward while behind her a groom led away the two horses. Roxanna, Lara thought. So this is her. Ferros had mentioned the name once, as someone he’d met. Just once, and in passing – yet even then Lara had noted the way he’d uttered the name, the too-casual way he’d said it. She pondered later, thought she’d been too sensitive, seeking nuance where there was none, overwhelmed by all the new experience. Now she knew her instinct had been right, confirmed by the stunning beauty she gazed up at.
She knew that, in Balbek, many called her beautiful. Ferros did – had – often. But standing there, she felt like a weed beside a rose. ‘Lara,’ she said, resisting the urge to curtsey.
‘Have we met? It seems to me we have.’
Roxanna’s voice was honeyed, with the clear, clipped accent of the city’s elites. Lara was aware of her own Balbek speech, tried to suppress the worst of its wide-vowelled excesses when she replied. ‘I don’t think so. This is my first time here.’
‘I hope to know you now. Ferros has been keeping you a bit of a secret. Now I understand why.’ She smiled, revealing gorgeous, bright and even teeth. ‘There are too many in the Sanctum who would seek to corrupt such simple beauty.’
Bitch, Lara thought, held back saying, said instead, ‘Is there much corruption of that kind here then?’
‘Too much. It is a game around here.’
‘Well, I don’t play games.’ Having been so focused on the woman before her, she suddenly noticed that Ferros was shaking. He was soaked. ‘What happened to you?’ she asked.
‘I … I fell in a stream.’ He turned to Roxanna. ‘You said I might find clothes?’
‘I did. Go to the grooms’ room here. They have a fire, some blankets to dry yourself with. I will send the clothes. Farewell, for now. And to you, Lara.’ Roxanna turned, then turned back. ‘We will … talk another time, Ferros.’
They watched her stride across the yard, enter the building. ‘Talk?’ Lara said, a question this time, not a statement.
Ferros swivelled, spoke as he crossed the yard. ‘I asked her what my purpose here was. She said she would tell me.’
‘I could tell you her purpose,’ Lara said. But she said it to his back, as he’d already entered the small, warm room. She was silent as he stripped behind a hung sheet. Silent still when the clothes arrived – simple, well-made wool trousers, jerkin and fleece-lined coat. A message came with them: he was excused more study that day. His soggy sandals he put back on and they squeaked as the two of them returned to the platform for the Heaven Road, repaired and running again. Ferros tried to talk on the way down, explaining the ride, excusing, though she made no criticism, said almost nothing; and eventually he too went quiet. Only when they reached their lodgings did she speak again. ‘I’m going out for a while.’
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I’ll change into my own clothes. Come with—’
‘No,’ she interrupted, the word sharp. She took a breath, forced a calm. ‘I’ve made a friend. Promised I’d meet her, tell her of my visit to the Sanctum.’
‘I am sorry again, Lara.’ Ferros stood, came to her, took her hands. ‘I will take you, show it to you properly. Tomorrow. The day after.’
‘Of course.’ She disengaged her hands. ‘I will not be long. I made stew. Needs heating. Help yourself.’
She stepped onto the street, leaned for a moment against the door, then set out. The tavern where Carellia always lingered, nursing a mug of hot spiced wine and hoping to be bought more, was only three alleys over. When Lara entered the rich-scented gloom, she swiftly spotted her. Collecting a steaming jug from the landlord at his trestle, she crossed to her friend. ‘Sweet Songbird,’ Carellia said, looking up, smiling, then smiling more at the jug in Lara’s hands. ‘What have you got there?’
‘The price of a few stories, I hope.’ Lara set the vessel down, and a mug beside it, filled both hers and Carellia’s.
‘Oh yes!’ The woman drank greedily, smacked her lips. ‘Lovely! The good stuff! That deserves the tale of when I was mistress to the King of Thieves, Sadakos Red Brow, and the time he—’
‘Later perhaps.’ Lara topped up the other’s mug. ‘Right now I’d like to hear a different story.’
‘Whic
h one, Songbird?’
‘About your first love. The suicide cult he joined. How an immortal was born that night. What happened to her.’ She picked up her own mug, leaned back into the shadows. ‘Tell me, Carellia, something of life and death and … life.’
8
The Lake of Souls
‘Shh! Did you hear that?’
‘Which “that”, Luck? I hear birds, maybe a fish—’
‘Shh! Stop paddling. Listen.’ Both brothers lifted their paddles from the lake. ‘Is that … singing?’
They listened. But whatever it was he’d heard was gone again. If I heard it, Luck thought. Singing was only the latest noise in the mist that might or might not have been there.
‘Forward,’ said Bjorn, who was at the front, dipping his paddle again.
But Luck didn’t join him. ‘To where? How do we know we are even going forward now?’
‘Then what would you suggest, little brother? Floating here till the foul mist clears? That could be days.’ He coughed and spat into the water. ‘Fuck, I have felt sick from the moment we entered it.’
‘As have I. But paddling forward will not necessarily get us out of it. And we’ll exhaust ourselves if we’re going in circles.’
The brothers continued arguing in whispers. They’d already discussed one of them transforming into a beast, fish or bird, while the other remained with the craft. But possession required a god to see the creature he wished to possess; and there was nothing to be seen in this mist, which had been mere grey tendrils when they’d set out for the far shore, with the sharp rise of mountain above it, well lit by the afternoon sun. This also shone on the numerous small islands in the lake – and on one which was larger and flat-topped and from which the smoke of many cooking fires coiled.
People lived on the Lake of Souls – though the type of person that could survive there, could make their life amongst such foulness, they did not want to meet. No one did – and no one who did returned to tell of it. Bjorn’s friend Karn had only been the latest who’d strayed too close. For all its horror, at least his parents now had a part of him, could give him the farewell of flame. Of his brother, Rukka the Handsome, there had been no trace.
When they’d set out, they’d chosen a course that would take them well clear of all land. But the fog had descended – or arisen – suddenly, pouring from both water and sky, obliterating everything in a few heartbeats. Their course was lost and so were they. To go on was as foolish as going back.
They were trapped on the Lake of Souls.
‘It is better to act than to drift,’ called Bjorn, ending the argument by immediately starting to paddle.
‘I have always thought the opposite,’ grumbled Luck, reluctantly paddling too.
It took no more than twenty dips before Bjorn yelled, ‘Rock!’ and back-stroked fast. Their craft swivelled, and Luck laid his hand against the stone that thrust up from the water. ‘Just one or—’
‘Hear that snuffle?’ Bjorn interrupted. ‘Otter, I think. There must be some land ahead. Give me one look at the fucking animal and I’ll get us out of this shit.’
Bjorn dipped his paddle again. Reluctant still, Luck joined him and, in moments, the prow struck another smaller rock and, a moment later, ground onto pebbles. Bjorn was out and up to mid-calf in water straight away. The vessel tipped sideways. ‘Heya!’ Luck yelped, as he leaned towards the water.
‘Sorry,’ said Bjorn, pushing the vessel out till it floated again, swinging its back end around so Luck could hoist himself out.
So much shorter than his brother, the water came up to his mid-thigh. They’d already noted its strangeness. In a world still gripped by the last of winter the lake was, if not warm, at least not freezing. The meeting of warmth and chill led to the mist, he supposed, as impenetrable on the small pebbled beach he stepped onto as it had been on the water.
Bjorn dragged the craft higher up, then reached into the forward hold and slid out his sword. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘let’s see where—’
The man came silently, and running. They only saw him when he split the grey wall three paces away; saw, in the one heartbeat they had, the club raised high. Luck watched it descending, threw up his weak right arm to take the blow. But it was Bjorn’s sword that took it, still in its scabbard, the god stepping in with a hand at each end, thrusting it high. Wood smacked onto leather-wrapped steel, Bjorn jerked his left hand down, and the man’s own force caused him to stumble. His face came level with Luck’s – he glimpsed white paint around furious eyes, teeth bared in a snarl. Then Bjorn swung his right hand up and over, and smacked the orb of his iron pommel right into the man’s temple. He collapsed, with neither grunt nor groan, face down into the shallow water at Luck’s feet.
‘Your axe!’ yelled Bjorn, ripping the sheath from his weapon, turning its point into the swirling mists and the direction the attacker had come from. ‘There may be m—’
There were more. Two, also naked and painted around face and body, one with a spear, one with a sword. As his brother took them on, as metal clashed against metal and the only other noise in the near silent world was Bjorn’s harsh breaths, Luck scrabbled for his short axe in the back hold. I hate to fight, he thought. Won’t they talk?
But the next two who’d come, if they could talk, wouldn’t again. Luck saw this in the swiftest of glances as he burrowed deeper through leather satchels of food and clothing. One assailant had lost his sword arm, severed at the shoulder. He was falling, fountaining blood – though still he did not make a sound. The second clutched his spear double-gripped before him, though now it was reversed and through him. As silent as his fellow, he glared at Bjorn before his eyes rolled up in his painted head, and he sat down.
Luck’s fingers found not steel and wood but the rope and leather of his sling. With the ease of centuries, he slipped his forefingers into the loop at one strand’s end, grasped the knot at the other, pulled a stone from the pouch on his belt, had it fitted in the leather cup and the weapon up and whirling.
Yet no other came – and the only sounds that did were the hum of his sling through the air and the hiss of two gods breathing. They both strained for noise, for warning grunts or the slap of bare feet on stone. Heard neither, and after a moment Luck slowed then stopped his sling, though he kept the stone in the leather cup with his thumb, and the cords at tension. Bjorn drove his sword into the beach before him and bent again to their vessel, swiftly undoing the straps that bound his shield to it, got it off and raised, and his sword again in his hand. As Luck moved into the shelter of the shield, Bjorn peered over its edge at the three dead men. ‘There’ll be more. And they may figure out not to come in ones and twos.’ He licked his lips. ‘Get the boat ready and let’s get away from here, fast.’
As Luck turned to obey, he heard sounds. Human – but only just. It was the singing he thought had come before, though like no song he’d ever heard. Many voices made it, low and high, men and women … and children. Especially, he thought, children. Moaning as if in agony; laughing the agony away in trills and runs of notes. The discord built and built, louder and louder, until it felt almost painful. Then suddenly as a flock of birds changing direction in the sky, all voices ceased.
Save one. And that one spoke just one word. An ordinary word, though extraordinary there because it was a word from their own tongue and one they were likely to speak every day.
‘Now.’
‘Who—’ began Bjorn, then stopped, his eyes wide in surprise.
Luck looked at his brother and tried to decide what was different about him. It took him one more moment to notice the feathered dart that now protruded from the neck – the one moment before Bjorn closed his eyes and fell, shield and sword clattering onto the pebbles of the beach. Luck reached, but not quickly enough to catch him. For there was a whisper, a faint sting at his own neck, darkness.
Luck wasn’t sure which pain woke him
– his head, even worse than the morning after the night he’d tried to match his brothers at mead, half a century before, drilling agony and nausea both. Or the pain at his wrists, where slim but strong rawhide leather straps bound them tightly behind him. Or at his ankles, also tied and pulled up behind his body. When he tried to ease them, he pulled tighter at the wrists. Easing those caused sharp jabs in his legs. He settled again for the least painful, still painful, balance. He was trussed like a beast awaiting slaughter. Which thought had him moving on from his pain to his circumstances.
He kept his eyes shut. Opening them might lead to consequences. His body, never much use, was out of action now. At least his mind, his best weapon, could work. His senses could feed it.
So he listened. There was a chattering like bird calls, which he thought they might be until he heard a single voice respond and provoke more chatter. It was all coming from right before him and, raising his eyelashes a fraction, he first saw flames, then shapes moving before a fire. He’d always had thick lashes – blessed with them, Gytta had said, though he’d thought it another mockery, a soft and womanly thing for a misshapen brute such as he. But his dead wife had been right, for he was blessed in being able to see now and not look like he was seeing.
It was children who chattered – boys and girls, not one more than ten years old. All naked, all painted like the men Bjorn had killed on the beach, white hoops around their bodies. Some were on the floor, rolling small balls of woven reed back and forth, others in pairs were taking turns to pull long hoops of wool into different patterns, passing them between their fingers. Several chased each other around a raised dais on which was a huge chair. More children crawled on top of that – or rather, crawled over the man who sat upon it.
Smoke in the Glass Page 15
