BOOK I IN THE MOOREHAWKE TRILOGY 20 страница
‘Our masters bid us ask, is this the way to the river?’
Wynter frowned at the slaves in momentary confusion. Then she realised that their sleeves were rolled to the shoulder in imitation of the Merron, and that Christopher’s stolen snake bracelets were gleaming against the hard brown muscles of their upper arms.
She jerked forward, suddenly blind with rage, but Christopher, his eyes on the bracelets, looped his arm around her waist and held her in place. ‘No, lass,’ he murmured.
Seeing the bracelets, the Merron cried out and surged forward as one.
‘LEAVE THEM.’ Razi’s roared command stilled all but Sólmundr, who shot around the fire, his intent clear on his face.
Úlfnaor stepped into the warrior’s path, bringing him to a clench-fisted halt. ‘Fan, Sól,’ he said softly. ‘They only do their masters’ bidding.’
The slaves grinned, the brands on their faces puckering in amusement. ‘Oh, I see the river now,’ said one. ‘It is that way.’
‘Get out of my sight,’ hissed Razi. ‘And if you take this route again, I shall send you home to your masters in a hessian sack.’
Smiling, the slaves picked their way through the glowering Merron and walked off with an insolent lack of haste. Úlfnaor watched them go, more pity than anger on his face.
‘Do not feel badly for them, Aoire,’ said Christopher. ‘André Le Garou has convinced them that they will become like him, if they only prove themselves cruel enough and ruthless enough. I have yet to meet one of the Wolves’ Boys who does not believe in this lie. They are vicious and underhanded, and they are undyingly loyal to the Wolves. They would slit your throat without a thought.’
‘Where did they get the second set of bracelets?’ asked Wynter.
Christopher’s hard veneer cracked, and despair showed in his eyes. ‘They are my father’s,’ he said. ‘It is a favourite joke of David’s, to parade them about like that.’
Wynter groaned, squeezing his arm. ‘Oh, no, love,’ she said.
‘Now they have two sets to taunt me with.’
Hallvor glowered inquiringly at Sólmundr. She snapped a question, obviously demanding that he explain. Sólmundr gripped her by the elbow, turned her on her heel and walked her away between the tents.
‘Úlfnaor,’ warned Wynter, her eyes on the departing warriors.
‘Not worry,’ murmured Úlfnaor. ‘Hally, she talk him into sense.’
Wynter was not so certain. Sólmundr was speaking furious and low, his sandy head close to Hallvor’s, and the healer listened intently as they walked. Just before they turned the corner, Hallvor gasped and looked back at Christopher, her eyes wide; then Sól marched her from sight.
|
|
|
Razi and Oliver were watching the slaves walk off. The knight had his hand to his nose, as if to block a bad smell, and Razi was frowning in intense concentration.
‘Oliver,’ he murmured, his voice miles away. ‘I must speak to my brother.’
‘It is not my place to command the Prince, my Lord.’
‘Oliver . . .’
‘He will not be dissuaded,’ cried Oliver.
Wynter bristled at his raised voice, and Razi drew himself up.
Oliver pressed his fingers to his temples and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. ‘Jesu,’ he whispered. Then he stepped closer, his voice low, gazing at Razi as if willing him to understand. ‘I am ever loyal to the King, my Lord. His Highness, the Royal Prince, is ever loyal, but you will not dissuade him from his course. You and your father, my Lord, you are brilliant men – brilliant – but you rely too much on the strength of the Moroccan court.’
‘Oliver,’ sighed Razi. ‘There is no weakness in Abdallah ashShiekh’s court. This plot that David Le Garou has spoken of is doomed to failure. The Corsairs have nothing, they are already destroyed. The Sultan can deal with the Loups-Garous himself, and as for the Haun—’
‘We came this close to losing,’ cried Oliver, his hands held up in despair. ‘This close. Don’t you understand? You say there is no weakness in the Sultan’s court. Well, that may be so now, but what about tomorrow? Or next year? What about when the Sultan dies? Abdallah ash-Shiekh loves your father, my Lord, and rightly so – your father is an extraordinary man. But what about the Sultan’s successors, and the successors of all those kings Jon has so carefully fêted? Will they love him? Will they tolerate him? Your father is a man who bows to no church, while all those others use religion like a whip to keep their people in line. He is a man who refuses to allow slavery, when slavery benefits the economy of all around him. We cannot always rely on the tolerance of these stronger men, my Lord! We cannot! We are small and vulnerable, and your father’s beautiful view of the world makes us a thorn in the side of everyone but God!’ He dropped his hands, his eyes full. ‘And I don’t care what the priests told us when we were young: God lends no hand to the weak in this world, though he may love them in the next. In this world we must make ourselves strong, that we may battle the wicked and protect the good.’
|
|
|
Oliver closed his eyes suddenly. His emotion was such that it moved even those who could not understand him, and the surrounding warriors stood in respectful silence while he gathered himself.
‘I am faithful to your father, Razi,’ he continued softly. ‘I love him. But I am angry that he let things come so close. I will never understand why, having such a wonderful invention to hand, he did not draw out Lorcan’s machine and end the insurrection sooner. Your brother was furious when he found out.’ Oliver smiled fondly. ‘God help us, but the Prince is a remarkable young man. If you could see him at the war table! From the moment your father let him partake in battle, Alberon exhibited such clarity of vision, such understanding of men. He amazes me. Your father calls him his little Alexander.’
‘But he does not need to go this far,’ whispered Razi. ‘He does not need to bring filth like David Le Garou to his table, nor ally himself so irretrievably to a canker like Marguerite Shirken.’
Oliver looked briefly into Razi’s eyes and away again. ‘I . . . perhaps . . . I don’t know.’ He sighed deeply and ran his hand over his weary face. ‘I’m just a soldier, my Lord; these are things I do not understand. The Prince could well have done with your advice on them. But . . .’ He shook his head and looked away into the rapidly gathering twilight. ‘I do not know what to do,’ he whispered.
Razi put his hand on his shoulder. ‘Help me talk to him, Oliver,’ he insisted softly. ‘That is all you need do. Help me talk to him, and I will make this work.’
THE MUSIC OF MEMORY
‘WHERE ARE you going?’ Christopher caught Wynter by the elbow, stopping her from following Oliver down the alley.
|
|
|
She flicked a glance to Razi. He had drawn Úlfnaor aside and was engaged in a low, secretive conversation. ‘I want to ask Oliver something,’ she whispered. ‘I will only be a moment.’
‘You ain’t going on your own. I’ll come with you.’
‘No, love,’ she said, laying her hand on his chest. ‘The Loups-Garous may still be out there and I do not want you to have to face them. I will be all right.’
He frowned at her in irritated disbelief. ‘Are you deranged?’ he snapped. ‘Come on.’
He shooed her up the alley, and they made their way into the noise and waning sunshine of the thoroughfare. By the supply tent, there was a dark patch of ground where the young Haun had died. Already the sharp outline of his blood had been smudged by the passage of feet and the drifting of dust from the busy road. Scuff marks showed where the soldiers had dragged his body away. Wynter came to a halt, staring down at these fading signs of violence, and released a shaky sigh.
Christopher took her hand, his eyes on the bloodstain.
‘Good Frith, lass,’ he breathed, ‘you came so close.’
Wynter squeezed his fingers gently, then let go. ‘Come on,’ she said. They skirted the blood and hurried after Oliver, who was just striding away from his lieutenant, on his way back to Alberon’s tent.
‘Sir Knight!’
He turned, surprise clear on his face. ‘Protector Lady.’
‘Sir Knight.’ She came to a halt before him, gazing up into his face. ‘You will do your best to open dialogue between the Prince and Lord Razi?’
He nodded. ‘Aye, Protector Lady. I shall.’
‘It is vital, sir. You understand? You must not play politics with this.’
The knight stayed silent for a moment, reading her face, and Wynter knew that her suspicions had been right. Oliver was still in two minds as to Razi’s usefulness to the Prince and was in no way certain that he would repair communications between the brothers.
In an appeal to their history, Wynter softened the formality of her tone and lowered her voice: ‘Listen to me, Oliver,’ she said. ‘I believe I understand why it is that our fathers wanted the machine forgotten. I suspect they used it before, to end the Haun Invasion.’
|
|
|
Oliver frowned. ‘With respect, Protector Lady. If that were the case, I should know of it, but I had never seen nor heard of these machines before Jon—’
‘Listen to me, Oliver. I suspect they also used it . . .’ Wynter hesitated. She looked back at the wide patch of darkness on the ground.
Oliver’s eyes followed hers and he stared in confusion at the bloodstain. ‘Also used it for what?’
‘Where were you when the Haun were defeated?’ she whispered.
‘I was up North. Jon sent me North to fetch his father home.’
‘And when the Lost Hundred were expelled?’
Oliver was silent for a moment. ‘I was still in the North, mopping up the last of the Combermen,’ he said slowly. ‘The late King left me there to help finish things up. I didn’t get home until well after the Hundred were gone.’
Wynter met his eye. He began to understand.
‘Oh no, Lady!’ he said, appalled. ‘The Hundred were just sent east. That is all. They were simply . . .’
His voice trailed away and they gazed at each other. Wynter could see memories falling into place for him, connections being made, things clarifying. His eyes grew wide in horrified comprehension. She reached behind her and took Christopher’s hand. He held gently on. I am here.
Oliver went to speak and Wynter shook her head, willing him not to articulate what they were both thinking.
‘Lorcan,’ he managed finally. ‘Lorcan was destroyed when I got home. I thought it was because of your poor mother . . . I must admit I got very impatient with him after a while. He lay in his bed for months. He spoke to no one. He was . . .’ Oliver moaned in despair and guilt. ‘Sweet Christ,’ he whispered. ‘I was only fourteen. How was I to understand?’
‘And the King?’ asked Wynter. ‘Our present King. How was he?’
‘My God,’ said Oliver, remembering, ‘my God.’
‘How was he?’ she whispered again.
‘I thought it was because of his father,’ cried Oliver. ‘Though they never got on, sometimes it happens that way: a son mourns for what he never had – I had thought he was grief-stricken on account of the late King’s death.’
‘He was in a bad way?’ asked Christopher softly.
‘Jon was drunk for almost two months,’ said Oliver. He glanced defensively at Christopher. ‘Not falling down, you understand, but just . . . he did not stop drinking for . . .’ He trailed off and shook his head again. ‘My God.’
‘Neither the Lord Razi nor the Prince seem aware of this, Sir Oliver. I believe it may aid reconciliation between all parties if these things were made clear.’
‘Might help them understand their da a little better, all right,’ murmured Christopher.
‘It will be a delicate business,’ said Wynter, ‘approaching sons with such a secret. Particularly one their father never wanted them to share. We will need to be very gentle.’
Oliver looked at her kindly. ‘Wyn,’ he said, ‘Lorcan was a most wonderful man. Whatever the circumstances of this terrible . . . this terrible act, I should not like you to think that he—’
Wynter snapped a hand up, cutting him off. ‘I do not need you to defend my father, Sir Knight.’
Oliver drew himself up and blinked to silence.
‘You may talk to the Prince,’ she said harshly. ‘I shall talk to my Lord Razi. Between us we will get this done and that will be the end of it. We can all return to the palace, no more to speak of this, and life will simply continue on.’
Oliver stepped back, his face set, and bowed. ‘I shall do my best, Protector Lady. Please God, by tonight the lord and the Prince will be in communication once again.’
He turned away.
Christopher squeezed Wynter’s hand and she shut her eyes. Please, love, she thought, don’t say anything. She did not think she could bear him trying to defend her father. She did not think she could bear questions. To have to open her mouth and articulate all the terrible things she now suspected Lorcan of having done was beyond her power. But, to her great relief, Christopher did not speak. He just maintained a patient, waiting silence, and Wynter loved him for it. She loved him more for every minute he was alive.
‘Gérard was listening,’ he whispered.
She snapped her eyes open to see the dark-skinned Wolf step from the shadow of a tent and hurry to catch up with Oliver. He swerved around in front of the striding knight and bowed smoothly. Oliver kept walking and Gérard walked backwards, keeping pace.
‘You aim to reconcile the Prince and the Pretender, sir? ’ asked Gérard. ‘Would that be wise? I fear the Prince would be livid with you if he thought you’d sided with the upstart contender for his throne.’
Oliver replied coldly, still striding forward, ‘If you value your teeth, you will remove yourself from my path.’
Gérard stepped aside with exaggerated grace and allowed Oliver to sweep past him. He watched as the knight climbed the path and disappeared into Alberon’s quarters; then the Wolf turned and smiled from under his eyes at Christopher.
‘So your master still keeps you, does he, pup? You must have some wondrous skills to have stayed in favour so long – and you nothing but a cripple.’ Gérard licked his teeth and looked Christopher up and down in a way that made Wynter want to cut the eyes from his head. ‘Oh aye,’ said the Wolf. ‘I’d wager you have learned many a way to please. I’ve no doubt al-Sayyid rattles your bells whenever he chooses.’ Gerard chuckled. ‘I’ve always said there’s no better music than that of slave bells, sounding out their rhythm in the dark.’ With that he tipped a gracious bow to Wynter and strolled away into the dying light.
‘Scum,’ hissed Christopher. ‘Scum!
’ Wynter took hold of his clenched fist. Her throat was so tightly packed with rage that it took a moment before she could speak. ‘They are only words, love,’ she managed. ‘Just words.’
Christopher tore his hand from hers and spun to go. His angry face grew even darker at the sight of Jean blocking the path. Unaware of Wynter and Christopher, the big, broad-shouldered Wolf was crouched by the supply tent, face to face with Alberon’s little servant, Anthony. As they watched, the Wolf leaned close and murmured into the child’s ear. Jean’s voice was inaudible to Wynter, but at his words the already frightened little boy turned white and his body went rigid with terror. Still whispering, Jean smiled and ran his fingers through the silky fineness of the boy’s hair.
With a low sound of fury, Christopher darted forward. But even as he and Wynter rushed towards him, Jean rose to his feet, pinched the child’s cheek and wandered off in the direction of the Wolves’ quarters. Anthony was left staring at nothing, his cauldron of water held stiffly before him, his little chest rising and falling in rapid, terrified breaths.
‘What did he want?’ snarled Christopher, dropping to his knees beside the child.
Anthony yelled in fright and jumped back, slopping water from the cauldron.
‘What did he want!’ shouted Christopher.
Wynter laid a restraining hand on Christopher’s arm. ‘It is all right, Anthony,’ she murmured. ‘Freeman Garron does not mean you harm.’
But the little servant took another step back, his eyes fixed on Christopher. His terror seemed only increased by the fury on the young man’s face. Christopher did not seem to even notice the poor child’s distress. ‘Tell me what he wanted!’ he cried, grabbing Anthony by his narrow shoulders. ‘You have to tell me!’
Wynter tightened her grip on Christopher’s arm and crouched down. ‘Anthony,’ she said. It took him a moment to tear his gaze from her friend. ‘It is all right,’ she said again. ‘You may go.’
The boy fled, heedless of the water he was slopping over himself, running frantically for the hill and the safety of Alberon’s tent. Christopher went to lurch to his feet, meaning to follow him, but Wynter pressed down on his arms, halting his rise. She looked into his dangerously tinted eyes.
‘It is all right,’ she said firmly. ‘The boy is safe.’
Christopher growled at her without any recognition, and she took his knotted fists in her hands, squeezing them tight.
‘It is all right, Christopher,’ she repeated. ‘Come back now.’
He frowned uncertainly. Blinked.
‘Come back to me,’ she said. ‘I need you.’
Christopher suddenly breathed deep. His eyes cleared as they stared into hers. His fists relaxed.
‘Are you with me, love?’ she whispered.
He nodded. Up on the hill, the little boy had made it to the Prince’s tent. They watched him run into the protective shadow of the awning and disappear inside – a tiny figure barely large enough for the cauldron he carried. Wynter squeezed Christopher’s scarred fingers one last time, and together they rose to their feet and made their way back to the Merron quarters.
Wynter told Razi about the young Haun’s scars and her theory on the Bloody Machine. Razi was quiet for a very long time after.
In the silence, Wynter gazed down at her hands. To her surprise, they were clasping and unclasping as of their own accord. She clenched them tightly together, forcing them to be still, and squeezed hard so that her knuckles gleamed brightly in the firelight.
Sitting across from her, his face intent, Christopher waited for Razi to speak. On the other side of the fire, the Merron sat quietly. Though they were trying hard not to eavesdrop, they had been intrigued by Wynter’s low, intense conversation, and they kept glancing furtively across the flames, their curiosity impossible to hide.
‘I shall have to see his body,’ whispered Razi at last.
Wynter nodded absently, watching as her filthy nails dug into the backs of her hands. It had been very easy, in the end, to say the words. It was such a simple sentence, after all, and so quickly over: I think our fathers killed them all. But when she had finally said it, she had felt a pain in her chest, a sharp, tearing sensation, and now she felt nothing.
She spread her hands, watching the firelight play across her grimy fingers. Her nails had left pale half-moon indents in her skin. Wynter regarded them with interest, then tried to fit her nails back into the exact position again, pressing hard. Would it take a lot of pressure to break the skin, she wondered? She dug her nails deep, frowning in concentration.
Дата добавления: 2018-10-26; просмотров: 209; Мы поможем в написании вашей работы! |
Мы поможем в написании ваших работ!