A Thousand Glass Flowers (The Chronicles of Eirie 3) (6 page)

When she emerged i
nto daylight, Salah stared. ‘Lalita Khatoun!
The other odalisques need to look to themselves an
d you need to watch your back.
Toda
y you have created a monster.’
With these prophetic words, he led her back the way they had come.

‘I thought I was to see the Sultan?’

‘You are.
He,
most unusually, has come to
you
, another significant action that y
our sisters will hate you for.
His Bright
Light wants to see your work.
He waits now in your workroom with the Gr
and Vizier and the Kisla Agha.
Like I said, Lalita, you have created a monster.’

Lalita’s spirit dragged along the ground behind her.

‘What disasters await do you
think, little peach blossom?’
The afrit whisper
ed in her ear and she started.
‘He can’t see me, poor
ineffectual effete that he is.
Out there,’ he
nodded in the direction of the s
eraglio walls and the city beyond, ‘they all say I am the bearer of disastrous doings, but what is
your
latest?
To have
been sold here, do you think?
Or,’ he whispered so close to her ear that she felt a tickle, ‘could it be that your brother truly is dead?’

‘No,’ she shouted and stopped dead, the afrit disappearing before her eyes.

Salah turned round and grabbed her, giving her a vicious shake, his long, painted na
ils digging deep into her skin.
‘DON’T, L
alita. Not now. Pull yourself together.
Do you want Phaeton to lose you today?’

She looked at him, feeling tears brimming on her lashes, and then something touched her arm like a breeze or a mother’s gentle touch and a curious sensation of calm flooded the
turmoil out of her very soul.
She discovered that she could follow Salah into her apartments and be what she must.

She knelt on th
e floor and made an obeisance.
She found it necessary to examine the detail of the tulip-patterned tiles underneath her nose, anything to distract her from the spine-t
ingling tension of the moment.
This
man was the Bright Light… the power of the Raj.
He could end
her life in a barbaric minute.
Thus it was with astonishment that she felt a strong hand reach for her
own and draw her up. A deep voice spoke.
‘Lalita Khatoun, I am pleased with your work.’

She looked into deep brown eyes and a face that would have been pleasant but for the jagged scar windin
g from the eye to the mouth.
redolent of the history of excrescent
cruelty within the Raji court.
She unwillingly recalled tales of an earlier harem that had been tied into weighted bags, all two hundred and eighty women, and thrown into the river from the very tower above her rooms, and all because
one
of the odalisques had managed to sustain a
relationship with a janissary.
She cl
osed the door on her thoughts.
‘Thank you, Exalted One.’

‘So pleased Lalita, at the progress you are making that I a
m inclined to make you a gift.
This is to mark your beauty,’ he nodded to the Kisla Agha who opened a roll of white velvet to
reveal a perfect black pearl.
Teardrop shaped, it was as black as a shard of obsidian and as big as her thumbnail.

‘I am indeed grateful, Sire.’
She hid her horror, for such valuable gifts came with sexual obligation.

‘And I have had a petition from y
our uncle, the paper-merchant.
Because this work of yours is exemplary and will make a gift beyond the imaginings of even those Venichese infidels, I shall grant you an audience with him.’

Lalita sucked in her breath, her heart swelling at the memory of Imran.

‘It is your eighteenth
birthday tomorrow, I believe.’
The Sultan smiled at her, one side of his face handsome and charismati
c, the other side so sinister.
‘And I shall grant you ten minutes with your uncle.’

Lalita bent her head. 
Ten m
inutes, ten miserable minutes!
How does one convey such tempestuous emotions in ten minutes?
The Kisla Agha’s toe tapped in the corner of her vision and the swish of the Grand Vizier’s flywhisk agitated the air as they waited for her response.
I hate you all.
‘The Sul
tan’s generosity is limitless.
I am unworthy.’

A finger tilted her chin and the Sultan’s face moved very close to her own, his lips almost gr
azing the corner of her mouth as he spoke as soft as snake’s slither.
‘On the contrary,’ his hand touched her shoulder and despite the presence of the other two men, maybe even because of it, he let it drift down over her breast so that her skin puckered and a sense of
abuse and torment filled her.
She wanted to brush his hand away, to hit him, to lift her knee sharply into his groin, but instead she stood frozen, listening t
o the sweetly dangerous words.
‘You ar
e very worthy, Lalita Khatoun.
They told me you were mad but I cannot believe a woman of such beauty, grace and skill can be in
sane.
Enjoy your time tomorrow.’

He walked out, the others falling in behind, leaving a detestable vacuum in his wake.

It wasn’t empty for long.

‘I told you, Disaster Damsel. You are his next hourie. Pity you.’
The afrit sniggered and disappeared through the lattice as Lalita bunched up her peach silk scarf and flung it at him.

Chapter Six

Finnian

‘Fill the gob
let, boy and keep filling it.’
An ironweight mood settled on Finnian – a Castello mood, and vaguely he observed Gio’s head bob in acknowledgement as the young fello
w circled the Captain’s table.
The presence of the boy reminded him of his own lack and the now calm sea prickled like thorns in his side.  The pretentiousness of the Captain’s table with its flickering candelabra and polished silver rubbed him raw and the meal was on porcelain plates,
as if that matters
.

‘Captain.’
He lifted his goblet, drained it and slammed the glass on the tablecoth, spatters of the dregs flying up and spreading i
nto the napery in bloody clots.
‘Is there nothing
to do on this wretched bucket? No gambling, no women? Even the food’s dull.’
He pinioned his host with his gaze.
The man stare
d at him with unblinking eyes.
He had affected the look of an admiral with a lace jabot and a fine navy tailcoat with go
ld trim.
He had placed a wig on his head, a sculpted grey thing that was caught back in a plait as was the f
ashion of sea-faring officers.
No doubt he thought he looked fine,
the admirable admiral.
Finnian snorted at his own joke and raised a glass at the Captain’s face as the man spoke, the patronizing edge to
his voice slicing the air.

‘This
is trading ship, Sir Finnian. Passengers are rare.
The food suits me and has never
been complained about before.
As to gambling, I would not tolerate it and w
omen are not allowed on board.
As the men say, ducks on the
pond, very bad luck.
My men live and work to a code and at the very least I expect respect and good behaviour, fr
om passengers as well as crew.
Nothing less.’

You patronizing son of a
bitch, I’ll give you bad luck. A game! We’ll have a game…
‘Well
sir,’ Finnian drawled.
‘I wonder how far respect for line, ship and captain really runs when a passenger’s possessions are surreptitiously removed.’

The Raji Ambassador wiped a napkin over a pale, waxy face and adjusted his turban, the silk fringe constantly untuc
king and dangling in his eyes.
Finnian glanced at him as the man refused food, sipped water and looked from one to the o
ther of the dinner companions.
He acknowledged Finnian’s acc
usation with a raised eyebrow.
The Captain moved his cutlery sideways with stiff fingers and then he lifted his rat’s eyes to meet Finnian’s and Finnian knew the first point was his.
Ha.  What shall we do now sir, you and I?

‘Would you care to explain?’
The Captain’s tone sparked in the air, firing the need to taunt him further.

‘I had a gold pin.’
Yes, a gold pin.
That’ll do.
  Make it irreplaceable.
‘An expensive gift s
et with diamonds and emeralds.
It seems to have disappeared.’

‘And you accuse my crew?’

‘Dammit, I accuse no one yet.
But I had it when I boarded and now I don’t.’
Your move.

The Captain said nothing as
he folded his napkin and stood.
‘You will excu
se me sir and Your Excellency. Dinner is concluded.
I would prefer you to retire to your cabins and bid you goodnight.’

He held the door open.
‘Sir Finnian. Your pin. It will be found.’

Finnian inclined his head and strode away whistling, knowing the man’s
smug equilibrium was rippling.
In his cabin, he finished the carafe of wine that the cabinboy had left and lay on the hammock, swinging with the gentle movement of the boat, at odds with the
feelings swirling through him. Currents converged
then separated as he tried to think on one fruitless thread after another
.
Isolde, you sh
ould see what I do, old woman.
I mesmer now that you are out of my life. Look, see?
A jug of beer appeared on the tiny desk.
And watch, you old bitch…
he waved his hand,
somewhere on this ship I have magicked a pin, all diamonds and emeralds.
He crowed as he wafted his fingers as if
conducting some fey orchestra.
Another thought took hold
.
There was something of you in the way I played the game tonight, old woman.
The thought hovered a
nd from somewhere came a voice…
like Isolde, Isolde’s boy.
He shuddered and looked into the corners of his cabin but then the words faded as he drank off another mug. Gio’s face floated out of the dark.
The boy – he was scared in the storm. I know scared.
The mug dropped to the planks with a muffled thud.
It burns a hole in your gut that can never be mended.  And it hovers, forever hiding behind you to grab and throttle if you turn
round.  If I’d had family…

He moved uncomfortably in the hammock and reached for the jug, swallowing the last drops and it followed the mug to the floor as he fumbled inside his jacket to draw out the parchment.
Where are you, Lady?
Yours is a face I could love.
He lay swinging back and forth as his eyelids drooped.

A repetitive snuffling burrowed under the layers of sleep and Finnian opened heavy eyes, holding a hand against his forehead to shield his sight from the overly
bright light of an open door.
Feet shuffled and finally the sniffs drove him to lift his head and examine the boy who ha
d brought a tray to the cabin.
Red swollen eyes filled the youth’s face and the young mouth trembled.
As he laid the tray down, his hands shook and a tear dribbled down the pale cheek.

‘GET OUT, BOY.’
The Captain shouted from the door and Gio sho
t out leaving wet sobs behind.
The boy’s grief pierced Finnian’s aching head more than the Captain’s animosity and he groaned.

‘Leave me, sir.’
He rolled on his side away from the Captain, turning his
back on his thoughts as well.
‘I wish to wake at my own leisure, not yours.’

‘Get up, you sot!
I’ve found your wretched pin and I wish you to observe the punishment.’

Vaguely Finnian remembered the game he had embar
ked upon the previous evening. ‘You did you say,’ he yawned.
Seems I upset your applecart.
‘Well done you but get on with the p
unishment yourself, can’t you?
I’m in a sore mood so throw the chap in the brig and leave me be.’

‘How
dare
you!’
The Captain’s fist th
umped the planks of the walls.
‘
Listen
to me, I say.
Thievery on a ship is a crime just below murder and is punished to the full extent of maritime law!’

Finnian sighed and rolled back toward the Captain.
Have I won the game then?
But the face that stared down at him was twisted and knotted and he knew the man was hauling hard
on the ropes of self-control.
Had Finnian been crew, he guessed by now he would have been lashed to the mast and whipped to a bloody pulp for his disrespect.

A cold wash began to trickle through his veins, a sense that he had
unleashed something untoward.
Sobri
ety followed in swift pursuit.
He smelled brutal excitement emanating from the Captain and knew in an instant that a heavy price would be paid for the ema
sculation of the night before.
In that fleeting moment he recog
nized someone of Isolde’s ilk.
‘And what would that punishment be?’  In truth he didn’t want to know. 
The lash, starvation?
His skin crawled.

‘Keelhauling.’

Finnian’s breath gushed out.
There were foetid men in Castello, men his grandmother called ‘fallen angels’ whose stories had clogged Finnian’s past and keelhauling ha
d lost nothing in the telling.
‘But that’s preposterous
, damn you, it’s not a murder.
It was not
hing but a small indiscretion.
Put up your toy sword and lead me to fresh air for my headache.’

The Captain’s face flushed puce and his eyes opened wide and bloodshot as Finnian, still dressed in last night’s clothes, levered himself from the bed t
o push through the cabin-door.
Fingers scrabbled at his arm, pulling him back so tha
t the Captain could surge past.
‘THIS IS MY SHIP SIR, AND I SHALL ADMINISTER LAW AS I SEE FIT.’

Chasing on his heels and swiping away the drunken fog, Finnian swallowed bile and guilt.
I can admit to being fey, that I played a game and that if he proceeds with the punishment I shall use such glamour that his own life will be forfeit.
But as he stepped to the deck to reveal himself, he heard the Captain call, a shouted response d
rifting back from the yardarm.
A sailor plummeted through the air, a trail of ropes looping behind him, the crew unable to hold their cries of horror.

‘
NO
,’ the cabinboy screamed.

‘Silence,’ The Captain snarled,
whipping around to face the men
.

Fin
nian grabbed the Captain’s arm. ‘You’ll kill him!
’

‘Maybe, it depends.’
Relish coated the man’s answer, one side of his mouth hooking up.

‘You son of a b
itch,’ Finnian began to shout. ‘This is a beamy ship.
Long or short rope
s, the fellow stands to drown.
This is
not
my wish!’
He wanted to smash his fist through the smug expression in front of him.

‘No.
It is mine.’

The crew on high tightened the slac
k, pulling from the port side.
The sailor would be dragged under the belly of the ship to scrape against barnacles that if old and large would cleave him open, leaving festering and
septic wounds that would kill.
Finnian acted with instinct, mesmering the rope so that it would break and the sailor might swim to the surface away from danger.

‘Sir, the rope’s slack!
Aint no one on the end!’

Finnian let go his breath as the deck crew began to hustle.

‘Enough, stand to attention. You up there, watch for him in the water.’

The crew cast terrified looks amongst themselves, expecting the worst, and the cabinboy crushed his head deep into a sailor’s belly, sobbing as though his heart would break
.
Finnian saw a wretched boy in another time but one that was alone and had no comfort from the pillow o
f a belly and encircling arms.
The breeze soughed through the stays, the sheets and sails flapping as the boat
lollopped, bow into the wind.
Each minute, each second spelled death and the initial buzz of urgency began to die as surely
as the sailor’s life dwindled.
Ice packed every blood vessel as Finnian tried not to think of what he had precipitated, hoping against hope
he had saved the fellow’s life.
It was a game, I never intended for this
because I know what pain is…

‘THERE!’
A voice shouted from the starboard yardarm and the deck crew brok
e ranks and ran for the sides.
A figure floated on his back, a faint sanguine stain drifting around him, his hand clutched over his belly, one arm drifting to the side.

‘Get him aboard.’
The Captain’s eyes searched over the top of the crowded deck for
Finnian as a boat was lowered.
The two men exchanged looks – triumph in one and distaste in the other.

The Captain leaned over the rail as the men hauled, Finnian pushing in as the limp body was cradled over the side of the vesse
l like a clump of bloody rags.
The crew laid
him out and Finnian knelt down.
Once again he was Isolde’s boy, filled with self-loathing and wondering how it was that
terrible things came to pass.
The weight of his guilt crushed him to the planks.

‘Sir,’ the man whispered, staring straigh
t at him, his voice anguished. ‘I didn’t…
th
e boy… help me.’
His eyes pleaded, pain-riddled and filled with tears as his hands held his tattered shirt over his stomach
, his fingers shiny with gore.
The blood pooled and ran under Finnian’s knees as he eased the fingers away and gasped.
Drawn
and quartered.
He recalled Gi
o’s words from the day before.
The fellow’s innards strained out of a fatal gash, white and
grey like bleached sea-ropes.
His chest rose and fell rapidly, his thoughts unmistakable – the knowledge that he was going to die in unimaginable pain and in front of his friends for a crime of which he was innocent.