Trinity Rising: Book Two of the Wild Hunt (Wild Hunt Trilogy 2) (12 page)

It was all giving Savin a headache.

He brushed at a gravy-spot on his garnet silk sleeve and frowned. To think he’d given up the sophistication of a desert court for
this
.

‘You’re not drinking,’ boomed Renngald from the high seat, a skalding-infested oak monstrosity that barely contained the man’s fur-trimmed corpulence.

‘I’m not thirsty,’ Savin said, picking at some bread. He’d eaten his fill an hour ago, but the Nords’ appetites in food and drink, as in all things, appeared to be insatiable.

His host frowned and pushed his iron crown back up his forehead from where it had come to rest on his shaggy eyebrows. ‘’S a feast. Should be drinking, man. Ale!’ he yelled, thrusting his horn cup aloft. ‘Ale for our guest!’

As if it had been a call for a toast, several dozen other men on the lower tables hoisted their cups into the smoky air and voices roared fit to lift the rafters. Most likely they didn’t know or were too drunk to care what they were shouting for.

In his time amongst them he’d concluded that the Nords made up for their dark and cheerless island existence by seizing on the least excuse for feasting. A good harvest meant a feast. Renngald’s prize sow farrowing – a feast. The sun coming out after rain – yes, another feast. He avoided as many as he could, but for as long as he was enjoying the castle’s hospitality it was politic to endure one now and then.

These prodigiously bearded bears of men lolling around the hall were Renngald’s thanes. Good warriors all, according to their lord, and they certainly carried well-worn axes and scarred shields, but as far as Savin could see they were all sots – and lechers to a man. Any serving maid who strayed too close was apt to be dragged onto a rampant cock in full view of the hall, while the other men shouted encouragement or beat time on the table with their fists.

And they were fecund, too: the castle was full of their brats, squalling, fighting, sobbing and hurtling around in packs. After a while their relentless shrilling set Savin’s teeth on edge. Then he would retreat to his tower room, which Renngald had thankfully decreed out of bounds to all but servants, and ward the walls for silence. He was not averse to the pleasures of the flesh – far from it; something else a warded room was useful for – but at least he had the good manners to take his relief in private.

A servant plonked a foaming jug of ale down in front of him and disappeared. The sharp, hoppy scent made him feel slightly nauseous. The noise was now so loud, such a tangled mess of sound, that he could hardly think but still the bread and the beer were circulating. A scuffling in the rushes by his feet said even the castle’s dogs were busy gorging themselves, scouring the floor for scraps. How long until it was over?

Leaning over the arm of his chair, Renngald squinted at him. ‘You’re still not drinking.’ A cunning glint appeared in his eye that made Savin think he was perhaps not quite as soused as he appeared, and he grinned. ‘Perhaps you prefer something sweeter than ale, eh?’

The lord of the Nordmen thumped on the table until he made himself heard over the carousing. ‘Bring out the girls,’ he cackled. ‘It’s time for pudding!’

This was met with enthusiastic cheers and broad grins flashed in whiskery faces. Overfilled ale-horns were shoved aloft, spilling foam down beefy arms. Savin shifted in his seat and wondered what depravity he was about to witness next.

The doors at the far end of the hall opened to admit a party of musicians. The thanes quietened down, more or less, and soon the air was filled with the floating strains of flutes over a throbbing drumbeat. Shortly after, a troupe of a dozen acrobats threw themselves along the hall in handsprings to whoops of appreciation from the thanes.

They were all female, lean and supple as stoats, and every single one of them was naked but for paint. Savin blinked. Clad in green leaves, swirling blue waters and leaping flames of yellow and orange, they spun and capered around the crowded tables like elemental spirits. Each girl’s hair was drawn back into a multitude of tiny tight braids adorned with beads or fluttering feathers, and their hands sported long lacquered nails that made their fingers resemble the clawed toes of birds.

‘Extraordinary,’ he breathed.

Renngald leaned over the arm of his chair again, his crown once more askew, and gave Savin a knowing look. ‘See? We are not entirely uncivilised, my friend!’

‘Who are they?’ Savin asked, mesmerised by the eldritch creatures. Even their movements were birdlike: they darted abruptly from motion to stillness, observing their audience with tilted heads and bright dark eyes.

‘
Inikuri
. Spirit dancers from the islands out past Aarish. They don’t speak – leastways not a tongue we can comprehend – but they do love to dance.’ His host settled himself more comfortably in his chair. ‘Amongst other things.’

Back and forth across the hall the spirit dancers strutted and spun. As they passed the fire-pits they spat something into the flames that began to burn with a pungent, almost resinous scent. Bluish smoke spiralled up into the rafters and the drumbeat slowed, becoming sensuous. The thanes’ raucous shouting slowed with it as the insistent throb of the music took hold of them, and the air in the hall grew thick and heavy.

The dancers gyrated around the tables, teasing the thanes with provocative poses and undulating movements. Their bodies were astonishingly flexible, performing arabesques and pirouettes that would have graced the court of any desert prince, and they were so light on their long, narrow feet that they scarcely made a sound.

It was almost hypnotic. Leaning back in his chair, Savin watched them intently. A creeping, tingling heat was washing through him and he felt himself smile. Perhaps the evening might not be a total waste after all.

Beside him Renngald reached under the table, presumably petting one of his hounds. ‘That’s it. Good girl,’ he murmured fondly.

Fragrant smoke tickled Savin’s nose and only then did he associate it with the warming in his blood. Some kind of narcotic, and a subtle one; he should leave before it stupefied him. It was already having an effect on the thanes, now lolling against the tables like bears drunk on windfall fruit. Here and there a hand kneaded languidly at a crotch, but their eyes never left the dancers.

Two of the acrobats, painted like firebirds and wearing scarlet feathered masks, vaulted onto the high table. They danced amidst the ale-horns and trenchers, high-stepping, birdlike, their lithe bodies gleaming.

One of them squatted in front of him, her head cocked to one side. Streaks of glittering bronze and purple paint defined her eyes, and tiny gold beads had been glued to her lashes. Her mask’s beak was decorated with scraps of silk that fluttered like flames as she breathed. She appeared to be waiting for something.

‘Go ahead,’ said Renngald. His free hand clenched the arm of his chair, his crown drooping over his ear again. ‘It’s what she’s here for.’ Then he laughed, and continued to pet the dog under the table, humming to himself.

Savin studied the girl and she watched him alertly. Gold rings pierced her nipples, each one threaded with an amber bead. Intriguing. The heat had reached his groin now and set him stirring. Somehow the girl noticed, or knew; she sat up straight, still balanced on the balls of her feet, and pushed her pelvis forward. Nestled in the rosy perfection of her womanhood was a third ring, also threaded with a gleaming bead.

On one of the lower tables, a water-sprite writhed to the rhythm of the drums whilst a half-naked thane sucked at her cleft like a man dying of thirst. All around her his companions had their rods in their hands, glistening with their juices. Next to him at the high table Renngald bucked in his chair, crown hanging perilously from his ear as he moaned for his good girl, and Savin realised that what he had assumed was a dog beneath the table was actually his wife, on her knees with her husband sunk to the hilt in her mouth. Overlaying all the smells of smoke and sweat and beer, the air stank of lust.

Pushing back his chair, Savin stood up. Time to go. To either side of her mask, the firebird’s painted cheeks swelled with a smile. Oh, she was tempting, squatting there with her hands on her knees and her treasure displayed for him to take if he chose. She blinked her gilded lashes, head cocked expectantly. Reaching down between her thighs, he flicked the amber bead with his fingertip.

‘Can you speak?’ he whispered.

She made a sound in her throat, somewhere between a trill and a purr, and he grunted, his curiosity piqued.

I wonder if I can make you scream?

He caught the bead between finger and thumb and gave it a gentle tug. The girl shuddered. Heh. Very tempting, but not now: he had things to do.

Someone touched him on the elbow and he looked round. The soberly dressed man at his side had the kind of indeterminately aged, pleasant but nondescript face that was instantly forgettable. His height and build were average, his colouring middling, even his eyes were strangely colourless – or rather, no one ever remembered him for long enough to recall what colour they were. It was one of Tully’s greatest strengths, and why he had been Savin’s agent for almost a decade.

He raised one eyebrow at the scenes of sensual excess filling the hall but made no comment. ‘It’s time,’ he said.

‘Very well.’

Tully slipped out of the rear door of the hall as quietly as he’d arrived, and Savin turned back to the girl. Leaning to her ear, he whispered where he would be in an hour, and what he would give her. The firebird sighed, her silk flames tickling his neck. Grasping his wrist, she pushed his hand between her legs and ground herself on his fingers.

‘Later.’ He chuckled and patted her hairless mound. ‘Later.’

Bringing his fingers to his nose, he inhaled her scent. Sweet and spicy. Lovely. Then he followed his agent out of the hall.

The frigid air of the castle bailey hit him like a bucket of cold water. The fug of narcotic smoke was soon washed away, his synapses blasted clean by the chill tang of the northern ocean. Two deep lungfuls had him awake again, shaking off the close, sultry atmosphere of the hall and its revelry.

His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dark, and the quarter moon’s glow off the snow shovelled up against the walls. Then he spotted Tully waiting in the shadows by the postern, a saddled horse tethered nearby, and crunched over the frozen slush to join him.

‘I take it you’ve found a suitable ship?’ Savin asked.

Tully nodded, untying a thick cloak from behind the saddle and slinging it around his shoulders. ‘A fast merchantman out of the White Havens, taking Renngald’s amber back south via Pencruik. The captain’s glad of the extra coin a passenger brings, so he won’t ask questions.’

That would fit well with his plans. Patience always paid off. ‘Good. You have the stone?’

‘Of course.’ From his pocket, the agent produced a small pouch of the sort favoured by jewellers and held it out in his palm.

Savin took it and emptied the contents into his hand. The jeweller had done a fine job. The cut and faceting were very good; being crystal it had only a fraction of the fire it needed, but that could be fixed.

Opening himself to the Song, he called a thread of air to support the stone, then more air, and fire and a little earth in a complex interlocking pattern that knotted and whorled and wove together like the finest Tylan lace. He pulled it taut, checking it for imperfections, then released it.

With the tiniest chime the weave snapped over the crystal and vanished. A brilliant cut diamond now hung in the air before him, catching Lumiel’s silvery light and spitting it back in needles of blue and gold.

‘Impressive,’ murmured Tully.

Deftly, Savin used air-Song to steer the stone back into the velvet pouch and tied the strings. Even he would not be immune to the working. ‘Now remember,’ he said, ‘don’t let it touch your bare skin or you’ll never want to part with it.’

His agent made a long-suffering face. ‘How many years have I been working for you? I remember.’ He took the pouch and stowed it back in his pocket. ‘The ship sails in four hours, on the dawn tide. I’ll have the stone inside Chapterhouse by the end of the month.’ Gathering up his horse’s reins, he added, ‘Does it matter which one I choose?’

If it could have been the Leahn boy, the irony would have been sublime, but he had already demonstrated a reluctance to fall under the sway of Savin’s charm. And after escaping the storm sent to destroy Alderan, he would doubtless be even more mistrustful – especially of strangers bearing gifts.

‘As long as it’s one of the students, I don’t need much to work with,’ he said. ‘A youngster.’ A Master would recognise the glamour as soon as they felt it, but someone without their experience, someone easily won over by a trinket, would have no idea, and their ignorance would let Savin force a chink in the Guardian’s armour where not even Alderan would suspect it until it was far too late.

Tully nodded and mounted up. ‘I’ll signal when it’s done,’ he said, tugging a pair of gloves from his belt. A sharp whistle between his teeth summoned a bleary man-at-arms from the warmth of the guardhouse to unbar the postern gate, then horse and rider were gone into the frigid night, leaving only pluming breath behind.

And so it begins
.

Savin pictured the game pieces arrayed on the board, played out the opening gambit in his mind. Soon he would have his cat’s paw, and a toehold behind the sophisticated wards Alderan had strewn around Pencruik and the surrounding islands. Then – he slid another pawn forward – establish control. With a little help from his Hidden Kingdom allies, Chapterhouse would fall.

And then came the endgame. Corlainn’s treasure. It was at Chapterhouse, he was certain of it. The Knights who’d survived the Suvaeon purge had fled there; they would have taken it with them, or at least taken the knowledge of where it could be found. Alderan was such a hoarder of knowledge, nursing his scraps of lore like a miser with his coin, counting it up and hugging it to himself as if it had some intrinsic value over and above what it could be used to achieve.