Riding the Serpent's Back (11 page)

Her eagerness to get away from this backwater was transparent, and Red could easily understand such a feeling. She hugged her parents, then backed away from them down the steps. At the bottom, she turned and approached the carriage.

Red was there before her, leaning across to open the door and help her up. As he did so, for an instant, she leaned close and he felt the stirring of air of her breath.

He felt his pulse racing – had it merely been an accident, that touch of her breath? Ever since the god Ehna had made the air rustle the leaves for his love, a soft blow had been one of the most ancient signals of all.

He could not help but respond in kind.

She looked at him, with the now-familiar smirk on her face, and said, “My, my. You tease me, sir.” She batted her eyes and pulled herself up into the carriage.

Red swung the door shut. The encounter had been so transient and discreet it might never have happened. He turned and bowed low to Estelle’s parents for the last time, then went forward to his horse and signalled that the party should begin their journey.

~

They rode down through the foothills from Harrat. The province of Averna was in the far north-east of the Rift, where the Jasperan range of mountains rose up to form the natural boundary of human settlement. Beyond the mountains was a highly volcanic region of desert; to the north, the Jasperan range merged with the Rim mountains that bordered the sea.

The journey from Harrat to the Little Hamadryad river would take three days; from there they would return to Totenang on a barge Principal Pieter had commissioned specially for the occasion.

Red rode ahead of the coach and four, studying the passing countryside. It was a rich agricultural region: he could see why Pieter should want Governor Aviesta for an ally.

But it was not only the scenery Red studied. He knew Aviesta had encountered difficulties in the last two years: increasingly bold gangs of brigands, political unrest – there had even been rumours of a potential military overthrow at one time. In confirmation of the stories Red had noted that the streets of Harrat were heavily policed, with fortified guard posts at all the major junctions. He would compile a detailed report for Pieter upon his return: it was always wise to know the strengths and vulnerabilities of one’s allies.

Back in Harrat Red and the officer in charge of Estelle’s army escort, Captain Deni Eliazar, had decided it unlikely that they were at risk. But out here on the open road they might easily be considered an appropriate target for any of the assorted rebels and brigands of this unsettled region. They would have to hope that Pieter had been correct in his judgement that a squad of twenty men would be adequate protection.

As he rode, Red thought of the little exchange with Estelle, when she had entered the carriage. He became more and more convinced that she had manufactured the entire incident for her own amusement. Maybe she was naturally a flirt, maybe she had decided to get back at him for his flashy attempts to impress.

He didn’t mind. He would rather be teased than either ignored or treated as a servant.

They stopped for lunch by a gravel beach on the meander of a small river. Red had picked out the site on the outward journey for its openness, and in the hope that the girl might enjoy the view. This was the biggest commission Pieter had given Red and he was keen that she should report positively on the trip.

She refused to leave the carriage.

“But it’s such a lovely air,” Red told her. “And the view is quite spectacular.”

She peered out of the small soda-glass window set into the carriage door and said, “There. I’ve seen the view. And air is just air, is it not?”

“I can tell you haven’t been to Tule,” said Red. “The air there is sometimes so thick with smoke you have to part it with your hands before you can pass through. I’m serious.”

She looked at him, then rolled her eyes.

“If you will not join me out here,” said Red. “Then might I join you in the carriage? I can’t have you eating alone.”

She shrugged, edging away from the door so that he could enter.

It was dark inside the carriage and it was a moment before his eyes adjusted to the gloom.

“You smell of horse,” said Estelle, as Red unwrapped their provisions.

He offered her a glass and poured some wine. “There are worse things, I can assure you.”

After a short silence, he saw her looking at him, sizing him up. “What’s he like?” she asked. “Your master. My future husband.”

Red tipped his head to one side, as if thinking. “A little taller than me,” he said. “Better looking, of course. Intelligent and funny, generous and good with children. His poetry ranks alongside the greatest that—”

“I’m serious,” said Estelle.

Red shrugged. “So am I,” he said. “My job depends on it. My admiration for him is sincere. He has been good to me. He says my stories amuse him, although I’m sure I don’t know what he means. I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you the things you want to know – I have never been his mistress, I don’t know how you will find him as a husband.”

Estelle pouted, pretending to be cross, but she soon forgot her act. “I’ve never known anyone called Red,” she said curiously. “Is it really your name?”

“It’s as real as a name ever is,” said Red. “They’re only labels, after all. I was called Red because I’m an orphan, a baby born into mourning. My father was a great soldier, you know. He died in battle when he swung his sword so far back he beheaded himself. It’s true – it really is!”

“And your mother?”

Red looked away. “She died in childbirth. I was a zochenan birth.” When the goddess Zochena went into labour, it became clear that both mother and child would die unless action was taken. Zochena took a knife from her son, Qez, and slit her own belly so that her second son and Qez’s brother, the god Michtlanteqez, could be born.

“You mean she...”

Red nodded. “It’s the tradition in such circumstances,” he said. When it became clear that she could not give birth normally, his mother had taken the knife to her own belly so that Red could be born. A healer had managed to stop her bleeding and she had survived for eight days before the fevers took her. And so the baby boy had been named for the colour of mourning, so that he would never forget.

He looked at Estelle, and saw from her expression that she did not know whether to believe him. “It’s true,” he said. “It really is.”

That evening, after they had eaten at the small senatorial residence in Slowly Falls where they were staying the night, Estelle asked Red again what his master was like.

“I told you,” Red said. “I cannot say. It is true that I like to prepare myself thoroughly, but it did not occur to me to spend time as Pieter’s wife just so that I could report to you how it will be. What if he liked me better?”

“I have been thoroughly coached,” Estelle said, pausing to sip at a glass of wine. From her behaviour it was clear that she was not accustomed to drinking alcohol. That would soon change, Red thought. Along with many other things: he could tell from his short time with her that Estelle would be quick to adapt to the ways of the city – she would not remain the naive provincial girl for long.

“Yes?” he said, stifling a yawn.

“For my marriage. For the last four months my teachers at the Academy have taught me the etiquette of being a Principal’s wife. They have taught me how to dress and have my hair and face.” She sniggered, then said, “They even taught me how to please Pieter as a woman.”

“I’m sure you will make him very happy,” said Red, savouring the risky frisson of the flirt.

“My education was most comprehensive,” she continued. “Do you know of Ehnism, for instance? The art of blowing, they tell me. To heighten the sensation, one’s entire body is moistened with saliva and chewed herbs – everywhere! – and then one’s partner blows softly. Apparently this is what the god of love, Ehna, did for Mayhuel, before their love was fully consummated, although I don’t recall the priests reading from
that
part of the texts at worship. If one is well practised in the art it can be sustained for hours, they tell me. But that’s the trouble.”

Red was confused. “What is?” he asked.

“It’s all so abstract. They told me all about it, but I don’t know what it is like. I don’t know if it is really as they say!”

Red smiled, and leaned forward towards her. “Oh,” he said. “It is. Every bit as good. Believe me.”

She looked at him, with a sudden mix of naivety and knowledge. “I don’t know if I shall,” she said. Then she rose and said she was going to bed.

Red sat back for a time after she had gone, wondering how he should interpret her actions. Did she really mean what he thought? He wondered if it could possibly be interpreted as his duty to the Principal that he should complete his bride-to-be’s education. Somehow he doubted Pieter would ever be persuaded to see it that way.

He went upstairs, hesitated – if only because he felt it polite – then approached Estelle’s door. He tried the handle.

It was locked.

If she needed her education completing in certain areas, then teasing was most certainly not one of them.

~

They stopped for an early lunch on the third day of their journey to Totenang. They were only about two hours’ ride from the small river port of Seedrickston, where Pieter’s barge awaited them. Already, as the road wound its way down through the hills, they caught occasional glimpses of the lazy loops of the Little Hamadryad ahead. It might well be the smallest of the Rift’s two rivers, Red thought, but it was still an immense mass of water: a standard leap wide even where it spilled out from Lake Hurstwater; along its course it grew ever bigger as it was fed by the countless tributaries that drained down from the eastern flanks of the Rift. The river ended in a lake ten leaps across, where the rising lands of the Zochi jungle formed a natural dam and the waters soaked down into that region’s spongy ground. Like the larger Hamadryad before the construction of the New Cut, the river’s waters re-emerged several hundred leaps south as a number of lesser rivers which drained into the Burn Plain.

Red found the sight of the river uplifting: a sign that by this evening he would be back in the place that had been more a home to him than any other.

Estelle had been more quiet since the first day of the journey. Red suspected she was trying to adjust herself to what was to come. She was to be the third wife of the sole Principal of the Rift’s second city and he suspected that in her eyes he was shifting from the attractive and charming young man who had stolen her away from the stifling boredom of life in Harrat to no more than Pieter’s favoured servant. He might claim True Blood, but his status would have been far below her own even back in Harrat.

He found this shift in their relationship something of a relief. He had enjoyed the carefully coded exchanges of flirting, the temptation of the forbidden, but he knew it would have to be dropped sooner or later if he was to retain Pieter’s favour – indeed, if he was to remain alive. Apart from the superficiality of her looks, Estelle held little for him that would make him take such risks. He was glad she appeared to have abandoned her games.

Then suddenly, she switched again, confounding his facile judgements.

After lunch she remained seated on a low bench which had been removed from the carriage, attending to her face with the help of a small hinged mirror. Suddenly, she looked past it at Red, catching him as he watched her.

She was dressed more plainly today, in printed cotton leggings and a long jacket. Red didn’t realise he was staring until she cleared her throat pointedly.

He looked away.

In her plainer clothes, Estelle reminded him of a girl he knew in Totenang, a career priest’s daughter called Hellia. When he glanced back at Estelle and saw her cocky smirk, he even thought he could briefly taste Hellia on his tongue.

“Tell me,” said Estelle, snapping her mirror shut and tucking it back into one of her bags. “Will I have much opportunity to ride when I am the Principal’s wife? Does Pieter keep horses?”

“Not for himself,” said Red. “The Principal prefers to travel in comfort. But I am sure he will have a stable built for you if you request it.”

Estelle looked disappointed. “Can I ride today then?” she asked. “My last wish before I am married.”

Red looked around. “We have no spare horse,” he said. “I can’t ask any of our guards to give up their mount.”

“Yours then?”

“The men laugh at me as it is,” he said. “If I was to resume the journey in the carriage they would ridicule me relentlessly.” He knew she would take offence if he told her his real reason: that his stallion was so nervy and unpredictable that he knew of no-one else who could stay on its back for more than a minute. She would think him merely patronising.

Estelle smirked. “Then there’s only one solution,” she said. “I’ll have to ride
with
you.”

Red shrugged, then offered her a hand to help her up. “If that is your instruction, lady.” He was her future husband’s servant, after all: he was only doing as she told him.

Minutes later, they were ready to set out again. Red held his horse as Estelle slid a foot into the stirrup then swung up onto the beast’s thickly blanketed back with complete confidence. When she had squirmed forward to make room, Red swung up behind her. “You’ve done this before,” he said, as he reached round her tiny waist for the reins.

She leaned back a little, so that she nestled in his arms. “So have you,” she said. “I can tell.”

They trotted out to the head of the procession and Red was intensely aware of the woman in his embrace. Through her thin jacket he could feel the delicate ribbing of her corsetry. He could feel the pressure of her body pressing back against his. The breeze lifted her hair occasionally so that it drifted back into his face.

He was fully aroused almost instantly, and the regular movements of the horse pressed him rhythmically against the swell of her rear. He considered trying to shift his position to disguise his response but dismissed the idea. It was only a natural reaction, after all.