Taste of Lightning (6 page)

Perrin chuckled. ‘Easy now, easy.' He resumed his song, creeping closer to the cage. Slowly the surroan's fur flattened, as if stroked by a friendly hand, then she lowered her tail, and sat. Perrin's chantment became a rhythmic purr, and the cat's growl softened into a purr too. ‘Good girl, good girl,' murmured Perrin. He put his hand through the bars, just to show off, and the cat rubbed her cheek against his fist.

‘Nice,' said Tugger.

‘Thanks.' Perrin didn't look up; it was dangerous to take your eyes off them once the song was finished. He'd been caught like that early on, with a street dog in Nadalin. He still had the scar on the back of his leg. But even with his head turned away, he was aware of Tugger and Donn looking at each other.

‘Can you do that with any animal?'

‘Never met one yet that could resist me.'

‘Women too?' said Tugger dryly.

‘Never thought of trying it on a woman.'

‘Hmmm. I'll bet.' There was the hint of a twinkle in Tugger's eye.

The cat stretched, yawned, and curled up to sleep.

‘Tamed a surroan before, Snake?'

Perrin liked his new name; it was better than Pretty Boy, anyway. ‘Only met one once before. In the woods by the border, a few turns of the moons ago, when the war was still – when the fighting was still –'

‘Before the strategic withdrawal of our forces from Cragon-lands,' said Tugger. The twinkle in his eye was almost a wink.

‘Yes. We were in retreat, Balts pursuing. One of my squad nearly stepped on a cat and her kittens. She would have torn us to shreds if I hadn't been able to – redirect her.'

‘Onto the enemy?'

Perrin nodded. ‘She took two of them. The squad dealt with the rest.'

‘Never saw that in any report, Swordsman.'

Of course not; it never happened. Perrin said easily, ‘My squad leader's a sceptical man. He didn't see anything. Or hear it.'

Tugger said, ‘Cats. Snakes. What about birds? Fishes? Woodlice?'

‘Woodlice can't hear too well, Tugger.'

‘So how do you sing to snakes? Thought they were deaf too.'

‘They are, almost. You have to get onto the ground, so they can feel the vibrations.' He added, ‘It's more than the songs. Animals just seem to like me.'

‘Yes,' said Tugger. ‘Everyone seems to like you.'

Perrin risked a grin, a half-shrug. It was true. Even the bastards in the squad who gave him a hard time teased him without malice. Everyone liked him, everyone wanted to get near him. There was nothing he could do about it; it had always been like that, ever since he could remember.

‘Could be an asset,' said the Commander to Tugger.

Tugger nodded. ‘If the boy's suspicious. Yes. Help us win his trust.' He gazed at Perrin. It was a shrewd gaze. Perrin realised that, for the first time in his life, here was someone who could see past his charm, and his good looks, and his little tricks, and miraculously liked him anyway. Here was someone who liked him
despite
his charm, not because of it; someone who wouldn't let him frug about. Suddenly Perrin felt something he'd never felt for any member of the Rengani Army: respect. This Tugger was a man worth following.

Perrin was sure now that he wouldn't be playing games with Baltish horses. He didn't really want to know, but he half-raised his hand. ‘Excuse me. What's this all about?'

‘Thought you'd never ask,' said Tugger. ‘You're a lucky man, Snake. You've won yourself a place in my squad. Going on a little mission, a raid on Baltimar. Not just over the border – deep into the heartland, deep into the south. Fair chance we won't come back. Clear?'

‘Yes.'

‘I mean we'll probably die, Snake. That all right with you?'

‘Yes.' Perrin felt sick. But what else could he say? A rapid series of images flashed through his mind: fleeing into the night, crawling through fields until – the soldiers' shouts. The ropes, the cell. His body swinging in the town square at Chaplet. Traitor, coward, deserter.

Perrin stood up and looked Tugger full in the face. ‘Whatever you say.'

Tugger's brown eyes crinkled. ‘Plenty of time for details later, but here's the rough plan. You, me, four other men, a boat. You know boats, is that right?'

‘Yes.' A skip of surprise. Renganis, like the Baltimarans, disliked and distrusted boats. But Perrin had grown up scrambling round the cliffs and coves of Nadalin, and had handled little boats as soon as he could walk. And then came the long ocean voyage to Rengan; by the end of that, though he was still only a child, Perrin regarded himself as a proper sailor. ‘Yeah, I know my way round a boat. I can swim, too.'

‘Swim? That's good. Six men. We take a boat round the coast. South, to Arvestel.'

‘Arvestel!' exclaimed Perrin.

‘That's right. Up the river-mouth. Take them by surprise. Bit of luck, they won't even know we've been there till it's too late. Retrieve the boy. Sail back round the coast, rendezvous with the second team at the border and hand over the boy. Break into pairs, melt away. Make our own way home. Handle that, Snake?'

‘Yes.'

‘Any questions? Not that I'll guarantee to answer them.'

‘Who's the boy?'

‘The Priest-King of Cragonlands. The Balts abducted him five years ago. Now we're going to take him back.'

‘Back to Cragonlands?'

There was a slight pause; the two officers avoided looking at each other. Tugger said, ‘That's right. Eventually.'

Perrin could smell a lie; he'd told enough of his own. He didn't care. He wasn't particularly interested in the boy or his fate; he just wanted to sound intelligent in front of Tugger.

‘Why me? Specifically?'

Tugger's eyes crinkled. ‘You never heard of the Guardians of Arvestel? I thought every kid in Rengan heard those stories at his mother's knee.'

‘I wasn't brought up in Rengan,' Perrin reminded him. He felt sick again.

Tugger lowered his voice. ‘They do bad magic down there, Snake. Not nice. Stitch things together that don't belong. The Guardians of Arvestel are half-man, half-beast. Surroans that run on two legs, horses with men's heads. Dogs with hands that can hold a sword. We don't know what other filth, what abominations there might be.'

Perrin swallowed. ‘And you want me to – to sing to them?'

The Commander barked, ‘If you think you're not up to it, now's the time to speak.'

There was a long pause. At last Perrin said, ‘No sir, I can handle it.'

Tugger smiled slowly. ‘Lucky you said that. If you weren't up to it, well . . . Let's say we couldn't let you leave this tent with a tongue in your head after what you've heard tonight.'

The Commander said, ‘You should know that if you return without the boy, there will be consequences. Fatal consequences.'

‘You mean I'll hang, sir,' said Perrin bleakly.

‘Yes, you'll hang,' said Donn brusquely. There was a short silence. ‘But on the bright side, if –
when
you succeed, High Command will show their appreciation. Promotion, naturally. Land on the east coast, perhaps. Sort that out later. Any other questions?'

Perrin looked blankly into the darkness that hedged the tent. A question – could he think of a question? He dredged one up from the depths of his mind. ‘Yes, sir. When do we leave?'

‘Tonight.' Tugger nodded to the door of the tent. ‘There's your kit.'

Perrin spun around. There was his bed-roll and his knapsack. He could even see the distinctive outline of his finger-harp wedged under the canvas. Whoever had done his packing hadn't forgotten a thing.

CHAPTER 4

A Hair from His Head

IT was the dead of night when Skir woke. He knew it must be long after midnight, because the dancing on the terraces had ceased. The small uncurtained window by his bed let in faint light from a single moon. Dawn was still far away.

‘Beeman?' he whispered. ‘Is that you?'

There was no reply, only a sinister silence. Skir found himself thinking
assassins
.

Beeman had warned Skir a thousand times to be alert for danger, and every time Skir scoffed at him. ‘Arvestel's stuffed so full of guards you can't walk down the corridor without poking your eye out on a spear. Not to mention the dogs. An assassin couldn't get in here unless they flew up to the balcony.'

‘Stranger things have happened. Just be careful.'

There: a definite noise. A rustle in the outer room. Skir's heart skipped a beat. He opened his mouth to croak for Beeman, but no sound came out. Then, with a surge of relief, he remembered that he'd left a plate of pancakes from supper half-eaten on the table. Not assassins – mice. He almost laughed.

The scuffling came again. Stealthily Skir groped for a slipper and hurled it through the doorway.

There was a thud and a squeak. But not from a mouse.

Skir gasped, ‘Beeman!
Beeman!
'

Silence.

‘I'm calling the guards!' cried Skir.

‘No!' came an urgent whisper out of the darkness. ‘They'll kill me!'

‘Assassins deserve to be killed,' declared Skir. Then, ‘You're a
girl
.'

‘I ain't an assassin,' hissed the unseen girl indignantly. Then, less certainly, ‘Least, I don't think so. Not exactly.'

‘Oh, good, I feel completely reassured.' Skir lit a candle. How many times had he wished
something
would happen? And this was certainly something. ‘Come in here and let me see you.'

The flare of the flame showed a girl of about Skir's age, with fair hair cropped close to her head, and fine, straight features. She didn't look at all frightened; she stared at him fiercely. She was wearing a cloak with the hood pushed back, and, underneath it, a man's shirt and breeches, too large for her. The breeches were held up with a twist of rope. Her hands were empty; if she had a weapon, it was well hidden. Her eyes were large and grey, with long lashes. There was a dent above her lips; suddenly feeling faint, Skir imagined laying his finger gently on that dent.

He cleared his throat. ‘What's your name?'

‘Tansy.'

‘Do you know who I am?'

‘You're called Skir.'

This unexpected familiarity took Skir by surprise. ‘Well, yes. But my formal title is the Priest-King of Cragonlands.'

The girl looked at him blankly, clearly unimpressed. Skir felt a flicker of annoyance. ‘What are you doing here?'

The girl looked down, and a pink flush spread over her cheeks and up to her hairline. She muttered something.

‘Sorry? I couldn't hear you.'

‘I
said
, do you want to touch my bosoms?'

‘What?
No
.'

There was an awkward silence. ‘I'm sure they're very nice,' said Skir. He wished he'd said yes, now.

The girl bowed her head lower.

‘Did you come to – to see me?'

‘No. I thought you were asleep.'

‘Oh. But then why –'

‘Listen,' said the girl in a desperate rush. ‘I don't mean you no harm, I swear it. I didn't know what she wanted, what she'd do. I didn't know it were for
her
.'

‘Wait, slow down. Who's
her
?'

‘Her. The Witch-Woman. Lady Wanion.'

He'd heard of Wanion, of course; she was one of the King's most powerful advisers. But he'd never met her. Wanion didn't attend feasts and concerts; she had other work to do. He hadn't heard she was supposed to be a witch. Interesting.

Skir thought for a moment. ‘Wanion has magical powers, does she? Well, I'm a magician too, a very strong, very powerful magician.'

Tansy looked up, and such a fierce hope blazed in her eyes that Skir was almost frightened. He managed to keep his voice steady. ‘Yes, as long as you're with me, within these walls, no harm can come to you. These rooms are part of Cragonlands. No Baltimaran magic can reach you here. But you must swear to tell me the whole truth.'

Tansy's chin went up. ‘I don't tell lies.'

‘All right,' said Skir. ‘Sit down. Go on, there's plenty of room. Now, who are you? Where did you come from?'

‘I'm a laundry-maid,' said Tansy dully.

‘How did you get in?'

‘Followed your supper tray up from the kitchens. Then I hid in a cupboard outside till it was quiet. I'm good at keeping quiet.'

‘Not that good. I heard you, didn't I?'

Tansy covered her face with her hands.

‘Don't cry!' said Skir in alarm.

‘I ain't crying,' said Tansy in a muffled voice. ‘It's just – her magic'll get me, or yours will. Either way I'm good as dead.'

‘I won't hurt you, I promise. As long as you tell me the whole story.'

Tansy took her hands from her face. ‘It were – someone. Not from the laundries. I don't want to say her name. She knew what I wanted more than anything; she knew I wanted to be with the horses. She told me she were courting a groom in the stables, and she could arrange for me to go down there in the mornings early and help out. And I did. All through spring. I rode Bray, and Thimble, and Kite, the Queen's own mare, and once I held Penthesi's leading rein . . .'

‘That's good, is it?' The names meant nothing to Skir. His own riding lessons were conducted on the ponies of the little princesses; he didn't know their names.

‘Penthesi's the King's best hunter. You must have seen him. Black, with a white star. He's huge. The cleverest horse in the stables, old Ingle says.' Tansy's voice was reverent.

‘They all look the same to me. Anyway, what happened? Did someone scold you? I assume you're forbidden to hang around the stables.'

‘I weren't
hanging around
. I had a job to do, same as the stable-hands. Tern said I was handy as any of the lads, handier than some. There was one day I calmed Kite when none of them could get near her, not even Ingle. But then Lor – the person who arranged it all, she said she weren't courting with Tern no more, and if I didn't want to get into trouble, I better do as she said.'