The Copper Promise Page 23

  The crowd roared with laughter, and a few of the women called out the young fighter’s name. He raised a hand to them in response, nodding in acknowledgement of his own wit, and that was when Thurlos charged.

  Wydrin winced. She had fallen for that trick often enough herself, and always paid for it in bruises and damaged pride.

  Jarath stepped to one side as the larger man came, letting him barge past like an enraged bull. Thurlos pulled himself up just in time to avoid colliding with the wall, and the Crimson Scar bowed to the crowd again, just as though he’d won a great victory. The young women screamed with delight.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Wydrin, shaking her head slowly.

  Thurlos barrelled into the young man again, and this time Jarath let the bigger man knock him to the floor, only his feet somehow managed to find themselves braced against the hairy fighter’s midriff, so that rather than being crushed into the dust he straightened his legs and threw Thurlos off easily. The big man collided with the floor heavily enough for Wydrin to feel the impact in her feet, and after that it was all over very quickly. I should have placed a bet.

  Wydrin tracked Jarath to a nearby drinks tent and found him surrounded by a gaggle of young women. Pushing her way through them, she found him sitting on a stool, sipping a pint of something foamy.

  ‘Really? The Crimson Scar?’

  Jarath dropped his drink on the floor, entirely unmindful of the fancy shoes belonging to the young woman standing next to him.

  ‘Wydrin!’

  He jumped off the stool and hugged her enthusiastically, lifting her off her feet and covering her clean shirt in oil and red paint. Wydrin could feel a dozen female gazes narrowing at her back. She kissed him on the cheek and gave his neck a squeeze.

  ‘Put me down, you great idiot. Yes, I’m back. What’s all this Crimson Scar nonsense?’

  Jarath let her go, still grinning. He shrugged and pointed at the remnants of red paint on his chest.

  ‘You remember I got that scar when the Crimson Sea-Witch attacked the Bararian Flotilla? And I just fought on heroically, despite the terrible wound?’ He slashed his hand back and forth, mimicking a sword. ‘People were talking about that for weeks. Well, I thought, why miss the opportunity to get a name people will remember? You taught me that.’ He poked her lightly in the chest for emphasis. ‘Copper Cat.’

  Wydrin laughed and shook her head.

  ‘I see. The Crimson Scar because of the Crimson Sea-Witch, right? I thought you had your own ship these days?’

  The women who had been tending Jarath were moving away with sour expressions now as he led Wydrin over to the bar. He waved at the barman, who passed them two cups of hot spiced wine.

  ‘Well, yeah, but Mum’s ship is still the more famous, isn’t it?’ He took a sip from the cup, frowned, and gestured to the barman again. ‘Is this wine?’

  ‘You want a free drink, you get what you’re given,’ said the barman.

  ‘Hey, I brought all these ladies in here, didn’t I?’ He waved at the rapidly dispersing women. ‘Anyway,’ he turned back to Wydrin, ‘how’ve you been? What have you been up to? From what I’ve heard, it was pretty big, whatever it was.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Wydrin looked around the crowded tent. It was hot, and loud, and for some reason it made her uncomfortable. ‘You could say that.’

  ‘And where’s Sebastian?’

  The wine was slightly sour. As she sipped it she remembered the great feast they’d eaten under the Citadel. How odd, to think of that now.

  ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘will you walk with me? I haven’t been to the Marrow Markets for the longest time. I want to see what’s new.’

  ‘Looking for more work?’

  ‘I’ve got a job coming up. Working with Reilly, a slimy git from the Horns with a faceful of gold teeth. You know him?’

  Jarath made a face.

  ‘That nuisance? I know that he’s got a reputation, and it’s even worse than yours.’

  Wydrin sighed. ‘Are you coming for a walk or not?’

  ‘Let’s do that.’ Jarath waved at a member of his crew, who threw him a loose silk shirt. He shrugged it on, unmindful of the oil and paint. ‘And you can fill me in on your news.’

  42

  They walked away from the fighting pits and into the trade district. Wydrin had done plenty of business here over the years, selling on the more exotic items she and Sebastian had collected on their travels. They paused by a tent selling armour that looked as though it had only recently been recovered from some bloody battlefield. Wydrin bought a new pair of copper wrist-guards, not bothering to haggle the price with the seller, and slipped them on over her arms.

  Eventually their wandering brought them to an old bronze statue of a woman, her arms held up as though she was trying to embrace the sky. Everyone had long since forgotten who the statue depicted or what it was for, but the stone steps at its base were often a quiet place in the midst of the markets.

  Wydrin sat down, trying to ignore the concerned look on her brother’s face.

  ‘Wydrin …’

  ‘What?’

  He shrugged extravagantly. ‘Sure, you don’t want to talk to your only brother, I can see that. But I don’t know when I’ve ever seen you buy something and not have a lively discussion with the vendor about price, and normally when you come and see me we’re in for a night of drinking until we vomit and fall down some stairs somewhere, yet today you are distracted and you have a face like a flayed bottom.’

  ‘Charming.’

  ‘And I don’t like to see the Copper Cat all serious. That’s for my other sisters, the boring ones.’ He put an arm round her and squeezed her shoulders. She smiled reluctantly. ‘Tell me what is wrong.’

  She looked up at the statue. The woman’s face was still beatific, after all these years.

  ‘I am fine. How’s Mum? You must have some news of her?’

  Jarath chuckled.

  ‘I haven’t heard from her for two months, maybe three. She struck out for the Bararian coast, said she was going to follow the sun round for a while, see where it took her.’

  Wydrin looked at her brother sharply.

  ‘She isn’t still looking for my father? I hate to say it, but if he were still alive, we’d have heard from him by now. The storms you get beyond the Sea of Bones …’ Her voice trailed off.

  Jarath rubbed a finger along his jaw line. Wydrin heard the faint rasp of stubble.

  ‘You know how she is. Too long in the same place and she has to go and find somewhere entirely new to make up for it.’

  ‘Yes, I know how she is,’ said Wydrin dryly.

  ‘All of which careful dancing round the subject means you have yet to answer my question.’

  She looked into his dark brown eyes. He knew her too well.

  ‘It was all fine at first,’ she said softly. ‘But it got out of control, and I don’t even know where Seb is now.’ She bit her lip, thinking of how he had been in Pinehold. ‘He just couldn’t let it go. Any of it.’ She shook her head. ‘I want to go to the Temple.’ She nodded towards the broad shaft of dusty sunlight that marked the very centre of the Marrow Markets. It hovered in the air like a dream of summer. ‘You coming?’

  Jarath rubbed his chest through the opening of his shirt, frowning. His fingers came away pink and oily.

  ‘You? In the Temple? Now I know you’re having some sort of crisis.’

  ‘Come on, it’s important.’

  She took his arm and dragged him towards the light and the scent of seawater.

  The Temple in the centre of the Marrow Markets was old, some said older than Crosshaven itself. There was a circular pool, cut directly into the rock, and if you stood on the very edge and looked down – if you were brave enough to do so – you would see a deep blue chasm, reaching down into nothing. There were rocks and colonies of coral jutting out from the uneven sides, and plenty of shadows, so you could never be sure where the Graces were hiding. The hole in the roof above allowed the br
ight afternoon sunshine to play on top of the clear water, and the Temple was a place of shimmering, jumping light.

  A few feet away from the central pool were the rings of tanks. Wydrin and Jarath stood by one, considering.

  ‘You want something hefty,’ said Jarath, tapping the glass. There was a fat fish within, swollen and silver. It wriggled at the disturbance and hid behind a rock. ‘Something for the Graces to get their teeth into.’

  Wydrin glanced down the row of tanks. They were made of the finest glass and contained a huge variety of sea creatures; crabs, lobsters, octopi, brightly coloured fish, and, in one huge tank, a gruesome seawater pike. The sunlight that danced constantly off the surface of the water slid along the sides of the tanks, highlighting and then obscuring the animals within. She thought of Holley’s house full of enchanted glass.

  ‘A lot of small fish encourage greater movement, though,’ she said. ‘And the Graceful Ladies can read more from that, they say.’

  ‘There will be no readings today,’ came a cold voice from behind them. Wydrin and Jarath turned to find one of the Graceful Ladies glaring at them both. She was short and slight, so that the long purple robes seemed to swamp her. The traditional black lines the Ladies drew on the edges of their lips and the creases of their eyes looked very stark against her pallid skin, and her brown hair was slicked back from a slightly bulbous forehead with fish oil; the smell was overpowering. She looked up at them with eyes the colour of sea mud. ‘No readings, no more offerings,’ she said again. ‘We’ve taken all we will take for today.’

  The Graceful Lady gestured to the other side of the pool where another of her priesthood stood with a line of nervous-looking attendees. Just by glancing at them Wydrin could tell that these were men and women with money; they had clean faces, fine clothes, and the vaguely worried look of rich folk forced to mix with the people who cleaned their houses or fetched their food.

  ‘You think we don’t have the coin?’

  The Graceful Lady raised her eyebrows, thick with greasy black make-up. She said nothing.

  ‘I have the coin.’

  Wydrin untied a coin purse from her belt and dropped it at the priestess’ feet. It made a satisfyingly heavy clink against the cobbles. The Graceful Lady looked at it as though a gull had shat in her breakfast.

  ‘It is not a case of money alone,’ she said, her tone suggesting she dealt with exactly this kind of nonsense every day. ‘It is a question of devotion. Of faith. We are not a fortune-telling service for –’ she paused to put exactly the right level of disgust into her voice – ‘sell-swords and pirates.’

  ‘Devotion?’ Suddenly Wydrin was shouting, and she noted with satisfaction the way both the Graceful Lady and Jarath jumped back in surprise. ‘Faith?’ With theatrical poise she held up her arm and peeled back the sleeve of her shirt, revealing the tattoo of three sharks entwined around her bicep. The tail of the last shark curled under her elbow. ‘How is this for devotion?’ She waved her arm about, taking care to show it to the line of rich patrons waiting on the other side of the pool. ‘I take the Graces with me wherever I go!’

  The Graceful Lady was hissing with annoyance, urging her to keep her voice down. Jarath was laughing softly.

  ‘If just one of those fat merchants has the mark of the Graces on them, I will cut my own arm off and make an offering of that!’ She drew Frostling and waved it about for good measure. ‘Let them take their clothes off and we shall see!’

  The Graceful Lady plucked at her arm fretfully.

  ‘Very well. Truly, you are devoted. We shall move you to the front of the queue.’

  Still grumbling, the priestess walked away to where a blue silk pillow lay on the floor. On it were three long sticks with chains and balls attached. These were the Bone Whisperers: essential kit for a Graceful Lady. The short woman snatched one up, shaking her head.

  ‘Jarath,’ said Wydrin in a low voice. ‘I need you to steal me one of those.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Bone Whisperer. Grab one for me while I’m making the offering.’

  ‘What?’ Jarath sounded stricken. For all his posturing and extravagance, he made his living off the sea and had no wish to offend the Graces. ‘Why would you even want one?’

  ‘Just do it. Everyone will be watching me.’

  At that moment the Graceful Lady returned, her black lips set into a thin line of forbearance.

  ‘Have you chosen your offering?’

  ‘Yes, this one.’ Wydrin pointed to a random tank. Inside there was a long, silvery eel.

  ‘Would you like to make the offering yourself?’

  Some visitors to the Temple were reluctant to get fish bits on their hands and clothes, and would request that someone else perform the messy task of actually getting the creature into the pool. Wydrin turned to address the people at the pool’s edge, her arms spread wide. They were all looking at her, pleased with this extra snippet of entertainment.

  ‘I will make the offering to the Graces myself. This is what true devotion is! I am a daughter of the sea!’

  The Graceful Lady sighed heavily.

  ‘Then we shall proceed.’

  The priestess walked primly over to the edge of the pool and held the Bone Whisperer out over the water. The handle was long and made of dark wood, and from the end there dangled a long silver chain, on the very end of which was a delicate silver filigree ball, no bigger than a hen’s egg. Inside the ball were a handful of tiny fish bones, milky white and carefully carved with prayer-notes. It was a beautiful thing, and it was said that the Graceful Ladies each constructed their own. Wydrin glanced at Jarath, and he edged closer to the blue pillow.

  The priestess walked around the pool, shaking the Bone Whisperer over the waters. There was a tiny, rustling, rattling sound from the silver ball; the sound, they said, of the ocean’s prayers. Sunlight streamed down on the water, sending shards and flashes of light out into the Marrow Markets, and for a few seconds the smell of salt was very powerful; the scent of the sea, or of blood.

  ‘Bring the offering,’ said the Graceful Lady. Her face was intent on the water now, and everyone else was either looking at her, the pool, or Wydrin. Good, thought Wydrin. She walked straight-backed over to the tank, reached in and grabbed the eel. It struggled briefly, and she felt the sinewy power of its muscles stretching against her hands, but all day in a tank of warm water had made it sluggish. Holding the creature firmly in both hands, she walked over to the pool.

  ‘For the Graces, from a true daughter of the sea!’ she cried. She glimpsed down into the water and – was that movement? A lethal shadow? The priestess called out more words, some prayer or other, but for a few seconds all Wydrin could do was stare at the water. It wasn’t a shark she saw; for a moment it was a serpentine shape, a creature of scales and vast, enormous wings. The feeling passed and in a reflexive shudder she threw the eel into the pool.

  Immediately, the waters began to churn, and there was a ragged cheer from the watchers on the other side. Wydrin stumbled back, putting one hand up to her eyes – it was the sun in them, that was all – and she missed the violence of the offering. When she looked down again she saw the dappled grey hide of one of the Graces moving with beautiful silence under the water, and a few shreds of silvery gore that had once been the eel.

  ‘An interesting reading,’ said the priestess. She came over to Wydrin’s side with a smug look on her face. She still held the Bone Whisperer, and she shook it at Wydrin as she approached. ‘The sea brings you dark currents, devoted one.’ She raised her voice a little so the spectators could hear. ‘The tide has turned and left you behind, and when it comes back in it will bring death with it, so much death. That is your reading, daughter of the sea.’

  Wydrin nodded politely. Jarath appeared in eyeshot, and she saw that he had one hand behind his back and a determinedly innocent look on his face. Time to leave.

  ‘Thank you, Lady of the Graces. I will adjust my sails accordingly, and so on.’
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  They left swiftly, merging into the crowds beyond the Temple. Jarath had hidden the stolen Bone Whisperer within his shirt.

  ‘I know for a fact that you got that tattoo when you were drunk,’ he said cheerfully as they weaved their way towards the drinking tents. ‘It was going to be that or a mermaid with giant barnacles. And what do you want one of these for anyway?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later. Come on, there’s a cup of wine with your name on it.’

  43

  The small boat moved at a crawling pace through the swirling mists. Every now and then a distant outcrop of jagged black rock would appear and vanish again, announcing the islands that lay hidden there like portents in a nightmare. The captain was taking them slowly, his eyes trawling the fog continually for hidden obstacles. He was a native of the Nowhere Isles, with pale skin and hair so blond it was almost white, but even the people who’d lived in these mysterious islands all their lives mistrusted the waters around Whittenfarne. It was a cursed place, they said.

  In fact, they said it somewhat constantly and Frith was getting rather tired of it. His guide, another native of the Nowhere Isles called Jeen, was sitting on the deck filling his pipe. Frith went and stood over him.

  ‘How much further?’

  Jeen glanced up at the white, featureless sky, and shrugged. His hair was darker than the captain’s, although Frith suspected that was largely due to the lack of soap and water it had seen lately.

  ‘As long as it takes, m’lord,’ he said, squinting up at Frith. He had a patchy little beard growing in fits and starts along a weak chin. ‘Can’t just go surging up to Whittenfarne. Good way to get scuttled, that.’

  Frith sighed, and glanced towards the prow, where the captain stood staring out at the water. The boat’s figurehead was in the shape of a hideous, tentacled monster – Jeen had told him this was to scare away any restless spirits, which all seemed a little melodramatic for Frith’s tastes, but at least the captain looked like he knew what he was doing.