Kushiel's Dart (Phedre's Trilogy #1)

Kushiel's Dart (Phedre's Trilogy #1) Page 40

"So." Waldemar Selig considered Joscelin. "And do you swear as Gunter Arnlaugson has said, to guard my life as your own, Joss-lin Ver-ai?"

He had marked Joscelin's name when I spoke it, and remembered; he spoke somewhat of our tongue—albeit with a barbaric accent—and Caerdicci in the bargain. The more I saw of this man, the more I feared him. Gonzago de Escabares had been right; Waldemar Selig was dangerous.

Joscelin had recovered his composure and his face was cool and unreadable, a mask of Cassiline discipline. Of those in the hall, only Gunter and his thanes, who stood behind us now, knew his skill. He stood scant yards from the Skaldi leader, fully armed and on his feet. In three moves, I thought, he could kill Waldemar Selig; and of a surety, the tense unity that held the Skaldi at the Allthing would not survive Selig's death. Fractured and leaderless, the Skaldi would be what they had always been, a threat to our borders, but one that could be pushed back by a concerted effort.

And he would be foresworn, and both of us slain or worse. Cassiel had chosen damnation to remain at Elua's side; Joscelin would do no less.

"I swear it," he said in Caerdicci, "on the safety of my lady Phedre no Delaunay."

"Fay-dra," mused Waldemar Selig, glancing at me. I curtsied, conscious of the weight of his gaze. "That is how you are called?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Fay-dra, you will teach me D'Angeline. I wish to learn more." His glance moved back to Joscelin. "Joss-lin, we will see what kind of warrior you are." Selig nodded to one of the White Brethren, making an oblique gesture with two fingers.

With a battle-cry, the thane sprang at his leader, short spear extended for a killing thrust. Waldemar Selig sat unmoving. It may have been staged; I don't know. But I believed then and I believe now that the thane's attack was in earnest. From his own men, he commanded that much obedience. Even in this, they would obey.

I could see Gunter's smug grin as Joscelin went into action. Smooth as oiled silk, he slid himself between Selig and the thane, twin daggers rising to catch the shaft of the spear with its pointed head an inch shy of his heart. With a subtle twist of shoulders and wrists, he turned its course harmlessly, and in the same motion landed a level, well-planted kick to the abdomen that sent the White Brethren staggering backward, his breath leaving him with a huff.

With a brief bow, Joscelin presented the spear to Waldemar Selig. To the accompaniment of snickers, the defeated thane scowled and adjusted his pelt, taking his place with his brethren once more.

"So." The Skaldi leader's eyes glinted with amusement. He rose, holding the spear, and placed a comradely arm about Gunter's shoulders. "You have given me a mighty gift, Gunter Arnlaugson!" he announced loudly.

Waldemar Selig had given his approval, and the Skaldi cheered. Looking about the great hall, however, I made no mistake. They were cheering Selig and Selig alone; there was no welcome in their voice for two D'Angeline slaves. Except for the members of Gunter's steading, gazing at their faces I saw naught to thaw my heart. Among the women, there was only envy and hatred. Among the men, hatred and hunger for me, hatred alone for Joscelin.

If I had ever doubted it, I knew it now. We were among the enemy.

That night, Selig feasted the assembled leaders of the steadings, and you may be sure, Gunter sat in close proximity to the warleader. It was a Skaldi gathering, and the mead flowed freely; there was song and boasting and politicking alike. I was there, for Waldemar Selig ordered me to attend that night, pouring mead for Skaldi chieftains from a heavy earthenware jug. I cannot tell how many times I had to refill my jug.

I could count, though, the number of times I refilled Selig's tankard, for they were few. The rest of them got roaring-drunk, no question, and he allowed it, but Waldemar Selig remained sober. I watched his calculating eyes, and saw how he gauged the manner of his chieftains. They had presented themselves to him on their best behavior, and he had gauged them then; now they let their true natures show, and he watched them all the closer for it.

It gave me the shivers.

I noted too, how his gaze followed me, and sensed rather than saw his appreciation for the niceties of D'Angeline service: the linen cloth I held beneath the jug, the line of the arm as one pours, the proper angle of approach, the thousand and one details one is taught in the Night Court with which to serve with unobtrusive grace. It mattered naught to the other Skaldi, who held out their tankards at will and didn't care if the contents slopped over the sides, but it mattered to Waldemar Selig.

He had Joscelin attend, too, in the Cassiline manner; three paces behind his left shoulder, hands crossed at ease on his hilts. He must have asked what was proper. Clever, but not foolish; I could see that Waldemar Selig was aware of his every move, and that two of the White Brethren kept a careful watch on Joscelin. He hungers for our customs, I thought. He would set himself up as a King, but this nation of brawling drunkards is not fit for the sort of kingdom he wishes to rule. I thought of my homeland, and my blood ran cold.

There was no talk, that night, of why they were assembled; only boasting, and tales of what they had done already. Two of the leaders, a Suevi and a Gambrivü, fell to quarreling over an ancient blood-feud, and it wasn't long before their swords were out. Drunken and excited, the Skaldi cleared way for the fight. I saw Gunter among them, bawling out a wager which was quickly accepted.

It was the sound of Waldemar Selig's tankard being slammed onto the table that caught their attention and commanded silence. "Are you men." asked the Skaldi warleader into the abashed stillness, his hazel eyes glinting, "or dogs, to quarrel over a dry bone? I have a rule, in my household. Any man who bears a grudge, let him bring it to me. And any man who would settle it by might of arms, let him take up his cause against me. Is that your wish? You, Lars Hognison? You, Erling the Quick?" They fell to shuffling and muttering, for all the world like two boys caught quarreling. "No? Good, then. Make peace among you, and behave yourselves as brethren ought."

Skaldi are easily moved to emotion. The two men, who moments before were like to tear out one another's throats, fell on each other's shoulders and embraced like brothers.

"Well done," Waldemar Selig said softly, levering himself to his feet, using his height and the breadth of his shoulders to dominate the hall. "You are here," he told them, "because you have learned to lead, among your own folk. If you would truly be leaders of men, you must learn to unite, and not to divide. Divided, we are but so many dog packs, squabbling in the kennel-yard. United, we are a mighty people!"

They cheered him, then, but Waldemar Selig was too canny to rest on his laurels. "You," he said, pointing at Gunter. "Gunter Arnlaugson of the Marsi. Did I hear you cry out a wager?"

Gunter had the sense to look embarrassed. "It was the heat of the moment, Blessed," he protested. "Surely you have done as much, to warm a long winter's cold."

"If a man does wager on a dogfight," Waldemar Selig said calmly, "how does his hunting pack fare come spring?" He sat down and thrust up the right sleeve of his jerkin, baring one mighty arm. "A wager is a challenge, Gunter Arnlaugson, and you are a guest in my hall. What will you wager, then? That stone which sparkles so prettily about your neck? A D'Angeline trifle, if I make no mistake."

Caught out unwitting, Gunter glanced at me. I could not help but pity him; Melisande's diamond was ill luck for anyone. "Do you admire it?" he asked brashly, lifting it from about his neck and holding it out to Selig. "Then it is yours!"

"Ah, no." Waldemar Selig smiled. "I would win it as honestly as your respect, Gunter Arnlaugson. Come, if you would wager, try your luck against my arm." He beckoned, and the muscles in his arm shifted like boulders beneath the skin. Deprived of a fight, the Skaldi applauded the prospect of a test of strength. Clever Selig, I thought, to catch them out with shame, then shame them with strength. They didn't know what he was about, but I did.

Making the best of a bad situation, Gunter clasped his hands above his head and shook them, flashing the diamond as he stepped up to the table. Skaldi admire courage, and they rewarded his with shouts of approval. Waldemar Selig merely gave a wolfish grin. They sat down then across from each other, and Gunter laid the diamond on the table before they gripped hands and leaned into it, pitting sheer force against one another.

It was not a pretty sight, that much I will say. As I had cause to know, Gunter Arnlaugson was a powerful man, and no easy match, even for one of Selig's stature. Their faces reddened and the tendons stood out on their necks, while their arms bulged and corded with effort. Eventually, though, it had to happen. Gunter's wrist bent back slowly, while Waldemar Selig's curved over the top of it; inch by inch, Gunter's arm was forced to the table, until at last it struck wood.

Selig's White Brethren cheered the loudest, but they were not alone in it. Even Gunter had the grace to grin, wringing his hand. You are well shed of that thing, I thought, as he picked up Melisande's diamond and presented it to Waldemar Selig.

I thought too soon.

Waldemar Selig dangled the diamond on its cord from one finger. "Never let it be said," he remarked to the Skaldi, "that we are cruel masters, who fear to give the D'Angelines their due, their baubles and trinkets. Let them keep what they will! Who fears a race trained to serve?" He raised his voice to a shout. "Fay-dra!"

Trembling, I set down my pitcher and approached, sinking without thought to kneel before him. I could feel the heat coming off him without looking. "My lord," I murmured.

The cord settled over my head, Melisande's diamond returning to rest between my breasts. "See," Waldemar Selig said, "how the D'Angeline kneels, to receive with gratitude what is hers by right from my own hand. See it and mark it, for it is an omen!" He grasped the hair atop my head then, raising it for all to look on my face, and they cheered. "Look well at our future!"

Gunter had given me to him as a symbol, and he was clever enough to use me as such. The Skaldi shouted and pounded their mugs, while Waldemar Selig smiled at their approval. I understood, then, the measure of his ruthlessness. What he hungered for, he would grasp, though he destroyed it in the process. Beneath his hand, I trembled like a leaf.

And inevitably, damnably, in the wake of this casual humiliation, came desire. If Waldemar Selig had chosen to take me in front of four dozen assembled Skaldic chieftains, I would have cried out encouragement. I knew it, and knowing it, wept, despising what I was.

Behind it all, Joscelin's face swam in my vision, a clear and impassive D'Angeline noble's profile, staring straight ahead. I fixed my eyes upon it and prayed.

FORTY-SEVEN

0n the following day, the Allthing met.

Waldemar Selig did not entertain me that night, to my silent relief. I was accorded a pallet among the serving-women of the great hall, which

1 took to with gratitude, ignoring their sullen stares. Selig was not done with me—of that, I had no illusions—but for the moment I was content to curl up on straw and ticking, letting oblivion claim me.

A sober mood prevailed after the excesses of the night. I do not know how Joscelin fared, but we found ourselves cast together, herded into a small storeroom off the great hall while the Allthing met and the housecarls slipped about cautiously, attending to them. Each leader of a steading was allowed to bring two thanes, and his headwoman; that much, I had gathered. To my dismay, the room which held us muted sound, so that neither Joscelin nor I could hear clearly what was spoken.

If Blessed Elua accorded us any mercy, it was the fact that we were alone together in the rough-timbered storeroom. The White Brethren had bolted the door against us. Whatever symbol Waldemar Selig would make of his D'Angeline slaves, we would play no part at the Allthing. What would be spoken there was not for barbarian ears to hear; the meeting was for Skaldi alone.

I listened to the rumble and murmur of voices, echoing in the vaulted rafters. Joscelin paced about our small enclosure, testing the door, examining stored grains and ale with disgust until determining that there was no way out and naught of use to be found.

"How bad was it?" he asked me eventually, leaning against a barrel and keeping his voice low.

"Be quiet," I whispered, concentrating. It was no good. I could almost hear, but not quite. One word in ten was not enough; understanding evaded me. I shot Joscelin a fierce glance, then checked, looking from him to the barrel to the rafters. I remembered him in the street with the Eglantine tumblers, and how Hyacinthe and I had stood atop a barrel to watch. "Joscelin!" Urgency pervaded my voice; I was already clambering atop a barrel. "Get up here, and help me!"

"You're mad," he said uncertainly, but he was already rolling another barrel into place. I stood on my toes, reaching overhead and gauging the height.

"They are planning somewhat," I said calmly. "If we manage to escape and reach Ysandre de la Courcel, do you wish to tell her the Skaldi have some dire plan . . . but, so sorry, we couldn't hear it? Hoist that up, we need to get higher."

He did it, protesting all the while. It took some time, for they were heavy. I kept my gaze upon the rafters.

"Do you remember the tumblers?" I asked him when the barrels were in place, kneeling on the topmost. "I want you to lift me onto your shoulders, and boost me to the rafter. I'll be able to hear, then."

He swallowed at that, hard, gazing up at me from the second tier of barrels. "Phedre," he said gently. "You can't."

"Yes," I said steadily, "I can. What I can't do is lift you. This is what Delaunay trained me for, Joscelin. Let me do it." I held out my hand to him.

He cursed, then, with unwonted Siovalese fluency, took my hand and scrambled up to stand beside me. "Take my coat, at least," he muttered, shrugging out of it and forcing my arms into the sleeveless grey mandilion. "Those rafters must be filthy; there's no need to tell them where you've been." Once I had it on, he bent one knee for me to mount to his shoulders.

I did it quickly, not looking down at the floor of the storeroom. It was a long way down, and though the barrels were steady as a rock, it was a precious small space on which to stand. For all of that, we might have been partners of long training; he bowed his head as I steadied myself, gripping my ankles as I rose to stand upon his shoulders.

The rafter was a few inches shy of my fingertips.

"Lift my feet," I whispered down to him. I felt his hands, shifting carefully, as he planted his legs under him, and his fingers gripped my ankles until the bones fairly squeaked under the pressure. I rose steadily as his arms extended, into the open air, until I could wrap my hands about the great beam and swing myself up.

They were mighty timbers, that had built Waldemar Selig's hall. Once I had myself in place, I peered down, and Joscelin seemed far below me atop our pyramid of barrels, his upturned face pale and nervous.

So be it; I was there. Lying flat on my stomach—the beams were that broad—I drew myself forward, rough splinters under my nails reminding me, with an odd nostalgia, of Childric d'Essoms' whipping-cross. A layer of grime and soot covered the rafter, and I was grateful that Joscelin had given me his coat. Inch by slow torturous inch I progressed, until I could peer over the partition that divided our storeroom from the vast confines of the great hall. This I did, letting my sable locks fall over my face to shadow my fair skin lest anyone glance upward.

By all accounts, I should have been terrified—and I was, truly. But mingled with the terror was a strange exhilaration, born of defiance and the knowledge that, no matter how futile the outcome might be, I was at last pitting my skills against our enemies. It was like what I had felt betimes with clients, but a thousand times stronger.

The great hall was full to bursting, and it was cursedly warm atop the rafter with the heat of the fire and so many bodies. Some had taken seats where they could, but most were standing, including Waldemar Selig, who stood taller than any man there. I had not missed much, it seemed. A priest of Odhinn had asked the blessing of the All-Father and the Aesir, and the assembled Skaldic chieftains and thanes swore loyalty to Selig, one by one; they were just finishing, when I began to listen.

Selig waited for them to quiet, his hands on his hips. A half-dozen of the White Brethren surrounded him, making a dark spot in a pool of white, seen from above.

"When our forefathers met at the Allthing," he began, pitching his voice to carry, "it was to settle disputes among the tribes, to make trade and marriage perhaps, to meet old enemies in the holmgang, or to affirm the borders of the territories each had carved out for himself. That is not why we meet." He turned slowly, surveying them all; I could see by their rapt attention that he held them in his palm. "We are a nation of warriors, the fiercest the world has known. Caerdicci nursemaids tell their children to hush, lest the Skaldi take them. And yet the world ignores us, safe in the knowledge that our savagery is contained within our borders, turned in upon itself, that while nations rise and fall, great palaces are built and crumble, books are written, roads are built and ships are sailed, the Skaldi snarl and bite and kill each other, and make songs about it."

That drew a grumble of protest; he'd cut to the heart of sacred Skaldi tradition. I could see Selig unmoving, though he raised his voice a notch.

"It is a true thing I speak! Across our border, in Terre d'Ange, the lord-lings dress in silk from Ch'in and eat pheasant from silver plates in halls of Caerdicci marble, while we brawl in our wooden halls, dressed in hides and gnaw meat from the bone!"

"'Tis the marrow that's sweetest, Selig!" some wag cried; from my perch, I saw him receive a sharp elbow to the ribs. Waldemar Selig ignored him.

"In the name of the All-Father," he continued, "we are better than that! Do you seek glory, my brothers? Think on it. What glory is there in slaying one another? We must take our place in this world, and make a name for ourselves; no mere bogeymen to scare children, but a name such as the armies of Tiberium won long ago, to be spoken in fear and reverence across the face of a thousand lands! No more will the Skaldi be fighting dogs on a chain, bought for hire to safeguard the passage of Caerdicci or D'Angeline caravans, but rulers at whose passage the sons and daughters of conquered nations will kneel and clutch their forelocks in respect!"