Redmede wished he could trust the creature, but he didn’t. ‘I bandaged your ankles,’ he said. ‘You can’t walk. I’ll return your sword soon enough.’
The irk smiled, which was horrific. ‘When you dine in my hall, man, you will ssssee that I need no treachery to dessstroy the likesss of you. If I wanted you, I would meet you ssssword to sssword. I am Tapio Haltija. I do not lie.’
Redmede found talking to the thing was tiring. He had trouble controlling his mind, his thoughts went tumbling off like the creature’s sibilant esses. He went and sat on his blankets after another check on the wounded, and Bess came and sat down beside him.
‘Just give my hand a squeeze,’ Bess said. ‘And tell me a pretty story, because I had the shit scared out of me today.’ She grinned. ‘And Nat Tyler is more scary than comforting. Ain’t he?’
‘The irk we just rescued is a figure out of legend, and he’s going to save us all,’ Redmede said. He took her hand and squeezed it, happy to be able to give her good news. It was no different to giving Nat’s hand a squeeze when the man was sick. But the hand was cold, and he found he was holding onto it. Bess pressed up against him. There was nothing erotic in her approach. She was cold.
‘A famous irk?’ Bess managed a weak laugh. ‘Who is he – Tapio Haltija?’ she snorted derisively.
‘That’s what he says,’ Redmede answered.
She sat up. ‘That ugly monster claims he’s the Fairy Knight?’ she said. ‘I dreamed of him as a girl. He rides a unicorn and carries a lance of solid gold.’
‘Right now he’s been hamstrung by boggles and he can’t get a cup of tea,’ Redmede said.
‘Can’t be,’ Bess said. But her voice was calmer – happier. ‘But that’s a good story, Bill. You done good these last days. If’n we die. Well, hell, we stood on our feet today, din’t we?’
Redmede rolled a little so that his shoulder pinned hers. ‘Listen, Bess. I swear to you that we are not beaten; we’re going to get through this. I’m going to kill the fucking King, and men are going to be free.’
He had the most unlikely amorous urge towards her. He never thought of Bess as a woman – and now, suddenly, she smelled like a woman, and felt like a woman. I’m exhausted, he thought.
‘And women,’ she said. She turned, and he caught a little of the look in her eyes from the firelight and the background light. That look wasn’t sisterly, and so he had a moment’s warning when she wriggled and put her mouth on his.
Her mouth was salty and strong, like she was herself.
‘Oh, Bess,’ he said, because he wanted to tell her that he was the commander, and he had to be an example. And because his body was so sore – he could fall asleep in a few heartbeats . . .
. . . only his hands had other ideas – one swept under her back, and pressed against her spine, and the other found her stomach, as hard as his own. She caught his hand and carried it away – and he found it on a breast.
All thoughts of sleep fell away from him.
Nat Tyler stood a few yards away, and his hand clenched on his dagger.
‘So,’ he said.
Tapio Haltija sighed and let go the gentle bonding he had cast.
Men were so easy. And their females, as well. So many rules, so many customs – so eager to leave them all behind. Ultimately, they were creatures of the Wild. No different from stags, or beavers.
He called to his sword, and it came.
He set a healing on his feet and ankles. Only his foolish arrogance had allowed the poor boglins to get him. It was deeply ironic that these men had rescued him. The boglins should have bowed to him, and had not – and that was Thorn’s doing.
His hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword. It sang to him.
I could kill them all, he thought.
He leaned back, listening to the earth’s blood. Listening to the two animals make love. It was many years since he had been among men. Outwallers had a different taste. They embraced the Wild. Nature. These were still servants of other ways.
I can kill them whenever I like, he thought. Perhaps I’ll keep them as pets. Or as hunting dogs.
He reached out along the lines of the earth’s blood, and called for his knights.
Chapter Six
Liviapolis – Morgan Mortirmir
Morgan Mortirmir was days recovering from the fight. He slept and slept – slept the clock round, at one point. At another, he awoke to find the noblewoman – he had to admit she was a courtesan, perhaps merely a whore, but she didn’t look like any whore he’d ever met in Harndon, with her exotic make-up and pouting lips – was bent over him, rebandaging his shin where it was split open and bleeding merrily. He watched her hands moving with assurance, and wondered where she had learned to wrap bandages quite so well.
‘Are you planning to sleep here for ever?’ she asked him. She smiled. Her eyes were deliciously tilted. ‘I would like the bed back.’
‘Most courteously asked, fair friend,’ he said. After a pause, he realised he’d spoken in Alban, and he tried again, in High Archaic.
She smiled.
He rose carefully – he was wearing only a shirt, and it had to have been one of the Nordikan’s as it hung to Mortirmir’s knees. She stood close enough that he could smell the scent on her – a delicate, flowery scent with a bite at the end of it. She was wearing a deep burgundy overgown over a tight kirtle of pale green silk. At least it looked like silk to him.
He sighed. ‘Where is Messire Derkensun?’ he asked.
‘You have your wits under control, ser barbarian,’ she said. ‘I have not seen him these three days. Much has happened in the city.’ She sat on the bed. ‘I would like to be fed, but I have no money. I would like to stop being scared. I nursed you – I hope that you will now prove appreciative.’ She shrugged. ‘But men so seldom are.’
‘Your name, despoina?’ he asked. It is difficult to manage a courtly bow while you try to get your hose on. Hose were worn – at least in Harndon – separately, not joined the way they were worn in Galle. That meant getting one on, smoothing it up over the thigh, tying it to the waist band of his braes, buckling his garter . . .
He couldn’t find his garters.
‘Oh,’ she said, with complete falsity. ‘Those were yours? I liked them.’ She raised the hem of her gown, and showed him her knees – and his garters.
‘They – er – they become you much better. Than . . .’ He blushed, stammered, and came to a stop.
She laughed. ‘How old are you, ser? What is your name and style?’
He shrugged. ‘I’m sixteen, despoina, and I am called Morgan Mortirmir.’ He looked about. ‘Does Messire Derkensun have any leather lace? Or anything I can use as garters?’
She laughed. ‘Why not just ask for your own back?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘I’m an inexperienced boy,’ he said, ‘but I’m quite sure that would be ungallant of me.’
Instead of giggling, she looked at him with hard eyes. ‘Are you trying to bed me, ser? As a commercial matter, I could use the business, but I promise you that my Nordikan will think less of both of us for it.’
Mortirmir met her eye. This was the longest conversation he’d ever had with a woman not his mother – he felt he was doing well enough. ‘I had hoped that this was flirting,’ he said. ‘I’ve been told I need practice.’
‘Oh, as to flirting,’ she said, ‘I’m not be a good teacher, since at the end of the day I always say yes.’ She looked at him expectantly, and swung her legs a little, sitting on the bed, like a much younger girl.
Mortirmir found his doublet and got his arms into it. ‘And your name, despoina?’
‘I’m called Anna,’ she said. ‘By the handful of people who know my name.’ She got up from the bed and brushed her skirts. ‘Will you buy me a little food, ser knight?’
‘I’m not a knight yet. I’m too young,’ said Mortirmir. He realised that he’d taken her too literally, and he smiled. ‘I’d be delighted to feed you.’