Paul Kearney - The Mark of Ran

That was by the by. This night the ancient structure was nothing more than a grand place to hold a party, holding a frisson of half-remembered fear for the assembled guests, but not much more. Psellos had told Rol that even the most privileged of life’s travelers must feel fear, or what they think is fear, every now and again. No man is content with ease and leisure and plenty, even the most indulged libertine. Especially the most indulged libertine. Which was why some of them had paid a fool’s ransom to bed Rowen. Because she made them afraid.

I have come to understand many things since eating dried fish on board Gannet, Rol thought. But the knowledge of these things I would sooner do without.

He smiled and bobbed his head and shook hands with limp-wristed rich men, brushed his lips across the knuckles of their preening wives (many of whom eyed him with open lasciviousness) and wondered at the display of delighted interest that Psellos maintained in front of this endless stream of cattle.

The splendid windowed chamber Rol had only seen once before had been cleared of all its more grisly contents and now a massive U-shaped table had been assembled within, the closed end backing onto the windowed wall. It seated sixscore with ease, with room left over for extravagant table displays of flowers and silver and marching lines of silver candlesticks. Hearths were uncovered and lit along the straight wall and ornate hangings bright with gold leaf hung between them. Servants scurried hither and thither like dispatch riders on a battlefield, marshaled by the increasingly shrill cries of Quare. Dozens, scores of people milled around accepting dainties from proffered trays, savoring the most mellow of Psellos’s wines, running their eyes along the riches on display with some wonder and not a little envy. Rol found himself wondering how many of those present had bought and tasted his blood, or Rowen’s. Partaking of the monster. A small, bleak smile curled upon his face like a cat in a warm place. Then he caught Rowen’s eye, and her utter indifference wiped his face clean again.

He left the grand chamber, bowing to those who seemed self-important enough to justify it, and made his way down the Tower stairs to the kitchens. The brandy was singing in his veins, and the wine he had drunk on top of that had not helped the bright detachment of his mind. They would not be sitting down to eat for a long while yet, and he felt the need of some ballast in his belly.

The activity in the kitchen resembled that within a command post at the height of a major battle. Gibble-this would be his last Harvest Feast-was bellowing orders, consulting lists, clipping the kitchen scullions’ ears, and dipping his grubby finger into various bubbling pots, whilst all around him his subordinates were plucking, gutting, slicing, dicing, and mashing as though their lives depended upon it. There was one small island of calm, however. In the corner farthest from the fire a ragged man with a threadbare cap pushed back on his head sat eating and drinking nonchalantly at a small table. From the cap a single bedraggled feather dangled. Every so often one of the many extra serving-men and -women Psellos had hired for the night would come up to him and speak quietly in his ear. The ragged man would nod thoughtfully, as though filing away information for future use. He looked up as if he had felt the weight of Rol’s appraisal and his face split in a yellow smile. He waved Rol over.

“Well, if it’s not the apprentice. Sit, lad, take the weight off your boot-soles. You look as though you had seen a spirit. Have some wine-one glass will do us both, I’m sure.”

Rol did as he was bidden. He needed the wine. The King of Thieves tore the flesh from a drumstick and leaned back in his chair. His eyes were black with no discernible iris and his unshaven chin was shiny with grease. He looked Rol up and down casually, but Rol had the feeling that the black eyes noted every fold and thread of his clothing.

“I am called Canker. You know me, I think.”

“I know you.”

“Fine work, that little job you pulled off in our guildhouse. Even had Psellos not bought your life from us, I’d have been inclined to let you live out of sheer curiosity.”

“I-I never thought-” Rol stammered. “If I had known-”

“Yes, yes. That is all water down a drain now, though”-and here his avuncular manner wore thin-“it would not be wise to try such a stunt again. I have a reputation to think of, after all.”

Rol nodded and drank from the grease-rimmed glass.

“But you have made a very personal reparation, so we will let bygones be bygones, eh?” He saw Rol’s puzzled look, and chuckled. “Your blood, my boy. We’ve had quite a taste of it. It’s fitting enough-life for life, you might say.”

Rol’s stomach turned, and the wine seemed to curdle within it.

“We miss Rowen, though-that is a thoroughbred filly if ever there was one. Psellos has done his best over the past while, of course-he has promised a dark-haired little seamstress for tonight. I dare say she’s on her way to the waterfront already.”

Something in Rol’s eyes made the King of Thieves flinch and push back his chair. One dirt-blackened hand reached under his rags.

“Yes, Psellos is right. There’s a lot to be done with you yet. Hood those eyes, my lad, or someone will have them out.”

Rol rose slowly, hands clear of his sides. “Enjoy your meal,” he said to Canker, and backed away, the black stare fixed on him like that of a snake. Finally he turned and left the kitchen, ignoring Gibble’s wave, the maids and scullions making way for him as though his touch would burn them. In a way, he thought, it might.

Psellos had sat Rol on his left, Rowen on his right. The clothing of all three, though rich and beautifully worked, was an exercise in sable, a deliberate contrast to the plumaged finery of the guests. Before them the long arms of the U-shaped table ran out into a haze of candlelight and the gleam of silver and gold. A small army of waiters danced attendance on those present, making sure no glass was empty for long, and a succession of courses arrived with smooth efficiency. Venison, rare and red, wild boar, wildfowl of every description, and a cornucopia of fruit and root vegetables and sauceboats.

Rol’s left-hand neighbor was one of the council elders, and he kept leaning across him to talk to Psellos. Finally the Master introduced them. “Councillor Pachydon, allow me to present my-ah-protege, Rol of Dennifrey.”

“So this is him! He’s a trifle young, Psellos. Is he up to the job?” The councillor was a portly man with protuberant, bloodshot eyes which looked as though they were about to pop out of his head.

Psellos stared at Pachydon in icy silence. At last he said, “This is not the place to be discussing business, Councillor.”

“It was a fair question.”

“You will find that Rol is perfectly capable of providing complete satisfaction. Now, please, I think you will find that this next course begs your complete and undivided attention.”

Rol stared whitely at the Master. He was about to get up from the table when Psellos’s iron-hard grip pinched the nerve behind his knee. His lower leg went numb.

“Not now, my young friend, we have a show to put on,” Psellos murmured. “Remember your manners.”

“My turn to be pimped out now, is it?” Rol hissed.

“Shut your mouth, you young fool. I’ll talk to you when we rise from table and not before. Until then, keep a civil tongue in your head or remain a mute.”

A long night. There were speeches to sit through, praising the host and his hospitality. Some speakers were pious and invoked the gods; others were raucous and lewd with drink. Several young blades sent notes to Rowen via salver-bearing waiters. By the time the cloth had been drawn she had a little pile of them sitting beside her glass, all unread. Psellos swept them into his pocket.