Enemies Whose Company I Enjoy
And then, at last, it was time. At nightfall Christopher and Anya moved, side by side, through the Great Hall, down the corridor to the ballroom, and out on to the lawn beyond.
Anya wore a floor-length yellow silk dress, her hair plaited and threaded with yellow to match.
Koo, the young gagana bird, fluttered after her and came to rest on her right shoulder.
The new feathers on his head stuck up like a black party hat into the air.
There they stopped, and Anya jerked her head in awe: once to the left and diagonally down. Koo copied her. Anya spoke both English and Gaganan, a bird-language of gestures and head-flicks.
‘What did you say?’ asked Christopher.
‘Swearing but complimentary,’ she said.
And that, thought Christopher, seemed fair.
The lawn was hung with salamandric lights that shone in red and yellow, and it was crowded with guests.
There were perhaps a hundred people, some in black scholars’ gowns, some in rustling silk dresses that swept the grass.
There were dryads, all of them breathtaking in their brown beauty, and a clan of naiads, naked river-spirits, their bluish skin gleaming in the setting sun.
And everywhere Christopher looked there were the creatures; the borometzes had been given ribbons around their woolly necks and the al-mirajes shone gold.
Toro the roc drank at the fountain, and the young longma, whose left wing was stronger than its right, flew lopsidedly across the lawn to join it.
‘Where’re Irian and Nighthand?’ said Anya.
But as she spoke, the answer – or half of it – came barrelling towards them, beaming, carrying two glasses of sparkling liquid. Nighthand always moved, even when not in a hurry, as if there might be an emergency somewhere. Ratwin perched on his shoulder.
‘Have a drink.’ He offered them the glasses. Christopher refused, but Anya accepted one, took a gulp, and spat it on to the lawn.
‘What is that?’
‘Berserker punch. Secret ingredients. Puts hair on your chest. Indeed, hair is one of the ingredients. Come and meet some people. The vast majority are Irian’s friends. I have very few friends myself, but I do have some enemies whose company I enjoy.’
His gaze scanned the crowd. Then he stiffened.
A tall figure was striding on to the lawn, turning heads as he moved.
He was as wiry as Nighthand was broad, and clad in exquisitely fitted black silk which nonetheless managed to look faintly stolen.
His belt – three golden discs of fine metalwork – clanked at his waist, and he had rings on every finger.
‘Vigo Nex,’ said Nighthand.
‘Anya,’ hissed Ratwin. ‘Hides that necklace unders your dress, quicks.’
Startled, Anya tucked away the loquillan she always wore. ‘Why?’ she said.
‘You’ll sees.’
‘Nighthand!’ The man lifted a single beringed finger in greeting. A second man, hugely muscular and blond, with skin the colour of unbrushed teeth, followed behind. He carried a crossbow.
‘I didn’t expect to see you, Vigo,’ said Nighthand. ‘Largely because you weren’t invited. And last time we met you tried to kill me.’
‘I like to assume there’s no such thing as a party I’m no’ invited to,’ said Vigo.
He lifted two glasses of dryad wine from a waiter’s tray.
‘I need ter talk to you, Nighthand.’ He downed one of the glasses and threw it over his shoulder.
There was a cry behind him as a distinguished professor received an unexpected faceful of champagne flute.
‘Alone.’ And he looked pointedly at Christopher and Anya. ‘Not for the ears of kiddies.’
‘No,’ said Nighthand. ‘These two have seen and heard enough to be trusted with anything. This is Christopher Forrester, from the Outerlands. The mermaids sing songs of him – perhaps you have heard them? And this is Anya Argen, former Princess of Dousha.’
‘Ah. I’ve heard of yer, lad.’ Vigo Nex’s eyes, outlined in charcoal black, flicked from Christopher’s dark hair to his boots and back again.
He felt the man’s gaze linger on the mark high on his cheekbone, shaped like a miniature apple.
The gold belt clinked around Vigo’s middle as he swallowed the second glass.
‘You ever had a fancy fer the pirate life? I’m not recruitin’, but I’d mebbe make an exception for you. ’
‘No,’ said Christopher shortly. ‘I haven’t.’
Jacques came to land on Christopher’s wrist. In honour of Midsummer he had tucked a poison snapdragon flower jauntily behind his ear. ‘Who is this? Do you need him immolated?’
‘By th’Immortal!’ said Vigo. ‘Wha’s that?’
‘A dragon,’ said Christopher. ‘Obviously.’
‘A great and mighty jaculus dragon,’ said Anya. She was glaring at Vigo. She and Jacques looked, Christopher thought, very similar. She had the mouth of someone always ready to laugh or to fight.
‘I’d no’ known you got dragons in little bite-sized portions,’ said Vigo. There was a glint of desire in his eyes. ‘I’ll buy him, Nighthand. A thousand bullions.’
‘Say that again, sir,’ said Jacques, ‘and I shall burn you to ashes.’
This, Christopher knew, was a lie. Jacques’s fire required him to eat a leaf of the rascovnic plant every week.
Argus Argen grew it in the greenhouse, but it was a difficult plant, and there had been none for the last month.
A few seedlings were just breaking through the earth, but they would not mature for weeks.
For now, Jacques had no fire, and it left him vulnerable and nervy.
‘What was it you came to tell me, Vigo?’ said Nighthand.
The man at Vigo’s side moved half an inch towards him, and Vigo turned. ‘Leave, Rixo. Go mingle, waft the deligh’ of yer scintillating personality around.’
Rixo scowled and slouched away. ‘Dumb as dirt,’ said Vigo. ‘If yer put his own foot on a dinner plate, he’d eat it. Bu’ he’s murder with that crossbow, an’ after wha’ I saw, I’m not movin’ without a bodyguard. There’s evil been set loose in Glimouria.’
‘Evil?’ Nighthand’s face was suddenly serious. ‘That’s a strong word from you, Vigo.’
Vigo glanced behind him. ‘This don’ get traced back ter me, yer hear?
’ Nighthand nodded. ‘I saw a crew o’ bandits burn a village to the ground.
Now, I’ve burned a lot o’ villages: I’ve go’ a talent for it.
This was different. They had no mercy.’ And swiftly, the pirate told the Berserker what he had seen: the masked men, the unholy terror of the Tiger in the Mirror.
‘They wore the same bracelet, all o’ them: an ouroboros – a snake with its tail in its mouth.’
Christopher listened, and the glorious evening felt suddenly colder.
‘Pass on the word, Nighthand. The Flyin’ Senate should know, but I’m not goin’ ter be the one to tell.’
Nighthand nodded. ‘The Senate arrives in Lithia in three days. I will go then.’
‘An’ take measures to defend this place. Yer security’s very lax – I sailed straigh’ in. You should be grateful I’ve such an honest soul.’ Then, abruptly, Vigo changed the subject. ‘Nice little palace you go’ here, Nighthand.’
‘Thank you.’ Nighthand did not smile. ‘I love the view.’
‘Ach, I hate views. Too hard to steal. But that old pile mus’ be full o’ treasures.’ His hand drifted to the knife at his side.
‘I’m no longer in the treasure business, Vigo,’ said Nighthand. Christopher saw the Berserker’s own hand float to the glamry blade at his waist. ‘You’re welcome to stay for the feast. But know that I’ll be keeping watch.’
‘Aye, watch me. I’m going to go dance.’ Vigo Nex strode away, his gold belt jangling.
He called over his shoulder: ‘Great party, Nighthand. Reminds me o’ my great-aunt’s funeral.
’ And then, looking hard at Christopher: ‘Come see me in Freondell, lad. I’ve a party on Friday: a Pirate Hectic.
I’ll show you wha’ a good time really looks like. ’
Nighthand gave a snort, the kind of snort in which a great many words were implied, none of them printable.
‘You have just met the least trustworthy man in the Archipelago.’
‘He seemed a real sweetheart,’ said Christopher.
‘If you shake his hand, you count your fingers afterwards,’ said Nighthand. ‘But if something has worried Vigo Nex enough to make him come to me, it’s worth worrying about. I’ve heard bad stories in the last few weeks. This confirms them.’
‘He wasn’t just worried,’ said Anya. ‘He was scared. I saw his eyes when he was talking about the tiger.’
‘We should tell Irian,’ said Christopher.
‘No,’ said Nighthand. ‘Don’t ruin her night. We will tell her after the feast. It’s Midsummer! We will celebrate!’
‘Where is Irian?’ said Christopher.
Nighthand pretended to look around him, shielding his eyes with one hand. He did it so fantastically unconvincingly that Christopher realised that at no point tonight had Fidens Nighthand not known where Irian Guinne was.
‘Ah! I see her, at last and after much endeavour!’
She was at the centre of an eager throng, dressed in a dark blue gown, her black braids wound around her head like a coronet. They had streaks of silver in them, for she had nereid blood. The elderly professor was trying to attract her attention, a small bunch of flowers in hand.
‘Shall we go and check that she is enjoying herself?’ said Nighthand. He crossed to her so fast he nearly trampled a borometz underfoot. They spoke, his head bent to hers. And then he smiled, and turned to the company with a roar. ‘To Midsummer table!’