The Vial
Christopher and Anya weaved in and out of the tents, their faces impassive, trying to blend in. One was full of roasting meat, another of card players, all of them armed with crossbows. Christopher listened closely as they walked past. Even here, they were talking about the bandits.
‘I heard the Astorians looted the Augean palace and stables yesterday,’ said a man. He had an eyeball tattooed on his forehead.
‘And razed a bunch of houses on Leoma,’ said another, who had a dagger etched beneath one eye. ‘An’ slaughtered a Lernaean hydra: found dead and headless on the mudflats.’
‘I’d like to get my hands on ’em,’ said the first man.
‘I wouldn’t, love,’ said the second. ‘You not heard about that tiger?’
‘Come on,’ said Anya. She did not seem to want to hear again about the tiger.
In the largest tent a stage had been set up.
A band was playing, and a singing of extraordinary depth and clarity filled the room.
The musicians were all centaurs but the young woman singing was human.
She was tall and muscular, clad in white silk leggings and tunic, and leather arm-guards wrapped in contrasting silk.
An old woman watching the singer nudged Christopher. ‘You like her? That’s Skadi Finnesse. Half Berserker. Vigo’s chief pickpocket. Every jewel you see on her she nicked.’
‘But she’s got flair,’ said the man next to her.
‘Bet she nicked that too,’ said the woman.
‘When Skadi sings, everyone stops,’ said the man. ‘I should know, I’ve heard a lot of singers. She’s got a voice like woodsmoke on wheels. She can summon up the moon in the middle of a spit-and-sawdust saloon. I’ve seen it. Hard men think of their mothers and weep.’
‘And as she walks back through the crowd to the bar she’ll steal the gold from your pocket and the watch from your wrist,’ said the woman. ‘Let me tell you, lad: you can’t guess much from looking at a person, nor from hearing them sing.’
Ratwin came lolloping over to them. ‘I’ve checkeds the crowds. Vigo’s not here. We’d best split ups. Mes with you, Christopher, Jacques with the ex-princess.’
‘Right,’ said Christopher, and they moved towards a tent on the dark outskirts of the camp. Cheering was coming from within. No fairies hovered overhead. He looked in, then jolted back.
Two al-mirajes, both mad with fear, were fighting a kludde, their golden horns jabbing against the dog’s face. A man in black was commentating. ‘It’s not looking good for the miraj, kludde’s getting angry, final bets at thirty to one …’
Christopher had read about cockfighting, about bear-baiting, but this was worse. The al-mirajes were screaming now. As Christopher watched, a poor gold body was snatched up in the dog’s jaws. The spectators laughed, mouths open wide. Money changed hands.
Ratwin spoke from his shoulder. Her voice was serious. ‘They is not generous peoples, you sees. Vigo Nex is himself a rogues and a criminal, and I thinks a killer. But some of the peoples he welcomes is true dark. It is best not to buy up the glamours the vagabonds is selling.’
‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Christopher, disgusted.
A hand fell on his shoulder, and a guttural voice spoke. ‘Goin’ so soon, lad? Seems to me you only jus’ got here.’
Vigo Nex, dressed in silks, a goblet of whisky in one hand, bared his glinting tooth at Christopher in what might, in some circles, pass for a smile. Around his waist was the golden belt.
‘Isn’ the Berserker with you?’
Christopher was grateful for the dark. It hid his expression as he looked at the man. ‘No. He said to send his apologies.’
‘Ach, jus’ as well. It’s like makin’ conversation wi’ a coffee grinder. But you didna sound like you were enjoyin’ my fighting tent?’
He sounded suddenly dangerous. Christopher only looked at him in silence.
‘You disapprove, mebbe?’ said Vigo. ‘I should warn yer, lad, disapproval’s a dangerous thing to waft around Vigo Nex. I find it very borin’, an’ when I’m bored, I ge’ a little … edgy.’ His thumb caressed his knife. ‘Come with me.’
He led Christopher towards the lake. The bonfires were high, surrounded by dancing revellers, and next to them was set a throne and a table.
Vigo sat down on the throne. Christopher watched, his eyes on Vigo’s goblet.
If he had the vial, he could slip in the sleeping draught.
But Anya had it, and she was nowhere to be seen.
Vigo, watching the wild cavorting of his pirates, rolled his lip. ‘Ach, I been to cremations wi’ more pleasure in them.’ He looked suddenly hard at Christopher. ‘Entertain me, boy.’
‘What? Entertain you? How?’
Vigo reached out and seized Christopher’s chin in his hand.
‘Las’ week I met a wee frog prince who wore a crown.
I had hopes for him, but all his conversation was coronations an’ lily pads.
He bored me, lad, an’ so I ate his legs for dinner.
Don’ let me get bored.’ He squeezed on Christopher’s neck, then released him. ‘Wha’s yer talent?’
‘I don’t do party tricks.’
‘Think o’ somethin’, or go the same way as the frog prince.’
‘I …’ he said. ‘Creatures like me.’
A nearby pirate snorted with laughter. ‘Did you hear that? The kitty-cats like the little boy.’
Vigo glared at him. He took a great swig of his whisky. ‘I’d try ter do better than tha’, lad, and quickly.’
‘I can summon birds from the sky.’ As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wished them back.
Vigo, though, sent up a roar. ‘Ladies and gentlemen! Vagabonds and scum! Gather round! The boy is goin’ to perform a wee miracle for us! An’ if he fails, we’ll shove him in the pen wi’ the kludde!’
Christopher stared at him.
‘Always raise the stakes, lad, tha’s my motto. Sin big or go home.’ Then to the assembled crowd, ‘What’re you waitin’ for? Make a circle for the boy!’
There was jostling as a wide circle was drawn in the sand and Christopher was shoved bodily to stand alone in it. Hundreds of eyes were on him.
‘I …’ he said.
And then a spark of elation rose in him, because there was Anya. She had heard Vigo’s bellowing and was moving through the crowd towards him. If he could hold Vigo’s attention for just a minute or two, she might be able to get the vial into his drink.
‘Summon the birdies, boy!’ said Vigo. ‘Or face the kludde.’
There was the cluster of silvery hercinia birds in the winged tree above. Christopher whistled. The birds looked at him with expressions that made him feel he might just as well have been wearing underpants and a large hat.
Christopher closed his eyes. He thought of Naravirala’s words. This was not selfish, nor a game – this was deadly serious. He tried to clear his mind, to make space for light to come.
He opened his eyes and gave a low, soft whistle. One of the bird’s heads went up, and he met its silvery eyes. He whistled again. One – and then two – swept down from the tree and came to land in front of him. He held out an arm, and one landed on him.
And it came: the flash, the feeling of being struck – and with it, green-gold threads of light, spinning out between Christopher and each bird. The dizziness came too, but he was ready for it; he moved with it, backwards and sideways, sending out his friendship, his urgent need, along the threads.
And suddenly the whole flock, a silver sparking chorus, was spinning about the crowd’s heads.
Tentatively he pictured behind his eyes an image of a star – and then he gave a yell of delight as the birds took hold of it; in unison they swept upwards into the shape of a star, their silver wings glinting.
Anya was behind Vigo now. He could see her unstopping the vial.
A centaur trumpeter began to play, and the birds moved as if in time to it: a thing of sweeping, luminous beauty.
Anya dropped the liquid into Vigo’s drink. She flashed Christopher a thumbs up.
He tried to keep his face unmoved but his heart was roaring.
The moon was bright, and the birds swept about his head.
He sent another request, a picture in his mind’s eye of a row of birds soaring upwards in an arrow – and they gave shrill confident calls and went sweeping up into the sky like a perfect shaft of silver.
The feeling was extraordinary, a euphoric glee. It felt like he was flying.
He laughed, wild, and turned to Vigo to bow.
‘Not bad, lad! Not entirely disappointin’!’ Vigo swept up his hands to applaud and knocked the goblet to the ground. The liquid melted away into the sand.