Читать книгу A Song for Arbonne - Guy Gavriel Kay - Страница 15

Walking briskly through the crowded streets, calling cheerful replies to people she knew and to some she didn’t, Lisseut was reminded over and again why the Midsummer Carnival in Tavernel was her favourite time of the year. Colours and crowds and light, the knowledge of a season’s touring ended with time before another began, the hinge and axis of the year. Midsummer was a time between times, a space in the round of the year where all seemed in suspension, when anything might happen or be allowed. After nightfall, she thought, that would certainly be true in a variety of ways.

A masked figure clad in green and bright yellow sprang in front of her, arms outspread; in a mock growl that clashed with his birdlike costume he demanded an embrace as passersby laughed. Sidestepping neatly, Lisseut pirouetted out of his grasp. ‘Bad luck to kiss a singer before sundown!’ she called over her shoulder. She’d made that one up two years back; it seemed to work. And by sundown she was usually with friends and so shielded from anyone coming to assert a deferred claim.

Not that the claims would ever be a serious problem. Not here, and not for her—too many people knew who she was by now, and even among the wildest of the students, the joglars and troubadours had an exalted status in Tavernel, even more so during Carnival. It was a debauched season, but one with its hierarchies and rules nonetheless.

As she crossed Temple Square, where the silver domes of Rian’s principal shrine faced the square, golden towers of Corannos’s, the south breeze brought her an almost forgotten tang of salt from the port. Lisseut smiled, glad to be back by the sea after a long winter and spring touring inland and in the mountains. Reaching the far side of the square, she was suddenly overwhelmed by the smells of cooking food and remembered that she hadn’t eaten since midday on the road. Easy enough to forget to eat in haste to be in town, knowing how many friends she’d not seen for a year would be arriving that day and the next. But the smells reminded her that she was ravenous. She nipped into a cookshop and emerged a moment later chewing on a leg of fried chicken, careful to keep the dripping grease from staining her new tunic.

The tunic was a present to herself after a very successful spring in the eastern hills, her best tour yet by far. First at the goddess’s own temple for a fortnight, and then at lofty Ravenc Castle, where Gaufroy de Ravenc had been more than generous to her and to Alain of Rousset, the troubadour with whom she’d teamed up that season. She’d even had untroubled nights there in a room all to herself with a wonderfully soft bed, since En Gaufroy evidently preferred Alain’s charms to her own. Which was fine with Lisseut; Alain’s clever verses, her own singing and whatever took place in the lord’s chambers at night had led Gaufroy into a humour of exceptional largesse when it came time for the two of them to leave.

When she’d briefly parted with Alain at Rousset town a few days after—he was planning to spend some time with his family before coming down to Tavernel, and she was committed to a performance at Corannos’s shrine near Gavela—he was highly complimentary about her work and invited her to join him on the same circuit in a year’s time. He was an easy man to work for and Lisseut found his songs well-crafted if less than inspired; she had had no hesitation about agreeing. A few of the other troubadours might offer richer, more challenging material for a joglar—Jourdain, Aurelian, certainly Remy of Orreze—but there was much to be said for Alain’s relaxed congeniality, and something also to be said for the bonus his night-time skills offered with the priests and lords at certain temples and castles. Lisseut considered herself honoured to have been asked; it was her first repeat contract after three years on the roads, and the joglars of Arbonne fought and schemed for such offers from the better-known troubadours. She and Alain were to seal the agreement at the Guildhall before Carnival ended. A great many contracts would be negotiated and sealed this week; it was one of the reasons virtually all the musicians made a point of being there.

There were other reasons, of course; Carnival was sacred to Rian, as all Midsummer’s rites were, and the goddess was patroness and guardian of all music in Arbonne, and so of all the itinerant performers who crossed back and forth along the dusty roads singing songs and shaping them in the name of love. One came to Tavernel at Midsummer at least as much in homage to Rian as for anything else.

That said, it had to be conceded that Carnival was also the wildest, least inhibited, most enjoyable time of the year for anyone not in mourning, or incapacitated, or dead.

Lisseut finished her chicken leg, paused to wipe her hands with elaborate fastidiousness on the apron of a portly, grinning fruit seller, and bought an orange from him. She rubbed it quickly on his crotch for luck, drawing ribald laughter from the crowd and a groan of mock desire from the man. Laughing herself, feeling glad to be alive and young and a singer in Arbonne in summer-time, Lisseut continued down towards the harbour and then right at the first crossing lane and saw the familiar, much-loved sign of The Liensenne swinging above the street.

As always, it felt like coming home. Home was really Vezét, of course, on the coast further east with the famous olive groves climbing up behind it, but this, the original ‘Tavern in Tavernel’ for which Anselme of Cauvas had written his song years and years ago, was a kind of second home for all the musicians of Arbonne. Marotte, the proprietor, had served as a surrogate father and confidant for half the younger joglars and poets in his day, including Lisseut herself when she had first said goodbye to her parents and her home and followed her troubadour uncle onto the road, trusting in her voice and music to feed her and her mother-wits to keep her alive. Less than four years ago, that was. It seemed a much longer time. Grinning, she jauntily tipped her feathered hat to the lute-playing figure on the signboard—it was said to be a rendition of Folquet de Barbentain, the original troubadour-count himself—nodded back at a broad wink from one man amongst a crowd of half a dozen playing pitch-coin outside the door and stepped inside.

She knew her mistake the instant she did so.

Knew it even before Remy’s exultant, skirling howl of triumph assaulted her ears over the din, even before Aurelian, standing next to Remy, intoned ‘Nine!’ in a voice deep as doom, even before she saw the flushed hilarious crowd of musicians holding a dripping, moustachioed, furiously expostulating Arimondan upside-down over the accursed basin of water, preparing to dunk him again. Even before the covey of coin-pitchers outside pushed quickly in right behind her, cackling in glee.

She knew this tradition, in Rian’s holy name! What had she been thinking of? She’d even nodded like a fatuous bumpkin at the people gathered outside waiting for the ritual ninth to enter, thus making it safe for them to follow. Friendly, simple-minded Lisseut, nodding happily on her way to a ducking only the ignorant were supposed to receive.

And now Remy, looking quite unfairly magnificent, bright hair in ringlets on his forehead, damp with perspiration, blue eyes positively glittering with hilarity, was swiftly approaching, followed by Aurelian and Jourdain and Dumars and even—oh the perfidy of it all!—the laughing figure of Alain, her erstwhile partner, along with fully half a dozen others, including Elisse of Cauvas, who was enjoying this unexpected development quite as much as she might be expected to. Lisseut registered Elisse’s mocking smile and furiously cursed her own stupidity again. She looked around frantically for an ally, spotted Marotte behind the bar and pitched a plea for help at the top of her highly regarded voice.

Grinning from ear to ear, her surrogate father shook his head. No help there. Not at Midsummer in Tavernel. Quickly, Lisseut turned back to Remy, smiling in her most endearingly winsome fashion.

‘Hello, my dear,’ she began sweetly. ‘And how have you been this—’

She got no further than that. Moving as gracefully as ever, Remy of Orreze, her former lover—every woman’s former lover, someone had once said, though not bitterly—slipped neatly under her instinctive, warding gesture, put a shoulder to her midriff and had her hoisted in the air before Lisseut could even try to phrase some remotely plausible reason why she should be exonerated from the water-ducking. A dozen pairs of hands, both before and behind, hastened to assist him in bearing her aloft like some sacrifice of the Ancients towards the ducking basin by the bar.

Every year! Lisseut was thinking, grasped too tightly to even struggle. We do this every cursed year! Where was my brain just now?

In the chaos around her she noticed that Aurelian had already turned back to the door to resume his counting. Remy had her around the waist from below and was tickling now, which was inexcusable, given what he ought to have remembered about her. Cursing, giggling helplessly, Lisseut felt her flailing elbow crack into something and was unconscionably pleased a second later to note that it was Elisse who staggered back, swearing like a soldier herself and holding a hand to the side of her head. Holy Rian must have guided her elbow; there was no one else in the room she would actually have wanted to hit! Well, with the exception of Remy, perhaps. She frequently wanted to hit Remy of Orreze. Many of them did, when they weren’t listening intently to some favoured joglar singing his newest song.

Lisseut saw the basin loom beneath her. She felt herself being swung completely upside-down. Her feathered hat, which was also new, and expensive, flew from her head undoubtedly to be crushed underfoot amid the densely packed, raucously shouting crowd. Through the arc of a swiftly inverting world she glimpsed her dripping-wet Arimondan predecessor being unceremoniously bundled aside. Dragging a quick breath of tavern air into her lungs, still cursing herself for a dewy-eyed fool, Lisseut closed her eyes tightly as they swung her down into the water.

It wasn’t water.

‘Marotte!’ she cried, spluttering and gasping when they finally lifted her out. ‘Marotte, do you know what he’s done! This isn’t—’

‘Down!’ Remy commanded, cackling uproariously. Lisseut frantically sucked air again just before she was once more submerged.

They held her under for a long time. When she finally surfaced, it took all her strength to twist her neck towards the bar and croak, ‘It’s wine, Marotte! Cauvas sparkling! He’s using—’

‘Down!’ Remy shrieked again, but not before Lisseut heard a howl of outrage from Marotte.

‘What? Cauvas? Remy, I’ll flay you alive! Are you dunking people in my best—?’

Pushed back under, her ears stopped, Lisseut heard no more, but a small, inner glint of satisfaction made the last ducking easier to endure. She even took a quick swig of the wine before they pulled her out for the third and final time. Cauvas sparkling gold was not something young joglars tasted very often, even conceding that being dunked head first into a basin of it after an oiled and perfumed Arimondan was not the connoisseur’s preferred mode of consumption.

They swung her out and righted her in time for Lisseut to see a red-faced Marotte confronting Remy across the bar top.

‘Carnival tithe, Marotte!’ the fair-haired darling of the troubadours was saying, eyes alight with mischief. ‘You’ll make more than enough off all of us this week to cover the cost.’

‘You madman, this is a sacrilege!’ Marotte expostulated, looking as truly outraged as only a lover of fine wines could. ‘Do you know what Cauvas wine costs? And how many bottles you’ve wasted in there? How in the name of Rian did you get into my cellars?’

‘Really, Marotte,’ Remy retorted with lofty, exaggerated disdain, ‘did you really expect a padlock to keep me out?’ A number of people laughed.

‘Seven!’ Aurelian said crisply, his low voice cutting through the hilarity in the room. Everyone—including Lisseut, vigorously drying her face and hair with the towel one of the servers had kindly offered—turned expectantly towards the door. A young, red-headed student came in, blinked a little at the scrutiny he was subjected to and made his way uncertainly towards the bar. He ordered a flagon of ale. No one paid him any attention. They were watching the entrance.

They didn’t have long to wait. The eighth person in was a broad-shouldered, competent-looking coran of middle years. As it happened, a number of those in the tavern knew him very well, including Lisseut. But before she had a chance to properly register and react to the enormity of what was about to happen the next man, the ninth, had already passed through the door.

‘Oh, dearest god!’ Marotte the innkeeper murmured, in an entirely uncharacteristic appeal to Corannos. In the abrupt silence his voice sounded very loud.

The ninth was Duke Bertran de Talair.

‘Nine,’ said Aurelian, an unnecessary confirmation. His voice was hushed, almost reverential. He turned to Remy. ‘But I really don’t think …’ he began.

Remy of Orreze was already moving forward, his handsome face shining, a wild, hilarious look in the blue eyes beneath the damp ringlets of his hair.

‘Hoist him!’ he cried. ‘We all know the rules—the ninth is ducked in Rian’s name! Seize the duke of Talair!’

Valery, the coran, Bertran’s cousin and old friend, actually stepped aside, grinning broadly as he sized up the situation. The duke himself, beginning to laugh, held up both hands to forestall the swiftly approaching Remy. Jourdain, very drunk already, was right behind Remy, with Alain and Elisse and a handful of others following a little more cautiously. Lisseut, mouth open in disbelief, realized in that moment that Remy was actually going to do it: he was about to lay hands on one of the most powerful men in Arbonne in order to dunk him in a tub of water. Correction, she thought, a tub of vintage, insanely expensive sparkling Cauvas wine. Remy—mad, cursed, blessed, impossible Remy—was going to do it.

He would have, if another man, clad in the blue-on-blue colours of Talair but with a full, reddish-brown beard and features that stamped him unmistakably as from Gorhaut, had not stepped forward from the doorway behind Bertran just then and levelled a drawn blade at Remy’s breast.

Remy’s reckless, giddy motion was carrying him forward over the slippery floor too swiftly to stop. From her place by the basin, Lisseut, hands flying to her mouth, saw the whole thing clearly. Bertran quickly spoke a name, but even before he did the man with the sword had shifted it aside. Not all the way, though, just enough for the tip to glance off Remy’s left arm and away.

It drew blood. The man had meant to draw blood, Lisseut was almost certain of it. She saw her former lover come to an awkward, stumbling halt and clutch at his arm below the shoulder. His hand came away streaked with crimson. She couldn’t see his expression, but it was easy enough to guess. There was a collective growl of anger from the musicians and students gathered in The Liensenne. The rule against drawn blades in taverns was as old as the university; indeed, it was one of the things that had permitted the university to survive. And Remy of Orreze, for all his impossible ways, was one of them. One of their leaders, in fact, and the big man who had just bloodied him with a blade was from Gorhaut.

In that tense moment, with the scene in the tavern on the brink of turning ugly, Bertran de Talair laughed aloud.

‘Really, Remy,’ he said, ‘I don’t think that would have been a good idea, much as Valery might have enjoyed suspending his own good judgment long enough to see me ducked.’ He flicked a sidelong glance at his cousin who, surprisingly, flushed. The bearded man with the drawn sword had not yet sheathed it. Now he did, at a nod from de Talair.

‘I think Aurelian might have been trying to tell you as much,’ En Bertran went on. Lanky, dark-haired Aurelian had indeed remained by the bar, not far from Lisseut. He said nothing, watching the scene with sober, careful attention.

‘You know the rules of Carnival,’ Remy said stoutly, his head high. ‘And your hired northern lout has just broken the city laws of Tavernel. Shall I report him to the seneschal?’

‘Probably,’ Bertran said carelessly. ‘Report me as well. I should have told Blaise about the sword laws before we came. Report us both, Remy.’

Remy gave a hollow laugh. ‘Much good that would do, me sending the duke of Talair to justice.’ He paused, breathing hard, ‘Bertran, you’re going to have to decide one day: are you one of us, or are you a duke of Arbonne. By all rights you should be upside-down now over that basin, and you know it.’

Genuinely amused, ignoring the presumption of Remy’s using his name without a title, de Talair laughed again. ‘You should never have left your studies, my dear. A little more Rhetoric would have done you a world of good. That is as false a dichotomy as ever I’ve heard.’

Remy shook his head. ‘This is the real world, no scholar’s cloudland of dreams. In the real world choices have to be made.’

Lisseut saw the duke’s amused expression change then, and even at a distance she was chilled by what succeeded it. It was as if de Talair’s tolerance had just been taken past some breaking point.

‘And are you now going to tell me,’ he said coldly to Remy of Orreze, ‘how things operate in the real world? Are you, Remy? With two Arimondans here that I can see and a table from Portezza, none of whom I know, and a Götzlander at the bar, and the goddess knows how many others upstairs in Marotte’s bedrooms … you are going to tell me that in the real world, as you choose to conceive of it, a duke of Arbonne should have let himself be dunked in a barrel of water just now? I can tolerate insolence sometimes, but I’m afraid I can’t indulge it. Think, lad. Sober up a little and use your brain.’

‘It isn’t water,’ someone said. Uneasy laughter slid through the grim stillness that had followed the duke’s words. Lisseut could see a crimson flush on the back of Remy’s neck. She looked over at Aurelian; he was gazing back at her. They exchanged a glance of shared apprehension and concern.

‘He filled the basin with Cauvas gold, my lord,’ Marotte added, bustling busily out from behind the bar now, striving to lighten the mood. ‘If you want him bloodied again I’ll be pleased to volunteer.’

‘A whole basin of Cauvas?’ En Bertran was smiling again, helping the innkeeper. ‘If that is true I may have been too hasty. Perhaps I should let myself be ducked!’ There was a gust of relieved laughter; Lisseut found herself breathing more easily. ‘Come on, Remy,’ the Duke added, ‘let me buy us a bottle while Blaise takes care of that arm he cut.’

‘Thank you, no,’ said Remy with stiff pride. Lisseut knew all about that pride; she shook her head in exasperation. ‘I’ll look after it myself.’ He paused. ‘And as it happens, I prefer drinking with other musicians during Carnival, not dukes of Arbonne.’

His head high, he turned his back on Bertran and walked across the room and through the door beside the bar towards the chambers at the rear of the inn. He went past Lisseut without even acknowledging her presence. A moment later, Aurelian offered Bertran an apologetic grimace, shrugged at Lisseut and followed Remy out, pausing to collect a pitcher of water and clean towels from Marotte.

It was all very interesting, Lisseut thought. Ten minutes before, Remy of Orreze had been utterly in command of this room, a man in his element, shaping the mood of a late afternoon at Carnival. Now he suddenly seemed to be no more than a young inebriate, his last words sounding childish more than anything else, for all the proud dignity of his exit. He would know it, too, she realized, which probably accounted for the aggrieved tone she’d heard creeping into his voice at the end.

She actually felt sorry for him, and not because of the wound, which didn’t appear to be serious. She was fully aware of how much Remy would hate knowing she felt that way. Smiling inwardly, Lisseut happily resolved to make a point of telling him later—a first measure of retaliation for her ruined tunic and trampled hat. Remy’s art might demand respect and admiration, and his manic humour and inventiveness had shaped memorable nights for all of them, but that didn’t mean there was no room for the taking of small revenges.

Looking over towards the duke, Lisseut saw the bearded Gorhaut coran glancing about the crowded room of musicians with an undisguised look of disdain on his face. She was suddenly sorry he’d been the one to wound Remy. No one should be allowed to draw a blade against a troubadour in this tavern and then wear an expression like that afterwards; particularly not a stranger, and most particularly not one from Gorhaut. Until the sun dies and the moons fall, Gorhaut and Arbonne shall not lie easily beside each other. Her grandfather used to say that, and her father had continued to use the phrase, often after returning from the Autumn Fair in Lussan with whatever profit he’d made from his olives and olive oil, trading with the northerners.

Lisseut, her anger rising, stared at the big coran from the north, wishing someone in the room would say something to him. He looked insufferably smug, gazing down on them all from his great height. Only Aurelian was as tall a man, but Aurelian had gone with Remy, and the lean musician, for all his unassuming brilliance, would not have been the man to face down this one. With a quick shrug that was more characteristic than she knew, Lisseut stepped forward herself.

‘You are arrogant,’ she said to the northerner, ‘and have no business looking so pleased with yourself. If your liege lord will not tell you as much, one of us will have to: the man you injured may have been frivolous just now in a Carnival mood, but he is twice the man you are, with or without an illegal blade, and he will be remembered in this world long after you are dust and forgotten.’

The mercenary—Blaise, the duke had called him—blinked in surprise. Up close he seemed younger than she’d first guessed, and there was actually a slightly different look in his eyes than Lisseut had thought she’d seen from by the bar. She wasn’t certain what name to put to it, but it wasn’t precisely haughtiness. Bertran de Talair was grinning, and so, unexpectedly, was Valery. Lisseut, registering their glances, was abruptly reminded that she was dripping wet from tangled hair to waist, and her new blouse was probably a dreadful sight and clinging to her much more closely that it should, in all decency. She felt herself flushing, and hoped it would be seen as anger.

‘And there you have it, Blaise,’ the duke was saying. ‘Dust and forgotten. And more proof for you—if ever you needed it—of how terrible our women are, especially after they’ve been held upside-down. What would happen to this one back in Gorhaut? Do tell us.’

For a long time the bearded coran was silent, looking down at Lisseut. His eyes were a curious hazel colour, nearly green in the lamplight. Almost reluctantly, but quite clearly, he said, ‘For speaking so to an anointed coran of the god in a public place she would be stripped to the waist and whipped on her belly and back by officers of the king. After, if she survived, the man so insulted would be entitled to do whatever he wanted with her. Her husband, if she had one, would be free to divorce her with no consequences at law or in the eyes of the clergy of Corannos.’

The silence that followed was frigid. There was something deathly in it, like ice in the far north, infinitely removed from the mood of Carnival. Until the sun dies and the moons fall…

Lisseut suddenly felt faint, her knees trembled, but she forced her eyes to hold those of the northerner. ‘What, then, are you doing here?’ she said hardily, using the voice control she’d so arduously mastered in her apprenticeship with her uncle. ‘Why don’t you go back where you can do that sort of thing to women who speak their mind or defend their friends? Where you could do whatever you wanted with me and no one would gainsay you?’

‘Yes, Blaise,’ Bertran de Talair added, still inexplicably cheerful. ‘Why don’t you go back?’

A moment later, the big man surprised Lisseut. His mouth quirked sideways in a wry smile. He shook his head. ‘I was asked by the man who pays my wages what would be done to you in Gorhaut,’ he answered mildly enough, looking straight at Lisseut, not at the duke. ‘I think En Bertran was amusing himself: he has travelled enough to know exactly what the laws on such matters are in Gorhaut, and in Valensa and Götzland, for that matter—for they are much the same. Did I say, incidentally, that I agreed with those laws?’

‘Do you agree with them?’ Lisseut pursued, aware that this room, among all her friends, was probably the only place on earth where she would have been quite so aggressive.

The man called Blaise pursed his lips reflectively before answering; Lisseut was belatedly realizing that this was no thick-witted northern lout.

‘The duke of Talair just now humiliated a troubadour you say will be famous long after I am forgotten. He as much as called him an uneducated, drunken schoolboy. At a guess, that will have hurt rather more than the scratch from my blade. Will you agree that there are times when authority must be asserted? Or, if not, are you brave enough to turn that fire of yours against the duke right now? I’m the easy target, an outsider in a room full of people you know. Would that be a part of why you are pushing me like this? Would it be a fair thing to be doing?’

He was unexpectedly clever, but he hadn’t answered her question.

‘You haven’t answered her question,’ said Bertran de Talair.

Blaise of Gorhaut smiled again, the same wry, sideways expression as before; Lisseut had a sense that he’d almost been expecting that from the duke. She wondered how long they’d known each other. ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ he said quietly. ‘If I agreed with those laws I’d be home right now, wouldn’t I, very likely wed to a properly disciplined woman, and very likely plotting an invasion of Arbonne with the king and all the corans of Gorhaut.’ He raised his voice at the end, quite deliberately. Lisseut, out of the corner of her eye, saw the Portezzans at their booth by the near wall exchange quick glances with each other.