Spring

  Then, with a further fanfare, and drum rolls on the tibla, the crowd began clapping as the first Sister Chaste was led in on the arm of a grey-haired military man, his uniform in the bright, dashing style of Burmese dacoits.

  Katherine had been having a great time. She had never been much of a party-goer but this, by far, was the best she had ever known, her normal reservations having been left behind when Sister Mary chopped more off her hair, drugged her and then fitted her with a black wig.

  She had somehow teamed up with Sister Mary at the party and the two, realizing more fun was to be had in company, had stuck together and joined the dance which brought the Chaste Sisters together in the centre of the gallery before Lord Festoon as the central attraction.

  At first Katherine hardly cared.

  The music was as intoxicating as the costumes, the decorations, the astonishing feats of acrobatics all about her and the amazing way in which one of the jugglers, having reached one end of the gallery, was now somersaulting back and juggling oranges at the same time.

  When the Sisters Chaste drew level with the throne Katherine said, ‘So that’s Lord Festoon! He looks truly awful!’

  ‘There is no other like him!’ giggled Sister Mary.

  ‘What do I do if he asks me . . . well . . . you know . . . I mean I don’t really have to . . .’

  They laughed some more at that even more awful thought.

  ‘It is an honour you cannot refuse . . . but nothing actually happens except you get given a golden pendant you can keep and you have to sit on his knee.’

  ‘Yuk!’ said Katherine. ‘I wouldn’t go anywhere near him.’

  ‘Well you won’t get chosen anyway, because he prefers us short ones apparently, so relax.’

  ‘I am relaxed,’ said Katherine, adjusting her wig and praying that Jack was a million miles away but safe. ‘More or less.’

  ‘Same, same,’ replied Mary. ‘My family won’t like it if I get chosen though, they’d prefer to continue thinking of me as pure.’

  ‘Quite right! You’re meant to be chaste.’

  Mary grinned knowingly.

  ‘I am,’ she said, ‘. . . more or less.’

  They laughed again, as everyone else was doing, and cheered and joked and linked arms with other Sisters, aware now that everyone’s eyes were on them and that the men in the crowd, especially those up around the High Ealdor, were pointing to various of them and assessing which was the worthiest to be chosen.

  But then as the music swelled and things got wilder still Katherine felt her head begin to clear and reality to set in.

  She was here against her better judgement, they had criticized her body shape, they’d cut her hair, and she had on more make-up than she thought was possible for a single face to wear.

  ‘Time to get out of here,’ she told herself, trying to turn the mounting anger she felt to good effect.

  But she knew she had to keep up the pretence that she was enjoying herself, so she laughed and clapped and linked arms with Sister Mary and danced about while her eyes darted in every direction looking for ways to escape.

  The Master of Ceremonies announced, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, the High Ealdor is making his choice!’

  This moment was part of the fun of the ritual as the more senior members of Festoon’s court gathered about him looking conspiratorial while they whispered among themselves, pointed at various of the Chaste Sisters, nodded or shook their heads in exaggerated approval or not as the case might be, and generally made a comic meal of it.

  It was made all the funnier by the costumes that these supposed courtiers had been dressed in, which were exquisite in their over-the-top detail – brocaded silken jackets with puffed sleeves, silks and dark blue stockings beneath flowery breeches, silk slippers with salmon-pink tassels, and magnificent turbans of loose purple silk which looked like vulgar decorations on a cake – as in a way they were, for they echoed the iced-sugar confections on Festoon’s huge birthday cake.

  They conferred, Festoon frowned and stroked his chubby hairless chin, they pointed at one or two of the Sisters very ambiguously, nodded their heads and pulled back from their lord. Festoon now smiled and nodded towards one of the courtiers, who came near and consulted.

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, the High Ealdor has chosen his Birthday Bride and is now advising the equerries who the lucky Sister will be.’

  Katherine watched carefully but with only detached interest, hoping that the chosen one would be Sister Mary but also thinking with a beating heart that if she was going to get away from the Sisters the near-chaos of the party was going to be her best bet. She began looking around the huge room for different entrances to the one she had come in by.

  She saw that Sister Supreme and her arrogant assistant Sister Chalice were close nearby, watching them it seemed. Beyond them were all sorts of distinguished-looking people, while at the only entrances she could see folk were more subdued, perhaps because there were Fyrd guards there, their numbers increasing all the time.

  Getting away was not going to be easy.

  Sister Mary touched her arms and said, ‘Uh, uh! He’s coming our way.’

  An equerry had detached himself from Festoon’s side and was slowly crossing the Orangery floor and heading in their general direction.

  His turban was even more monstrously woven up above his head than the others, and his impressive beard waxed so much that it shone in the light, as did his red cheeks. The trouble was, Katherine saw, that his eye was not on Sister Mary, but on herself.

  ‘You’d better duck!’ said Mary, grabbing Katherine’s arm. ‘Otherwise he might choose you!’

  Katherine looked at Lord Festoon and he was smiling and looking straight at her, confirmation that she might have, unfortunately, caught his eye.

  ‘I’m not going to allow that to happen,’ she said to Mary, trying to sink towards the floor.

  The horrible equerry was almost upon her.

  ‘He’s wearing earrings,’ whispered Mary, ‘and his stomach’s on the way to being as large as the High Ealdor’s!’

  The equerry stopped in front of them.

  ‘But I don’t want to,’ Katherine whispered urgently to Mary, everything having fallen silent and with everyone crowding round to see which of the Sisters was finally going to get chosen.

  The equerry reached for Katherine, and had turned dramatically towards Festoon for him to confirm that she was the one, when a curious wave of movement spread through the crowd and then came a shout from the entrance.

  It was sufficiently loud and urgent for people’s heads to turn, including Katherine’s. Fyrd guards had entered in numbers at one end of the Orangery and seemed to be pulling someone out of the chamber against their wishes. Then they went for someone else and people began to retreat, while other more senior officials tried to go and see what was going on.

  The turbaned equerry was pulled away from Katherine by the swirling, panicking crowd. But when he fought his way back quite fiercely and momentarily grabbed her arm she decided enough was enough and this was the best moment she was going to get to flee the Sisters.

  Earlier, when she had looked for escape routes, she had noticed a tapestry, hanging near where the bulk of the Fyrd were, which occasionally moved as if caught in a draught. She saw her chance, stamped on the equerry’s foot, snatched her arm from his grasp, ducked low and ran.

  73

  THE CUNNING KNOT

  The Deritend Feast at the Muggy Duck was a very informal affair compared with the event at Lord Festoon’s. The party consisted almost entirely of Mallarkhi’s relatives and friends and started long before the Bride herself got there.

  When she did there was a great commotion at the door and another crowd of people came in, leading a girl more beautiful than Jack had ever seen.

  ‘There she be!’ cried Old Mallarkhi. ‘The Chosen One herself. Our Perfection! Our own Bride! And don’t she look the part!?’

  She was dark like Ma’Shuqa, and had the same full fi
gure, and bright ribbons in her dark hair. Her smile was wide, her eyes sparkling.

  ‘Gentlemen and Ladies, one and all, there’s not one of you that don’t know Hais, the best-made Bride there ever was . . .’

  Jack, who was standing next to Master Brief, grabbed his arm and said, ‘How long is this going on for? I want to go and find Katherine, I can’t stay here . . .’

  But it did no good.

  ‘It’s under control, Jack. Trust us. She’s at Lord Festoon’s and we’ve people there who will get her to safety at the right moment. It would be deeply insulting to leave a Deritend party early, and give great offence. Only a life-and-death emergency will get you away from here and not have folk talk about it badly. The idea is to build your reputation, not destroy it. Relax, Jack! Enjoy yourself! Katherine will be all right.’

  There being nothing else that he could do, Jack allowed himself to follow this advice.

  Hais was led to the place of honour, the rest of them taking their places where they liked, Jack and Brief finding seats opposite her along with Pike.

  There was no denying her great allure, from shining eyes and hair to a bodice that invited lingering stares, a hydden form tall and graceful, and a smile and voice as sweet. Old Mallarkhi, who sat next to her, stood up.

  ‘Let’s get on with it!’ he called out, as Master of Ceremonies.

  Jack could not help noticing that she looked remarkably happy to be the centre of this ceremony. She smiled, clapped, laughed and looked here and there, from one to other of her many relatives, with a real sense of joy.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ said Jack admiringly.

  She was as different to Katherine’s fairness as night to day.

  Their goblets were charged with red mead and an elderly relative of Hais stood up and made a toast.

  ‘To the Bride’s Gift and whither it be bound!’

  They raised their goblets, spoke out the words ‘Bride’s Gift’ in unison and drank.

  ‘Ma’Shuqa, bring it on!’ cried her father.

  She did so, carrying a long object wrapped in black silk and curiously bound with silver cord, variously knotted but with so many loose ends they were impossible to count.

  Close-to it was impossible to say what was inside, or how it might be untied, and the only thing for it was to pull one of the cords and hope for the best.

  The wrapped and bound gift was then taken to the person indicated, a cord pulled and, that failing, another person chosen.

  Each time a new person had a go it was the custom to call out rather dramatically, ‘This one I think!’ before he or she tugged hard at it.

  ‘It’s not a gift for the bride but from the bride to her groom,’ whispered Stort. ‘Each pull on one of those cords tightens the knot. But in theory there’s one cord to release them all, however tight the knot gets, and the gift can then be unwrapped by the lucky recipient. Whoever pulls it and finds out what the gift is becomes the groom. But that never happens of course, and that’s the joke.

  ‘Nobody wants it to because then the bride gets to choose who she wants, and we already know who that is.’

  Brief was right, nothing did happen when people chose and pulled a cord, and so it continued, the pleasant tension rising ahead of the moment when, the round of the gift completed among the guests, the bride herself could use the pair of golden scissors placed near her to cut the Cunning Knot, reveal the gift and give it to the groom.

  The process was slow, various courses being consumed as they went and the drink much enjoyed as well, so that the event became increasingly jolly and each pull of the cord accompanied by an ever louder shout of approval and merriment.

  Brief nodded to the bashful young hydden, the best friend it seemed of Arnold Mallarkhi, who sat next to the bride.

  ‘He’ll get the gift in the end,’ said Pike, without much enthusiasm because he too wanted to get going after Katherine, ‘but once the gift’s given we can probably slip away.’

  ‘So there’s no cord that will undo it?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Ah, now that is a very interesting question on which some of the Hyddenworld’s greatest mathematicians have worked without result,’ said Brief. ‘Including myself. It’s called a Cunning Knot and it has not been released for over a century and a half.’

  The Gift proceeded on its way, everybody taking turns to tug one or other of the loose cords, some very hard indeed to make sure the knot tightened up still further.

  ‘But surely whoever ties it knows the secret?’

  ‘Ma’Shuqa tied it on this occasion, it being a Bilgesnipe thing, handed down from mother to son and then father to daughter. They do it blindfold in a darkened room.’

  ‘Does it ever get untied?’

  ‘There’s only ever been one recorded occasion when it has. A century and a half ago, in Raster Avon’s time, ã Faroün, Master of Void and Lute Player, was given the Gift at this very Feast. It is said that after a moment’s meditation he tugged gently at a cord and the knot opened without difficulty.’

  ‘And what was the gift?’ asked Jack.

  ‘You are ever practical and ever-questioning, my young friend,’ said Brief. ‘It was a lute, of which he was of course a Master, and the strange thing was it was his own.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Played it, I should think!’

  The Gift had all but done its round, with Brief having tried and failed and only Jack to go, when the door crashed open and Barklice almost fell in among them, dishevelled and grubby from journeying through tunnels.

  With apologies to one and all he hurried over to Jack and the others.

  ‘I know where she was,’ he said, ‘and where she should be, but Brunte’s Fyrd moved in and all took fright and she was last seen running for it.’

  ‘Where to?’ demanded Pike, his face very grim.

  ‘No idea, Mirror help us,’ said Barklice, ‘but New Brum’s a very dangerous place to be for a lone female, dressed like a Sister, who doesn’t know the place or the tunnels thereabouts. She hasn’t got a chance. Brunte’ll have her in no time and all our plans to get you out of here will be scuppered!’

  A hush had fallen around the table and smiles faded.

  ‘Your turn Master Jack!’ called out Old Mallarkhi, trying to recover the event. ‘Say the words and pull a cord.’

  ‘Do it,’ whispered Pike, ‘and let’s get out of here, offence or no offence.’

  Jack took the gift, sensed that the arrival of Barklice and their long faces was in danger of spoiling the occasion, and said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, our apologies. We have news from New Brum that my close friend and companion is in danger and we shall have to leave . . .’

  There was a murmur of sympathy and a look of approval from Brief for this graceful apology. He could see that the Deritenders appreciated it.

  ‘Your friend be our friend, young Jack,’ returned Old Mallarkhi, ‘and you better be New Brum bound.’

  Jack looked at the gift and then at the bride and smiled.

  ‘Hais,’ he said, ‘I wish you and your groom every happiness you can find in the years ahead!’

  ‘Pull the cord lad and be on your way with our blessing!’

  Jack grinned, glanced at Hais again, and held the gift high for a moment before saying in the traditional way, ‘This is the one I think!’

  He took one of the cords and pulled it.

  It did not tighten at all, but rather wound out from the complex of cords and knots like a wraith of mist sliding away before the sun.

  There was a gasp of surprise and dismay.

  The knots unwound of their own volition and the cord fell away from the Gift, the black silk wrapping, light as gossamer, following it. But neither cord nor silk went slowly. They shot away from it as if pulled by unseen hands and Jack was left holding what had been inside, which was a wooden box, its lid closed tight.

  It was obviously a mistake and not meant for him. Hais already had her potential groom sitting right next to her, having over
come the nerves she had earlier. He was looking as surprised as he was.

  Jack thought fast, smiled broadly, looked Hais and then her groom straight in the eye and said, ‘Where I come from traditions are different. The bride-to-be has a champion who protects her person when her betrothed is fighting wars!’

  Where this came from he was not sure but it seemed to work: the hydden, visibly shocked by the opening of the Cunning Knot, were relaxing.

  ‘But at her marriage his role ends when he hands to her beloved her gift, which I now do!’

  He presented the unopened box to the groom.

  This bold piece of nonsense did the trick, even if the faces of some of the older, more conventional folks showed they were not convinced. But Old Mallarkhi had the sense to take Jack’s gesture in the spirit intended and stood and clapped his words, and then encouraged the groom to open the gift at once.

  It was a splendid dirk with a silver handle, with a sheath and belt of the finest leather.

  The moment passed, the festivities continued, but this strange twist of fate left enough of an impression on Jack that he looked at Hais more closely than he had done previously and found that she was looking at him with equal curiosity.

  He looked down from her gaze, his attention caught by the shifting colours of her dress in the sunlight. It was rich in embroidery of fields and flowers: green leaves, reeds, the blues of a river, flecks of yellow and red, exquisite eyebrights, violet bushes filled with birds, sapling trees. It was a torrent of all the colours of the Spring.

  And suddenly he remembered a simple posy of flowers that had been left for him in the bedroom at Woolstone by a girl with hair the colour of wheat to welcome him home. Katherine! he thought suddenly, with a huge torrent of feeling – love and desire mingled with longing. She’s my Spring – my first love. I have to get her back . . .

  He looked at Pike and Brief, who both got up.

  It was Old Mallarkhi who spoke for them all.