Wild Magic by Jude Fisher Page B

travelled more than his sister, to Ness and Fairwater, and once, after an Allfair, as far as Ixta in the north of Istria, had never seen such evidence of man’s will exerted over the natural world.
    ‘It’s extraordinary,’ he breathed, taking in the great swathe of activity below them.
    ‘It’s awful,’ said Katla. ‘I think I’ll never take sail again.’
    ‘This place provides the lifeblood of Eyra, sister. How else can we master the oceans? Did you think the
Fulmar’s Gift
was whittled by our grandfather on an idle day from a couple spare branches from his favourite oaks?’
    Katla looked unhappy at his jibe. ‘I don’t know. It’s just—’ She spread her hands to take in the view. ‘There’s nothing . . . given back.’ She frowned. ‘I can’t explain what I mean. It’s all so grim.’ She stopped, at a loss. When she worked her metals in the forge she could feel the power of Elda flowing up out of the heat, through her and back into the ground. It was a kind of blessing, a bargain with the world. But this—
    ‘Can I help you?’
    The man who addressed them was small of stature and richly dressed. He was beardless in the southern fashion, but had a thin moustache neatly cut to reveal thin, chiselled lips and his sideburns had been trimmed to a sharp line accentuating the shape of his jaw and cheekbone. His collar was knife-sharp and edged with expensive brocade quite out of place in these surroundings; his under-tunic such an improbably perfect white that it must have been donned new today. Katla thought she had never seen a man who presented himself with such conscious effort at precision and contrived elegance. His voice, though, gave away his origins: an accent from the poor far east of the islands, flat and harsh, had yet to be turned out to quite the same level of perfection as the rest of him.
    ‘We have come to see Morten Danson, the owner of this yard,’ Halli said.
    The man looked him up and down, then turned his attention to Katla. She felt his eyes travel across her, taking in the ravaged hair, the outlandish costume, the smallness of her breasts. ‘More beggars and ne’er-do-wells no doubt come to seek employment,’ the man sighed. ‘We have enough pig-ignorant labourers here without casting about for the likes of you. Take your motley and thievery elsewhere and good day.’ He turned on his heel.
    Halli opened his mouth to reply, but Katla was quicker.
    ‘Never mind, brother,’ she said loudly enough that her words would reach the retreating figure. ‘If this gentleman wishes to prevent us from delivering an invitation to Morten Danson on behalf of the King then that’s up to him. I’m sure a mere shipmaker will hardly be missed among such an august crowd of nobles and men of influence.’
    The small man turned in a flurry of silks. ‘An invitation? To me? From the King, you say?’
    So this strutting cockerel was Morten Danson himself. Katla felt a keen stab of dismay. How could such an overweening and snobbish fool be the finest shipmaker in Eyra? His hands, pale and smooth as a lady’s, looked as though they had held no tool – at least not one used in the pursuit of carpentry – in decades. It made no sense at all.
    Halli reached into his bag and removed the roll of goat-parchment, tied with a silken band. He held it out to the shipwright, who took it avidly, his long fingers playing up and down the shaft of the roll as if in a paroxysm of excitement. Then he unfurled it with shaking fingers. Katla watched how his eyeballs flickered up and down the unfamiliar markings and his brow knit in consternation. He cannot read, she thought delightedly. It means nothing to him at all; so much for pig-ignorance. She coughed delicately and took the parchment away from the shipmaker deftly.
    ‘You know we were instructed to declaim the invitation properly, brother,’ she said to Halli, extending the paper to him. ‘’Tis hardly polite to expect a gentleman to do his own