A Burning Sea by Theodore Brun (i am reading a book txt) 📕

frowned. ‘Sworn to a queen.’ There was a roar as the grain spilled over Orlana’s dark triangle and ran off into the redhead’s open mouth.

‘A queen, no less! Well, well! Where is she then?’

‘Thankfully not in here,’ Einar replied. ‘And you?’ The Armenian’s answer was swallowed up in a gale of laughter as the redhead lurched upright and spluttered a shower of grain all over the eager onlookers. The woman looked wild-eyed. She cast around her, yelling, ‘Krasí! Krasí!’

Wine. Well, it did look like thirsty work.

The Armenian dug an elbow in Einar’s ribs. ‘I said – I serve the senior general in the city. His name is Arbasdos. The emperor just made him kouropalates.’

Einar had no idea what kouropalates meant, but he nodded along. ‘Sounds impressive,’ he said, somewhat absorbed with the sight of blood-red wine flowing like a river where the grain had run before, and the redhead’s tongue lapping the stuff down like it was the mead of the gods.

‘There’s no higher honour in the empire. If you get bored of waiting on your queen, you could do worse than serve him. He’s developing a taste for Northmen.’

The word sent a jolt through Einar’s brain. ‘Northmen, you say?’

The noise was rising. Orlana knew how to spin out her performance, no error, reducing the flow of the wine to a trickle, toying with her audience and the redhead.

‘He has another one in his service,’ yelled the Armenian, still gamely trying to make himself heard. ‘Well, he’s locked up for now. In fact, he’s a tricky son of a bitch. Needs to learn his place. By the saints, the man can fight, though.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Something foreign,’ gnarred the Armenian. ‘He’s dark as the night.’

One of the onlookers – a nasty little stoat with a pinched face – could resist temptation no longer. He thrust his hand between the redhead’s thighs.

‘And he walks with a limp—’

These were his last intelligible words before the tavern erupted into chaos. In the same instant, the redhead produced a knife from gods only knew where and skewered the stoat’s hand to the table. Blood spurted everywhere. Orlana was thrown on her arse and bounced off the table as the man’s screams filled the little room. The redhead was on her feet, yelling foul-mouthed curses as she kicked at the men crowded round her. One man fell back, knocked another and in two blinks of an eye the whole pack of them were at each other’s throats.

The Armenian stood, roared, smashed his cup on the floor and ploughed in, fists whaling. A sailor reeled out of the fray and butted into Einar, knocking the wind out of him. He shoved back, sending the sailor into another, and before Einar knew what was happening a fist crunched into his jaw.

It didn’t happen often, but Einar lost his temper then. It felt good, he had to admit, being in the midst of an old-fashioned fist fight. He put down three men at least before something knocked into his shins and damn near tripped him up. He looked down and there were those beautiful flashing eyes again, filled with terror. He stooped down and hoisted her to her feet, warding off blows around him.

‘Come on, lassie,’ he growled in Norse, shoving another man out of the way. The door was close but he still had to land several more punches to clear a path to it. The two of them had barely stumbled out into the street when a patrol of nightwatchmen arrived on the scene and waded into the fight.

‘Are you all right?’ Einar gasped, clutching his temple which hurt like a mule-kick. The woman was looking up at him, breathing hard. She pulled her robe around herself but didn’t answer. ‘Are you hurt?’

She gave a shake of her head. Suddenly her eyes lit up with a dazzling smile, she touched his face and then ran off down the street.

Einar stood panting, watching her shadow meld into the darkness. ‘This bloody city,’ he muttered. But then he smiled.

Because Erlan was here.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Pieces, pieces, Katāros thought, as he climbed the stone steps that led up to the Scriptorium. It was the player with the most pieces on the board who controlled the game. And he fancied that in the slender form of this northern queen, he had won himself a piece of considerable worth.

It remained to be seen how she could be used to his advantage. But he was in no doubt that she was now his to manoeuvre. It hadn’t needed more than a little cursory kindness. A set of rooms, a change of attire, a meal, a servant – carefully selected by him, of course – and the promise of an audience with the emperor. After that, gratitude came pouring out of her like a mountain stream in spring.

That she would get what she had come to the Great City for, he doubted. But beauty had its own currency – he of all people knew that – and he intended to expend her wisely. Meanwhile, he had other pieces to gather.

He entered the Scriptorium.

The silence here was unlike the silence of the basilicas – with their heavy solemnity, their air laced with incense, their great looming spaces filled with the presence of that one unendurable question. No. The silence of the Scriptorium was honest. He felt no fear here, only the ghost-thoughts of the minds who had gone before, who had taken a bench and opened a scroll.

His gaze rose to the vaulted ceilings, along the soaring arches and down the shining black pillars to the banks of shelving. Somewhere among them was another piece of the game. Another answer. And it wore on him like a thirst. He inhaled the scent of the tallow lamps and musky parchment, readying himself. If he had to scour every record in the place, he would find the answer.

For three nights, the librarians brought him pile after pile of documents and codices. Architectural plans, audits for