Raven 2: Sons of Thunder by Kristian Giles

Author:Kristian, Giles [Kristian, Giles]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Transworld
Published: 2010-04-01T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

FOR THE REST of the day we wandered the city, having arranged to meet Winigis on the northern bank where his people’s shit slid into the Sicauna. He had recoiled at our choice of meeting place, but the sight of all that silver weighed down his tongue so that he simply nodded, asking no more questions, and we left him picking fish from the mud.

We discovered that the island’s eastern side was largely given over to the White Christ and Egfrith tried to convince us to visit the churches and monasteries there, but I would not and so he had to explore them alone. I still had the silver, so Penda would not leave my side. He had to come with me to the shoemaker’s stall where I bought a pair of boots that came halfway up my shin and had soles of thick hide. In return I had to go with him back to the tavern to find a whore. Beaknose rustled up seven to choose from and Penda took a long time choosing, in the end settling for a big-boned, pale-skinned girl. I suspected he chose her because she had red hair like the girl from Wessex who filled his dreams. I settled for a skin of wine because the monk was not there to sour its taste with his talk of Christ’s blood, and by the time it was half empty it could have been Christ’s, Óðin’s or my own blood for all I cared.

‘Why don’t you take one?’ Beaknose had asked me, nodding at a sallow-skinned whore as he slammed a dish of steaming potage on the table before me. He seemed offended. ‘Don’t tell me you have a taste for boys. You do not look like a Greek,’ he offered, scratching his pockmarked neck, ‘but it can be arranged.’

‘Raven has a skinny girl waiting for him,’ Penda said, his voice muffled by the redhead’s heavy breasts. ‘She’s pretty as the sun and a good girl, too. Not like these scraps of rancid mutton.’ The redhead continued to coo over him, which I took to mean she understood no English.

‘But this skinny girl is not here now,’ Beaknose said, handing two cups of ale to a rough-looking pair of Franks armed with swords and long knives. ‘There is no harm in poking a fire for warmth when you’re away from your own hearth.’

‘Poking fires is dangerous,’ I said, blowing on a spoonful of potage and wondering what animal had gone into it, for the meat was an unusual ashen colour, though the dish smelled delicious. Beaknose shrugged and went about his business, leaving me to eat, drink, admire my new boots, and ignore Penda’s fumblings in the straw behind me.

That night a waxing crescent moon silvered the Sicauna and the thatch roofs of Paris. The smoke seeping from those roofs glowed yellow and the deserted muddy streets and walkways which were not cast in shadow glistened. I was half asleep by the time Egfrith blew

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