To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [197]
Sersanders said, ‘You know, if the wind gets up again, he’ll walk straight across and step into every hot cauldron and boil.’
‘Broth again,’ said Kathi automatically. It was true. When the wind rose, or it snowed, you couldn’t distinguish the haze from the vapour. She said, ‘He’ll stop till it clears, or his guide will. And he’ll follow the staves. How many should we cook for, do you think?’
‘Two,’ said Sersanders, gazing into the distance. ‘That’s all I can see. Six ponies, Nicholas and his guide. I suppose it’s his guide. He’s wearing a hat and a boat-cloak. Tell me before you make that sound again.’
‘Sorry,’ said Katelijne, uncupping her mouth. It had been less a cry of welcome than a crow of shared pleasure for M. de Fleury. He had rounded the hill as she had, lured by the white drifting steam from beyond it. And now he was standing gazing at what lay before him: the whole vast sloping terrain, white and grey, grey and black, of the fuming crust of the earth, below which seethed and bubbled the deep scalding vents from which rose the steam, the sulphur, the mud, the jets of sizzling water and the rivulets which boiled their way through the snow.
As the cry echoed over the waste, Kathi felt the pressure change under her feet. She looked down. Something spoke: a dark sound below the splutter and hiss of the field. There was a trembling pause. With a roar, the basin behind her gave birth to a fierce jet of steam, followed by a mounting volley of water. It rose and spread in the sunshine and dropped, while the steam blew and rolled in the wind, obliterating the distant figures of ponies and men. By the time it cleared, the beasts had been hobbled, and the men had started to move, and were making use of her marker-staves. There were not very many: they came from Sigfús’s spare tents. She wondered how Sigfús was. She wondered what guide M. de Fleury had got, because he wasn’t walking in front, as a guide should.
She said to her brother, ‘You jumped. You thought it was ours.’ The geysirs exploded at different intervals. She had chosen the big one to prime. She hoped it would wait until M. de Fleury was here. She had timed it. She had packed it with turf. Sometimes it came when you didn’t expect it. The first time, their tent was too close, and Anselm had been rather angry. Now she thought he was enjoying it almost as much as she was. She wished M. de Fleury would hurry, and then cautioned herself. Shag in soup. She stood, beaming.
M. de Fleury, when he came up, looked as he had on board ship, blithe as frost on a window. She said with satisfaction, ‘You came.’
‘Well, I had to,’ said M. de Fleury. ‘After all those distress signals from Anselm. Now I’m bloody going away. He hasn’t got long golden hair. I’m not going to marry him.’ He was speaking in old-fashioned German, which was quite close to the Norraena tongues.
‘He was going to marry me,’ said the man with M. de Fleury, in the same language. He had a black beard, and an arm in a sling tucked into his jacket under the cloak and a bandage under his hat. He was not an Icelander. ‘But now I have seen his sister, I am not sure of my constancy. In any case, you, Nikolás, cannot even arrive in time to kill bears, never mind dragons. Introduce me.’
‘Your future bride, Anselm Sersanders, and his sister,’ said M. de Fleury obediently. ‘Anselm, embrace Master Paúel Benecke, Danish representative of the Hanse, whose sulphuric wish is to make you his prisoner, were it not for the fact that he is my prisoner already. You may kiss. What is that?’
‘Dinner,’ said Kathi. ‘Step back.’
‘What?’ said Paúel Benecke.
‘Oh my God,’ said M. de Fleury.
The ground, which had begun to throb, growled. This time, the vibration came from below, not behind. This time her geysir was coming. She said, her eyes on M. de Fleury’s face, ‘You had really better stand back.’
He said, ‘All right. Take me,’ and allowed himself to be pulled back by her gloved hand. He said with surprise, ‘You have only five fingers.’
‘Christ,’ said Paúel