by Melanie Rawn
He nodded. “Don’t ask me where the beggars go. It’s not a profession I’ve ever tried.”
Limping along beside him, she slanted a startled glance upward. “What do you mean, ‘profession’? You make it sound like being a farmer or a shoemaker.”
“There’s considerable skill involved, for which they receive payment. I’ve never begged, but I’ve done my share of street performing. Same thing.”
“Hardly honest work.”
“It’s not thievery,” he retorted. “But this is.” And he ducked down an alleyway, vanishing into the noonday shadows.
“Collan!” she exclaimed, flinching as if her voice echoed, heartbeat speeding up as her gaze darted nervously around the empty street. The next moment, a hideous metallic shriek issued from the alley. “Collan!”
“What’re you waiting for? Come on!”
She ran after him, cursing her unsteady ankle. The alley was a dead end. A water pump and a wall-shrine to St. Viranka projected from the twelve-foot stone barricade. Col was applying muscle to the pump, which finally ceased its complaints and gave forth a steady stream of water.
“Wash off,” he told her. “It’s fresh and this is The Waste, so we’re thieves.”
She knelt and stuck her head beneath the spigot. Nothing short of lye soap would get the dye out of her hair, but she gave it a good try. She scrubbed her face and neck, soaking her clothes once more, then exchanged places with Collan and wielded the handle with all her strength while he cleaned up.
“I need dry clothes,” she said. “You need clothes, period. I have a little money—”
“—and less imagination,” he interrupted. “Stay put, First Daughter.”
He sprinted back down the alley. Sarra eyed the shuttered windows above, hoping none of the worthy citizens of Renig peered out through the cracks. She wrung out her wet hair and knotted it in a tight bun at her nape, furious at the way her fingers trembled. These days she didn’t much like being alone.
Collan returned minus the cloak, wearing a shirt that hung to mid-thigh, and trailing a double armful of clothing. “These won’t fit, of course,” he said with a resigned sigh at the figure he would cut in someone else’s clothes. “And I still need boots.”
“You stole all this?”
After thrusting the bulk of it at her, he hauled on gray pants, grimacing as the hems came up short of his ankles. “I left the cloak as payment.”
“It belongs to a Legionnaire!”
“So? All I did was take her cloak. You want to put her out of a job.”
“But—but someone will recognize what it is—”
“They can cut it down or dye it. It’s good material. Hand me that black thing.” She did; the longvest had been made for someone just as tall but much thinner through the chest. It proved impossible to button. “Well? The rest of it’s for you. Hurry up.”
If she told him to turn his back, he’d laugh at her. Besides, at least some of those windows up there must have people behind them. And it wasn’t as if men hadn’t seen her naked before, she told herself, remembering an afternoon spent splashing in a stream on Shellinkroth. But two of those men had been physicians, and the other pair couldn’t have cared less about her feminine charms. Well, neither did Collan, but not for the same reason.
So she unbuttoned her shirt. And wasn’t sure if he was being courteous or mocking when he walked away from her toward the street.
She retrieved five cutpieces, two silver eagles, and the brass token from her pockets and left the sopped clothes by the water pump. Hopping one-legged down the alley, she tugged on one boot and then had to lean against a wall to rest her ankle as she pulled on the other. Then she hurried to catch up with Collan, who lounged casually against a building.
“Charming,” he drawled, looking her down and up.
The brown trousers were skintight and the lurid yellow shirt was frayed, collarless, and definitely not her color. She wouldn’t have worn these clothes to a tug-of-war over a mudpit.
“Likewise,” she snapped, giving him the same acidic assessment. “Roll up your pants more—you’re a barefoot farmhand escorting me back from town.”
He shuffled his toes against the cobbles and tugged at the curls cascading down his forehead. “Yes, m’Lady, just as you say, m’Lady.”
“Servitude suits you,” she observed, sweeping past him.
And instantly regretted the words. She owed him her life, and probably Cailet’s as well; he deserved much better than this from her. But she didn’t know how to say she was sorry without making thing even worse. So she kept silent, and swore to be nicer to him—no matter how much he annoyed her.
The Shipwrecked Sailor was east of Renig on the Coast Road. But in the event that their altered appearances and the Legion token didn’t prevent someone from eventually associating them with the escaped Mages, they left by the Farm Gate to the north. Collan bowed and mumbled fearfully when the Watch barked questions at Sarra. She made her eyes their widest and told them she was scared of Mageborns and wanted only to go home.
“Why isn’t that man’s head covered?”
“They—they took his coif and didn’t give it back—they wanted to see the color of his hair,” Sarra stammered. “They’re looking for a blond man and a dark-haired girl—or was it the other way around? Please, I just want to go home to my mother!”
“Get on with you, then.”
The token worked, but was confiscated. She regretted that; it might have been useful as a pattern for future forgeries. But she gave it up with every evidence of relief, and set as smart a pace as she could down the road to emphasize her fright.
Once over a low rise, they cut across country to the east. There was no hope of reaching the inn by dark. Collan steered them to a tiny hamlet eight miles outside Renig, saying that at the very least they could shelter with some nice warm horses for the night.
To Sarra’s eye, the two swaybacked plow Clydies lived better than the human inhabitants. The scant tillable fields, the four buildings, and all ten people she saw—half the population, according to Collan—were sere and brown. So were the two rounds of flatbread and the hunk of cheese she bought for their dinner.
“This is called ‘poverty,’ First Daughter,” Collan said as they took up residence in the barn. He bit into the cheese, then the bread, and washed both down with a gulp of water from a cup dipped straight into the horses’ bucket. “Just so you know,” he added.
Sarra wanted to tell him she’d recognized it, thanks very much. But, truly told, she’d never seen this kind of poverty before. During her travels, she’d seen plenty of run-down districts—sometimes against her hosts’ wishes. She had even seen the like in Roseguard, though Lady Agatine had tried hard to provide for all her people. But this place of one barn, four stone hovels, and what passed for a tavern was something outside her experience. These people had roofs overhead, clothes on their backs, and food to eat. But if the tiles broke in a storm or their coats wore out or the rains didn’t come. . . .
Where were their families? she asked herself, perplexed. Why did the First Daughters of their Names allow them to live this way?
Collan paused in his meal, squinting over at her in the dusk. “What? No sharp answers?” When she remained silent, he gave an unpleasant laugh. “Not pretty, is it? But it’s about time you saw what you and your kind have done.”
“Me and my kind?” He’d used the phrase last night in jail, and she liked it even less today.
“There are maybe three Names here, at least one an upper Tier. The woman who owns that bay over there—she’s a Karellos, to judge by the Circled Square brand. But where’s her share of the communal Karellos wealth? Where’s the rest of her First Tier Name when she needs boots or more seed in the spring? And there’s a million just like her all over Lenfell.”
“These are the people the Rising was formed to help.”
“So you wa
nt them to become freedom fighters.” He took another swig of stale water, swallowed, and laughed again, even more harshly. “Freedom from what? Anniyas? What do they care about Anniyas? This is the way they’ve lived since The Waste was safe to live in again and they’ll probably live like this long after you and I are dead. So what’s the point, First Daughter? You and your Blooded kind made these people—and now you want to change things for them, or so you say. But you’ll do what you want, just like always.”
Her temper got the better of her. “I refuse to take responsibility for the way these people live! But I’ll tell you something, Collan Rosvenir. I intend to take responsibility for changing it!”
“Prove it,” he challenged. “Not to me—to them. Convince them that fighting is going to get them something.”
“I can’t do that until we’ve won! Then we’ll have the power to change things—”
“Dammit, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! Ninety-nine out of a hundred people in Lenfell don’t have any power. And the one in a hundred who does usually cracks some kind of whip with it. Why should anybody think you’ll be any different, once you’re sitting on the Council?”
Fundamental honesty kept her silent. Because he was right. To use power wisely it was first necessary to possess power—which was rarely if ever used with true wisdom.
“Well?” he snarled.
In a subdued voice, she said, “I suppose that the most we can ask for is acquiescence. To put up with it, as you said last night.”
“So you were listening. You think people will sit back and watch, and not try to stop you?”
“Yes. Once we’ve succeeded, Collan, they’ll understand.”
“If you say so, First Daughter. But in case it’s escaped you, I’ll tell you two other things about poverty. You feel sorry for these people, don’t you?”
“Of course I do! That’s why I want to help!”
“What if I told you I pity you for not having access to your magic?” He snorted. “Aw, just look at her bristle like a prickleback poked with a stick! See what I mean? Pride, Sarra. Domna Karellos here could probably go to her Name for help. But that really is begging. See the difference?”
Gritting her teeth, she nodded.
“The other thing is this. Poverty isn’t noble suffering, freedom from the burden of possessions, or a lot of good and decent people struggling honorably to survive. Being poor is dirty, brutal, and murderous. So sleep close to me tonight, and with that knife of yours in your fist.”
With that he finished his bread and cheese, downed the last of the water, and settled down on the straw.
She made herself eat her share of the food, knowing she needed it. She then lay down with her spine nearly touching his and her knife ready in her hand.
“Collan?”
“Mmm?”
“You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you?”
“Not really.”
“Then why . . . ?”
He said nothing for a long moment. “Before you can change the world, Sarra, you’ve got to see it the way it really is.”
“And you think I don’t.”
“You’re learning. Stay with me, and you’ll learn a lot more.”
She didn’t point out that he was the one staying with her and the Mages and the Rising—and marveled at her restraint.
Suddenly, surprisingly, he added, “I just don’t want to see you get yourself broken against walls you didn’t suspect were there.”
“I’m tougher than that,” she said.
“If you say so,” he repeated. “Good night, First Daughter.”
A few minutes later she whispered, “Stop calling me that.”
But he was asleep, and made no reply.
11
“. . . green salad lightly dressed, braised beefsteak in mild pepper sauce, carrots in a brown-sugar glaze, and for dessert—”
“Chocolate,” said Glenin.
The cook pursed his lips and consulted his notes. “With regret, Lady, not until next week, according to the schedule—”
“Chocolate,” she repeated.
“The diet drawn up by the First Councillor’s personal physician forbids—”
“The First Councillor’s personal physician isn’t having this baby, I am.”
Garon pried his adoring attention from Glenin long enough to say, “If chocolate she wants, then chocolate she must have.”
“May I point out, with respect, my Lord, that the delicacy of a lady in this condition, with morning sickness and suchlike—”
“She’s perfectly well, aren’t you, my dearest?”
Glenin smiled. She hadn’t had a twinge since Ambrai.
The cook tried again. “I must also point out that there has already been a weight gain of three pounds too many according to the physician, and—”
Glenin interrupted once more, mainly for the satisfaction of consistency: not once in the last ten minutes had the cook been allowed to finish a sentence. “I’ll get as fat as I please, and I’ll do it on chocolate three times a day if it suits me. Go revise your menus accordingly.”
“But, Lady Glenin—”
“Out,” said Garon. When they were alone, he brought her fingers to his lips and said, “My darling, he may be right. I’ve read everything I can find about having a baby, and the more weight a woman gains, the more difficult her labor. I couldn’t bear it if you suffered even an instant more than absolutely necessary. I don’t know how I’ll endure what you will go through. The very thought is agony. I’d do it all for you if I could.”
Of course he would. Men had been making that oh-so-generous offer for centuries, secure in its total impossibility. But she behaved as if he was the first ever to say it—because she knew that he of all men truly meant it.
“I know, Garon. Thank you for being so sweet. But you mustn’t worry. I’m very strong. Will you excuse me now, darling? I’m supposed to take a nap every afternoon.”
“I’ll be within call if you need anything.”
She watched him go, her smile gradually falling into a frown. Attention was all well and good, but she’d have to find something for Garon to do or he’d drive her quite mad.
She lounged on a daybed before wide windows, a woven silk rug across her knees, and idly contemplated sailboats racing on the lake. The colors of a dozen Names sped along the course, heeling around buoy markers, polished brass fittings and gold or silver paint flashing in the sun. The Doyannis boat, with Elsvet’s husband at the tiller, won as usual. Perhaps she ought to encourage Garon to take up sailing. Anything instead of this habit of hovering over her. Not that she wanted him to renew his former hobbies: gambling with her money, drinking her vintage wines, and seducing her acquaintances. Something harmlessly time-consuming, she thought as the bright sails drifted in to shore. Something at which he could excel so that she could smile modestly when people praised her accomplished husband . . . which would please his mother.
Anniyas wasn’t being gracious about giving up first place in her darling boy’s heart. She was putting up a fight: demanding his presence at all her various meetings, taking him to dinner at expensive inns, paying for a new spring wardrobe. Glenin wondered when she would begin to suspect that a fight was impossible. Some men did behave strangely during impending fatherhood, and thus far this seemed to explain Garon’s blind devotion. But Anniyas didn’t like it one little bit.
And after the baby was born . . . Glenin had an alarming vision of Garon and Anniyas hovering over the cradle.
You ‘re mine, she told her son, stroking her belly. I gave up my First Daughter, but I’ll never give you up. Never.
Comforted by her own determination, she relaxed and fell to dreaming of the time when he would be ready to learn magic. She’d teach him everything, advance with him through the pages of the Code of Malerris, watch as his skills were honed to perfection. He would be no Chava A
llard, talented but undisciplined. And his father wouldn’t eye him askance, the way Vassa Doriaz eyed his son.
But Anniyas might. Well, Glenin would just have to keep her boy’s grandmother and father out of the picture as much as possible. Anniyas had politics to keep her busy, but Garon would definitely have to find other interests. Glenin had no intention of letting her husband mold the slightest part of his personality—and especially not his taste in clothes.
She dreamed of her son the way another woman would dream of her First Daughter. As time passed and she felt him grow and change her body, she realized she had never sensed the other baby this way. She had never planned or worried or wondered who her daughter would resemble—oh, sweet Saints, please don’t let her son take after Anniyas in looks! He must be tall, handsome, broad-shouldered, compelling—like Auvry Feiran.
“Do you hear me, little one?” she whispered whimsically to the child. “No stumpy-dumpy like Anniyas! You’ll grow big and strong like your grandfather.”
Suddenly she remembered that there was another grandfather—and grandmother. For the first time in years Glenin tried to recall what Maichen Ambrai looked like. She remembered very dark eyes, very pale hair, and very great beauty. But the exact form of that beauty escaped her. Still, her mother had been beautiful; songs had been composed in her praise. Of her son’s other grandfather, she knew nothing. Garon himself was tremendously handsome—everyone thought so—and Anniyas called him his father’s very image, so perhaps there was nothing to worry about.
“Three good-looking grandparents outweigh a plain one,” she murmured to the baby. “You’ll be beautiful, no doubt about it. As beautiful as my father said he knew I’d be the minute I was born.”
But beauty meant there would eventually be women. And one day she would be in the same position Anniyas was in now.
No. Not my son. He’d never do that to me. We’ll have more than Blood and a mother-son bond. We’ll have our magic. Anniyas and Garon never had that, never.
Anniyas had been too busy with the Assembly and the Council during Garon’s childhood to spare much time for him. She loved him devotedly, to be sure—but she had made him the center of her life without making herself the center of his. Drinking, gambling, and carousing had been his way of filling up his life—and perhaps of gaining her attention. Glenin shifted uncomfortably on the daybed, not wanting either to understand him or feel sorry for him.
