Wounded Bird
I liked “Sword Dancer” enough to do a second one, quite a bit shorter and constructed better. It’s also colored quite a bit by my 2008 deployment to the Middle East. I wrote some of this, and some of my novel Contact with Chaos, while deployed. Some of the stress and boredom and other aggravations crept in there.
Women wore only dresses in Mirr. Riga had compromised with a knee-length tunic of wine silk with crimson and silver embroidery and beading over her trews. It stuck out in vivid contrast to the somber blacks and whites of the natives. She acceded somewhat to their law and wore a kerchief over her flaxen hair but her warrior’s braid hung below, rather than loose under a long headdress like the locals.
Not that it mattered to anyone but her. Father and Erki knew her, and the locals would never regard her as anything other than a girl. She saw how the locals treated women; as servants.
Jesrin, for example, serving her minted tea, was lean and healthy looking, and seemed rather bright. She’d never develop as anything here, though. She was unnumbered and unlettered and probably not much of a cook, just a serving girl. Riga would have liked to talk to her at least, but she’d have to go to the kitchen to do so. Women didn’t talk in front of men. Even if Riga might, Jesrin certainly wouldn’t. Riga thought about the kitchen, but that was a concession she didn’t want to make. She was not a servant. She was a trader and a warrior.
Jesrin moved on with more tea for the amar, the local trading lord. She hesitated around his gesticulating arms, then moved to pour. He changed his motion just in time to catch the spout of the samovar and deliver a big splash of liquid to the lush woolen rug the men sat on.
“Clumsy wench!”
Riga twitched as Amar Rabas backhanded Jesrin. The blow was hard enough to stagger her, but she flailed through contortions to avoid dropping the silver tea set. Riga could only imagine the penalty if the girl did that.
A moment later she wasn’t sure she could imagine. The slight girl shrieked as her ankle twisted, but laid the tray down carefully on the marble flagstones behind her. Not a drop spilled.
However, Rabas drew a heavy cord from somewhere, and laid into her, the knotted end thunking heavily right through her thick clothes. The girl writhed and twitched, but let out only whimpers. Presumably crying was punishable, too.
Father gave Riga a warning glance, and she nodded once, her face blank, while inside she burned with rage. It was not their business to interfere, though he obviously didn’t like it either. Riga’s brother Erki fought to keep his own temper. He was three years younger, though, only fourteen. What a lesson on foreign cultures this was for him.
It was worse, because Riga was a trained warrior. Had the amar swung at her like that, she’d have broken his arm, and then sliced his throat. And, of course, been beaten to death or hanged for her trouble. It just drove home that fighting was not always the answer.
It also drove home that she despised this southern city and its culture. In the week they’d been here, the amar had escalated his hospitality, gifts and praise every day. He’d also escalated his brutality and rudeness to his servants and his own hires.
She knew she had to calm down, so she looked around their setting again. The walls were faced in gleaming marble. Wrought iron and bronze rails, hooks and mountings adorned the stairs and walls. The doors, posts and lintels were carved elaborately, some of them with scenes that made her blush. Apparently, denied other outlets for their energy, it went into suggestive figures.
While the small drove of five ships –both of theirs and three others belonging to distant cousins—were being packed with valuable spices, silk and teas, Riga really wasn’t sure it was morally worth it. Mirr was pretty. Mirr was also a filthy dump as far as attitudes, decency and anything beyond decadently carved stone and flowers.
“Amar Rabas,” Father interrupted diplomatically. When the man looked up from his flogging, he continued, “We are grateful for your hospitality. It is time to retire to our inn for the day. I hope to see you again tomorrow, as we prepare to leave.”
The amar rose, and the girl crawled to her knees and bowed low. He glanced at her, snapped, “Get to the kitchen,” then turned back to his guests. “Of course, Gunde. May I host you for dinner tomorrow? A feast in farewell before you eat ship rations?”
“My son and I would be honored,” Father said. Of course, Riga was only a daughter and was not mentioned here, anymore than a dog would be.
They bowed all around, and departed, as the girl scurried limping away, taking the tray and towel with her.
Once outside and out of earshot, Riga muttered, “I think I’d prefer ship biscuits and salted meat to hospitality such as his.”
“They are not a nice people,” Father agreed. “But we need the trading stop. If we could only transport across the lake back home and stay solvent, I’d do that. We need proper trading voyages now and then, though. It’s also good learning for you two.”
“We need to learn that some people are pure evil?” Erki asked.
“The amar is brutal even by our warrior standards,” Father said, “but he is not evil. At least their trade is honest, and tariffs fair. They’ve held off Miklamar’s encroachments so far. If you want evil, you remember the refugees fleeing that murderous thug.”
“I do,” Erki said as he rubbed his stubby thumb. So did Riga. She vividly remembered him losing half that thumb when the two youths had had to be warriors and guides for those refugees.
“Tonight is our last night in the inn,” Father said. “We’ll remain aboard ship, under tent, until we leave.”
“Oh, good,” Riga said. “I prefer our tent to their opulence. It’s friendlier.” Nothing about this city was friendly, except the other traders and embassies. Of course, they weren’t of this city. Riga wore heavy clothes despite the mild weather, and no sword. Erki and Father carried swords. They were her protectors. Her status: none. At home she wore her cat-jeweled sword, and no one would be silly enough to ask if she knew its use.
The feast was not a happy event. It could have been, but . . .
Riga had no complaints about the food. She didn’t like being behind a curtain at a second, remote table set up for women, where she ate with the wives and servants. She didn’t like getting what were basically the leavings from the men. The entertainment would be better if she could actually see it, rather than just hear hints of it past the curtain. The food was wonderful, though, redolent with spices and rich and savory. The manner took getting used to. One formed rice into balls, or tore pieces of bread, and just reached in to scoop up the saucy mess.
Even at the women’s table, there was a hierarchy. The senior wife sat at the far end. Her two junior wives flanked her, and the wives and concubines of two other guests sat down from there. Riga guessed her position at a table end was of some status, and two daughters flanked her. Between were the servants.
A warm, sweet smell seemed to indicate dessert, or at least a dessert. There’d been two so far. Jesrin served the men, then came through to serve the women.
As she leaned past Riga to place a platter of pastry down, her layered gown slipped, revealing some shoulder.
Riga almost recoiled in horror at what she glimpsed. That delicate shoulder was a mass of blood blisters, bruises and welts. Their color indicated they were healing, but he’d laid into this girl horribly.
Steeling herself, she said nothing, made no acknowledgement—servants weren’t people here—and ate quietly. The food was good. It would have been twice as good if she’d been granted the courtesy of eating with the men. She reminded herself that her own people regarded her a warrior. No insults here could change that.
Of course, Father had asked that she diplomatically not discuss any of her “manly” skills. While she knew weaving, and a little of spinning, she knew much more of boatkeeping and lading, numbers, letters, horse care and maneuver. The women chatted amiably about textiles and art, and Riga just nodded and smiled.
Jesrin sli
pped back through a few minutes later, came over, and discreetly handed Riga a slip of parchment, which Riga just as discreetly opened in her lap and read.
“We are staying here tonight. Your room will be across the hall from mine—GundeFather.”
If there was one thing Riga didn’t want to do, it was stay here, beneath her status. She momentarily raged inside.
It wasn’t just being treated as an inferior. It was that it didn’t matter what her status was, didn’t matter her skills. She could run the business herself if need be. She lacked Father’s decades, but she had a grounding in all the basics and plenty of her own travels and deals, and war. But here, just being born female meant that she was beneath a horse, even beneath a dog, and wouldn’t even be treated with contempt. She just wouldn’t be treated with at all. The offered hospitality was for Father and Erki, not her. Her room was a mere courtesy to Father, otherwise they’d stick her in a hole with the servants, she was sure.
After that, she withdrew completely from the conversation, and just steamed silently, until Jesrin led her up the marble stairs, long after the men had retreated, and to a frilly, dainty, girly room. It was very lavish, of course. See how well the amar treats even a daughter of a trader?
“If you need,” Jesrin said, “That cord will ring a bell below. I’ll hurry right up.”
“You won’t sleep yourself?” Riga asked.
Jesrin seemed confused by Riga’s accent, or perhaps the question itself.
“Of course I’ll wake up. It’s my duty to serve. If I’m not available, then Aysa will come.”
“Thank you, though I’ll be fine. You’ve been so gracious.”
Jesrin replied with a demure bow. “Thank you, all I do is on behalf of my lord.”
Riga couldn’t wait, so asked, “Jesrin, would you like me to look at your shoulder? I may have a salve that will help.”
“Oh, Miss Riga, you are gracious, no. The housemistress is taking care of it. I will be fine.” The poor girl seemed embarrassed and ashamed just to discuss it.
Girl. Jesrin was easily a year older than Riga’s seventeen. Yet Riga was a woman among her people, able to run her household, sign contracts, travel freely or as mistress of a mission. Jesrin seemed younger, frailer, helpless. She could manage any number of chores, but had no voice, was illiterate and a glorified pet. Riga could give orders to laborers and warriors. Jesrin wouldn’t know how even if she could.
With nothing else to offer, Riga said, “Then I shall retire. I hope to see you in the morning, and please rest. You’ve made me most comfortable, thank you.”
“A blessing on you.” Jesrin bowed and withdrew with what looked like a happy smile. It made Riga shudder.
The next morning, Riga awoke to sun peeking through chiseled piercework in the shutters. The weather was wonderfully mild. The bed was silken over feathers, with a very fine cotton sheet.
Riga would gladly give it all up to keep her status.
A breakfast of fruit and pastry sat on a tray near the door. She snagged a couple of fat strawberries and a roll, partly to quiet her stomach and partly to be polite to Jesrin and the other servants. She didn’t care what the amar thought and was pretty sure he wouldn’t even ask how she’d fared. She rebraided her hair, threw a scarf over it to appease local customs, and opened the door.
No one was around, so she crept across and tapped on what she hoped was Father’s door. She could hear his voice, and Erki’s, and that brightened her mood a lot.
He swung the door open and said, “Welcome, Daughter! I’m sure you’re dreading returning to the Sea Fox.”
“Oh, yes, very much Father.” Please get me out of here now, her mind and face said.
Once downstairs, she stood back while Father, Erki and the amar exchanged bows. She wasn’t expected to participate, for which she was glad.
A few minutes later they were striding down the broad, dusty street toward the port.
Erki said, “I’ll be glad to eat normal food. I got sick of the rich, fancy stuff very quickly.”
“I enjoyed the food. Not the company. I wish I could have. Jesrin seems like a nice girl,” she said.
“She does. He sent her to my room an hour after bed last night,” Father admitted.
“Oh, Father, you didn’t!” she exclaimed.
“Of course I didn’t,” he replied with a grimace and shiver. “Gods, she’s barely older than you, girl. Ugh.” He cringed again. “I bid her sit and talk for a while, gave her some medicine for the pain and some herbs to help heal. They don’t do that here, either. Herbs are the work of the devils. She wasn’t easy to convince, but I promised her I’d never mention it. Then I made her sleep on the divan. She seemed both grateful and put upon.”
Riga wasn’t sure she parsed that, but no matter. “Thank you,” she replied.
“For what? Not bedding a child? I need no thanks for that.” He sounded annoyed.
“I wish we could help her. Buy her, perhaps?”
Father leaned up and back, and met her eyes.
“I know you mean well, but no. Her looks make her highly prized.”
“You could ask,” she said. “I have my share to pledge against the cost.”
He sighed and looked uncomfortable.
“Riga, His Beneficent Excellency was struck by your stature and eyes. He offered me a sack of saffron and your weight in gold for your hand for his son.”
Riga choked and stared wide-eyed. Great gods. That was more than both their ships were worth. They might do that gross business in five years.
Feeling nervous ripples, she asked, “And you told him . . . ?”
“I said you were to be betrothed to a wealthy merchant in our lands, but his offer was most generous and thoughtful. I thanked him for the compliment he paid me as a father and merchant.”
Seeing her sunken expression, he added, “Riga, she’s got good food, a warm bed and shelter. Her lot as a free peasant would be no better in this desert. It would be worse. You can’t save everyone. Remember the birds? And the rabbit?”
Yes, she’d tried to save injured animals when younger.
“You stewed them,” she said accusingly.
“I only stewed them after you tried to save them and they died. They were meant for the pot anyway.”
“I didn’t appreciate it at the time,” she said.
Erki said, “If a Kossaki treated a woman like that, he’d be driven from town in disgrace. It’s a strange place. You should have been treated better, Riga. I’m sorry.”
“It keeps me humble,” she said, trying for self-deprecating humor. Few places gave women the status the Kossaki had. This place, though . . .
“Well, tonight we sleep in linen and wool and fur,” Father said. “We have dried goat and fish, berries and nuts. I’ll see about a stew.”
Erki said, “Let me, Father? I’ll be glad to make us some real food.” He leaned over and added, “And I promise not to cook any stray pets you find, Riga.”
She stuck her tongue out. “You cook. I have to help tally the goods, the tariffs and the port fees. Then Father can sign it and pretend I’m just a dumb girl.”
“I’ll pretend nothing,” he said. “They can assume whatever they wish.”
Under the sail-tent, Riga couldn’t sleep. The contrast between the beauty and the evil just seemed to make the evil that much more horrifying.
The girl had been beaten for the slightest of errors, because it “embarrassed” her owner. Then she’d been sent to whore for a guest, while still full of welts and crippling bruises. That was considered redemption here . . . for the amar.
That thought decided it for her. Riga rolled her quilt off carefully, slipped to the deck, and felt for her boots.
In minutes, she was dressed for her mission, and in a way no woman should dare dress in this city. That made it both joyous and sobering. She could wind up dead for what she planned, even if she didn’t succeed.
Erki was still and undisturbed, and she figured to leave him there
. He was handsome even asleep, and she smiled. Then she realized there was one thing she needed him for, if nothing else.
She touched him on the shoulder, and his eyes snapped open.
She held a finger to her lips in a shhh! and beckoned him to join her.
He slipped his feet out and fumbled for clothes and gear. He was always twitchy and energetic, but at least he was silent about it.
He seemed excited, probably because he knew she was up to something. Would he be agreeable when he found out what, though? He matched her choice of dull fighting clothes. When she pointed, he grabbed his sword without hesitation.
A few minutes later, they shimmied over the gunwale and onto the beach. None of the crew were awake or had noticed. Some of them were still in rooms in town, in fact, and would only return in time to push off, she hoped. If they were late . . .
Erki whispered, “What are we doing?”
“We’re going to rescue that servant girl, Jesrin.”
“You haven’t discussed this with Father, have you?” he asked at once.
Damn the boy.
“No,” she admitted. “This is my plan.”
“He’ll thrash us both,” Erki said. “How will that help her?”
“He’ll thrash us because we deserve it,” she said. “That girl got far more than that.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you,” he said. “But how do we keep her from being found?”
With that first part agreed, she started creeping across the beach. “She only has to keep out of sight in our ship. The drove leaves in the morning. With luck, they won’t even start looking this way by then.”
“If they do, Father might just give us to them. We’ll be endangering everyone.”
“Really. I thought we were warriors and nations quivered at our mention,” she said with contemptuous sarcasm.
“Not as much as they did long past,” Erki said. “Look, I’m still with you.”
Tour of Duty: Stories and Provocation Page 19
