by Kate Elliott
She glances at her uncle. “Spider fears she is not good enough to win a victory as a Challenger.”
“That is not what I said!” I blurt out, my pride stung. Then I wince. Such presumption will get me whipped.
Gargaron hands off the platter to a servant, then moves up beside me. He places a ringed hand on the balustrade, boxing me in between them. A white scar arcs over one of his knuckles, like he parried a knife blade with a fist.
“Then what did you mean, Jessamy?”
I see the path and take it, for they will account my words as competitiveness and never guess I have an ulterior motive. “My inexperience hurts me. Never doubt that I will work my way up in time, for I intend to gain the rank of Illustrious. But meanwhile all the glory that shines on me now will fade.” A hunk of bread still warms my fingers. “The bread that rises too fast may collapse. Sudden fame is not always a boon, my lord.”
“True. I know your mind is working all the time, Jessamy. Do you have some idea you wish to share with me?”
Amaya could manage this with more subtlety. I decide to bull my way through, because that is what he expects. I just have to hope he grabs for the bait.
“The skill of Challengers here in Saryenia is much higher than that of the provinces. I don’t fear the competition. Not at all. But if I lose too many times I’ll lose the favor of the crowd.” The emotion that grips my throat like the heady taste of ambition is no lie, no theater. It is real. “If you send me to run in the provinces I could gain valuable experience against opponents of a more comparable skill level, and thus have a better chance of more victories.”
“It speaks well of you that you hate to lose, Spider. There may be a solution that will meet all our needs.”
“What is that, Uncle?” asks Menoë, startled and suspicious.
But my hopes rise, and I have to battle to keep my expression blank.
“Nothing to do with you, Menoë. My tour to check up on the finances of our far-flung estates begins next month. Bringing a few adversaries with me to hone their skills on the provincial circuit will heighten awareness of Garon Palace and our royal connections throughout the land, which also serves our greater purpose.”
I clamp down on a rush of triumph, but a grin escapes anyway, a big smile that I have to force off my face by coughing.
He doesn’t even notice as he plucks a sculpture of bread off the platter now held by a patient servant. It has a narrow neck and stubby wings, meant to resemble the firebird who rises from the ashes of defeat, the symbol my father always uses to identify himself. Ripping off the firebird’s head, Gargaron chews and swallows while he contemplates.
“This will do very well. Menoë, make sure you hire poets to gabble about Spider’s provincial tour. News of her victories must be trumpeted about here in Saryenia.”
A frown withers her pretty features. “But with Spider’s help I have been making such good progress on working my way into the confidence of Serenissima and the boy, Uncle. He dotes on Spider. He’ll be distressed if she leaves.”
“With your lovely face, polished manners, and sharp wit I am sure you can flatter this monstrous prince into falling in love with you instead.”
A startling glimpse of enmity surfaces from below the false serenity of her face. “Exactly the words you said to me on the day I left for East Saro on the happy occasion of my first marriage, Uncle. We all know what came of that.”
Gargaron slips the whip from his belt and lays it athwart the railing. “Let us not raise the ghost of unpleasant gossip and the imprudence of your indelicate actions.”
A mask of fury turns Menoë’s beauty into stone, but my excitement drives her ugly past out of my head. Tears prick at my eyes from sheer, brutal joy. Gargaron has no idea of the chance he’s given me.
Amaya and I are going to find Bettany and bring her home to Mother.
13
Lord Gargaron and his entourage leave Saryenia in a cavalcade of carriages and supply wagons. Tana, Mis, Dusty, and I travel in the last carriage. It takes most of the day to swing around the vast expanse of Mist Lake, but by midafternoon we reach the fields of a Garon estate, strung along irrigation channels that link it to the water. Laborers dot the fields. Many are molding bricks and setting them out in rows to dry while others plant wheat.
“Let’s get out and run the rest of the way,” I suggest. “We need to keep up our training.”
“Go ahead.”
Given Tana’s permission, we three adversaries trace a winding path through the fields. I get a decent look at the workers, who pause to stare as we race past. Many of the men have the posture of former soldiers, and the familiarity of the stance, so like my father’s, fools me into thinking there is someone I know here. But I didn’t really expect to find Bettany or anyone from our old household so close to the city. I just want to set a precedent, to get the guards used to us ranging off on our own, because that gives me a chance to search.
We pause to catch our breath at the ruins of an abandoned building. Standing atop its tumbled brick walls, we gaze over the lake. It’s too far to see the south shore or any trace of Saryenia. There’s nothing but a distant sail seeming to float in the haze. Here, away from the city’s incessant voice, the ancient heart of the earth speaks through the feel of the wind on my face and the pressure of heat on my eyes and the scent of earth and vegetation and rot, that which is born, grows, and dies.
“I’ve never been so far from home,” I say in a low voice, a little shaken by the view. “The land seems so wide out here, like it could go on forever.”
“You haven’t seen ‘forever’ until you’ve seen the desert,” says Dusty with a laugh. “This is nothing compared to the endless wilderness that lies beyond the fields of my village. Let’s go. I’m thirsty. The best beer in Efea is village beer.”
We arrive at the gate of the main estate compound at the same time as the carriages. As Denya and Amaya alight from the third carriage, Amaya flashes an “all’s well” hand sign at me that Father taught us girls. I allow myself to relax as a steward shows us to the stable. It’s an actual stable where animals are housed, where we are given a stall with hay for our beds and a single flimsy cot, presumably for Tana.
“You can get your wash water from the horse trough,” the steward says. “At the back door of the kitchen you can get food.”
My mouth drops open, and yet I can’t think of anything to say.
As soon as the steward leaves, Mis prods the cot with a toe. “This is insulting.”
With his usual good-natured grin, Dusty tosses his gear down. “I’ve slept and washed in worse places. At least it’s well kept!”
“Pick your gear back up, my lad.” With the blandest expression on her always-calm face, Tana uses a foot to flip over the cot. “We’ll sleep in the guesthouse in the village. And eat there and bathe there too.”
“Will they welcome us like people do in the city?” I ask.
“Of course they will,” says Tana. “Anyway, I grew up here. Now come along.”
The village lies a short walk from the main compound down a path lined by fig and pomegranate trees. Children spot us and run ahead to give warning. The dames greet us with food. It’s a prosperous village with many houses linked by walkways and a complete, if simple, Fives court at the center. By the time Tana has raced us through our paces on the court it is dusk, and most of the village has gathered to cheer us on. Afterward we bathe with the fieldworkers in a stone-lined pool.
It’s easy to strike up conversations. They’re a sunnier group than I would have guessed village laborers to be, happy to ask about goings-on in Saryenia, a place many visit only once a year. When I carefully remark about a barge full of prisoners that left the city three months ago they scoff; criminals aren’t welcome on an estate like this, they tell me. As law-abiding people, they have a contract with Princess Berenise.
“You’re paid for your labor?” I ask, trying to hide my astonishment for fear of insulting them.
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p; “We are allowed to keep a third of the harvest, very generous terms.”
A third doesn’t seem generous to me, but Tana explains that on other estates the entire harvest belongs to the Patron lord and the workers get nothing except a daily ration.
The eldest dame speaks up. “Princess Berenise sponsored an entire regiment of men from this region into the Royal Army, including my son, Inarsis, whom you may have met at your stable.”
Startled, I look more closely at the old woman with her silver hair and wrinkled face, but I don’t see a resemblance. “I have met him. I suppose she must have gained some profit by placing Commoners in the army?”
“People are complicated, Jes,” says Tana as if my frown reveals my thoughts. “When Princess Berenise saw what a promising adversary I was, she paid for my training in Saryenia. She saw profit in me, of course, but that’s not all there is to her.”
“Good fortune for you,” I say politely, knowing the truth: they may think highly of the old princess, but she sat in that warehouse counting her gold while women and children were penned up outside in the hot sun before being dragged away into servitude.
Weeks later I stand atop a victory tower overlooking a town called Akheres Oasis. Beyond the town wall stretch fields of wheat and stands of date palms. The vegetation is irrigated by canals dug out from two shallow lakes whose shores are choked by reeds. Birds swarm the waters. The smell and richness of the oasis contrast with the stony red dirt and high ridges of the desert that surround this dazzling spot of green.
The court’s terraced seats are packed and the crowd unusually appreciative, the air thick with whistles and cheers. Victor’s ribbon tied to my vest, I descend the ladder. As is the custom in the provinces, the losing adversaries gather at the foot of the ladder to salute the victor with the kiss-off sign and to share a cup of honey mead. No one drinks nectar this far from the royal palace.
“Big crowd today,” says one of my opponents, a cheerful Challenger named Henta who in Saryenia would still be running at Novice level. Outside Saryenia it is odd how few Efeans have bothered to learn the language of the ruling Saroese. In the city any Efean who wants to get ahead has to learn it. “People are excited to see adversaries from outside Akheres Oasis. You minded to have a drink with us later? We meet at a tavern called the Adversary Kiss.”
“My thanks. I’d like that.” I would enjoy her company, I’m sure, and the chance to pump her for information, since this is our last stop. After this we return by an arduous route south across the desert to the sea and thence by ship to Saryenia. “But I’ll have to get permission.”
The younger of the two male adversaries blurts, “Are you a slave? I hear that in Saryenia the Saroese have turned all Efeans into slaves, not like out here where we can still work for ourselves.”
Mortification heats my cheeks.
Henta says, “For shame, Khamu. Apologize at once.”
“It’s all right.” I’m not used to Efean manners, whereby women may chide men in public without repercussion. “It’s not that simple. But it is true that if not for my skill at the Fives I might have ended up laboring in the mines. That’s supposed to be dreadful work. There is a royal gold mine near here, isn’t there?”
I launch a smile at Khamu, hoping he’ll speak more freely if I charm him. The woman chokes down a laugh, probably because my attempt at flirting is so clumsy.
He stands straighter to impress the city girl who just beat him, although to be honest his big ears and round face don’t attract me. “Yes, the royal gold mine, north of town. It’s the richest vein of gold in Efea,” he brags, as if he is personally responsible.
“Who works the mine? I thought it was only criminals.” I decide against fluttering my eyelashes as Amaya would because I am sure it would merely look as if I had gotten something caught in my eye.
He is eager to enlighten me. “Skilled workmen are needed for many of the jobs. My uncle is a miner and makes a good living, though it is always dangerous. But the worst of the dirty, backbreaking work is all done by shackled criminals.”
“Where do the prisoners come from?”
“A group from Saryenia came in about three months ago, not long after that foreign doctor showed up.”
I want to ask if there were women and children but I don’t know how without being awkward. “Do people from around here go to the mine often to visit their relatives? Is it far? I wonder if we will go to see it.”
Henta takes the empty cup from my hand. “Your master’s already been. He rode out at dawn to inspect the workings when he heard there’d been a collapse in one of the shafts. I believe he returned in time to watch you run, though.”
“Did men die?”
“Yes. They often do. As Khamu said, it’s dangerous work.” She hesitates, then mutters, “It’s shameful when they send women and children there, like in this most recent group. We saw them marched past. No one deserves such a punishment.”
As she speaks, a terrible image of Bettany lying broken beneath rocks fills my mind’s eye. I can’t be sure she’s here, yet where else could she be? We’ve visited every other Garon estate.
Just as I decide that Henta’s dislike of children’s being punished and Khamu’s comment about slaves mean I can risk a more direct question, a steward appears and beckons to me. Mis and Dusty have already raced and gone upstairs. I stump along, my thoughts as heavy as my leaden footfalls. How did I miss Gargaron’s morning expedition to the mine? What if Bettany and the others are there, where they most need rescuing, and we’ve lost our chance to find them?
The balconies reserved for nobles are little more than coarse stone terraces with railings made of rope, not wood. Gargaron travels with sponsored men, ambitious fellows given the opportunity to rise with the aid of his riches and influence. Men like my father. As wind rakes along a canvas awning strung up to give shade and dust gets into every possible crevice, they strive not to look disgruntled and uncomfortable.
Gargaron is entertaining a stranger, a foreign man neither Saroese nor Efean whose youth, good looks, and strangely pale hair draw the eye. Gargaron is so caught up in their conversation about the injuries suffered in the mineshaft collapse that he doesn’t notice me enter and even forgets to gesture me forward to the railing as he always does when I win. So I stride up to the rope and come to parade rest in view of the crowd. The four Challengers running the final trial are a stolid lot, their choices so boring that the crowd soon notices me and begins to cheer, “Spider! Spider!”
I extend my arms to each side in the theatrical manner I’ve taken on, as if I would make a sail of myself if only I had wings woven of spider silk. On the court an adversary slips from the high beam and barely catches himself, and immediately the crowd’s interest shifts to this near disaster. Mis and Dusty sidle over as I lower my arms.
“How did you do?” I whisper.
Dusty grins what I call his victory grin, while Mis waggles a hand to show she did neither well nor poorly.
“Spider, come here! Lord Agalar wishes to inspect you.”
Dusty lifts his chin with a side-eye glance, as if in warning, but I don’t know what he means, and anyway I have to go. As I walk over to where the two highborn men sit together, Lord Agalar stands. His hair is so light that it doesn’t look real, but it is his supercilious expression that instantly makes me dislike him. He points to a spot and, in perfect if oddly accented Saroese, says, “Place yourself there and do not move.”
I look at Gargaron, who nods. By now everyone on our balcony is watching because my barely concealed consternation is much more interesting than the dull trial below. Once I take the position, Lord Agalar paces slowly around me, studying me from all angles. A flush heats my face as I suddenly fear that a man has finally offered so much money for my favors that even Gargaron can’t refuse.
Without asking permission Agalar grasps my wrists. It takes all my self-control not to pull away. He turns my hands over to look at my palms, then cups his own palms over my shoul
ders to measure them, and finally tilts my chin back with a finger to examine my neck. His gaze isn’t amorous. It’s far more unsettling, like he means to strip skin and flesh away, flaying me down to the bone.
“Your ability to target your landings on your spins is remarkable, especially at that height when the slightest miscalculation would result in severe injury or death. What mix of parts gives you that skill?”
“Practice and boldness,” I say into his arrogant face.
Gargaron laughs.
“I advocate practice and boldness myself,” Agalar replies with a nod, oblivious to my tone. He releases me and sits down. “Very interesting, Lord Gargaron. Mules often display an endurance, intelligence, and vigor that their sires and dams lack. I have it in mind to more fully investigate this phenomenon with studies and experiments in my medical practice. Can I buy her from you?”
My heart goes cold.
“Alas, no,” says Gargaron so genially that I wonder if he is a little drunk to be so mellow. “Spider is far too valuable on the Fives court. She’s nowhere near her peak yet.”
“What about the other mule?” Agalar asks.
“Dusty, come over here,” says Gargaron as Mis stiffens, her fingers brushing Dusty’s arm as if she wants to cling to him but then dropping away.
Agalar isn’t looking at Dusty. He’s looking into a shaded corner of the balcony where Denya sits on a cushioned bench as far from Gargaron as possible. Denya is always required to accompany Gargaron in public so she may entertain any ladies who arrive with their lords, but today no one attends Denya except Amaya. They share a platter heaped with chopped dates packed inside apricot halves, a delicacy they often share as if it has a special meaning to them. Their giggling, whispering intimacy makes them appear exactly like lovers flirting in a theatrical comedy, but Gargaron never takes any notice unless he wants Denya’s attention.
