by Victor Poole
Ajalia opened her arms wide, and the eyes of the people moved to her.
"You have been gracious to accept our foreign ways into your city," Ajalia said. She thought she could see a grim tension at the corners of the Thief Lord's mouth; she thought that he was remembering the previous day in the market, when she had refused to speak Slavithe. She kept her eyes impassive and hooded, her gaze directed at the space above the Thief Lord's front door.
"In my fear," Ajalia continued loudly, "that I should offend, I have prepared a second offering. It is my hope," she said, as the rustle of anticipation began to stir the Slavithe people behind her, "that my obedience to your customs will smooth the way for the trading I will yet bring to your fair land."
Ajalia began to turn very slowly in a circle. Her eyes passed over the Thief Lord's wife, whose mouth was open, and whose tongue was just showing between her narrow lips. She gazed over the vapid young boy beside her, and over Delmar, who was pressed uncomfortably against the corner of the white stone building.
Ajalia's false black beard was full in the sunlight now, and the golden dust matched the shimmer over and beneath her eyes. She turned until she faced the crowd of gray-robed Slavithe people, and opened her palms to them. Her back was to the Thief Lord and his family, and for a brief moment, she unleashed the full power of her master's extraordinary smile. It was a smile of childish glee, and of exuberant delight. Ajalia saw many of the still forms of the Slavithe people smile reflexively back at her. They clutched still the unlit tapers in their hands. Ajalia turned back to the Thief Lord, and the smile passed away from her face.
"I give unto the Thief Lord," Ajalia proclaimed, "Yelin."
Yelin was ready for this; she swept out from behind the column of slaves, and made the skirts of her silken dress swirl in the early sun.
An audible gasp rose from the crowd. Ajalia saw the Thief Lord's face turn white, and his wife's hands rose involuntarily to her neck. Yelin's long golden hair had been made to curl in a curtain of luxury over her shoulders, and the finely wrought skirts of her dress were set off by the pinpricks of small false gems. Yelin's reddened hands fluttered like birds through the air, and she moved lightly towards the ruling family of Slavithe.
Ajalia watched closely as Yelin approached the Thief Lord. Lim's eyes followed the progress of his new bride. They were both watching for the same thing, and when Yelin looked up at the Thief Lord's face, Lim's mouth hardened into a sharp line. Yelin bounded lightly away from the Thief Lord, and moved to his wife.
Ajalia felt Philas stir at her shoulder, but she raised a hand to still him. Yelin bowed deeply before the Thief Lord's wife, and extended her hands towards the tall woman. Ajalia studied the face of Yelin's new mistress. A blush of childish pleasure had overcome the tall woman's cheeks, and her eyes had brightened. She looked younger than she had. The Thief Lord's wife raised Yelin to her feet, and began to circle her, the tapering ends of her fingers brushing the slave's dress and hair.
The Thief Lord stepped out a little into the street, and raised his hands.
"The Feast of Beautiful Things is ended," the Thief Lord commanded.
Ajalia heard a great rustling behind her; she did not turn. Her eyes went to Delmar, who was still pressed to the wall, his eyes turned towards the ground. She looked at Delmar's brothers, and the naked lust in their eyes startled her. She glanced at Lim, and saw that he had not missed the curious looks of desire that overlay the two young men's faces. She felt Philas rustle behind her again, and she turned to look at the crowd of Slavithe people.
"Be still," she murmured to Philas in Slavithe. She knew that Delmar was watching her now; she could feel his gaze.
"Yelin is not safe," Philas whispered. His eyes were turned towards the female slave, who was holding out her sleeve for the tall woman to examine. "They are barbarians."
"Lim will protect his wife," Ajalia hissed. "You look like a fool."
Philas made a sound like a burning snake. Ajalia's mouth had curved into an angry snarl beneath her beard. The crowd of Slavithe people had lit their tapers now, and their gray robes had been thrown back. Great swaths of colored fabric were revealed; here were the dresses and tunics like those Ajalia had seen hanging in Eccsa's house. The clothes were finer than those the Slavithe people wore on other days. The clothes were made of the soft, coarse cloth Ajalia had found here, but the stitches were neater, and the fabric had been cut and folded into pleasant shapes.
The clothing on Ajalia and the other slaves shone out among the crowd of Slavithe fabric like gems among rough stones; their silks and shining jewels caught the light from the sun, and made ribbons of color against the white stone streets and walls.
"You should say something," Philas muttered.
"In the name of all the holy ones," Ajalia said under her breath, "get ahold of yourself, Philas."
"I am not happy," Philas murmured.
The colored wax tapers in the hands of the Slavithe people were burning down; the slender lights were dripping hot wax over the hands of the Slavithe that held them; Ajalia could see painful red welts raising up on their hands.
"Look," she said, her eyes directed at the long lines of Slavithe. Philas looked.
"Is there something wrong with them?" he asked quietly.
"They believe in magic here," she murmured.
Philas turned back towards the Thief Lord's house. The Thief Lord had put his head close to Lim, who was making broad gestures in the air, and speaking quickly. The Thief Lord's second son had come close to his father. The youngest son was hovering close to his mother, his eyes and hands moving along with the skirts of Yelin's gray silk dress.
Ajalia could not tear her eyes away from the horrible welts that were dripping over the Slavithe people's hands and fingers. The tapers were very thin, and the wicks burned down quickly. The colored wax dripped down until it reached the white stone road, where it puddled into thick drops. Ajalia's fingers crept to the scars on her wrists and arms, where she had cut away the branding long ago.
"I don't like it," Philas said.
"Hello," Delmar said.
Philas's mouth snapped up; he looked like a grumpy fish.
"The ceremony isn't over yet," Delmar said chattily to Ajalia. He was not looking at her. "The wax has to burn away, and then there will be dancing."
Ajalia's boy wormed his way through the line of slaves. He had a flask clapped in his hands.
"Philas," the boy said.
"Not here," Ajalia said to the boy.
"Get away," Philas hissed, but it was too late. Delmar had seen what the boy held.
"I'll come and find you later," Delmar said, and went away into the Thief Lord's house.
Philas's cheeks were burning. Ajalia kept her eyes on the Thief Lord and his family. She was waiting for the man to notice the crowds of people, and the growing puddles of wax. One by one, the tapers burnt away. The people let the last bits of wax drop to the ground, and peeled the cooling wax away from their reddened hands.
AJALIA PLANS AHEAD
The slaves behind Ajalia were shifting slightly in the growing sun; the light had crept into the street, and the air was tinged with red. The Thief Lord's wife led Yelin into the tall white house, and the two sons followed her. The Thief Lord clapped his hands loudly, and the Slavithe people let out a ragged cheer. Their gray cloaks had dropped to the ground, and were trampled into the wax droppings on the street. A small group of musicians came out of the Thief Lord's house, and began to play a rollicking dance, and the Slavithe people made a long line down the center of the street.
When the Thief Lord went into his house, and closed the door, Ajalia breathed easier. She led Philas and the other slaves to line up against the edge of the houses, out of the way of the dancers. The boy reappeared, and passed the flask to Philas, who disappeared around the corner.
"He's a fool," the boy whispered to Ajalia.
"He's embarrassed," she told the boy.
"If he was going to be embarrassed ab
out being a drunk, he shouldn't have become a drunk," the boy said. The slaves nearest the boy snickered. Ajalia glanced at them, but said nothing.
"Yelin's going to keep the dress," one of the slaves told her neighbor. Ajalia did not look at the slaves, but she listened. Her black silk beard quivered in an early morning breeze. The sun was not baking yet, but the air had the stale feeling of an early day that had stopped progressing. The shouts and sounds of the dancing Slavithe couples bounced hollowly against the sides of the houses. The music played by the little band was vigorous and sprightly, but the dancers did not move with joy.
"I like the other man," the boy told Ajalia. The boy was leaning against the white stone wall, and his eyes were idly watching the dancers move up and down the street.
"What man?" Ajalia asked.
"The one in love with you," the boy said. "He's nice."
Ajalia said nothing. The gold flakes under her eyes were sending gleams of yellow light into her eyes. She could feel the weight of the slim leather book against her chest. She wanted to go somewhere quiet to study the stone rectangle. She wanted to read some of the old words in the book. She hoped that the book would tell her something about the strange customs of the Slavithe people. The sheaf of papers was still tucked into her inner robe as well; the papers were starting to get bent and ragged from being carried so much. She thought of the empty room she had taken in the tenement, and of the old woman who had been waiting in the room the last time she had gone there. She did not want to leave anything lying around for the old woman to pick up, or destroy. She wondered if Delmar had managed to find anything to eat in his mother's house.
Philas reappeared, and pushed Ajalia's boy aside. They were standing in front of the wall nearest the Thief Lord's house. Ajalia thought that the streets were so empty because of the barbaric custom of the melted tapers; she did not think many of the Slavithe people would go out of their way to hold hot wax if they could help it.
"What about the quarry?" Philas asked Ajalia.
She looked at him.
"The offering is taken to the quarry, and eaten by the sun," Philas said.
"I don't know," Ajalia said. "Delmar told me that there is only one offering, usually."
"This is going to the quarry today," Delmar said.
Philas jumped. Delmar had appeared at his side. The sandy-haired Slavithe was holding out a long sliver of pinkish stone.
"Is that the offering from last year?" Ajalia asked. She was beginning to get used to the way Delmar materialized around her.
"You can come with me after the dance," Delmar offered.
"Not like this," Ajalia said. Her silk beard quivered up and down when she spoke.
"Most people don't recognize us under the paint," Philas pointed out stiffly. Delmar ignored him.
"Do you want to come with me?" he asked Ajalia's boy.
"All right," the boy said.
"Wait," Philas said.
"Let him go," Ajalia told Philas. Philas made a face as though he smelled something foul.
"Cheer up," Delmar told Philas. "The quarries are hot and dusty."
"We'll have a terrible time there," Ajalia's boy added.
"They'll be gone for hours," Ajalia added.
Philas sniffed.
"Do you want us to wait for you?" Delmar asked Ajalia.
"I have to see my people," Ajalia told him. She did not say that some of her people lived in the quarry. She wanted to keep Philas from following her around today.
"You don't have people," Philas said. Ajalia had never noticed before how utterly prissy Philas could be.
"Is the dancing going to go on much longer?" Ajalia asked Delmar.
"No," he said, gesturing to the line of couples that filled the street. They were whirling in a set motion, one couple after another dancing up to the corner and then back. Ajalia saw that the couples were beginning to vanish around the street corner, when they returned from their turn up the street. The piles of gray robes were scattered up and down the street, like piles of dead animals. Ajalia stared at the masses of fabric. She wanted to ask Delmar why the Slavithe people had not retrieved their robes. The fabric looked softer than the coarse brown clothes the people wore every day, and the color was fine and even. Ajalia could not conceive of a place where such masses of fine clothing could be left in the street, trampled into wax, and abandoned by people who surely could not afford to throw away such voluminous pieces of cloth.
Ajalia glanced to one side; she could see a maid peering out of the Thief Lord's house, staring at her. She did not want to stay in the street any longer than she had to. Her long row of slaves was chattering gaily, pointing and clapping along to the music.
The last dancing couple vanished around the corner, and with a rapid sweep of their instruments, the musicians ceased playing, and retreated into the Thief Lord's house. Ajalia kept the surprise out of her face; she knew she was being watched, at least by the Thief Lord's servants, and possibly by other residents of the street, who could be concealed behind the darkened windows and balconies of the houses.
The door to the Thief Lord's house made a final click behind the last musician, and the street was suddenly bare.
"Do you want these?" Delmar asked, going over to the jumble of trampled cloaks, and nudging one with his foot.
Ajalia had retreated into the character of her master. She made a sign to the slaves, and they straightened into double columns.
"Stay with me until the little house," Ajalia told her boy in the Eastern tongue, and he nodded. "Touch nothing in the street," she commanded the slaves in their own language.
With a rustle of silks, and a padding of tough desert shoes, the slaves of the caravan passed down the street, and back towards the little house.
The journey back to the little house was silent and long. Chad had vanished, and Delmar tagged along behind the last of the slaves. He had scooped up three of the gray robes, and was picking out pieces of colored wax from the fabric as he walked. Philas was silent at Ajalia's shoulder; she could feel displeasure rolling off him in waves.
Ajalia was beginning to feel weighed down with the coins against her waist. She missed the feeling of her horse between her knees, and the desert sun in her hair. The white walls of stone echoed her footsteps back at her; the city seemed utterly deserted.
After what seemed like an age, the procession of slaves reached the quiet little house. Ajalia's boy darted in front of her, and unlocked the door. Ajalia went into the house; she sank down onto the makeshift sofa, and laid her head back on the rim of wood that lay behind her.
The column of slaves streamed into the house like a flock of swallows. They loosened their silk trappings, and took off their gaudy gems. Philas sat gingerly at the edge of the couch. The red gems in his hair glittered in the morning sunlight that filtered in through the windows. One of the slaves pulled open the window coverings, and a stream of light fell into the room.
Ajalia ignored Philas. He had placed his hands primly over his knees, and was glancing at her meaningfully. Ajalia sat forward with a sigh, and began to tease the black silk beard away from her jaw.
"I'll get the pouch for you," Philas said quickly, and jumped to his feet. Philas made Ajalia feel tired; he seemed to load her down with unutterable obligations. She loosened the wrap of coins around her waist, and adjusted the sheaf of papers in her robes, so that they sat behind the leather book.
"Here," Philas said. He handed her the pouch, and a piece of cloth.
"What do you want, Philas?" Ajalia asked. She wet the cloth with a little ointment, and pressed it against to the glue she had used on her skin.
Philas remained standing over her; his arms were folded deeply into his thick robe.
"The offering seemed to go over well," he said. His voice had a veneer of cheer over it that Ajalia found cloying.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"The silks will sell well," Philas said.
"I have a feeling we won't sell any silks
at all," Ajalia said. Her eyes moved restlessly over the large painting that was hung on the opposite wall. She could see the picture clearly now. The painting depicted a large crowd of people who were gathered around a deep well of black water. In the center of the well was a large white tree that seemed to be constructed of animal bones. The people were raising their hands to the sky, and some of them had the black water cupped in their hands.
Ajalia could feel something deep within her body shifting. She felt as though her soul were changing shape.
"Philas," she said. Her voice had something new in it.
"Yes," Philas said. His eyes were alert.
"I am having a thought," Ajalia said. She glanced at the open window. She had been speaking in Slavithe, but she drew Philas nearer to her, and changed to the Eastern tongue. The room was mostly emptied of slaves. Ajalia's boy had gone out with Delmar, and Chad had not appeared. Philas barked at the remaining slaves to get out, and they trickled up the stairs.
"Something is wrong in the Thief Lord's family," Ajalia told Philas quietly in the Eastern language. Philas was watching her closely. His mouth was firm, and his cheeks were uncharacteristically still. He waited for her to continue.
"Theoretically," Ajalia said, "if the caravan were to break up—" She glanced swiftly at Philas. His eyes were sharp, and his mouth was very still. Ajalia did not say any more.
"I see," Philas said.
"What do you see?" Ajalia asked.
Philas studied her carefully. His eyes were free of the cloud she had come to see as his drunkenness, and his body was poised for action. She thought there was a chance that she would be able to trust him.
"You're saying that someone might steal the silks," Philas said.
"I'm saying the profit will vanish in mysterious ways," she told him. "I don't know what will happen. I don't know how she will manage it."
"Who?" Philas asked.
"The Thief Lord's wife," Ajalia said. She watched Philas's eyes. "I was looking at her, when Yelin came out of the line of slaves. There is something wrong with her. I think she is going to take everything."
