Medalon dct-1

by Jennifer Fallon

  R’shiel quickly made herself indispensable to Crisabelle. She had taken to constantly reminding people that her maid was the First Sister’s daughter, ignoring the fact that R’shiel was not even permitted to use the name Tenragan anymore or claim any familial links with Joyhinia. R’shiel found the constant reminders irritating, but they reinforced Crisabelle’s belief that she had some link with the life she felt she should be leading rather than the one she was. Crisabelle blamed Mahina, not Joyhinia, for her current circumstances and rather than take her frustration out on R’shiel, she heaped all of her woes at her mother-in-law’s door.

  Mahina was a different story, entirely. She was brusque on a good day, unbearable on others, but R’shiel liked the old woman almost as much as she secretly despised Crisabelle. They had developed a private bond, brought about by the shared burden of Crisabelle’s constant and frequently idiotic demands.

  Mahina treated Crisabelle’s pretensions of grandeur with utter contempt and made a point of deflating her daughter-in-law at every opportunity. Nobody else in the Grimfield dared to challenge Crisabelle; most simply went out of their way to avoid her. Mahina had a wicked sense of humor and a keen eye for the absurdities of life. She even joked about her own fall from grace once in a while. R’shiel wished she had found a way to warn Mahina of Joyhinia’s plans to bring her down. Had Mahina never been impeached, her life would have taken a very different course.

  With a sigh, R’shiel crossed the small village square and shifted the basket of laundry on her hip to a more comfortable position. Crisabelle invited selected officers and their wives to monthly formal dinner parties, which she loved, but everyone else, from the Commandant down, abhorred. No one in the Grimfield dared refuse an invitation. Wilem tolerated them for the sake of peace. Sitting down in his uncomfortable dress uniform once a month was vastly preferable to Crisabelle whining at him daily, and if he had to suffer it, so did his men.

  Crisabelle was agonizing over the guest list, wondering who warranted a second invitation, who warranted a first, and who she could leave off without causing offense in the tight-knit community. Mahina helpfully offered her caustic advice for no other reason than to annoy her daughter-in-law. Crisabelle’s attire for the party was almost as big a decision as the guest list, hence her hurried order to R’shiel this morning to have all her good dresses cleaned so that she could choose at the last moment.

  “One never knows how one is going to feel on the night, and one must be prepared for all eventualities,” Crisabelle had instructed her gravely this morning.

  “Knowing implies a certain need for a brain,” Mahina had muttered, a comment which Crisabelle had loftily ignored.

  R’shiel had orders to wait for the garments and to not let them out of her sight. Crisabelle didn’t trust those “thieving whores” in the laundry. She was then required to pick up a packet of herbs from the physic so that Crisabelle’s evening would not be ruined by one of her “heads.” Mahina had suggested loudly that with a head like that, it was no wonder it ached, at which point R’shiel had managed to escape the house. Mahina was in rare form today.

  “Move along!”

  R’shiel turned at the voice, stepped back against the wall of the tannery, and watched as another wagon load of prisoners trundled into the town square, as it had every week since she had been in the Grimfield. The wind was chill this morning, with winter almost over and spring doggedly trying to gain a foothold on the barren plains. They all looked desperate, she thought. Desperate and hopeless. She stopped and watched as Wilem emerged from the verandah of his office and the prisoners were lined up before him. As he had when she arrived, he glanced down the manifest, glanced at the prisoners, and gave the same orders. Send the men to the mine. Send the women to the Women’s Hall. Sometimes, when he had requests from various workhouses for personnel, he selected one or other of the convicts to be assigned elsewhere. The ritual varied little.

  As the prisoners were dispatched, the small crowd of onlookers wandered away, and Wilem caught sight of her. He beckoned her to him. She crossed the square and bobbed a small curtsy.

  “What are you doing out and about, young lady?” he asked.

  “My Lady’s washing, sir. She wasn’t sure what to wear for the dinner party on Fourthday.”

  Wilem rolled his eyes. “Well, you’d best be on your way then girl, not hanging about the square.”

  “Yes, sir,” she agreed and hurried off in the direction of the Women’s Hall.

  The Women’s Hall was actually a complex of low, gray, single-story buildings that housed the female convicts and their industries, including the laundry. R’shiel hurried through the main gate unchallenged by the guards, who knew her by sight at least, and wisely left Crisabelle’s maid strictly alone. R’shiel passed between the sleeping blocks, shivering as the shadows cut off the struggling winter sunshine. The distinct odor of lye soap hung in the still air as she crossed the small cobbled yard to the laundry to report to Sister Belda.

  “My Lady wants these washed and pressed today and told me to wait for them,” R’shiel explained. The Sister was stick-thin and old. Belda was so unlike the elegant Sisters at the Citadel, it was hard to credit she was one of them at all. She glared with pale, worn-out eyes at R’shiel before ordering a girl in prison gray forward to take the basket from her.

  “Well, you’re not waiting in here,” Belda snapped. “Come back after the noon break.”

  R’shiel backed away from the old Sister and glanced around. Despite Crisabelle’s order not to let her dresses out of her sight, R’shiel knew whose orders carried the most weight in the laundry. Belda ruled the laundry like a Defender battalion. As there was no one else about – everyone had their assigned work to do – R’shiel slipped between the buildings to the court’esa quarters to see if she could find Sunny.

  The court’esa normally slept during the day, but they frequently lazed around in the mornings and took their rest in the afternoons. Sunny could usually be found soaking up the meager sunlight after her evening’s labors, comparing notes with her cohorts. As she entered the small enclosure at the front of the sleeping quarters she found no sign of the plump little whore.

  “Well if it ain’t the Probate,” Marielle called out, as R’shiel came into sight. “You here to invite us to the Ball, no doubt?”

  Marielle, like most of the court’esa, envied R’shiel not at all. They considered a position under the constant scrutiny of the Commandant and his monstrous wife to be a dubious honor. Few of them would have traded places with her, even if offered the chance.

  “I was looking for Sunny.”

  Marielle jerked her head in the direction of the sleeping dorms. “She’s in there,” she said, her expression suddenly grim. “She’ll be glad to see you.”

  The sleeping quarters were long, narrow buildings, with bunks three tiers high running down each side, leaving a narrow corridor in the center. Each bunk had a straw-filled mattress rolled up on the end, with the few possessions of their absent occupants stuffed inside. Light filtered in from an occasional barred window and a number of cracks in the walls where the weathered wood had split and never been repaired. R’shiel gagged momentarily on the smell as she hurried inside. Marielle’s tone only partly prepared her for what she found. Sunny was lying on her narrow wooden bunk, her face turned to the wall. R’shiel gently laid her hand on the court’esa’s shoulder and gasped as Sunny rolled over to face her. Her face was a battered mess and she flinched as R’shiel touched her, indicating many more bruises under her thin shift.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Unsatisfied customer.”

  “Did you report him?”

  Sunny struggled up onto her elbow and shook her head. “Girl, how long have you been here?”

  “Sunny, the Commandant would see that he was punished. He would.”

  “Now, you listen to me. You might be living the high life, but down here in the real world it doesn’t work like that.”


  “Sunny, this is the third time this has happened to you. Why?” R’shiel had a bad feeling she already knew the answer.

  The plump court’esa grinned, making her battered face even more distorted. “Maybe I’m losing my touch.”

  “I could get you out of here. I could talk to Crisabelle or Mahina.”

  Sunny flopped back onto the bed with a groan. “Forget it, R’shiel. I’m not working for those silly old cows. Drive me loony in a week.”

  “Better loony than beaten up.”

  “Maybe.” Sunny closed her eyes. “Look, I know you mean well, but I’m not like you. You got yourself fixed up real good here, so don’t go spoiling it on my account.”

  “Do you want me to fetch Sister Prozlan?”

  “Founders, no!” Sunny groaned. “Her cures are worse than the beatings. Besides, she’d probably throw me into the box just for being trouble.”

  “Khira might come if I asked her. You need a physic.”

  “Khira’d have to report it. You know the rules.”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “No. You just get along and stay out of trouble.”

  R’shiel left her alone in the long cold building. When she emerged into the sunlight she sought out Marielle.

  “Who did it?” she asked.

  Marielle grimaced. “Who do you think?”

  R’shiel nodded and walked slowly back toward the laundry. She knew who Marielle was talking about. Three times now, in as many weeks, Loclon had beaten Sunny. Three times, had Sunny reported him, Wilem could have had him charged, maybe even whipped. Each time Sunny bore the brunt of Loclon’s temper, it was on a day when R’shiel had thwarted his attempts to intimidate her.

  The first time had been only days after her arrival in the Grimfield.

  Loclon had been called to the house to meet with Wilem on some matter, and he had caught her coming down the stairs to the kitchen as he waited in the hall. The second time had been last week while on an errand for Crisabelle. Only the fortuitous appearance of Dace in the alley behind the physic’s shop had saved her then. R’shiel was certain that Sunny’s injuries this time were a direct result of her accidental meeting with Loclon yesterday. Crisabelle had sent her to the inn to collect a bottle of mead from L’rin that the tavern keeper had ordered for her from Port Sha’rin. Loclon had been in the taproom, drinking with several other officers when she arrived. He had called her over to his table, and she had ignored him. No, she hadn’t ignored him. She had deliberately snubbed him, which had brought howls of laughter from the other officers at his table. She did not know what Loclon had said to his companions before he hailed her, but her disdain had made him look a fool.

  The guilt ate away at her like Malik’s Curse, the wasting disease that slowly consumed its victims by eating away at their internal organs. But just as there was no cure for the Curse, there was no easy way of sparing Sunny, or any other woman on whom Loclon chose to vent his frustration. Not if the alternative was to give in to him.

  R’shiel collected Crisabelle’s laundry from Sister Belda just after noon and headed for the physic’s shop that was several streets away, still brooding over Sunny. Khira was a frequent visitor to the Commandant’s house. Crisabelle had been delighted to discover a physic in town and quickly added hypochondria to her list of annoying hobbies.

  “Why so glum?”

  The voice startled her. “Brak!”

  “Ah, you remember me then. I thought perhaps you’d forgotten all about us.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I am Khira’s loyal manservant.” He fell in beside her and took the other handle of the wicker basket, sharing the weight between them.

  R’shiel cast a wary eye over her companion. “You change occupations fairly often, don’t you? A sailor, a rebel, and now a manservant, all in the space of a year.”

  “I get bored easily.”

  “Don’t treat me like a fool, Brak.”

  “I would never dream of it,” he promised. “So, how are you adjusting to life as a convict?”

  “I don’t plan to be here long enough to adjust.”

  He looked at her. “Just say the word, R’shiel. We can be gone from here anytime you want.”

  “Gone?” she scoffed. “To where, Brak? Back to the vineyard so the rebels can put my eyes out for helping Tarja? Or was your next suggestion going to be that we help him escape, too?”

  Brak did not answer. Instead, he helped her carry the basket to the verandah and called out for Khira. The physic emerged from the dim depths of the small shop, wiping her hands on her snowy apron and smiled when she saw R’shiel.

  “Hello, R’shiel. What brings you here? Not sickening for something, are you?”

  “Mistress Crisabelle wants some of that stuff you gave her last time for her headache.”

  Khira exchanged a glance with Brak before she answered. “Time for the dinner party, is it? Well, you come inside and have a warm drink while I make it up.”

  R’shiel followed Khira inside and sat down on a small stool near the cluttered counter while Khira fussed with jars and powders and a small set of scales, carefully measuring out the ingredients for the potion that cured her mistress’ “heads.” Brak disappeared into the back room and emerged a few moments later with a steaming cup of tea. R’shiel sipped it, looking about the small shop with interest. It was full of jars and dried plants and reminded her of Gwenell’s apothecary at the Citadel. She loved visiting Khira, just to sit in the shop and take in the smell. She wondered if the woman was a pagan, like Brak.

  Brak placed another steaming cup near Khira. “I hear Loclon beat up a court'esa again,” he told the physic as she worked.

  Khira looked up and frowned. “Someone should do something about that man.”

  “It was Sunny, but she won’t report him,” R’shiel explained as she sipped her tea. “She’s afraid if she gets him into trouble, he’ll just get worse.” Footsteps sounded on the verandah outside, and she tensed at the sound. Strictly speaking, she was not allowed to stop and chat while on her errands. A figure appeared in the doorway, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Thought I saw you heading this way. Hiding from the dragon lady?” Dace asked. R’shiel wasn’t even sure where Dace lived, but he was always around, tolerated by everyone with the same kind of affection one might show to a lovable stray puppy. R’shiel was well aware of the debt she owed the boy. If not for him her sentence would have been intolerable. However, Dace’s greatest talent was not his easygoing nature or his natural charm; it was the fact that he seemed to know everyone in the Grimfield and everything that happened, frequently before it actually did.

  “Heard the news?”

  “What news?” Brak asked.

  “There’s gonna be trouble.”

  “How do you know?” Khira asked, looking up from her scales.

  Dace tapped the side of his nose with his finger. “I have my ways.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  “Same sort of trouble you always get when you lock people up,” Dace assured Brak. “We’re about due for another one.”

  “What do you mean?” R’shiel asked.

  “A riot, of course. The miners are getting restless again. They never actually achieve anything useful, but it’s sort of a moral imperative to try it at least once during your sentence. I guess some men think the chance at freedom is worth the risk of a whipping.”

  “Doesn’t that make it harder on everybody else?” Khira asked as she tapped the herbal mixture carefully onto the scales.

  “It does for a while,” Dace shrugged, leaning over the counter to see what Khira was doing. She slapped at his hand in annoyance, but he snatched it out of reach. “But life settles down again pretty quickly. You humans are funny like that.” The boy had the oddest turn of phrase sometimes.

  “It’s none of our concern,” Brak said, giving Dace the strangest look.

  “Well, you never know,” he said. “Maybe this ti
me the wrong Defender will get in the way, and they’ll do some good before they’re caught.”

  “Exactly who did you have in mind?” Brak asked. R’shiel was puzzled by his tone. What could Dace do, she wondered, that would worry the older man so?

  “Loclon would be a good start,” R’shiel muttered darkly.

  “Has he been bothering you, too?”

  R’shiel laughed bitterly. “I suppose you could call it that.”

  “Then why don’t you report him?” Khira asked with a frown.

  “Yeah, why don’t you?” Dace asked.

  “R’shiel, Loclon is an animal,” Khira said seriously. “I saw the way he wielded that lash. He was enjoying himself. If you’ve got something on him, then do everyone a favor and tell the Commandant.”

  “No.”

  “What about Sunny?” Dace persisted. “Don’t you want him to pay for what he’s done to her? And what about what he did to you?”

  R’shiel looked at Dace sharply. “I never said he did anything to me.”

  “You don’t have to. I can tell just by the way you stiffen every time someone mentions his name.”

  “I do not!” she protested.

  “You do, too, but that’s beside the point. Why don’t you turn him in?”

  R’shiel sighed. “You know what happens to prisoners who betray anyone, even a bent Defender like Loclon. My life wouldn’t be worth living. Look at Tarja. He’s guarded night and day just to keep him alive, and they only think he betrayed the rebellion.”

  “You mean he didn’t?” Brak asked. Khira looked suddenly alert, too.