“I think she's best off resting to calm down,” Idisio said, looking up at Scratha. “And having a healer look at these cuts. Some of them look infected.”
“Hells,” Scratha said. “All right. Let's get her back to Yuer's.”
The woman looked up sharply, her face turning a stark white. A moment later, her eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped in a thoroughly unfeigned faint to the dirty stable floor.
Scratha blew out a hard breath, then crouched and gathered the limp form into his arms. He stood with as little effort as if he'd picked up a sack of feathers. Which might not, Idisio admitted to himself, be far off; the rips in Wian's dress showed a gaunt form barely above starvation.
“Maybe we shouldn't take her back there,” Idisio objected. “She seemed upset when you said Yuer's name.”
“All the more reason,” Scratha said. “Time to find out what in the hells is going on here.”
That plan proved fruitless. Seeing the limp girl in Scratha's arms, Yuer summoned servants to take her away and dismissed his guests with unmistakable finality. Idisio shook Riss awake; muzzy and confused, she followed them tamely out the door and back to the inn. By the time Idisio finished cleaning himself up and changed into dry clothes, Riss had recovered enough to know she'd missed something important. Idisio filled her in while Scratha went to bathe.
“He what?” she said several times, each one more incredulous and furious than the last. As Idisio finished the account and Riss drew breath for an obvious tirade, Scratha returned.
“He drugged me!” Riss began, just as the desert lord stepped back into the room. “I'm going to—”
“You'll do nothing,” Scratha cut in. He shut the door behind him and regarded her soberly. “You weren't harmed. Let it go, Riss.”
“How could you have left that girl with him?” she demanded, turning her anger on Scratha. “How could you trust him like that?”
“Yuer always goes with his highest profit,” Scratha said. “From his reaction, he wants the girl alive. He'll get her back on her feet sooner than any of the village healers could. He was a promising ketarch student, at one time. He knows a lot about medicines
.”
“And drugs,” Riss said bitterly, unappeased.
Scratha shrugged. “I never said he's a nice person, Riss, or trustworthy. But the welfare of a strange girl Pieas dragged along, probably for his amusement on the road, isn't my concern. At this point, even finding Pieas isn't all that interesting to me. He's useless. He ran. Whether he went north or south, he's finished. He'll never be anyone important now. Nobody would touch him as an ally, after such a show of cowardice. And he's offended Yuer, which is as good as a death sentence in itself. No. Let him go. I've other business to attend to, more important issues to consider.”
“Like what?” Riss demanded, still scowling. “You can't just leave her behind!”
“Of course I can,” Scratha said sharply. “If you want to stay with her, feel free. I'm sure she'd appreciate a friendly escort back to Bright Bay. Or take some coin and be on your way alone. The same applies to you, Idisio,” he added. “I won't need a servant much longer. I'm going back south.”
They stared at Scratha in shared disbelief.
“But . . . you were told . . . you promised,” Idisio stammered idiotically.
“Back south?” Riss said, suspicion and anxiety mingling in her expression.
“I humored the king with this nonsense assignment,” Scratha said. “I wanted to see what he'd do, given the chance at a desert holding; now I know.” His expression darkened. “He explained in his letter what's been happening, and I can't believe he's fool enough to think I'd stand for it. He's making a hash of everything. I'm going home, and taking my lands back, and he can squeal all he wants from Bright Bay. There's nothing for me past the Horn anymore.”
Riss put a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. “Chance at a desert holding?” she said, the words almost inaudible behind her palm. “The king?”
“But the king,” Idisio protested.
“Has no true authority over me,” Scratha said. “Desert business comes first.”
“You're a desert lord?” Riss breathed, her face starkly pale. She twisted her hands together. “I beg pardon, my lord—”
“For what? You're done nothing wrong, Riss.”
“I've argued . . . been disrespectful. . . .”
“You thought me nothing more than some idiot noble on a fool's errand,” Scratha said brusquely. “Let be. I'm not angry.” He pulled the money pouch from his bags and tossed it on the table. “Split what's left and go your own ways. I don't need servants in the southlands.”
Idisio didn't hesitate. “No. I want to stay with you.”
Scratha frowned at the refusal, then cocked an eyebrow at the latter statement as though surprised. “Why?”
“Oh, Master, just the other day, you said you couldn't do without me,” Idisio said, deliberately calling to mind his initial ploy in front of the king. Scratha's mouth twitched; clearly he recognized the reference.
“Mmph,” he said. “I said I'm getting used to having you around. Fine. I'll take you, if you insist. But Riss—”
“I stay too,” Riss said, rather unexpectedly, and wouldn't look at either of them. “I can't very well go home again. And traveling alone isn't a good idea for a woman, whatever money you give me. I'd rather stay with . . . in good company.” She colored a little. “My lord. If you permit.”
Scratha cast a shrewd glance at Idisio and smiled. “Very well. Get some rest, then. It's a long ride to Sandlaen Port in the morning, and I want to leave early.”
* * *
Chapter Twelve
“I told you,” Sela said, “I don't know!” Alyea sighed. Brief though her aqeyva training had been, she'd learned to read people fairly well; and one of these two, if not both, knew something they weren't admitting. She'd tried every way she knew to charm the women into trusting her, but even Gria now regarded her with open hostility.
She stood and crossed to the door, leaning out to speak to the guard. “Send for Micru,” she said, then withdrew into the room again. “So you're going to torture us?” Sela said, her expression bitter and her voice shrill with tension. “See the kindness of the southern lady, Gria?”
“Why do you think that?” Alyea asked.
“I've seen that look before,” Sela said, tossing her head. “I know your kind, my lady. Start out kind and turn to whips when you don't get what you want.” She spat on the floor.
“Gods, you're an idiot,” Alyea said, and turned her back on the woman.
A light tap sounded at the door; Micru slipped into the room, his flat, dark stare taking in the entire room in one professionally quick sweep. “My lady?”
“Do you know who these women are, Micru?” she asked.
He surveyed them for a long, silent moment, considering. “I know what they are.”
Sela stared at Micru as if beginning to feel fear for the first time. “Slaves,” she said, in an attempt at scorn. “That's obvious enough.”
“Ugren slaves,” Micru said, and settled into a chair. He studied the women, one knuckle resting against his mouth. “Northerners. Quasinobles. And fools, beyond a doubt.”
They stared at him warily.
“Fools,” Micru said, his tone eerily, almost hypnotically, flat. “Fools who thought they could buy their way into a place beyond money.”
“I wasn't interested in going south!” Gria shrilled suddenly. “She made me! She's the one after money!”
Sela moved, snake-fast, and slapped her daughter hard.
“Be quiet!” she snarled.
Micru smiled. He crossed to the door; opening it, he told the guards, “Remove the older one. Stay with her in another room.”
“No!” Sela shrieked, bracing herself in front of her daughter. Alyea forced herself not to react as two guards wrestled the woman out of the room.
Micru shut the door again.
“Now th
at your mother isn't here,” he said as he settled back into his chair, “tell us what you know, girl. It may save both your lives.”
His tone held an offering of hope, not a threat, as though he truly sympathized with the girl and wanted to help her. Astonished, Alyea watched Gria crumble.
“She's not my mother,” the girl said. Her gaze stayed fixed on a point somewhere past Alyea's left knee. “Don't hurt her. I'm the one they want.”
The words threw all the possibilities Alyea had considered into chaos. She opened her mouth to speak, caught Micru's sharp gesture, and stayed silent.
“I've always known I was a foundling,” Gria said, still in that lifeless voice. “It never made any difference. She always treated me as her own. She couldn't have any of her own, and her husband never produced any bastards, so I was the best. . . .” She stopped, shut her eyes, and swallowed hard.
“Best chance at an heir?” Micru said.
Gria nodded. “My children will be treated as full blood of my adopted father's line,” she said. “Would have been.” She raised her left hand, looked at the cuff, let it fall back into her lap.
“Did Sela's husband ever try fathering children on you directly?” Micru said with implacable, emotionless logic.
Gria shook her head, her expression still blank. “When that . . . that man came, it seemed so good, so wonderful, that we might gain that status . . . and the s'iopes said it was an honest offer. She's always trusted the priests. And she . . . talked me into it. Into going south. I didn't want to go, I had someone . . . but they didn't approve.” Gria opened her eyes, brimming with tears now. “Mama Sela insisted on coming. She knew I'd run away. . . and they promised she'd be sent back with my first male child. The s'iopes said it was in writing, in the contract, that it was legally enforceable and honest . . . they said it was truth sworn to under all four gods.” She wiped at her eyes, staring at Alyea appealingly now, ignoring the man in front of her.
“A southern slave trader would hold no bond under a Northern Church oath,” Micru said. “Past the Horn, those oaths and those papers don't carry the weight of a grain of sand in the deep desert.”
“We found out,” Gria said bitterly, and wiped at her streaming eyes again.
“Why are you the one they want?” Micru said.
“I don't know,” she said. “I really don't. I just know I'm the one they wanted. I heard Ierie talking with his guards, once, when they thought I was asleep, about killing Mama Sela. They decided I'd be more pliable if she was around.”
Micru hummed to himself softly, his expression troubled. “When and where were you cuffed?” he said at last.
“Just outside Water's End. Some men appeared. I never saw them before. They were frightening.” She shut her eyes. “They drugged us both, but I didn't fall asleep. I don't know why. I wish I had.”
“Frightening,” Micru said patiently. “Why?”
“They looked . . . cruel. Uncivilized. Some had bright blue tattoos.”
Micru sat up straight, his eyes intent now. “Was it here?” He pointed just below his right collarbone.
Gria opened her eyes to look and nodded.
“Did it look like a swirled star?”
She nodded again, mutely, and Micru stood up. “Keep her close, Alyea,” he said. “Keep her very close. And keep a dagger closer. Stay here. I'll send more guards.”
“Wait,” Alyea said as Micru turned for the door. “What's going on? What does the swirled star mark mean?”
“Chacerly's made a mistake. A very, very big mistake. Don't trust him any longer.”
“What—”
The door swung shut behind him, cutting off more questions. Moments later, three guards pushed through, their expressions grim, and took up stations around the room.
“What in the hells is going on?” she demanded. They looked at her briefly and didn't answer.
Alyea stood and walked towards the door; the nearest guard put out a hand in warning, shaking his head. She sat back down, furious and trying to decide who to pin it on: Micru, for abandoning her without answers, or Chac, for apparently creating the situation. She had just about settled on being angry at herself for ever getting into this spot when the door opened again and Chac strode in.
He nodded to the guards and crossed to the bed. Alyea rose; he ignored her, looking down at Gria instead for a long, thoughtful moment.
“I was right,” he said finally, “you should have killed them both. Too late now.”
Alyea pushed between him and the girl.
“You tell me what's going on!” she said, all the frustrated restlessness of the last several hours flaring into sudden aggression.
He stared at her. For just a moment, his face lit with a rage worthy of a desert lord; then it dissolved into stoniness again.
“We're leaving,” he said. “It's not safe here for you now.”
“Why not?”
“I don't have time for your stupid questions,” Chac said. He stepped back and signaled to the guards. “If she doesn't follow me, knock her out and carry her. Bring the other girl as well.”
The old man strode to the door. Two of the guards moved towards Alyea without hesitation; the third, frowning, said, “Wait . . . this isn't what Micru said—”
Chac turned and flung out a hand, almost too fast to follow; something small and dark whipped through the air and buried itself in the doubtful man's neck. The guard sagged, clawing at his throat, eyes wide and astonished. Before Alyea could do more than open her own mouth in surprise, the remaining guards moved in front of her, blocking her view. She heard gagging noises from behind them, like a man desperately trying to breathe; then a sour smell in her nose took her into darkness.
Alyea awoke hot and muzzy, with sweat pooled under her back and legs; she groaned and rolled to her side. Wiping an arm across her face to clear sweat-blurred vision, she propped herself up with her other elbow and looked around.
She lay in a wide, low-ceilinged carriage, on a low bed with thick cushions. A bench seat nearby held a neatly folded pile of clothes. Latticed windows took up most of the walls on three sides; the fourth had a simple latched door.
A tiny, thin, hot breeze wandered through the lattices. Sounds came from outside; people talking, people walking around. The smell drifting through the air set her stomach rumbling, although she couldn't place the aroma.
She ached all over, stiff and sore as if she'd been bedridden for days, but she wasn't tied or, as far as she could tell, hurt. But she was incredibly hungry. Alyea sat up slowly, looked down at herself, and added naked to that list.
“There's a jug with some water by the bed,” a voice said from outside the carriage. “And a cloth, to wipe off the sweat before you get dressed. Clothes on the bench.”
Alyea turned her head, staring through the lattices, feeling suddenly trapped and exposed.
“Don't worry, northern,” the voice went on. “Nobody can see you, and nobody cares anyway. Hurry up.”
Alyea took a deep breath and reached for the jug.
Cleaning off the worst of the sweat gave her a sense of preparing to face whatever waited outside. The clothes turned out to be a deep-southern style she'd rarely seen in Bright Bay, and one she'd never thought to wear herself: a long silk robe, brightly colored and almost transparently thin, with a wide, braided-silk belt. The front dropped into a deep V; bending over would display everything.
She tried to remember how the women of Water's End had managed to move in these robes without being immodest, but her attention hadn't been on that at the time. She suspected she would quickly disgrace herself in this outfit.
“C'mon already, northern,” the voice said.
Alyea shrugged the robe around her shoulders and fastened the inside ties and outer belt. She didn't see any shoes or slippers; after a moment of looking around helplessly, she went to the door. Half-expecting it to be locked despite the urging to come out, she rattled at the latch tentatively and jerked back when someone tugged it
open from outside.
“C'mon already,” the voice repeated. “Food's ready.”
She stepped forward cautiously, looking around, and saw a short man with dark skin watching her with amusement. His long shirt, cut from a rougher cloth than her robe and a sharp white color, draped like scarecrow clothes against his spare frame; his leggings almost matched the clear blue sky overhead. His bare feet showed noticeable calluses.
“I don't bite,” he said.
Sand gritted against her feet as she came through the doorway. It shifted and sank underfoot as she walked a few steps away from the carriage. Questions ran through her mind: Where am I? Who are you? What's going on?
She stayed silent and studied her surroundings. The carriage had no wheels, only long poles to either side; she understood why when, looking to one side, she saw four muscular men sitting under a rough shelter of hide and wood, eating what looked like stew from small wooden bowls. Two more men were busy dousing the small cookfire and disassembling the charred cooking spit.
9780981988238 Page 22
