Storms of Destiny

by A. C. Crispin

  “Good morning, Mr. Trevenio,” Talis said formally, holding out her hand to him. “How is the work going?”

  To her surprise and disgust, Trevenio did not respond by shaking her hand, but bent to kiss it. Talis yanked her hand away.

  Trevenio was young, in his late twenties or early thirties, and was dressed so neatly that he seemed something of a dandy—his boots were mirror-polished, his black hair combed neatly, his narrow moustache meticulously waxed.

  He was good-looking, in a sharp-featured way. Talis wiped her hand on the fabric of her work skirt, wondering if she would have problems with him. Many males did not like taking orders from a woman.

  “Fine, they’re doing well,” he replied heartily. “You father has a good crew, Miss Aloro.”

  “Yes, many of them have been with us for years,” Talis said. “How are the two new ones doing?”

  “The older fellow, the carpenter, Kendalo—he was needed to help with fixin’ the cow byre. The other one …”

  He shook his head. “Well, miss, he’s goin’ to take watchin’.

  He was insolent to me, so I set the Prince to muckin’ out the pigpen.”

  “Prince? Insolent?” Talis had no idea what he was talking about.

  “One of ’em is a little touched,” Trevenio said, tapping his temple. “The slavemaster told me that he told his first owner he was a prince.” The man laughed, and his laughter had an ugly edge. “Well, until the pigpen is clean, he’ll be Prince of Dung.”

  “He was insolent? What did he say?”

  “He didn’t say anything, miss. But he gave me the haugh-tiest look. Can’t have that! If you let them get away with looks, next thing, you’ve got a rebellion on your hands. I’ve seen it happen before. Though never,” he added proudly, “on a farm where I was overseer. I served in the King’s Navy when I was a lad, and I learned then that discipline is vital.”

  “I see,” Talis said. She realized that the man had moved a step closer to her, and she stepped back a pace, turning to look at the crew. They were working industriously. “Well, here at Woodhaven we have no whipping post. We’ve seldom had any trouble with our people, because we try to make sure they’re well-fed and well-treated, Trevenio. They work better for us that way, my father says.”

  “Of course, miss,” he said. “Treat them well, that’s what I always say … but maintain discipline.”

  Talis could hardly argue with that, though for a moment she wished she could.

  “Tell me more about this touched slave,” she said. “My father said he can read, write, and cipher. He’s educated, then?”

  “I don’t believe a word of it,” Trevenio said scornfully. “A slave? Mark my words, miss, you’ll find he’s lying. You can’t trust anything they say.”

  “Perhaps I’ll speak to him,” Talis said. “Did you think to test whether what he said was true?”

  Trevenio’s sharp features reddened. He cleared his throat.

  “Ummm … well, truth to tell, miss, I’m not very … well,

  readin’ and cipherin’ were never my favorite things. I can read a bit, and help with the accounts, but, ummm …”

  “I see,” Talis said dryly.

  Trevenio flushed even redder.

  “Well, no mind,” she said, then changed the subject. “The fences over in the northernmost cattle fields are in need of repair. When the pigpen and the cow byre are finished, put them to work there. Digging postholes ought to be heavy enough work to keep this prince occupied.”

  He nodded. “Very well, miss.”

  Over the next week, Talis kept a close eye on Darlo Trevenio, and was forced to concede that the man seemed to know his business. He had already worked up a plan for the cultivating and planting, and a work schedule, and seemed to treat the slaves well enough.

  Talis knew it would soon be time for her to head north to one of the big towns to buy supplies. They produced much of what they needed on the farm, but some things—like fabric for clothing, sugar, salt, and other staples—they had to buy.

  One morning when she went to saddle her bay gelding, she found the two new slaves mucking out the horse barn.

  Upon seeing her, both men nodded, but did not speak, as was proper. Talis watched them work for a moment, then busied herself grooming her horse, applying the currycomb vigorously. Bayberry raised his upper lip in an equine grimace, then snorted gustily, enjoying the massage. Talis sneezed.

  Springtime meant shedding. Her hand was soon so coated with a mat of winter coat that it resembled a furry mitten.

  She had to keep picking the currycomb clean.

  When she finished the grooming, she looked over the stall door. “You,” she said, pointing to the younger of the two men. “What is your name?”

  He stopped plying his rake and ducked his head respectfully again. “Eregard, mistress.”

  “Eregard, please fetch my saddle and bridle. The ones on the lowest rack.”

  He laid aside the rake and went to get the tack, returning quickly. After hoisting the saddle up onto the lower half of the stall door, he stepped back. Talis gave him a measuring glance. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, mistress.”

  The slave was certainly well-spoken. His accent was pure, lacking the backwoods twang and slurred vowels many of the slaves used. He was not tall—only a few inches taller than she—with lank brown hair tied back with a bit of twine, and a scraggly beard. His rough work shirt and trousers were stained and dirty, and his feet were bare, like those of all the slaves when the weather was not actually freezing. His eyes … gray, perhaps. He was obviously strong, because he’d been lifting the heavy forkfuls of manure without ap-parent strain, but his shoulders could hardly be called broad, and he was rather pudgy around his middle, though his bearded features were almost gaunt. Talis realized that he was about her own age.

  “Are you the one they call ‘Prince’?” she asked.

  He nodded, looking down. “Yes, mistress.”

  “Why do they call you that?”

  He did not look up. “Because I took fever, and I was rav-ing, I suppose, mistress. I can’t really account for it.”

  “I see,” she said. “They say you can read and write. Can you read the names on the stall doors for me?”

  “Bayberry,” he said without hesitation. “Wind, Moonstar, Tomlin, and Blaze.”

  Talis nodded. “And you can cipher?”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  “Have you ever kept accounts, Eregard?”

  “Yes, mistress. For my former master, I did.”

  “Very good,” Talis said. “I may have use for those skills, helping me keep the books.”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  Talis gave him a measuring glance. “You were moving stiffly just now, when you hoisted up my saddle. Is your shoulder sore? Are you injured?”

  He swallowed, then glanced up at her cautiously. “No, mistress. Not exactly.”

  “What’s wrong, then? Sore muscles? I have some liniment.”

  “No, mistress,” he said. “I was flogged, and it’s not fully healed yet.”

  Talis sighed. “Oh. That’s unfortunate.” He glanced up at her, and for a moment she glimpsed something in his eyes, some strong emotion, but it was gone too quickly for her to guess what it was. “Well, Eregard, we don’t flog our workers. If you need doctoring for those stripes, come see me. I have salves that will help.”

  “Yes, mistress. Thank you, mistress.”

  She gave him a quick, perfunctory smile. “Back to work with you, then.”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  Talis quickly saddled Bayberry, then went out for a ride.

  The work was going well. She could smell the scent of the fresh-turned earth and the sharp odor of the manure and compost the workers were mixing into it. Other slaves were bringing seedlings out of the greenhouse in wheelbarrows. It was a fine day, and some of the slaves were singing, a low, half-chanting song that consisted mostly of nonsense mono-syllables repeated ove
r and over.

  Seeing the overseer riding toward her, Talis nodded and waved. Trevenio trotted up, smiling, and swept off his hat.

  “Miss Talis! How lovely you look this morning!”

  Talis blinked at him. Goddess, spare me! She knew full well that she was covered with horsehair and dirt, and wearing her oldest outfit for riding astride. But she had to work with this man. “Good morning,” she said curtly. “How is the work going?”

  “The planting is going well,” he replied.

  They discussed schedules and workshifts for a few minutes. When Talis had reviewed the overseer’s plans and approved them, she gathered up her reins to go. Trevenio smiled at her. “Wait,” he said. Leaning over, he put his hand on her forearm. Talis froze. What is he doing? Something in her expression must have alerted him to her feelings, because he sat back on his roan, then spoke in affable tones.

  “Miss Talis, there’s a quilting bee and a barn raising the day after tomorrow over at the Beldano place. Would you do me the honor of accompanying me?”

  She shifted her weight while squeezing Bayberry with the muscles of her right calf. As she’d trained him to, the horse sidestepped, sidling away from the overseer. Talis shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said, trying to keep at least a semblance of courtesy in her tone. “I will be busy. Good day to you, Mr. Trevenio.”

  He took the rejection well, smiling easily, tipping his hat.

  “I understand. Some other time, then.”

  Talis rode away, her shoulder blades prickling. She knew without looking back that he was sitting there, watching her.

  For a moment she considered telling her father about the incident, then decided she was being too sensitive. I can handle this. Dad needs to know that I’m a woman grown and can handle problems myself.

  Trevenio did not say anything untoward for the next couple of days, and gradually Talis relaxed. She still didn’t like the way the man looked at her, but there was nothing she could do about that.

  She received a message from Rufen Castio, telling her that he would be in Q’Kal next week and where he would be staying—lodging with a printer who was sympathetic to the Cause. Talis knew she would be sent north to buy supplies, but wasn’t sure she could justify traveling the extra distance to Q’Kal.

  The weather was particularly amenable to the farmers that spring. The day after the slaves finished the planting, a steady rain began to fall, and it continued for several days.

  Talis and Trevenio rode out one rainy morning to inspect the newly planted seedlings. As they neared the cow pasture, she saw the two new slaves working on the fence. “It’s really too wet to be digging postholes,” Talis said, with a glance at Trevenio. “Did you send them out here?”

  “Yes,” Trevenio said. “I figured building the fence only to have it fall down when the cows leaned over it would teach the Prince a good lesson in respecting his superiors.”

  “It won’t be much of a lesson if one of the cows gets out

  and into the newly planted fields,” Talis said sharply. “Not to mention having to replace broken rails.”

  “I’ll make sure the Prince has to cut down the trees,”

  Trevenio said, amused. “You coddle these slaves, if you don’t mind my saying so, Miss Talis.”

  She minded very much, but controlled herself, biting back the words that rose to her lips. “What did Eregard do this time? Was he insolent? What did he say?”

  “Oh, he didn’t say nothin’—he doesn’t have the stones for that. He just gave me that look again. And I swear, if he does it again, I’ll give him some more scars on his back.”

  “I told you,” Talis said icily, “we don’t whip our slaves here at Woodhaven.”

  The man gave her a look that went beyond bold. Talk about insolence! Talis thought, furious. An insolent cad, just like most of his kind.

  “So you did, Talis,” Trevenio said. “But your father hired me to oversee these workers and to get the most out of ’em.”

  “Now see here,” Talis said, “exactly when did I ask you to call me by my first name?”

  “I figured you wouldn’t mind, Talis,” Trevenio said, with a cheeky grin. “Seeing that we know each other so well.”

  “I object to your manner,” Talis snapped. “We are strangers, and that’s the way it will remain. I suggest you remember that.” She drew rein, stopping Bayberry just out of earshot of the two slaves.

  “Hoity toity, miss!” Trevenio’s grin was more like a sneer.

  “Ah … but I do know you,” he added. “I know a lot about you. I know that you’re a hot little minx, and I know that you ought to treat me better. You’re not getting any younger, Miss Talis. And you’ve brothers, so you’re not likely to inherit the farm when your da goes. Any girl with half a wit would be very nice to me, indeed. I’ve got prospects.”

  Talis’s mouth dropped open with shock. “Wh-Who—”

  she couldn’t even get the words out. She was sputtering with rage. “How dare you?”

  He shrugged and grinned at her. “Oh, I dare. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut up and be polite, Talis. You see, I know things about you that you wouldn’t want me telling.”

  “What things?” Talis said quietly. She had gone beyond rage to a vast, cold anger that seemed to fill the whole world.

  Trevenio laughed. “Before I came here, I worked on a farm down south. Did some drinking in Northbend. I met a man there, and we got to talking. Nice fellow, name of Jasti Aloro.

  ’Twas Jasti who told me what a slut you are, how you seduced him when you were but a slip of a girl. He says everyone knows you’re no virgin, thus not fit for a man to wed. But Talis, I’m not a judgmental fellow. I’ve had some wild times of my own. So I’m willing to overlook that and offer you hon-orable marriage. From what Jasti told me, marriage with me would be the best you can do. No gentleman would touch—”

  Talis shrieked at him, a wordless cry of rage that was as shrill and fierce as the scream of a hawk. Wrenching Bayberry around, she dug in her heels and drove the gelding full-tilt into the roan. As the two animals collided, she kicked her feet loose from the stirrups and flung herself at Trevenio, sweeping him off the staggering roan.

  They landed hard on the soggy ground. Talis felt her breath leave her lungs in a giant gust, and for an agonizing moment she could not fill them again. Trevenio, too, was winded. He lay gasping.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Mistress Talis!”

  She heard the distant shouts of the two slaves, followed by their running feet. Talis managed to draw breath and roll to her knees—just as Trevenio did the same. He grabbed for her. “Come here, you bitch! I’ll teach you to—”

  Talis punched him in the mouth, throwing her entire shoulder into the blow. She felt her knuckles grate against his teeth, and felt at least one tooth give. Her hand exploded with pain, but she ignored it. Quickly, she followed up with a hard left to his eye. Trevenio howled, flinging himself back, away from her. She staggered to her feet and went after him.

  The two slaves had reached them by now, still carrying

  their fence-mending tools. They flung the tools down. “Here now—” the carpenter said.

  “Stay out of this,” Talis ordered, not taking her eyes off the overseer. “You’re a dead man,” she told Trevenio. “No.

  Correction. A dead pig. ”

  “Mistress Talis, no!” The Prince of Dung tried to get between her and her prey. Talis brushed him aside as though he were a gnat and moved in on Trevenio. The man’s lips were split and a cut below his eyebrow bled freely. He gagged, then spat out a tooth. With one part of her mind she realized that she had won, she had hurt him, and badly, but that was not enough. Trevenio was still alive, still moving—and that would not do.

  Talis aimed a kick at his chest, but he saw it coming and grabbed her foot, heaving upward. She fell, and the back of her head thudded painfully against the soggy ground. Rolling away, she managed to break free, and came
up on her hands and one knee, poised to spring. Trevenio came after her.

  Talis kicked him in the gut, but the blow did not land true.

  He staggered, but stayed on his feet. And then, suddenly, there was the gleam of metal in his hand. He had drawn his knife from its sheath.

  Talis slapped her hand down to her side, but her knife was gone—knocked free during the fall. She backed away from Trevenio, who was moving toward her, his mashed lips and crimsoned teeth bared in a hideous grin. “Now, you die, bitch. But we’ll have some fun before that, won’t we?”

  He swiped at her with the knife, not a serious attack, playing cat and mouse. Talis ducked, then kicked at his kneecap. She missed, but managed to slam her forearm against his knife hand. Hot pain slashed her arm, but the knife went flying.

  She ignored the blood soaking her sleeve as she advanced on the overseer again. Now there was fear in Trevenio’s eyes. Good.

  Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, Talis glimpsed movement. Eregard left the ground, springing toward Trevenio with a shout that caused the man to half turn. The slave crashed against the overseer, knocking him down with the force of his charge.

  Talis stood there, watching Eregard pull back, get to his knees, then stumble to his feet, backing away. He stared at the man on the ground, plainly horrified. Talis looked down, realizing that Trevenio lay motionless. Why doesn’t the pig move? she wondered as she walked over to him. Move, you damned coward, so I can kill you!

  The overseer lay sprawled in the mud, face slack, eyes staring up at the sky, unseeing. For a moment Talis didn’t understand what had happened, then saw the mud-smeared spade Eregard had dropped. It lay there, digging edge upward, and the back of Trevenio’s head rested on the steel.

  Blood had trickled over the muddy blade. Talis knelt down and peered sideways at the spade. The point was buried deeply in the back of the man’s skull.