Sarai’s smile was crooked. “By men, and the raka nobility, and some of the luarin houses, yes, I suppose.” She looked at her sister. “It’s not vanity, Dove. I can count as well as the next person.”
Dove shrugged. “I didn’t utter a word.”
Sarai made a noise that in a less attractive girl would have been labeled a snort. “And yet, when it comes to marriage, it’s amazing how many luarin families discover marriages that were arranged when their sons were in the cradle. Marriages their young men had never heard of until then. Particularly the higher-ranking luarin nobles. I can’t help but notice how many young men give way when they learn their mothers don’t care for the color of the future bride’s skin, however beautiful she may be.”
Dove sighed. “And the raka nobles are wary around us because we’ve got Rittevon blood in our veins. They don’t want to lose their sons the next time the king thinks his relatives are plotting against him.”
“Dovasary!” whispered Sarai, shocked.
The younger girl leaned around Aly to look at her sister. “I have ears, Sarai, and people hardly ever notice me. I know what I hear. The raka don’t want to risk the Rittevon insanity for their grandchildren.”
Aly grimaced. She’d once overheard one of Tortall’s young knights, a Bazhir, tell Grandfather Myles, “Oh, I’m considered wonderful when it comes to letting and losing blood for the Crown. But marriage? Even jumped-up merchants who weren’t barons a generation ago won’t let their daughters marry a Bazhir, whatever their wealth and standing.”
I suppose I’d best remember what the Bazhir at home endure, she thought, before I go looking down my nose at the luarin. You really should have a clean house at home before you start picking at the way your neighbor does the dusting.
“What does a slave know of treason and kings anyway?” asked Dove. Her dark eyes were now intent on Aly’s face.
Aly shrugged. “I was a maid in a nobleman’s castle when I was taken,” she replied. “My ears are as good as anyone’s.”
“I don’t see how any Tortallan girl would want to be a maid, not with all the choices you have, compared to us,” Sarai remarked. “If I lived there, I’d join the Queen’s Riders, and learn to ride and use a sword and bow like they do. Or maybe even become a knight like the Lady Knight Keladry. The raka ladies of old knew how to fight. In the last great battle against the luarin, on the Plain of Sorrows, a third of the Kyprin warriors were female.”
“And the whole army got thrashed,” Dove reminded her sister mercilessly. “The conquerors had more battle mages, and more catapults, and ballistas, and liquid fire. It didn’t matter how many women fought with the raka that day. They died just as easily as the men.”
“You’re so prosaic, Dove. Oh, look, the raka.” Sarai pointed to the rocks about the cove. The moon was above the mountains now, a huge pearl in the indigo sky. By its light the people on the cliffs were clearly visible. “They’ve been doing that all day.”
“Sarai?” called Winnamine. “Dove? It’s time to sleep.”
The two girls rolled their eyes at one another. “No late nights for us,” Sarai remarked drily. They went below.
Aly turned back to watch the sea by moonlight. The older Balitang girls struck her as being much like falcons, always hooded and tethered, not able to hunt as their hearts desired. It was such a waste, keeping fiery girls like this in the background, not letting them forge their own path in the world. She’d like to see what these two would accomplish.
Two mornings later their ships emerged from the Long Strait into the Azure Sea, the body of water that lay between Imahyn and Lombyn Isles. Aly grinned as the captain jubilantly announced that the sea god Kyprioth was smiling on their voyage. Apparently this was the quickest, smoothest passage of the strait the captain had ever made. Duke Mequen finally stopped the man’s recital of how unpredictable the passage could be, a tale of crosscurrents and wind gusts, with a reminder that he might annoy the god by too frequently mentioning his name.
Aly wasn’t sure how easily annoyed Kyprioth was, but she was distracted from her thoughts as the Azure Sea emerged from its veil of morning fog. Its bright blue waters were clear. Vividly colored fish darted through its depths, circling a population of sea turtles, dolphins, and the occasional eel. The sun burnished the tops of the waves to the color of gold.
Elsren leaned precariously over the rail. “Gull boats!” he cried. Aly seized his luarin-style tunic, securing her adventurous charge. A multitude of boats was gliding toward them from Imahyn, Ikang, and Kypriang Isles. They were as colorful as the fish, with brightly colored sails, prows and sterns fashioned in long, pointed curves, and every inch of outer hull decorated and painted. Raka sailors, both men and women, dressed in no more than vivid sashes and sarongs, steered the graceful craft as they stared at the Balitang ships.
“Have you ever seen anything like this?” Mequen asked the captain.
“Never,” the man replied, sweating. “Never. And I grew up on the Azure Sea.”
“They’re unarmed,” Winnamine commented. She had a spyglass raised to her eye. “I don’t see a weapon anywhere.”
As the Balitang ships sailed north, the fleet of colorful boats parted before them. Elsren and Petranne clamored for a place in the bow. With Aly to keep them from falling overboard, they waved gleefully at the raka and loudly admired the rainbow bevy of ships. With the dignity suited to their more advanced years, Sarai and Dove came forward to stand with Petranne and Elsren, watching as their mother’s people approached.
Aly sharpened her Sight until she could see the raka’s faces. The sailors stiffened when the older girls showed themselves; some pointed to them. The raka flotilla swerved, its ships forming two polite lines. Then, one by one, the ships glided past the Balitang family’s ship, one on either side of their bow. The raka merely glanced at the three luarin faces—Aly’s, Petranne’s, Elsren’s—then fixed on Sarai’s and Dove’s light brown ones.
It’s not us who brought the raka out, Aly thought. It’s Sarai and Dove. The two half-raka girls. The two girls whose mother came from an old noble house—a raka noble house.
“If you are wise, you will say nothing of this to anyone,” Winnamine said from behind them, her melodic voice soft. “Ever. Do you all understand? The king would not like to hear that we drew so much attention from the raka.”
Sarai shrugged. “Nobody cares what the raka do,” she replied, gazing at the people who sailed by. “Especially not the king.”
“You never know who is watching,” persisted Winnamine. “Don’t encourage them. Go below.”
“When Papa says.” Dove didn’t even look at her stepmother.
Aly knew Winnamine was right. It seemed that she could start to cover her part of Kyprioth’s wager here and now.
“My ladies, my apologies, but this scares me,” she whispered, the picture of an alarmed slave. “I’ve not been here long, but, well, back home there’s stories of your king. This could get your house and those raka in trouble with him. We’d all pay for that, in blood, most like.”
Sarai glanced at Aly, confused. Aly looked at her and shrugged, suggesting that it was just her opinion.
Dove sighed. She grabbed Sarai’s hand and towed her older sister below.
“Well done,” murmured the duchess.
Aly looked up three inches into the duchess’s face. “The wisdom of what you said was just a little slow in reaching their brains,” she offered.
“We both know it was the suggested threat to the raka that convinced them,” replied Winnamine. She rubbed her temples. “They liked me well enough when I married their father, but now they’re old enough to be difficult, just because I tell them things they don’t wish to hear.”
Aly thought of her own mother and winced inwardly. “It’s hard, living in the shadow of a respected woman,” she told the duchess.
Winnamine looked at her sharply. “Very wise, for a girl Sarai’s age. Perhaps the One who appeared when the matcher looked yo
u over chose well,” she said, referring to the god’s visit in terms that Petranne and Elsren wouldn’t understand. “He said you were clear-sighted, and would see a way for us out of all this.”
“I’m sure I won’t need to do any such thing,” Aly replied cheerfully. “You’ll hardly know I’m here.”
Winnamine shook her head with a rueful smile, then watched the raka craft that continued to sail by. After a moment she returned to Mequen. Tired of the spectacle, Petranne and Elsren followed her.
Aly remained in the bow, leaning on the rail. It was embarrassing to think that rather than truly expressing her independence, she had been difficult with her mother just for the sake of being difficult, because she was sixteen and stubborn.
That night they anchored in the harbor at Ambririp, off the northeast point of Imahyn Isle. The family slept ashore at a proper inn. Mequen’s and Winnamine’s servants took care of the younger children. Aly remained with the rest of the household, the servants, slaves, and men-at-arms. They set up a communal supper on the beach near the dock where their ships were anchored.
Chenaol took command of the meal. True to what she’d told Aly about staying with Sarai and Dove, the raka woman had turned down other nobles’ offers of higher pay and more leisure time. Now she sent Ulasim and two other men to the Ambririp market with a list. Three more servants dug a fire pit in the sand and hung a metal cookpot over it from an iron tripod. Once the men returned with Chenaol’s ingredients, she set to work, shredding a chicken and cooking it in water, cutting up hard-boiled eggs as the meat simmered. One of the cookmaids chopped shallots, spring onions, garlic, and chilies. Another ground them into paste along with cut ginger, lemongrass, and lime juice. Once the broth was ready, everything went into it, including bean sprouts and bean-flour noodles.
Aly refused the hot sauce they offered her when her bowl was filled. She had tried it once in Rajmuat, at her first meal among the Balitang staff. They had roared with laughter as she gulped water to put out the fire in her nose and throat before finally showing her that yogurt or bread worked better to ease the bite. She’d laughed, too, once she doused the fire. Even now she grinned as they teased her about picking out the visible pieces of chili pepper. Finishing the contents of her bowl, Aly thought that perhaps she was getting used to Isles cooking. This dish made her eat only twice as much yogurt and bread as the raka, instead of her usual four times that amount.
Afterward some maids washed up. Everyone gathered around the fire, luarin, part-raka, and raka alike. Back in Rajmuat the free servants and the men-at-arms each had their own hall. They didn’t mingle with the slaves. Here, Aly saw, they felt too lonely and out of place to separate into their usual groups. A leather bottle was passed from one person to the next as each took a large drink of its contents. When it came to Aly, she sniffed, caught the unmistakable odor of liquor, smiled, and handed it on.
“That’s arak, girl,” Chenaol said comfortably, relaxing against a sack of rice next to Aly. “Distilled palm sap wine. It’s good for you. Warm your belly, lighten your burdens.”
Aly smiled. “But my belly’s already far too warm from supper,” she joked. “At this rate, I’ll open my mouth one day and burn the trees down.” That drew a laugh from the others.
Chenaol shrugged. “More for me, then,” she said, and took a healthy gulp.
The skin made two more rounds of the household. The men and women from Rajmuat were homesick, though most agreed that life with the Balitangs was better than that with other noble households. Aly was startled to learn that many of the servants, including Ulasim, and a handful of men-at-arms were actually from the Tanair lands on Lombyn. This would be their first return home since the death of the first duchess, Sarugani.
At Balitang House the chores had been unending, and most of the staff had been too exhausted to talk at the end of the day. If they did talk, it wasn’t to the new, junior slave. Here Aly was one of them. Now she got the worm’s-eye view of the Rittevon court, told by those around her after they had gossiped with Rajmuat’s other servants and slaves.
They were united in their belief that King Oron would die soon. The old man had been failing in health and mind over the last five years. Hazarin, the sole remaining child of King Oron’s first marriage, was the rakas’ bet to inherit the throne. They thought Hazarin was as peculiar in his ways as his father, with an affection for huge meals and strange drugs. His next relative was his half sister, Princess Imajane, but under the luarin law no woman could succeed to the throne. Last of all there was Dunevon, born the same year as Elsren, child of the king’s third wife.
“Oron’s wives don’t seem very lucky,” Aly remarked. The people around her burst into laughter.
“You’re right enough there,” the head footman, Ulasim, replied with a grin. He was in his forties, a hard-muscled raka with direct brown eyes, black hair pulled back in a horsetail, a mustache, and a chin beard. His nose had met someone’s fist, elbow, or knee far more often than Aly’s had. He was a hard man, but fair, and the household respected him. He told Aly, “See, His Majesty starts to think his wives have lovers, and, well . . .” He drew his thumb across his throat.
“Maybe Lombyn’s best for us,” remarked one woman, her face shadowed.
“You haven’t been there,” Ulasim informed her. “It gets cold on the Tanair plateau. No jungle, the birds all drab little things . . .”
“There’s condors,” argued a hostler. “And crows.”
“And big drab birds,” retorted Ulasim. “It’s in the middle of nowhere, not a town worthy of the name for miles. I was born on those lands. I know.”
“Then why did you come?” demanded a maid. “You had plenty of offers to serve elsewhere.”
Ulasim looked into the fire, his face somber. Finally he said quietly, “The duke’s the best man I’ve ever served. I came to his house with Duchess Sarugani, and I never regretted it. These are good people. I won’t turn my back on them.” He looked around the circle, meeting everyone’s eyes. He stopped at Aly. “Maybe you think we’ll be left in peace out there. I don’t. They’ll need all the friends they can get.” He took another drink of arak.
He’d be a good man to have on my side, Aly thought. If I can get him there without him thinking I’m up to something. That will be interesting.
She turned to Chenaol. “Did you know the first duchess?” she asked. Chenaol had the same Lombyn accent, dulled by years in Rajmuat, as Ulasim.
Chuckles sounded around the fire. “She was a handful,” Chenaol admitted. “I worked for her relatives, House Temaida—that’d be the lesser nobility, the raka, Aly. Anyway, Sarugani came down from Lombyn and stayed with us when she was presented to the nobility. I was assistant cook for the Temaidas then. We got friendly because she liked my herb garden. I asked to go with her when she married, and the family agreed. She was spirited, always up to something. She had half the luarin nobles as well as the raka chasing her. And the present duchess, she and Sarugani were like sisters.”
“You’d never know they were raka and luarin, they were that close,” someone murmured. “Her Grace doesn’t care what color your skin is.”
“Now, Sarugani was fearless in the saddle.” The head hostler, Lokeij, was present, a white-haired old raka slave everyone knew would never be sold. The family hadn’t even suggested that he be put up for sale. “Ride anything in the stable, broken in or no. She made those luarin biddies cackle, riding in breeches like a proper woman of the raka.”
“It was her riding that did her in,” Ulasim went on. “Lady Dove was five, or a bit short of that, and Lady Sarai was nine. The duchess went hunting one day with friends. The horse failed in a jump—broke her neck and the beast’s legs. My lord was nearly a ghost for long after. We looked after him and the young ladies till his aunt Nuritin moved in. She woke him up.”
“Gave him an earful, told him he was a disgrace,” said the raka healer Rihani with a grin. “Told him he was neglecting the girls and his house, he’d no male he
ir, and he’d let himself go to seed. Hounded him until he started to live again. Convinced him he’d best marry, since he wasn’t getting any younger and he’d no son and all. That’s when he realized what a treasure Lady Winnamine was.”
“Luarin,” said Lokeij, shaking his head. “Always getting themselves into this male heir mess. We raka know better. It isn’t the equipment the clan chief’s got, it’s up here.” He tapped his forehead. “The old king wouldn’t be such a fool if he broke with luarin custom and made Lady Imajane his heir. She’d get the country in order.”
“Hush!” someone whispered. Aly saw Lokeij jerk, as if he’d just taken an elbow in the ribs. “It’s treason to talk so—a whipping at the very least!”
“So all those raka turned out to see Sarugani’s girls.” Aly used a tone that implied she didn’t believe what she was saying. She wanted to steer the talk away from possible treason, as well as learn a little more about the family. “Is that it? Seems to me they were more interested in how beautiful Lady Sarai is. How important was her mother, anyway?”
The raka present exchanged glances. Finally Ulasim said quietly, “She was just from an old raka family, that’s all. Personally, I think these raka knew of the duke’s disgrace. How often will they see anyone who isn’t raka being sent into exile? He is related to the king, after all.”
Aly could have pointed out that other luarin nobles must have gone into exile, but her instincts told her it was time to shut up. It was always difficult to probe for information gently, without causing others to think she might know more than was safe.
Ulasim got to his feet as nimbly as if he’d never touched the arak. “I don’t know about you, but we sail at dawn, and I’d like a proper sleep.”
Aly sighed to herself. She would have to teach these people better ways to steer someone away from a dangerous line of thought. Ulasim might as well have shouted that she’d touched on a secret.
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