by Angus Wells
At least Julius had managed to find out when that should be, thus rescuing Davyd from the torment of speculation. Tomorrow, it was; and thanks to Julius, he was able to assuage his worry with a bottle of good wine. That had been Julius’s farewell gift: he did not anticipate seeing Davyd again, would not—for sake of anonymity—attend the trial. At least he had wished his former lodger well.
Now Davyd drank his wine and prepared to sleep. He did not think the morrow should provide any great surprises, not beyond the judge’s choice between the barges, the quarries, or the mines. He supposed he preferred it be the quarries: at least there he should see the sky.
If he had only, he thought as he dimmed his lantern and readied himself for slumber, heeded his dreams, he would not be in this predicament. But he had not, and there was no point to dwelling on that foolishness now. Life had taught him to be pragmatic, and save for learning what lessons experience taught him, he saw no point in conjecture. He would, however, he vowed as he closed his eyes, always heed the dreams in future.
The one that came that night, though, was mightily difficult to interpret.
He floated on a vast expanse of water and could not tell whether he stood alone, somehow suspended above the waves, or on the deck of a ship. It mattered little either way: Davyd was afraid of water, and in this oneiric state it represented a terror as great as that of burning. He looked about and saw no shoreline, no hint of land at all, but only the gray and rolling ocean all around, the waves white-topped under a blue sky absent of any feature other than the unwinking eye of the sun. There were things beneath the waves—he knew, for all they remained invisible—that slowly rose to drag him down into the deeps or swallow him like some morsel of flotsam.
He woke sweaty, his heart beating arrhythmic, dread tearing a cry from his gasping mouth. Panting, he flung himself from his bed to find the lantern and extend the wick until the honest yellow flame drove off the afterimage of waves and eternity and lost hope. He reached for the wine bottle and cursed long when he found it empty. He contented himself with water instead, splashing some against his face that he fully regain his senses. After that he dressed and waited full-clad for dawn. He did not want to return to that dream; he did not understand it, only that it filled him with an awful fear.
It was a lengthy wait, but in time the prison made those sounds that prisons make in announcement of another day. Light came pale past the bars on the window and the nocturnal rustlings, the moans of other inmates, the night cries, gave way to muted conversation, the jangle of keys, the clatter of the breakfast trolley.
Davyd felt no appetite for the porridge, white bread, and aromatic coffee that should be Julius’s final purchase on his behalf. His belly felt filled with liquid that rolled and shifted like sea swell, and he only tidied himself and waited to be summoned.
His case was not heard until noon, and when the Militiamen came to fetter him and bring him before the judge, his belly rumbled protestingly. He thought that might perhaps serve him well—that he appear not well fed but as a starveling orphan forced by unkind fate to a life of crime. He hoped the judge would not inquire too deeply of his circumstances and confrères, for he knew he would not live long—no matter where he be sent—did he give up Julius and the others. Most strongly, he hoped the magicks warding the court would not reveal him for a dreamer; he prayed there be no Inquisitors present.
He need not have worried: such inquiries seemed not to have occurred to the judge, whose aim appeared to be the swiftest possible dispensation of the Autarchy’s justice. Nor did any Inquisitors attend, only the watchful Militiamen and a tipstaff.
Davyd was asked his name, to which he answered, “Davyd Furth, sir,” doing his best to sound utterly miserable and equally penitent. It was not difficult to manage the misery. His age was established as thirteen and his abode as the street, after which the judge pronounced his sentence.
When he declared that Davyd be indentured and held prisoner until the next transportation ship sailed for Salvation, Davyd broke down. He shrieked his objections, pounding manacled fists against the ledge of the accused’s box, quite oblivious of the hexes that burned his skin. He begged that he be sent to the quarries, to the mines—even the barges. Only not condemn him to crossing the ocean. He wailed as the Militiamen dragged him away.
He was sobbing as the door of his cell closed. He knew that he must surely suffer a horrid fate upon the Sea of Sorrows and, had he not been left chained and his belt and foulard taken from him, he would likely have become a suicide.
6 Virtue Assaulted
Work as a tavern wench in the Flying Horse was not the employment Flysse Cobal had hoped to find in Bantar, but she bore her disappointment as cheerfully as she could. She had hoped to find a position as a lady’s maid, or perhaps a seamstress, but the bustling city had proven unkind to her dreams and she had been forced to settle for serving ale and avoiding the groping hands of amorous patrons. And it was easier here, she told herself, than in ’sieur Shaxbrof’s mansion in Cudham. There, it had been quite impossible to escape the master’s attentions or, though it was no fault of hers that he pursued her, the animosity of his wife. She had thought it a fine thing to be accepted as a parlormaid, a great honor for a farmgirl whose family could barely support three daughters when the harvest had failed for two years running, and she had gone eagerly to her new post. She had not anticipated that so elevated and aging a man as ’sieur Shaxbrof would prove so lecherous, nor that his wife should blame her rather than him and order her dismissal. That had been a terrible blow for Flysse, and she had elected to seek work in the city before burdening her family again.
At least, she told herself, she had been able to save a few silver crowns, and Bantar was surely a wondrous place, even though working in a tavern was not the life she had envisaged. One day, she promised herself, she would find more congenial employment. But for now, the Flying Horse was the best she could find, and she would make the best of it.
If only the inn’s patrons did not assume she was as available as most serving wenches, forever praising her beauty.… Flysse supposed she was pretty, but almost wished she were not. It would make life easier.
She studied her face in the mirror she shared, like the room, with the other seven girls. It seemed to her an ordinary enough face—round and framed with blond curls, the eyes and nose a little too large to her mind, the mouth too wide. But men told her it was a sight to behold, especially Lieutenant Armnory Schweiz of the God’s Militia, who seemed quite deaf to her reiterated protestations that she did not—most definitely and unrelentingly not—wish to become his mistress.
Most men, their advances once rejected, accepted they’d not have her and contented themselves with flirtatious comments, laughing at her blushes. But not Armnory Schweiz, who appeared determined to break down her resistance and ignored her honest avowals that she wished only to be left alone. He would be there tonight—he was there every night—and Flysse sighed unhappily at the thought. It seemed to her that the lieutenant’s watery blue eyes pierced through her clothing to study the naked flesh beneath with gloating anticipation; and no matter how she tried to avoid his hands, they always found a way to her waist or thigh or backside. She had believed the officers of the Autarchy above such behavior—before she came to Bantar. Now she knew better: since Armnory found her, she knew the men of the God’s Militia were not much different from ’sieur Shaxbrof, or any other men—save in the powers they held. Were he not a lieutenant in the Militia, she thought, I’d spill a tankard over his grinning head, or dent it on his skull. But he was, and she’d been warned of the consequences.
With a last long sigh she finished the tidying of her hair and readied herself to go down to the taproom. She was already late, and Master Banlyn’s patience was not inexhaustible.
When she entered the long, already smoke-filled room, the first thing she saw was Armnory Schweiz. He looked to be in his cups, but even so his eyes were focused on the door and a lecherous smile stretched
his narrow lips as he spotted her. Instantly, he raised his tankard, and Flysse had no choice but to nod and go to his table.
His smile grew broader as she approached, exposing uneven teeth stained brown by tobacco, and he brushed at his moustache like some gallant on the stage of the playhouse. As Flysse came near and reached to take his empty mug, he seized her hand, gazing earnestly at her face. She forced herself to stand, and if she did not smile, at least she did not recoil in disgust.
“Flysse, dearest Flysse.” He raised her trapped hand to his lips. “Have you thought on my proposal, my dear?”
“Sieur, you’ve had my answer,” she told him not for the first time, repeating the lie that seemed her best defense: “I’ve a sweetheart awaiting me in Cudham.”
“Pah!” Schweiz dismissed with a careless wave the notion of a patient sweetheart. “Some yokel stinking of dung and sweat? Flysse, I tell you, you’ve captured my heart and I’ll not rest till I have you.”
Flysse glanced round, hoping Master Banlyn—anyone—would come to her rescue, but there was a space about Schweiz’s table, as if his scarlet uniform created an aura that defied approach surely as any hex. There was no hope of rescue save by her own wits.
“Sieur,” she extemporized, “it’s as I’ve said—we are engaged, and I cannot forswear that vow. Surely you, an officer in the God’s Militia, understand the import of such a promise?”
Schweiz snorted. He seemed to Flysse more drunk than usual, more pressing. He said: “An officer in the God’s Militia, yes! And consequently of far greater position than any yokel. You must forget your promise, Flysse. Shall it make your mind easier, I’ll have our padre bless you and absolve you. Only—”
“Sieur!” She feigned amazement, shock. “You suggest I renege a vow made in God’s name?”
Schweiz said, “I do; you must. Listen to me, Flysse—I think of you hourly, and I swear I cannot live lest you agree to my proposal.”
Now her shock was genuine. “That I allow you to set me up as … as your doxy … your kept woman?”
“As my mistress,” Schweiz said. “There’s a difference, you know.”
“I think not, ’sieur. I think you suggest the unthinkable.” She captured his tankard, hoping he’d free her to gain more ale. “I’m not some street woman, to be bought and housed for your pleasure.”
“For my love,” he argued. “Only for my love.”
But there was not, now or ever, Flysse thought, any mention of honest marriage. She felt fear stir—Schweiz seemed mightily determined this night, and did he continue in this vein and not leave her go, she thought it should be very hard to rein her temper, her disgust. It should prove very hard not to strike him, and damn the consequences.
“I think,” she said, hoping her voice did not tremble, “that I’d best refill your mug, no?”
“No,” said Schweiz, “for I’ve made up my mind this day. I shall have you, Flysse.”
He jerked his arm then, tugging her forward and down, reaching out with his free hand to grasp her shoulder so that she was toppled and turned to land across his knees. He set an arm around her and a hand beneath her chin, holding her head still as he planted a beery kiss on her lips.
Flysse closed her mouth tight and struggled furiously, pounding at his shoulders and back. But he was strong and ignored her blows, endeavoring to force his tongue between her lips even as the hand that clutched her chin descended busily down her body to find its way beneath her skirts.
Flysse felt nauseated, and the queasy feeling galvanized her to a more ferocious defense of her honor. She raked nails down her attacker’s cheeks, gratified even through her panic to hear Schweiz’s pained cry. His hand left off its clumsy fumblings and rose to touch the wounds. When he saw the blood upon his fingers, he gaped in disbelief. Then snarled in anger.
“God’s blood, girl, you’ve marked me! You’ll pay for that in kind.”
He took a handful of her hair and slapped her hard. Flysse felt her eyes water, then shrieked in outrage as he cupped a hand about a breast and squeezed viciously. Dimly, she was aware of an abrupt silence throughout the taproom, so that Schweiz’s panting sounded unnaturally loud. She wondered why no one came to her aid. Surely Master Banlyn would not stand idly by; surely there must be someone would take this creature off her. But none come: there was only Armnory Schweiz’s hand tearing at her bodice and his face descending again. She supposed it was not so unusual, a patron disporting with a tavern wench; likely the other girls would laugh it off and return the kisses, nor object to the hand unlacing her bodice to delve at the flesh beneath. Some, she knew, would invite him to bed.
But she was not like them. In Cudham she had fought off ’sieur Shaxbrof—and others since coming to the Flying Horse—and she would not willingly submit to attentions so distasteful. She felt his tongue probe into her mouth. It tasted of ale, tobacco, and stale food. She felt her breast freed from the confines of the bodice, and his fingers toy there, then slide down her waist, her waist, her hip, to lift her skirts, exposing her legs. She clamped them tight, but ragged nails scratched between her thighs, forcing crudely upward to her undergarments. He laughed as the cotton ripped under his exploring fingers. She thought that he would surely rape her.
She did not think of what she did then, nor of the consequences. She was hardly aware of her hand—which still, somehow, held the emptied tankard—rising to strike his temple, slamming the pewter mug against his skull.
Lieutenant Armnory Schweiz gasped and fell back on the bench.
Flysse leapt up and, as he stared at her and reached out a hand, struck him again, full in the face. The blow jarred her knuckles; the tankard was dented. Schweiz’s nose spread wide across his cheeks, spurting blood that splattered over his tunic, darkening the scarlet. He grunted, and clutched at her again, and she drove the mug straight into his face. He yelped as teeth shattered, spitting fragments from between his pulped and bloody lips, his eyes glazing. Flysse felt dizzy, dropping the mug as she instinctively adjusted her disordered clothing, her eyes wide as Schweiz moaned, cursed, and dribbled blood.
Across the taproom, Master Banlyn said softly, nervously, “In God’s name, girl, do you know what you’ve done?”
Defended my honor, Flysse thought. Only that.
Armnory Schweiz touched cautiously at his ruined face. When he raised his head, his eyes were furious. When he spoke, his voice came thick.
“To attack an officer of the God’s Militia is a crime, you bitch. You’ll pay for this!”
He fumbled his pistol from the holster. Master Banlyn cried, “No! For God’s sake, Lieutenant, don’t shoot her!”
“Shoot her?” Schweiz shook his head, sending a spray of blood and mucus arcing over the floor. “I’ll not shoot the bitch. Oh, no—I’ll not end it so easy.”
Flysse took a step back: there was a madness in his eyes that filled her with dread. She flinched as he cocked the pistol, but he only set the muzzle on her chest and grimaced a horrid smile.
“In the name of the Autarchy, I arrest you, bitch.” He flourished the pistol at the door. “Now come with me.”
Flysse had cleaned her share of stables and pigpens, and even they were preferable to her cell. For one thing, they were sunlit, not sunk in the perpetual gloom of the prison with its few sputtering tallow candles and small, barred windows; and the straw on their floors was considerably fresher than the noisome, insect-infested stuff littering the flagstones of this tiny cubicle. Nor were the inhabitants so threatening as her neighbors here—the catcalls and lewd comments that greeted her arrival had made Flysse blush. She had not known women did such things together as were suggested, and she was grateful—a small mercy—that none other shared the cell.
She wondered how long she should be confined, and what the outcome of her trial might be. The jailer—a gaunt woman who seemed to Flysse no kinder than her charges—told her that such injury as she had inflicted on an officer of the God’s Militia must guarantee a strict punishment. It see
med the lieutenant’s nose was soundly broken and several of his teeth knocked loose, and that amused the jailer as much as it amused her to frighten Flysse with speculation of her impending fate. Almost, she wished she had not struck the man, but what else might she have done? Certainly not submit to his desires; and surely a judge would understand that, no matter what the jailer said.
She had determined from the first to tell the truth and, did the court allow it, call upon Master Banlyn and the other girls from the Flying Horse to stand as witnesses. Surely they must confirm her story, that Armnory Schweiz had persecuted her with his attentions, suggesting such liaisons as no God-fearing woman should be asked to accept. The trouble was she had no more experience of courts than of jails, and no real idea whether or not she might summon witnesses to her character and conduct. She had asked the jailer, but for such information the woman demanded payment, in coin or kind, and Flysse lacked the one and had no taste for the other. She wondered if her meager savings were safe. She could not, currently penniless, send word to those she named her friends, nor had any visited her in the few days of her incarceration. She believed her only hope was truth, and the understanding of the judge; but the jailer’s ominous declarations filled her with dread. Even so, she hoped her hearing might be soon: at least it would remove her from this stinking cell—for ever or awhile. Beyond that she could not—dared not—think. She must cling to the hope of freedom, anticipate her return to the Flying Horse and a resumption of her life. The alternative—whatever it be—was altogether too terrifying to consider. She slumped despondent on the splintery bench that was both seat and bed, watching the roaches scuttle busily amongst the straw, then rose as a lantern illumined the corridor outside and the rattle of the jailer’s keys heralded the woman’s approach.
