by Jaine Fenn
Chapter 33
Although the weather was fine, Rhia took her hat, jamming it low to hide her mask from casual glances. Breen opened the guesthouse door then fell into step beside her.
It felt good to be outside. “So we are to buy a wig, or failing that, hair dye?” Sorne had admitted he was assembling a disguise good enough to penetrate the priory, but had insisted Rhia did not need the details.
“That’s right.”
“How about clothes?”
“Oh, we have those.”
“Who will be going in?” And when? And how?
Breen looked pained. “The captain will tell you everything you need to know.”
“Anyone would think he doesn’t trust me.” Rhia decided to change the subject. “Is he married?”
“Sorry?” Breen’s easy stride hitched.
“The captain. I wondered if he was married. I’m guessing not, given his behaviour on the caravan.”
“His… oh. Yes. I mean no, not any more.”
“But he was?”
“Yes. He lost both his boys to the rain-fever. Before my time, but they say his wife left him because of it.”
Had his sons been of an age with the Zekti boys? She thought, briefly, of Father, how, if he had not succumbed during that last outbreak of the periodic plague, everything would be different now. “How about Lekem?”
“Oh, he’s married. Got a young kid. Probably glad to get some peace and quiet.”
“I’m guessing you’re not married?” Breen had gone with Mella more than once.
“Young, free and single, that’s me.”
They crossed the first square. The Sun painted the reed roofs with a warm golden glow. There were fewer people about than on restday. As they left the square, heading into a narrow alley, Breen whispered, “M’lady, we’re being followed.”
Rhia’s breath caught. “Are you sure?”
“Reasonably.” He did not sound overly concerned.
“What should we do?”
“You should keep walking. Take the next left, then carry straight on.”
With that, he was gone. Rhia swallowed rising panic and put one foot in front of the other.
She took the left turn, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder.
She passed a turning on the right, but kept straight on. What if he didn’t come back? What if Mam Jekrey had been wrong about these strange streets being safe–
“Lost him.”
Rhia jumped, hand going to her throat, then turned to see Breen, smiling as ever. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. The bas– miscreant saw me and ran off.”
“So they know we’re onto them?”
“They do now. Hopefully they’ll leave us alone. Shall we carry on?” Breen still appeared unconcerned. Rhia tried to be.
The market announced its presence with a low hubbub and the jolly piping of a reed flute. The grid of stalls was larger than Shen’s hilly streets could host, though some of the produce was familiar. There were a lot of female stallholders, in keeping with the balance between genders she had seen elsewhere in Zekt. The air smelled of grilled fish and the local variant on tea, which was served with the leaves still in; despite its aromatic scent, it tasted like boiled salad.
They got a few stares, which Rhia ignored; Breen returned the more forward ones with a smile and half wave. Rhia enjoyed his cheeky insouciance.
In the third aisle they found a cosmetics stall with wigs on wooden stands at the back. The stallholder, whose green-painted eyelids and rouged cheeks showed off her wares, looked past Rhia to ask a local woman what she wanted.
Under his breath Breen murmured, “I’ll be over here. Might increase your chance of getting served and I can watch your back.”
She nodded. He moved off.
Rhia waited while the other customer was served, then stepped into the stallholder’s eyeline and pointed to one of the wigs, all of which looked much the same. “How much for that one, please?”
“Fifty marks.”
“Fifty marks? I could buy a horse for that!”
“Fifty marks it is.”
The lack of written prices gave Rhia no way of challenging the ridiculous price. Sorne had haggled, so it must be a local custom, but with no experience, nor any clue to the item’s truth worth, Rhia was forced to pay up. She fished out an intricately patterned bone disc, only realizing her mistake when the woman’s eyes widened. It was a single fifty-mark coin; not something one of her apparent class would have. Too late now. “Where can I buy ink, please?” she asked the stallholder as the woman handed over the paper-wrapped wig.
“Ink?”
“For writing.”
“Rheklew sells stuff like that.”
“And where would I find this Rheklew?”
The stallholder pointed. “Just to the left of that awning pole.”
Rhia laid the wig in the reed basket she had borrowed from Mam Jekrey. “Thank you,” she said curtly, before moving off.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Breen meandering in the same direction.
Rheklew was a man, writing presumably being men’s work. She was his only customer, although when she approached his stall he still favoured her with a brief frown, his eyes going to her mask. When he failed to greet her she said, “I would like to know what inks you have, and their prices please, Sur.” Courtesy cost nothing.
The stallholder listed his wares. Rhia asked whether any of the prices were negotiable. He shook his head. Well, she had tried. Damned if she knew why traders didn’t just label their wares with the price they expected people to pay. She settled on a pot of lampblack and one of oakgall. As she laid the pots in her basket she heard an odd sound from behind, a rustle and a shuffle. She turned, and found herself toe-to-toe with a stranger.
She opened her mouth to apologize.
The man reached for her.
She raised her free hand to fend him off, found it held an ink pot, and flung the pot into the man’s face.
The lid of the pot came off. Oakgall spattered. The man shrieked and clapped his hands to his eyes.
Where was Breen? Over there, wrestling with another man. Passersby paused, stared, drew back. Rhia looked for a way out. Everything was simultaneously too fast and stupidly, frustratingly slow. A voice in her head admonished her, pointing out that the man standing next to her screaming and clawing at his face was her responsibility.
Breen drew back from his opponent and brought his arm back to strike. The man ducked; the punch went wide. The man returned the blow. It looked like it barely landed, but Breen went down.
The man looked her way, eyes narrowing. He strode towards her. He was empty-handed but young and fit; he could still overpower her. She had to run now. Run or fight. She had fought before, in her study. But that had been her territory, her home. Don’t fight! Run! She raised one foot and began to turn, far too slowly.
Movement. Someone else coming up fast beside her. Not fair, three against two!
The newcomer stepped forward, blocking the other man as he reached her. The two men connected, twisted, and went down, an oddly fluid motion. The newcomer had grey in his hair and wore a dark tunic. The men rolled. An elbow pistoned back. A flurry of movement. The motion stopped.
Captain Sorne had her attacker pinned to the ground. He knelt on his arm and leant over him, holding his dagger a hair’s breadth from the man’s throat.
“Who sent you?” Sorne’s voice was casual; he wasn’t even out of breath.
The man on the ground said nothing, just closed his eyes. Sorne spat, the gob landing on the man’s cheek, making him flinch. People were approaching, demanding to know what was going on. Sorne sprang to his feet and kicked the man once in the ribs. The attacker opened his eyes, then, seeing he was not about to die, scrabbled to his feet. Dragging his half-blind companion after him, he staggered off through the gathering crowd, which parted to let them through.
Three other men were coming forward, wearing the skullcaps of city
guards. Rhia clutched her basket to her chest and stood her ground.
The militia did not detain them long. They took statements, then let Rhia and the two soldiers go. They even had their medic look over Breen, who had slipped and fallen while trying to evade his attacker, and hit his head.
Back at the guesthouse Sorne helped his corporal to bed, Rhia following on. As he closed the screen door to the soldiers’ room, Rhia said, “I’m not sure what would have happened if you hadn’t been there. Thank you.”
He inclined his head. “You’re welcome.”
“Although…”
“Yes?”
“I’m still not clear why you were there.” When the Zekti militia had asked, Sorne claimed he was accompanying her; Rhia had not said anything to contradict him.
“Can we speak in your room, please?”
“All right.”
Her room felt cramped with the captain in it, but she let him shut the door. His paranoia had turned out to be justified. She sat on the bed; he remained standing. “You asked why I was at the market,” he said, keeping his voice down against the thin walls. “It’s simple enough: if you want to find out who’s tailing someone, the best way is to follow them.”
“You suspected we were being watched?”
“Yes. And as I don’t think every foreign visitor gets such treatment, I’ve been trying to work out why we might attract particular attention.”
“What are you asking, Captain?”
“Simply whether you can think of any reason the Zekti authorities might want to keep tabs on us.”
“I …” She sighed. “It may be nothing, but a couple of days ago our hostess caught me using my sightglass to observe the Eternal Isle.”
Sorne’s lips thinned. “I see. And how did she react?”
“I got the impression she disapproved. But she disapproves of a lot of things, so I thought nothing of it.”
“Right. Thank you for telling me now.” His tone implied that “then” would have been preferable.
“And there’s something else.” On the walk back, she had gone over reasons for the incident in the market, which already felt unreal. Being attacked in public: another thing that never happened to her. She wondered if paying the stallholder with a large coin had alerted chance criminals, but the attack felt coordinated. Given the lack of weapons or threats, she guessed the men were not bent on murder or robbery, but on abduction. Of her, presumably. “It may not be relevant but… at one point I was betrothed to a Zekti noble. He was a minor prince at the time, before all that dynastic unpleasantness a few years back. After my accident,” she half raised a hand to indicate her mask, “the betrothal was called off. There was some bad feeling.”
Sorne went very still.
She continued, “Diplomacy won out, and the prince’s sister married my cousin instead. Which, given how things subsequently went with both our families, was for the best.” Her voice sounded brittle in her ears.
“Just to be clear,” said Sorne slowly. “You were betrothed to Prince Mekteph?”
“At one point. But we never met.”
“And the duchess is only in the position she is because you didn’t marry her brother?”
“Yes, though this is not something we dwell on.”
Sorne’s expression closed down. Finally, Rhia asked, “Why would the prince suddenly be interested in vengeance for deeds over a decade ago?”
“Why indeed, m’lady.” Rhia got the impression he was furious, but trying not to show it.
“Even if what happened today was Mekteph’s doing,” she said, “how would he know I was here?”
Sorne’s tone was curt. “Now that, m’lady,” he said, “is an excellent question.”
“I’ve told you all I know, Captain.” Perhaps she should have shared the information about Mekteph before, but it was nobles’ business. As for Mam Jekrey, how was Rhia to know the difference between the general disapproval of a busybody and being spied on? It wasn’t as though Sorne kept her informed.
Sorne pulled the door open. “Then I will bid you good night.”
Chapter 34
As soon as the hunt returned, the settlement sprang into action, every clanless playing their part in skinning, jointing and preserving the meat.
Dej got clamper duty. It was unpleasant work. The clampers had been stabbed but still exuded a foul and sticky slime. They also came in two parts: an edible fleshy “foot”, with a smaller, squishier heart deeper in the shell which provided oil for lamps. Her paring-knife kept slipping, leading to nicked fingertips, and the squishy part of the creature was sometimes still alive, and prone to squirting stinking ichor when pierced.
She finished her work late in the afternoon. After returning the meat, shells and oil to the big hut, she went to the pool to wash, scrubbing her hands and forearms with handfuls of gravel.
Walking back through the village, she met Cal. He stopped and smiled. Dej halted too, hands dripping, and felt a response which might have been a blush – if her skin still did that. “Good afternoon.” She kept her voice light.
“And to you.” He made to move on, like most clanless did once basic greetings were exchanged, then hesitated and said, “I was wondering where you grew up.”
A smile leapt to her lips. “Shen. You too, I’m thinking.”
“That’s right. Not that it should matter, but you’re probably still thinking about your life in the crèche. I know I did, at first. Don’t worry, you’ll settle in.”
No one, in the week and a half she’d been here, had shown any interest in how well she was adjusting to her new life. “I’m doing my best,” she ventured, suddenly shy. “I suppose it’ll take a while.”
“That’s the attitude.” His smile was constant, even if his gaze wasn’t.
She tensed, unsure if that was it, but then he added, “My hut’s over there, just behind Mar’s. You could come over later, if you like.”
Was he asking what she thought? And if he was, should she agree? “Is that ‘later’ as in… tonight?”
“If you’re not too tired.”
“I might do that. If you’d like me to.” She’d never known how to deal with these conversations at the crèche; boys only spoke to her like this if Min or Jen or someone else more interesting wasn’t around.
“I’d like that very much,” he said, then nodded to show the conversation was over.
Though Cal’s interest pleased her, she knew it for what it was. She’d got looks like that before. Though her post-bonding changes had played out, it appeared her breasts would never be fully absorbed. Cal had noticed that.
But sex was a possible pleasure, and there weren’t many pleasures here. She didn’t regret never getting beyond the odd fumble with the boys at the crèche, but Cal was older. He’d know what he was doing.
He was also a seer, of sorts. Getting someone like that on her side could make all the difference in this cold and brutal place.
If only he’d managed to look her in the eye, she wouldn’t have hesitated.
When she got back to the hut it was empty. Vay had mentioned extracting fats from the hunt’s catch for use in potions and creams. She’d also been teasing Lih about one of the other clanless that Lih was interested in, or perhaps had gone with and might again. Dej didn’t much care.
She’d never been in the hut alone, and it made her feel both nervous and powerful. She stoked the fire, and considered fetching the water, but she’d save that task for later as an excuse to get away from her hut-mates. She sat by the hearth and began to hum. She could hear herself properly in the silence of the hut. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the sounds in her head. If she opened her mouth, they became even clearer. She tried to reproduce one of the simplest songs she’d composed at the crèche. It wasn’t singing as such, but it was a tuneful noise. Music, of sorts. She tried another tune, humming louder this time.
“What the fuck?”
It was Lih, of course, standing in the doorway.
T
he other girl strode in. “What d’you think you’re doing?”
“Nothing!” Dej sprang to her feet. If Lih was going to make something of this, she’d defend herself.
But Lih just laughed. “That was quite some noise you were making.”
“It was nothing.” Dej reached past her for the skin on the peg by the door. “I’ll fetch the water.” She ducked out of the hut, Lih’s laughter following her.
When she got back Vay was there, preparing the evening meal. Lih looked up from where she lay on her pallet. “Vay, my dear, you won’t believe what she,” Lih stabbed a finger at Dej, “was doing when I got back earlier.”
“Handstands?”
“No, she was singing. Well, I say singing. Croaking.”
Vay didn’t look up from the leaves she was shredding. “Hmm, surprised her crèche didn’t beat that out of her.”
For the rest of the evening Lih kept coming back to Dej’s secret, tunelessly parodying the snatch of song Dej had been singing when she came in, then bursting into laughter.
Dej’s face burned and she found herself clenching and unclenching her hands. She wanted nothing more than to leap for the bitch’s throat, to shut her up. But if she did, Lih would fight back and she’d seen how fast Lih was. She didn’t think Vay would join in, but she wasn’t sure she’d intervene either. This wasn’t the crèche, where fights were quickly broken up by staff. If Lih wanted to beat Dej to a pulp, no one would stop her.
So she ate her meal, wiped the dishes, and stayed silent. When she couldn’t stand it any longer she muttered that she was going to the latrines, pulled the curtain aside, and left the hut, Lih’s impersonation of a dying crow echoing in her ears.
The night was cloudless, the Moons painting the shabby huts with silver. Hearth fires burned beyond door curtains. From here, they looked warm and welcoming but Dej knew better.
She started walking.
Lih and Vay were just being mean. People had been mean to her before. They would be again. But this had been about the music. Anything else – her fighting skills, her appearance, her failure at the hunt – would have been easier to bear. But not the music. Her secret had become fodder for her hut-mates’ mockery.
