If I Pay Thee Not in Gold

by Piers Anthony

  The demons were useful in other ways, such as supplying lifelike female surrogates: a kind of conjured, animated doll, as an outlet for men’s primitive urges. Adria had a shrewd idea that a great many of these surrogates bore her face and the faces of other prominent Mazonites. It didn’t matter. Whatever the freedmen got into within the walls of their private quarter made no difference to her rule. So long as no one actually dared bring such indiscretions to her attention, she could afford to ignore them. It made the freedmen content with the illusion that they were beyond her control.

  Ware had never been anything but a pleasant guest with her, never alluding to any commerce he might have with the freedmen, never being the least insolent to her. Yet, despite the fact that he was as comely as any of the men in her companion-quarters, the Queen felt no attraction for him. Coupling with a demon was forbidden, anathema, the depth of depravity; the very idea made her nauseous. Adria would sooner have coupled with her prize stallion.

  “What are you thinking, you monster?” she asked him lightly. “What schemes are running through that ancient head of yours?”

  He steepled his hands in front of his chin. “That this is one who bids fair to follow in the footsteps of her so-talented mother,” he replied, just as lightly. But the look he sent her was one of warning. “Elibet was a formidable warrior and magician, and she had her supporters, in her day.”

  Adria felt a cold finger of fear touch her. So Ware knew whom Xylina’s mother was! Well, perhaps she should have expected that. He had served her predecessor, and the Queen before her as well. But was he warning her obliquely that Xylina might well challenge Adria’s right to rule, as Elibet had been about to do? His advice, when he tendered it, had always been good in the past.

  If so, she should take heed of the warning, and do something to eliminate the girl before she got a good idea of her own power, and where it could lead her.

  One of the arena-attendants intercepted Xylina as she headed blindly for the street. “My lady-” he said urgently. “You must take this-” He thrust a small leather bag at her, one that jingled dully.

  “This” proved to be a small bag of mixed coins, mostly copper, but more money than Xylina had possessed for some time. But where had it come from? She hesitated to take it, looking at him with some confusion. What would it mean if she accepted it? Could she get into some kind of trouble?

  Once again, she longed with a feeling indistinguishable from pain for Marcus. Marcus would have known what to do. He would have been able to advise her.

  A deep, musical voice behind her gave her the answer she needed. “Those are gifts from the watchers,” the unknown man said, with careful neutrality. “This is a kind of reward for a good and entertaining match. Your supporters and admirers tossed coins out along with the flowers. Most of them are probably real; it would be in very poor taste to throw conjured coin. I’m sure there are a few bits of conjured metal in there, thrown by those who lost money in betting against you, but they will have no city stamp upon them; they will simply be blank disks.”

  Xylina started, and turned to see who had spoken.

  It was the slave she had fought, the one called Faro, who was now her property. In her shock, she had forgotten that by defeating him and making him surrender to her, she had claimed him for her own. As, it appeared, she could claim these coins.

  “Ah-thank you,” she said, taking them from the arena attendant, who scuttled off, relieved. She looked back at Faro, wondering who had tossed this money-and if they could afford such gifts.

  He seemed to read her mind. “Those who showered coins upon you were those who had bet for you to win,” he said, with no expression whatsoever. “Considering the odds, they profited well on your performance.”

  She had heard some of the banter before the fight. Considering the odds, her benefactors could well have afforded a small fortune!

  She looked up and down the stone corridor, but the attendant slave had taken himself out of sight, and there seemed to be no one else here at the moment. She looked back at Faro, who stood behind her as impassively as any statue.

  Obscurely, she wanted to apologize; she wanted to explain that she hadn’tintended to win, that all she had wanted was to make him angry enough to kill her quickly. But something had happened out there in the arena; suddenly, some deeper instinct had taken over and made her fight to live instead. Before she quite knew what had happened, she had won.

  But no words came out; they couldn’t. And he would never have understood. No Mazonite would apologize to a man for defeating him. No Mazonite would apologize to a man for anything.

  So, after a moment of frozen indecision, she turned again, and headed for the street, with Faro following along obediently. She took the shortest way home, in a kind of daze, hardly noticing where she went until she found herself on her own shabby street, approaching the front gate to her house.

  When they reached her little home, she felt another moment of shame. This was not a place she cared to bring even a slave-but she had no real choice in the matter. It was, after all, the only thing she owned. They had to sleep somewhere.

  She opened the gate in the wall and let him in, but instead of immediately following her inside, her new acquisition stood in the tiny forecourt for a moment, fists on his hips, looking at the building. She flushed, embarrassed. He must have been used to much, much better.

  Again he spoke, startling her. “If I were in your place, honored lady, I would make a loan, and buy a better house. I would sell this one, if I could, for earnest money, but it would be very important now that many people knew my face-if I were you-to act upon that notoriety and present a prosperous front.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” she said, carefully. “Would you explain why I should do this?”

  She thought she saw him smile slightly, and his mien definitely softened. He stopped looking beyond her and looked directly into her eyes.

  “It’s not just for comfort,” he told her. “Gracious lady, you are a woman now; you have the right to engage in business and make contracts. Selling my services, for instance; I assure you that I have been completely educated in everything a scribe should know. But no one with any money will comehere . You have to have a house in a decent part of town; you have to look prosperous. In order to make money, you have to look as if you already have it and do not necessarily need it.”

  She nodded, slowly. That made sense, in an odd kind of way. And speaking of money-

  She took the pouch of coins the attendant had given her, and counted out enough to buy both of them food for a good evening meal. “Go to the market, and buy us bread, cheese-a little fruit, and some vegetables,” she said, then added, softly, “I’m sorry to use you this way, but-well, you can see-”

  “You don’t have any other slaves.” He looked at her as if her half-apology surprised him, then slowly, almost reluctantly, a faint smile really did appear. It softened his grim features. “That’s quite all right, little mistress,” he said, and his voice was gentle. “Going to the market is not exactly a hardship. Because I am a scribe I also know how to handle money, and no one will cheat you.”

  Then, before she could respond to that, he took the coins and headed out on his errand.

  She wondered, fleetingly, if he could cook.

  Faro awoke in the middle of the night, all his senses alert. Something was wrong.

  When he had returned from the marketplace, with far more food than Xylina had expected (having shamelessly used his size and forbidding aspect to frighten vendors into bargain prices), she had astonished him by cooking for both of them. That was just as well, since that was not one of his skills, and he had expected to eat everything raw. In his absence she had conjured a comfortable bed for him, which surprised him yet again.

  She was treating him with far more courtesy than he ever remembered being extended to a slave, and he wondered why. He had not always been as suspicious as he was now-and there did not seem to be any guile in this young wom
an. Perhaps-perhaps he could trust her.

  To trust his mistress… that was something he had not expected. To be trusted by his mistress-that was something a slave could anticipate. It was the last step before being freed. A trusted slave was one who received responsibility and one who could expect reward for handling it well. But to trust a woman again, when the one who should have rewarded his diligence had betrayed him-no, that was so far from his mind that the idea had never occurred to him until now.

  Food had made him sleepy, and the poor district in which the house resided was a quiet one, at least. They had both been exhausted by their mutual ordeal in the arena, and as soon as the sun had set, Xylina had gone to sleep. After making certain that the gate to the street outside was locked, he did the same, setting his bed across the doorway so that no one would be able to get by him. There was something about this situation that felt wrong, and he was taking no chances that she might come to harm.

  After all, no matter what his feelings in the matter were, if she died, he would be executed. That would have been tolerable if he hated her; he could have been less than diligent in her defense, and in that devious manner taken her with him. But it was not tolerable now, for a reason he was unable to quite fathom.

  He was not certain what had awakened him, until he glanced through the door into the other room, and saw that Xylina’s bed was empty. He almost went back to sleep then, assuming that she had left it for the obvious reason, but his feeling ofsomething wrong would not leave him. So, instead, he left his own bed and walked softly into the back court, where the little pump and the outdoor kitchen were. He moved quietly, with great care, not certain why, but somehow knowing he should make no noise. The hard-pounded dirt of the. courtyard was still warm from the sun beneath his toughened soles, and he reflected that the sun would be unbearably hot in high summer, without a single tree to shade all this stone and bare dirt. Yet another good reason to move.

  He eased around the corner of the building, sure that he had heard something odd.

  There, he froze in shock.

  Xylina was in the middle of the courtyard-kneeling on the hard dirt, as hard as stone. Her long hair covered her face, falling loose about her shoulders.

  Weeping.

  And in her hands, a knife-blade glittered; from the way she held it, Faro had no doubt that she intended to use it on herself.

  The realization that had eluded him before abruptly burst into awareness. Not only did he not hate his new mistress, he cared for her. Not as a man for a woman, of course; that was beyond his aspiration as a slave. But as a family member. As he might care for a child. She was so-so innocent. So much in need of protection. He had to serve and protect her, of course; it was his oath and his duty. But now he realized that he alsowanted to. That put a significant new perspective on it. He was prepared to die in her defense, as any slave was for his mistress. But now he was prepared to do more than that. He had to keep her alive-which was not the same thing.

  His mind swam. What was he to do? If he surprised her, she might plunge the blade into her breast-if he left her alone, she would almost certainly do that anyway. If she died, he died-

  Andwhy -

  She looked up, and saw him, a dark shadow against the white stone. She gasped and froze, like a frightened doe. She had probably forgotten that he was with her now, and took him for an intruder.

  That gave him the chance he needed, and he took it. Moving quickly, he leapt to her side and took the blade from her hands. He cast it across the yard, where it hit the wall with a clatter and dropped into the shadows. She remained where she was, paralyzed, looking up at him. She looked dazed, as if she had been sleepwalking-or sleep-weeping. He had clearly startled her so much that she was not able to think clearly.

  “What in demons-fire did you think you were doing?” he snarled, as if she were another slave and not his mistress. “I-” she began, then folded in on herself, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

  Those sobs cut straight to his heart, cut through all the layers of indifference and self-protection he had built about himself. He forgot himself, his position and hers. She was only a frightened, damaged child-and he responded to that.

  He didn’t even stop to calculate what he was doing; he just picked her up as if she were a child who had hurt herself, and he smoothed her hair, murmuring comforting things to her, until her weeping subsided into exhaustion.

  She dropped all of her masks, dazed with her shock and her grief, and the words spilled that explained everything.

  Her mother’s death-the plague-the constant eroding of her fortunes, and the pain of loss after loss, until even trusted Marcus had died and she was left alone, with no one to advise her and no one to confide in.

  Where were her relatives? Surely her mother could not have been without sisters, cousins at least. Or had they been persuaded to leave the child to struggle, completely on her own but for the single slave? And if they had been so persuaded, who had done so?

  His suspicious nature was aroused on her behalf. He did not have answers yet-but he would. A slave saw a great deal, and heard more.

  He realized that she had stopped talking. She was looking askance at him. She was beginning to realize how far the two of them had transgressed the bounds of mistress/slave association. He couldn’t afford to let her do that, right now while she was so vulnerable, because she might try to kill herself again. Yet how could he stop her?

  “Faro,” she said, and he knew it was coming. “I shouldn’t have tried to kill myself. I know why you stopped me.”

  “You have no good reason to kill yourself now,” he said quickly. “You won, today! You became a full Mazonite citizen, and you gained a useful slave. Your lot is already improving, and I will help improve it more. This I swear.”

  “Yes, that too,” she agreed. “I was being hopelessly foolish. Maybe the excitement-I just wasn’t thinking it through. But what I meant was that I shouldn’t do it while you’re here, because then you’ll be executed. Tomorrow I’ll take you to the border and free you. Then you’ll be safe. I- I apologize for not thinking of that before.”

  “Don’t apologize to a slave!” he protested, though that was not his real concern.

  Now she gazed at him with a certain wistful insight. “I think I stopped thinking of you as a slave when you started talking like a scribe. I’m sorry I embarrassed you.”

  “You’re doing it again! Never say you’re sorry for a slave’s feelings. They don’t matter.”

  She shook her head. “I know you’re right, according to our custom. But somehow-”

  “I swear never to tell,” he said. “I must protect your reputation as I do your person.”

  “It won’t matter, after I free you.”

  “Don’t free me!” he said, anguished.

  “But I must, because-”

  “I don’t want to be freed,” he said carefully. “I can not be a freedman in Mazonia, and I would have a worse life elsewhere than I would as your slave. You are a compassionate mistress, and I want to remain with you.”

  “You don’t have to say that, Faro,” she said. “I saw your hate for me when I chose you to fight. I thought you would kill me. I-”

  “I think I never had a chance. Your powers of conjuration-I’ve never seen such strength of magic before.”

  “Oh, surely the Queen-”

  “Maybe the Queen,” he agreed. “But no lesser person. You are destined for greatness.”

  “Not with my curse,” she said wanly. “But that’s not the point. I don’t hate you, Faro, and I don’t want to humiliate you, or doom you with my fate. So it’s best that I free you.”

  “I don’t hate you,” he said. “I never hated you. I hated the society. I thought you represented it, but now I know you don’t.”

  She seemed surprised. “Please, Faro, I’m trying to do the right thing. Please tell me the truth.”

  “Don’t ask me,tell me!” he snapped.

  She smiled, faintly. “Tell me the t
ruth about your feelings, Faro.”

  So he started talking, unmasking himself as she had unmasked herself. “When you chose me to fight, I knew I had to kill you, or be killed by you. I hated you as the representative of Mazonia, and the barrier to my freedom. But there was a faint doubt. Then we met in the arena, and you beat me-but you didn’t kill me. I was ready to die, but you gave me the alternative I had not planned on. My hate had nowhere to go-except the opposite way. I had no neutral setting.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He smiled. “I hardly understand it myself. But I think if I can’t hate you, I must love you.”

  “Love me!” she said, startled.

  “As a servant,” he said quickly. “I would never-”

  “Oh. Of course. So you really don’t want to go?”

  “I really don’t. I want to serve you and help you to be the great lady you can be.”

  She gazed at him. Then her eyes overflowed again. “Oh, Faro, thank you.”

  “Don’t thank a slave!” he said, but this time not harshly. She was incorrigible in this respect.

  “Then just hold me, Faro,” she said. She smiled briefly through her tears. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  He held her, not speaking further. What else was there to do?

  Eventually, she fell asleep in his arms. He suspected that she had somehow confused him with that long-dead confidant of hers called “Marcus,” for he was quite sure she would never have wanted him to know the things she had poured out to him in her bewilderment and long-pent grief. The loss of her mother-the deaths of everyone she knew-the gradual wearing down of her spirit by ever-increasing poverty. The incredible nonsense of the curse-and behind it all, something that he was fairly sure she had not recognized. The signs of a steady conspiracy of harassment, meant to break her further.

  They had that in common too, then, for surely all the world was ranged against him, and had been from the moment he grew too large for the comfort of his mistress.