If I Pay Thee Not in Gold

by Piers Anthony

  A few of the Mazonites looked as if they would rather have enjoyed Faro’s rather caustic wit for a while longer, but as Xylina had expected, they did not object. No “party” was ever held strictly for entertainment; she recalled that quite clearly from her childhood. At some point in the evening, the slaves would be sent away and the women would get down to some serious discussions of politics and business. Often, they were one and the same, and when that was the case, the discussions continued until dawn.

  So when she and Faro ventured out into the lamp-lit street outside Klyta Stylina’s villa, she was not surprised to look up and see from the stars that it was well past midnight. She pulled her conjured “cloak” a little closer around her shoulders; the air was chill and rather damp, and she shivered as she covered a yawn. She hated to think about getting up at dawn to go down to the market to get the promised seedlings, and to post Faros services for hire, but one good fee did not make up for possible lost revenue. In fact, she would need every copper-bit of the added gratuity to help ease the financial burden those new seedlings were going to place on their resources.

  Strange: here she was worrying about seedlings, gardens-but a short time ago she was ready to die. Sometimes the changes in her life made her feel as if she were astride a runaway horse, being carried on to some unknown destination, whatever her wishes in the matter might be.

  There was no one in the street at this hour to see them, so Faro fell in beside her, rather than taking the proper position of a slave, three paces behind his mistress.

  “You were excellent, Faro,” Xylina told him, warmly and honestly, as they walked slowly to the cross-street that led most directly to their quarter of the city. “I don’t know how you managed to keep your temper when some of them asked you about the arena and our fight.”

  The street was bordered by the walls surrounding the forecourts and front gardens of the expensive villas of this section of the city. Walls of limestone, of granite, of glazed tile and of semi-polished marble loomed high over their heads on either side of the wide, brick-paved street. Those walls were broken from time to time by massive doors, or iron or brass gates; on either side of these portals were lanterns or torches that would burn all night. The tops of the walls would be set with flint-shards, potsherds, broken glass or revolving spikes to ensure the privacy and security of the wealthy owners.

  By day, those portals would stand open, allowing the passerby a brief glimpse of luxury, but at night they were closed firmly against those who haunted the night. Mostly those were simply the poor, who prowled the streets at night looking for usable discards. Xylina had done so herself, in the past, finding just enough to make it worth the shame of possibly being seen. But there were thieves, and vandals; there were also the gangs of slaves commanded by renegade women who would do anything for a price. More than one Mazonite had hired such gangs to work as much damage as possible to an enemy or rival. Xylina had seen one or two of those gangs on her own nocturnal expeditions, and had hidden herself in the shadows with her heart in her mouth, waiting for them to pass. She could have defended herself with conjurations, of course, but the shame of being discovered on the street at that time would have haunted her.

  And in between such commissions, they took on other “work”; robbing anyone who happened to cross their path. Usually they only robbed any women they encountered, for the penalties for a man to harm a Mazonite in any way-even if he had been commanded to do so by his mistress-were far too high for any of them to take the risk of identification and reprisal. But male slaves, sent out on late errands, were beaten without mercy, and often killed.

  The lanterns and torches made puddles of light between the huge stretches of shadow; shadows that could hide almost anything. From over the walls drifted sounds: laughter and talk from the party behind them, then soft music, then another flurry of women’s voices in talk and song, then the melody only fountains and falling water could produce. Occasional scents wafted over the walls as well: savory food, incense, the heady perfumes of night-blooming flowers.

  The sounds and scents coming over the walls evoked an aura of calm, but the huge blots of shadow evoked the very opposite.

  “It was-difficult to remain calm, little mistress,” Faro said, long after Xylina had stopped expecting any kind of reply. “One of those women was my former owner.”

  Xylina noted that he did not say, “formermistress.” She did not think that this distinction was an accident. Faro would acknowledge no Mazonite as his mistress except Xylina-that much she was certain of. To call a woman his mistress implied that she had a right to rule him; he would no longer give any Mazonite but her that right.

  “I didn’t know that,” she said, after a long, awkward moment. “If I had, I do not think I would have asked you to perform that way.”

  To her surprise, he chuckled. “Oh, little mistress, believe me when I tell you that it was much better this way. I think I terrified her all over again. She heard my threats, when they took me away to the arena, of the things I would do to her. She expected me to lunge for her and make those threats good every moment that we were there. I suspect she will insist that all her slaves guard her every step on the way home, and will post more guards around her very bed tonight and every night for some time, certain that I will escape you and come for her.” He chuckled again. “All things considered, this is a much better revenge than I could ever have hoped for.”

  She giggled a little. “Was that the scrawny woman in the gold-tissue, with too many earrings?”

  “The same,” Faro confirmed.

  “She did look as if she expected you to leap on her like a tiger.” Xylina had to smile. “I suppose she thought my control of you far from adequate. Because she was failing completely to assign any possibility of self-control to you.”

  “Exactly,” Faro agreed. “And there you have it. Everything I do-or do not do-will be credited to your control of me.”

  “Such illusion!”

  “No illusion, mistress.”

  He did not seem to be joking. Xylina shook her head as they turned the corner and headed towards their home. “Perhaps mother was different-perhaps I am simply remembering things wrongly-but I don’t remember her ever treating her slaves that way. Certainly she and Marcus talked all the time about everything under the sun, and she listened to his opinions and often followed his advice.”

  “What happens in private and what happens in public are two different things, little mistress,” Faro cautioned. “I am certain that your mother must have acted in the same arrogant fashion as any other Mazonite in public. And you must do the same, if you are going to impress other women with your control, your strength and-”

  Whatever else he was about to say was lost, as a hint of movement in the shadows of the street ahead of them made them both stop dead in their tracks.

  The lanterns and torches were fewer and farther between here; the blotches of shadow larger and deeper. And there was something in the third pool of shadow from where they now stood.

  They remained right where they were, beside one of the lanterns, in the full light. That made it difficult for them to see into the shadows, but impossible for anyone to sneak up on them.

  The only sounds were the ones coming over the walls; distant reminders of a different kind of life. Xylina felt her stomach knot, her spine tingle with a premonition of danger. A moment later, the danger manifested.

  Impatient for their prey to come to them, the ambushers moved out of concealment and into the lit portion of the street.

  There were five men and one woman. The woman hung back, remaining at the edge of the shadow, only the outline of her form revealing that she was a woman. The men were all large, roguish-looking, with cruel, hard eyes and the scars of those who had fought others before.

  But they were not as big or as muscular as Faro-and none of them had that “arena look,” a look as if they longed for death and did not care whether the death was their own or someone else’s. They carried no weap
ons; that was a death-penalty crime for any man without a special permit, even if the weapons weren’t used.

  They said nothing, nor did they need to. It was obvious that their chosen targets were Faro and his mistress. What they could not have guessed was that the two might oppose their attackers as a team.

  For an ordinary man to be armed within the city was death-but a man might carry a stave or a staff, and although the law said that it must be of light, hollow material, easily broken, who was to say what that staff might truly be made of? Especially if it had been conjured and could be banished long before the City Guard arrived at the scene.

  No sooner thought than done; Xylina gathered her power from deep within, spread her hands palms up, and conjured a staff as tall as Faro, but made of metal. She staggered a little as it dropped into her hands, but tossed it quickly to the slave.

  He took it immediately, casting her a feral grin, and went into a “guard” position with it.

  She dropped behind him a step, her heart pounding and her mouth dry, as the ruffians rushed them.

  She used the strategy that had been so successful against Faro: conjuring metal rods and hurling them at the legs of their attackers. One went down in mid-charge; two more stumbled but recovered.

  The two who had not been stopped hurled themselves at Faro; the other two came for Xylina.

  She conjured a metal net and threw it at them, dancing backwards and hoping there were no more of the ruffians behind her. The net ensnared the first of the attackers neatly; the second continued to charge.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Faro snap up the tip of his staff, taking the first man to reach him under the chin. The man’s head jerked back as the tip connected with a meaty crack. He fell over backwards, landing in a limp heap in the street, and did not move.

  Now Xylina’s second attacker was within arm’s-length of her; she changed her tactics and conjured something different: a double-handful of grit that she tossed directly into his face before ducking under his groping arms and getting behind him.

  He cried out with pain and his hands flew to his face- but he still had the momentum of his charge, and now Xylina was in a position to add to that.

  She did, with a kick to his back that sent him into the wall. He landed heavily against it, hitting it with his head and shoulder. She conjured another heavy rod the length of her forearm, and while he was still dazed, she clubbed him across the back of his skull.

  The impact jarred her hand and made her let go of the rod, but it no longer mattered. The man dropped to the bricks like a felled ox, his scalp split open and bleeding.

  She heard a sound behind her and ducked, dropping to the ground and tumbling out of the way. Just in time, for the man she had tripped with her rods had recovered-and had one of the rods in his hand. He swung-

  Just as she banished her conjuration. How apt Faro’s warning about that had been!

  The sudden loss of his improvised club startled him- giving her a chance to repeat her trick with the grit. She hit both his eyes with the stuff, and he yelled and stumbled back-right into range of Faro’s staff.

  Faro dispatched him with careless ease and a blow to the side of the head, and turned his attention back to his other opponent before the clubbed man hit the pavement.

  This was when the woman in the shadows made her move.

  She left, abandoning her slaves.

  Xylina could hardly believe it when the woman whirled and took to her heels, running off into the shadows and leaving her men to fend for themselves and extract themselves as well as they could. But she had no time to congratulate herself on her luck, for the third man came at her, and she was fairly certain that he would not be taken by either the rods or the net, nor would he leave his eyes vulnerable to a handful of grit.

  He was fast, charging her like a sprinter, and there was nowhere for her to run.

  So she conjured a patch of the most slippery oil she could think of right under his running feet, then dodged to one side as he hit it.

  His feet went right out from underneath him and flew up; his head hit the bricks of the street with a sickening crack.

  He did not get up.

  Faro used the moment of distraction as she took out her third opponent to eliminate his second. He drove the tip of the staff into the ruffian’s stomach, then brought the other end down on his head. The man went down with a muffled cry.

  And the street was suddenly silent. Quickly Xylina banished her conjurations. The womanmight come back with the City Guard, and accusations of an armed slave. Faro stared at his empty hands for an eye-blink, then quickly dusted them on his tunic.

  “Are you all right?” he asked Xylina carefully, as if he were having trouble forming words. She could understand that; she trembled from head to toe with reaction, and she was not certain she would be able to talk coherently for several moments yet. She simply nodded, and walked cautiously over to one of their felled opponents. Felled? No-she realized as she touched the first one that she and Faro had done their work too well. There would be no one to question, for they had killed all five.

  As she had half-expected, there were no badges or livery, or anything else to identify the woman who was their mistress. Their tunics were plain, coarse linen. There were no brands of ownership on them, either. Even the slave-rings about their necks were cheap iron bands with no writing on them.

  She straightened from her examination to see that Faro was doing the same thing-checking the dead men for anything that could identify them.

  Or was he?

  She took a closer look-to see that he was rifling the bodies!

  “What are youdoing ?” she blurted in astonishment.

  He calmly pocketed the pouch of coins the man had worn about his neck, and went on to the next victim. “I am doing to them what they were going to do to us,” he said with calm logic. “The pickings seem to be meager, but every copper-bit we take from them is one we didn’t have before.”

  She stared at him for a moment with open mouth-then, as the logic behind his statement sank in, she closed her mouth with a snap, and bent again to do the same to the man at her feet.

  After all, these men might have been hired by her unknown enemy. And if that was the case-

  Well, it was poetic justice to have the one who had destroyed her precious garden in the first place help to pay for the new plants.

  Chapter 5

  Walking quickly, they reached their home without further incident-which was just as well, since Xylina did not think she had the energy to defend herself twice in one night. Her magic was strong; stronger than she had ever guessed, but her resources were not infinite. It took strength of character and purpose and all her concentration to banish her conjurations, and she was so grateful to see her bed that she could have kissed the pillow. Right now, she did not want to think about the attack, what it meant, what it would mean for the future. All she wanted to do right now was to sleep.

  But first-she had been rolling around on the street and sweating like a horse; she needed a wash of some kind. The water in the reservoir above the bathing room would still be warm from the sun, and there would be water enough for both of them if she was careful. Faro had been sleeping in the chamber just outside hers, but as she made a sketchy sort of bath to rid herself of the dirt and sweat of their fight, she heard him dragging his thick pallet out of his own chamber and into hers.

  For a moment she was surprised, then as she bent to brush the street-dust out of her long hair, she chided herself. His action seemed more than sensible on second thought, and she was surprised she hadn’t thought of it for herself. When she appeared at the door of her chamber, he was just arranging his pallet where anyone trying to get in would have to fall over him to get to her. Now she was rather grateful that her bed-chamber had no windows, only ventilation slits less than a thumb-breadth with metal mesh over them to keep out vermin. The only real way to get into the bedroom was via the door.

  He glanced up, and she t
hought perhaps he looked a little guilty. Or possibly embarrassed, worried that he might have something other than protection on his mind. She wasn’t concerned; he could do nothing to her that she did not want, and she truly did not think that he considered her in a sexual context-any more than Marcus had. “Little mistress,” he began, “I thought-”

  “We’ve both been rather stupid,” she said, interrupting him and twisting her long hair into a braid. “When these attacks began, I should have asked you to sleep in my chamber-and even after that woman set her slaves on us, Istill didn’t think of it. I’m just glad that you did. There’s water enough for a warm bath for you, too.”

  He gave her a wry smile. “I fear I need one, little mistress.” He bent back to his task of arranging both pallet and an improvised club beside it. She thought she had seen a flash of relief at her quick understanding before his expression resumed its usual stoicism. She watched him for a moment, trying to think of something else she could do for their defense. Her strength really lay in her ability to conjure and her quick thinking. If she were startled out of sleep, it would take a few moments for her to gather her wits. He would bear the brunt of their defense for those moments.

  But the sight of the club reminded her of something; it was illegal for a man to be armed within the city streets, butnot inside a Mazonite’s home and on her property. In fact, many wealthy Mazonites kept small armies to protect their property and govern the rest of their slaves. There was no reason why she could not arm him now. She turned and went back to the kitchen, and found the heavy butcher knife she used to cut up meat and tough fowl, locating it on the kitchen-counter by feeling carefully along the wall until her hand encountered metal. She no longer felt as if she had the energy to conjure a light. She found the wooden handle and brought the knife back with her, and handed it to him hilt first as she edged past his pallet to get to her own bed.