If I Pay Thee Not in Gold

by Piers Anthony

  This was almost fun. While they floundered, she moved in. She felt no fear during the action, merely determination to get the job done.

  She conjured herself a length of metal; it came to her hands, heavy and cold and smooth beneath her hands. And very satisfying. She made the few steps to the trapped men and clubbed every lump that moved under that fabric.

  Crunches and cries of pain came from beneath the cloth. The dark fabric was stained darker in places, but she ignored all of it. Anger gave her strength, and outrage guided her aim; she clubbed the forms beneath the cloth until nothing moved.

  By the time she was finished, so was Faro. She came around her conjured stone wall, club at the ready, just in time to see Faro drive his staff across the temple of the last man still facing him; it hit the man’s head with a distinct and uncomfortably familiar wetcrack , and she saw the bone cave in before he dropped to the ground. As she looked around for more ruffians, she saw that two more men had taken to their heels, and even as that final attacker fell, they were disappearing around a corner.

  Faro grounded his staff, and leaned against it heavily. Xylina banished all her conjurations but his staff, revealing the six bodies strewn across the street. None of those bodies showed any sign of life. Once again, they had defended themselves too well to leave anyone to question.

  “Good thinking, little mistress-” Faro managed, around his pain. His eye was swelling, and the cut on his scalp bled down the side of his head and stained the breast of his tunic. He looked as if he might collapse into the street at any moment. She found herself with a length of conjured gauze in her hand to use as a bandage, and she hurried to bind his wound quickly before it bled any further.

  “Don’t talk,” she urged him, adding her strength to that of his staff, helping to keep him upright. Finally, only now after all the noise of fighting had ceased, she heard a gate creak behind her and turned to see a slave peering around the edge of the gateway with round, frightened eyes. Cowards! she thought angrily.Now they came look to see who was being attacked, after it was all over!

  “Get your mistress,” she ordered him peremptorily, “Let us in; my faithful slave has been wounded and I do not care to stand here in the street while he bleeds! Then go fetch someone from the Guard. We have been attacked by a gang of thieves, and this must be reported to the authorities.”

  She pushed Faro around and towards the open gate before the slave inside could object, and interposed her body so that the slave would not dare close it. In a moment she had Faro inside the enclosure. She looked around quickly, assessing the surroundings, looking for the best place to get Faro off his feet. This front garden, like her own, was not large, but it had a tree with a bench beneath it, and a tiny fishpond. She sat Faro down on the bench beside the pond before the slave could object, and began cleaning his scalp-cut with conjured water and cloth. The slave stared at them for a moment before fleeing into the house-presumably to get his mistress, as Xylina had ordered.

  And when she showed up-and the City Guard-Xylina hoped she could get something other than words out of them.

  But words was all she did get, and vague promises; no kind of help at all.

  When they finally reached their own gates, it was well past sunset; Xylina had been torn between assisting Faro and letting him totter behind her as was proper for a slave, even an injured one. Since it was still possible that people might see them, she elected to be the proper mistress and ignore her slave’s condition, but she was not happy, and she kept apologizing to Faro for her behavior. One small bright spot: during all that fighting, the cheeses Faro had purloined had remained unharmed. As they left the garden of their reluctant hostess, he showed them to her with a pain-filled smile.

  Although the three members of the Guard who had been summoned by the frightened slave had questioned her closely, there had been no suggestion that they did not believe Xylina’s story of “ambush by a pack of ruffians.” That was where their agreement ended, for Xylina attempted to persuade them that being attacked twice by rogues was beyond coincidence. The Guards, however, were insistent on a claim that their attackers had been “wild” men; escaped slaves, or criminals being sheltered within the Men’s Quarter. They would not even entertain the notion that a fellow citizen could be responsible. After all, she was told, Xylina was hardly important enough to have anyone feuding with her-and not rich enough to attract the attention of one of the notorious female criminals with bands of slaves obeying her orders to attack and rob.

  “We’ve had some trouble with packs like this in the past,” the senior Guard had said casually, poking one of the bodies with her sheathed sword. “They’re freedmen who haven’t learned their place, or think because some mistress was soft enough to free them that they’re as good as a woman. One of those brutes gets the idea he’s going to pay back women for what they did to him-forgetting the women who fed and clothed and took care of him before he got uppity. Then he gets a gang of runaways to go along with his craziness, and the next thing you know, there’s trouble. First time they’ve attacked to kill like this, though, that I know of. Mostly they’re happy just to knock you down and make off with your goods.”

  “Sounds like it’s about time for a purge, if you ask me,” the householder had said darkly. She had not appreciated being interrupted in the middle of her meal to deal with an altercation on her doorstep. She had offered Xylina no help, and had tried her best to ignore Faro’s existence altogether. She had not even asked Xylina’s name. “It’s about time the Queen sent the Guard through the quarter and checked every house against the roster. That’ll take care of these ‘wild’ men. When the tame ones see a purge coming, they’ll turn the bad ones over fast enough.”

  The Queen ordered purges of the walled Freedmen’s Quarter periodically, although the last one had occurred before Xylina’s mother had died. She would order all the gates sealed, and conjure the same kind of metal mesh barrier over the walls that Xylina had protecting her house from invasion from above, thus effectively sealing off all routes of escape. Then the Guard would move in, and make a house-to-house search, checking the inhabitants against the roster of those who weresupposed to be living there, looking for hidden rooms and secret passages. Any house with men living there that were not on the roster had better have exception-papers for them, or every inhabitant in the house would be taken for the arena. And the owner of any house with secret rooms or passages would find himself bound for the arena as well. There was no point in trying to hide from such a purge, for the entire Guard would be involved in making certain that no one escaped.

  As Xylina’s unwilling hostess had indicated, the mere announcement of a purge was generally enough to make the inhabitants of the Men’s Quarter turn over most, if not all, illegal dwellers. And it was enough to make thieves from the quarter confine their activities to their own kind for a while.

  But despite what the senior Guard thought, Xylina was fairly certain that this was no attempt at mere theft, nor were these men acting on their own. Even though she had seen no indication of a woman directing them this time, she felt that the mind behind this attack and the previous one was the same. The attacks were much too similar, too close together, and too well coordinated.

  And the hand she fancied she saw behind both of them was that of her unknown enemy-who just might be powerful enough to have some influence in the Guard itself. How else could you explain the complete absence of a patrol within shouting distance on not one but both nights they had been attacked? And how to explain the boldness of an attack when it was still daylight?

  That notion was confirmed when a fourth Guard came with a message for the others, just as they were completing their questions. The four conferred for a moment in a little huddle, then the senior Guard turned back to Xylina, who still sat beside Faro on the bench beside the pond.

  “We’ve gotten all we need from you-thank you, lady. You can go now,” the Guard said briskly-no, brusquely- then turned to the homeowner. “There’ll be a
collector around for the bodies in a bit. Meanwhile, just stay inside. I doubt anyone is going to come back, but why take chances? You’ll be safe with your slaves on guard. We’ve been called back to the barracks.”

  While the homeowner remonstrated fruitlessly, railing about “protection” and “security,” and most of all, about “her rights as a citizen,” the senior Guard joined the others, totally ignoring the homeowner. Before the Mazonite could do anything to prevent them from leaving, the four of them pushed open the gate, and left at a trot. Xylina exchanged a meaningful glance with Faro, and nudged him to his feet.

  The homeowner, stubborn, or genuinely fearful, was following the Guards, still complaining about the lack of protection and what she was entitled to as a full, tax-paying citizen. Xylina figured now was a good time to get out of there, before the woman decided to turn her complaints against them, or find a way to make some kind of claim on them.

  “No offer of escort,” Faro grunted from beneath his bandage, as they made their way hastily back toward their home. It hadn’t escaped Xylina’s attention that the four Guards had gone in the opposite direction.

  “I noticed,” Xylina replied grimly; although she could not help Faro, she refused to let him walk behind her. “Aren’t I entitled to escort, after something like this?”

  “Technically,” Faro said. He limped a good deal, but she was fairly certain that nothing was broken. She was mostly worried about that blow to the head. “Although-you’re poor, and they did point that out, none-too-discreetly; the poor get short-shrift often enough. Still.”

  “Still,” she agreed. “Let’s get home before something else happens.”

  There were no further incidents on their way home, but it was a nervous several blocks, nevertheless. Now, if ever, would be the ideal time for another attack. Faro was incapacitated, and she was hampered by needing to protect him. Several times she thought she saw someone lurking before or behind them. But if it was anything other than shadows and her imagination, the lurker had vanished the next time she looked.

  She was wearily grateful to see the gate of her home, at last; once inside, she felt as if she could let her guard down a little. And once inside, she could order him to let her help him, adding her support to that of his staff.

  By then, Faro was reacting to the blow to his head with complaints of a headache and a certain amount of dizziness and sleepiness. That worried her further, for it seemed to her that she remembered that these were symptoms of something serious. She was not certain whether she should let him sleep, but she thought she recalled that Marcus had kept a similarly injured slave from falling asleep for a good several hours after the injury.

  So she got him into the bathing-room and made certain he had a good, hot, soaking bath for all of his aches and bruises. Then she tended him more thoroughly, rebandaged his wounds with real and not conjured material, and took him into the kitchen at the rear of the house to keep him sitting up at the table. He looked at her blearily as she chattered at him, making a cup of headache-tea and forcing it into his hands.

  Finally, he spoke. “Why are you torturing me like this?” he asked, his eyes glazing over with pain.

  “Because I think I remember that people with a head injury are not supposed to sleep at first,” she told him. “I’m sorry Faro, but I think you really must stay awake.”

  “Little mistress, if you were not my friend-” He sighed. “I hate to admit this, but I think I may recall hearing the same thing.” He touched his bandaged head gingerly. “I shall be of no use in the morning.”

  “Nor shall I,” she reminded him. “If you must remain awake, it is I who must keep you awake.” Perhaps if she got his mind on something else, it might help him with his pain. “Faro, do you think that my enemy is someone important?”

  “I cannot say,” he admitted. “The Guard could have been called away, perhaps to deal with more such gangs as attacked us; and the senior Guard could have been completely right. In fact, if there was more than one gang active tonight, they could not have been spared to escort us. And you are of little or no importance; it will harm no one to slight you by denying you the escort that is your right. But I do not like it, that they hurried away so quickly, after the fourth woman arrived.”

  “I don’t like it eith-” She suddenly sniffed, as the acrid odor of smoke came to her nostrils. She glanced sharply at the kitchen fireplace behind her, but she had extinguished her blaze as soon as the tea was done brewing.

  “Faro, do you smell-” she began.

  That was when the closed door into the next room burst into flames.

  The next few moments were a blur; they flung open the door into the kitchen garden just in time, as the fire roared into the kitchen right on their heels. She looked back only once, to see that her entire house was aflame; then she somehow found the energy to conjure a pile of blocks to take them over the wall and into their neighbors garden, where they both collapsed.

  There she sat, in the middle of a broken patch of pungent onions, as the neighbor’s slaves and family boiled out of the house, the night rang with shouts and alarm-bells, and the sky turned as red as blood. And all she could see was the end of everything.

  The end of all her hopes, all her ambitions.

  The return of the curse …

  Chapter 6

  In the morning, things were no better.

  She stood just inside the gates of her house, and stared at the ruins. Smoke still rose in places, little wisps of it rising into the still morning air. The blackened remains of the walls, crumbling even as she watched, enclosed only ashes. The was no sign of anything that had stood inside, not even the interior walls. Just gray and black ashes. The fire had burned so hot that even metal must have melted.

  The house and all she owned was gone. For the second time, the garden had been destroyed, this time by the heat of the fire. Nothing had been spared.

  By the time she had recovered enough from her shock to conjure water above the fire, it was too late. The water seemed to do nothing, other than to keep the fire from spreading to the neighboring homes. She had been picked up in the garden by her rearward neighbor, Lycia, who seemed not at all worried about her onions, but only concerned that Xylina and her slave were unhurt. Her neighbor, who proved to be a retired member of the Guard, had not even bothered to ask what Xylina wanted as soon as she realized who she was and what had happened; she took charge of the situation immediately. Like an old war-horse, she responded to the emergency with the energy of a woman half her years.

  Lycia Tigeran sent Faro off to her tiny slave quarters in the hands of her own personal attendant and manservant, a man who had been with her since he was a child. She told Xylina that he had been trained in field-medicine, as were many of the slaves of Guards, and he served her as a rough physician during her entire service. She swore he had plenty of experience in tending injury, and certainly, from the competent way in which he took charge of Faro, Xylina was inclined to believe her.

  Lycia herself had coaxed Xylina first into a hot bath, ordered another slave to give her a soothing massage, and then she had gotten Xylina into a bed. “I remember your mother, darling,” Lycia had said, plying her with tea. “She was a wonderful, brilliant woman, and this city needed her badly. If I’d known her daughter was still alive after the plague, I’d have adopted you myself. Marriage can be a nuisance, because a man can act so hurt when he gets dumped, but adoption is another matter.” Lycia had continued to speak quietly about nothing, distracting and actually relaxing her. Only when Xylina found herself falling asleep despite more than enough troubles to keep anyone awake for a week, did she think she might have been drugged.

  She fell asleep, fighting it to no avail, and slept until the sun was well up. But in the morning, no amount of coaxing by the mistress of the house or her manservant could make her remain in Lycia’s home. The slave brought her clothes, newly cleaned, but Lycia extracted a promise to return. Not that Xylina had a choice; Faro was still there, b
eing tended for his wounds from the day before. The older slave had assured her that he was not in any danger, but he did have a serious head injury, and his skull might even have been cracked. She left the house to make the long walk around the block to her own, determined to know the worst.

  And discovered it as soon as she entered her gates. There was nothing left; even the walls had crumbled and collapsed under the intense heat. Xylina felt like collapsing, herself. There was nothing but a blackened husk where her house had been-

  A house for which she still owed more than three-quarters of the price in gold, a debt for which she was still responsible. With no place to live, and no way to earn the rest of the price. Now that it had been destroyed, the original owner would surely demand the rest of the price immediately. And where would she live? She could not remain a guest in Lycia’s home forever, no matter what the woman said.

  She returned to Lycia’s home in a daze, hardly knowing what guided her feet. The slaves met her at the door, saw her face, and immediately fetched Lycia. Lycia seemed to realize exactly how she was feeling, and the older woman wisely refrained from offering her any empty words of consolation. Instead, she took Xylina into the rear of the house, sat Xylina down in the garden, gave her a cup of watered wine, and left her alone.

  She stared at the wine, trying to comprehend the magnitude of her disaster. And the cause. Surely no fire that burned that completely could have been natural or set by the hand of humans.The curse . That was all she could think. Only the curse could have so destroyed everything she had built up.Surely no human agency had created a fire like that; no human could. The fire had spread so quickly-as if it had a will and a life of its own. It had reacted as if the water she had poured down upon it were oil, feeding the flames. And yet it had not spread beyond her walls. Granted, her neighbors had soaked down their walls and roofs, but it still seemed uncanny, supernatural. And what was more supernatural than that curse?