Fate

by Mary Corran

  To the north, along the river, she glimpsed three two-masted boums coming downstream above the Sair Gate, doubtless carrying freshwater fish and timber as their cargo; Venture served a thriving and populous area, unlike the two other major but more southerly ports of Darrian. In fact, the city was fortunate in many ways, with a sheltered deepwater harbour, a navigable river, rich tied lands, and being a greater distance from Javarin and thus less plagued by demands for ships to transport Kamiri troops and provisions than either Refuge or Prospect. The city’s inhabitants attributed these positive factors to the presence in the citadel of the Oracle, the premier augur in the Dominion, on the peak of the hill halfway up which the walls of Venture extended, but Asher was more inclined to credit human common sense and pure luck.

  Where were Mallory’s ships? She turned her gaze due east, out to sea. The grey-green waters inside the harbour were deceptively calm, but there were still white-crested waves further out. The recent storm had brought many ships to port, but she could make out Mallory’s leopard pennant flickering in the breeze from three of the foremasts; it would be one of those which had brought him home. Avorian’s wolf pennant was also much in evidence, and she counted five of them all together; she had met the Chief Councillor twice since being told, privily, of his extraordinary generosity in offering to make up the whole of that year’s tribute shortfall, for it was her task to estimate the total deficit. She still had a week’s work on the figures before presenting her estimates for his approval, and her conscience smote her for the delay.

  Asher had known little about ships until she came to live in Venture, but Essa, Mylura and Margit had since enlightened her ignorance, and she could now identify most of the different types in the harbour, from the colliers which plied the northern waters, to the old-fashioned ship-rigged carracks, to the much faster caravels with square sails on all three masts, a lateen only on the mizzenmast. In the sunlight, they displayed a mass of bright colour, many sporting painted figure-heads, often female figures depicting Lady Fortune, the most capricious of the Fates, or dogfish, the imaginary creatures half-dog, half-fish, which were said to disport themselves in the southern waters near the Isharan islands. Most were in shades of gold or blue, the lucky colours, and some ships even bore coloured sails to attract good fortune on their journeyings.

  A shout alerted her to move out of the way as a loaded cart rumbled past and down the hill towards the shipbuilding yards, and Asher saw with regret that it was time to be on her way. With a last look at the harbour, at the three tall watch-towers which had so signally failed to protect the city — had, in fact, never played a more significant role than guarding against pirate raids — she set her steps north towards the Treasury and the day’s work.

  The four buildings housing the various civic offices, which comprised Administrative and Licensing, a Record Office, the Civil Law Courts, and the Treasury, had been constructed in separate sections around a central courtyard. Each consisted of a large two-storey rectangle built from the local pale grey stone, but were distinguished by means of their external decoration, so that even the illiterate had no difficulty in telling one from another. Their architect had arbitrarily selected an unrolled stone scroll to indicate Administration, carved above the lintel; for Records, an incised clerk seated at a desk, pen in hand; for the Law Courts, an impressively carved hawk to represent the authority of the Dominus; and for the Treasury — where his imagination seemed to have run dry — he had decreed an immense version of the city seal. The demonfish spread its eight tentacles to the points of the compass, as though asserting the full extent of its powers; everyone in the city and tied territories fell within its scope, whether for tax or tribute.

  As she entered the building by a door at the rear, Asher found herself joined by two colleagues of her own rank. Dart and Stern.

  ‘Fates, I feel terrible!’

  Asher turned to look critically at Dart, who normally sat at the desk to her left; sweat beaded his forehead, and his complexion was a pale shade of green. A year or so older than Asher, his pitted skin, broken veins and unhealthy pallor suggested a life-style involving too much strong ale and not enough sleep. His promotion to one of the four chief clerks was due to his ability to add a column of figures accurately and twice as fast as anyone else; in other areas of his life, however, he was less reliable. ‘Late night again?’ she inquired.

  He nodded, then grimaced. ‘My head’s killing me.’

  ‘Another all-night gambling session? How much did you lose this time?’ sneered Stern, the eldest of the four, a ferret-faced widower of middle years, whose disposition had long been soured by an incapacity to rise further in the service of the city.

  ‘Next year’s wages,’ Dart said lugubriously, massaging his aching temples. ‘My luck was well out.’

  ‘Why do you do it?’ Asher asked. She found the compulsion incomprehensible, particularly since Dart had a wife and three young children to support. She wondered how they fared when he lost.

  ‘Pleasure. After a day in this place, even losing money feels good!’ Dart exhaled deeply, causing both Asher and Stern to move away. Both his breath and his person exuded a powerful stench of ale.

  They were joined by Tara, the fourth member of the quartet, a quiet woman of indeterminate years who was efficient but shy, and rarely spoke; in silence, the four passed into the main hall of the Treasury.

  Some thought had gone into the interior design. Long windows of tinted glass broke up the walls, admitting daylight in rainbow patterns; the floor was of yellow marble with a pattern of contrasting black concentric circles. The effect was impressive, if rather too dark unless the double doors were open, and the hall was often exhibited to visitors to Venture as proof of the city’s status and civic pride.

  Asher made her way to her desk at the rear of the hall to the right, where the four chief clerks had a clear view of everything that went on. Other banks of desks littered the floor, from the dozen accounts clerks to the right of the entrance, who checked assessments or notarized proofs of wages, to the equal number of cashiers to the left, who took payment. To Asher’s right sat the records clerks, whose function was to accept and record receipts of tax and tribute paid and cross-reference them with the Administration to ensure no one escaped payment. It was a somewhat tortuous process, if effective, although Asher privately questioned whether the bureaucracy necessary to make it work might not cost more than the evasions it existed to prevent.

  Margit, sitting at a cashier’s desk, waved a friendly hand to Asher as the double doors were unlocked by the Treasurer, a short, fussy man with a bitter tongue. Although it was early, there was already a trickle of men and women through the entrance, and Asher watched them, lifting her eyes from the column of figures she should have been adding. Bother Venture, she thought tiredly, aware of having already made one mistake. Her mind felt dull from lack of sleep, and she found it impossible to keep her memories sensibly buried; whenever she relaxed her guard, they rose up to haunt her, arousing feelings best left undisturbed.

  ‘Watch her!’ Dart whispered from her left. ‘I’ll bet you a silver she’s trying to get out of paying.’ Asher looked in the direction in which his pen was pointed, and saw a young woman carrying a baby stand swaying in the doorway. ‘Brought the baby to gain sympathy!’ He snorted his contempt for such a manoeuvre.

  ‘Perhaps she has no money,’ Asher answered coldly. Indeed, as she continued to watch the girl, she thought it more than likely. She was so emaciated it was a wonder she found the strength to carry the child; her arms were stick-thin, her cheeks mere sunken hollows in a white face hidden by a wave of black hair. She seemed dazed and confused, blinking dark-circled eyes as if she had no idea where to go. Dart grunted and went back to his work, but Asher found herself unable to look away as the woman — no, girl, she could be no more than sixteen or so — started as one of the accounts clerks called to her. She crept over to the desk and began to speak, holding out her papers in a skeletal hand. Asher r
elaxed the breath she had been holding and looked away.

  I wonder who she is? The raggedness of the girl’s grey dress suggested she lived in the old quarter, perhaps by Fishermen’s Quay. It was unlikely she earned good wages, not with a small child to care for.

  ‘See, what did I tell you?’ Dart said softly. ‘Watch her!’

  Asher did not reply, seized with an unwelcome sense of foreboding as the girl moved away to the cashiers, arms held stiffly round the swaddled baby. There was a determination in the way she directed her steps which spoke of a desperation Asher had seen before, born of hopelessness so unrelievable it made life itself a drudgery. She stood up.

  Something is going to happen, I’m sure of it. She had discovered it wiser over the years to pay attention to her mind’s rare subconscious forewarnings of disaster.

  The girl was standing in front of Margit, holding out her stamped paper wordlessly, but no coins were forthcoming in payment; instead, she lifted up the baby and balanced her on the desk-top. Margit reached out automatically to steady the child, thinking the girl needed to free her hands, but instead she stepped back, away from the desk, speaking in a shrill voice.

  ‘Here. Take her.’ She spoke loudly enough to disrupt the other business in the hall. ‘Take her,’ she repeated vehemently. ‘She’s worth at least the sum I owe; and if she’s not, I’ve nothing more.’

  Asher was close enough to hear Margit’s reply as she tried to soothe the mother. ‘There’re six more weeks before you have to pay,’ she said gently. ‘I can’t take your baby, you must know that.’ She held it out to the girl. It was very young — perhaps a year old. It did not cry, nor show any displeasure at the treatment it was receiving.

  ‘They say children her age fetch a gold piece in the slave market.’ The girl held her arms rigidly against her sides. ‘She’s a good child. I’ve no money, only her.’

  Margit, encumbered by the baby, could only look around desperately for help, but the other cashiers made no move to come to her assistance. Asher felt in her pocket, thinking to pay whatever sum was needed and take the girl away from the scene; but she was already too late. Seeing her offer refused, she spun round and ran towards the open doors. People moved aside to let her pass, not wanting to attract ill luck by hampering a madwoman. But by the doors she stopped.

  To their right stood a chased metal cylinder with a slit cut in the lid to take coins offered as voluntary contributions to the tribute, thought to bring good fortune to the giver. The girl, in stumbling against it, had evidently heard the dull clanging that indicated its contents.

  ‘Don’t try to break it open now — wait till tonight, when there’s more in it!’ called out one of the cashiers, trying to make a joke of it. Several people laughed, but Asher felt more strongly still a sense of impending and inevitable disaster rushing toward the girl.

  ‘No — don’t touch it!’ She brushed aside a large woman who stood in her path as the girl knelt, feeling with desperate hands for the opening mechanism of the cylinder. The guards by the doors made no attempt to stop her as she began to rock the box, slamming it violently against the wall, oblivious to the shocked faces round her.

  ‘Stop her, don’t let her!’ Asher was still ten feet away, too far off; there was nothing in her mind but dread. The tribute box, like the vaults deep beneath the hail which held the tribute funds, was protected by more than human guards; the councillors of the city, having little faith in human nature, had ordered other guardians more lethal and less corruptible to be set in place over the city’s gold. These were hex-wards, rare stones which acted like magnets on iron, except that these drew down disease, blindness, or worse misfortune on those who came in contact with them, unless they possessed protection.

  The girl was crying, tears streaming unchecked down her cheeks, but she released the box, which came back to stand on its base, still rocking slightly. It’s not too late, Asher thought in relief, then saw at once she was mistaken. A pale blue spark sprang from the box and attached itself to the girl’s fingers, then flitted lightly along her arms and up towards her face and neck. For a moment, her thin features were illumined in blue fire, before the flame flickered and went out. The nearest guard spat in quick aversion.

  Asher reached her side, but it was already too late for the girl. She knew it too; her expression changed from despair to disbelief, then to a desperate fear. Her hands came up to her throat as her nails clawed at the skin; no sound came from her, but her mouth opened, as if she would have spoken a protest, if she could. Through her thin dress, Asher should have been able to see the rise and fall of her chest, but she did not seem to breathe at all.

  Asher knelt beside the girl, trying to grasp her wrists, and heard a hiss from somewhere behind her, but it was no time to consider her own safety. The girl doubled over, trying to breathe, and began to knock her head on the floor, face scarlet, mouth open in the appearance of protest.

  Let her die quickly, Asher urged silently. She had never seen the ward in action before. She had witnessed enough pain to know living was not always preferable to death, but it was clear from her struggles that the girl wanted to live. Her body arched in long, jerking spasms, until at last it ceased and she lay full-length on the marble in a parody of sleep.

  ‘Ah, no! No!’ Margit held the baby close, keeping its head buried against her breast so it should not see its mother. A guard ventured a kick at the girl’s body, but when she did not move he stood back, scratching his head uncertainly. The bustling figure of the Treasurer, drawn from his inner sanctum by the commotion, came forward.

  ‘Remove her,’ he ordered the guards disgustedly. ‘Take her to the burning grounds! Send a messenger to the address on her papers. And get rid of that infant. The Treasury is no place for babies!’

  Asher, seeing Margit too shocked to move, put an arm round her shoulders and urged her to the rear of the hall; she was crying quietly. ‘Come along,’ whispered Asher. ‘We’ll take her to the washrooms and see she’s clean. Perhaps her family will come for her when they know her mother’s dead.’

  ‘If there were anyone, she wouldn’t have given the baby to me,’ Margit said passionately.

  ‘Then we’ll find a home for her.’ Asher drew Margit out of the hall and through a door to the right of the passage behind. ‘That’s why you and I wear these.’ She touched a finger to the star on her tunic. ‘We know where to look for a foster-mother.’ But although Margit brightened at the reminder, Asher herself was filled with bitterness.

  Essa would say I was being silly, taking too much on myself. But she wasn’t here. Why had she not paid closer attention to her instincts when she first saw the girl? Was it possible she could have saved her? Asher shook herself mentally, accepting recriminations were useless. Their first concern was the baby; they would need money for her keep, for food and clothing. That was something she could attend to; was, in fact, her responsibility.

  ‘Do you know how much she owed, Asher? Fifteen coppers, that’s all. A tenth of her year’s wages.’ Margit kept her voice low so as not to disturb the child, but it shook with emotion. ‘She worked as a laundress for some of the houses down by Fishermen’s Quay, and that’s how little they paid her. What’s fifteen coppers to the council? Why shouldn’t they pay her share?’

  ‘You know the arguments,’ Asher said wearily. ‘They would say her father or husband or brother should pay, and if she has no family, she should not have encumbered herself with a child.’

  ‘As if there was always a choice!’ Furiously, Margit laid the baby down on the floor and unwrapped her. Asher let her be, knowing Margit herself had once borne a child when very young, the result of a casual rape by her employer in the house where she had been a servant. The child had died in its first year, and Essa had rescued Margit, offering her a home and enough teaching to enable her to earn a living where such events could not recur; but she, who adored children, had never forgiven nor forgotten.

  If they would pay us as much as men, they might val
ue us more highly, Asher thought angrily, not quite sure who they were. Then we’d contribute a larger share of taxes and tribute. But they argue that because we bear children we should be supported by our menfolk, so they pay us poorly, and now, with so many slaves coming to the city, they keep our wages even lower, and the council is pleased because running the city with our labour costs them less.

  Margit’s thoughts must have been running along the same lines, for she burst out: ‘They know how many women work, and how hard it is to bring up a family alone. Why don’t they help us? Why is it that they would rather spend money on a new bridge over the river than on us?’

  ‘Because they can work out how much revenue a bridge will bring in tolls,’ Asher answered stiffly. ‘You know what they say — there are more important issues to be dealt with first: the tribute, the city. And so long as the council believes mothers and children to be financial burdens, they’ll continue to put us last. That’s why we exist.’ Again, she touched the brooch on her lapel. ‘To put women first.’

  Margit picked up the baby and stroked its back. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to take it out on you. But it makes me so angry, and we help so few.’

  ‘That’s all right. Will you take her now?’ Silently, Asher agreed with Margit, but they could not work openly; not when some of the women’s actions broke city law, and help to escaping slaves was an open act of revolt against the invaders.