The Seal Queen

by Sandra Saidak

  The wind shifted, and Briah lost the scent of the sea in a tide of new smells. There were animal smells, and the stink of wool dyes, and the more pleasant smells of food. The aroma of grilled fish and fresh bread made Briah’s mouth water, but she had no time to take it all in, for the merchant’s voice boomed out above the other noises, and the slaves were herded through the fray.

  Briah looked around eagerly, while most of the long column in front of her kept their heads down in complacent misery. Most of them had been born to slavery, or taken so young they knew no other life. Only Briah, the boy behind her, and the two little girls who clung to her ragged skirt had known anything else.

  The boy—older than the one who had identified the seals for her—never spoke. Like the girls, he had been taken recently, and would normally have been considered too old for such a change, for he was nearly a man. He bore the bruises earned in many attempts to challenge his new destiny. As Briah thought back across the seasons, to things she couldn’t quite remember, she hoped she had fought just as hard.

  As they followed their merchant owner through the maze of sights and smells and sounds, Briah was grateful for the many stretches of open spaces and flimsy stalls. The areas that were heavily built were dark and closed in, and somehow more frightening than Briah could cope with just now.

  There were more things for sale in this place than Briah imagined existed in the world. Sheep, goats, cows and pigs were corralled everywhere, or led singly through the narrow pathways, while men bargained in voices loud enough to carry over the din. In small booths and tents, men, and sometimes women, sold tools and ornaments of all kinds. They walked past a table covered entirely by axes and knives made of bronze—worth more than the entire group of slaves combined. Nearby, a potter sat at his wheel, turning out an elegant jug, while finished products lay on a mat by his feet. There were even booths that sold shoes and clothing.

  At last they reached yet another livestock enclosure, but Briah smelled before she saw that the animals inside this pen were human. Crooked-Nose signaled a stop, and the captives waited while he spoke with the owner of the slave market. The language they bargained in was similar to the one spoken in Lir’s stronghold, and even contained a few words close to her own tongue. Briah, however, was not listening to the exchange. She stared at the dozens of wretched people who sat listlessly in the dust of the enclosure. Though it was still morning, the sun beat down mercilessly, and there was no shade.

  From time to time, the merchant would point to one or another of his slaves, and the foreman would prod that one forward, sometimes pulling aside the rags they wore to better display the wares. Briah’s attention sharpened when she herself was pushed forward. She found she could follow most of the exchange.

  “Two for the price of one,” Crooked-Nose was saying. He stroked his gray beard and grinned, showing yellow teeth. “Her baby comes in another moon.” Closer to two, thought Briah, if the woman who had been sold just before they reached the sea was right.

  The other merchant, whose oily skin was nearly brown, laughed until his huge belly shook. “And what am I to do until then? It would cost me more to feed her than I could make from the sale!”

  “And in that time, masters of all the great houses would already be bidding for so fine a kitchen maid—not to mention a wet nurse—who could bring with her a healthy boy, to be trained properly from birth—”

  “There’s enough flesh on the market already. It will be years before her brat could earn its keep—if he survives the first year at all! Besides,” the dark man puffed out his chest, resembling a fat robin in his red tunic, “My slaves do not linger here that long. I deal only in the finest merchandise. Most of these are already spoken for. That is the only reason I even consider your pitiful wretches.”

  “If you are too blind to see the chance of a lifetime here, I will go elsewhere—”

  “No, no, I didn’t say I couldn’t salvage some of them—”

  And so it went on. When the bargaining was finished, nearly all the slaves who left the ship with Briah were herded into the pen of the fat slave trader. Only the oldest woman, a sickly young boy and the recently captured young man remained with Briah when she followed their owner out of the market.

  They wound their way through twisting paths teeming with humanity. In a well-guarded clearing, a smith worked his forge. Boys scurried about, adding fuel to the glowing fire or pumping air through bellows so huge it took two lads to work them. Older boys and men worked in one corner, breaking open lumps of slag and prying out the metal treasure within.

  As the smith carefully poured the last of his liquid metal into an ax head cast, the merchant pushed the sickly lad forward. The two men began to haggle in a language Briah did not know. The smith shook his head, even though the slave trader appeared to be lowering his price. Then he noticed the older boy, and crooked a finger to call him forward.

  Without so much as a break in his speech, the merchant now began to extol the virtues of the second slave. The smith felt the boy’s muscles and examined his teeth. Satisfied, took a pouch from his waist, and counted out several pieces of copper. The merchant protested loudly that he was being cheated, but smiled broadly when he left with his three remaining slaves.

  They went further inland, past an open space surrounded by stalls selling beer and food of all kinds. Briah stared at a large, red-bearded man dressed in leather pants and tunic carrying four wooden mugs of beer, all dripping with foam. He joined a crowd watching two men match their skill at throwing knives at a marked target, and distributed the beer to three friends, who were sharing a huge haunch of venison. Briah listened as bets were made, and heard the faint clink as coins changed hands, amid much cheering and cursing every time a turn ended. The smells of fresh roasted meat and foamy beer nearly drove her to leap to the nearest stall and grab all the food and drink she could cram into her mouth.

  Briah was saved from the consequences of such actions by the overseer’s order to keep moving. After passing many tents of cloth or hide, they came to a solid building of wood and thatch. A length of red cloth hung across the door and a tall, red bearded man stood to one side.

  The merchant spoke with the man, this time pointing to Briah. Red Beard pushed aside the curtain and shouted within. A moment later, a woman came out.

  She was tall and stout, and probably older than thirty summers, but she moved with a powerful and menacing gait. Rings of bright metal and strings of shell beads decorated her arms and throat, and she wore more paint on her face than any woman Briah had ever seen. But the paint failed to hide the wrinkles.

  “Nisa, my old friend,” said the merchant, speaking a tongue that was similar to Briah’s own. “You are in luck. I’ve brought a fine piece for your collection.”

  Nisa regarded all three slaves with cold eyes. “The shriveled crone, the poxy boy or the pregnant bitch?” she asked. “Since all are equally useless here.”

  The merchant pulled Briah forward. “Buy this one and you’ll soon have two. And the woman will be ready for work in another moon.”

  Nisa walked a tight circle around Briah, and was soon prodding her much as the smith had prodded the boy.

  “Good, clear skin,” she muttered. “But rather dark. Too much sun. Teeth are all right.” Nisa ran her hands through Briah’s waist length brown hair. It was a mess of tangles, but Briah knew if she were allowed to wash and comb it, it would fall in soft dark waves.

  Once again the haggling began. After a time, an agreement was reached. Nisa went back inside the building and returned with a handful of cowry shells. The merchant counted them carefully, once again claiming he was being cheated, then leaving with his two remaining slaves.

  Briah never knew his real name.

  Nisa pushed Briah inside the building. She faltered in the sudden darkness. Light, it seemed, came only from sun filtering through cracks in the thatching and two or three oil lamps in various wall sconces. The room was large, with several curtained areas creating sm
all enclosures.

  Nisa began shouting orders, although it took Briah’s eyes a while to adjust and see who was being shouted at. Grumbling, a woman lurched to the hearth in the back and began building up the fire. Other women emerged from the curtained rooms, rubbing sleep from their eyes. This was odd, for it was nearly noon, and Briah wondered how it was these women could still be asleep.

  At another order from Nisa, one of them paused beside Briah.

  “Show her where she’ll stay and put her to work,” said Nisa, then strode to the back of the house.

  “Follow me,” the girl said in the same language spoken in Lir’s stronghold, although her accent was strange. At least she was awake enough to provide some information. She led Briah to the western edge of the building where the dust on the curtains suggested they had been moved for some time. Her guide flung then aside, revealing a low bed of furs, mostly sheep and deer, and a wooden box. The furs were worn, and smelled slightly of mildew.

  “What’s your name?” Briah asked.

  “Zillah. Here’s where you’ll sleep—when you can.”

  “I’m Briah. What is this place?”

  Zillah laughed. “Donal’s House of Pleasures. Surely you can guess the kind of work we do.” She gestured towards Briah’s swollen belly. “You’ve obviously done it before.”

  Briah shrugged. “Not when I’ve had any choice in the matter.”

  Zillah stared, clearly puzzled by the remark. “You’ll work in the kitchen until you drop the brat. Business’s been good, so no one’s got time to cook and clean all day anymore. But you’ll start workin’ soon as you’re done bleedin’.”

  Briah’s hands went to her child. “And—my baby?”

  “Depends. Sometimes they let ‘em grow up here, if they learn fast, and don’t cry much.” Zillah opened the wooden box. “Ugh! Moths didn’t leave you much, did they?” She was holding the remains of a woolen shift, which was more holes than fabric. “Moths breed here quicker than the women! Well, it wouldn’t’a fit you anyway. Nisa might not get you anything new to wear until you’re ready for work.” Briah looked at her smelly, ragged brown shift and sighed in disgust.

  “She might give you something if she thinks about it, but you won’t go askin’ her for nothin’ if you know what’s good for you.”

  Everyone was awake now, and curtains were pulled from the holes that passed for windows. In the better light, Briah got her first good look at Zillah. She wasn’t much older than Briah, but her hazel eyes were hard and cold. Her tangled hair was yellow, but brown near the ragged part atop her head. She had a bruise under one eye, and a thin scar ran down her cheek. She wore a loose red shift, and nothing else.

  At least a dozen more women, most very young, were washing themselves from a clay basin of water, or emerging from the kitchen with bowls of porridge. Briah, who had not eaten since the previous day, swallowed hard as the smells brought saliva to her mouth.

  “So many women,” she said. “There are enough men in this land to pay Nisa just to lie atop them?”

  “Oh, sure. Like I said, business is good. And they don’t pay Nisa. Better learn that straight up. Oh, she takes the coins—or furs, or flints or whatever they pay with—and keeps enough for herself, but this is Donal’s place. He owns us, and a couple o’ ships and half the beer that’s made on this island. But he mostly lets Nisa run this place—only comes in to sample the new girls and collect his share. Nisa’s the one you don’t want mad at you—and Agor.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Donal’s nephew. Watch out for him. Come on, let’s get some breakfast.”

  And although she wanted to know more, Briah’s stomach led the way.

  CHAPTER 3

  Over the next few days, Briah learned that the sea was more than endless water, the smell of salt and a taste of magic that vanished as quickly as it came. As a kitchen slave in Donal’s House of Pleasure, in the town of Finool, she learned which shellfish were good to eat, how to find them and how to prepare them.

  Living just a short walk from the shore, the residents of the House lived chiefly on clams and oysters which were dug daily by the women, and fish which were bought daily from the local fishermen. Briah found she enjoyed these morning outings. While she was finally allowed to bathe almost often enough to make her feel clean, it seemed only the fresh salt air could wash away the stink of rutting men and sour beer and despair that soaked into her pores every night.

  Every morning she went out with Gresta, the ancient, one-eyed mistress of the kitchen, and collected half or more of the food they would eat that day.

  “No, no!” Gresta snapped one morning when the rarely seen sun showed itself through the clouds and Briah tried to dig beneath the tiny, telltale holes that indicated clams. “Those are cockles! Small things, not worth the effort. We have twenty mouths to feed tonight!”

  Briah, who had counted the residents of the brothel just a few nights ago, was about to argue it was actually seventeen, when she realized Gresta probably didn’t know counting words beyond her ten fingers. “Twenty” was simply a word that meant many. And she had already learned that arguing with Gresta was a bad idea.

  They moved on to a group of mussels, clinging to a rock near the shore. Briah waded out with the flat knife Gresta gave her and began prying them loose and adding them to her basket. “Hurry!” Gresta called from the sand. “The rain will come soon.” Briah hurried, and they reached the brothel with their heavily loaded baskets just moments before the first drops fell.

  Back inside, all was quiet as the girls and guards slept, the customers having long since gone home. And in the sooty, smoky kitchen, as Gresta dozed on a stool in the corner, Briah could feel like she was the only person awake in the world. She relished times like these as she prepared the morning (or rather noon-time) porridge and set the gifts of the sea into a huge pot of fresh water to simmer until evening. Now that she was allowed the rest that came with living in one place, Briah quickly recovered the strength and health her pregnancy demanded of her.

  When all her morning preparations were complete and Briah was about to sneak back to her bed until the others awoke, Gresta came suddenly awake. “Did you remember the crumbs and salt for the Wee Folk?”

  Blushing, Briah unwrapped one end of the newly baked bread and broke off a bit of the heel. Then she took a pinch of salt from the pottery jar that stood taller than any of the other tiny spice jars and tossed both out the kitchen’s only window.

  “And don’t forget to set out a bit of stew tonight,” added Gresta.

  “I won’t,” said Briah.

  Gresta’s one eye was shrewd as she gazed at Briah. “You don’t believe in Faerie, do you? Not even with Samhain here not a month hence, when the walls between the worlds will grow so thin that any may walk across to the other? Though getting back’s another story!”

  “I believed in the spirits of my own land,” said Briah. “And the Mountain God on whose back we lived. But they didn’t help me when I was carried off, and they have no sway in this far land. So I’ll respect the spirits of this land if I’m told to do so.”

  “But you don’t believe? You don’t see them?” Gresta sounded more puzzled than angry.

  Briah thought about the seals she saw her first day here. But she hadn’t seen them since, and the memories were fading. She decided to say what she thought was safest. “I believe in the evil of men. I’ve seen the power of men. But as for Faerie…” She thought again of the magic that she’d felt, if only for an instant, when she first set foot in this land, but shrugged, then was quickly on her guard, fearing Gresta’s anger.

  But the old woman merely nodded. “Yes, men. Men swagger and fight and love to think they’re the most powerful beings in all creation. Yet watch them some night when the moon is full. Or when the cock doesn’t crow at dawn. Or when they know something’s out there, but just a little beyond their sight. Then they clutch their amulets and mutter their prayers, or hurry to their beds and hide beneath the c
overs. Even the men who come to places like these, and pay coin for the illusion that they’re lord and master of all they see.”

  Briah stared at Gresta, surprised at the depth of her thinking. Then her hand strayed to her swollen belly and she felt her child move beneath it. “If the Fair Folk will help me to keep my baby, or see fit to set us both free, I’ll gladly believe in them. And I’ll give them anything they ask in payment if they’ll do it!”

  Gresta snorted. “Careful what you ask for, girl. And careful with your promises. For now, you might just make an offering so they don’t come snatch your baby from his cradle, and leave one of their own in its place.” The old woman’s words faded as she drifted back to sleep.

  Briah crept quietly back to her chamber and considered Gresta’s words. For all her doubts, Briah could not deny the presence of the Otherworld, which she had felt since she came to this island. And for all she feared to have her baby taken from her, she wondered if having it taken by the folk of Faerie might not be a better outcome than keeping it here.

  There were no babies in Donal’s House of Pleasure, but there were a few children. At least five boys and girls under the age of ten served as messengers, kitchen help and general workers. This gave Briah hope that perhaps she would be allowed to keep her child with her, though she had no illusions that motherhood could delay her fate of once again becoming a whore. Then she saw that the little girls who lived here were sold to customers nearly as often as the women. When Briah first realized that, she began to pray fervently for a boy. But the boys were used the same way, just as at Lir’s stronghold. It seemed that even if her child was allowed to live, even if she could keep it near her, she could never offer it a life.