Ship of Magic (69 page)

“Wait here and do not lose hope. I will go to Sa's temple and get help. Surely your master can be made to see reason, that you will die without care.” He offered a bitter smile. “If all else fails, perhaps we can persuade him a live slave is worth more than a dead one.”

The man who had first summoned him looked incredulous. “The temple? Small help we shall get there. A dog is a dog, and a slave is a slave. Neither is offered Sa's comfort there. The priests there sing Sa's songs, but dance to the Satrap's piping. As to the man who sells our labor, he does not even own us. All he knows is that he gets a percentage of whatever we earn each day. From that, he feeds and shelters and doses us. The rest goes to our owner. Our broker will not make his piece smaller by trying to save Cala's life. Why should he? It costs him nothing if she dies.” The man looked down at Wintrow's incomprehension and disbelief. “I was a fool to call to you.” Bitterness crept into his voice. “The youth in your eyes deceived me. I should have known by your priest's robe that I would find no willing help in you.” He gripped Wintrow suddenly by the shoulder, a savagely hard pinch. “Give her the comfort of Sa. Or I swear I will break the bones in your collar.”

The strength of his clutch left Wintrow assured he could do it. “You do not need to threaten me,” Wintrow gasped. He knew that the words sounded craven. “I am Sa's servant in this.”

The man flung him contemptuously on the ground before the woman. “Do it then. And be quick.” The man lifted a flinty gaze to stare beyond him. The broker and the customer haggled on. The customer's back was turned to the coffle, but the broker faced them. He smiled with his mouth at some jest of his patron and laughed, ha, ha, ha, a mechanical sound, but all the while his clenched fist and the hard look he shot at his coffle promised severe punishment if his bargaining were interrupted. His other hand tapped a small bat against his leg impatiently.

“I . . . it cannot be rushed,” Wintrow protested, even as he knelt before the woman and tried to compose his mind.

For answer, she tottered to her feet. He saw then that her legs were streaked with blood, that the ground beneath her was sodden with it. It had clotted thick on the fetters on her ankles. “Lem?” she said piteously.

The other slave stepped to her quickly. She leaned on him heavily. Her breath came out a moan.

“It will have to be rushed,” the man pointed out brusquely.

Wintrow skipped the prayers. He skipped the preparations, he skipped the soothing words designed to ready her mind and spirit. He simply stood and put his hands on her. He positioned his fingers on the sides of her neck, spreading them until each one found its proper point. “This is not death,” he assured her. “I but free you from the distractions of this world so that your soul may prepare itself for the next. Do you assent to this?”

She nodded, a slow movement of her head.

He accepted her consent. He drew a slow, deep, breath, aligning himself with her. He reached inside himself, to the neglected budding of his priesthood. He had never done this by himself. He had never been fully initiated into the mysteries of it. But the mechanics he knew, and those at least he could give her. He noticed in passing that the man stood with his body blocking the broker's view and kept watch over his shoulder. The other slaves clustered close around them, to hide what they did from passing traffic. “Hurry,” Lem urged Wintrow again.

He pressed lightly on the points his fingers had unerringly chosen. The pressure would banish fear, would block pain while he spoke to her. As long as he pressed, she must listen and believe his words. He gave her body to her first. “To you, now, the beating of your heart, the pumping of air into your lungs. To you the seeing with your eyes, the hearing with your ears, the tasting of your mouth, the feeling of all your flesh. All these things do I trust to your own control now, that you may command them to be or not to be. All these things, I give back to you, that you may prepare yourself for death with a clear mind. The comfort of Sa I offer you, that you may offer it to others.” He saw a shade of doubt in her eyes still. He helped her realize her own power. “Say to me, “I feel no cold.'”

“I feel no cold,” she faintly echoed.

“Say to me, “The pain is no more.'”

“The pain is no more.” The words were soft as a sigh, but as she spoke them, lines eased from her face. She was younger than he had thought. She looked up at Lem and smiled at him. “The pain is gone,” she said without prompting.

Wintrow took his hands away, but stood close still. She rested her head on Lem's chest. “I love you,” she said simply. “You are all that has made this life bearable. Thank you.” She took a breath that came out as a sigh. “Thank the others for me. For the warmth of their bodies, for doing more that my less might not be noticed. Thank them . . .”

Her words trailed off and Wintrow saw Sa blossoming in her face. The travails of this world were already fading from her mind. She smiled, a smile as simple as a babe's. “See how beautiful the clouds are today, my love. The white against the gray. Do you see them?”

As simply as that. Unchained from her pain, her spirit turned to contemplation of beauty. Wintrow had witnessed it before but it never ceased to amaze him. Once a person had realized death, if they could turn aside from pain they immediately turned toward wonder and Sa. It took both steps, Wintrow knew that. If a person had not accepted death as a reality, the touch could be refused. Some accepted death and the touch, but could not let go of their pain. They clung to it as a final vestige of life. But Cala had let go easily, so easily that Wintrow knew she had been longing to let go for a long time.

He stood quietly by and did not speak. Nor did he listen to the exact words she spoke to Lem. Tears coursed down Lem's cheeks, over the scars of a hard life and the embedded dyes of his slave tattoo. They dripped from his roughly shaven chin. He said nothing, and Wintrow purposely did not hear the content of Cala's words. He listened to the tone instead and knew that she spoke of love and life and light. Blood still moved in a slow red trickle down her bare leg. He saw her head loll on her shoulder as she weakened, but the smile did not leave her face. She had been closer to death than he had guessed; her stoic demeanor had deceived him. She would be gone soon. He was glad he had been able to offer her and Lem this peaceful parting.

“Hey!” A bat jabbed him in the small of his back. “What are you doing?”

The slave broker gave Wintrow no time to answer. Instead he pushed the boy aside, dealing him a bruising jab to the short ribs as he did so. It knocked the wind out of his lungs and for a moment, all he could do was curl over his offended mid-section, gasping. The broker stepped boldly into the midst of his coffle, to snarl at Lem and Cala. “Get away from her,” he spat at Lem. “What are you trying to do, get her pregnant again, right here in the middle of the street? I just got rid of the last one.” Foolishly, he reached to grab Cala's unresisting shoulder. He jerked at the woman but Lem held her fast even as he uttered a roar of outrage. Wintrow would have recoiled from the look in his eyes alone, but the slave broker snapped Lem in the face with the small bat, a practiced, effortless movement. The skin high on Lem's cheek split and blood flowed down his face. “Let go!” the broker commanded him at the same time. Big as the slave was, the sudden blow and pain half-stunned him. The broker snatched Cala from his embrace, and let her fall sprawling into the bloody dirt. She fell bonelessly, wordlessly, and lay where she had bled, staring beatifically up at the sky. Wintrow's experienced eye told him that in reality she saw nothing at all. She had chosen to stop. As he watched, her breath grew shallower and shallower. “Sa's peace to you,” he managed to whisper in a strained voice.

The broker turned on him. “You've killed her, you idiot! She had at least another day's work in her!” He snapped the bat at Wintrow, a sharply stinging blow to the shoulder that broke the skin and bruised the flesh without breaking bones. From the point of his shoulder down, pain flashed through his arm, followed by numbness. Indeed, a well-practiced gesture, some part of him decided as he yelped and sprang back. He stumbled into one of the other hobbled slaves, who pushed him casually aside. They were all closing on the broker and suddenly his nasty little bat looked like a puny and foolish weapon. Wintrow felt his gorge rise; they would beat him to death, they'd jelly his bones.

But the slave broker was an agile little man who loved his work and excelled at it. Lively as a frisking puppy, he spun about and snapped out with his bat, flick, flick, flick. At each blow, his bat found slave flesh, and a man fell back. He was adept at dealing out pain that disabled without damaging. He was not so cautious with Lem, however. The moment the big man moved, he struck him again, a sharp snap of the bat across his belly. Lem folded up over it, his eyes bulging from their sockets.

And meanwhile, in the slavemart, the passing traffic continued. A raised eyebrow or two at this unruly coffle, but what did one expect of map-faces and those who mongered them? Folk stepped well wide of them and continued on their way. No use to call to them for help, to protest he was not a slave. Wintrow doubted that any of them would care.

While Lem gagged up bile, the broker casually unlocked the blood-caked fetters from Cala's ankles. He shook them clear of her dead feet, then glared at Wintrow. “By all rights, I should clap these onto you!” he snarled. “You've cost me a slave, and a day's wages, if I'm not mistaken. And I am not, see, there goes my customer. He'll want nothing to do with this coffle, after they've shown such bad temperament.” He pointed the bat after his fleeing prospect. “Well. No work, no food, my charmers.”

The little man's manner was so acridly pleasant, Wintrow could not believe his ears. “A woman is dead, and it is your fault!” he pointed out to the man. “You poisoned her to shake loose a child, but it killed her as well. Murder twice is upon you!” He tried to rise, but his whole arm was still numb from the earlier blow, as was his belly. He shifted to his knees to try to get up. The little man casually kicked him down again.

“Such words, such words, from such a cream-faced boy! I am shocked, I am. Now I'll take every penny you have, laddie, to pay my damages. Every coin, now, be prompt, don't make me shake it out of you.”

“I have none,” Wintrow told him angrily. “Nor would I give you any I had!”

The man stood over him and poked him with his bat. “Who's your father, then? Someone's going to have to pay.”

“I'm alone,” Wintrow snapped. “No one's going to pay you or your master anything for what I did. I did Sa's work. I did what was right.” He glanced past the man at the coffle of slaves. Those who could stand were getting to their feet. Lem had crawled over by Cala's body. He stared intently into her upturned eyes, as if he could also see what she now beheld.

“Well, well. Right for her may be wrong for you,” the little man pointed out snidely. He spoke briskly, like rattling stones. “You see, in Jamaillia, slaves are not entitled to Sa's comfort. So the Satrap has ruled. If a slave truly had the soul of a man, well, that man would never end up a slave. Sa, in his wisdom, would not allow it. At least, that's how it was explained to me. So. Here I am with one dead slave and no day's work. The Satrap isn't going to like that. Not only are you a killer of his slaves, but a vagrant, too. If you looked like you could do a decent day's work, I'd clap some chains and a tattoo on you right now. Save us all some time. But a man must work within the law. Ho, guard!” The little man lifted his bat and waved it cheerily at a passing city guard. “Here's one for you. A boy, no family, no coin, and in debt to me for damage to the satrap's slaves. Take him in custody, would you? Here, now! Stop, come back!”

The last exclamation came as Wintrow scrabbled to his feet and darted away from them both. Only Lem's cry of warning made him glance back. He should have ducked instead. The deftly flung spinning club caught him alongside the head and dropped him in the filthy street of the slavemart.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

RAIN WILD
TRADERS

“BECAUSE ANYTHING OUT OF THE ORDINARY RATTLES ME, THAT'S
why,” Grandma snapped.

“I'm sorry,” Malta's mother said in a neutral voice. “I was only asking.” She stood behind Grandmother at her vanity table, pinning up her hair for her. She didn't sound sorry, she sounded weary of Grandma's eternal irritability. Malta didn't blame her. Malta was sick of them both being so crabby. It seemed to her that all they focused on was the sad side of life, the worrying parts. Tonight there was a big gathering of Old Traders and they were taking Malta with them. Malta had spent most of the afternoon arranging her hair and trying on her new robe. But here were her mother and grandmother, just dressing at the last minute, and acting as if the whole thing were some worrisome chore instead of a chance to get out and see people and talk. She just couldn't understand them.

“Are you ready yet?” she nudged them. She didn't want to be the last one to get there. There would be a lot of talking tonight, a Rain Wild and Trader business discussion her mother had said. She couldn't see why her mother and grandmother found that so distressing. No doubt that would be sit-still-and-try-not-to-be-bored time. Malta wanted to arrive while there was still talking and greeting and refreshments being offered. Then maybe she could find Delo and sit with her. It was stupid that it was taking them so long to get ready. They should have each had a servant to assist with dressing hair and laying out garments and all the rest of it. Every other Trader family had such servants. But no, Grandma insisted that they could no longer afford them and Mama had agreed. And when Malta had argued they had made her sit down with a big stack of tally sticks and receipts and try to make sense of them in one of the ledger books. She had muddled the page, and Grandma made her copy it over. And then they had wanted to sit around and talk about what the numbers meant and why the numbers said they couldn't have servants anymore, only Nana and Rache. Malta would be very glad when Papa got back. She was sure there was something they were missing. It made no sense to her. How could they suddenly be poor? Nothing else had changed. Yet there they were, in robes at least two years old, dressing one another's hair and snipping at each other as they did it. “Can we go soon?” she asked again. She didn't know why they wouldn't answer.

“Does it look like we can go soon?” her mother demanded. “Malta, please try to be useful instead of driving me mad. Go and see if Trader Restart's carriage has arrived.”

“Oh, not him!” Malta protested. “Please, please tell me we are not riding with him in that smelly old carriage of his. Mother, the doors don't even stay shut or open properly. I am going to be so humiliated if we have to go with—”

“Malta, go and see if the carriage is here,” her grandmother tersely commanded her. As if her mother had not already said it.

Malta sighed and stalked off. By the time they got there, the food and drink would be gone and everyone would be seated on the council benches. If she had to go and sit through a whole council meeting, she at least wanted to be there for the fun part. As she walked down the hall, she wondered if Delo would even be there. Cerwin would. His family had been treating him like an adult for years. Maybe Delo would be there, and if she was, Malta could find a way to get permission to sit with her. It would be easy to get Delo to sit next to her brother. She hadn't seen Cerwin since the day Mother had insisted on showing him around the garden room. But that didn't mean that Cerwin was no longer interested.

At that thought, she made a quick side trip to the water closet. There was a small looking-glass there. The light was not good, but Malta still smiled at what she saw. She had swept her dark hair up from her face, braiding it and then securing it to the crown of her head. Artless tendrils danced on her forehead and brushed the tops of her cheeks. They still would allow her only flowers as adornments, but she had chosen the last tiny roses that still bloomed in the garden room. They were a deep red, with a heady sweet fragrance. Her robe for this evening was very simple, but at least it was not a little girl's frock. It was a Trader's robe, such as all the Traders wore to such meetings. Hers was a deep magenta, almost the same shade as the roses in her hair. It was traditionally the Vestrit color. Malta would have preferred a blue, but the magenta did look good on her. And at least it was new.

She'd never had a Trader's robe before. In a way, they were stuffy garments, round necklines, ankle length, belted at the waist like a monk's robe. She admired the shining black leather of her wide belt, the stylized initial that formed the buckle. She had cinched it tight, to better emphasize the swell of her hips and to pull the fabric tauter over her breasts. Papa was right. She did have a woman's shape already; why should she not have a woman's clothes and privileges? Well, it was only a matter of time before he was back, and then things would change around here. His trading would go well, he'd come home with pockets full of money, and then he would hear of how she had been mistreated and cheated of her promised gown and . . .

“Malta!” Her mother jerked the door open. “What are you doing in here? Everyone is waiting for you. Get your cloak and hurry up!”

“Is the carriage here?” she asked her mother's back as she hurried after her.

“Yes,” Mama replied with asperity. “And Trader Restart has been standing beside it waiting for us.”

“Well, why didn't he knock or ring the bell or . . .”

“He did,” her mother snapped. “But as usual, you were off in some daydream of your own.”

“Do I have to wear my cloak? We'll be in the carriage and then the hall, and my old cloak looks stupid with my new robe.”

“It's cold out. Wear your cloak. And, please, try to remember your manners tonight. Pay attention to what is said. The Rain Wild families don't ask for an audience of all the Old Traders without good cause. I have no doubt that whatever is said tonight will affect the fates of us all. And remember that the Rain Wild folk are kin to us. Don't stare, have your best manners and . . .”

“Yes, Mother.” The same lecture she had already delivered six times at least today. Did she think Malta was deaf, or stupid? Hadn't she been told ever since she was born that they were kin to the Rain Wild families? That reminded her. As they went out the door past a stern-faced Nana, Malta began, “I've heard that the Rain Wild folk have a new ware. Flame jewels. I heard that the beads are clear as raindrops, but there are small tongues of flames that dance in each one.”

Her mother did not even answer. “Thank you so much for waiting, Davad. And this is so far out of your way as well,” she was saying to the dumpy little man.

He beamed at her mother, his face shining with pleasure and grease as he helped her up into the carriage. Malta didn't say a word to him and managed to hop in before he could touch her arm. She hadn't forgotten nor forgiven him for her last carriage ride. Her mother had settled in next to her grandmother. Oh, they couldn't expect her to sit next to Trader Restart. It was just too disgusting. “May I sit in the middle?” she said, and managed to squeeze herself in between them. “Mother, about the flame jewels . . .” she began hopefully, but Trader Restart started speaking as if she weren't even there.

“All settled? Well, here we go, then. Now, I shall have to sit by the door here to hold it shut, I'm afraid. I told my man to see to having the catch repaired, but when I ordered the carriage out tonight, I found it had not been done yet. It's enough to drive one mad. What is the good of having servants if they pay no attention when you tell them to do something? It's almost enough to make a man wish for slavery here in Bingtown. A slave knows that his master's goodwill is his only hope of comfort and well-being, and it makes him pay attention to his orders.”

And on and on and on, all the way to Trader Concourse. Trader Restart talked and her mother and grandmother listened. At most they only politely differed with him even though she had heard her grandmother say a hundred times that she thought slavery would ruin Bingtown. Not that Malta agreed with her. She was sure Papa would not have become involved with it if it were not profitable. Still, she thought it was rather spineless, the way her grandmother said one thing at home, and then didn't stand up for her views with Restart. The strongest thing she said was, “Davad, I have only to imagine myself a slave to know that it is wrong.” As if that were some final argument. Malta was thoroughly bored with the whole discussion long before the carriage stopped. And she still hadn't managed to finish telling her mother about the flame jewels.

But at least they weren't the last ones to arrive. Not quite. It took every bit of self-control Malta could muster to sit still while Restart fumbled with the faulty door-catch, and then maneuvered himself out the opening. She followed right away, stepping nimbly down before he could take her hand in his moist, meaty palm. The man made her want to go and wash.

“Malta!” her mother called to her sharply as she started up the walk. She didn't even lower her voice as she said, “Wait there. We shall all go in together.”

Malta folded her lips and breathed out once through her nose. She did it on purpose: her mother enjoyed publicly speaking to her as if she were still a child. She waited for them, but when they caught up with her, she purposely lagged behind, not so far that her mother would call her, but far enough that she wasn't quite with them and Trader Restart.

The Trader Concourse was dark. Well, not entirely, but certainly not lit as it had been for the Harvest Ball. A mere two torches burned to illuminate the pathway, and the windows of the hall showed dimly through shutter cracks. That was probably because this meeting had been called by the Rain Wild families. They did not enjoy light, or so it was said. Delo said it was something about their eyes, but Malta suspected that if they all were as ugly as the one she had seen, they just didn't want everyone looking at them. Warty. That was how she had heard them described. Warty and deformed. A little shiver ran up her spine. She wondered how many of them would be here tonight.

Another carriage rattled up behind Davad's just as his coachman clucked to his horses. It was an old style of carriage, with heavy lace panels obscuring the windows. Malta lagged to see who would get out of it. In the dim light, she had to peer to see the crest on the door. It was unfamiliar, not an Old Trader crest. That meant they had to be Rain Wild. No one else would dare to be here tonight. She walked on, but could not resist glancing over her shoulder to see who would get out. A family disembarked, six figures, all cloaked and hooded in dark colors. But as each stepped out, the touch of gloved hand to collar or cuff set tiny amber, red and orange lights to flickering at each location. The hair stood up on the back of her neck and then she realized what they were. Flame jewels. Malta halted where she stood. Oh, the rumors of them could not do them justice. She caught her breath and stared. The closer they came, the more magnificent they were.

“Malta?” She heard the warning in her mother's voice.

“Good evening.” It was a husky woman's voice that came from within the shadowed depths of the hood. And now Malta could see that the hood was veiled with a curtain of lace as well. What could be so hideous, as to need hiding even in darkness? The flame jewels she wore were scarlet, weighing down the edges of her veil. She was dimly aware of hurried footsteps behind her, the soft susurrus of fabric. She startled when her mother spoke right at her elbow. “Good evening. I am Keffria, of the Vestrit Trader family.”

“Jani of the Rain Wild's Khuprus gives you greeting,” the hooded woman replied.

“May I present my daughter, Malta Haven of the Vestrit family?”

“You may indeed.” The woman's voice was a cultured purr. Malta belatedly remembered to bow. The woman chuckled approvingly. When she spoke, it was to Malta's mother. “I do not believe I have seen her at a Gathering before. Has she just entered society?”

“In truth, this is her first Gathering. She has not been presented yet. Her grandmother and I believe she must learn the duties and responsibilities of a Trader woman before she is presented as one.” In contrast to Jani, her mother's voice was courteous and hasty, as if correcting a wrong impression.

“Ah. That does sound like Ronica Vestrit. And I do approve of such philosophy. I fear it is becoming rarer in Bingtown these days.” Her tone smooth and rich as cream now.

“Your flame jewels are beautiful,” Malta blurted out. “Are they very expensive?” Even as she said it, she heard how childish she sounded.

“Malta!” her mother rebuked her.

But the Rain Wild woman chuckled throatily. “Actually, the scarlets are the most common and the easiest to awaken. But I still love them best. Red is such a rich color. The greens and blues are rarer far, and much harder to stir. And so, of course, they are the ones we charge most dearly for. The flame jewels are the exclusive province of the Khuprus, of course.”

“Of course,” her mother replied. “It is quite thrilling to see this new addition to the Khuprus merchandise. The rumors of them have not done them justice.” Her mother glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, dear! We have delayed you, I fear. We should probably all go in lest they begin without us.”

“Oh, they will wait on me, I am certain,” Jani Khuprus observed heavily. “It is at my behest we are all gathered here. But you are right, there is no courtesy in keeping others waiting. Keffria, young Malta. A pleasure to speak with you both.”

“Our pleasure,” her mother demurred, and stepped aside deferentially to allow the hooded woman to precede her. As her mother took her arm, she gripped it just a fraction tighter than was comfortable. “Oh, Malta,” she sighed in rebuke, and then firmly escorted her in. Just within the doors of the Trader Concourse, Grandmother awaited them. Her lips were folded tightly. She curtsied deeply to Jani Khuprus as she passed, then turned wide eyes on Malta and her mother.

Her mother waited a few moments to be sure Jani Khuprus was out of earshot, then hissed, “She presented herself to her!”