Tale of Birle (17 page)

“But four silvers—that's all my savings. Wouldn't we be wiser to keep looking out for apprentices, who at least bring payment with them?”

“You know that apprentices go to the guildsmen. Listen, you'll have him from first bell to second. I'll feed him midday and have him the afternoon. Come on, what do you say? If his hands are as clever as they look—beneath the dirt—we'll soon earn our coins back. Give me your hand on it, friend.”

It had to be Orien. These were two craftsmen, that was clear. Orien would not be badly off with them—not like the mines, with his face branded; not like these pirates, with their oars and chains. She watched the two approach Torson, and wished them well.

A man waited before her. Of middling age and middling height, he wore a deep blue coat, with red designs woven into its fabric. He looked at her as if he had always known that she would, one day, be brought here, as if—although she hadn't known it—Birle had all her life been moving toward this one day. He had the eyes of a pig.

He thrust his fleshy face toward her. Torson and Ker were occupied with the two craftsmen. His plump hand reached for her throat, but it was only to untie her cloak and let it fall at her feet. He stepped back then, to study her, up and down.

As he examined her, he made an odd little sucking noise, with his mouth and cheeks. His head moved up and down, his cheeks puffed in and out; he stepped to one side, then to the other, still making sucking sounds. Then he stood in front of her again, hands behind his back again, sucking.

When he reached out for her face, Birle's head flinched back. She couldn't stop herself. Torson, she saw, watched now, with interest. The hand grabbed her cheeks and pulled her head forward. His fingers pried at her lips. She clenched her teeth together.

Orien's back held her up.

The middling man was angry. The sucking noises ceased and he drew his hand away, and he stepped back, one step.

Then he hit her across the mouth with the back of his hand, and grabbed her face again, prodding into her mouth with his fingers, pulling her lips back to study her teeth. Birle's eyes filled with tears, but she would not weep. Would not.

She looked as far away as she could, which was only to the open gateway. Her cheek stung. Her face felt hot, with shame and helplessness. A gray-headed man was just entering; he saw her and stopped, abruptly, like a drifting boat that had reached the end of its mooring rope.

The middling man, apparently satisfied with her mouth, pulled sharply at her braid—and what he expected to happen when he did that she didn't know—then moved over to talk with Torson. He shouldered the craftsmen aside, and started talking. He never took his eyes from Birle. She didn't look at him, but she could feel his eyes.

At her back, Orien stood tense. They could do nothing, she knew that. They couldn't break and run, to be at least slaughtered quickly—which would be preferable—because they were bound not only to each other but also to Yul and the boy. If she cried out for help, there was no man in the enclosure who would come to their aid. They couldn't help themselves, and she could see no way that help might come to them.

The older man was making his way through the crowd. The crowd didn't make way for his slight, stooped figure and he had to weave his way through. Poor as he looked, he looked preferable to the middling man, to Birle's eyes. But he was too late: She saw coins change from the middling man's purse to Torson's hand.

In any case, the older man wasn't looking at her as he moved through the crowds. His interest was probably her imagination, wishing.

He never even hesitated in front of her, but went right over to Torson. His voice was loud, so she heard everything he said.

“The girl. How much?”

Torson answered him.

“What? Speak up, into my left ear, my right ear's gone bad.”

“She's sold.”

“To whom?”

“This gentleman,” Torson said. The middling man smiled, pleased to have in his possession what another desired.

The older man turned to deal with the middling man. “At what price?”

“A gold and five silvers.”

“I'll buy her from you,” the older man said. His unkempt hair, his worn, dark cloak—he didn't look like a man with many coins to spend.

The middling man looked over the stooped shoulder at Torson, as if to ask who this madman was. The older man's hands pulled at the opening of his cloak, and at his belt, as if he had forgotten where his purse was. He finally found it and counted out five silver coins, and a gold one. “There you are.” He held out the money.

“Why should I sell her? I never said I was selling.”

The older man seemed momentarily confused, then his face cleared. “Yes, of course. Stupid of me. You'll want your profit.” He pulled out a second gold coin, which he exchanged for the five silver ones. “There's a profit for you,” he said, pleased with himself.

“I said, no sale.”

“All right, all right, the silvers too; it's all I've got with me.”

The middling man looked at Birle, and winked, as if he and she were playing this game together. If her hands had not been tied, she'd have bitten her thumb at him, if her heart had not been sunk down to her ankles. The older man had no authority, and he had no skill at bargaining. The loss of hope was so cruel to her that she wished she'd never had any, not even for the brief instant it had been hers.

“Loose her, Torson,” the middling man said.

“Ours too,” the red-haired craftsman said.

“Wait, wait.” The older man looked bewildered, as if he hadn't understood anything of what had gone on. “I have more coins, but not with me. I can send for it, however much you ask.”

The middling man's fleshy face became the mask of greed. “How much?”

Like a child, the older man spoke eagerly, hastily. “How much do you ask? I've never purchased at market before, so I don't know the prices, or I'd have brought more coins. I'll send to Corbel. When I tell him what it's for he'll let me have whatever I ask, because he's the one who told me I must find someone to keep my house. He told me to come here.”

“Who told you?” The middling man's voice had a wary note in it.

“Why, Corbel, as I just said. He'll pay promptly, I warrant it.”

The middling man's whole bearing changed, as if all of the plumpness had been sucked out of him. “Just the price I paid Torson, that's all I'll take, no more.” He closed his fingers quickly around the coins.

“That's very good of you,” the older man said.

Birle struggled to keep her face blank. Whoever, or whatever, Corbel was, it was a name to get you what you wished, even here. The older man seemed unaware of the stir he'd made—even Torson and Ker eyed him warily as he turned back to them. “The very large man, how much is he?”

Torson hesitated, and Birle thought she knew why. If Corbel was an enemy no man wanted, then to sell the older man a simple might well prove dangerous. She could almost see Torson thinking it out: If they could get to the ship before they were found out, then they needn't come to market in this city again, not for a long time, not until they had been forgotten. There were smaller cities they had sailed past on their journey to this one. This place had the busiest market, but the others had markets too. Greed and caution chased each other over Torson's face, like two dogs chasing each other. He made up his mind. “One gold.”

“That's just what I have. How fortunate.”

The coin was given to Torson. Quickly, he untied Birle and Yul from the other two. “Not a word, you hear?” he hissed in her ear. “If you care what happens to Yul, it'll be a longer life than he'd have in the mines.”

Ker put the rope that ran around Yul's waist into Birle's hand. He knelt to unlock the shackles at Yul's feet. She didn't know what to do. But she couldn't do anything anyway. If she couldn't, then she needn't.

“And ours,” the red-haired craftsman spoke. “Ours too, you've had our money.”

“Come along now,” the older man said, and without another glance he began making his way back through the crowd to the gateway. He seemed to find nothing odd about Birle leading Yul like a goat on a rope; perhaps he hadn't noticed it. With Yul in his train the crowd parted for him.

As she made her way to the gate, her eyes on the stooped shoulders, Birle had a sudden awful thought. What if it wasn't Orien for the craftsmen, but the boy. If she had been worth a gold coin and five silvers to the middling man, who was a practiced marketeer, then wouldn't Orien have been worth more than four silver coins? If Yul fetched a gold coin? She turned around, to see Orien.

She couldn't find him. She found Ker and Torson, the two shaggy heads; they talked with a man in a blood-red shirt, another beside him whose cheek bore a broad scar, like a crescent moon.

Where was Orien? The boy stood weeping with bent head, but Orien—

She saw his eyes, first. The two craftsmen were leading him away, following the path Yul had made. She saw Orien's bellflower eyes, and his attempt at a smile, before she lost sight of him in the crowd.

W
HERE SHE WAS LED, WITH
Yul obediently following, Birle could not have said. There were people, crowds, and their voices filled the air around her. There were houses, lining both sides of dusty streets. She was always climbing up. She didn't have the strength to look around her, nor the heart to care. Her feet dragged. When she stumbled, she barely noticed it. The man she followed walked on, without a word, without looking back, as if he were unaware that he was being followed.

After a time, he stopped before a doorway. The little low house was set in the center of a high wall. He took a key from his girdle, and unlocked the door. Birle followed him into a dim room. Yul followed Birle, at the end of his heavy rope.

The man might have said something to her, but Birle didn't attend. Then he had left them, going out a door opposite the one through which they had entered. She sat down on the wooden floor, and pulled her knees up, and rested her face on her knees. After a time, she noticed that she was weeping. After a time, she noticed that her tears had ceased.

When at last Birle lifted her head, she saw Yul crouched on the floor not far away. Even hunkered so, he looked huge. His eyes watched her, mute and sympathetic, like a dog's. She looked at Yul but she didn't see him. Looking at Yul, she saw only who he was not, and the weight of tears pulled her head back down onto her knees.

It was a pounding on the door that roused her, she had no idea how much time later. The door swung open. A man entered, followed by two soldiers. The soldiers wore red shirts and carried swords. The man strode to the center of the room and stood, looking around him. He was a slight, dark man, with a wolfish face. His cloak was crimson, his red shirt had thick bands of gold at the wrist, his leather boots came up to his knees. His hat fell in soft folds beside his face. For all that he was slender and short, he seemed taller than either of the soldiers who stood behind him.

“Stand up,” he said.

Fear penetrated Birle's mind. She obeyed, and Yul—who had crept closer to her—stood too, behind her, as if she could hide him.

The man reached a hand out, to lift Birle's chin and see her face. What he saw did not please him, and he let her chin drop. What Birle saw frightened her—the high-bridged nose and the two cold eyes close beside it. Her blood rang with the warning: This man was like a line of flame, snaking toward its destination, to destroy.

“And this too,” he muttered, moving toward Yul, who could have crushed him with one huge hand.

The man wheeled around. His cloak brushed against Birle's arm; her arm twitched back as if from flame. “You men—start unloading, and keep an eye on these two. Although I doubt they'll give you any trouble. You,” he said to Birle. “If you move, you'll be killed. Do you understand?”

Birle nodded. This too did not please him. “I should have known,” the man said to her. “It's what he always does. He's always been this kind of fool.” He went out the rear door, like a line of flame.

In the light of the open door, dust motes circled and danced. Horses and a wagon waited in the street. The soldiers carried in a long wooden box, a cooking pot, a table, four stools, and another box. They left these in the middle of the room, then stood beside the door, on guard, talking.

“I'm surprised the man wasn't taken for the mines—he'd last maybe three seasons, maybe even more.”

“Look at his face, stupid. He's a simple.”

“It's not brains needed for the mines.”

“And the girl's no better, if you ask me. Why Corbel has this man . . . brother or no brother . . . in service, I'll never understand.”

“We're not here to understand. We're here to get paid for fighting.”

“Not carrying around household furniture, neither.”

“Corbel brings more living men out of battle than any of the others I've heard of. And each of those men gets booty prizes. If he orders me to carry furniture, I'll do it—long as he's the man who pays me.”

The old man stumbled into the room, as if he had been pushed. He probably had been, Birle thought, as the man she assumed must be Corbel entered at his heels, talking angrily. “. . . whey-faced girl—good for nothing but whining by the look of her—and the man strong enough, but a simpleton. What were you thinking of? Don't bother, I know what you were thinking. But leaving them alone in here—Joaquim, they could have walked away, and the coins that paid for them wasted.”

“I didn't think,” the old man mumbled.

“You never do. You're so busy thinking you never think.”

“I'm sorry.”

“You always are. You two,” Corbel said to the soldiers, “get the collars on them.”