The Law of Isolation (11 page)

“I’m surprised she can stand up in it, let alone walk. It must weigh enough to overload a mule.” Nirel grabbed his arm. “Look!” She pointed ahead, where a gap between the tall buildings revealed a stretch of road winding up to the palace. A procession of open carriages, pulled by tall, elegant horses, carried what could only be the Matriarch and her retinue. “Do you think they’ll send some for us?”

“I doubt it.” Gan stretched. “I don’t care. I’m happy to be back on solid ground. Ozor might have grown up aboard ships, but he forgets the rest of us aren’t Sailorkin. If I never have to set foot on that leaky tub again, I’ll be just as glad.”

Nirel looked around. They were walking along a cobblestone street. Tall buildings loomed on either side, cutting off her view of the city and sky. People crowded out of their way, pressing against the walls and staring at them in astonished curiosity. “Do you think they’ll let us stay?” She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to remain here or not. The foreign city was exciting, but frightening, too. So many strangers. They spoke differently, and dressed differently, and undoubtedly thought differently, than anyone she’d ever before encountered. Part of her wanted to stay and explore and learn more about this exotic, alien place, but another part wanted to be back in the quiet solitude of the forest with Shonika.

Shonika looked at ease, walking along quietly at the rear of the group. Kabos was engaged in a heated discussion with Ozor and Tereid. Nirel was glad they were keeping him occupied, because otherwise her father would be hovering over her in a fit of protectiveness. She knew he only tried to shield her out of love and fear that she might come to harm, but she preferred the times like now when he seemed to forget about her completely. She was quite capable of taking care of herself in most circumstances.

Gan shrugged. “Ozor’s clever. He’ll work out some deal with them. Although if Captain Yosiv brings wizards here, it might be better if we’re long gone.”

“Maybe.” Nirel certainly didn’t want the wizards to catch them again. But surely the Matriarch, with all her wealth and power and troops of armed men, could protect them. If she chose to. “I wonder why the Matriarch wants a wizard so—”

“Visartha!” A woman burst from the crowd of onlookers and threw herself at Nirel, heedless of the armed men surrounding the Tevenarans. She thrust imploring arms past the guards, her fingers clutching the sleeve of Nirel’s tunic before they dragged her off. “Visartha! Hella mi!”

Nirel shrank back and stared. The woman was gaunt, her face pockmarked with old scars, her mouth gaping toothless. She wore one of the bell-shaped garments, but it hung in ragged filthy tatters around her ankles. A guard shoved her and she fell to the cobbles. As another guard took Nirel’s arm and hurried her along, she glimpsed the woman bury her face in her hands, weeping.

They emerged from the narrow street into a square. It was weedy and overgrown, littered with broken crockery and other refuse. The surrounding buildings were in a state of ill repair. The people who pushed forward to see the passing procession were nearly as ragged as the woman. More of them took up her cry. “Visartha!” A forest of hands groped toward them.

Their guards closed in, forming a tight circle. They drew their long knives and brandished them menacingly at the crowd. Ozor’s company pressed close to one another and hustled across the square. Shonika glared at the crowd and reached for the bow on her back, but Ozor spoke sharply to her and she dropped her hand.

As they reached the far side of the square, the crowd surged forward, determined to break through the cordon of guards. One guard swung his knife, striking an old man across the cheek with the flat of the blade. The man cried out and fell back, a red welt rising. The guards ushered them into a narrow street, where the buildings pressed too close on either side for the crowds to follow them.

“I beg your pardon,” Gevan panted above the receding shouts. “I should have taken you the longer way around. But I’ve never known the folk of the Beggars’ Quarter to create a disturbance like that. I don’t know what came over them.”

Ozor searched the faces of his company, making sure everyone was all right. Tifla and Dayrine clung to each other, weeping. A number of the others appeared shaken, but no one was hurt. Ozor took a deep breath. “Perhaps they, too, harbor anger against wizards.”

“Perhaps.” Gevan frowned.

Nirel thought of the woman who’d grabbed her. It hadn’t been anger or hatred in her eyes, but desperation and frantic hope.

“In any case,” Gevan went on, “we should make haste to the palace.”

They regrouped and hurried on. Nirel didn’t resist when Kabos dropped back to walk beside her and put his arm around her shoulders. His strong presence was a comfort against the suddenly hostile city.

They climbed the steep streets to the palace without further incident. Gevan led them across a wide courtyard to the ornate front entrance and ushered them inside.

What seemed to Nirel like droves of men and women met them. A tall, matronly woman took charge, speaking to Gevan. He relayed her instructions. “If the women will go with Lady Yarilla, please, and the men come with me.” He looked briefly flustered. “She will do her best to communicate with you, if you will have patience—”

“Nirel can translate.” Ozor put a confident hand on her shoulder. “Can’t you.”

“Yes, sir.” Nirel did her best to sound sure of herself.

“Excellent.” Ozor moved to follow Gevan, while Nirel swallowed and trailed behind Yarilla. The company sorted themselves out and went their separate ways.

Yarilla led them to a suite of rooms which were apparently maintained for guests. There was a sitting room, several bedrooms, and a luxurious bath. Yarilla wrinkled her nose as she directed them toward it. Nirel was happy to comply, as were the others. They stripped off their ragged garments and set about washing with flower-scented soap and plenty of hot water from large kettles heated by braziers.

A girl only a few years older than Nirel gathered up her discarded breeches and tunic, touching them as little as possible. Nirel was pleased to find she could understand the girl’s Ramunnan well. “We have orders to bring you decent clothes. Should we burn these?”

“Go ahead,” Nirel told her. The thought of clean new clothes was delightful. “I don’t ever want to see them again.”

“I would think not! Imagine, having to dress like a boy.” The girl shuddered. “Was this all they would give you to wear in prison? Or was it a disguise?”

“What?” Nirel tried to puzzle out what she meant. “No, it’s what I was wearing when they caught us.”

“Oh.” The girl looked at her quizzically. “We’ll make sure you have plenty of nice things to choose from when you’re done bathing.”

Sure enough, when they emerged from the bathing room, a multitude of garments were laid out across the chairs and tables and beds. But as Nirel quickly discovered, female fashion in Ramunna differed greatly from that in Tevenar.

Shonika threw one of the bell-shaped garments down in disgust. “Where are the breeches? I refuse to wear that thing. I wouldn’t be able to move!”

Yarilla yammered at her in Ramunnan. Nirel rushed to Shonika’s side to translate. “She says these are the finest clothes Ramunna has to offer. The Matriarch said we were to be given the best.”

“I don’t care. Everyday work clothes are fine with me. Just not these bedsheet-wrapped-around-your-legs things.”

Yarilla gaped in horror when she finally grasped Nirel’s explanation of what Shonika wanted. “She wishes to wear men’s clothing? No decent woman would allow herself to be seen without a skirt!”

“It’s different where we come from,” Nirel told her. “Everyone wears breeches, men and women alike. We’ve never seen anything like these skirts before.”

Yarilla curled her lip in what was very nearly a sneer. “I do not care what you wear in your Mother-forsaken land. When you appear in the court of the Matriarch you will wear modest clothes.”

“Shonika, please, just until we can get you something different—” But all Nirel’s pleading couldn’t sway Shonika. She sat down naked in a chair by the wide hearth, laid her bow at her feet, crossed her arms, and stared fixedly into the small fire that burned despite the heat of the day. Their Ramunnan helpers gave her a wide berth. They snuck glances at her from the corners of their eyes and from time to time broke into scandalized giggles.

The rest of them weren’t very happy about the strange clothes, either, but they struggled into them with a great deal of help from their hosts. Nirel didn’t mind the soft gown, basically a long tunic, that formed the first layer. It was loose enough that it didn’t restrict her movements much. But the padded, stiffened garment that laced over it, confining her belly and breasts, felt distinctly strange. It made it hard to bend at the waist or take a deep breath. The long-sleeved, close fitting tunic that went over it impeded the reach of her arms, as well as scratching her with its lace trim. Last of all, several layers of skirts combined to create the bell-shaped silhouette Yarilla insisted was the only acceptable style for a woman in the Matriarch’s court.

Nirel hunted among the offered garments for the plainest and smallest, but even it was so wide she wouldn’t be able to fit through most doorways at home. She felt ridiculous. The layers trapped the heat of her body and made her sweat. One of the girls slid thin little slippers on her feet. Their soles were too soft to protect against even the slightest roughness in the ground. Nirel briefly considered stripping off the bizarre clothing and joining Shonika in her protest. But that would leave the other women without anyone to translate for them.

She drew as deep a breath as she could and took a few steps. The heavy skirts swished around her legs, nearly tripping her. But Yarilla and the others went about their business with little apparent effort, and Nirel resolved to learn to do the same. She practiced walking back and forth through the series of rooms until the others were finished dressing.

Tifla swished her hips extravagantly, making Dayrine convulse with laughter. Noarba raised her eyebrows at the way Eifel’s generous bosom swelled out the top of her tunic. “Zeon will like that.”

Eifel blushed, but smiled at the thought of her husband’s reaction. “I expect he will.”

Yarilla clucked at the shortness of many of the women’s hair. She and her helpers carefully concealed it beneath lace caps and hats of various styles. When all the women of Ozor’s company finally met with Yarilla’s approval, she gestured toward the door.

Nirel went to where Shonika sat, unmoving. “Are you sure you’re not coming? Ozor will be angry.”

“Tell him I’ll come out when they provide some real clothes, not those tents.” Shonika wouldn’t meet Nirel’s eyes. Nirel felt like a traitor, swathed in the garments of the enemy. But Shonika was the one being unreasonable. It made sense to go along with the wishes of the people they hoped would help them and accept whatever the Ramunnans offered. It wasn’t as if their bargaining position was very strong. Once Ozor disclosed the route to Tevenar, they’d have nothing more to give the Matriarch. They would be completely dependent on whatever goodwill they managed to win from her.

Nirel shrugged and left Shonika to sulk. She joined the others and followed Yarilla through the corridors of the palace. They came to a vestibule outside a high, broad set of double doors. The men were there already. They eyed each other, sizing up how everyone looked in their strange new garments. Nirel envied the men their less-restrictive breeches, although the heavy tunics looked just as hot and uncomfortable as her skirts. Ozor did look rather fine, though, in a rich burgundy tunic made of the fuzzy cloth the Ramunnans called velvet. And Kabos might almost have been a Ramunnan in the plain but elegant black he’d chosen.

Her father looked Nirel up and down, noting every detail of her costume. He scowled at the low front, but when a glance at the other women showed him that she’d chosen one of the less revealing tops, he let it pass. “I expect you to conduct yourself properly. Just because they insist we dress in their clothes does not mean we must adopt their ways. We need to guard against immorality. I have no doubt it’s even more rampant here than in Tevenar.” He glowered at Zeon, who seemed unable to keep his eyes off the way the laced garment altered his wife’s figure, and the other men who were teasing him with increasingly ribald remarks.

Nirel nodded meekly, though inside she fumed. Where did Kabos get his obsessive concern with proper behavior? It wasn’t just since they joined Ozor’s company; he’d always been this way. She’d never realized, growing up on their isolated farm, how unusual it was for him to insist their family follow such a strict set of rules, and how harsh the punishments were for the slightest disobedience. The only clue was the way he forbade her from speaking of it with outsiders, and the occasional objections her mother raised when his wrath against her or her siblings burned particularly hot.

She hadn’t understood how different other families were until Josiah had been shocked to learn that Kabos physically disciplined them. He’d been so stupid, trying to get her father to lash out at him to prove to the wizard that he should interfere. And when that didn’t work, he’d barged in on them right in the middle of her punishment and ruined everything. A few smacks with a switch were nothing. If it weren’t for Josiah’s meddling, her family would still be together and she’d be at home on the farm.

Of course, then she wouldn’t have gotten to join Ozor’s band. Kabos would never have let her, even though they were his friends, if he hadn’t been forced to by circumstances. She was far happier among them than she’d ever been before.

But Kabos was different than the other outlaws. There had been a few parents with children among them, though all of them had been taken elsewhere when the band was cast into prison. None of them treated their children as if every little disobedience might lead to a lifetime of depravity if not immediately and harshly suppressed. At first she’d looked down on them as lax and permissive, but after a while she began to wonder. Once, little Jechel had curled up against his father’s side by the fire, and Zalmon had put his arm around his son and snuggled him close, even though not an hour before the boy had thrown a temper tantrum and dumped his evening meal into the dirt, wasting it. Nirel hadn’t been able to dismiss the sense of longing and loneliness that stole over her. If she were to commit so grave an offense, Kabos would mete out harsh physical discipline and withhold for at least a week even the measured affection he displayed when she was good.