The Red Queen (89 page)

Without warning, a damp muzzle pressed into my palm.

I nearly cried out, but then Darga entered my mind.

‘I have told other canines here that ElspethInnle has come, and they will watch for you and tell all other beasts in this place of your coming,’ he sent in the sombre, velvety voice that had always struck me as brown. ‘Yet it seems there were other beasts who spoke of your coming manymoons ago.’

‘There was no need for you to tell anyone anything about me,’ I told him, running my hand around his neck and resting it lightly atop his ruff.

‘All beasts here wait for ElspethInnle who will lead them to freedom from humans,’ Darga sent in a grave mindvoice. ‘Already manybeasts here have dreamed of your coming / have heard it from thosebeasts who came from over the seas. I merely tell them that you have come.’

‘Wonderful,’ I muttered.

Then my spirits rose, for surely if other beasts had spoken of me some time ago, they might very well be those sent by the beastmerge! And if they had survived, then surely others had done so, and as foreign slaves they must be in Slavetown! Unexpectedly, the block, which I had felt as a constant impersonal pressure, gave a little, almost as if it was reacting to my excitement. I wondered what would happen if I pushed hard enough against it, perhaps even drawing on the black spirit power at my core. Would it give way? The thought excited me, but as I was about to try, it occurred to me that the block might have been configured to tempt me to do exactly this, to engage it directly.

Even all these years later, I could remember the terror and despair I had felt when the Zebkrahn machine had caught hold of my mind at Obernewtyn. I shuddered.

‘Funaga come,’ Darga sent suddenly, head pressing my hip.

For a moment I did not know which way to go, but Darga butted me hard into the lane. It was as well he did, for the Ekoni must have marched from a street nearby and suddenly they were passing the mouth of the lane. I pressed myself against the wall, heart pounding, because it was lighter now. All the Ekoni needed to do was to glance into the lane and they would see me.

But not one of them glanced towards me and after the last of twenty or so hooded men had passed I sagged against the wall listening to the sound of their boots fade away into the heavy silence. All at once I realised how terribly tired and thirsty I was and my heart sank at the knowledge that I still had to get across the remainder of the settlement before dawn. I could not see the horizon to the east, but the sky was growing steadily lighter.

I took a deep breath, gathered my will, and then set off along the winding lane. I had not gone far along it when a thin, stooped Gadfian man clad in a beautiful long tunic and close-fitting cap of swirling colours stepped from another lane carrying a roll of cloth and a lantern and turned towards me. He was facing me and the light from the lantern he carried must have shown me to him, but at first, his gaze settled on me absently, as if his mind were far away. Then his eyes widened in astonishment.

‘What are you doing out in the street at this hour, Sabra?’ he demanded.

I had no idea what to reply, for his tone was not accusatory but alarmed, yet he was undoubtedly a Gadfian by his appearance and beard, and he had the same strange way of speaking as Riyad. He lifted his lantern and stepped closer. ‘But you are a Landslave!’ he said, then he looked about worriedly, almost furtively, saying softly and with some urgency, ‘I suppose you dallied too long somewhere between the house of your master and Slavetown and were caught by the curfew bells. But why did you not simply wait until dawn and ask a male slave to escort you?’

I had no idea what to say so I said nothing.

He shook his head and tutted. ‘Why didn’t you at least have the sense to dress as a man if you had to pretend to be Gadfian?’

He shook his head and his expression became stern. ‘Now listen, Sabra, you had better come with me. I am going home now and one of my sons can escort you back to Slavetown or to your master’s house after the sun rises. Even if you are beaten, it is better than what will happen to you if you are caught in the street before the end of curfew by a troop of Ekoni. Once they discover that you are a slave, you must know that the Ekoni will see no wrong in despoiling you. If your master or mistress has not warned you, they are neglectful.’

He handed me the lantern imperiously, and I took it, too bemused to think of making contact and coercing him, then he set off, leaving me to follow. There was nothing to be done but to follow him back the way I had come. He shifted the heavy bolt of cloth from one shoulder to the other, yet he did not ask me to help him, which would have afforded me the opportunity of making physical contact. Finally we came to a scythe street, and to my dismay he turned along it for a little and then cut into a lane above which I could once more see one of the towers. He was taking me back towards the Infinity of Dragonstraat!

I moved up behind him, determined to make physical contact, but before I was close enough he turned his head and warned me very seriously that if we met any Ekoni I must keep my eyes down and say nothing. He was exempt from curfew because he was returning from a High Chafiri, and the Ekoni would simply assume I was his wife or daughter, or maybe his sister, accompanying him in order to attend to the wife of the High Chafiri.

His words changed my mind about slipping away from him, for aside from the fact that he was coming from visiting one of the ruling elite in Redport, and must know a good deal about them and how they ran the settlement, he would be able to tell me exactly where the Palace Island was, and he might also know if the
Black Ship
was anchored in the bay, and even where Ariel resided when he visited. As well, I need have no fear of being stopped while I was with the Ekoni man, even outside of curfew. I had intended to go north to coerce some information about Slavetown, and to leave the settlement on its northern side, but if I went meekly with the Gadfian man to his home, I could coerce information from him, eat and bathe and even rest a while, before having him lead me to the eastern side of the settlement.

He was still speaking, and though I had not uttered a single word since he had spotted me, he seemed not to notice. Indeed, there was no gap in which I could speak, for a continual stream of soft words flowed from him. It was not that he chattered so much as spoke the busy flow of his thoughts aloud, as some old or lonely people are wont to do. Occasionally, he asked me questions and then answered them himself and even chided me for the answers he had devised.

I wondered somewhat darkly if this was because there were so many women in Redport with their tongues cut out. Yet he seemed genuinely worried on my behalf and twice we passed Ekoni columns and both times I sensed his tension, but they paid us no heed at all. This puzzled me until he made some mention of his sigils, which I assumed meant he was identifiable as a servant of the High Chafiri.

At last he entered a narrow street, and went to the door of the first buildings in it, one in a row of two-level building, all of which backed on to one of the high compound walls. I readied myself to coerce the man the moment we were safely inside his home but the plan evaporated when I stepped through the door. It opened not to a passage as I had half expected, but into a large chamber with a number of tables covered in swathes of cloth, at which four women were busy sewing. Too late I realised the man had not brought me to his home, but to a place of work. He set the roll of cloth down with a sigh of relief, as the women gaped at me in astonishment. Two were Landwomen, while the other two looked to be Redlanders from their bronzed skin. My heart sank when one of them scowled at me.

‘Now,’ the man said briskly, ignoring the women, ‘Tell me the name of your master, Sabra. I will have someone let him know you are here the moment the curfew bells sound. In the meantime, I will peg you with my girls tonight.’

‘
Peg
me . . .’ I echoed incredulously.

The man frowned. ‘Have you never slept outside Slavetown?’ His voice suggested no would be a reasonable answer so I shook my head. ‘Well, the law of the High Chafiri require that all non-Redland slaves who are outside Slavetown during curfew must sleep pegged. Gretha, do we have an extra leg iron?’ he asked absently.

‘I can get one from the store,’ said a big, soft-faced Landwoman in a lovely musical voice. I saw then that she and the other Landwoman wore a metal circle about one ankle. Dismayed, I dropped to my knees before the man. ‘Master,’ I said fervently and caught his hand. Before he could shake me off or protest, I slid into his thoughts, coercing him to stand passively.

His name was Nareem and he was a tailor who had come to Redport on one of the ships bringing Gadfian men who had offered to settle in the distant colony. Many had hopes of an advancement they could not aspire to in Great Gadfia, where people’s statuses and situations were rigidly defined by birth and blood, for all pure Gadfians who agreed to relocate were given houses and something called a coin grant. But men like the tailor were offered a proper compound and several slaves as well as coin, as an enticement to move to Redport. Nareem had been asked personally by one of the ruling High Chafiri who had been moving to Redport with his wife and daughters, and he had also been promised a fullblood Gadfian wife and honourable work in the compound or governing house of the High Chafiri for his sons, should he have any.

Conscious the four slavewomen were staring at me, I coerced Nareem to command them sharply to continue their work. They obeyed, though the one called Gretha continued to regard us with a puzzlement that would soon turn to suspicion.

I returned my attention to Nareem and learned that the women were four of the six slaves belonging to his household. All dwelt in his compound, which could be reached by a door at the rear of the building that passed through the compound wall, as well as by the more imposing gated entrance. The back door was known only to Nareem and, surprisingly, to Gretha. Other than the four women, there was a male cook and an older woman who watched over his two sons: the younger was Nareem’s son by Gretha, and the older his son to a half-Gadfian slavewoman called Olada, who had died on the journey to Redport.

Nareem had originally bought Gretha because she reminded him of Olada, who had been soft and kind and plump. But where Olada had been rather simple, Gretha was both clever and quick-witted. The other three slavewomen had been given to Nareem by his patron as gifts and he had meticulously trained them to help him create the clothes he dreamed up for pureblood Gadfian, Chafiri and High Chafiri women and for the pureblood wives of Ekoni officers, known as High Ekoni. Gretha had begun by caring for his orphaned son, but as well as being intelligent, she had a gift for colour and design. Nareem had soon given the care of his son to an older slave, also gifted to him by his patron, and had drawn Gretha into his business, and soon after into his bed and heart. But he could not bond with her, nor could his son to Olada or the boy Gretha later bore, inherit. For this, he would need one trueborn son, and for that he must have a fullblood Gadfian bondmate. He had been promised one, and he knew he need only mention it to his patron and a woman would be found, but the truth was that he had no desire to replace Gretha. Yet he understood very well that for her sake and for the sake of his sons and the welfare of his slaves, he must bond and get a true son, for if he died without a true heir, all of his household would be sold and the coin absorbed into the coffers of the High Chafiri.

Gretha understood the need for a pureblood wife, or she had at least persuaded him that she would accept and honour a pureblood wife. It was Nareem who hesitated, for he loved his sons dearly, and he knew a pureblood wife would not. Also, though he did not allow himself to acknowledge it consciously, he loved Gretha, and a pureblood wife would put an end to what he had with her. It seemed to me that Gretha knew this from the interactions between them, which I glimpsed in his mind. I glanced at her and saw she was still watching us closely. I saw, too, the sadness in her face. I coerced him to reassure her that all was well, and to say that he would explain by and by. I was pleased to find that he did not like pegging his slaves nor was it the custom in Great Gadfia. There, only violent and dangerous slaves and criminals wore chains. The practice of pegging had been introduced in Redport because of the Prime Chafiri’s concerns about the vast discrepancy between the number of slaves and masters. Nareem’s own opinion was that the pacified Redland folk formed the bulk of the slaves, and had a civilising effect on the rest, thereby rendering the use of chains unnecessary. But he was not a man to rebel against custom or lore.

Which made his rescue of me unusual. I delved into his reasoning and found that, seeing me, he had immediately noted that I was very nearly the height and shape of the wife of his patron and on the surface of his mind, he had already half formed an intention to try to buy me from my master so that he could use me to fit and adjust garments for his master’s wife, rather than having to waste time going to and from his patron’s compound on the other side of the settlement to arrange fittings.

But under this superficial pragmatic reasoning lay a genuine, rather fatherly concern for a young woman who had foolishly put herself in danger. Beneath this, and infusing it with the potency that had caused him to act, was Nareem’s profound dislike of the whole system of slavery and the way men abused it, particularly the Redland Ekoni, whom he regarded as degenerate brutes. This was so strong an emotion for an essentially mild man that I went deeper and thus came at last to the true motive behind the help he had given me.

Pushed down so deeply that it was almost lost to his conscious mind was the memory of a daughter Olada had borne him, the older sister of the boy sleeping in the Compound with his son from Gretha. The girl had survived the journey that killed her mother, but on her way home one night from an errand soon after their arrival in the Red Land, she had been slowed by a broken sandal and had been taken by the Ekoni on curfew, right outside the gate to the compound. As a child, she had been exempt from the rule that said women had to be accompanied by men, but she was outside the compound gate when the curfew bells rang and she had been taken and savagely misused by a group of Ekoni before being left to die in an alley. Nareem had adored the girl and her death had grieved him far more deeply that the death of a slavechild was supposed to do. Unable to pretend to less grief, he had suppressed his memory of the girl. In this, he reminded me of Darga and his repression of Jik’s memory, except that the memory of his daughter was so precious to Nareem that he had not completely pushed it into his subconscious; he had ensured that he could reach it, by an act of will, from time to time.