“Yes,” she said, smiling maliciously behind her veil. “Only he doesn’t know it yet.”
“What do you mean?” Shandy asked suspiciously.
“Oh, I think I can persuade him to give me back some of my half-holiday time,” Ranira said with belated caution.
“You meant more than that,” Shandy insisted. He sucked on his lower lip for a moment. “Renra, it doesn’t have anything to do with those foreigners, does it?”
“Of course not,” she replied automatically. She went on with forced casualness, “Except that they gave Lykken a fat purse before they left last night, which means he’ll be in a good mood this morning.”
“I didn’t see ’em leave,” Shandy said. “And I was watching ’most all night.”
“The way you were watching for me to come out this morning?” she scoffed. “Just don’t go telling the Temple we had foreigners at the Inn of Nine Doors,” Ranira added sternly.
“Ah, Renra, I wouldn’t do that!” Shandy said, so indignantly that Ranira laughed. “What are you going to do with your holiday?”
“I don’t know,” she said, relieved by the change of subject, “but I intend to enjoy every minute!”
“Too bad you can’t get free tomorrow. You could watch the parade with me.”
“You aren’t going to stand out in the open with all the pilgrims, are you?” she asked, horrified. “Shandy, you’ll get caught for sure!”
“I’m not dumb. But you can see everything from under the bridge. The parade goes right over it. The Watchmen never check there; they’re too lazy. I like watching, and it’s always been safe before.”
Interpreting this to mean that no one had looked under the bridge during last year’s Festival Parade, Ranira shook her head. “You be careful, Shandy.”
“Renra, you worry too much.”
“Someone has to! I have to go. I won’t get any free time at all if Lykken catches me out here with you. I’ll see you later, Shandy.”
“Tomorrow,” the boy promised. With a brief backward wave, he disappeared into a small space between two buildings. Ranira smiled and went back to pick up her buckets.
Shandy’s speculations worried Ranira more than she cared to admit. She blamed herself for letting him know about the occupants of the corner room at all, though at the time she had not suspected they would try to remain in Drinn during the Festival. She did not expect Shandy to cause trouble for her deliberately, but if he let something slip by accident and a rumor reached the Temple of Chaldon.…
Ranira was too busy to waste much time on this uncomfortable line of thought. The inn was jammed. Lykken was as usual, making up for the Temple’s requirements by cramming as many pilgrims as possible into the paying rooms. Ranira was so overworked that she nearly missed seeing Lykken slip out of the kitchen with a tray of food intended, she assumed, for the occupants of the corner room.
As soon as she, too, could slip away from the kitchen, Ranira seized a broom and a firebox and went out into the main hallway. Her timing was good; she had to wait only a few minutes before she heard Lykken’s heavy tread on the stairs. She immediately started for the second floor, so that she met the innkeeper halfway up the stairs. Before Lykken had a chance to say anything, Ranira burst into speech. “I’m sorry, I really am. I meant to take care of it last night, but it was so busy in the kitchen! I’m on my way now. I’ll have it clean and ready in a few minutes.”
“What are you babbling about, girl? Have what clean?” asked the bewildered man.
“The corner room, where the foreigners were,” she said. “I meant to take care of it last night, after they went, but they slipped away so quietly.”
Lykken blanched. Plainly, it had not occurred to him that he would have to keep the staff of the inn from doing the customary cleaning and laying of the fire for the next patron.
“Ah, perhaps you had best leave that for later,” he said after a pause. “I can have Hindreth see to it, or Drena.”
“But it’s my job to clean the rooms,” she insisted. She allowed a sullen note to creep into her voice. “You refused me my half-holiday yesterday because you said my time wasn’t ‘properly employed.’ I’m not giving you a chance to do that again!”
The innkeeper’s face cleared as he saw the way out of his dilemma. “Yes, well, I may have been a little hasty. Things are rather busy the day before Festival, but now Festival is here! Why don’t you take your holiday today, and enjoy Firstday to the full? Yes, an excellent idea!”
“Oh, thank you!” Ranira said, pumping as much gratitude as she could into the words. “Shall I take care of the corner room first?”
“No, no,” said Lykken expansively. “I’ll have Hindreth clean it later. You go and enjoy Firstday.” He beamed down at her, obviously pleased at being able to solve his problem, and appear magnanimous at the same time.
Ranira lowered her eyes to hide the contempt she felt, and bowed briefly before she turned to go back down the stairs. By the time I get back, he will have convinced himself that he let me go out of nothing but kindness, she thought cynically as she hurried toward the kitchen to replace the broom and firebox. But even if he had second thoughts, the innkeeper could not reclaim her holiday once she had taken it. Feeling happier than she had in weeks, Ranira washed the dirt from her hands and went out into the street.
Firstday was always the best part of Midwinter Festival, Ranira thought as she wandered through the streets. The six-day rituals at the Temple of Chaldon, which began with the Festival Parade, did not start until the second day. Everyone in the city was obliged to attend the rituals, but on Firstday there was nothing for the pilgrims to do but wander through the city and enjoy themselves. The inhabitants of Drinn were only too happy to take the coppers of their eager brethren from other parts of the Empire of Chaldreth, and the city streets were full of small booths selling everything from candied violets to painted water jars.
Ranira spent several hours walking slowly past the vendors in the main square just outside the Temple. Though she had no money to spend, she enjoyed pretending she really was looking for a new tunic or a piece of jewelry, and it was pleasant to watch the merchants haggling with more serious buyers. Besides, the booths were the only spots of color in a city of gray stone and brown-robed pilgrims.
A small veil-maker’s booth on the far side of a fruit-and-jam stand caught Ranira’s eye. She edged toward it, squeezing by tall shelves loaded with berry bags and jam pots. The proprietor was a wizened little man who gave Ranira an appraising look and then ignored her, allowing her to rummage through the bright veils as she wished. His selection was surprisingly large—coarse linen squares mingled with the finest of embroidered wool. Ranira was fingering a veil of red silk when a hand touched her shoulder. A smooth voice behind her said, “I believe I have seen you before, my dear.”
Even during Festival, it was not permissible to speak uninvited to a veiled woman. Ranira turned angrily then froze in shock. Standing behind her was the priest she had noticed watching as she left the temple the previous day.
“Revered Master,” Ranira managed in a strangled voice, lowering her head.
“I am named Gadrath,” the priest said. “Since I hope we shall become better… acquainted, you may use it.”
Startled, Ranira glanced up; the predatory smile on the priest’s face made her shiver, and it was a moment before she found her voice again. “It would not be right for a bond servant to presume so greatly,” she said, lowering her eyes again.
“Such piety becomes you, my dear. There is always a place in the House of Chaldon for a woman of humility.”
Ranira barely stopped herself from recoiling in terror and disgust. Only two types of women were welcomed into the inner sanctuaries of the Temple of Chaldon: those who were meant as sacrifices for the god, and those who were meant for the pleasure of the priests. She had seen the wretched women who had been cast out of the Temple when the priests tired of them, sometimes only weeks or months after they had entere
d the Temple doors. A slow anger began to rise within her. The Temple had burned her parents; did they think to degrade her as well?
“A bondwoman is seldom free to do as she wishes,” she said finally. She knew it was a weak response, but with the priest’s gaze upon her she was unable to find a better one.
“That need not concern you,” Gadrath answered. “I am of sufficient rank to make arrangements, if it pleases me.”
Ranira swallowed hard and remained silent. After a moment, the priest went on, “You may be sure I shall be kinder to you than your bondholder. Shall I have him fined for mistreating you?” He reached out and touched the purpling bruise at the side of Ranira’s head, and the girl shrank back from his touch.
The priest frowned. “There is nothing to fear, girl,” he said impatiently. “Have I not observed the courtesies? Now, I doubt that bondholder will refuse to assign your bond to the Temple of Chaldon. In a day or two it will all be settled. But there is no reason to wait until then. Come.”
Gadrath reached out and took hold of her arm. “No,” Ranira whispered, and her pent-up anger burst free. “No!” she shouted. She wrenched free, pushing the priest violently away. The sudden release threw her off balance, and she staggered backward into the crowded square, away from the veil-maker’s stand. She had a brief glimpse of the astonishment on the priest’s face before he reeled backward into the heavily laden shelves separating the veil-maker’s booth from that of the fruit seller. The shelves teetered alarmingly, showering soft purple fruit and sticky red jam on the unfortunate priest.
Silence descended on those bystanders who were near enough to see clearly what had happened. No one dared to laugh at the spectacle of a Temple priest covered in juice and sliding on the crushed pulp every time he tried to regain his feet. No one quite dared to go to his assistance, either, though the crowd edged closer until Gadrath was the center of a ring of silent, brown-robed people.
Hoping to remain unnoticed, Ranira dropped the red veil she had been holding and edged away from the disaster. She had to force herself to go slowly. Every minute she expected to hear outraged cries from the direction of the fruit stand, ordering the crowd to seize her, bind her, return her to face the priest’s vengeance. The crowded square was oppressive. There were too many people, too close. She wanted to run.
An eon later, she reached the edge of the square, where she could move more freely. Trying to retain some shred of composure, she started down one of the streets with measured paces. The light hurt her eyes. Every dark-robed pilgrim looked at first glance like one of the black-clad Temple Watchmen.
Something jogged her elbow; she whirled, stifling a scream. It was only one of the pilgrims, an apologetic young man in the ubiquitous brown. A little shaken by her own reaction, Ranira exchanged polite apologies with him and continued on. Slowly, she began to recover from her panic. The priest doesn’t even know my name, she reassured herself. He can’t examine everyone who comes to the Temple, no matter how important he is. Unless he knows my name or Lykken’s, he can’t find me again except by accident.
She had almost succeeded in reassuring herself when she reached the Inn of Nine Doors. A clump of people were standing in front of the door, blocking her way. Ranira looked up, and gasped in shock. Two of the three men in front of her wore the ordinary garb of Temple Watchmen, but the third was dressed in the unmistakable robes of an Eye of Chaldon.
Chapter 4
RANIRA DID NOT HAVE time to react. “That’s another one, the bondwoman,” said a voice, and her arm was seized from behind. Numb with terror, she made no protest as the guard hauled her inside the door and through the inn to the large dining hall.
The room was crowded. Lykken’s servants huddled against the far wall, kept apart from the inn’s customers by a flimsy barrier of chairs and boxes, overseen by two Temple guards. A confused, frightened mass of people milled about the rest of the room. Most of them were customers—pilgrims unlucky enough to have chosen to eat at the Inn of Nine Doors that morning.
The guard who held Ranira stopped at one of the tables. A Temple priest sat there, amid a clutter of paper. “Another one of the staff,” the guard said.
The priest made a note. ‘‘You are Ranira, bonded to Lykken who owns this inn?”
Ranira nodded. The priest looked pleased. “That is the last of them, then,” he said in a satisfied tone. “Put her over there with the rest of the servants, and go help with the pilgrims. With a little luck we can be finished with most of them before the High Master of the Eyes arrives.”
The guard nodded and pushed Ranira over to the barricade that enclosed the employees of the Inn of Nine Doors. Ranira stumbled into the midst of the crowd. Her hands came up instinctively as she collided with someone, and she barely managed to keep from falling. As she regained her balance, she looked up to apologize. She found herself staring into the red, angry face of Lykken.
“You!” he hissed, seizing her arm in a painfully tight grasp. “You pit snake! After I’ve kept you fed and clothed and given you a place for six years. It was you! I should have known better than to take the bond of a witch-child!”
Ranira’s teeth rattled as Lykken shook her. She could not have replied even if she had wished to. Suddenly Lykken pushed her away, and she stumbled again. “You hate me!” the innkeeper shouted. “That’s why you did this—to ruin me!”
“I… I have not done anything,” Ranira said jerkily. “What do you mean?”
Lykken’s face became even redder, and he raised a hand. Ranira cringed, but the innkeeper was only pointing. “There! Can you deny you told the Templemen they were here?”
As Ranira’s eyes followed the pointing finger, she suddenly understood. The three strangers were sitting calmly at the rear of the room, just on the other side of the chairs and a little apart from the rest of the customers. Two more Temple guards and an Eye of Chaldon stood close beside them, watching. The veiled woman did not appear to notice. She was speaking in a low voice to Jaren, who did not seem quite so much at ease. From time to time the man’s hand moved unconsciously to his empty scabbard. The “sick boy” drooped over the table, still keeping up the pretense of illness.
Ranira looked back at Lykken. “I didn’t tell anyone,” she added angrily. “You have no one but yourself to blame. If you weren’t so greedy this would not have happened.”
“How dare you!” The innkeeper reached out, but Ranira dodged away in time. “You slimy little thief! Witch-child! You should have burned with your parents.”
Most of the room was watching now, but Ranira knew better than to expect any of them to help her. She continued to duck Lykken’s wild swings, backing away as best she could. It was impossible to run. Suddenly Lykken bellowed and lunged forward. Ranira jumped back and bumped against the low barricade that separated the staff of the inn from the rest of the room. For a long moment, she fought for balance. Then something shifted, and she crashed to the floor in a pile of rope and broken chairs.
Lykken moved forward in triumph. Ranira pulled against the ruins of the barricade, trying to avoid him. The innkeeper’s first kick landed hard against her side. Through the explosion of pain, she felt ribs grind together. Another blow fell, and she twisted away and rolled to her knees. Lykken grinned and shifted to aim another kick before she could rise.
A shadow fell across Ranira’s face. She glimpsed green leather, and then Lykken went reeling backward into the wall. Suddenly, Jaren stood in front of her, turned slightly so that she could see the almost imperceptible smile on his face.
Lykken climbed slowly to his feet as the Temple guards hurried over. The innkeeper pointed a thick finger at Ranira, “I knew it! She’s been in league with them all along. It is all her fault!”
“Whatever she has done or not done, you will think twice before abusing her again, innkeeper. Even if she is your bondwoman.” Jaren said, spitting out the last word as if it had left a bad taste in his mouth.
Before Lykken could do more than turn red, one of
the Temple guards had shoved himself between the two men. “Back where you belong,” he said brusquely to Jaren. “We will not permit disturbances among prisoners.”
Jaren looked at him coldly. “You did not seem so anxious to avoid a disturbance when it was a large man beating a small girl.”
The Templeman drew his sword and stepped forward. “The High Master will deal with all of you when he arrives. Now, go.”
Jaren remained where he was. The guard moved closer, until the point of his sword touched Jaren’s leather vest. But Jaren still did not move.
“Jaren.” The soft voice broke the tension between the two men. Ranira let out the breath she did not know she had been holding, and turned her head. The woman called Mist had risen to her feet. She made no movement, spoke no other word, but those closest to her backed away. Ranira looked back toward Jaren. He still had not moved, but he no longer looked like a cat preparing to spring.
Jaren looked past the Temple guard to Lykken. “Don’t trouble her again, innkeeper. Next time I will not stop with one blow.” He turned and started back toward the table where Mist was standing.
Lykken’s face twisted into a grotesque mask of anger and hate. He lunged forward, ripped the sword from the surprised Templeman’s hand, and thrust for Jaren’s back. Ranira cried a warning, and without thinking, she grabbed one of the pieces of broken chair from the floor and threw it at the innkeeper. She saw Jaren whirl and duck, saw the sword in Lykken’s hand grow red, saw the broken chair leg hit the innkeeper just before the Temple guard knocked him unconscious. As Lykken slumped to the floor, the Temple guard stepped forward and recovered his sword.
In the stunned silence that followed, Jaren turned toward Ranira. Blood welled from between the fingers he pressed tight to his side, and the half-bow he gave her made him wince. “Little sister, I owe you a life,” he said.
The Templeman standing beside Jaren laughed. “Much good may it do her! Chaldon will have you both before long.”
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