Her master and the others were leaving, and she followed them to the gate and bowed before locking it behind him—locking herself with the cloaked monstrosity and his big slave.
She turned and moved to within a dozen paces of her master’s guest. The slave was speaking to him. “Where will you have me sleep, master?”
“Do you prefer the dignity of the house or the privacy of the hut?”
The slave inclined his head. “I’ve not been a personal servant, master. I’m willing, but I will need instruction.”
The cloaked figure laughed dryly. “I’ve no need of that, Cole, none at all. Sleep where you will. You are at this woman’s disposal for our time here.”
Marla nodded respectfully. “The hut and the quarters in the house will be equally available for him, master. I have my quarters in another room.” Please, please don’t say that I’ll be sleeping with you.
“Then, Cole, do as you please. I only want that I won’t be disturbed.” He looked at Marla, freezing her blood with his shadowed face. “Is the master chamber upstairs?”
“It is, my lord.”
“Is there a bath?”
“Beside the kitchen, my lord.”
He nodded, the movement barely perceptible within the hood. “I would like a bath. Very hot. In private.”
She nodded. “And supper?”
“After the bath, if I am still awake... But Cole will need something, and yourself as well. I’ll have a portion of whatever you’re having.”
She hid her perplexity with a small bow. What an odd man he was. Perhaps, if he did have an illness, it sapped his appetite. “I’ll go and heat your bath, my lord.”
The sun faded quickly, slipping behind the mountain, and by the time the bath was full, the room needed candlelight. She set out a number of lights, checked the supply of soap, and went to the front room where he seemed to perch uncomfortably on a chair.
He’d removed the hood, and the cloak had fallen back a little, giving her a better view of his wrapped arms. She had not expected his face, much younger than her master’s, serious and deeply thoughtful. “Your bath is ready, my lord.”
He followed her to the room, now comfortably warm with steam. “Thank you.” He crossed to the curtained doorway opposite and lifted the dark fabric, peering into the dog-legged storeroom beyond.
In private, he had said. What was he hiding?
“Cole will need a healthy ration tonight. His meals have been lean of late.” His words slipped together, as if he were barely drunk or very tired. “Can you see to him?”
“Of course, my lord.”
“Thank you.” He checked the latch behind her.
Marla went to the kitchen and set another pot to boil, this time for their supper. She glanced out the window, where the slave Cole had fallen asleep on a stone bench beside some frost-killed flowers. She liked that stone bench; it held the sun’s heat for some time. He might stay until she called him in.
The water was still quiet in the pot. She glanced again at Cole—he did look a little underfed—and then went to the kitchen end of the dog-legged storeroom. The stranger hadn’t guessed it had two openings. She could creep to the far end and learn what sickness was in the house.
There was a tiny gap between the curtains near the floor. He was sitting outside the tub, his cloak folded neatly behind him. His clothes were new and of a moderate cut, well-made but not extravagant. He was leaner than she would have guessed with the cloak. As she watched, he unwound the bandages on his right arm, staring as he did so as if he expected to find something unpleasant. But when the wraps came free, there was nothing distinguishable to her eyes.
At least it isn’t leprosy.
He unwrapped the other arm, equally whole, and then he began to work his tunic and shirt over his head. As the fabric slipped over his bare skin, she caught her breath. Even in the candlelight, the stripy scars showed plainly.
The stranger had been flogged. He was a criminal or a slave.
She slipped silently backward as he stripped his leggings and braies and got into the steaming water. The bandages over his arms... They might serve to conceal the marks of wrist cuffs or shackles, indistinguishable in the dim candlelight. Which was he—a criminal, a runaway slave, or a freed slave? Was he dangerous?
She returned to the kitchen and glanced at Cole, still sleeping in the garden. Did he know what his master was? Would he tell, if she dared ask?
When the water began to boil, she added handfuls of cut vegetables and meal. She had been startled by his bald statement that he would share the slaves’ meal, but now that she had seen his history, she understood that he would be satisfied with their fare. She glanced again at Cole and took down a sausage to cut into the pot. Then after a moment of thought, she took another. The stranger had been thin beneath his clothes as well.
The supper had been ready in the pot for some time when Cole came into the house, looking sleepy and vaguely guilty. “Was I called?”
She shook her head. “He’s still in the bath.”
“Still?” He rotated his neck stiffly. “I suppose he had a lot to scrub away.”
He knew something, but she did not think it prudent to ask. Instead she indicated the covered pot warm beside the fireplace. “Food’s ready. He told me you’d need an extra ration, so there’s plenty.”
“He—? I see.” Cole looked at the pot, his face concealing some inner thought.
She took a polished wooden bowl and uncovered the pot herself. “Have you been with him long?”
He shook his head. “Only a few days.”
“I suppose he wants you fattened to his standard, then.” She handed him the bowl. “There’s a spoon behind you.”
“Thanks,” he said gruffly, as if the word were disused. “He—he could use an extra helping himself, if you made enough. I mean, you should make enough.”
“I already considered that,” she answered blandly. “I wouldn’t short my lord, don’t you worry.” She looked at him. “So who are you?”
He swallowed a mouthful of thick meaty porridge. “I’m Cole.”
“I’d heard your name.” She watched him shove another spoonful into his mouth. “He picked you up a few days ago?”
He nodded. “Pike, woman, this is good,” he mumbled through chewing. “I’ve been living on the chunky colored water they give out in caravans. You say there’s more?”
“Glad you like it, though it’s naught too special. And it’s Marla.” She scooped another healthy portion from the pot.
“It’s special enough, woman,” he answered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I haven’t eaten my fill since I went in the line.”
She halted the ladle over his bowl and eyed him. “Marla.”
He blinked, a little surprised, and then seemed to understand. “Marla.” He had the sense to look sheepish. “Sorry. I—I’m used to—it’s Marla.”
She plopped the porridge into his bowl. “Have all you want. I can make more. Didn’t he ever feed you?”
“It’s only been this day.” He took another bite.
“I thought you said you had been with him a few days?”
“He made my purchase then,” Cole said awkwardly. “Out of a caravan line. But I stayed until—it was only today we came to the town below this place.”
“I see.” So the criminal or escaped slave had purchased another slave, though he seemed to have no real need for him, and come to her master’s house to hide. Curious, indeed. Some men might need someone in their power, to assure themselves of their new higher place, but that didn’t seem consistent with what else she’d observed.
She glanced out the window. The garden was dark. “He’s been a long time. His bath will be cold.” Cole said nothing as she levered another pot from the fire and wrapped a rag about the handle.
She did not take the short passage through the storeroom but went into the corridor, tapping at the bath’s door with her foot as she held the heavy pot away from her. “My lord
? I’ve brought hot water.”
There was a quick rippling splash and then a voice called, “Yes?”
She took that as admission and nudged the latch with her elbow. He was in the narrow, upright bath, sunken to his chin, his back pressed to the wall. Concealment, she recognized. He looked startled. “What do you...”
She realized he hadn’t understood her. “I’ve brought water to heat your bath. I thought it would be cooling by now, and you’d said you wanted it very hot.”
She tipped the pot over the tall bath, steam rising over both of them. He shifted quickly beneath the water—covering himself, she thought, or hiding his wrists. Perhaps he was a eunuch as well. At least with his shyness she did not have to worry that he would call her to his bed. “Is there anything else you need, my lord?”
“Is Cole settled?”
“He’s eating now, my lord, and then we’ll make a pallet for him. Is there anything you require of him?”
“No.”
“Would you like me bring your supper? It’s plain fare, as you said, but I can—”
“No,” he said quickly, and his arms dropped another inch beneath the water, rippling with candlelight. “No, thank you. Please leave a tray in my room.”
He was afraid for even a slave to see. Perhaps Cole did not know, after all, or only suspected. “As you wish.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
LUCA WOKE WITH A STRANGE disorientation. For a week of dawns, he had been pressed tightly between Cole and Andrew, all coiled to conserve warmth in the mountain mornings. They had shaken themselves stiffly to their feet, relieved themselves in the road’s drainage ditch, and taken the cups of gruel offered by the boy, numbly facing another day of walking. Once freed, he had taken refuge with Jarrick, still sleeping in a tight coil for warmth, but now back to back with his brother instead of another slave.
This morning, however, he found himself beneath a pile of comfortably heavy blankets. Sunlight streamed into the room, warming the stone wall set opposite the windows to absorb and radiate heat. There was no heavy tread of an approaching overseer, no cold breeze, and no distance to walk through the coming day. He lay still, hardly daring to move lest he wake from the dream, savoring the soft bed and thick pillow.
The light moved across the wall, and at last his bladder urged him to rise. He stood, comfortably free of itching fleas and old dirt, and stretched. He had not felt so physically good in—what? Months? Years?
Then his eyes fell on his wrists as he reached for his clothing, and his happiness faded. He was not wholly new. Even after the white bands tanned to match his arms and the scrapes healed, he would still bear the scars on his back—and in his soul. They would never fade entirely.
It doesn’t matter, he told himself fiercely. I can be Luca Roald once more. So I may never visit a public bath again—what is that? I am a freeman, I am a merchant, I am my own man.
He’d left his clothes on a cushioned bench across the room, a sort of narrow couch without arms. He dressed and, turning, found himself facing a mirror he had not noticed the previous night. It was not so large and grand as the one in the Kalen baths, but it showed his face plainly enough. He still needed his hair cut, ragged in its tail behind him. He thought he looked less wary than before. Perhaps his few days of freedom had already begun to fade his term of slavery.
He would find work. Accounting, or even tutoring. And Cole could work as well. They could together earn enough for a small living. He would think on it.
He wrapped his wrists—not as smoothly as Cole had done, but it would do for a time—and descended the stairs. No one was in the sitting room or the corridors, so he glanced into the kitchen. The slave glanced up from the basket of beans in her lap and gave him a respectful nod. “Good morning, my lord. Would you like some breakfast?”
How easily she said that, as if all he had to do was desire breakfast. “Yes, please.” He could see a curtained doorway beyond her, which probably led to the slaves’ quarters in the rear of the house. “Where is Cole?”
“He’s still sleeping, my lord. I didn’t think you’d left him any chores, so I didn’t see fit to wake him.”
“He’s slept this late?” Luca took a seat at the large worktable. “He must have been tired from the trip. As was I.” Or, as I was, he’s lying somewhere in the joy of being able to merely lie somewhere.
The servant set aside the beans and went to the fire. “You traveled together then, my lord?” She dropped a large block of butter into a black pan.
Luca nodded. “From Alham.”
She took eggs from a basket—three of them!—and set them on the hearth before crossing the room to slice a thick rasher of bacon from a hanging slab. Luca’s stomach growled and he pressed his arm against it. “Where is Cole?”
“He’s in the hut in the rear garden, my lord.”
“No, my lord, I’m here now.” Cole looked rumpled and puffy-eyed, but he stood erect as he came through the doorway. “I didn’t wake... I’m sorry.”
Luca shook his head. “No, no, it’s obvious you’ve been in harness rather than livery. Never draw attention to your error. Your master is not so stupid that you need point it out. Instead, hurry through the door as if you’ve just barely completed your previous task and beg, how may I serve?”
Cole blinked once before his face softened into a faint smile. “Yes, my lord. How may I serve you?”
“Have your breakfast,” Luca said.
The female servant looked at Luca.
“The same for him.” Luca knew of masters who took care that their slaves did not eat the same food or at the same time—he’d had them—but sitting here in the kitchen, it seemed petty and futile. “And right away.”
The scent of frying bacon wafted through the kitchen, making Luca salivate. He folded his arms across his stomach in an attempt to smother the growling. He had eaten little last night, exhausted physically and mentally, and now he felt a slave’s keen hunger. He wondered if he might shame himself by drooling. To distract himself he asked, “What needs work in the garden?”
Marla poked a piece of bacon to the side and cracked an egg into the pan. “There are a couple of plots which need turning, and the dead stalks can be trimmed for the winter.” She broke another egg. “There’s not much planting over the winter, as the bulbs are spreading nicely.”
“Cole can help with the heavier work. Use him as you will. He has no other tasks.”
“Thank you, my lord. He will be a help.”
A moment later she set down two plates and a pitcher, and they tore into the meal ravenously. She went back to picking through the beans, apparently finding nothing unusual in the master and slave eating together in the kitchen. Perhaps she had seen men more pragmatic than hierarchical.
Cole finished and rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. “Good—Marla. Where do I start?”
She set aside the basket. “I’ll go out with you. These can wait.”
They went out into the garden, and Luca sat by himself in the kitchen. He looked around, feeling it alien to him. He had rarely needed to enter his kitchen at home, as the family was served in the dining room. He had come late to a full household in Furmelle and was lodged with the litter bearers outside, coming inside only to give lessons or for some other task. He had spent more time in the Gehrn kitchen, but it was a massive affair like the military kitchen in Alham, as much a place of toil as a mill. This kitchen, on the other hand, was small, cluttered, warm—cozy. Comfortable.
He thought of Andrew and wondered how he was faring, whether he had gone to the family kitchen after all and what he thought of it. He wondered if Andrew found it more comfortable as well.
Abruptly a lump rose in his throat. He hoped Andrew was glad to leave Alham, as glad as Luca himself was—glad to return to the familiar Wakari Coast, to see his brother again, to come home to his own family, to leave behind the taunting soldiers, the hated stigma of Furmelle, the constant grating disdain reserved for barely human slaves.
..
He swallowed a sudden, unwanted sob. Alham was also where he’d left his friend, his best friend, the only man who had seen him and not a slave. They had shared a common pain and a common need, and somehow they had forged a friendship beyond what anyone could have expected of a military commander and a Furmelle slave.
Luca had loved Shianan as the brother he should have had, and he had left him in Alham with everything else. He had nothing left of his friend, not the gifted cloak, not even the castoff shirt, nothing at all.
No, that wasn’t quite true. Shianan had given him something no one else ever had. Luca blinked his damp eyes and pushed himself back from the table.
Cole and Marla were working alongside the house. Luca ignored them and started through the garden, his eyes sweeping the ground. The plantings were well-maintained and mostly for the kitchen; he might not find something suitable.
“Master?” Cole paused with his fork in the earth.
“I’m looking for something,” Luca answered, somewhat embarrassed.
“Can I help?”
“I want a stick, so long or longer.” He gestured. “Sturdy, straight.”
“Like a trader’s staff,” Cole guessed dully.
“Yes,” Luca admitted. He smiled to allay the slave’s flat, wary expression. “But without the trader.”
“A staff?” Marla straightened from her cutting. “There are two or three staves in the storeroom. They were a soldier’s, not a trader’s, but one should serve your purpose well enough.” There was a question in her eyes.
Luca answered it. “It is for my own exercise, nothing more. I wanted privacy, not stagnation...”
“They’re in the kitchen storeroom. I’ll fetch one for you.”
“No, no, I can find it.” He turned and went into the house again.
The curtained doorway led not to the slaves’ quarters but to a storeroom, he noted, and from there to the bath room. He found the staves lying along the base of a wall, held in place by several boxes and knee-high jars of preserved fruit. He eased one out and rubbed the dust from it.
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