Demontech: Gulf Run

by David Sherman

  “Master Plotniko,” the horseman said, it was Kovalev, one of the Eikby Guards, “Mistress Doli needs you to translate.” He pointed in her direction.

  Plotniko stifled a groan. “Can you tell her you couldn’t find me?”

  Kovalev shook his head. “She’s looking at us.”

  Plotniko let out a sigh. “I’m tired of translating for those people. I wish they hadn’t joined us.” But he turned and waited for Doli and bel Bra to come up.

  “She wants what?” Doli asked, shocked, when Plotniko translated.

  “Her mistress wants your mistress to join her in the lead wagon.” He spread his hands helplessly. “That’s what she said.”

  Doli looked from one to the other, confusion on her face. “Uh, ah, there must be some error here, something lost in translation. I mean, she’s speaking Dartmutter, which isn’t your tongue, and you’re translating into Frangerian, which is neither of our native tongues.” Frangerian was the one language the two had in common. “I don’t have a mistress, and everybody knows that.” Suspecting that Plotniko’s Frangerian wasn’t very strong, she looked around for someone who spoke the Eikby dialect of Zobran and was strong in a language in common with her.

  There, Alyline! No, not Alyline! She didn’t really want anything to do with that brazen hussy. If it wasn’t for Alyline, Spinner would be hers and would never have turned to that tavern whore. Well, Maid Primrose wasn’t really a whore. Actually, she was a nice young lady Doli had made friends with. And Maid Primrose had rebuffed Spinner as soon as she knew what was going on between him and Doli—and that Golden Girl. Served him right, being unfaithful to two women at the same time!

  But before Doli could call someone else, bel Bra spotted Alyline and scampered to her.

  Plotniko groaned and reluctantly followed. No matter what Doli thought, he knew he’d translated right—and he knew who bel Yfir meant when she asked for Doli’s “mistress.”

  When he reached them, Alyline was eyeing the handmaid who was clutching her hand. Bel Bra was barely restraining herself from tugging on Alyline’s hand, aching to haul her by main force if necessary to bel Yfir—she didn’t want to face her mistress’s wrath if she failed to bring the noblewoman to her.

  “Master Carpenter,” the Golden Girl said with cool civility. “I almost think I understand the strange form of Zobran these people speak. Please tell me I’m mistaken that this one tells me the chief bed toy demands that I ride in her wagon with her.”

  Plotniko shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry, but that is what she wants. She was quite insistent.” Behind him, he heard a gasp as Doli realized what bel Bra wanted.

  “My mistress, indeed!” Doli sniffed.

  “Whatever would make that trollop think I would want to ride with her?”

  “She doesn’t think she’s a trollop. To her, being chief concubine makes her royalty—or close enough that there’s no difference. And she believes you’re a noblewoman.”

  Alyline barked a sharp, unamused laugh. “A djerwohl dancer a noble? Pfagh! The only thing nobles are good for is paying us to condescend to dance for them!”

  Plotniko raised his hands helplessly.

  “Well, she can—” Alyline cut off whatever she was going to say and jerked her hand from bel Bra’s grasp. She made shooing motions with her fingers. “Go away. Tell your mistress I want nothing to do with her.”

  Bel Bra wailed and jabbered too rapidly for Alyline or Plotniko to understand. Her back was bowed and tears ran down her face as she futilely grabbed at Alyline’s moving hands. The Golden Girl gave her a look of contempt and pity and walked away. Bel Bra cried louder and buried her face in her hands. Slowly, she sank to her knees.

  Shocked by bel Bra’s strong reaction, Plotniko and Doli didn’t move for a moment. They knelt by her side, Doli taking the woman’s head in her arms and pressing it to her breast, smoothing her hair and murmuring soothingly. Plotniko placed one hand on her shoulder and rubbed her back with the other comfortingly. Beneath the cloth of her blouse, he felt welts. But before he could ask about them, Haft rode up.

  Haft was taking a break from the rear guard to check on the point. At Spinner’s insistence, he reluctantly went forward on horseback rather than walking—even after the months he’d been riding, he still neither liked nor trusted horses. He had no idea what the problem was, but was more than glad for the excuse to dismount. He handed the reins to a passing Eikbyer and told him, “Keep going, I’ll catch up with you,” then asked, “What’s wrong with her?”

  Doli and Plotniko briefly explained what they knew. Before they were done, bel Bra opened her eyes and saw Haft. She cried out, broke away from her comforters, crawled to him and gripped the hem of his cloak. She jabbered away, kissing his boot every time she stopped to take a breath.

  Haft tried unsuccessfully to pull away. It wasn’t that he minded having a woman crawling at his feet, but a woman groveling at his feet and kissing his boots in so public a place was embarrassing—and would be much worse than embarrassing if Maid Marigold saw it. After a moment he bent over, grabbed her shoulders and stood her up. She ducked her head to the side, refusing to look at him. He took her chin in his hand and forced her face up, then cupped her cheek and brushed away a tear with his thumb.

  “Such a pretty face shouldn’t be covered with tears. Now, tell Uncle Haft what the problem is,” he said softly, and brushed away another tear. Plotniko translated for him, though he changed the “Uncle” to “Lord.”

  “Lord, my mistress desires to see the gilded noblewoman, but the gilded noblewoman refused. My mistress will be angry with me for failing.” Plotniko tactfully changed “gilded noblewoman” to “Alyline” in his translation.

  “It’s not your fault Alyline doesn’t want to see her,” Haft tried to reassure her. Plotniko again modified the translation.

  “But it is!” bel Bra wailed, tears flowing anew. “My mistress greatly desires to talk with the gilded noblewoman, and instructed me things will go hard for me if I fail to bring her back.”

  Plotniko suspected the welts under her blouse had to do with “things will go hard” and was about to say something about them when Haft said, “Let’s go and see what she wants.” He put his arm around bel Bra’s shoulders and headed for the front of the caravan. Plotniko and Doli had little choice but to follow. After a few steps, Haft remembered Maid Marigold and let go of the handmaid. He wouldn’t want word to get back to his lover that he was holding another woman, she might misunderstand no matter how noble and innocent his motive was. Women! A man could never predict what a woman might think or do.

  When they caught up with the man leading Haft’s horse, Plotniko urged him to remount. “Bel Yfir thinks highly of herself,” he explained. “She’ll receive you better if you’re on horseback than if you’re on foot.”

  Grumbling about vacuous people to whom image meant more than substance, Haft mounted.

  Bel Yfir was pleasantly surprised to see her handmaid return with one of the nobles protecting the train and smiled at him quite prettily. But she was very displeased to see Plotniko. She stuck an accusing finger at him and shrilled, “I demand that man be severely chastised!” which Plotniko dutifully translated. Her teamster glanced at Haft and decided he was better off keeping the wagon moving than stopping.

  Haft blinked at her, then grinned at Plotniko. He looked back at her, amused. “Why?” he asked.

  Bel Yfir related how she had so reasonably asked Plotniko to stop the train so she could relieve herself and take a rest, and that he, with insufferable arrogance, had refused! She couldn’t help exaggerating the incident, any more than Plotniko could help underplaying it in his translation.

  Haft roared with laughter when Plotniko finished. Doli tittered behind her hand when Haft repeated it in Frangerian for her.

  “We can’t stop for something silly like that!” Haft told bel Yfir. “If you have to make water, get off the wagon and find a bush.” He leaned toward her and put a hand on the side of the w
agon for balance. Plotniko took satisfaction in translating, “You may have been someone very special and important where you come from, but out here you’re just another refugee. Make the mental adjustment or you won’t last long.”

  He grinned at Plotniko and Doli, then heeled his horse and continued forward to check on the point.

  Bel Yfir gasped and sputtered, but Haft was beyond her by the time she could form a coherent word. She spun, looking for someone to take her affront out on. Her eyes settled on Plotniko for a second, then shifted to bel Bra. A wicked smile spread across her face and she crooked a finger at the handmaid.

  Bel Bra blanched and reached for the wagon to climb on, but Plotniko stopped her and pulled her away. Wordlessly, he took Doli’s hand and rubbed it down bel Bra’s back.

  Doli’s eyes widened and she gasped, “What?” Not even when she was a slave had she been beaten to leave welts like that.

  Eight miles from Dartmutt the southwest road intersected another that meandered roughly north-south. The train turned north and stopped for the night soon after the last wagon made the turn. The forest didn’t have a clearing that could accommodate more than a few wagons or dog carts. They closed up more than when they were on the move, and most of the wagons stayed on the road with their horses or oxen tethered under the trees nearby. Spinner and Haft were busy making sure sentries were posted and that each unit had its sentry-duty rotation set. By the time they returned to their own rest area for the night, Zweepee, Maid Marigold, and Maid Primrose had the evening’s meal ready for them. The mixed squad of Zobran Prince’s Swords and Skraglander Bloody Axes that had accompanied them rejoined their own units, which were camped nearby.

  Haft smiled at Maid Marigold when she offered him a bowl of stew, but took the spoon from her hand after she fed him a mouthful and insisted on feeding himself.

  “Where’s Alyline?” Spinner asked as he dug into the stew Zweepee ladled for him.

  “She and Doli,” she emphasized the second name, “are with that Dartmutter handmaid. Don’t worry, they’ll be back.”

  Spinner noticed an odd stress in Zweepee’s voice. He knew about the afternoon’s incident between Plotniko and the earl’s chief concubine, of course, and was vaguely aware that he and Doli had taken one of her handmaids away. But the stew was delicious and he was hungry, so he thought no more of it and concentrated on his dinner.

  Fletcher, who kept track of such things, reported that another hundred or so refugees had accreted themselves to the caravan during the afternoon.

  “Any soldiers?” Haft asked.

  “Fifteen. All individuals from different units. I’ve already seen to assigning them to squads.” Then he left.

  Spinner had just finished eating, and Haft was snuggling with Maid Marigold, when Alyline and Doli entered the circle of light around the fire, bel Bra between them. Fletcher and Plotniko were directly to their rear. The way Fletcher handled his longbow, he looked like he wanted to string it.

  “We have a problem that must be resolved before we move on,” Alyline announced without preamble. “Preferably right now.” The fire sparked flashes of light off the golden hilt and scabbard of the knife that angled across her belly.

  That got Spinner’s attention and he reached for his quarterstaff.

  Doli looked stern. Bel Bra’s loose black gown seemed to shimmer in the firelight as she trembled nervously. Uncertainty and fear flickered across her face and she didn’t look at the men.

  A corner of Haft’s mouth twitched. When the Golden Girl announced there was a problem to be resolved, it was usually something a man wouldn’t see as anything major, or would settle in a manner quite different from what she had in mind.

  “What’s the problem?” Spinner asked, standing.

  Haft brushed his lips across Maid Marigold’s cheek as he disengaged himself from her and stood. Her hand lingered on his hip for a moment; she had a good idea what was coming and didn’t want him to act precipitously.

  “This woman has been beaten,” Alyline said, putting a hand on bel Bra’s shoulder. “Repeatedly.”

  “Who did it?” Spinner growled. “He will pay.”

  Haft loosened his axe in its frog. “A man who beats a woman can’t pay enough,” he snarled. Maid Marigold lifted her hand to his and gently touched him. He gave her a grim look.

  Alyline smiled wryly and shook her head. “She, not he.”

  Spinner blinked, confused. “What?”

  Haft remembered bel Bra’s fear that afternoon. “Bel Yfir,” he growled.

  Spinner glanced at him, looked at bel Bra, back at Alyline. “She’s a servant. Sometimes servants are struck by their masters or mistresses.” He didn’t necessarily think that was right, it was simply the way things were.

  “She wasn’t struck,” Alyline spat back. “She was beaten. Severely. It left scars. More than once.”

  “What? Show me!”

  “Pfagh! You just want to see a naked woman,” she said scornfully. “I’ve seen them, you don’t need to.”

  “Bu-But—” He hadn’t thought of looking at a naked woman, he just wanted confirmation.

  “Bel Yfir uses a split cane to beat her handmaids on their bare backs and legs when they displease her.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” Haft snarled. “That woman is gone.” He started toward the head of the caravan where bel Yfir’s wagon still led the way.

  “Stop! ”

  He stopped and turned back to Alyline. Maid Marigold ran to him and threw her arms around his chest to hold him back.

  “We have to decide what to do before we do it,” Alyline said as though scolding a recalcitrant child.

  “We banish her from the caravan, that’s what we do,” he snapped back. “We allow no one to mistreat women!”

  Alyline raised an eyebrow at him. She refrained from reminding him that he and Spinner had kidnapped her—and kidnapping was surely mistreatment!—even though they didn’t think they’d kidnapped her. “Throwing her into the wild on her own isn’t mistreating a woman? Or do you propose sending her handmaids with her? Or perhaps send the Earl’s Guards to care for her? Think, Haft. Look for repercussions—what happens after you take the first step.”

  Haft opened his mouth to object, then snapped it shut when he realized she was right. He glowered rather than admit it. He covered Maid Marigold’s hands with one of his where they clutched each other low on his chest.

  “You told her she was important and someone special where she came from, isn’t that right?” When he nodded, she continued, “And here she’s just another refugee.” He nodded again. “You were right then. Now we will make good on what you told her before.”

  “How?” Haft asked.

  “We haven’t been through those wagons yet, we don’t know what they’re carrying that others might have greater need of. And those pampered bed toys don’t have the born right to ride when others are weary from always walking. We take the handmaids from her. Bel Yfir and the other concubines can walk beginning tomorrow. The handmaids are free to walk with whom they wish.”

  “Were they slaves?” Spinner asked, implicitly accepting that they were now free from the concubines.

  Alyline shook her head. “We questioned bel Bra closely on that. The nearest we could interpret her status was that she was an indentured servant. Her parents sold her into service for a set period of time. It is the same for the others. If she were a slave, I would make it go hard on bel Yfir.”

  Haft snorted. Knowing her, “go hard” might well mean she’d use her dagger to radically alter bel Yfir’s appearance. But he was careful not to say anything.

  “Are we decided, then?” Spinner asked. When no one objected, he said, “Then let’s do this thing.”

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  Alyline gave bel Bra over to Zweepee’s care, then walked briskly to get ahead of Spinner and Haft. Fletcher, Plotniko, and Doli were close behind. The Prince’s Swords and Bloody Axes had managed to follow enough of what had be
en said to know roughly what was happening, and they came along as well, since the Dartmutter Earl’s Guards camped near the concubines’ wagons might take offense to any treatment of the concubines that they considered to be less than properly respectful. A few Border Wardens saw the determined advance and joined them, stringing their bows as they went.

  They were still fifty yards away when a woman’s scream startled them. They sprinted the rest of the way.

  Spinner’s shout, “What’s going on here?” was almost drowned out by Haft’s bellow, “FREEZE!”

  The Earl’s Guards were camped next to the concubines’ wagons. They were all on their feet and each of the soldiers held a woman or even two, most of whom were struggling. One woman lay crumpled at a soldier’s feet.

  “Bal Ofursti!” Spinner shouted, looking for the Dartmutter officer. “Control your men!” Then he saw him—the Earl’s Guards commander stood in the midst of his men, holding a woman so firmly by her hair she was bent backward.

  Haft drew his axe and advanced. “Let them go!” he roared. Plotniko shouted the translation, though it was hardly necessary.

  The Prince’s Swords and Bloody Axes deployed in a semicircle with their weapons ready, the Border Wardens joining them, nocked arrows to their bows. The Earl’s Guards reached for their weapons.

  “This is not your concern,” bal Ofursti shouted back. “These women are ours!” As if in emphasis, he jerked on the hair of the woman he held, making her gasp in pain. Again, Plotniko translated.

  “Release them,” Spinner ordered. “Now!”

  Bal Ofursti jerked the woman’s hair again, hard enough to yank her from her feet, and put his hand to his sword. Most of his men released the women they held and several drew their swords. A number of the women, freed, ran into the shadows of the trees away from the campfires.

  “What do you mean they are yours?” Haft demanded in an ominous growl.

  “These women are the earl’s concubines and their handmaids, given to our care,” bal Ofursti said defiantly. “The earl is dead, we all know that. These women need protectors. We are their protectors now.”