Lady of Mercy
Page 15
Initiate. Her voice, a whisper, was also a warning.
I’m tired of death, Bethany. I’m tired of thinking about nothing but ways to cause it. I’m tired of thinking about what happens if I can’t.
I know. To deal death is not a thing that comes easily to the lines, and you are of them.
He thought of Erin, standing silhouetted against the walls of the cold alley.
Darin.
I know. I know, Bethany.
“Well, what’s this then?”
Darin’s eyes fluttered open, almost in relief. Trethar’s darkened. Neither had heard the metallic click of the doorlatch, or the soft creak of its hinges—but Robert, once revealed, was unsubtle and impossible to miss.
“You aren’t thinking of sleep at a time like this, are you? There’s still light outside, and I’ve finished my scouting for the day. We leave in the three-day, but you’ll have to depend on me to get us all to the drop point.” Robert smiled broadly and swung the door gently shut behind his back. “What do you think of it, Darin?” He lifted the edges of a dark blue coat, one trimmed in gold, with gold-thread buttons and catches.
“I think you’re the only person I’ve ever met that would go out and buy another jacket at a time like this.”
“Thank you. I always think it’s important to look your best—you never know when it might be necessary.” His smile dimmed slightly. “How is the Lady?”
“Sleeping. Doctor’s orders. Verdor says she’s eaten, and sleep’s what she needs most.”
“And so do we,” Trethar said curtly.
Robert graced him with a disdainful side glance and rolled his eyes. “Well, yes, I suppose at your age you do.” He grabbed Darin by the arm and dragged him to his feet. Darin caught Bethany before she clattered to the ground. “But Darin and I shall properly sleep when it’s darker. We’ve a good two hours before the market closes for the week, and I’ve a little funding to ensure that we enjoy ourselves properly. You’ve been to a city market before?”
Darin nodded quietly. “In Malakar, when we had tasks to run for the house.”
“All the better. This one’s similar. Not, perhaps, quite as grand—but it’ll do quite well for our circumstances. I intend to go. Will you come with me and keep me company?”
“No,” Trethar barked.
“Yes,” Darin said, at the same moment. He gave Trethar a guilty glance and then looked away.
“Better and better, then.” Robert smiled. “Come along, Darin. You can be my attendant.”
Darin. walked across the room to where his coat was spread against the floor.
“Darin,” Trethar said, annoyance obvious in his voice. “I prescribed rest, and going anywhere with this one isn’t the way to get it.”
“Nonsense, old man. You’re running the boy ragged with your talk of gloom and doom. There’s not much point to saving one’s life if one doesn’t have a life to begin with. Now do get out of the way and let us be off.”
“Darin, show the sense that he won’t. You’re wanted, boy, and not just by the local city guards.”
Robert snorted. “They’re wanted, old man. Trust my experience. No one seeing the two of us together is going to notice a mere slave.” He reached for Darin’s hand. “Now come on, Darin. We’ve hardly any time at all.”
Lord Erliss looked up from his seat by the fire and set his glass aside. He hated the northern climate intensely; the cold penetrated his quarters, even when a fire burned in the odd fireplace in the room’s center. He looked out the uncurtained window and frowned; the sky was gray enough that it was hard to judge time quickly.
But an interruption was expected, even welcomed, and he motioned a slave to the door when it came, trying to play Lord of the Manor, and succeeding admirably in his own opinion. The slave rose from his kneeling position and made haste, in complete silence, to follow his master’s command.
Captain Steverson walked into the room, dropped to one knee, and bowed his forehead.
“News?”
“Lord.” The captain raised his head. “Of the three people you set us to watch, one has shown promise.”
“Which one?”
“A metals merchant, caravaned under the crest of House Bordaril.”
“Metals merchant?” Erliss knew that House Vanellon was responsible for all of the metals and precious stone trade for the eastern coast. Everyone knew it; Vanellon was the strongest merchant house in the Empire, and although it held no Greater Cabal seats, it was still a force to be reckoned with.
“Lord.” The captain nodded. “The only metals merchant this side of the continent.” He waited expectantly, and then added, “House Vanellon has no trade routes to man.”
“Not good news, then.” Erliss rose and shuffled over to the window, trying to be still. “What route does he take?”
“She. And she takes the clear road from Verdann to the capital of Illan. The family that owns the mine concession will not deal with any but her, and as she has dealt fairly and equitably with Bordaril—the most powerful house in Senatare—no one has seen fit to press the point.”
Erliss picked up his drink again. “Are you sure that she’s our most likely target?”
“Of the three named, she is the only one to have been visited since our arrival. The woman and the boy did not appear. We think it unlikely that they will. A slim, short man entered and left her quarters.”
House Bordaril held the high seat of the Lesser Cabal; Erliss knew at least this much. He also knew that they had a small standing army, which they often used in times of difficultly to guard their caravans. The mining concession was the one most dear to them, and they were likely to give a nominal guard—at the very least—to any caravan that traveled between Verdann and Dagothrin.
Wincing as alcohol burned the back of his throat, Lord Erliss stood. He clapped his hands just so, and held out his arms; two slaves were at his side at once, tending to his clothing.
“I will need to travel in haste to the consulate from Vanellon. It is a matter of some import, and I will approach as a humble equal,” he told them. They would make certain his dress was appropriate.
He did not need to choose his garments; he had said enough. “See what you can do to hire mercenaries on short notice,” Erliss said to Lord Vellen’s captain. “I’ll see what I can do to offer terms of concession to the only house that would happily fight Bordaril.”
The captain bowed his head to the edge of his knee and then rose crisply to follow Erliss’ new orders.
For the first time in months, Darin was grateful for the cold. It helped alleviate the effect the press of bodies had, as people huddled in the market square, seeking barter, trade, and warmth. He had thought he would find the market terrifying, for it was in Verdann that he and the last of Culverne’s servitors had been forced to part company.
But without the slave line and the Swords as company, without the watchful and angry eye of Lord Vellen of Damion, beneath a winter sky, rather than the peak of summer blue, the market was a completely different place.
“Quite a crowd here, isn’t there?” Robert said. He had to raise his voice to be heard, but it attracted no attention; everyone else was shouting as well.
Darin nodded silently.
“I want to show you something before we start losing crowns,” Robert said, and caught Darin’s arm.
Darin had enough time to catch the odd flicker in Robert’s eyes before he was dragged through the crowd. He was glad that he had no money or anything of value anywhere on his person—without the protection of house guards, he would have lost it to a thief. He kept the staff of Culverne drawn tightly to his chest and kept his eyes on his feet. Beneath a fine layer of dirty slush, he could see uneven cobblestones that would be unforgiving to the clumsy.
“This way, Darin. Market center!”
Why Robert bothered to tell him where they were going, since he didn’t bother to let go of Darin’s arm, Darin didn’t know. But he nodded anyway, his attention caught by the
echoes of shouts and calls, the scent of winter food, and the flashes of colored cloth at banner height.
“Just past this rail, and we’ll be clear of the crowd.” Robert dragged him quickly past the last few people and alongside a black iron railing that nearly hit him in the stomach. “Now,” Robert said. “Look straight ahead.”
But Darin was no longer listening. The wrought-iron fence extended in a small circle, maybe ten feet across. In the center of the circle, on a pedestal no more than a foot high, stood the solitary statue of a woman. Robed in white alabaster, her arms were outstretched, hands up, in either supplication or blessing. Her hair, white as well, fell long, and curled in a hard, cold circle about her shoulders and cheeks. The face that was upturned to the day’s light wore an expression of such love and peace that Darin took a step forward, into the rails, as if called.
“She’s called the Lady of Mercy,” Robert said softly. He waited a moment, while Darin continued to stare. “Don’t look at her expression, if you can help it. Look at her face.”
But Darin still wasn’t listening. Lady of Mercy. He drew a breath that was sharp enough to cut, and for an instant, his lips curved in a whistled tune—one that Stev had taught him in House Damion. His eyes prickled in the sunlight—it had to be the sunlight—as he remembered exactly where he’d seen this statue before. It had stood, gray-robed and flesh-colored, exactly so, its expression no less rapt for the fact that it was alive.
“Sara.”
Robert’s hands fell away. “You see it, then.” If he noticed the difference of name, he made no comment. “Darin, who is she?”
Darin shook his head. “Lady of Mercy,” he whispered. For just one moment, he had the absurd desire to turn back his sleeves and lift his slave’s scar so that the statue could plainly see it.
Bethany?
In the hand of God, she whispered. His spine tingled as her power surged in the silence.
Robert whistled softly. “And we’re all on the road to Marantine,” he said, clipping Darin’s shoulder to break the moment. “Come on.”
Darin nodded quietly, then stopped to stare at his companion. He had known Erin for much longer than Robert had—but he would never have recognized the dirt-stained, determined warrior in this statue. If Robert noticed Darin’s scrutiny, he gave no sign of it, but he was unusually quiet and kept his own counsel.
A pastry stand, one of three, was their next stop; Robert did all of the barter, and they left it with dry, flaky concoctions cooling in their mouths.
“Not bad,” Robert mumbled, around a full mouth. “I’ve had better, mind. Why, in the capital, I—” He froze suddenly; wind swept crumbs from his lips. Without another word, he grabbed Darin’s collar and jerked him out of the thoroughfare and into one of the market’s few alleys.
Two stone walls rose on either side, and each had a small stairway that barely infringed on the open alley space. The doors, small and simple, were obviously not meant for a buyer’s use. The buildings were old but well kept, and it was obvious that they were the permanent home of either a very rich merchant or a merchants’ consortium. Darin had no time to ask; Robert trotted up the stairs to the building on their left and yanked the door open.
Darin had no choice but to follow; the door closed behind him with an authoritative click.
“Church delegation,” Robert said quietly, bowing his head in the direction of Darin’s ear. “I really don’t feel like meeting a priest today, if it can be at all avoided.”
For the second time that day, Darin wasn’t listening—at least not to Robert. Another disembodied voice had grabbed his attention.
“And for such a specimen, the starting price is not less than five hundred crowns.”
Darin froze, the words and their cadence horribly familiar. He swung his head from side to side in a wild silence and started to edge backward. Robert put an arm firmly around Darin’s shoulders.
“Not that way,” he whispered, a tight smile strung around his lips. “We’ll leave by the front doors.” So saying, he began to edge his way into the crowd, glibly uttering arrogant apologies to the people he managed to run into as he did so. It was an art, this making of apologies that somehow managed to be more offensive than plain rudeness, but it was not out of place among the nobles for whom apologies were a pastime for the weak or overpowered.
“Come, come, ladies and gentlemen. Have you ever seen so fine a child? Five hundred crowns for an investment like this is so low that she’s almost a gift! Have we no takers among the lot of you? No one with the imagination necessary to think of the hundreds of uses for the girl?”
“Five hundred.”
“I see we have a gentleman of inordinate taste. But the rest of you—will you let this man deprive you of the opportunity?”
Darin tried to ignore the rest of the droning speech. He did his best not to see another hand raised, and another amount called out. He turned his face in random directions to avoid looking at the girl on the platform, or at the fine blue silks that hung so ridiculously on her small frame—or at the thin iron bands that covered her small wrists. And most of all not at the shaky, vacant smile that froze the comers of her slightly bruised mouth.
“Darin, don’t attract attention.”
But he couldn’t avoid it. He couldn’t avoid remembering the feel of the chains and the eyes of the buyers that clambered into the room in front of the block. He couldn’t shake loose from the nervous start each bidder gave him when they looked at him with those bored, acquisitive eyes, even though he had already been reserved for use by House Damion.
“Sold! Take your number and come back to the block in an hour.”
The girl was led, gently, off stage. Darin felt his knees unlock and began to back away, finally released from a spectacle that was no entertainment.
Robert gave a tiny sigh of relief and began once again to direct Darin toward the doors. A hint of light could be seen between the standing figures that crowded the room in front of it.
“And now, nobles of Verdann, something a little more dangerous.” At his back, Darin could hear the clank of chains and a few muffled grunts. He wanted to cover his ears as he walked to the door—but he didn’t dare. Robert was right; he had probably already attracted unwanted attention.
“Take a good look at the size of this man. Fresh from Illan and only half broken.”
The words meant very little to Darin. Robert stopped and swiveled, bringing his hand up to signal a halt. Darin dared to glance up and he saw that Robert’s mouth was set in an unfamiliar line. In dread, Darin turned to once again face the auction block.
On it, standing stiffly, was a large man. He was probably about thirty, which was generally considered too old for a slave to be of much use. His hair hung in an ugly, uneven fashion, and his face had one scar, still red, across the left cheek. His chest was also similarly marked—which was easy to see. It was completely bare.
No tame slave this, as Darin could see by the size of the chains that ran around his arms, ankles, and throat. But the shadows under his eyes marked a fatigue and a pain that showed how close he was to slavery’s edge.
“Well, ladies? Wouldn’t you like to take a man like this home with you? He’s strong as an ox. Look at the muscle on him! This is a man made for strong field work or quarry labor.” There was a general chuckle, mostly male, from the audience.
“Boy,” Robert said, loudly enough to be clearly heard.
Darin looked up.
“Remain here. I’ve one short task to run in the market, but I’ll be back before the bidding closes.”
Darin didn’t even dare a protest. Habit forced his head low; habit informed his posture. He didn’t even glance to the sides; when he raised his head again, it was to stare at the block—perhaps the only neutral area in the great room.
“Turn around,” the auctioneer said.
The man on the block glanced down. Very deliberately, he took the small, short steps necessary to show his back to the audience.
“For an unbroken slave?” A faceless man shouted from the audience. Darin let him remain faceless.
The auctioneer gave a broad, dark smile.
“To the right master, that wouldn’t be a problem.”
Once again the chuckle rose like a dark wave.
“Lord Kellem, you’ve never bought bad stock from us. Will you take him on? Two hundred crowns for strength that is rarely seen in the Empire. I imagine with just the right training, you could make him a slavemaster without compare.”
“Two hundred, then.”
“Lord Kellem is willing to take him on. Are there any others? Two twenty-five is the asking price; two twenty-five.”
“Turn him around again, if you can.”
The auctioneer nodded, and once again the slave turned to face the crowd, taking his slow, short steps. The chains rankled every inch of the way.
“He’s half-tame, I’ll wager. Two twenty-five.”
“A perceptive buyer. Lord Osserann? Ah yes, I thought I recognized you. Lord Kellem, for a pittance of twenty-five crowns, will you lose your sport? Two fifty will guarantee it.”
There was a silence for a moment, and then a curt, crisp yes.
“A wise man indeed. Two seventy-five. Two seventy-five.” The silence was louder. “Lord Osserann, take a good look at him. Two seventy-five takes him from Lord Kellem.” The silence lengthened, and the auctioneer’s tone made it clear that he thought the game at an end. “Very well. Two fifty once.”
Darin looked furtively to either side, trying to catch a glimpse of Robert.
“Two fifty twice.”
He heard a commotion that came from the back of the room.
“Two fifty—”
“Three hundred!” A voice boomed out. Darin relaxed as he recognized it for Robert’s. Then the sum penetrated his mind.