The Rising Scythe

by S G Dunster

  His fist came down on the table, rattling the dishes and sending the serving girl scurrying, eyes wide.

  Thessaly stared at him, brows raised.

  “I’ll have more than a bitten-off word of an answer from you,” he growled under his breath, glancing around. “And when our guests join us, I’d like you to be properly cheerful. I’ve . . . hopes for this meeting. Right now, you operate as a hostess of sorts. Act the part, daughter.”

  Thessaly breathed in, reigning in the gold fire that wanted to explode through her, and nodded. She pasted a smile on her face. Her father needed trade, it was true. After Portugal, after Milan. And as this was her own fault, it would be a poor thing indeed for her to ruin his chances here, too. She didn’t like his tone, nor his delivery, but it wasn’t a fight to be had in a public house.

  “Vasco,” a voice bellowed through the chattering and noise around them.

  Antonio donned a fierce smile like to frighten more than just a serving girl away. “Ah. Waintree. Sit. Sit.”

  The man was short, small-featured, and round of belly. A girl followed him. She was also short, though even in height with her father. She had tiny, flower-like features. Thessaly would have guessed her to be a child of no more than twelve, except that she was gowned in the fashionably tight bodice that put ladies’ womanly charms on display.

  The girl immediately snuggled in next to Thessaly, smiling shyly. “Rosalie Waintree,” she murmured. “And you are Miss d’Ainestille? I’ve heard a great deal, but most things people say are nonsense. Tell me about you.”

  Thessaly was puzzled. She threw her father a look. Who was this girl? Why was she addressing Thessaly in such a familiar manner?

  Rosalie laughed—or giggled, more like—a little girl’s laugh to match her round, little-girl features: great blue eyes, bump of a nose, bud of a mouth. Her hair was flaxen-gold and hung loose down her back, half of it bound on top with a net spangled with seed-pearls. The gown she wore was of rose velvet over rose-colored silk. She was well named, Thessaly thought. She was a bud on a bush of skirts.

  “Rosalie,” Thessaly tried, taking in her father’s prodding look. “I’ve heard nothing about you, I’m sorry to say.”

  Guzal was eyeing the new girl with both suspicion and pleasure. “This is Guzal,” Thessaly added, gesturing.

  Rosalie leaned past Thessaly, her eyes sparkling. “Are you a Tatar? You’ve got the look. Dragon’s eyes.” She pointed at her own wide blue eyes. “And pale hair.” Turning again to Thessaly, she added, “I’ve heard your household is very fine. It must be if you’ve a Tatar girl to serve you. Pa tried to get me one, but—“

  “Yes,” Thessaly said, hearing the testiness in her own voice, and regretting it immediately as Rosalie’s face flushed and her mouth turned down. “Don’t,” she said, guilt flooding through her. She put a hand over the girl’s. “I’m sorry for speaking sharp. We’ve had a long journey, Guzal and I. You’ve the advantage of us; I have no idea who you are. I was not expecting to meet anyone today.”

  Rosalie smiled. She looked at Guzal. “I’m sorry if I pained you to speak so,” she said. “I have no manners. I admit it. That is what my papa hopes to give me in the next little while.

  Guzal gave her a cool nod, but her mouth twitched slightly. “If it pained, you make it up with sweetness,” she said. “You are fair. So your father trades with Thessaly’s in spices?”

  The men were talking on their own now, not bothering to follow the conversation of women.

  “Woolens,” Rosalie agreed, “and spices. He’s got trades in Kernow, where we’re to go. They’ve still not decided, have they? Your father said he preferred to keep you in Taunton with your Godfather, but Papa doesn’t think there will be enough society there.” She raised her pale brows slightly. “And by that he means not enough titled younger sons, of course. He means to get a title to go with his pennies out of me.”

  She giggled again at Thessaly’s expression. “I am sorry. I’m not high-bred. And my mind’s scattered like barley for birds. Please, do not mind the words I say. I do mean well.”

  Thessaly sighed, cradled her head in her palm for a moment. “It’s my godfather we’re to meet, not my uncle. And it is not your words I object to; it’s being planned for and not told.” The last word came out sharp, and she looked at her father.

  He interrupted his conversation with the portly merchant and gave Thessaly a cool glance. “It’s not for daughters to question their father’s plans.”

  So he had been listening. Of course he had. Antonio took in everything; he didn’t let words pass him by, or anything that would add to or take away from his trade. Or his plans for his daughter.

  “Aye,” Thessaly replied, “but it would be nice to know a thing about where I’m to be planted.”

  “Wherever I choose to plant you.” His voice sharpened further and rose.

  Rosalie laughed.

  Antonio blinked, shifting his terrible gaze to her, and the girl immediately put her hands to her mouth. “Beg pardon, sir,” she said, her words muffled through her fingers.

  A fierce smile broke out over Antonio’s face, anger left behind for a moment. “I’m no sir,” he replied. “I’m no more highborn than your father, and a merchant, just like him. Rosalie, you may not be as well-bred as my daughter, but your charm makes up the difference. I’m glad to meet you and glad my daughter will associate with you these next years.”

  “Years?” Thessaly gasped.

  “However long it takes,” Antonio shouted suddenly, “to turn you from a graceless hag into a lady.”

  Heads turned at this, and the crowded space inside the public house went silent.

  “Grace for grace,” Thessaly said slowly, narrowing her eyes, caring little about the stares, “I believe I know exactly where my blood runs from. Papa. I shall not,” she added, rising from the table, flinging the linen napkin on the top, “be shut away to do your will. You cannot force me; you know this well. If you make arrangements for me, I shall have a say in them. Come, Guzal.”

  Guzal rose, her face blank, but a glint of frost in them as she passed by Antonio.

  After a moment, Rosalie stood and followed them. “Wait,” she gasped, squeezing between the bench and table. “Don’t leave me with these old men.”

  Thessaly heard a few chuckles at that, and let out a breath, tempted to laugh herself.

  Antonio. The bastard. What made him think he could still move her around his world like a game piece? What had he been thinking? Did he not know her well enough by now to predict how she’d react at such maneuvering and manipulating?

  Did he not witness the fire at the court?

  Rosalie, bright as a banner in her pink against the grey and dun of the city, flitted after them and joined them, sliding an arm through Thessaly’s and stopping her in front of the door of the public-house. Thessaly didn’t object. It wasn’t the girl’s fault. She was just another piece, being moved about.

  The streets were teeming with carts, with carriages. A group of men carrying hauberks, clad in a house-guard’s uniform, clattered by, talking seriously.

  “You’ve forgotten your pattens,” Rosalie announced, dangling them in front of Thessaly.

  Thessaly looked down and groaned. Her soft leather slippers were smeared up the sides in foul street muck.

  “Never mind,” Guzal said, eyeing Rosalie with both amusement and some skepticism. “Let us go find a shop. We can buy you some more, and some of the cottons, woolens, and brocades you’ll be needing. We can trade on your father’s credit.”

  Thessaly sighed and nodded. She was throbbing inside. A wave crashed over her, chilling her. She yelped.

  Rosalie’s eyes widened in alarm. Guzal’s wrinkled with concern.

  Thessaly fell to her knees, gasping, as the flame burned through her.

  “Damme, you’re ruining your gown!” Rosalie shrieked, taking startled steps back. “You’re kneeling in offal!”

  “Again?” Guzal muttered, bending dow
n to help Thessaly up. “You were doing so well.”

  “Was I?” Thessaly answered in the same low tone. She shook herself as ice, then flame, sent blinding pain through her with each heartbeat.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Rosalie asked, gingerly moving toward her again, taking her other arm. “Did you get took with a sudden fit?” She squinted at Thessaly. “Are you prone to fits? Is that why your Da is sending you off to the marches instead of a fancy London house? I was wondering, I’ll admit.”

  In a different moment, Thessaly would have been amused. But there they were, her floes, thrumming through her with each heartbeat. Gold. Silver. Gold, in waves, and anger coursing with the silver—passion, flaming her. Purpose, flowing with the gold, wafting out in a great halo and stretching up into the sky.

  For a while, she’d forgotten their power. Their danger. Their pain.

  Exhilaration, cold and sparkling; scents from far away filled her nose, and the wind brought feelings, flashes of moments . . . things to come, things that were, things right now . . . all at once, they poured into her, a blaze of bright colors.

  Her own flesh rang with echoes of hope and pleasure and desire, warm and writhing.

  Yes. She was completely undone.

  “Vinculum,” Thessaly rasped, putting the word at the back of her throat, trapping it between tongue and palate so it came out harsh, wicked, powerful.

  For a moment, she worried they wouldn’t obey—these great octopuses of her powers, writhing, reaching, muscling through the air around her, touching on each person and beast who passed around, overhead, bringing with them all the thoughts and feelings.

  Too much.

  “Vinculum!” She shouted it this time, and they sluggishly, reluctantly obeyed, seeping back in, winding up, as awful dark bands came around them, then encapsulated them—glowing, hurting orbs tight in her core.

  She took a breath, and gasped. It felt as if she’d been bound tight physically. Like the stays Guzal insisted she put on in the morning, she felt as if she couldn’t quite breathe out or in.

  Had it always felt this way?

  How had she not noticed?

  Was it simply that the contrast between this pain of binding, and the pain she’d had when choosing was so disparate that she’d not noticed it?

  She bent back up, resting her hands on her knees for a moment.

  Rosalie was right. She was splashed all down her skirt with putrid water.

  “We’ll go in a shop,” Rosalie said matter-of-factly, “and buy you a new overdress, and bundle up this one for your girl to clean.” She gestured to Guzal.

  “Aye,” Guzal said, her voice still grim. “Come, Thessaly. Let’s move on. You’re attracting stares.”

  “Indeed,” Rosalie said with a forced sort of cheer, “If you are quite well now, we should go about our tasks. We have no other time to buy the stuffs we shall need, and heaven knows when we shall be back in decent society. How much time do you think we have before they come after us? If you are quite well,” she hesitated, her anxious blue eyes flicking over Thessaly.

  “I’m better,” Thessaly said. She took a deep breath. “Just sea legs, I expect. You get used to steady land and the rolling of ship upsets you, and then you expect rolling and the ground is too solid.”

  Rosalie’s eyes flashed relief. “Indeed,” She said, her voice sweet with sympathy. “Indeed. Take my arm then.” She slung her small elbow through Thessaly’s. “Let’s get to shopping. I’m in need of gloves, and stockings of silk and wool, and . . . .” She gave Thessaly a comical, wide-eyed look. “You’ve just been in Milan. You know all the latest fashions.” She clapped her hands together, removing her arm from Thessaly’s and skipping ahead. “Oh dear, how lovely this shall be!”

  Thessaly shrugged. “I’m not much for fashions. Guzal dresses me.”

  “I do,” Guzal said firmly. She glanced down at Thessaly’s ruined slippers. “And we shall shop our little hearts to pieces. Cobblers first, I think. Your father can’t object to you choosing your own finery.”

  “He shouldn’t,” Thessaly muttered. “But he insists on ribbons, lace, and velvet—and he will be angry if we spend too much of his gold without his overlording eye on every last—“

  “He won’t,” Rosalie gushed. “He won’t care a mite for gold spent. Not when he sees what a sweet and elegant picture you make with Guzal and me to help.”

  “That’s my father’s greatest care,” Thessaly said. “Sweetness. Elegance. It’s on his ship’s banner.”

  Rosalie turned to her, surprised.

  “Not really,” Thessaly said.

  “Ah.” Rosalie giggled and skipped along, tangling her pouf of skirts in her eight-inch pattens so she had to stop and untwist herself before continuing.

  “Come,” she said, beckoning to Thessaly, holding out an arm.

  Thessaly took it, sighing. A dandelion floret, she decided. Not a rose, really. A flit of something a wind would lift up and spread, and seed in a wild, sweet-scented wood.

  Thessaly found herself enjoying time in the crowded streets, in and out of small, colorful shops, in spite of herself. With Guzal and Rosalie, it was the perfect blend of frivolity and gravity, laughing chatter and straight-faced digs. The day wore away like a rose-colored whirlwind, gusting Thessaly along. Guzal was impossible to argue with and Rosalie was hard to deny; both were hard to dislike. Rosalie was artless and sweet and funny, often without meaning to be, and Thessaly and Guzal exchanged looks behind her, trying not to laugh aloud.

  Guzal’s face screwed up and her shoulders shook with suppressed mirth when, in a shop for scents, Rosalie declared one smelled of “cat’s piss.” “It’s civet,” Thessaly explained to her. “My father ships it—it’s the most expensive thing he carries. People use it with rosewater to charm fine lords.”

  Rosalie gave her an open-mouthed stare. “You jest.”

  “I do not,” Thessaly replied, endeavoring to keep her face straight and not allow the laugh to bubble to the surface. “It does come from cats, however. Large, desert cats, found on Africa’s eastern shores.”

  Rosalie wrinkled her nose and handed the vial back to the perfumist. “I don’t think I could marry a man who wished this smell around him. Mayhap it’s the reason so many suffer the bloody flux these days.”

  At this, Thessaly and Guzal laughed hard in spite of themselves, and Rosalie’s puzzled, slightly hurt look just made it worse.

  The girl’s utter sincerity made it impossible to find offense in her words. Even the perfumist, who presented Rosalie with a free vial of violet water after they’d made their purchases of cold cream scented with rosewater and violet soaps. “May whatever lord claims your heart be flux-less, and civet-less,” he said, giving her a little bow and a smile.

  “Indeed,” Rosalie agreed, and thanked him prettily as they left.

  They ended the day with their carriage weighed down in cottons both fine and course, boots both fine and rough-made, silk slippers, hairpieces, and even a wig of long, dark horsehair.

  That was Rosalie’s purchase, made on a whim. “I’ve always wished to see what a difference I’d make as a brunette,” she said.

  “Your face’s too round,” Guzal replied, the laugh apparent only in her eyes.

  “Ah, well,” Rosalie said, cheerfully. “I can try and see.”

  They arrived at the docks. Thessaly led Guzal and Rosalie back to the gangplank of the Espada. The Barba swarmed with men unloading spices. “I see my father made a good sale,” Thessaly said. “I hope this elevates his mood when he tours the shops and the keepers collect what they’re owed.” She smiled at Guzal.

  “It’s nice to see you looking happy,” Guzal said quietly, reaching over to touch Thessaly’s wrist. “Perhaps this girl will be good for the both of us? Don’t be too angry at your father. He only wants to keep you safe.”

  “I know,” Thessaly replied, managing to keep the annoyance she felt out of her tone.

  Rosalie insisted on coming aboard
the Espada and they found, to their surprise, Antonio and Waintree already there, with Loredan too, who listened avidly as they engaged in a frank and furious barter.

  “Aye, and you’re stiffing me. You know it,” Waintree bellowed. “A pound of civet for a hundred wool bales?”

  “Civet’s worth ten times its weight in gold coin,” Thessaly’s father replied tersely. “And well you know it, you brigand.”

  “Cat’s piss,” Rosalie called happily over the din, making Antonio swerve and Loredan raise both brows.

  Waintree gave his daughter a curious look, then burst out in bubbles of laughter much like his daughter’s. “You’ll forgive her,” he said to Antonio in a lower tone. “She wasn’t raised by any woman.”

  “What about a nurse?” Antonio asked sternly, eyeing Rosalie. “If she’s to be companion to my daughter—“

  Oh, Papa, Thessaly thought crossly. As if I haven’t heard every rude word possible on this ship of yours.

  It was in that moment Thessaly realized that she wanted Rosalie’s company. And felt defensive of the girl. Odd, how quick that had happened. Strange, indeed, for Thessaly did not usually fall in with people that easily. She glanced at Rosalie, who was watching the two men with wide eyes, and hands on her hips, as if it were a particularly entertaining wrestling match.

  “I didn’t come into my money until she was eight.” Waintree shrugged. “By then, the damage was done.”

  Antonio opened his mouth, clipped it shut, and looked hard at Thessaly.

  “Papa,” Thessaly said, managing a calm tone. “None of us are refined people just yet. Other than Guzal, of course. All of us need refining. I don’t think it’s our place to judge.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her for a moment and looked to Loredan, who had half his face covered with his palm. “Right,” he sighed, and turned back to the business at hand. “Nine tonnes wool for a pound of civet paste. That is the final trade I’m putting to the table. We’re to travel south in the morning, and I’ve got to settle my bills before. And clearly,” he flicked another glance at the women, “we all need our rest for the fight to come.”

  Rosalie giggled, Guzal choked with laughter. Thessaly was suddenly too tired to be amused. She followed the two other women thoughtfully to her quarters.