A shout came from the front of the caravan. The wagon with the passengers had got another wheel stuck. Matt trotted forward with the other slaves. She set her shoulder against the tailboard, ready to heave on the word. Sitting directly above her was Eawynn. She was staring across the valley, paying no attention. Her face in profile was delicately proportioned, her fiery red hair just long enough to fall onto her forehead. Matt could see the pulse beating in her throat. Eawynn was irritatingly stunning and stunningly irritating.
Oh yes, Bertana’s adage was equally true for many interpretations. There were all sorts of ways to get burned.
*
The bygone river had carved a pass through the Stanscylfa Mountains. On either side, steep slopes were littered with boulders and twisted trees. Antelope and wild goats grazed on shrubs. Weathered pillars of rock crowned the hilltops. The difficult terrain forced the road to take to the old riverbed, which would have been an even path, were it not for hollows the river had gouged out of the bedrock and shattered boulders that had rolled downhill. Progress was slow, while the slaves cleared obstructions. They covered three miles in twice as many hours. As delay followed holdup, everyone was getting short-tempered, Eawynn included.
Her fellow passengers were not helping. One elderly woman slept most of the time, snoring loudly. This was preferable to her being awake, when she would talk even more loudly about the pains in her joints. Two were teenage girls, related to somebody extremely important. They whispered and giggled to each other incessantly, except for any time someone else had the nerve to address them, when they would act bored and roll their eyes. The last was a rich, middle-aged landowner whose conversation consisted of boasting about the size of his inheritance. Eawynn suspected he was trying to flirt with her, but was doing it so badly it was hard to be sure—unlike Matt, who did it so very well.
Eawynn leaned back so she could look up the road. Matt was with the slaves, helping to lever a sheep-sized boulder out of the way. The male slaves had stripped to the waist. Matt had a cloth band wrapped around her chest. It kept her breasts out of view, and out of harm’s way, but left her shoulders and midriff bare. Dust and sweat drew patterns on the muscles of Matt’s arms and stomach, sliding as she moved.
Eawynn realised she had, unconsciously, caught her lower lip in her teeth. She released it and pressed her lips firmly together but did not take her eyes away.
“They’re just playing around, if you ask me.” Eadbald, the landowner, was an unwelcome interruption.
I didn’t ask you. “I think they’re doing their best.”
“A taste of the whip would have them put some back into it. If I was in charge I’d get them working.”
“Really?” If I were in charge, I’d get the useless lumps of soldiers off their horses and helping, rather than preening for the benefit of the idiotic girls.
“Yes. I know these barbarians. On my land I own three hundred or more. If any of them were dawdling about like that, I’d have the skin off their backs. My land produces over five thousand bottles of wine each year and as much oil, and you can’t do that with slackers.”
Eawynn closed her eyes. How to make the oaf shut up?
“It’s how Thraelas are. No discipline. No mind to work. It’s not surprising the world has fallen apart since the empire left it to go its own way.”
“Some parts are doing all right, I think.”
Eadbald snorted in contempt. “When the empire reached them, the savages were grubbing in the mud, running around half naked. We gave them everything they have. Without us, they’d still be living like animals. Of course, parts are making some sort of fist of things, using the roads and towns and ports we built for them. But things are changing. The empire will rise again. Then we’ll see some real improvement.”
“We can but hope.” Silence was the improvement Eawynn was mainly hoping for.
“We gave the world everything and got not a shred of gratitude for it. It’ll be different this time around.”
It sounds rather similar to me.
“Ah. Now I’ve got you smiling.” Eadbald’s tone was triumphant.
“Yes. I was just thinking how much you reminded me of my father.”
The boulder toppled over with a thump, leaving the road clear, and Eadbald shut up. A double win from Eawynn’s point of view.
After another laborious mile, the surrounding hills retreated, taking the fallen rocks with them. The pace increased thereafter. By evening, they reached the edge of the Rihtcynn plains, the land known as Rihtcynnedal. The dead river valley was now broad and shallow. The road climbed its southern rim.
The land was drier this side of the Stanscylfa range. Gently undulating grasslands rolled away to the horizon. Immense herds of antelope, wild cattle, and horses stretched across the plain, the foundation of Rihtcynn wealth. Eawynn looked back. The sun had dropped behind the foothills. Wisps of cloud were tinged pink.
“Hold the horses and set camp.” The caravan master called an end to the day’s journey.
This was the third night, and the routine of pitching camp was becoming familiar. The soldiers and wagon crews unharnessed their own horses, but everything else was left to the slaves. The older woman got the lightest jobs, tending the fire and cooking. The others would raise tents, feed and brush the horses, and dig latrines.
Eawynn took a seat on a low bank, close by where the fire was being prepared. She was not sorry the day was over. It had been unpleasant all around. She watched as tinder started to smoulder.
The female slave lighting the fire clearly enjoyed a privileged position, something that annoyed Eadbald enormously. He had acted as if it was a personal insult, although he knew no more about her than Eawynn did. The woman had not been forced to clear rocks, and Eawynn did not think it was due only to her age. Even cooking seemed more by choice on her part. What was her story? Did Matt know?
Eawynn looked around, searching. She spotted Matt some way off, digging the latrine. Eawynn frowned. Matt must be exhausted after all day spent clearing paths. Who had ordered her to dig? The slaves were treated as a communal resource, but Matt was supposedly private property, and was not obliged to join in with setting camp, and certainly not if her owner gave different orders.
“Matt.”
Matt looked up.
“Come here.”
Matt handed her spade to another slave and jogged over. “Yes, my lady?”
Eawynn thought quickly. She could hardly order Matt to sit and chat. “I’m thirsty. Get me a cup of wine.”
“Yes, my lady.”
By the time she had the wine cup in her hand, Eawynn had thought of another light task. “It’s getting cold. I left my cloak in the wagon. See if you can find it.”
Matt returned shortly. “Here it is, my lady.”
“Good. Put it around my shoulders.”
As Matt did so, the tips of her fingers brushed the back of Eawynn’s neck. A shiver ran through Eawynn and she closed her eyes. She did not think it had been done on purpose, not least because Matt was not to know the effect her touch had. However, Eawynn knew exactly how she was feeling, and she could not pretend, even to herself, that she was motivated solely by concern for Matt’s tiredness. The sensible thing was to send Matt back to digging, but she was not going to.
“Anything else, my lady?”
What could she say? Brush my hair? Remove my boots? Eawynn knew she was playing a dangerous game, all the more dangerous because she was enjoying it. Already her pulse was racing. Just because you can pretend you’re in control, doesn’t mean you are. She looked at Matt, standing before her. Matt’s expression was impassive, obedient, but deep in her eyes was a spark of annoyance. In its way, that was just as enjoyable as everything else about the game, and just as much of a trap.
“My bag. Get it from the wagon. I want to look for something.”
“My lady.” Matt bowed her head and trotted away.
Eawynn let out her breath and took a mouthful of wine. The first fl
ames were running over the firewood. Smoke trailed away on the breeze. Eawynn leaned forward to feel the warmth on her face and took another sip. Matt had bent her heart out of shape once, Eawynn was not going to let it happen again. She had her litany ready, along with all the prepared memories of shame. While you were kissing her, she was pickpocketing you. I’m sure she laughed about it afterward, maybe even boasted to her friends. Eawynn would not let herself fall again.
Raised voices broke in upon her thoughts. Eawynn glanced round. One of the soldiers had got angry over something. He swung a punch, presumably at a slave who had annoyed him. Eawynn looked away. The treatment meted out to slaves was the hardest things she found in dealing with her fellow travellers. Eadbald was a brutal bigot, and the rest were no better.
“You thief!” The soldier was shouting now.
Eawynn dropped her wine and leapt to her feet. The soldier swung a second punch, knocking his victim to the ground beside the wagon. He reached into the driver’s footwell and pulled out the horsewhip. “I’ll teach you.”
Eawynn arrived as he raised his arm. As she suspected, the slave was Matt. Eawynn moved between them. “What are you doing?”
“She was trying to steal my bag.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” If she was trying to steal from you, you wouldn’t know a thing about it. Eawynn ripped the whip from the soldier’s hand and jabbed the end of the handle against his chest.
He protested. “That’s my bag she took.”
Eawynn looked down. A dropped pack lay by her foot. She yanked the top open and pulled out the first item, her spare camisole. “Does this look like yours?”
“Oh.”
A ring of watchers had formed. Another soldier called out. “Hey, Saba. I moved your bag over there.”
“Oh.” He was starting to look shamefaced. “Well, you know what Thraelas are like. They’ll steal anything.”
“Like you trying to run off with my camisole?”
“I wouldn’t have kept it.”
“You should be a bit more certain before you start punching people.”
“She’s just a slave.”
“And you’re just a halfwit.”
“What?”
Around the circle, a degree of surprise was creeping in. Eawynn realised she was close to slipping out of character. No true Rihtcynn would have any concern for a slave’s well-being. She had to hit the right note. “Do you know how much I paid for her?”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“If you’ve permanently injured her, I’ll expect you to buy me another.”
“I just hit her once.”
“Come and see me before you start trying to damage my belongings.”
He gave an awkward shrug and turned away. The circle of watchers broke up.
Matt was now sitting. Eawynn switched to Tradetalk but maintained the Rihtcynn facade. “Be more careful in future.” She walked back to her seat by the fire, calling over her shoulder, “And get me another cup of wine.”
The sky overhead was darkening. Eawynn stared at the flames. The dancing firelight was mesmerising, something to focus on while she tried to calm her thoughts. The flood of anger subsided, leaving her drained. Eawynn’s hands were shaking; her whole body was shaking.
“My lady.”
Eawynn looked up. Matt was holding out another mug. A red blotch that would turn into a bruise marked the side of her face, but she seemed otherwise unharmed. Eawynn clenched the mug in her hand and a took a gulp. Too quick. The wine burned the back of her throat, making her cough.
“My lady?”
She waved the offered help away. “Go and do whatever.”
Eawynn watched Matt walk away. The frantic urge to rush to Matt’s defence had been instinctive. The flood of emotions it released was impossible to disentangle. Eawynn’s heart was still beating hard in her chest. She cheated me. She used me. I hate and despise her. The familiar litany, and it was no longer true. Maybe she enjoyed tormenting Matt, but she could not make herself hate her.
*
By the time Cyningesburg came into view, the nature of the landscape had changed again. The river valley was now ten miles or more across, the sides carved from red sandstone. The road ran along its flat bottom. Once, the flood plain had been rich farmland. The broken shells of deserted farmhouses dotted the scene, and the outlines of ancient fields were still visible, but without the life-giving river, only yellow grass and thornbushes still grew. The winter rains would bring greenery back to the land, but not enough to support the mightiest city the world had ever seen, or so Bertana told Matt.
Cyningesburg was built atop a spur jutting from the eastern valley wall. As the caravan drew closer, it dominated the skyline. Battlements and towers were black in the shadow, red where the sunlight hit, the colour of Eawynn’s hair. The road was paved, but time had not left it untouched. Finger-like sand drifts crept over it, stones were missing, and weeds sprouted in the cracks. On either side, monuments to dead heroes lined the way. The caravan swung east, crossing the riverbed on a massive stone bridge. Twelve arches supported the weight.
After miles of desolation, the flood plain was now filled with activity. Everywhere were horse pens, smithies, and tents. Soldiers drilled on foot and horseback to the shouts of officers. Smoke rose from the forges. It was an army in waiting, but for what? The guards took their leave of the caravan and joined their comrades.
“You said the land won’t support a city anymore,” Matt said to Bertana, who was walking beside her.
“It won’t.”
“So why is an army here? How does the empress think she’s going to keep this going?”
“Her majesty has not advised me of her plans.” Bertana grinned.
“No. But you must have heard something. What’s the word among the slaves?”
“Something’s up, but when I left here, two months ago, nobody knew what.”
Another mile and the route began to ascend the side of the valley. A long, slow climb followed. They reached the top as the sun was passing its zenith. From here, the scale of Cyningesburg became apparent. The buildings on the spur might be the grandest, but they represented a tiny fraction of the abandoned city. Mile upon mile of crumbling walls stretched out—houses, shops, temples, and workplaces. Windblown sand heaped against the walls, while shrubs clawed a foothold between the stones.
The caravan crossed what used to be a grand square, dominated by the statue of an emperor or general. Rows of fluted columns lined the perimeter, all in pitted red sandstone. The road joined a wide avenue leading to the citadel on the spur. Here the state of repair showed a noticeable improvement. The sand and shrubs were cleared, the walls shored up, and statues cleaned.
Black-cloaked soldiers manned the imposing gateway to the citadel. Massive lions, their mouths carved in a frozen roar, supported the arch on either side. The sentries stood motionless, offering no challenge to the caravan as it passed through. The band of shade under the arch was cold after the sunshine, and then they were out again.
To a first glance, all trace of decay had gone from inside the citadel. The buildings lining the main avenue rose as proudly as when they were first built, but down the side streets, Matt saw the crumbling bricks and missing paving. Yet work was in hand. Scores of slaves were hauling, resetting, cleaning, and plastering, under the gaze of whip-bearing overseers. Stone by stone, Cyningesburg was being reborn.
The wagons carrying supplies for the city peeled off at one of the wider cross streets, toward a busy market. A hundred yards farther on, the remaining two wagons rolled into a square, the largest Matt had ever seen, and stopped. They had reached their destination. Monumental buildings opened onto the square. All were adorned with statues and bas-relief. One was clearly a temple and another opulent enough to be a palace. Five domed roofs, shaped like the soldiers’ helmets, swept upward in pointed spires. A third building was adorned with friezes of soldiers and battles. The military theme extended to the statues and hanging banners. Was it the
army headquarters or the city hall?
The passengers disembarked. The teenage girls and old woman were escorted away by relatives. The overdressed man hung on, bombarding Eawynn with his thoughts about something, despite the blatant lack of encouragement she was giving him.
The atmosphere was changing, becoming hard and brittle, as if something might snap. The caravan master stood at Eawynn’s side, guarding her. Was he concerned she might run away? Matt moved closer, although still keeping a respectful distance back. She could hear what was said, not that she understood a word. A small group had emerged from the palace, three officials and a bodyguard of soldiers. They marched across the square, toward the wagons and Eawynn.
The overdressed man was still spouting his monologue, but then he noticed where everyone was looking, and also glanced back. He broke off mid-sentence, threw out a quick, “Beo gesund,” and hurried away. Clearly, he recognised at least one of the approaching officials. Matt felt a sudden jolt, realising that she did too. Striding forward in the lead, dressed in priest’s robes, was the man who had murdered Edmund.
Would Eawynn recognise him? And would he recognise either of them? Of course, with the story Eawynn had given, it would help rather than harm their chances in her case. But for Matt it would be fatal. She ducked her head in her best servile pose. Fortunately, a slave did not merit the merest glance.
“Wilcuma, freo,” Oswald said.
“Wilcuma, leof,” Eawynn replied.
“Ic oncnaewe thu baede waere hercyme.”
“Gea.”
“Folge mec.”
More than ever before, Matt wished she could understand Cynnreord. What was going on?
Eawynn turned her head, “I have to talk with some people. Stay here and mind my things.” The words were offhand, revealing nothing.
“Yes, my lady.”
Matt stood by the bags, watching as Eawynn was escorted across the square and into the palace. Her mouth was dry and her palms were sweating. This was absurd. She never felt like this, not even on the riskiest job. But on those occasions she was the one making things happen, the one whose skill was put to the test. Now it was down to Eawynn, and she was the one running the most risk.
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