by Ila Mercer
‘My answer will still be no. I can’t take risks now Mae’s expecting,’ his companion replied.
With a curt bow, Wright bade his companion farewell and steered Yaron away. When they were a little way up the street, Wright said to Yaron. ‘I’m sorry I did not introduce you, but he lost half his fleet when the shipyards burned. Your family’s name would not sit well with him.’
Yaron flushed with a strange mix of emotions. Not quite shame, but something akin to it. Wright grasped him by the shoulder, as though he sensed Yaron’s inner turmoil and said, ‘Your father’s intentions were sound, even if their execution was not.’
The assurance did not quell the strange feeling in Yaron and he sought to change the subject. ‘Did you receive my book?’ he asked.
‘No? Where did you send it?’
‘To Fallengrove. I addressed it to you and thought the Sia might pass it on.’
Wright shook his head. ‘How long ago?’
‘Some months back. Straight after I met you.’
‘Funny, I was there last week, and my sister did not mention a book. What matter did it contain?’
‘A crossing over the Tallinal Ranges into Libria. I thought you might have been able to pass the knowledge on to those who needed it.’
Wright halted mid stride and turned to face Yaron. His face was stern. ‘It would have been useful, but chances are Brother Lodorus committed it to the fire. He has a heavy hand for censorship.’
‘But I addressed the package to you.’
Wright shrugged. ‘My sister pays little heed to courtesies such as keeping her nose out of other’s business.’
‘Oh,’ Yaron said, crestfallen. ‘I did not consider that.’
‘If you join our cause you must be more cunning.’ Wright said, as he started striding down the cobbled street.
Yaron stumbled along beside him in silence. He felt such a fool now. He wondered what the Brother had made of the book. Had he understood the sender’s intentions?
‘There’s a tavern down the next lane where we can talk about this,’ Wright said.
The tavern where Wright took Yaron was noisy and filled with drunken revellers. Near the sooty fireplace, a fiddler played and sang a sordid ditty while a table full of sailors joined in for the chorus. In the booths by the windows, painted sisters were curled up beside greasy haired merchants, the smiles on their lips as false as the paint on their eyelids and cheeks. By the bar stood a mob of tanners, the reek of their trade mixing with the perfume of the painted sisters, the smoke of the fire and the stink of spilled ale. It hardly seemed the place for a discrete conversation, Yaron thought.
But they did not stay in the front room. After he had bought two tankards of ale, Captain Wright led Yaron to a small room with a low cot, a fireplace and a shabby desk. On the desk, lay a pile of parchments with a quill and ink pot. Wright gestured for Yaron to take a seat on the cot.
‘So, you want to help the Beasts, do you?’ Wright said, perching on the edge of his desk. There was a shrewd and slightly cynical glint in his eye that Yaron did not like at all.
‘There is a maiden-’
Wright raised one brow and took a long draught from his ale.
It seemed to Yaron that the Captain had already drawn the wrong conclusions, and he didn’t quite know how to start his tale. ‘She was living in our Keep and I didn’t know, well not for certain, until the Hunter came for her.’
‘The Hunter?’ Wright leaned forward.
‘To take her away because he says she’s a Beast.’
‘One of those who escaped my sister’s Keep?’
‘No, I don’t think so. She travelled with her mother, a tinker, until they were separated.’
‘And where is she now?
‘In Madam Grist’s House of Paint.’
‘Ah,’ Captain Wright said, leaning back again. ‘I’ve heard Madam Grist expects to do a pretty business from her new she-Beast.’
‘I promised I wouldn’t let that happen,’ Yaron said. He did not like hearing Lita referred to as a she-Beast either. The word did not fit the way he thought of her. Too many folk had fouled the word with offensive meaning. ‘When I saw you on the street, I thought perhaps you might help.’
Captain Wright stood up and paced to the window, he pulled the curtain aside and peered across the street. ‘I wish I could help, but I depart at midday tomorrow. I too have made a promise. I’ll be guiding a small band of escaped Beasts. They are safe for now, but I need to move them before the Hunter picks up their trail and I heard he has squandered the last of his bounty. So, he is likely to be on the hunt again soon.’
‘You will guide them out of Dracodia?’ Yaron asked.
Captain Wright nodded. ‘If I can find a captain who’s willing to take us and though I have the means to pay for a boat, there are few who’d do the journey. Anyone caught smuggling Beasts out of the country can be hung for treason.’
‘You could sail the ship, couldn’t you?’ Yaron asked.
‘If I was in possession of a map,’ Captain Wright said with a weary shake of the head.
Then, an idea occurred to Yaron. Suddenly their meeting seemed almost serendipitous. ‘Lita had a map of the shipping route to Baaran,’ Yaron blurted.
‘The she-Beast?’ Captain Wright said, snapping to attention. ‘The one you were talking about before? Does she still have it?’
Yaron shrugged. ‘When she went to fetch it from her room, the Hunter caught her. I don’t know. It could be back at the Keep.’
‘Then you must find out. If we had such a map, we could do so much more.’
Perhaps it was the way Captain Wright assumed possession of the map, or that he had changed his mind so quickly – something rankled Yaron and yet he decided to give the Captain the benefit of doubt. After all, he did not want the map out of self-interest. ‘Then you will help me?’ Yaron asked.
‘If I move the Beasts to another safe place, this will buy us some time.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘Just outside Featherwodd.’
‘That isn’t far from the Downs. You could take them to one of my hunting cottages in the mountains above the Keep. Nobody lives within miles of the place and your Beasts would be safe enough. The Jims, my groundsmen, are already waiting there and if you carry a letter with my seal, they will do whatever I ask of them.’
The Captain pulled the whiskers of his beard and gazed at the fireplace with a far-away expression. After a few more moments he said, ‘Nobody else uses the cottage?’
Yaron shook his head.
‘If we had the map… It could work.’ The Captain said, ‘Of course I would be gone for three nights but on my return, I will do all that I can to help you rescue your little she-Beast. It’s the best I can offer. But don’t worry, Madam Grist’s greed is well known, so I doubt she’ll settle on a sum for your she-Beast before then.’
‘And you’ll take her out of Dracodia too, along with the other Beasts?’
‘If she has a map, I would take her to the other side of the world.’
*
After his meeting with Captain Wright, Yaron returned to the street. The fog had thinned a little and it was easier for him to spy familiar landmarks. Above, the sky was dark with a sprinkling of stars, and there was no sign of the moon. Had it not been for the sallow lamplight, the streets would have been darker than the pits of hell.
He wound his way through the tanners’ quarters and had to cover his mouth with his sleeve. Then he turned down the lane that led to the painted quarter. Before long he had stopped in front of Madam Grist’s door. Nearby, two painted ladies lolled on a veranda, smoking from a hookah pipe. They hardly bothered to look at Yaron.
The meeting with Captain Wright had unsettled him. He didn’t quite know what he had expected – perhaps that the Captain would have an easy solution or share some secret knowledge that would help Yaron in his quest. But he hadn’t. It seemed his resources were little better than Yaron’s.
Just then, a carriage pulled up outside Madam Grist’s house and the Hunter stepped onto the footpath. Yaron lowered the brim of his hat over his brow and turned a little, taking care not to be recognised. The Hunter knocked on Madam Grist’s house and entered when the door opened. Yaron ducked behind the carriage and waited in the shadows. Within a few moments, Madam Grist slithered through the door, her long blue gown trailing along the ground. Behind her, the Hunter gripped Lita by the waist. She had a glazed expression in her eyes and tottered down the steps. If the Hunter had not been gripping her so tight, Yaron was certain she would have fallen in a heap.
After they entered the carriage it pitched forward. Yaron grabbed the hand rail and climbed onto the foot step. He wondered where they were taking her? Perhaps to a new location? Wherever they were going, he knew he must follow. Within moments the horse trotted along at a brisk pace, and the carriage shuddered over the cobbles. Yaron gripped the rail even tighter and pressed his body against the lacquered walls.
They turned at the end of the street and drove past the putters and taverns, over the bridge that separated the docks from the merchant quarters, up the hill to the houses of gentlefolk and the richer merchants, ending their journey outside a grand building with steps sweeping up to a pillared foyer. Dozens of folk dressed in fancy gowns, cloaks trimmed with satin, velvet pantaloons and silk slippers, milled at the bottom of the steps. Yaron hopped off and stood behind a footman. On the way, he had decided that he must make a grab for Lita if the chance arose. For here she was, away from bars and locks. He could not count on Sal and her father finding a key amongst the hundreds that lay scattered through his workshop and he could not count on Captain Wright to be back in time. Even when the Captain returned there was no certainty that he had a rescue plan. He was sick of relying on others. Waiting for others to do something, to guide him, to make a clear path for his actions.
Nearby, he noticed a rider alight from his horse and hitch it slackly to a post. Could this be the vehicle of their getaway, Yaron wondered? Then he remembered how Lita had required the assistance of the Hunter to walk down the steps at Madam Grist’s House of Paint. He and Lita would surely be caught before they even mounted the horse. He needed to be more cunning than that.
Somebody in the crowd gasped when Lita stepped from the carriage, the Hunter assisting her. ‘It’s that girl who’s supposed to be a Beast,’ Yaron heard a man say.
Murmurings of distaste mingled with exclamations of intrigue. The merchant wives and noble women turned away from Lita, pretended she did not even exist. The men, however, were like wolves, their eyes hungry under the countenance of sheepish curiosity. Yaron’s skin prickled. He hated seeing Lita be made into an exhibition.
He was about to turn away, when the Hunter’s gaze swept across him. Yaron’s heart skipped a beat and he pulled his hat low over his brow. Had the Hunter recognised him, he wondered? He glanced back, relieved to see the Hunter now conversed with a nobleman. Expelling his breath, Yaron shrugged his way through the throng. On the other side of the carriage, he had another glimpse of Lita. She looked all womanly and wrong in her fitted dress of white silk. Only days before, she had appeared to be a young maiden. He knew he must do something that night if he were to save her from her fate.
He realised then that there was another opportunity to free her. On their way home after the theatre, the carriage would be vulnerable. If he took off now and got Sal and her ruffian friends to assist, they could ambush it and free Lita. He felt pleased with the idea and pushed his way to the back of the crowd.
If he had turned back for a second glance, Yaron might have realised he had not gone undetected.
The Hunter followed Yaron’s every move. Discretely he summoned the night guard and exchanged whispered words. The night guard nodded briskly and called two more guards over. The three of them followed Yaron’s passage through the crowd. All the while, Yaron blithely strolled away, congratulating himself on his cunning and stealth.
The Painted Sisterhood
Next day, Lita woke to find herself tucked beneath the covers of her bed. The three other beds in her room were empty, so she guessed it had to be afternoon for the girls rarely started work before lunch time. Instinctively, she reached under the mattress and inserted her fingers in the split seam where her map was hidden. She pulled it out and unfolded it, tracing the now familiar roads and ports. Her fingers travelled along the shoreline to Kipping, they rippled across the straits and followed the shipping routes to Baaran. Was this the birth land of her parents, she wondered for the dozenth time. And if so, where were they now? She heard a noise outside the room and swiftly rehid the map. She dared not let any of the girls know she was in possession of such a valuable parchment. Madam Grist would have stolen it from her in a heartbeat. The noise, it turned out, was only Madam Grist’s cat, nudging its head through the gap in the door.
The cat leapt onto Lita’s cot and pushed its face into her hand. Lita obliged with a few long strokes, until the cat grew ornery and began to bite. ‘Little Beast,’ Lita scolded the cat and pushed it from the bed. She tried to sit up, but her head throbbed with the sudden movement and warm beads of sweat broke across her brow. Then she remembered the awful draught Madam Grist had made her drink. Try as she might, she could only recall vague impressions of the evening after that. Odd things such as lights that flitted through the air like iridescent moths, the prickling of night air against her skin. Then the sickly scent of perfume when the Hunter led her up the staircase, the music… so lulling and dreamy it put her to sleep. She could not remember the return home, could not remember undressing, or being tucked into bed, but she could remember one thing. Before they left, she had every intention of fleeing and yet, when the chance came, she had clearly forgotten. With a rush of anger, she realised Madam Grist must have drugged her. The other girls had spoken of it. Just before first rite, girls were often given a special draught to settle them.
Oh, why had she taken it? Her one and only chance to run away ruined. Lita had searched the whole house very carefully in the past week and found no means of escape. Despite Yaron’s assurance that he would rescue her, she couldn’t see how he would do it. She felt as though every last hope had been dashed.
Driven by thirst, Lita crawled out of bed. Her mouth felt dryer than the Jorre Dessert. She wrapped a gown around her shift and pattered bare-footed towards the kitchens. On her way there however, she was accosted by Biccen.
‘Oh Lita,’ she cried. ‘What a success you were last evening.’
‘What do you mean?’ Lita asked, with a sinking feeling.
‘Madam Grist has received no less than twenty offers for you this morning.’
Lita moaned.
‘This is good,’ Biccen said, clutching Lita’s hand. ‘The higher the bid, the sooner you will be free of your debt to Madam Grist.’
‘What debt?’ Lita said sharply.
‘Your indenture to Madam Grist, for learning the trade, but a girl can have her term cut short if she brings good trade to her house.’ Biccen frowned. ‘Didn’t Madam explain all of this to you at the beginning?’
‘No,’ Lita replied, suddenly too humiliated to say anymore.
Biccen dropped Lita’s hand. ‘Perhaps she forgot,’ Biccen said.
For the rest of the day, all the gossip in the house centred around Lita’s bidders. At first, Lita tried to avoid the other girls and closeted herself away in the library. Few of the girls ever ventured into the library and it was something Lita could not fathom, until she realised that none of them would have known how to read. Once again, she thanked her guardian, MaKiki. Reading was Lita’s only means of escape now that she was hostage to Madam Grist.
Before long, the other girls found her and Menora, the ring leader of the group, planted herself on the wing of Lita’s chair. ‘Just now I heard something that might interest you,’ she said. The other girls leaned in close to hear, their curiosity roused despite Menora’s casual manner, for what else was there to do all
day but create intrigues from trifles. It was their favourite sport. Menora, clearly pleased to have gained their attention, continued, ‘When I passed Madam’s Grist’s chambers, I heard her talking with the Hunter... about you.’ She paused and regarded Lita with puzzlement. ‘Apparently your debut at theatre caused quite a stir, though I can’t imagine why? Biccen must have it in for you – choosing such a plain dress to send you in. Before my first rite, Madam Grist dressed me in a gown of gold when she took me to theatre, with pearl earrings and a gold choker about my throat.’ For several minutes the other girls reminisced about the gowns they had worn, and the events they had attended before the night of their painted confinement. After first rite, Madam Grist’s girls rarely accompanied gentlemen callers outside the house. It was a small port by Dracodian standards and therefore more conservative. The gentlemen of Yawmouth did not flaunt their dalliances in public.
They were finally brought back to the topic of Lita’s debut by Menora. ‘After what I heard, I think I know why she caused such a fuss.’ The other girls stopped their chatter.
‘Its that silly tale Madam Grist has put about,’ Menora shrilled. ‘Apparently, they’ve all been taken in by it. Because it seems they truly do believe she’s a Beast!’
A few of the girls shrieked with laughter.
‘I thought Beasts had fangs and fur,’ one of them cried.
‘Or beady eyes and hairy little backsides,’ another howled.
‘I’ll tell you who’s a Beast,’ Menora said with a wink, ‘Senna Fodroy. Isn’t he Vinnie? Some of the things he’s asked of you would make a common maid blush.’
The comments thereafter became so vulgar Lita felt like shrinking into the seams of her chair.
‘The funny thing is, now all them other houses claim they have she-Beasts too,’ Menora continued. ‘Madam Grist must act fast – as she doesn’t want them stealing her show. And she’s finally settled on a price for your first rite.’
Lita felt the blood drain from her face.
‘It’s gonna be tonight,’ Menora stated with glee.