And you and Papa will have favorable terms on the shipping contracts.
She ought to nod obediently. Ought not to protest. It was, after all, what all the good families expected of their children. But Galt frightened her. It was how his lips paled when he saw her dancing with Mann. It was his tone, when he did not like her replies, and the look on his face when he took possession of her hand. The fury she sensed running just beneath the surface. Magic had made it plain to her, but once detected she thought it obvious to anyone. The rumors only confirmed what she already knew. Theodr Galt was a cruel man.
Ehren took her hands in his and smiled. “Therez, you’re just reacting to the surprise. I’ll attend Father’s meeting with Galt tomorrow. I promise to look out for you.”
Hope, quickly followed by doubt. “What if you find he was at fault with Marina Bartos?”
“I told you. Those stories are just rumors.”
“But what if those rumors are true?”
Her brother made an exasperated noise. “I tell you they aren’t. Besides, Papa wants to expand the business, and with the trade embargoes, Maester Galt can help us with new routes.”
“Us? Aren’t you going back to university?”
He hesitated. “I don’t know.”
So our father has snared us both.
Slowly she nodded. “I understand.”
“You do?” Ehren gazed at her anxiously.
“I understand perfectly.”
Still he hesitated. “You sound …” He paused. “Empty.”
She smiled. “I’m just tired, Ehren. I think I’ll go to my rooms. Thank you.”
In her own rooms, a maid had waited up for her. Therez dismissed her, saying she would undress herself. A grateful look flashed across the maid’s face. She dropped into a curtsy and left Therez to her solitude.
Therez extinguished the lamps in her outer rooms one by one. Methodical—that was the key to self-control. She proceeded into her bedchamber where a single lamp burned. She took off her dress and laid it carefully over a chair. Next came her stockings and her jewelry and undergown. Dressed in her shift, she removed the pearls from her hair and unbound her long braid.
Tomorrow Galt and my father will negotiate the terms and sign the papers, she thought, brushing out her hair. They might even announce the betrothal in public.
Therez shivered. She had the sudden vivid image how Theodr Galt had looked, clasping her hand, when he said good night. But now all perspective had changed. She was shrinking, her figure dwindling to the size of a gem, which he picked up and gazed at with satisfaction, before placing her in a box and turning the key.
I can’t marry him. I can’t. I’ll end up just like my mother.
But what could she do? Her father and brother did not care. Her mother had no influence. And her grandmother was dying—whether in a week or a month. She could not help Therez. No one in her family would do what Maester Bartos had done for his daughter.
Therez stood and moved swiftly to her dressing room. She flung open her wardrobe, pushed aside the dresses and gowns, and, reaching into the back, pulled out a riding skirt. It was plain and dark, made of sturdy wool. An armful of warmer tunics and shirts came next, then a pair of low boots. Knitted stockings and underlinens came next. From the linens chest, she dug out three thick blankets.
Money. I need money.
She gathered up the clothes and blankets, carried them into her bedroom, and tossed them onto her bed. Then she pulled out a small locked box from another closet. She unlocked the box and poured out a heap of coins. Twenty gold deniers. Fifty-odd silver deniers. Was it enough?
Her strength unexpectedly left her. She sank to the floor, dizzy. “Where am I going?” she whispered. “Where can I go?”
She stared around her bedroom. What could a privileged girl do outside her household? Outside marriage? She knew sewing and embroidery. Beyond that, she was accomplished in writing and sums.
Her heart beat faster. Writing. Yes. A thousand opportunities exist in Duenne. Both barons had said that. And she could write. She knew about trade and business. With that kind of training she could …
“I can go to Duenne just as I planned,” she said out loud. Not exactly. She would have to earn her keep—as a scribe perhaps, or an assistant to a merchant. That would be far better, she thought. Then she could make her life as she wished.
Working swiftly, she changed into the plainest of her traveling clothes. She located a bag for her belongings and packed her clothes and blankets. After a moment’s thought, she added a knife her brother had given her years before, then a handful of bracelets and necklaces. The jewelry she could keep hidden, then sell once she reached Duenne. But no silk stockings or skirts. Nothing fine or obviously expensive. She must not call attention to herself.
She looked at her shelves, which were crowded with books—poetry books, volumes of essays, texts on history. One shelf alone held her old lesson books, with notes scrawled in their margins. If only she could take one—just one book for her exile.
The quarter-hour chimes sounded, followed by two gongs from the hour bell. No time to choose, she could buy more once she reached Duenne. Quickly, she stuffed her money into a leather purse. She paused, thinking of robbers, then removed her money, divided it into three heaps. One share went into her boots. She wrapped a second portion in a handkerchief and tucked it into her shirt. A third went into the bottom of her bag along with her jewelry. She slung the bag over her shoulder, and with a last survey of her room, she left.
Outside, the corridor was still and dark. She glanced down the hall, toward her grandmother’s suite. But there could be no visit nor farewells, even silent ones—not if she wished to avoid notice.
Good-bye, she thought. I love you. Remember me.
She glided through the hallway and down the stairs, finding her way by touch. When she rounded the last turn and came into the silent entry hall, she hesitated. Ten more steps to the door. It took her several long moments before she could bring herself to take the first of those ten.
I will never see this house again. I will never see Klara or Ehren. Or my grandmother.
She drew a long breath. Her pulse was beating fast and hard, but her hands were steady as she unbarred the doors. A cool breeze blew against her face as she stepped outside.
CHAPTER THREE
THICK FOG SWIRLED around her, and a green grassy scent, like the fragrance of new wildflowers, drenched the air. Somewhere to her left, a torch burned. By its light she could just make out several figures moving about. They were little more than flickers and smudges against the eerie white blankness. From a distance came the muted whuff of a horse, footsteps, and numerous voices speaking in low tones. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, but she recognized the soft, slurring lilt of a northern Károvín dialect. Everything else was muffled, as though wrapped in cotton. The fog, of course.
It was the fog that caused them to lose their way in the hills. An unnatural fog, called up by the king’s mage-trackers, who led these soldiers directly to her and the young man from Veraene’s Court. He had died messily. Remembering, her stomach lurched. She swallowed the bile in her throat and pulled against the ropes binding her to the stake. They did not budge.
A rough hand took hold of her chin and raised her head. It was Ferda Krecek, a captain recently assigned to castle duty. Leos’s dog, the men called him. He examined her dispassionately, his eyes narrowed to dark slits. The torchlight gave his brown complexion a ruddy cast.
I did not expect to catch you so easily, he said.
I should have learned more magic, then, she said breathlessly.
Ah, defiance. He did not appear impressed.
Not defiance, she said. A chance for peace, for honor—
He stopped her with an abrupt gesture. There is no honor in treason.
“Shit, shit, shit! You damned idiot!”
“Damn yourself, you piss-faced son of a whore.”
Therez scrambled to her feet,
slipped, and fell against a door’s framework. It took her a moment to take in her surroundings—cobblestones and men’s voices arguing, smoking torches that reeked of tar, and dawn’s gray light seeping across the sky. Not far away stood Melnek’s western gates, closed until daylight.
She located her bag and checked her belongings. Money safe. Clothing just as she left it. She rubbed her hands against her skirt. They stung where she’d barked them against the door frame.
“I tell you it wasn’t my fault.”
“Lying bastard.”
Two men faced each other, not ten steps away. Both were stocky and red-faced, their hair tied in sweat-soaked braids. A blocky shadow stood beyond them—a wagon with two horses.
One man pointed angrily at a shattered crate, its load of salted fish strewn over the cobblestones. “You,” he growled. “You lost me a week’s pay.”
The other man swore. “That I never did. You’re the bastard who dropped his end. Dropped it like a limp prick.”
“Stop it, both of you.” A third man shoved his way between the two. “We’re late. What’s the dust-up?”
“Balz fucked himself up last night.”
“Fah! That’s a lie, Dag. He saw this chit—”
Dag shot an angry glance at Therez. She shrank into her doorway, but he only muttered a curse about whores in the streets. Still cursing his crew for their stupidity, he ordered them to clean up the mess and load the other crates.
Therez caught up her bag and slid around the corner into the alley. It was an accident. It wasn’t my fault.
Dodging the crowds, she circled around the square. Despite the early hour, teams were already at work, making ready for departure. Men and boys darted from one task to the next. Some carried torches and held them aloft for others who were loading crates and sacks into the wagons. Dogs and sheep milled about, adding to the noise and confusion.
She stopped by a fountain and washed her hands and face. An old worn column rose from the center, carved to show Lir in her three aspects. The maiden was hardly more than a suggestion of youth and grace, and only a trace of the mother showed—centuries had obscured her face. But for the crone, the artisan had caved strong deep lines. It was from her upraised hands that the water flowed. An old statue, carved in the style of those centuries before the empire absorbed Morauvín, before the Erythandran priests gave the name Toc to Lir’s unknown consort, with whom she disported during her season of love.
Therez drank a second handful of water and scanned the square. She would have to act soon. The gates would open before long. She knew from listening to her father and Ehren that caravan masters often sold seats in their wagons, when space allowed, and kept the money for themselves. Even if she couldn’t find a caravan bound directly for Duenne, she could take passage across the hills to the next trade city and wait for one that did.
Of the three or four caravans, she dismissed the two smallest. Those had only two or three wagons apiece, and no other passengers she could see. A third caravan had a dozen wagons, with several families gathered around. Therez circled a group of apprentices, chatting about their new posting in Kassel, and approached a woman nursing her baby. “Excuse me,” she said. “Can you help me?”
The woman looked up. She took in Therez’s rumpled clothing and her eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”
“Could you tell me where this caravan’s bound?”
The woman’s expression remained wary. “You look fair young to be alone.”
Therez drew a shaky breath. “I’m fifteen, almost sixteen. Old enough to lose my parents.”
“Ah, well.” The woman’s mouth relaxed. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” Therez brushed a hand over her face. With hunger and weariness, it wasn’t hard to feign distress. “I’m going to my aunt in Duenne. I need to find passage today.”
“Well, this one’s bound for Strahlsende and then south to Klee. You’ll do better with that other caravan. The caravan master is just over there.” She pointed toward a heavily built man who leaned against a wagon, his arms folded, watching his crew at work and occasionally snapping out orders. The man’s face was a dark brown, tanned even darker by the sun. He looked as rough as Balz, but with a shrewd expression in his black eyes.
Therez hesitated.
“Go on,” said the woman. “He won’t bite.”
The man glanced in their direction. Seeing their interest, he smiled—a quick wolfish smile that showed yellow teeth against his dark face. He turned his head and said something that made the nearest man laugh.
Therez felt the blood rise to her face. She thanked the woman and started across the square, skirting the muck and puddles. The caravan master continued to watch, his mouth quirked in a faint smile, as though he enjoyed observing her fastidious progress.
“Are you the caravan master?” she asked, when she was close enough to make herself heard.
“I am.” He had a low, raspy voice. Close up, she could see that his trousers were stained and patched. He wore a coarse brown shirt, unbuttoned to show a thick muscled neck.
“Are you— Is your caravan going to Duenne, sir?”
“My name’s Alarik Brandt, not sir. And yes, it is.”
“I need a passage to the city,” she said as confidently as she dared. “How much do you charge?”
The caravan master flexed his hands and stared at Therez with a long, appraising look. Just when she thought she would have to repeat her question, he nodded. “Three denier for the passage. Gold ones.”
Three. That was far more than she expected. “What if I don’t have that much?”
The man shrugged. “Then you get no passage from me. At that price, it’s a favor I’m doing you.”
Before she could say anything, a commotion broke out nearby. Two boys were wrestling with a balky horse, which had become entangled in its harness. Without another glance at Therez, the caravan master started toward them. “Damned fools,” he muttered.
“Wait,” Therez called out.
Brandt paused, his back to her.
“I have the price,” she said.
He turned back, his face unsmiling. “You do?”
She nodded.
More noise broke out as a half dozen men stopped their own tasks and went to help the boys with their unruly horse. One or two stared at Therez but the caravan master gestured at them sharply and they turned back to their tasks.
Brandt folded his arms. “Well, girl, show me you have the money.”
Therez dropped her bag onto the ground and rummaged through her clothes for the purse, which she’d stowed underneath. Her neck felt hot under the man’s amused gaze, but at last she untangled the purse and rooted through its contents. Finally she separated three gold denier from the rest. She shoved her purse back into her bag and stood up.
The man held out one hand, and Therez placed the sum into his callused palm. His hands were as dark as his face, the skin pebbly, and a crooked scar twisted the flesh around his thumb. Unexpectedly, her thoughts veered back to her father’s hands, as smooth as the bales of silk in his warehouse, and to his voice, which never rose above a thin whisper. This man was as unlike her father as she could have wished.
“That was the price of a seat,” he said. “If you want meals, that’s two more denier.”
Gold ones, his tone said. The price was too high, but she had no more time. Another hour and her mother would discover her absence. “Two for meals,” she said, as matter-of-factly as she could. She dug out two more coins from her pack.
He took them with a grin. “I like a girl who pays her debts.”
She nodded, not knowing how to answer that. At her silence, Brandt grunted and waved a hand toward another wagon. “Take a seat in that one. Oh, and if you want a bite, ask Ulf, the cook, for some bread and coffee. Tell him Alarik sent you.”
“Where is the cook wagon?”
“Ask.” He was already moving away.
Therez released a shaky breath, still unsettled by the tran
saction. Liberty at the cost of five gold coins. Fair or not, she would have paid twice that.
One of the smaller boys pointed out the cook wagon for her. Ulf had packed most of his gear, but he poured her a cup of thick black coffee and hacked off a generous slab of bread. “Best I can do, girl. Alarik should have sent you earlier. Here, have another cup of coffee. You look worn out. Bring me the mug when you’re done.”
The bread was tough, the coffee bitter and thick with grinds, but the meal filled her empty stomach and revived her strength. Therez brought the mug back to Ulf, thanking him. Ulf’s glance snagged momentarily on her face, curious. “Going to Duenne?”
“To stay with my aunt.” The lie came more easily this second time. “My parents died. My aunt said she can find me a posting. At least I hope she can.”
Ulf grunted, indifferent to aunts and dying parents, and turned back to his duties. Therez hurried back to her wagon and squeezed into a gap between the tightly packed crates, directly behind the driver. Nearby, a scholar in his black robes perched in another wagon, reading from a small book. A troupe of tumblers practiced their tricks in the small clearing between. Soon one of Brandt’s men came by, shooing them to take their places.
Alarik Brandt mounted his horse and started bellowing out orders. The crew was furiously loading the last few boxes, while mounted guards circled the wagons. A drover’s herd of sheep streamed past, bleating, with dogs nipping at their legs. Dust choked the air. Somewhere a child was sobbing. The noise rose until Therez thought she would go deaf. Then a voice called out from atop the city walls. Others, whom she could not see, pushed the gates open.
“Wagon first, start forward,” Brandt called out.
One by one the wagons rolled through the gates. Therez’s teeth clacked together at the first jolt, and her head knocked against one of the crates. The driver grinned. “Hold on, girl.”
Outside the city, they passed a stretch of grasslands where goats and cows grazed, followed by scattered workshops, then a village. Keeping one hand on the wagon to steady herself, Therez rose to her knees for one last look at Melnek’s rust-red towers and walls. She could just make out the governor’s palace and the chief bell tower near her father’s house. A faint echo of chimes sounded in the air. One. Two. Three quarters. Six deep-throated peals for the hour.
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