by Robin Hobb
‘You. Aren’t you a priest?’ the slave asked insistently.
‘I was training to be a priest,’ Wintrow admitted, ‘though I cannot fully claim that title as yet.’ More decisively he added, ‘But I am willing to give what comfort I can.’ He eyed the chained slaves and tried to keep suspicion from his voice as he asked, ‘Who needs such comfort?’
‘She does.’ The man stepped aside. A woman crouched miserably behind him. Wintrow saw then that the other slaves clustered around her, offering her the warmth and scant shelter of their gathered bodies. She was young, surely not more than twenty, and bore no visible injuries. She was the only woman in the group. Her arms were crossed over her belly, her head bowed down on her chest. When she lifted her face to regard him, her blue eyes were dull as riverstones. Her skin was very pale and her yellow hair had been chopped into a short brush on her head. The shift she wore was patched and stained. The shirt that shawled her shoulders probably belonged to the man who had summoned Wintrow. Like the man and the other slaves in the coffle, her face was overwritten with tattoos. She bore no traces of injury that Wintrow could easily see, nor did she appear frail. On the contrary, she was a well-muscled woman with wide shoulders. Only the lines of pain on her face marked her illness.
‘What ails you?’ Wintrow asked, coming closer. In some corner of his soul, he suspected the coffle of slaves were trying to lure him close enough to seize him. As a hostage, perhaps? But no one made any threatening moves. In fact, the slaves closest to the woman turned their backs to her as much as they could, as if to offer this token of privacy.
‘I bleed,’ she said quietly. ‘I bleed and it does not stop, not since I lost the child.’
Wintrow crouched down in front of her. He reached out to touch the back of her arm. There was no fever, in fact her skin was chill in the winter sunlight. He gently pinched a fold of her skin, marked how slowly the flesh recovered. She needed water or broth. Fluids. He sensed in her only misery and resignation. It did not feel like the acceptance of death. ‘Bleeding after childbirth is normal, you know.’ He offered her. ‘And after child loss as well. It should stop soon.’
She shook her head. ‘No. He dosed me too strong, to shake the child loose from me. A pregnant woman can not work as hard, you know. Her belly gets in the way. So they forced the dose down me and I lost the child. A week ago. But still I bleed, and the blood is bright red.’
‘Even a flow of bright red blood does not mean death. You can recover. Given the proper care, a woman can—’
Her bitter laugh cut off his words. He had never heard a laugh with so much of a scream in it.
‘You speak of women. I am a slave. No, a woman need not die of this, but I shall.’ She took a breath. ‘The comfort of Sa. That is all I am asking of you. Please.’ She bowed her head to receive it.
Perhaps in that moment Wintrow finally grasped what slavery was. He had known it for an evil, been schooled to the wickedness of it since his first days in the monastery. But now he saw it and heard the quiet resignation of despair in this young woman’s voice. She did not rail against the master who had stolen her child’s life. She spoke of his action as if it were the work of some primal force, a wind storm or river flood. His cruelty and evil did not seem to concern her. Only the end product she spoke of, the bleeding that would not cease, that she expected to succumb to. Wintrow stared at her. She did not have to die. He suspected she knew that as well as he did. If she were given a warm broth, bed and shelter, food and rest, and the herbs that were known to strengthen a woman’s parts, she would no doubt recover, to live many years and bear other children. But she would not. She knew it, the other slaves in her coffle knew it and he almost knew it. Almost knowing it was like pressing his hand to the deck to await the knife. Once the reality fell, he could never be the same again. To accept it would be to lose some part of himself.
He stood abruptly, his resolve strong, but when he spoke his words were soft.
‘Wait here and do not lose hope. I will go to Sa’s temple and get help. Surely your master can be made to see reason, that you will die without care.’ He offered a bitter smile. ‘If all else fails, perhaps we can persuade him a live slave is worth more than a dead one.’
The man who had first summoned him looked incredulous. ‘The temple? Small help we shall get there. A dog is a dog, and a slave is a slave. Neither is offered Sa’s comfort there. The priests there sing Sa’s songs, but dance to the Satrap’s piping. As to the man who sells our labour, he does not even own us. All he knows is that he gets a percentage of whatever we earn each day. From that, he feeds and shelters and doses us. The rest goes to our owner. Our broker will not make his piece smaller by trying to save Cala’s life. Why should he? It costs him nothing if she dies.’ The man looked down at Wintrow’s incomprehension and disbelief. ‘I was a fool to call to you.’ Bitterness crept into his voice. ‘The youth in your eyes deceived me. I should have known by your priest’s robe that I would find no willing help in you.’ He gripped Wintrow suddenly by the shoulder, a savagely hard pinch. ‘Give her the comfort of Sa. Or I swear I will break the bones in your collar.’
The strength of his clutch left Wintrow assured he could do it. ‘You do not need to threaten me,’ Wintrow gasped. He knew that the words sounded craven. ‘I am Sa’s servant in this.’
The man flung him contemptuously on the ground before the woman. ‘Do it then. And be quick.’ The man lifted a flinty gaze to stare beyond him. The broker and the customer haggled on. The customer’s back was turned to the coffle, but the broker faced them. He smiled with his mouth at some jest of his patron and laughed, ha, ha, ha, a mechanical sound, but all the while his clenched fist and the hard look he shot at his coffle promised severe punishment if his bargaining were interrupted. His other hand tapped a small bat against his leg impatiently.
‘I… it cannot be rushed,’ Wintrow protested, even as he knelt before the woman and tried to compose his mind.
For answer, she tottered to her feet. He saw then that her legs were streaked with blood, that the ground beneath her was sodden with it. It had clotted thick on the fetters on her ankles. ‘Lem?’ she said piteously.
The other slave stepped to her quickly. She leaned on him heavily. Her breath came out a moan.
‘It will have to be rushed,’ the man pointed out brusquely.
Wintrow skipped the prayers. He skipped the preparations, he skipped the soothing words designed to ready her mind and spirit. He simply stood and put his hands on her. He positioned his fingers on the sides of her neck, spreading them until each one found its proper point. ‘This is not death,’ he assured her. ‘I but free you from the distractions of this world so that your soul may prepare itself for the next. Do you assent to this?’
She nodded, a slow movement of her head.
He accepted her consent. He drew a slow, deep, breath, aligning himself with her. He reached inside himself, to the neglected budding of his priesthood. He had never done this by himself. He had never been fully initiated into the mysteries of it. But the mechanics he knew, and those at least he could give her. He noticed in passing that the man stood with his body blocking the broker’s view and kept watch over his shoulder. The other slaves clustered close around them, to hide what they did from passing traffic. ‘Hurry,’ Lem urged Wintrow again.
He pressed lightly on the points his fingers had unerringly chosen. The pressure would banish fear, would block pain while he spoke to her. As long as he pressed, she must listen and believe his words. He gave her body to her first. ‘To you, now, the beating of your heart, the pumping of air into your lungs. To you the seeing with your eyes, the hearing with your ears, the tasting of your mouth, the feeling of all your flesh. All these things do I trust to your own control now, that you may command them to be or not to be. All these things, I give back to you, that you may prepare yourself for death with a clear mind. The comfort of Sa I offer you, that you may offer it to others.’ He saw a shade of doubt in her eyes still. He he
lped her realize her own power. ‘Say to me, “I feel no cold”.’
‘I feel no cold,’ she faintly echoed.
‘Say to me, “the pain is no more”.’
‘The pain is no more.’ The words were soft as a sigh, but as she spoke them, lines eased from her face. She was younger than he had thought. She looked up at Lem and smiled at him. ‘The pain is gone,’ she said without prompting.
Wintrow took his hands away, but stood close still. She rested her head on Lem’s chest. ‘I love you,’ she said simply. ‘You are all that has made this life bearable. Thank you.’ She took a breath that came out as a sigh. ‘Thank the others for me. For the warmth of their bodies, for doing more that my less might not be noticed. Thank them…’
Her words trailed off and Wintrow saw Sa blossoming in her face. The travails of this world were already fading from her mind. She smiled, a smile as simple as a babe’s. ‘See how beautiful the clouds are today, my love. The white against the grey. Do you see them?’
As simply as that. Unchained from her pain, her spirit turned to contemplation of beauty. Wintrow had witnessed it before but it never ceased to amaze him. Once a person had realized death, if they could turn aside from pain they immediately turned toward wonder and Sa. It took both steps, Wintrow knew that. If a person had not accepted death as a reality, the touch could be refused. Some accepted death and the touch, but could not let go of their pain. They clung to it as a final vestige of life. But Cala had let go easily, so easily that Wintrow knew she had been longing to let go for a long time.
He stood quietly by and did not speak. Nor did he listen to the exact words she spoke to Lem. Tears coursed down Lem’s cheeks, over the scars of a hard life and the embedded dyes of his slave-tattoo. They dripped from his roughly shaven chin. He said nothing, and Wintrow purposely did not hear the content of Cala’s words. He listened to the tone instead and knew that she spoke of love and life and light. Blood still moved in a slow red trickle down her bare leg. He saw her head loll on her shoulder as she weakened, but the smile did not leave her face. She had been closer to death than he had guessed; her stoic demeanour had deceived him. She would be gone soon. He was glad he had been able to offer her and Lem this peaceful parting.
‘Hey!’ A bat jabbed him in the small of his back. ‘What are you doing?’
The slave-broker gave Wintrow no time to answer. Instead he pushed the boy aside, dealing him a bruising jab to the short ribs as he did so. It knocked the wind out of his lungs and for a moment, all he could do was curl over his offended midsection, gasping. The broker stepped boldly into the midst of his coffle, to snarl at Lem and Cala. ‘Get away from her,’ he spat at Lem. ‘What are you trying to do, get her pregnant again, right here in the middle of the street? I just got rid of the last one.’ Foolishly, he reached to grab Cala’s unresisting shoulder. He jerked at the woman but Lem held her fast even as he uttered a roar of outrage. Wintrow would have recoiled from the look in his eyes alone, but the slave-broker snapped Lem in the face with the small bat, a practised, effortless movement. The skin high on Lem’s cheek split and blood flowed down his face. ‘Let go!’ the broker commanded him at the same time. Big as the slave was, the sudden blow and pain half-stunned him. The broker snatched Cala from his embrace, and let her fall sprawling into the bloody dirt. She fell bonelessly, wordlessly, and lay where she had bled, staring beatifically up at the sky. Wintrow’s experienced eye told him that in reality she saw nothing at all. She had chosen to stop. As he watched, her breath grew shallower and shallower. ‘Sa’s peace to you,’ he managed to whisper in a strained voice.
The broker turned on him. ‘You’ve killed her, you idiot! She had at least another day’s work in her!’ He snapped the bat at Wintrow, a sharply stinging blow to the shoulder that broke the skin and bruised the flesh without breaking bones. From the point of his shoulder down, pain flashed through his arm, followed by numbness. Indeed, a well-practised gesture, some part of him decided as he yelped and sprang back. He stumbled into one of the other hobbled slaves, who pushed him casually aside. They were all closing on the broker and suddenly his nasty little bat looked like a puny and foolish weapon. Wintrow felt his gorge rise; they would beat him to death, they’d jelly his bones.
But the slave-broker was an agile little man who loved his work and excelled at it. Lively as a frisking puppy, he spun about and snapped out with his bat, flick, flick, flick. At each blow, his bat found slave-flesh, and a man fell back. He was adept at dealing out pain that disabled without damaging. He was not so cautious with Lem, however. The moment the big man moved, he struck him again, a sharp snap of the bat across his belly. Lem folded up over it, his eyes bulging from their sockets.
And meanwhile, in the slave-market, the passing traffic continued. A raised eyebrow or two at this unruly coffle, but what did one expect of map-faces and those who mongered them? Folk stepped well wide of them and continued on their way. No use to call to them for help, to protest he was not a slave. Wintrow doubted that any of them would care.
While Lem gagged up bile, the broker casually unlocked the blood-caked fetters from Cala’s ankles. He shook them clear of her dead feet, then glared at Wintrow. ‘By all rights, I should clap these on you!’ he snarled. ‘You’ve cost me a slave, and a day’s wages, if I’m not mistaken. And I am not, see, there goes my customer. He’ll want nothing to do with this coffle, after they’ve shown such bad temperament.’ He pointed the bat after his fleeing prospect. ‘Well. No work, no food, my charmers.’
The little man’s manner was so acridly pleasant, Wintrow could not believe his ears. ‘A woman is dead, and it is your fault!’ he pointed out to the man. ‘You poisoned her to shake loose a child, but it killed her as well. Murder twice is upon you!’ He tried to rise, but his whole arm was still numb from the earlier blow, as was his belly. He shifted to his knees to try to get up. The little man casually kicked him down again.
‘Such words, such words, from such a cream-faced boy! I am shocked, I am. Now I’ll take every penny you have, laddie, to pay my damages. Every coin, now, be prompt, don’t make me shake it out of you.’
‘I have none,’ Wintrow told him angrily. ‘Nor would I give you any I had!’
The man stood over him and poked him with his bat. ‘Who’s your father, then? Someone’s going to have to pay.’
‘I’m alone,’ Wintrow snapped. ‘No one’s going to pay you or your master anything for what I did. I did Sa’s work. I did what was right.’ He glanced past the man at the coffle of slaves. Those who could stand were getting to their feet. Lem had crawled over by Cala’s body. He stared intently into her upturned eyes, as if he could also see what she now beheld.
‘Well, well. Right for her may be wrong for you,’ the little man pointed out snidely. He spoke briskly, like rattling stones. ‘You see, in Jamaillia, slaves are not entitled to Sa’s comfort. So the Satrap has ruled. If a slave truly had the soul of a man, well, that man would never end up a slave. Sa, in his wisdom, would not allow it. At least, that’s how it was explained to me. So. Here I am with one dead slave and no day’s work. The Satrap isn’t going to like that. Not only are you a killer of his slaves, but a vagrant, too. If you looked like you could do a decent day’s work, I’d clap some chains and a tattoo on you right now. Save us all some time. But. A man must work within the law. Ho, guard!’ The little man lifted his bat and waved it cheerily at a passing city guard. ‘Here’s one for you. A boy, no family, no coin, and in debt to me for damage to the Satrap’s slaves. Take him in custody, would you? Here, now! Stop, come back!’
The last exclamation came as Wintrow scrabbled to his feet and darted away from them both. Only Lem’s cry of warning made him glance back. He should have ducked instead. The deftly-flung, spinning club caught him on the side of the head and dropped him in the filthy street of the slave-market.
24
RAIN WILD TRADERS
‘BECAUSE ANYTHING out of the ordinary rattles me, that’s why,’ Grandma snapped.
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‘I’m sorry,’ Malta’s mother said in a neutral voice. ‘I was only asking.’ She stood behind Grandmother at her vanity table, pinning up her hair for her. She didn’t sound sorry, she sounded weary of Grandma’s eternal irritability. Malta didn’t blame her. Malta was sick of them both being so crabby. It seemed to her that all they focused on was the sad side of life, the worrying parts. Tonight there was a big gathering of Old Traders and they were taking Malta with them. Malta had spent most of the afternoon arranging her hair and trying on her new robe. But here were her mother and grandmother, just dressing at the last minute, and acting as if the whole thing were some chore instead of a chance to get out and see people and talk. She just couldn’t understand them.
‘Are you ready yet?’ she nudged them. She didn’t want to be the last one to get there. There would be a lot of talking tonight, a Rain Wild and Trader business discussion her mother had said. She couldn’t see why her mother and grandmother found that so distressing. No doubt that would be sit still and try not to be bored time. Malta wanted to arrive while there was still talking and greeting and refreshments being offered. Then maybe she could find Delo and sit with her. It was stupid that it was taking them so long to get ready. They should have each had a servant to assist with dressing hair and laying out garments and all the rest of it. Every other Trader family had such servants. But no, Grandma insisted that they could no longer afford them and Mama had agreed. And when Malta had argued they had made her sit down with a big stack of tally-sticks and receipts and try to make sense of them in one of the ledger books. She had muddled the page, and Grandma made her copy it out again. And then they had wanted to sit around and talk about what the numbers meant and why the numbers said they couldn’t have servants any more, only Nana and Rache. Malta would be very glad when Papa got back. She was sure there was something they were missing. It made no sense to her. How could they suddenly be poor? Nothing else had changed. Yet there they were, in robes at least two years old, dressing one another’s hair and snipping at each other as they did it. ‘Can we go soon?’ she asked again. She didn’t know why they wouldn’t answer.