The old woman shrugged. "Not for very long, if it is any consolation to you, dear."
"It isn't really," Miranda muttered. "And my name is Miranda, thank you, not 'dear'."
"I understood your name was Rebecca?" the old woman asked, with a faint hit of rich Prolixine brogue in her accent
"My name is what I say my name is, and I say it is Miranda," Miranda replied irritably. "Who are you?"
"Abigail, dear, I'm your lady's maid," Abigail said. "Lord Quirian has appointed me to tend to you."
"A slave?" Miranda asked.
"I am free in my mind, that is all that matters."
"Don't be trite," Miranda said. "I have no need of a slave." She had never been comfortable around slaves, never owned any of her own but never liked to be around those that belonged to other people either. This was not only because she could never quite bring herself to believe that it was right for one man to own another, but also because of reasons far more pragmatic than they were noble. If slaves were - or appeared to be - happy in their lot then that meant they were either sincere, which was too uncomfortable a reminder of Michael and his madness for her liking, or they were lying, in which case they could not be trusted. But if they were honest in their discontent then, well, who would want someone openly mutinous going anywhere near their meals?
Servants had never been much better. She had employed them, of course, once she had become established; she had not worked hard to improve her station in life only to clean her own house or cook her own dinners when she had better things to be getting on with. But she had never liked her staff, never liked dealing with them, never been more comfortable than when she had dismissed them just prior to leaving with Lysimachus.
"I do not intend to stay in this house," Miranda continued. "Before I leave I will attempt to secure your freedom, if you wish."
"That's very generous of you, but what would I do with freedom?" Abigail asked with a smile. Miranda had the impression it was supposed to be a sweet and grandmotherly smile, though the effect was spoiled by the fact that it did not reach her impenetrable grey eyes. "I am exactly where I am meant to be."
"Oh, God preserve us," Miranda murmured, rolling her eyes. She found her stick leaning against the wall where she had left it, and used it to push herself off the bed and to her feet. She hobbled around the bed, and Abigail, to find the bags she had brought with her from Lover's Rock. "You can leave now, I'm going to get dressed."
"I could help you with that. It is my job, after all," Abigail observed.
"I don't need your help," Miranda replied sharply. "I have been dressing myself since I was a child."
"Are you so modest about your appearance?" Abigail asked, sounding amused. "Or are you worried I will think less of you for needing assistance?"
"My reasons are none of your business," Miranda snapped. "Out! I command it!"
"For someone who does not like slaves you certainly know the tone of voice in which to command them," Abigail said.
"For a slave you are remarkably insolent," Miranda replied. "Are you so eager to work?"
"Perhaps my insolence is calculated to get a taste of the lash."
"Then you will be disappointed," Miranda said firmly. "I'll not have anyone whipped on my account or in my presence." Michael had been flogged more than once by his master, the same man whom Michael would praise as a model of gentility and piety. Jonathan Dolabella treated his horses better than he treated his fellow men and for such an enlightened attitude he was regarded the best man in town and a model Turonim. He turned Michael's back into a mass of scars yet Michael would sing his praises, wash the fellow's feet with his hair and probably eat the scraps from his table too if he was asked. Miranda hated the hypocrisy of it, the sheer casual wickedness of it all. She hated how it looked too, the blood, the pain. How could these so-called great men treat other men so? Did they truly believe they were a breed apart?
She would beat no slaves, nor suffer any slaves to be beaten. If she had her way there would be no slaves at all.
Perhaps, after Prince Antiochus has taken the throne, he will be grateful enough to grant universal emancipation as a boon to me.
"Stay if you must," Miranda told Abigail. "But I need no assistance." She set her stick upon the bed, leaned against the wall with one hand, and began to unfasten the back of her blouse with the other. That done, she began to pull it off until it was hanging by the arm which she was using to lean on the wall. She switched arms in order to finish getting the blue blouse off, then sat down upon the bed in her smalls. Then she began to take those off too.
At that moment the door opened and a tall, ungainly girl walked in carrying a tray of steaming hot pastries. "Morning! I thought you might be hungry so I brought you some breakf─" The girl saw Miranda, sitting on the bed with basically nothing on, and stopped in midsentence. She squeaked like a mouse when confronted by a cat. A bright red blush spread across her face. She stood absolutely still, trembling a little as her face.
"Um, I, er..." Miranda looked around desperately. "Would you mind closing the door? There's a bit of a draught."
The girl squeaked some more, but did not move.
Miranda sighed. "Abigail, would you mind?"
"Of course not, dear," Abigail got up, setting her knitting to one side as she did so, and darted around the girl with the pastry tray to shut the door.
The girl had not stopped staring, to the point Miranda was now starting to find it a little off-putting.
"Would you mind looking somewhere else please," Miranda said. "You must have your own equivalent to what you can see here?"
The girl squeaked again. Her hair was cornflower yellow, worn in an unruly pixie cut with long bangs that fell between her golden eyes. Her features were soft, her nose in particular being very small and delicate in a way made Miranda want to kiss it. Her arms were very long, fitting for her storkish body, and she had a very noticeable hump on her back. That aside, she was quite pretty. She would have been more so if she hadn't looked so awkward and ill at ease with her surroundings but also, Miranda thought, with her own skin too. And of course her desirability would have been greatly improved if she could have torn her eyes away from Miranda's breasts.
The girl's nose started to bleed. Miranda couldn't roll her eyes far enough back.
"Would you pass me a fascia, please?" Miranda asked.
Abigail, who had a smug half-smile upon her aged and wrinkled face, nodded. "Certainly." She bent down and started rooting through the clothes Miranda had brought with her. "The lacy one?"
"I don't have a salt-spoiled lacy one," Miranda said loudly. She could have sworn she heard Abigail chuckle as she handed Miranda one of her linen breast bands.
Miranda fastened it on and covered herself as quickly as she could. "Right, now that that's been put away perhaps you'll stop looking."
The girl nodded her head frantically. "Yes, right, sorry!"
Miranda stood up to put on a loose fitting white shift with elbow length sleeves and a high neckline. She asked the awkward girl, "Who are you anyway?"
"Oh, right, we haven't met yet have we?" the girl asked. She smiled brightly, something which accentuated the sweetness of her face. "My name's Octavia, Octavia Volucris. I'm one of Lord Quirian's Lost and he asked me to be your bodyguard because the city can get quite rough sometimes and he knew that I was strong enough to take care of you and I know that we're going to be great friends and have so much─"
"Calm down, please, before you suffocate," Miranda said. "I was not asked if I wanted a bodyguard, nor do I think I need one. It isn't as though I intend to go wandering the rough parts of the city in the dead of night."
"You never know what can happen," Abigail murmured. "A big city is not like a small town."
"No, this city doesn't have the Crimson Rose anywhere near it," Miranda retorted. "It was kind of Lord Quirian to make the offer but I have no need of a warrior to follow me around. Your protection is not required." In truth she found it hard
to believe that this awkward, ungainly girl was one of Lord Quirian's elite. But then, Captain Lucifer sounded very young as well.
Octavia looked crushed. "Really? You...you don't want me?"
"No, it isn't that-"
"Is it because I walked in on you?"
"No, that has nothing to do with it," Miranda said. "I simply don't feel in any danger."
"But I want to help!" Octavia insisted. "If you don't let me stay then I'll never be able to show Lord Quirian what I can do! And I'll never get any respect from anyone in the Lost."
"Respect?" Miranda asked.
"I'm sorry, you don't need to know. You don't care," Octavia said, bowing her head forlornly.
Miranda sighed. "Please don't look like that. Look, thank you for thinking of me and bringing me breakfast. Sit down, and we'll share them. And while we eat I promise to think about it."
Octavia looked surprised. "You... you want to eat with me?"
"Is that so surprising?" Miranda asked.
"I, um..." Octavia hesitated. Her voice, when it came, was barely louder than a whisper. "Thank you."
She sat down, and the two of them began to share the tray of pastries while they were still warm.
"So, tell me," Miranda asked. "Did you like what you saw?"
Octavia squeaked louder than ever before, the blush returning to her face with a vengeance.
Miranda could only laugh.
Octavia, though she revealed that Lord Quirian was wealthy enough to have a private bath in his house, did not wish to go down to bathe with Miranda. It was a pity really, Miranda would have liked to have seen a little more of Octavia just as the tall girl had seen rather a lot of her. But she supposed Octavia was a little self-conscious about the hump on her back, and considering how she had hated her own leg in her childhood Miranda could hardly find fault with that. But it did mean she was left with old Abigail to escort her down to the bath, to sit and watch while Miranda washed herself and then got dressed again.
It was only after she had dressed for the second time that day that Miranda was intercepted on her way back to her room by Metella Kardia.
"Lord Father requests your presence," Metella said softly, managing to make it seem less like a request and more like a command by dint of her impassive face and stern manner. "You will follow me."
Miranda nodded. "As you say. Lead on."
Metella half turned, but then fixed her eyes upon Abigail. "Where is Octavia?"
"Up in my room I suppose," Miranda replied.
Metella gave a faint, barely noticeable sigh. "I will have her summoned. She should not have left your presence."
"Surely I am allowed some privacy," Miranda said. "I don't intend to take Quirian's bodyguard with me into my new home."
Metella looked at her sideways. To Abigail she said, "Your presence is not required."
"Is that so, dear? What a pity," Abigail said. "I might quite want to watch."
"Very well, if Lord Father will permit it," Metella said. "Follow."
She led them down wide, red-walled corridors decorated with more statues. The frescoes here were of battles and heroes long ago, the mosaics depicted famous scenes from stories Miranda vaguely remembered.
"Lord Quirian is certainly a great enthusiast for history, isn't he?" Miranda observed, attempting to make conversation.
Metella did not respond, but Abigail said, "In my day, we called it living in the past."
Miranda laughed. "I know the taste of that better than most. When Lord Quirian starts babbling about honour and the Corona Firstborn and his antique chivalry then I will worry. At the moment he gives me no concerns."
"There are more ways to live in the past than to seek to abide by history's values, dear," Abigail admonished. "Worse ways, perhaps."
"I doubt that very much," Miranda replied.
Metella paused at the entrance to the dining room, the same room where Miranda had met Lord Quirian the night before, to give instruction to a young man with close cropped brown hair, who ran off to do her bidding. Then she led Miranda in.
Lord Quirian was waiting for her, dressed in a toga of sky blue. At the sight of Miranda he rose and proferred an elaborate bow. "Ah, Filia Miranda, a thousand good mornings." He took Miranda's hand in his own and half raised it to his lips before he said, "Ah, but I forgot. You cannot abide such flummery."
"Indeed not," Miranda replied. "May I sit?"
"By all means. You have broken your fast already?"
"Yes, with Octavia," Miranda said as she sat down. "I must say my lord, as kind of you as it was to give me a maid and a bodyguard I require neither."
Quirian smiled fondly. "There is nothing wrong with self reliance, Filia Miranda, but equally there is no shame in accepting the aid of those who mean you well."
"That depends how patronisingly the aid is offered," Miranda retorted.
"Patronising? Pray, Filia, enlighten me on how it is patronising to consider that the city streets can be rough and wild, especially for newcomers to the harlot of the world."
"And Abigail?"
"All the best ladies are attended by servants, Filia, and with me as your host and Prince Antiochus as your patron you must accustom yourself to the fact that you have entered into society," Quirian said. "I would not wish you to look too poor before the ladies of court."
"I am poor," Miranda replied. "Compared to the likes of great patrician ladies."
"Simply because you do not have a mountain of glittering wealth looted from temples and palaces beyond count to rest upon does not mean you must go to the palace dressed in beggar's rags. I shall see you are given new clothes."
Miranda looked herself up and down. "What's the matter with the way I'm dressed?"
Quirian smiled. "Nothing at all, Filia, for a provincial maid. Very pretty. But you cannot attend court so attired."
"Oh for goodness' sake," Miranda snapped. "Am I here to work or to attend parties? Provided I give him his army what should Prince Antiochus care how I dress? If you will pardon me I should prefer to discuss business rather than fashion."
Quirian nodded. "Speak on, Filia, I am attentive."
"Lysimachus made some preliminary offer of my fee, but there is no settled agreement between us on the matter," Miranda said. "I should also like to discuss my lodgings."
"His Highness will pay you five eternals a day," Quirian said. "Does that satisfy?"
Miranda's jaw hung open. Five eternals a day? A gold eternal was the highest denomination in the Empire, and you could hire a hundred and fifty labourers for a day with five of them, or near enough. She had never charged more than three eternals for any service no matter how severe the ailment or how rich the patient. Most transactions were done in copper pennies or, at most, in silver shillings. One year of this and I would be rich enough to go back home and buy half of Lover's Rock.
"That is...yes," Miranda stammered. "I will take it, gladly. Now, as for my accommodation─"
"If you are not satisfied with your room, Filia, I have many others," Quirian said.
"I am sure you do," Miranda replied. "But I had always intended to find a house of my own in the city, something modest. I have brought money with me, I shall not need to beg you for an advance."
Quirian's smile faded. His brown eyes hid his thoughts. He said, "I am afraid, Filia, that that will hardly be possible. As I said, you are new to the city and to the currents that run through it. In light of your importance to our cause, His Highness and I would prefer it if you remained here with me."
"I would not prefer it," Miranda said.
"And your happiness is of great concern to me, Filia, but I must insist," Quirian said. "What would happen if the Lord Commenae decided to set his chariot faction on you while you were beyond my protection?"
"Is that likely?"
"I would not rule it out," Quirian replied. "Besides which, it will be much more convenient to do your work here if you live here also."
"Perhaps, but it will also mean surrende
ring a great many of my rights," Miranda said. Tenants, which term in law encompassed long term guests who paid no rent yet had no home of their own, had fewer rights than property owners under the Aenean Code. As the head of the Callistus family - since Michael was a slave and had thus by the alchemy of law been transmuted into no better than a chair - and as the owner of her own house Miranda had been permitted to vote in the elections for the town aedile and for candidates for the comitia. As a citizen of the fourth rank she could own up to twenty slaves, not that she would have wanted to, sit on a jury and bring complaint before a magistrate. If she became Lord Quirian's guest on a permanent basis, and so surrendered her stake in the community of citizens, then she would also give up her local voting rights, her right to sit on a jury and if she wished to approach a magistrate she would have to find a patron and petition them to make complaint on her behalf. And without property she would probably descend into the fifth or even sixth ranks of citizenship come the next census, if she remained homeless by then. None of that added up to a prospect that Miranda relished, to say the least.
"I know that I ask much of you with this, Filia, but I ask you to recognise that I offer much in recompense, far more than I ask you to surrender," Quirian replied. "What is the right to sit of a jury having your ears wearied by buffoons, or to vote for some self-important town aedile, compared to the ability to whisper into the ear of a prince and shape the policy of an entire nation?"
"The law does not respect those who whisper in the ear of princes," Miranda replied.
"Oh, the law, fie on the law!" Quirian snapped as he stood up and started pacing up and down. "What is the law to people like you, Filia, touched by the gods themselves and set apart from the common run of men? Are you not better than them by the same measure by which a man is better than a dog?"
"I consider myself fortunate, rather than better," Miranda replied dryly. "In any case, however better I may be you are asking me to lower myself when I have spent my whole life trying to climb upwards."
"Lower only to those who care about such things, which is very few," Quirian insisted. "Tell me honestly, do you believe that our democratically elected magistrates possess the slightest degree of power or authority? That your vote carries the slightest weight? Every last blustering member in the Comitia is in the pocket of some interest or other. The Lord Commenae alone holds fifty members in the palm of his hand, the Red faction can muster seventy all told. There's not a man in the Chamber of Commons who is not owned by some patrician or other, unless it is those who are owned by the publicani. All of them are nought but dull, sleepy-eyed fools, led by the occasional man of talent whom the great lords have sponsored and corrupted.
Spirit of the Sword: Pride and Fury (The First Sword Chronicles Book 1) Page 7