The Swordsman's Oath toe-2

by Juliet E. McKenna

  I found myself in a large airy cabin whose long shutters opened on to a small private deck at the rear of the ship. The girl was no longer weeping but the hot tears were still wet on her face, ruining her intricate makeup. A blush swept up her cheeks and her lips narrowed. Embarrassment warred with fury in her stormy brown eyes as she took a deep breath. I judged it prudent to keep my expression as noncommittal as I could.

  After a few minutes the girl shrugged with an enigmatic sigh, pushed a long curl of black hair off her face and sat on a pile of cushions, her elegant amber gown hitched above jewel-clasped ankles. They were nice ankles, though I noticed she had incongruously toughened feet. In fact she was a luscious blossom all together, about as tall as my chin, rounded hips and a plump bosom barely concealed by the loose, sleeveless silk. Her angry frown looked inappropriate on her round face but I could believe her full lips were used to pouting prettily. She pointed to the floor with a curt instruction, hitching her dress back on to one smooth brown shoulder.

  It seemed the Aldabreshi didn’t believe in chairs, so I sat on the floor and tried for an ingratiating smile. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand the Aldabreshi tongue.”

  The girl frowned and tried again in Relshazri; I shrugged in mute apology. This was a new problem for me; in those few instances when I find myself dealing with a backwoods peasant who has no Tormalin, I have enough Caladhrian and Dalasorian to fall back on if pressed. I had never imagined I would need to learn the language of the Archipelago. I couldn’t even think of anyone I knew who could have taught me.

  “You are Tormalin?” the girl asked after a few moments, her words hesitant and thickened by a strong Aldabreshi accent.

  I bowed awkwardly from the waist, not knowing what else to do. “My name is Ryshad.”

  She repeated it a few times to herself, splitting the syllables and coloring them with an Aldabreshi intonation. “Rhya Shad.”

  I’d better get used to answering to that then, until I found some way out of this maze.

  The girl nodded with satisfaction and then pointed to herself.

  “I am Laio Shek, fourth wife to Shek Kul and manager of his weavers.”

  I bowed again, making as low a reverence as I could; I know precisely the etiquette required when meeting the Sieur of a House, his heirs and ladies, how to address a Lescari Duke or an Ensaimin Lord, but I had absolutely no idea of the courtesies usual between owner and slave. I had imagined any exchanges were largely made with the tongue of a whip and had no desire to have her resort to that; I’d rather look an idiot and scrape my nose on the floorboards. I’d have no chance of getting away if I were to be injured.

  There was an awkward silence, so I looked around the cabin. The wooden walls were painted in a pale yellow and furnished with delicate, silken embroideries. The floor was polished and a low bed was set against the far wall, heaped with silken quilts. Several dresses were tossed carelessly on it and a tray of makeup perched perilously close to the edge.

  “You stink,” Laio said abruptly. “You will wash before you attend to your duties.”

  “What exactly are my duties?” I asked cautiously.

  Laio’s lips narrowed and she drew a swift breath of irritation in through her finely shaped nostrils.

  “Pour me wine.” She pointing to a flagon on a low side-table by the shutters. I fetched a glassful, looking around in vain for a tray or a salver. Laio nodded approvingly but a faint frown still wrinkled her forehead.

  “Take some yourself and be seated,” she said unexpectedly.

  As I did so, unimpressed by its thin taste and weakness, she finished her own drink and sat twirling the narrow-stemmed glass in her hands, the nails brightly varnished. “You are a mainlander from the lands of the east, is that correct?”

  “Yes, from Zyoutessela, in southern Tormalin.”

  Laio dismissed this with a wave of her hand. “A mainlander, you know nothing of our islands?”

  Not much, other than there were supposed to be about a hundred bloodthirsty Warlords, each ruling one major island and any number of smaller ones with an iron fist, blood and terror. I thought of the various lurid tales I’d heard over the years.

  “No, nothing,” I lied firmly.

  Laio looked at me with speculative eyes. “I see. How long have you been a slave?”

  “Shek Kul is my first owner,” I coughed as the words threatened to stick in my throat.

  Laio frowned again and muttered something petulant in Aldabreshi but I got the impression her anger was not directed at me.

  “I do not know how Gar Shek managed to persuade Shek Kul to buy you, but I am sure she expects you to make a poor slave. Since the quality of a body slave reflects on his owner, she hopes you will humiliate me. I am not going to let that happen, I have already given her too much satisfaction with my reaction.”

  She gestured with her glass and I hastened to refill it. “What do you think your duties here are?”

  I ran through the various rumors I’d heard about the personal slaves of Aldabreshi women and opted for the least lewd.

  “I am to protect you from other men, to keep you safe for your husband?” I hazarded.

  A faint look of distaste flickered across Laio’s face. “Do your mainlander women submit to being guarded like fowl in a garden? You are not my husband’s slave, you are mine, do you understand?”

  I nodded, understanding almost nothing so far.

  “You are to defend me, that is true,” continued Laio, “not for my husband’s sake, but for mine. If I order it, you will fight whomsoever I say, even Shek Kul. In the Islands, no husband has rights over his wife’s body.”

  It would be truly astounding if that were true, I thought sarcastically. The Toremal law codes are the only ones I know that will deny a man his marriage bed, and that only happens when the wife can bring three independent witnesses to the Justiciary to swear they’ve seen him abusing her. However I schooled my face to an impassive blank as I listened to Laio’s clipped accents.

  “Now, listen to me; you must learn fast and I am not going to instruct you a second time. In Aldabreshi, a wife has both status and duties in her own right; we manage our husband’s property and give him children, if we so choose, in return for his protection and favor. Profitable wives are a credit to a man, marriage is a binding alliance and alliances mean power in the Archipelago. Shek Kul has alliances with his neighbors and with two of the central Lords through his wives; he is considered a powerful man. His domain is in the south of the Archipelago.”

  That meant I was going even further south than the Cape of Winds; I thought with some distaste of the Archipelago’s reputedly hot and sticky climate. Laio was speaking slowly now, to make sure I understood her and I listened obediently. The more I knew about the set-up, the sooner I could work out how to get clear of this mess. I realized with a sudden, inappropriate surge of relief that at least I was on my own here; without wizards to obey or someone else’s plans to take into account. Certainly Messire would have no means of sending me aid, even if it occurred to Planir to warn him of my plight. The House of D’Olbriot’s only dealings with the Archipelago are to chase off the occasional raiders who risk the storm-tossed eastern crossing to prey on the ships that ply the Gulf coast.

  “Shek Kul’s First Wife manages his gems and his household. She is called Kaeska Shek, born Kaeska Danak. The Second Wife is Mahli Shek, born Mahli Kaasik, and she has charge of the farms on Shek Kul’s islands, dealing with the overseers and the free Islanders as well as trading the produce. The Third Wife is Gar Shek who was born Gar Gaska, from the northwest; she has developed a trade in fine embroideries. It has given her great status and that reflects well on Shek Kul, which is why she gets her own way so often at the moment.”

  A rather smug smile lit up Laio’s face for an instant. “That won’t last for much longer; Mahli is pregnant and when her baby is born she will become First Wife and keep Gar in her place. I am Fourth Wife, I was born Laio Sazac in the west-central islan
ds and married Shek Kul just over a year ago. As the most junior wife at present, I have charge of the cotton weavers, I oversee their work and trade the finished cloth. I travel all over Shek Kul’s islands and to those of Kaasik Rai at least three times a year. I also receive visitors and agents from other domains. You will see to all my needs and those of my guests when I meet with them. Is that clear?”

  “Quite clear, my lady.”

  So it was looking as if all those lurid tales of Aldabreshi ladies kept isolated and caged like decorative birds, waiting only to satisfy their husbands’ exotic lusts, were more than a little inaccurate.

  “You will obey my orders without question in public. You will not argue with me and you will not answer back. If you do not understand something, wait until we are alone and then ask, but I will not answer any questions in front of Shek Kul or Gar. You may take orders from Mahli but not from Gar or Kaeska. They have no right to get you to do things for them and they know it.”

  I couldn’t see the haughty Gar Shek taking kindly to defiance but it was clear from Laio’s scowl that this was not open to debate. I also realized Gar would be easily able to hear Laio’s words from the next room and the girl was telling the other woman just where the runes lay as well as me.

  “I will arrange for you to spend as much time as we can spare with Grival, who belongs to Mahli; you will learn everything he has to tell you about a body slave’s duties. Sezarre is Gar’s body slave; he is an excellent swordsman so he can train you to an acceptable standard. You can also use your time with him to learn what you can about Gar’s plans. You will have to learn to speak Aldabreshi; I cannot be doing with your barbarian tongue all the time. You will be fluent by the end of the season.”

  This was also clearly not open to debate and I wondered uneasily how hard it would be. All the Aldabreshi I’d heard sounded as if they were trying to spit while chewing nails.

  Laio wiped a hand across her face and frowned at the smear of rouge.

  “Fetch me some cream to clean all this off.” She gestured to a heavily inlaid coffer standing in a corner.

  I rose and opened it to find a tray holding rough scraps of cloth, a fine porcelain, lidded bowl of thin lotion and a blue bottle of Relshazri glass that contained something smelling faintly astringent. Laio nodded approvingly and I knelt, feeling quite superfluous, as she stripped the cosmetics from her lips, eyes and cheeks. Looking at her naked face, I was startled to realize that she was no more than seventeen or eighteen years old; given her poise and evident ease with her status as a Warlord’s wife, I’d have put at least five years on that.

  A knock on the door made Laio pause; at her impatient gesture, I opened it to reveal a heavily pregnant woman in a plain cream robe, much my own height, who leaned against the door-post and smiled at Laio. She asked something in Aldabreshi, her low husky voice softening the harsh language. Laio laughed and pointed at me with a dramatic gesture of helplessness. That decided me; I was going to learn this tongue, even if it did make me sound like a dog being sick. No chit of a girl nearly half my age was going to be able to make jokes at my expense without me understanding them.

  I studied the newcomer as the women talked. She was tall and, even allowing for her condition, was a heavily built woman. Where Laio had long black tresses tumbling down her back, this lady had short hair, growing in strange, tight curls that dotted her head like peppercorns. Her skin was the darkest I’d seen yet, an unnerving reminder of how different the Aldabreshi could be. I was somewhat reassured by the good nature in her wide, deep-brown eyes, set above broad cheekbones with laughter lines at their corners. Laio said something that made Mahli burst into peals of laughter and then stood up, a smile brightening her own expression.

  “I will spend some time with Mahli now,” she announced. “Clear up in here and then go and find Sezarre. We will talk again later.”

  She left the room in a perfumed rustle of silk and I stood up, rubbing my knees. I was certainly not looking forward to spending so much time scrambling around on the floor and wondered if the Aldabreshi went in for more furniture when they were on dry land. I looked around at the chaos it seemed Laio habitually created and recalled my mother threatening to drill Kitria into neatness with a willow switch. Some things were common to all young girls, it would seem.

  Something in me rebelled as I reached for a slippery, silk gown and looked around for a coffer or somesuch to stow it in. Incandescent with instant rage, I hovered on a knife edge of temptation, longing to rip the flimsy thing to shreds and see how the bossy little blossom liked that. My grip tightened on the delicate cloth but I suddenly found myself laughing instead at such uncharacteristic and ill-considered anger. I was certainly adrift with no hope of wind at the moment, but I had to stay calm if I was going to paddle my way out of this.

  “From sworn man to maidservant! Well, Ryshad, you’ve certainly done well for yourself.”

  Laio could call me a slave all she wanted; no one could make me think of myself as one. I could play the part though, the same way I’d played the half-wit with no more sense than his dung fork for half a season in order to unravel a fraud in Messire’s shearing sheds. I gathered up the discarded dresses and found their allotted chest, rapidly restoring the room to order before going in search of the man who’d escorted me to the ship—Sezarre, that was his name, I remembered.

  I found him on deck, conferring with an impressively muscled man with a shaven head and hard, black eyes. They were both stripped to the waist and sweating freely, a blunted blade in each hand. Nodding agreement, they resumed their contest and I stepped back hurriedly out of their way. The other tales I’d heard of the Archipelago might turn out to be false, but it soon looked as if the reputation of their swordsmen was if anything underestimated. The swords might be a hand’s width or so shorter than I was accustomed to, but using them in pairs, rather than with a dagger or shield for the off hand, any Aldabreshin was going to make up in damage for anything he lacked in reach. I whistled soundlessly as the two of them went at each other with a flurry of strokes, blades clashing and smacking together, only breaking when Sezarre took a stinging slice to one shoulder.

  I winced as I saw the red line darkened to an instant bruise; his eyes caught mine and he rubbed at it with a rueful grin. The other one said something and picked up the practice blades, sliding them into a canvas bag. He had to be Grival.

  “We wash,” Sezarre said in halting Tormalin.

  I nodded and followed him to the side of the ship where Grival was already hauling up buckets of sea water. Both the other body slaves stripped naked, unconcerned and attracting no notice from the sailors busy about the business of ship. I joined them, happy to discard the memories of the Relshaz lock-up along with the rags and relishing the sting of the clean, clear water. I started slightly when Grival took a washcloth to my back but reminded myself of all the times Aiten and I had done each other such a service. I shut my eyes on the sting of sudden grief, all the more searing in my present uncertainty.

  “Here.” Sezarre handed me a bowl of thin, liquid soap and I scrubbed myself clean eagerly.

  Grival said something and rummaged in a bag, passing me a small pot of ointment. I wondered if he spoke any Tormalin at all.

  “For the skin.” Sezarre took the pot and rubbed a fingerful on to his own bruise.

  I nodded and began the lengthy task of anointing all my own scrapes and swellings. The stuff stung but smelled wholesome enough and the simple fact of being clean again and tending my injuries did wonders for my spirits.

  Grival made a comment to Sezarre that had both of them laughing as they looked at me; I smiled and swallowed my indignation. I needed allies here, it was time to start making myself one of the lads.

  “He says you look like a dog he once owned, all patches of brown and white,” Sezarre explained with a wide smile.

  I looked down at myself and saw the lines marking my sun-darkened arms and face from the paler skin of my chest and thighs. Nodding and for
cing a smile to show I understood the joke, I realized that I was the lightest-skinned person on the ship, as far as I could tell. Grival was the color of old leather from head to toe, and while Sezarre’s arms were about the same shade as mine it was evidently the natural tone of his skin, not the touch of the sun. It felt distinctly strange to stand out like this; going north for Messire, I am more used to people commenting on the darkness of my hair and complexion. The deck rocked beneath my feet, reminding me of my uncertain footing here.

  I mimed scraping my face with a blade. “Razor?”

  Sezarre frowned and said something to Grival who looked startled.

  “No.” Sezarre shook his head emphatically. “Not now you are an Islander.”

  I looked around the boat and realized that I couldn’t see a clean chin anywhere. I smiled and nodded to Sezarre, sighing inwardly at the prospect of having to wear a beard. I’ve done it a few times, by way of a disguise, and as far as I’m concerned there are few pleasures to compare with shaving the cursed thing off. Unfortunately, from what I’d already seen of my so-called mistress, I couldn’t see her agreeing to let me ignore a current fashion for hairy faces.

  Grival passed me a clean if well-worn shirt while Sezarre found a spare pair of trousers, both of soft, unbleached cotton. Fingering the unfamiliar cloth, I couldn’t restrain a smile; this was expensive stuff, back home. I looked around for some footwear.

  “Boots?” I inquired hopefully.

  Sezarre shook his head. “Not in the Islands. Feet will rot.”

  That explained the puzzle of the fine ladies with their calloused feet.

  Grival muttered something to Sezarre, not looking at me.

  “He says you are not born a slave?” asked Sezarre, hesitation warring with curiosity in his voice.

  “No.” I gave him a friendly smile; one of these men might have that crucial piece of information that would get me out of here; the most compelling reason I could think of to learn to speak their language.