The Sorcerer’s Wife

by Dolamore, Jaclyn

  Sometimes, even after all these months with Grau, she thought she would wake and find it was all a dream.

  She watched out the window as he fell in with a group of pedestrians to cross the street.

  She should go out and explore. But she had never been alone before. Many Daramons didn’t even see Fanarlem slaves as people and an unattended concubine might be kidnapped or raped. She had telepathy now, so she could defend herself, and she was not dressed as a slave, but to walk out the door alone? Her gut had a hard time trusting that it was safe.

  What are you going to do, stay in these two rooms for days, months, years? With that picture of Kalan staring at you?

  At least go look at the snow.

  She dressed, pulled on her cloak and locked the door behind her, with Grau’s money in her pocket. Down the hall, behind one of the other apartment doors, a child was screaming. A woman started to sing in a thick Kurutian dialect, and the child slowly quieted into soft sobs. The smell of unfamiliar spices was in the air. People came to Nalim Ima from all around the world.

  The bare branches and dead shrubs of the park squares were brightened by the coating of fluffy white snow. Velsa turned toward the gate. Surely it wouldn’t be too far to walk before she found a place to buy Grau’s rice and eggs.

  Some of the people she passed gave a friendly wave as she walked by. She was too startled by this to wave back. It only made her more nervous, reminding her that strangers noticed her. She pulled her hood down around her face.

  Ahead, two Fanarlem servant girls walked together, baskets on their arms. She spotted them even from a distance because they only wore plain tunics and leggings despite the snow, and they were the same height as all Fanarlem girls, five feet tall. They were not as well-made as Velsa, but certainly more so than any other servant Velsa had seen. Their hair was still yarn, like a house slave, but it was neatly braided and they were giggling and talking.

  Velsa yearned to ask them if they knew where the nearest food market was, but a flesh-born Fanarlem married to a Daramon man would never socialize with slaves.

  Watching them, she felt very alone, and she followed at a distance. Their baskets suggested they might be going to the market to buy food for their household.

  She had no friends to walk with and talk to, and she didn’t see how that could ever change.

  Outside the gates, the hectic pace of the city rushed in. Carriages hurried by, people clogged the sidewalks, vendors were shouting and holding out ripe oranges for her perusal. The winter fruit was very tempting; she had never tasted oranges or pomegranates, but she kept following the Fanarlem girls. They traveled many blocks down the wide avenue to a narrower street, underneath another half-built elevated track which cast the sidewalk in shadows even during the day.

  “You for sale, darling?” A man sidled up to her as he came from the other way.

  “No,” Velsa said, clutching her cloak.

  “You aren’t flesh-born, are you? Pretty little thing like you must belong to somebody.”

  “I am flesh-born!” she said. “Married, too! So lay off!”

  He shrugged and kept going. She straightened up a little. That wasn’t so hard.

  Actually, it was quite satisfying.

  A little farther down the street, several Fanarlem stood outside a shop, imploring to people who walked by. “Sir—need any help around the house?” “I’m for hire for the day, madam, and I’m handy with tools.”

  The shop sign said ‘Benadar’s Fanarlem for the Day’ and beneath that, “Reasonable prices for smaller jobs—rent a Fanarlem servant for the day, week, or month. Inquire within.”

  “Miss?” One of the Fanarlem girls was looking right at Velsa. “I’m a good cook. You could take the evening off tonight and I’d make you and your husband a nice meal. Only five pieces.”

  The girl’s eyes were hopeful. She was the same height as every Fanarlem girl, but she seemed much smaller somehow, in her flimsy garment and shoes barely soled enough to walk in the snow. She was not at all well-made, like the Fanarlem servants Velsa had now lost track of, but she had an endearing voice. Not too sweet, a little rough even. Her voice had personality.

  And then Velsa saw the golden band around her neck and she took a step back.

  Chapter 3

  Velsa staggered away. The girl—a telepathic girl…

  Just like me.

  It could have been me.

  She could not look at Fanarlem slaves without being acutely aware of her good fortune, without guilt slowly opening its mouth to swallow her like a whale. But seeing the golden band made it worse.

  She was reminded too much of exchanging a look with Grau. He had seen something in her, rescued her.

  She fished out her money and counted the coins. Twelve pieces. Maybe the girl could teach her to cook, but it was likely she wouldn’t have money left for much more than rice.

  Grau will understand.

  She went back to the shop. The girl was watching her hopefully. She had a simple doll face, and her appearance gave Velsa an uncomfortable, almost shameful feeling. Most people didn’t really look at slaves, Velsa included. Her own face was finely crafted and laced with magic, meant to draw the eye. This girl’s features were just a crude approximation of a person, with no illusions or finesse. Velsa forced herself not to show any aversion.

  “Can you teach me to cook?” she asked the girl.

  “Yes, most certainly!”

  “All right, then.” Velsa walked into the shop, the girl just behind her. The interior held little more than a counter, some record books, and baskets or pails with cleaning or cooking supplies that the Fanarlem workers must take with them to different jobs. Velsa’s hands were shaky, but she tried not to show it as she approached the woman at the desk.

  “You want to hire Sorla?” the woman asked. “I warn you, she’s telepathic. For seven pieces you could have Keldran. He’s a hard worker, very popular with customers.”

  “I absolutely want Sorla.”

  “Very well. No refunds if you change your mind. She’s due back by sunset at week’s end. She has a tracking spell on her for security; you don’t plan to take her more than ten miles outside the city, do you? We would require a deposit for that.”

  “No.”

  Velsa thought five pieces would buy the girl for a day, not the entire week. Suppressing her fears over what Grau might say, deep down she was relieved to have the company.

  Just like that, Sorla belonged to her for the next five days. The girl took a basket from the corner and waited to follow Velsa. As Velsa went out the door, Sorla walked just behind her.

  Velsa wasn’t sure what the etiquette was for having a slave, but Sorla probably knew how to behave.

  “Sorla…I just married my husband and at home, my—my mother did all the cooking—” Velsa briefly stammered, realizing they had never decided what she would have called the neighbor who supposedly adopted her. “—So I need you to teach me, but I only have seven pieces for buying food for the week. Do you know how to shop for groceries, too?”

  “Yes, miss. There’s a market just ahead.”

  Although she was properly subservient, walking behind Velsa and addressing her politely, Sorla obviously knew what she was doing and how to stretch seven pieces into a week of meals. When Velsa told her Grau asked for rice and eggs, she said, “Oh, your husband must be eastern.”

  “Yes, he’s from the marshes east of Atlantis.”

  Moving quickly from the grocer to the fruit sellers to the butcher, Sorla bought rice, beans, tea and salt, flour and yeast, a bit of cured sausage, eggs, butter, cabbage, onions, rutabaga, and a glass bottle of “spice sauce”. She ignored the many packaged foods which caught Velsa’s eyes, tins of canned fruit and oysters with bright colored labels. She used every last coin, but Velsa could already imagine how pleased Grau would be with the food, which was better than most of their meals on the road. Velsa would have been puzzling over the foods hours after Sorla had it all packed away
neatly in cloth sacks she brought with her.

  Velsa helped her carry it all home, although Sorla had most of it. Working Fanarlem slaves had stronger, heavier skeletons so they could carry more weight, but they moved more slowly. Sorla wasn’t as flexible as Velsa either; clearly she did not have individual bones in her spine, so she stood very straight and could only bend at the hips. Her joints were stiff and creaky. Still, she kept up with Velsa.

  Sorla was quiet the entire walk home, while Velsa burned with curiosity. She had never spoken to a Fanarlem slave before, besides the ones at Grau’s house, who were cruel to Velsa—not that she blamed them. Sometimes Velsa lay awake at night, thinking of the cold, barren cottage where they had lived while she enjoyed warmth and food.

  “Have you always been rented out?” Velsa asked, when they got back to the apartment. “Or did you have a permanent place once?”

  “Once I did,” Sorla said. “But my telepathy made the family nervous, so they traded me out to that shop.”

  “When was that?”

  “Two winters ago.”

  “Is it hard, going to so many different houses all the time?”

  Sorla gave her a funny look, like Velsa had asked too many questions she didn’t want to answer. “It’s not so bad,” she said. “I’m not stuck with one cruel master.”

  Velsa understood this. As uncomfortable as it was to be at the House of Perfumed Ribbons, ogled by different men every day, she had lived in dread of having one master who would lock her away.

  “I’m telepathic too,” Velsa said. “My mother was a Halnari. So you don’t make me nervous.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, miss,” Sorla said, but she didn’t really sound interested in what Velsa thought of her. “When does your husband get home?”

  “I don’t know. It’s his first day of work.”

  “Well, we’ll make bread first, and when he gets here we’ll fry up the eggs.”

  Sorla showed Velsa how to mix flour, yeast, salt and gently warmed water, knead it into a dough and cover it with a cloth to rise.

  “What makes it rise?” Velsa asked.

  “The yeast.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know, miss, but it always does, if you haven’t messed it up. And I never do.” Her eyes showed a flash of pride that made Velsa like her.

  Sorla spent the whole afternoon explaining to Velsa how to use and store the ingredients and manage the oven, until Grau got home near sunset.

  He was grinning when he opened the door, but the moment he saw Sorla, the grin vanished, replaced with something more careful.

  He doesn’t approve. Velsa froze, and Sorla seemed to sense her unease. She bowed to Grau. “I’m Sorla, sir.”

  “I hired her out, just for the week, to teach me to cook,” Velsa said.

  “I see,” Grau said. “It smells nice in here.”

  “We made bread,” Sorla said.

  He regarded her quietly and then said, “Sorla, would you mind stepping into the hall for just a moment?”

  “Not at all, sir.” She left the room, her rigid spine making her seem very stiff.

  Velsa twisted her hands. “We could have spoken in the bedroom so Sorla didn’t have to leave.”

  “This wall is like paper.” He knocked on it for emphasis. “How on earth did you end up in a position to hire a Fanarlem girl?”

  “I was looking for the market, and she was there on the street, in front of a Fanarlem rental shop.”

  “How much did she cost?”

  “Five pieces.”

  “What was wrong with going to the library and learning from a book?”

  “I couldn’t just leave her there on the street.”

  “Yeah, I had a feeling,” he said. “Velsa, I’m glad you have a heart, but remember Flower? You weren’t wary enough of her because you pitied her. It was clear from the start that she didn’t want your pity or your help. You could never save her from all the horrors she’d already been through. It was too late.” His dark eyes, which were normally squinty with premature lines at the corners from too much time spent in the sun, grew wide. “Are you going to be able to take Sorla back at week’s end and never see her again?”

  “I’ll have to. I know that.”

  “Even having her around this long seems like a bad idea. You don’t really know how to conduct yourself with a slave. And I guess I’d better not bring any of my new coworkers home for a drink until she’s gone. A flesh and blood girl in your position, with just a few coins, wouldn’t hire a Fanarlem slave.”

  “I see myself in her.” Velsa stepped into the doorway between the two rooms and ran her hands along the frame. “I—I’m terrified, Grau. I didn’t realize how terrified I would be, to pretend I’m flesh and blood. I don’t belong in this world. I feel like everyone’s staring at me, that they can all see what I really am.”

  He put a hand on her shoulder. The comforting weight of his touch broke through a little of her tension. “You know your soul is worthy of all of this,” he said. “Just remember that. That’s all you need to do. You deserve this life.”

  “It’s one thing to believe myself your equal. But I was up for sale once, at the mercy of strangers, just like Sorla. I have no family. Sorla is my family; all Fanarlem are my family. We might not look alike, but…I understand her.”

  Grau’s arm went around her from behind, and he pulled her against him, away from the door, and kissed her hair. “I was excited to see you,” he said. “I have something to show you after dinner.”

  “Oh?”

  “You might not love it as much as I do, but you’ll love it. So let’s eat quickly.”

  She smiled halfway. By now, she knew this was a tactic of his—avoiding the most difficult subjects with romance. It worked on her pretty well. And it must mean he understood why she had to bring Sorla home.

  “Okay,” she said.

  He let Sorla back in and she reassumed her position by the oven as if nothing had happened. Grau wasn’t used to looking at Fanarlem slaves either, but if he found her appearance unpleasant, he didn’t show it.

  “Sir, would fried eggs and garlic spice sauce please you for dinner?” she asked.

  “It certainly would.”

  “I thought so. You’re eastern, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I learned to cook from an eastern woman,” Sorla said. “And even though this isn’t the east, I hear we make the best garlic spice sauce here in Nalim Ima. It certainly smells potent.”

  “Oof,” Velsa said, sniffing the bottle. “I don’t know if I want him eating that!”

  He grinned. “You just have to eat some too.”

  Velsa only ate a little, so the food would last. Sorla washed the pans and then moved to sit in the corner quietly.

  “You can sit at the table if you like,” Grau offered.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course. You deserve a place of honor for frying several perfect eggs. I’ve fried a lot of eggs in my day, but I tend to get impatient or distracted and mess them up. And with that sauce, that fresh bread and butter…”

  Sorla bit back a smile.

  “How old are you?”

  Sorla hesitated. “Thirteen, sir.”

  Grau looked at Velsa as she looked at him. She had never guessed Sorla was so young, as accomplished as she seemed. The age of a Fanarlem girl was impossible to determine. Grau must have guessed, but she knew he had been hoping she was older. Thirteen! It was even harder to send her away now.

  Grau finished his cup of tea in one tense swig.

  “Thank you both,” he said. “That was absolutely delicious. We’re going for a walk now, so Sorla…feel free to rest on our bed.”

  “On your…bed?”

  “Why not?”

  She bowed. “Thank you very much, sir.”

  He turned to the door, pulling on his coat with a slight grimace. Velsa felt strange as they locked the door behind them, leaving Sorla with nothing to do.
>
  He paused. “She wouldn’t have bugs, would she? Not in winter.”

  “No,” Velsa agreed.

  He looked at her, his eyes briefly searching her face before he cupped her cheek for a moment. That touch told her everything. She looked back at him before lowering her face.

  Grau scolded her for having sympathy for Flower, but he had been the one to put his life on the line for a Fanarlem girl.

  They were young and poor and in no position to save anyone.

  He pulled down the flaps of his hat and secured his scarf, and they set off into the early darkness of sparkling snow. The trees cast bluish shadows. Lamps were lit all down the street, leading to the Palace of Blessed Wings in the distance, which was aglow with brilliant lights.

  “I learned something about those lights today,” he said. “The ones in our apartment and all around the city. They’re run by those wires, which conduct electricity from a power source. It’s like using lightning magic, only it isn’t generated by magic at all.”

  “Are they safe to touch?”

  “Hmm. Good question. I’ll ask that tomorrow.”

  Their destination was outside of the main palace walls, through a small side door. The door led to gardens—although there was not much to see now, under the snow. Beyond the garden was a large, elegant building made of brick and stone, with a steep ceiling constructed from glass panels. The doors of the building were also made of glass with only the barest wooden frame, and the glass was steamy, promising warmth within.

  Grau opened the doors straight into a wonderland.

  Plants crowded the room from floor to soaring ceiling. Trees with bright green fan-shape leaves reached high above their heads with spiny air plants attached to them. Gorgeous flowers with the most vivid colors and fat blossoms she had ever seen, bushes and ferns with wild tendrils and leaves bigger than a serving platter filled overflowing displays. Her nose drank deeply of the air, which smelled not just of summer, but of some place she had never been before, a land of nectar and dew.

  “This conservatory goes on and on, room after room,” Grau said. “And every room has different plants from different parts of the world, to be used in potion making.”