"I made almost two full buckets," Rilla boasted when they met at the tap. "I'm littler than you and I got more waaa-ter!" she singsonged. Megan, holding the filling bucket looked at her. "I, got-more-wa—spliffth!" Rilla spluttered at the face-full of water and retaliated with a handful from one of her buckets. Seconds later the buckets were empty and the two girls were soaked, standing on the muddy cobbles around the tap.
"Well!" Megan said, grinning. "You certainly did get more water! Here, why don't you head back and I'll finish filling this. We ought to have enough now for one wash and rinse."
"Okay, General All-Wet-Behind-the-Ears! Sir!" Rilla ducked another handful of water and trotted carefully up the street, buckets swinging.
Megan followed a minute later, stopping to adjust the set of the pole on her shoulders. When she came in, she heard something—a jar smash. She put the buckets down and ran.
She burst in the door in time to see Marte drag Rilla up off the floor by the upper arm, start hitting her with the other hand. "… filthy chi'd! Lo—ok at you! Dirt. Wet. I…"
"Aunt!" Marte looked up, Rilla hung crying, holding up her free hand as if to stop the next blow. "It's my fault. I got her wet."
"Shut up!" Marte shook Rilla again. "She broke my flask."
"… dn't," Rilla blubbered. Marte swung again, her face purpling. "Don" talk back! Insol't 'n' dirty! Evil girl! You…' Her fist bunched.
"NO!" Megan flung herself at Marte, hanging off the upraised arm, kicking. "You bitch! You vicious bitch! She's kin!"
Marte flung Rilla aside and seized Megan by both shoulders, lifting her up and shaking her with every word. "You called me a bitch," she said clearly. "You ungrateful child."
Beyond scared, Megan yelled, "My father said so! He said so! You're a viper! He said so!"
For an instant Marte held her by the shoulders, Rilla disappeared into the cupboard under the bed in the back room. The only sound was a shout down the hall—"will you keep it down for once, woman!"—and a dog barking outside on the street. Megan braced herself as best she could, Marte staring at her.
"Your father said so," Marte repeated in a drunken monotone. "Your father."
She dropped Megan suddenly as if burned, stamped over and rummaged in the money box, cursed it being empty, and stormed out.
Megan lay on the floor where she'd been dropped. "Megan?" Rilla crawled out from under her mother's bed. "Megan are you all right?"
"Yeah," Megan said shakily. "Maybe we'd better get out for a while. Do you have the coppers from the money box?"
Rilla nodded. "Thanks, Meg."
Megan shrugged. "I couldn't let her just hit you." But her hands were shaking. Rilla hugged her, wet as she was.
"Come on, big coz," the younger girl said. "Well get another two flasks and well be fine."
"We ought to get into dry clothes at least," Megan said. "And get the borrowed buckets back."
"Okay." They had just changed when Marte came back.
"Megan. Come, come on." She stood in the door, swaying, the wine soured on her breath. Megan hesitated wanting to run out into the city but couldn't get by.
"'ll no' hit yeah, but 'll drag. Come on!" Marte advanced a step into the room and reached for Megan, who dodged around the table, trying to get away from her. No.
Marte reached, snatched up the broom. "Don' say no, brat." Rilla tried to get back into the back room. Her mother swung around as she moved, caught her across the back, the handle making the air buzz like a fist-size bee. Rilla was jolted forward and fell, her arms curled protectively around her head. Megan, half out the door, hesitated. I can't. Shell Mil her. She turned and darted back, grabbed the straw of the broom and yanked. Marte let go and Megan, staggering back, cracked her hip against the table and fell.
Marte pounced on her. "Thought I's stupid, din't yeah," she growled, and hauled Megan up by the wrist. When Megan tried using the thumb jab, Marte pulled her hand higher and dragged her out the door, yelling, "Yeah better be here when I get back, brat," over her shoulder at Rilla.
" 'nuff of't, vicious brat,'t'ink I don' know that trick? Stop it and come on quiet or 'll belt 'cha." She walked down the alley, too fast for Megan to keep up without running.
The girl tried to dig her heels in and get away, was dragged around in front of Marte and cuffed in the head, her wrist held in a vicious grip. "Look, brat." Marte jerked on the captive arm. "We can't live like is. Time you went onna river journeys—heh? 'N we won' say stupi' thi—things't' each other. Be good fer you. Yeah." She turned east on the Stairs, pulling Megan with her into the crowds on the street; no one looked at them twice.
Megan tried to break in, but Marte wasn't listening. "Aunt, Marte—"
"Shut up." Marte just plowed on, through the naZak, like a lurcher in among wolf-hounds, her greying brown hair uncoiling from its Dun to bounce on her back. Megan's right hand was going numb in Marte's grip, the wool of her sleeve pulled tight from her shoulder. Where are we going? River journey? What's she talking about? At least she isn't hitting me. She hoped Rilla had the sense to put the broom and the wooden spoons away before they got back.
"Aunt you don't have to hang on so hard." She couldn't feel her fingers. "Aunt, please answer me. Where are we going? Aunt? Aunt, please?" Marte's only answer was to drag her on faster till Megan didn't have the breath for questions, a stitch growing in her side.
They turned off the Stairs at Yok Oblach Street, joining the traffic for Vikhad Gate. This half of the city was already dark, but the setting sun was still high enough that it gilded the other ridge and the underside of the storm blowing in from the north. The guards at the gate weren't slowing the line, practically waving people through the narrow corridor. The temperature was falling and Marte blew on her free hand to warm it up, since she'd rushed them out without their coats.
Megan blinked at the stab of sun as they came through the gate and plunged back into the shadow of Docking Cavern Road. A river journey? What's going on? My Gospozhyn should know… She squirmed harder and got Marte's fist across the side of her head for her pains, dazing her.
The road led into the docking cavern, where the waterfall's thunder echoed against walls and ceiling and the eddies from the water flowed around the spur of rock that separated wild water from the calm. The water still kept the ships tied up to the stone docks moving, rubbing against the rope bumpers. Megan's head had cleared and she almost forgot her numb hand as she looked around. She'd been here so seldom it was almost a different world.
A dhow. An arrowship. Racks of canoes for going north where the big ships can't go. A merchanter. In the outer harbor the bigger ships, with masts still stepped, turned slowly at anchor. The strongest smells were tar and paint at first.
"Damn narrow walkways, can't they build—"
"—pay taxes like this—"
"Vilsh chavrash? Eilier!"
"—watch where you're stepping, you—" The bits of sentences that Megan could catch, mostly in Zak and Enchian, seemed to bounce off the ceiling with the echoing water.
Marte shouted a question at a woman down in a jolly boat but all Megan caught was "—leaving?" The woman pointed out two ships in the outer harbor.
"Where's the jolly boat berth for the Dulshe Vi then?" Marte called. Her answer was a wave back through the crowds to the other side of the wharf. "And the other? The Zingas Brezhani, the River Lady?"
"Oh, right there." Another sweep of hand, indicating the next quay over. "Hei, ask for Atatra—Atraha—shit, ask fer Goldhair—Sarngeld—he know nobo'y ken say's damn name! 'E's captain/owner!"
"Thanks!" Marte shouted back and pulled Megan over to the next stone pier, elbowing their way through the crowds. "Should bui'd mor blashted dockin'," she snarled as someone jostled them and almost knocked them both into the water. In here, out of the wind, it was warm with body heat and smelled—of rotten fish and unwashed wool and bodies, of burning grease as block and tackles hoisted cargo, of garbage washed in, a dead rat floating against the pier where a duc
k scavenged, adding its dung. Megan only faintly heard the rumble of thunder but could see the distant flash of lightning outside the cavern.
Marte hesitated a second, looking down at her niece, but her face hardened at some thought and she pushed on.
"I'm Atzathratzas Joannen," the man rumbled, straightening from where he'd sat on a crate, watching his crew load the boats. "Owner." He paused and looked Marte over slowly. "Teik." He was a large naZak, an Arkan of about forty, muscled and scarred, a broad leather belt holding in the beginnings of a belly. His blond hair was long and straight to his waist at the back, the strands of white in it not showing yet, his forehead rising bald to the line of his ears.
"You take on River-Guild apprentices?" Marte asked. That drew another look and his attention shifted to Megan. Gospozhyn should be arranging… this isn't right. This isn't right. She tried to pry her hand free and Marte took her attention away from the Arkan long enough to shake Megan hard. "Stop that, brat." She didn't, and got clouted again. She was starting to feel sick, starting to realize…
He watched. "What terms?" he asked, more interested now. "You selling her… ah… bond?" He used the term for "guild-bond," meaning the agreement between parent and guild. Marte hesitated again. "Well, woman?" His tone made it an insult. "Do you want to bargain?" He stepped close and put a hand under Megan's chin, tipping her face up to where he could see it more clearly.
"Yen," Marte said shortly. "In metal, not goods."
"Aunt, shouldn't Gospoz—"
"Shush, child, it's for your good." Marie's attention went back to Sarngeld who was considering, one scarred thumb rubbing thoughtfully over his lower lip.
"A gold Claw," he said. "Unlimited, no haggling." He turned away to let Marte think about it.
Unlimited? But that's illegal, except for criminals, and never to foreigners, but if I get away, where do I go— Gospozhyn, hell save me. "Aunt—don't do this, Aunt—"
Marte called him back. "Done! Though you're offering less than you should."
"Do you think I care? Here." He rummaged in his pouch and came up with several bits of metal, three small gold Fangs, six silver Claws, and counted them into Marte's hand.
"Go with him, Megan, he's your new ma—Gospozhyn," Marte said and pulled Megan forward. The girl struggled frantically.
"No, Aunt. Don't do this, you're kin, help me, don't, for Papa's sake—pleees—" Her voice was cut off as Sarngeld put his hand over her mouth and lifted her down to the jolly boat as if she were a doll, his hands clamped on her tightly.
He sat down between two burlap bags that smelled of flour as the boat was pushed off, giving his orders in Arkan. Megan had only enough of the language to catch "—wait… cabin, leaving tonight." Her heart was pounding, hands sweaty. Koru… Im afraid. Unlimited bond?
The jolly boat pulled out into the outer harbor, bobbing in the choppy waves. The wind was coming up and the cold was a shock as they left the warmth of the cavern—Freeze tonight for sure—the sailors avoided looking at their captain or her. He put her down and she considered trying to jump out and swim, but the waterfall would have made it dangerous even for a good swimmer, which she wasn't.
She looked ahead to where the river ship swung at anchor. She was an old merchanter, maybe a hundred tons, with the paint peeling off the name Zingas Brezhani and the figurehead. The blades of the single rank of shipped oars were like teeth, but missing two or three. Megan wrinkled her nose as they got close. The bilges
She was passed up like a bundle onto a deck where the caulking bulged between the boards. "Come on, kid," one of the crew said, a slight-built young Zak, with a wavy black hair and a mustache narrow enough to almost have been inked on. "You're down for his cabin where you're to wait." He looked away and led her toward the stern, stepping around an uncoiled rope on the deck.
Is everyone on holiday? Megan thought. I thought ropes were supposed to be out of the way and a furled sail was supposed to be better tied than that.
"Okay," she said, following along. "My name's Megan, called Weaver's Daughter." She offered her hand, palm out. He looked uncomfortable, touched her hand for a second as if he didn't want to.
"Piatr, called Quick. Come on."
She followed him down the deck and the short ladder under the poop. There were only two doors there, and he opened the one on the left.
"Thank you," she said.
She waited by the portholes, watching the storm blow in, hearing the various thumps and bangs as things were loaded. With a groaning rattle the anchor was drawn up, the clatter as the oars were unshipped to walk the ship out of the harbor. He must want to make the great rock at least before it rains. The room was low, cramped and dark, a rope-slung bed filled one end of the room—big because he's naZak. She smiled to herself, a little nervously. He wouldn't want his legs to hang out of bed. There was a table and chair and a chest pushed under the bed, an unlit lamp swinging gently from the beam over the table.
There's nothing here that tells me what he's like. She sat down on the chair and waited. Thunder rumbled. More bumpings and banging outside, the squeal of a block and tackle. A heavy tread came down the companionway ladder and a board squeeked outside the door.
Sarngeld opened the door, stooping so he didn't hit his head against the beams, and locked it behind him. Megan's heart jumped into almost a painful pounding in her chest.
"Gospozhyn?" she whispered, hoping that she was wrong, hoping that the world was better than she feared.
He looked at her, pulled off his gloves and his belt. "Enough of that babble," he said almost amiably. "You're mine and you'll speak a civilized tongue to me."
Megan slid off the chair and backed up a step, switching to Enchian. "Yours? I'm your apprentice—"
'No. You don't understand do you?" He pulled his tunic off, rubbed a hand over his shaved chest. "Come here." He grabbed for her. She dived under the table, tried to keep it between him and her, but he reached over it and grabbed her by the hair as she tried to dodge again.
"You're learning," he said. "Come to father now…" He dragged her over to the bed and held her between his knees as he pulled the rest of her clothes off. She bit him and he hit her hard enough that the room spun.
Chapter Sixteen
It was a nightmare, it had to be. Then, No, this is the way things are and will be. There isn't anything else. Megan shifted her weight, squeezing her eyes shut as pain shot through her groin. Thunder faded away southward, the sound of pain. The rain was freezing, now; on the rigging, on the spiny coils of the rope under her hands, on the deck around her. Tears of ice clicked on her eyelashes, though she refused to cry. If I cry, I'll break, shatter like the ice forming on the wood. She was crouched in the port rope-well, too cold to shiver. The oak slave-links he'd locked onto her, from one wrist to the collar on her neck, clattered.
He'd done that and shorn her hair close, though he hadn't shaved her head. The stubble stood almost straight up, icy. The Brezhani was anchored in the lee of the rock, with oaks and pines leaning out over the gorge. The trees were shining with ice, cracking and groaning from the weight, the rock black with it.
If I wanted to die, I wouldn't have to do anything but sit here. The air will fill me full of ice. Like he did. The only warmth was the bleeding from between her legs, but that cooled fast, too. The water below was like pupils of the Dark Lord's eyes. The Arkan had let her run— crawl—away because he knew he could catch her, but all she needed to do was go over the side. She couldn't swim well. I want to die. She leaned, letting go the rope.
Sarngeld's gloved hand darted down and grabbed the wooden chain. "Come here." He pulled her up to the deck. I'm bleeding all down my legs. She almost fell and he gathered her up in his arms as if to protect her. He smells like blood and like his sweat and my fear. She hung in his hands, not fighting anymore. His chest was red where she'd scratched and bitten him.
He carried her below and patted her dry, his hands gentle now. "There, there, my little girl. There, there." He want
ed her again, and pulled her head down. I could bite him—it would be worse— She bit him, and didn't see his hand move, only the dark and red, the sound of thunder. If I pretend hard enough, think hard enough, I won't be here. I can make it not real. I'm not here.
"Hush, child, it's all right." Megan thrashed, clawing at the voice and the hands, felt her wrists caught, blinked awake to see a woman's face.
She was a round-faced girl—no, a woman, with long brown braids woven with blue ribbon and Aeniri hair bells. "You'll be all right. I'm ship's healer, Katrana called Healheart." She smoothed back the stubbly hair on Megan's head. "You're in the officer's quarters—my clinic— for now. That's across from his cabin." She tucked the feather quilt around Megan's shoulders, sighed and looked away from the girl, grimacing. "I can't tell you he won't do it again. But next time it won't hurt so much."
"Why?" Megan's voice was a husky whisper, throat sore.
"He's Arkan and likes children." Katrana finished mixing something in a cup, the glass rod clinking. "Drink this down now. I've told him you've had more than enough. He's satisfied for a day or two at least."
The cup was bitter and tasted of valerian and fennel. "Thank you," Megan said, and winced as Katrana laid a warm compress on the insides of her thighs where she was raw. "I… I don't know what to do."
The healer pressed her lips together. "Wait him out. You're his slave. Until your hair grows back and he lets you out of the chains, you'll be brought back to him. He's a captain/owner who can keep slaves, and people will believe his word first in all open courts. Berths are too scarce for an able-bodied sailor to witness for you, they can't risk losing their livelihoods, and he's usually more discreet than this. The last boy had to wait three years but managed it… he was old enough that Sarn-geld didn't care much about chasing him down."
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