He fixed the expressionless black eyes on Ringil.
‘This had better be good,’ he said mildly.
‘I thank you, honoured sire, for the—’
For the sake of appearances, Ringil had begun in Tethanne. Now he coughed diffidently and switched to Naomic, stamping it through with a guttural edge common to imperials who’d learnt the Trelayne tongue but not ever lived in League territory. He spotted the doorman and the flail-equipped muscle smirking at each other as he spoke.
‘Honoured sire, I thank you, for seeing me at this late hour.’ He shuffled his feet, playing up a timidity of stance and tone he’d sometimes liked to put on in games with Grace-of-Heaven. Silk-skinned kidnapped Yhelteth youth begs his captor - in vain, of course - not to corrupt him. ‘I, uhm, would not have come so late, you see, but this visit is not one my father would countenance if he knew of it. I am Laraninthal, eldest son of Krenalinam of Shenshenath, attached - uhm, we both are - to the Yhelteth trade mission in Tervinala and recently arrived in your gracious city, which I must say—’
‘Yes, yes.’ Hale waved it away as if swatting an insect. ‘What exactly is it that your father would not countenance about your visit?’
Ringil hesitated for a calculated couple of seconds. ‘Its purpose, sire.’
Hale rolled his eyes and made a signal to the doorman, who slipped out of the room without a word. The slave trader bridged his hands.
‘Yes. Let’s talk about this purpose, shall we?’
‘Gladly.’
Another pause. Hale visibly repressed a sigh.
‘So what is it? Your purpose? What do you want, Laraninthal of Shenshenath?’
‘I desire’ - Ringil cleared his throat and looked about the room - ‘a bed-mate. A woman, for my use here in Trelayne.’
A small smile leaked out of the corner of Hale’s mouth.
‘I see. And your father wouldn’t approve of this?’
‘My father is a conservative man. He would not wish me to spill my seed among women not of the Tribes.’
‘Well, fathers can be difficult like that, can’t they?’ Hale nodded sagely. ‘Of course, at a price, I could probably provide you with a Yhelteth girl. Perhaps even of your specific tribe. You’d be surprised how easy—’
Ringil held up a hand. ‘I am not ... drawn ... to women of the south. I want pale skin, paler than mine. I want...’
He gestured graphically. Terip Hale grinned.
‘Indeed. That’s something the girls up here are usually good for, isn’t it? Not the first time I’ve heard one of your countrymen remark on the matter, either. Difference is the spice, I always say.’ A small sound from the door. ‘Ah, speaking of which, here we are.’
The doorman came back in the company of a girl carrying a gaudily painted wooden tray laden with goblets and a flagon. She wore not much more than three fistfuls of cloth and a couple of thin cords holding it all together, and she walked to accentuate what was on display. She was too young for the make-up she wore, and there was a worried crease around her eyes like someone trying to remember the right way to perform a complex task, but she conformed more or less to the specifics they’d just been discussing. Ringil made his eyes stick to her curves in an appropriate fashion as she crossed the room. Hale saw, and smiled.
‘So. You like?’
‘Yes. This would be, uhm, suitable, but—’
‘Oh, I’m sure it would,’ said Hale, dreamily, watching as the girl laid out flagon and goblets on the desk. ‘Unfortunately, Nilit here isn’t for sale. I’ve taken a bit of shine to her. But really, she’s nothing special, and she has sisters.’
He glanced up.
‘I mean that quite literally. Sisters, two of them. All sold together. But the others are still in training. That can take a while, especially if the girl is ... spirited.’
Nilit’s hand knocked the flagon against one of the goblets she’d already set down. The cup toppled and rolled off the edge of the desk, clattered hollowly on the floor. Hale’s lips pressed together in exasperation. Nilit scrambled to retrieve the still rolling goblet and her eyes flashed on Ringil’s. The worry was gone, wiped out by a more immediate terror. She set the goblet back in place, hung her head and mumbled something inaudible to Hale. He raised a finger at her and she shut up instantly.
‘Just get out,’ he snapped.
The girl hurried away, her wagging display-walk forgotten. Hale poured from the flagon, two goblets only. He beckoned Ringil forward.
‘Please, be my guest. Choose a cup. This is one of the best wines the League territories have to offer. Before one becomes a customer of Terip Hale, one becomes an honoured guest in his house. How else will we bind trust in our dealings?’
Ringil selected one of the goblets and held it up. Hale matched the gesture for a moment, drank first, as host ritual required. Ringil followed suit, swallowed a mouthful and made an appreciative face.
‘Fine vintage, eh?’ purred Hale.
In fact, it wasn’t all that impressive. A dark Jith-Urnetil grape, late-harvest pressing, of course, you couldn’t mistake that taste; but really a little too sweet for Ringil’s palate, and cloying on the aftertaste. He’d never been a big fan of the coastal range vintages anyway, and this one lacked far too many middle notes. But it would certainly have been expensive, and that counted for a lot with men like Hale.
‘Well, then.’ The slave trader finished his drink and put down the goblet. There was an anticipatory gleam in his eye. ‘I’d say that since it’s fairly clear what your requirements are, maybe we should just go down to the stable together and see if something doesn’t catch your—’
Ringil put in a mannered cough. ‘There is another matter.’
‘Oh?’ A politely raised eyebrow. ‘And what would that be?’
Ringil cradled his goblet and peered into it. Put on a sheepish expression. ‘I have mentioned already how my father feels about these things, about my ... preferences. This uh, this behaviour ... of mine.’
‘Yes.’ Hale could not quite keep the weariness out of his voice. ‘Yes, I believe we’ve covered that. Go on.’
‘Well, there is one thing I need to be certain of before I buy from you - there must be no issue from this woman. She must be barren.’
And something drained abruptly out of the room.
It was bizarre. Ringil felt the change the way he usually felt the prelude to combat; slight pressure at his lower back, the faintest of crawling across his shoulder blades. Somehow, it seemed, he’d said the wrong thing. In the sudden quiet that opened behind his words, he looked up from his drink and saw that something indefinable had shifted in Terip Hale’s demeanour.
The slaver picked up his emptied goblet again, studied it as if he’d never seen it before and couldn’t imagine how it had got into the room with him.
‘That is a very ... specific requirement,’ he said softly. He looked up and met Ringil’s eyes. The anticipatory gleam was gone. ‘You know, my lord Laraninthal, I’m really not sure we shall be able to accommodate you so easily after all.’
Ringil blinked. This was unlooked for. The way he’d put the Laraninthal character across - wealthy but diffident, recently arrived in Trelayne, uncomfortable in his desires and fearful for his father’s good opinion - he was offering Terip Hale an irresistible opportunity. First off, if Laraninthal was new to the city, he’d have no real sense of the market here, and thus no clear idea of what his pale, well-endowed sex slave ought to cost him. The fact he was embarrassed about wanting her in the first place would only compound the matter. Hale could overcharge him to the mast tips. And that was just the start - do the deal right, and the slave trader was opening the lid of a whole treasure chest in genteel blackmail. You see, my lord, it appears there are rumours. We wouldn’t want your father hearing them, would we? Now don’t worry, I’m sure we can staunch the chatter - but it will cost a little something, these arrangements always do ...
And so forth. For the duration of his stay in Trelayne, this
Laraninthal could be discreetly bled for whatever he was worth.
It was a lot to pass up.
Yeah, but looks like old Terip here is getting ready to throw it away with both hands. And throw you out too, Gil, if you don’t get a grip on things pretty fucking fast.
‘If this—’ His accent had slipped with the surprise - he tugged it back into place, cleared his throat, and improvised off a tone of insulted pique. ‘If this is some trick to increase your price, then I am not—’
‘We have not discussed price yet,’ observed Hale, still in a tone like silk. But Ringil’s feigned outrage seemed to have had the desired effect. A little of the tension went out of the slaver. He set the goblet down and steepled his fingers. ‘In any case, it isn’t that which concerns me. It’s merely that I don’t see why you should be so concerned with the wench in question’s breeding capacity. It really is neither here nor there. If she swells with child, we can soon find you a replacement, well before she becomes unsightly. And meanwhile, by law you will own the offspring if it survives. You can sell it, along with the mother if she no longer pleases you, or separately, if that improves your price. The market is flexible in these matters.’
‘I, uh, I would not know how to go about—’
‘Oh, you may be assured of my diligence in such a case. I’ll gladly pledge you any assistance you require.’
Yeah, I’ll bet - for a small consideration. But at least Hale seemed to be tipping back in the right direction. Ringil put in another diffident clearing of the throat.
‘You see, in imperial law, slave offspring cannot be—’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’ A faint impatience curled into the slaver’s tone now. ‘But you’re not in the Empire now, my lord. We have League law here, and I assure you, I know it to the letter where my business is concerned.’
‘Well, then.’ Grudgingly. ‘I suppose that—’
‘Excellent.’ Hale clapped his hands. ‘Well, I think what we’ll do is, instead of talking all night, we’ll go down and see some flesh right now. That’ll give you something to sleep on, eh my lord?’
A lewd wink. Ringil tried hard to look enthusiastic.
‘Oh, and perhaps before we do that, my lord Laraninthal could give me any other specifics he has in mind. The stable we hold is extensive, and it may save time if we can narrow the field. Is there perhaps a particular hair colour that draws you? Height? I understand your women in the south are quite small-boned.’
Ringil called Sherin to mind, his own faded childhood memories and what Ishil had told him about her lineage. He had the charcoal line sketch of what she looked like in his pocket, but better right now to play it looser than that. He didn’t want to tip his hand too early.
‘You have in this city, I’m told, a race who live out on the marsh. Is it so?’
‘Yes.’ Hale was watching him warily. ‘That’s so. What of it?’
Ringil cleared his throat. ‘Numerous countrymen of mine have told me that the marsh women behave uhm, well ... differently in bed. You know. That they, uhm, abandon themselves to the act. Utterly. Like animals.’
It was flat-out fabrication - the marsh dwellers had no such reputation in Yhelteth; in fact, most untravelled imperials would have no knowledge that they existed at all as a discrete group. As far as the Empire was concerned, the whole of the Trelayne territory was filled with backward, marsh-grubbing peasants. Only the very well informed knew enough to make distinctions. But no matter - it would play well enough. You could hear the same basic whisper of abandoned sexuality about women from any brutalised or excluded race under the band. Ringil had sat and listened to soldiers repeat it around campfires in every disputed piece of territory he’d fought in after the war with the Scaled Folk was done. It was a basic justification for rape.
He sometimes thought they would have said it about the lizard females as well, if the Scaled Folk had not been so unremittingly alien.
Well, I wouldn’t rule that out either, Archeth once told him, huddled against the coastal wind in Gergis, watching the camp below them. These men would fuck mud if it was warmed to a decent temperature.
She was talking about her own command.
‘Marsh dwellers, eh?’ Terip Hale rolled out a slow smile. ‘Well, I’ve not heard that one before, exactly. But of course, if that’s your preference. Janish.’
The doorman took a step forward. ‘My lord.’
‘We’ll be paying a visit to the joyous longshank girls. Go down ahead of us and see that everything’s opened up. So to speak.’
The doorman’s face split in a fierce grin. ‘Yes, sir.’
Hale watched him go with a sober expression at odds with the joke. He seemed to be working through something in his head.
‘We don’t deal that much in full-blood dwellers,’ he said reflectively. ‘Though if what you tell me is true, perhaps we should. But it’s problematic, you see. Their families are mostly very tightly knit, and as a people they’re a stubborn, unthinking lot. I’ve seen cases where a man on the marsh would rather starve than sell his children. I mean, what can you do with people like that?’
Ringil hid his face in his goblet.
‘Fortunately, though, marsh-dweller blood isn’t quite as uncommon among our ordinary citizens’ - Hale permitted himself a thin smile - ‘as those same citizens would have you believe. It’s been known to leak into even the noblest of Trelayne families. Don’t worry yourself, Laraninthal of Shenshenath, I’m quite sure we’ll be able to find you a girl with suitable blood.’
They made small talk after that, while Ringil finished his wine, played the diffident imperial fop, and kept his feelings masked. Inwardly, a cautious optimism was rising through him. He didn’t really expect to find Sherin here - even if she had passed through Hale’s stable, and not one of the others that specialised in concubinage, that had been a month ago. Despite the slave trader’s comments about the difficulties of training spirited girls, Ringil didn’t think it would require that long to break a young woman who probably already considered herself worthless for her lack of child-bearing ability, who had already been shunned by her whole family, and then, finally, betrayed by the man who’d taken her away from them.
But if she had been here, there’d be traces. Memories among the other girls, among servants and handlers. There’d be documents of sale, somewhere. It was a legal trade now, all above board. Part of the brave new world they’d all been fighting for. If this was the place, the door was halfway levered open, and Ringil could do the rest in easy stages - even if that meant taking Terip Hale somewhere secluded and getting what he needed out of him with hot coals and iron.
If this was not the place, well, he had the other names on Milacar’s list. He could start all over again.
‘Shall we go down?’ Hale asked him.
He smiled and nodded in eager, foppish assent.
It seemed the joyous longshank girls were kept on the other side of the building. Ringil followed Hale down to ground level and out to the courtyard. Eril and Girsh brought up the rear, along with Hale’s flail-equipped muscle. Everybody watched everybody else with hardened calm. The night had turned clear and cold while they were inside - they crossed the courtyard in silence under sharp stars and the long cool arc of the band. Ringil saw his breath puff ice white in the air.
If the cold bothered Hale, in his silk dressing gown and slippers, he gave no sign. He led them through another side door in the courtyard wall, down three sets of stone steps and into a semi-circular basement chamber with five curtained alcoves along its curving wall. Janish the doorman was already there, the grin still plastered across his face - it seemed he’d been enjoying his work. Bandlight spilled in from small barred windows near the roof, but most of the illumination came from two lanterns set down in the centre of the room. There were Majak rugs on the floor, lewd murals etched into the curving wall - though rather prim of content compared with Grace-of-Heaven’s ceiling - and a vast black iron candelabra hanging from the vaulted roof.
‘Allow me to present,’ he said gravely, ‘the joyous longshank girls.’
The curtains whisked aside in their alcoves. Armed men stood there grinning. Short swords and hatchets, maces and clubs. Two men to an alcove, at least. Ringil saw at least one crossbow, raised and cocked.
The doorman caught his eye, and winked.
‘Now,’ said Hale. ‘Perhaps, Laraninthal of Shenshenath, you’d like to tell me who exactly the fuck you really are.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Steel Remains (Gollancz) Page 23