Inside the wagon, Marqel listened to the conversation thoughtfully. Normally, Kalleen would have taken Lanatyne to task for insulting her son, but she was distracted this evening. Things were looking grim for the troupe. Tonight was a chance to recoup at least some of their losses, but they couldn’t stay on Elcast indefinitely, and even arriving so many weeks before Landfall was a gamble. They might be asked to move on, perhaps even before the Festival. Nobody liked their kind hanging about.
“Marqel? Aren’t you ready yet?”
Marqel clambered down from the wagon, tying the ribbons Kalleen insisted she wear into her long, fair hair. She crossed the small distance to the fire, still fiddling with the childish adornments. When she was finally done, she brushed down her little girl’s tunic and presented herself with a pout to the troupe leader for inspection. She wore a short tunic that fell to just below her knees, and her face was scrubbed clean as a milkmaid’s. Her hair was the color of ripened wheat and fell long and straight and heavy, without even a hint of a curl. Kalleen eyed her critically for a moment, then nodded.
“You’ll do, I suppose. Just keep that smart little mouth of yours shut. At least until after he’s handed over the money.”
Marqel pulled a face in reply. Kalleen had sold her as a virgin to one of the patrons who had attended their show in the town square yesterday. Kalleen had been selling her as a virgin all summer as they traveled around the islands of Dhevyn, eking out a living as acrobats, fortune-tellers and entertainers. Marqel was well rehearsed by now. She knew how to simper. She knew how to look wide-eyed and frightened. She had even mastered the art of breathlessly begging her patrons to “be gentle with me, sir . . .”
“And don’t you go doin’ nothin’ that’ll give us away,” Vonril added.
Generally, men who could afford to buy a healthy young virgin were in positions where, if they suspected cheating, they could make life very difficult for the troupe. Vonril was nervous of his mother’s scheme, and every time Marqel was sold he grew more anxious, certain their ruse would be discovered.
Marqel thought he worried unnecessarily. She saw the guilt in the eyes of the men who bought her. She knew they were paying for something they could never admit to. She had a hidden treasure trove gleaned from such men—coins, jewelry, even a tiny music box that tinkled a delightful tune whenever she secretly opened it. Those treasures were the only bright spot in an otherwise hopeless existence, with no future prospects other than the life of a whore or a performer with Kalleen and Vonril and Lanatyne in Mistress Kalleen’s Traveling Troupe of Amazing Acrobats.
“Now, you remember,” Kalleen warned. “You don’t do nothing till he’s paid the money. You pass it on to Murry and then act all innocent and dumb like...”
“I know what I’m doing, Kalleen,” she sighed impatiently. “This is the eighth time I’ve been deflowered in as many weeks.”
Marqel was safe from Kalleen’s fist. She always made sure she was out of range before she gave the fat old hag any lip. It was a hard-earned lesson. Besides, tonight at least, Kalleen would do nothing that might bruise her pale flesh. She would be delivered to Hauritz the Butcher unmarked.
“You just watch that mouth of yours,” Kalleen repeated with a frown. “Murry!”
Murry was a big, bearded man who claimed he came from Damita, even though he talked with a distinctly Senetian accent. He appeared from the other side of the blue-painted wagon he shared with Sooter, the troupe’s other roustabout. Marqel and Lanatyne shared the smallest wagon, while Kalleen shared the largest with her son, Vonril. Although Kalleen’s wagon was the most comfortable and in the best repair, nobody would have traded places with Vonril for a seat at the queen’s table.
“It’s time,” Kalleen informed him. “See she gets there and that she comes straight back. And make sure she gives you all the money.”
Murry nodded mutely and beckoned Marqel to follow him.
Once they were clear of the camp, walking the ash-dusted road that led into town, Murry began to talk, reminding her, as he always did, of the need to be careful; of signs to watch for that a man was turning violent. The evening was mild, the second sun just sinking below the horizon. Tall evergreens coated in a powdery layer of fine white ash shaded the road, and the distant squawking of gulls filled the still air as they fought over the fish washed up on the shore in the aftermath of the eruption.
Marqel pretended to listen attentively as Murry repeated the same advice he gave her each time they made a journey like this. She thought it bizarre. He was escorting her to a man who had purchased the use of her body because he thought she was a virgin, and Murry was lecturing her on how to ensure her own safety.
The lecture irked her. She stopped and stared up at the big Damitian. “Murry, if you care so much about what happens to me, why not stop Kalleen selling me like a side of lamb in every town we stop at, instead of instructing me on how to avoid getting beaten up?”
Murry looked shocked. “But you’re a whore, Marqel.”
“I’m an acrobat!” she corrected. “I’m not a whore. That’s Lanatyne’s job.”
“She was an acrobat once, too, you know, back before she broke her ankle.”
“I don’t care. I’m not going to be a whore the rest of my life.”
“Then what are you, lass?” Murry asked, genuinely puzzled by her refusal to accept her fate. “You’ve not much choice that I can see.”
“Well, whatever happens, I’m not going to piss my life away in this pathetic traveling circus.”
“You’re a fool, girl,” he sighed. “Come on, we’ll be late.”
Marqel defied him for a moment or two, scuffing at the ground with her sandals as Murry walked on ahead. Once again, she would have to lay beneath some sweaty, sausagefingered old man with bad breath, who would paw at her body clumsily, pounding his manhood into her until he collapsed from exhaustion. It would be unpleasant, but probably blessedly short. That was one thing about these men to be grateful for. Most of them were so guilt-ridden, so aroused at the thought of possessing her, that they barely lasted long enough to cause her any real discomfort.
With a heavy sigh, Marqel followed Murry down the road into town.
There really wasn’t much else she could do.
Hauritz the Butcher let her in the back of his store, glancing up and down the alley furtively to make sure nobody had seen them. Marqel stepped into the kitchen with Murry close behind, and glanced around with interest. The room was dominated by a long polished table, and softly gleaming pots hung from hooks in the ceiling. There was a white lace cloth draped over the table and the stove was meticulously clean.
“Where’s your wife?” Marqel asked curiously. No man kept house like this.
“My wife? Why do you want to know about my wife?” he demanded anxiously.
“We don’t care about your wife,” Murry told him. “Where’s the money?”
The butcher dug into the pocket of his trousers and withdrew a small leather purse that clinked with the familiar dull sound of coins rubbing together. He handed it to Murry with a scowl. “You disgust me! Selling your own child.”
That must have been the story Kalleen had given the butcher. Sometimes Marqel was an orphan, sometimes a sister, and sometimes a daughter. Kalleen was very good at reading people and using whatever lie would bring the highest price.
Murry took the purse and opened it. He couldn’t read, but he could tell how much was in the purse, just by looking at it. He nodded, satisfied that the amount was correct, then looked down on the sweaty little butcher.
“You disgust me,” he retorted. “You’re buying her.”
This is all I need, Marqel sighed impatiently to herself. She wanted this over quickly, although glancing at the nervous butcher, she doubted he’d even be up to the job. Certainly not with Murry standing over him like that.
“Daddy?” she interrupted in her best little-girl voice. “I’ll be all right. You take the money home.” Then she added with a dramatic s
igh, “At least the others will get a decent meal tonight.”
Murry took the hint. “I’ll be back for you later.” He turned and grabbed the butcher by the front of his shirt. “You hurt her, and you’ll be sorry.”
The big Damitian released the butcher with a shove and let himself out of the kitchen. Hauritz sputtered in outrage for a moment, at least until the door closed behind Murry, then he took a deep breath and turned to look at Marqel. She smiled tentatively.
“You’ll have to tell me what to do,” she said in a small, tremulous voice. “I’ve never done this before.”
The butcher wiped his hands on his trousers and moved around the table toward her. Marqel dropped her eyes coyly and began to unlace her shift. With luck, and a bit of judicious teasing, it would be over almost before it began.
“How old are you?”
“Thirteen,” she lied smoothly. It didn’t matter that she was almost seventeen. It was what the butcher believed that counted.
“Thirteen,” the butcher repeated, his voice husky, as if he couldn’t believe what stood before him. “So young. So innocent.”
So gullible, Marqel added with silent scorn as she let the shift fall to the floor.
The man gasped in appreciation. They always did. Her body was toned from long hours practicing acrobatics, and she’d learned long ago that confronted with a naked female body, most men would agree to anything.
“Sir?” she ventured cautiously, taking a step back from him.
“What?”
“May I ask a favor?”
“Anything . . .” He moved closer, reaching for her, but not touching her yet, as if he was afraid she would disappear if he laid his hands upon her.
“This is my first time.”
“I know.”
“Would you give me something? Something to remember it by?”
The butcher looked up sharply and Marqel wondered if she’d misjudged him. “I just gave your damn father a fortune in silver.”
Sudden unshed tears glistened in her sapphire eyes. “I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have asked. It was wrong of me, I know. It’s just that... well, I’ll not ever have this moment again. And you seem such a... nice man. I wanted it to be special.”
Hauritz the Butcher stared at her for a moment, then walked across to the sideboard. He opened a carved trinket box and withdrew a gold coin. He held it up in front of her face. “If you’re a good girl, I’ll let you have this when we’re done.”
She nodded and wiped her tears away. Lanatyne had shown her how to cry like that. It worked every time.
“I’ll be a good girl,” she promised shyly.
The butcher grinned, and pulled her to him.
Marqel closed her eyes, keeping the image of that gold coin in her mind.
Chapter 5
The mysterious sailor still hadn’t regained consciousness by dinnertime. Master Helgin shooed Dirk and Eryk out of his rooms and ordered Dirk to attend his parents. The governor would be in attendance at dinner this evening, and not for any reason would Dirk be excused.
They had bathed the battered man’s numerous wounds, reset his dislocated shoulder and bound his broken limbs. The old man had stitched and dressed the wound on the sailor’s forehead, but did not seem unduly concerned about it. All they could do now was wait.
Helgin had fussed over his patient like an old woman. The only reason that he gave for having the man brought to his rooms, rather than the infirmary down near the main gate, was his need to keep the sailor under constant observation. Dirk thought his decision very strange, particularly as Helgin was always telling him how important it was that a physician maintain a distance between himself and his patients. It was at Helgin’s insistence that his mother had provided the physician with an infirmary in the first place.
“Will he be all right, Master Helgin?” Eryk asked, as Helgin tried to hurry them out.
“He’s been unconscious for a long time,” Dirk added with concern.
“That’s just nature’s way of coping with pain,” Helgin assured them, wiping his brow with his kerchief. Although it was still warm, it didn’t seem hot enough to make the old physician sweat so much.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather I stayed? . . .”
“Be off with you, Dirk, before your mother has me served up for dinner for keeping you late.”
“I don’t have to go to dinner with the guv’ner,” Eryk pointed out with a helpful smile. “I could stay and help.”
“I’m sure Seneschal Balonan can find plenty of other work for you, Eryk. The patient will be fine without you watching him draw his every breath.”
“You looked really worried this morning,” Dirk reminded him, thinking of Helgin’s look of concern when he first examined the survivor.
“Well, I’m not worried now,” Helgin insisted, almost pushing them out the door. “Now go, both of you. And mind your manners at dinner tonight, Dirk. Tovin Rill is an important man and you can’t afford to offend him.”
That’s a bit rich, coming from you, Dirk thought, recalling the physician’s tactless remarks in Tovin’s hearing this morning. But he said nothing. Helgin was uncharacteristically nervous about something.
“I’ll come back after dinner and check on him.”
“No, you’ve got studying to do. I’m still waiting for that work I gave you last week.”
Dirk shrugged. “That won’t take long. They’re just a few calculations. Besides, you said I didn’t have to complete it until next week.”
“I changed my mind. And they’re not just a few calculations, boy. Some of those problems kept the finest minds at the university on Grannon Rock occupied for years before they were solved.”
“Are you sure you don’t want us to come back?”
“Positive. Now go!”
With no idea why Helgin was so anxious to be rid of them, Dirk reluctantly left the room, then, when he realized how late it was, hurried up the stairs to his room on the fifth floor of the ancient Keep with the ever-faithful Eryk close on his heels.
Since being appointed Dirk’s servant, the tousle-haired Eryk had taken his duties so seriously that he was rarely out of the older boy’s sight. Although he could be trying at times, Dirk didn’t really mind. Eryk was a harmless soul without an artful bone in his body, and since being promoted, from an unwanted orphan that nobody was sure what to do with to the servant of the second son of Elcast, it was as if he had found his purpose in life. And the bullying had stopped, too. Eryk had always been an easy target for bigger, smarter lads in the castle and the town. Since Dirk’s mother had taken the boy in, the bullies seemed reluctant to incur the wrath of one of Duke Wallin’s sons, and through him, the duke, just to have a bit of sport with a slow-witted orphan.
With Eryk hovering around him like a clucky mother hen, Dirk changed out of his dirty clothes.
“You should brush your hair,” Eryk reminded him, carefully enunciating each word. He only lisped when he got really excited, although sometimes it was painful to listen to him trying so hard. “And wash behind your ears, too.”
This from a boy who usually had to be dragged kicking and screaming to the bathtub. Dirk looked at the boy with a suspicious frown as he pulled on his boots.
“Eryk, who told you to say that? My mother?”
The boy shook his head. “It was Lord Rees. While we were waiting for you on the levee wall, he said that every day I should tell you to bruth your hair, and thine your thoes—”
That would have been Rees’s idea of a joke. He probably made the poor boy repeat the list back to him a dozen times to make sure he remembered it. “Well, next time Lord Rees starts telling you what to say to me,” Dirk cut in, before Eryk got too tongue-tied, “you tell him I said to mind his own bithness.”
Eryk grinned at Dirk’s deliberate mispronunciation. “Are you taking the pith out of me, Lord Dirk?”
“Just a little bit. And stop calling me Lord Dirk, Eryk. I must have told you that a million times already.�
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“It wouldn’t be proper,” Eryk replied. “I told you that a million times.”
Dirk stamped his feet into his boots and ruffled the boy’s hair fondly. “I’d better get going. When you’re finished up here, you make sure you eat something, you hear?” Eryk frequently got so involved in what he was doing that he would forget to eat. In fact, Eryk required so much supervision that at times, Dirk wondered who was looking after whom.
Still tucking in his shirt as he ran downstairs, he barely made it to the Hall as Tovin Rill was taking his seat at the High Table for dinner.
The Hall was one of the few places in Elcast Keep that required artificial lighting. Even during the day, candles were required to light the cavernous circular hall. Like the rest of the Keep, the walls were constructed of roughly dressed granite, and it was always cool in here, even at the height of summer. The red light from the evening sun did not reach the floor through the thick arrow-slit windows that followed the deep granite stairs. The stairs wound around the interior of the building as if some giant drill had bored the Hall out of living rock. Rectangular shafts of ruby light crisscrossed the granite walls in a pattern that still fascinated Dirk, even after a lifetime of staring at it.
“Ah, here he is!” Tovin declared as Dirk tried to make his way to the High Table as inconspicuously as possible. “Our heroic physician!”
With no chance of sneaking to his place quietly, he gave up trying. Dirk stopped in front of the High Table and bowed to the duke and the governor. His father sat in the center, with his mother on the left and Tovin Rill on his right. Rees sat on Tovin’s right next to Lanon, while his own seat sat empty and waiting beside his mother’s. Every eye in the Hall was on him.
“Heroic, my lord?” Wallin asked with a smile. Dirk’s father was just like Rees, stocky and solid, although his curly hair was more gray than brown these days. There was little of Wallin in Dirk. He was leaner, taller and more like his mother in both looks and temperament. “Surely the boy merely did what he’s being trained for?”
“Yes, Wallin, he did, but he shimmied down that damn levee wall like it was a garden trellis. Can’t say I would have tackled it with the same aplomb.”
The Lion of Senet Page 4