by David Weber
Despite the urging of the mayor and other older war maids, Theretha had steadfastly resisted the suggestion that she go to the courts in an effort to punish her stepfather. The odds against her being believed by the court in her home town were formidable. Those who knew only his public face thought her stepfather was an honest businessman, devoted to his deceased wife’s family. They probably thought he liked puppies and small kittens, too, she thought grimly, and even if the magistrate had chosen to believe her, the chance that someone who could call on so many character witnesses—most of whom would actually believe what they were saying—would suffer any significant penalty would have been slight. As far as Theretha was concerned, she had better things to do with her life than to reopen all the old wounds in a futile effort to see her victimizer punished. She sometimes wondered if that belief was a reflection of the mouselike tendencies which had made any possibility of her becoming a warrior like Soumeta laughable.
Fortunately, she’d completed most of her apprenticeship before her father’s death, and until her mother died, she’d insisted that Theretha’s stepfather continue her training. He’d done so only grudgingly, but until his wife’s death, he’d really had no choice, since she’d owned both the workshop and the store. But after Theretha’s mother died, he’d taken gloating delight in refusing to sign her journeyman’s certificate, no doubt because he’d seen that refusal as a means to deprive her of any independent livelihood and trap her in his power.
The war maids didn’t much concern themselves with what sorts of certificates a woman might have received—or not received—before becoming a war maid. They were more concerned with what she could actually do, and the glassblower assigned to test Theretha had realized almost instantly what a treasure she represented. At sixteen and a half, Theretha had already possessed the skills her raw talent required to draw both utility and dazzling beauty from the clear, incandescent magic of molten sand. Now, ten years later, she was an acknowledged mistress of her craft, her work sought out and prized by wealthy commoners and aristocrats alike throughout most of the Kingdom of the Sothoii. Her pieces and name were even known to a select few collectors in the Empire of the Axe, and they commanded substantial prices. Very few of the connoisseurs who purchased them for prices Theretha sometimes had trouble believing were real, even now, realized she was a war maid, although it was unlikely many of them would have cared, even if they had.
She accepted an increasing number of commissions these days, but she’d never forgotten her father’s admonition. Beauty was to the soul as water was to a fish, but it was the more mundane work of a glassblower’s hands, dedicated to the day-to-day sustenance of others, that was his true reason for being. And so Theretha insisted—with the stubborn ferocity of a mouse who had discovered how to become a direcat in this one aspect of her life—upon keeping her hand turned to the merely useful, as well. The glassware, like the pharmacist’s bottles and the spice seller’s jars, which did nothing at all … except save lives or help someone else earn an honest living.
Or like the glassware in the cart she and Soumeta had brought to Thalar.
She hadn’t really wanted to make the journey—especially not now, when everything seemed so … unsettled and difficult. For that matter, Mayor Yalith clearly had very mixed feelings about it. In a way, Theretha was the “kid sister” of every war maid in Kalatha, and all of them were intensely protective of her. Probably because they realized she was completely unsuited to protect herself from anything more dangerous than a crazed chipmunk, she thought.
But she’d decided that she didn’t have a choice, and then managed to convince Yalith to see it her way. The bulk of the output from Theretha’s workshop and her six employees consisted not of her beautiful art pieces, but of those everyday, practical items. That was what earned the routine revenues Kalatha needed and paid the salaries of the people who worked for her. It was essential to maintain the outlet through which those wares might be sold.
Thalar wasn’t a very large or especially wealthy town, but it was the largest and wealthiest in the holding of Lorham. More to the point, it had the biggest, most active market, and Theretha had established what she’d thought were good relationships with the merchants who distributed her more mundane products. Especially with Herian Axemaster, who handled over half of all the glassware and pottery which moved through Lorham. Herian was also a factor for Clan Harkanath, the powerful Dwarvenhame trading house. But those relationships seemed to have suffered serious damage, along with every other aspect of Kalatha’s relations with Lord Trisu and all of his subjects. If she wanted to maintain her access to the Thalar market, and through it, to the world beyond, she’d decided, she had to come along and see what she could do to repair them And, as she had somewhat delicately suggested to the mayor, the fact that her Thalar contacts also knew about her art pieces, and that Herian had actually handled the sale of several of them for her, ought to give her a bit more clout than she might have had otherwise.
Unfortunately …
Theretha bit her lip as she looked in through the open door of the market master’s office and saw Soumeta leaning over Master Manuar’s desk. The lamps were already lit in anticipation of the rapidly oncoming evening, and Soumeta’s short blond hair gleamed in their mellow light as she stabbed an angry index finger repeatedly onto the desk’s top. It was impossible for Theretha to hear anything from here, but from Soumeta’s flushed face and Manuar’s thunderous expression she strongly suspected that the two of them were shouting at one another.
She stopped rubbing her hands together under her cloak, but only so that she could actively wring them. This was bad. This was very bad! Lillinara knew enough other war maids had experienced difficulties in Thalar’s market, just as they had in what seemed to be every town, village, and hamlet throughout Trisu’s domain. There’d always been some discrimination against war maid merchants, farmers, and craftswomen, but it had grown much worse over the past several months. In fact, it had reached the point that the market masters, the magistrates whose responsibility it was to oversee the fair and legal operation of the markets, appeared to have washed their hands of it. Some of them actually seemed to be actively harassing any war maid who entered their jurisdiction, or even flatly refusing to sign the permits required to trade in the markets they supervised. But Theretha hadn’t been able to believe that Manuar, who’d always been a gruff stickler when it came to the discharge of his duties, could possibly be one of those.
Manuar suddenly shoved himself up out of his chair, and leaned forward over his desk. He braced his weight on the knuckles of his fisted left hand while he shoved his face within inches of Soumeta’s and slammed his right palm on the desktop. If he hadn’t been shouting before, he obviously was now, Theretha thought glumly, and took two involuntary steps towards his office before her memory of Yalith’s instructions stopped her.
Soumeta closed her mouth, muscles bunching along her jaw as she clenched her teeth. She glared at the market master, her anger almost physically visible from where Theretha stood. Then she turned on her heel and stormed out of Manuar’s office.
Not good, Theretha thought. Not good at all.
“That … that … that man!” Soumeta spat. Rain was beginning to sift over them again, glistening on her hair and the bare skin exposed by her chari and yathu, and she reminded Theretha of nothing in the world so much as a furious soaked cat.
“It looked like it didn’t go very well?” Theretha’s tone turned the statement into a question. She hated it when she did that. It always made her feel indecisive, more like a mouse than ever.
“You might say that,” Soumeta snarled. “Just like you might say it’s been a little damp this spring!”
“How bad was it?” Theretha sighed.
“Just for starters, he says Jolhanna is the one who’s done all of the antagonizing here in Thalar. It wasn’t any of the town’s merchants—oh, no! For some reason known only to her, our representative—the person whose job it is to
keep our access to the market open—has taken it upon herself to pick fights with virtually every important merchant in Thalar!”
“What?!” Theretha shook her head in confused disbelief. “Why in the world would she do something like that?”
“Exactly my point!” Soumeta’s voice was harsh. “Jolhanna has—we have—no reason to be confrontational. Not here, not about this, and certainly not without provocation. But according to Manuar, that’s exactly what she was. And because of her ’misbehavior,’ the rest of us are not welcome here.”
“He’s officially excluded us from the market?” Theretha stared at the other war maid in shock.
“No, not officially,” Soumeta replied, almost as if she hated conceding Manuar even that. “But he didn’t have to. What he said was that, of course he would sign our permit and see to it that anyone trading with us complies with every requirement of the law and the charter. However, he pointed out, not even the charter requires people to buy from us if they choose not to. And apparently,” she bared her teeth in a smile totally devoid of humor, “it just happens that every merchant in Thalar has decided not to trade with us. Completely spontaneously, of course.”
“I’m sure Herian wouldn’t feel that way,” Theretha protested.
“Maybe not, but it doesn’t matter,” Soumeta sighed. “Herian isn’t here.”
“What?” Theretha blinked. “That’s ridiculous. Herian is always here!”
“Not according to Manuar, he isn’t,” Soumeta said, biting off each word as if she were chewing horseshoes. Theretha looked at her in consternation, and she shrugged irritably. “Figure it out for yourself, Theretha. If Manuar’s lying and Herian is here, then there’s no point in even hoping he’ll enforce the charter’s provisions for us, whatever he says. And if Herian isn’t here, that may be even worse. It may mean he’s chosen to join in this boycott of our people and just doesn’t want to openly admit it. Either way, I see no reason to stay here and batter our heads against a wall that isn’t going to come down for us!”
“But—” Theretha began, only to have Soumeta cut her off with a sharp shake of her head.
“We’re not staying,” she said flatly.
“But we must!” Theretha protested. “We need the markets—the income! We can’t just—”
“Oh, yes we can,” Soumeta told her. “I don’t like the feel of this one bit, Theretha. I’m not sure it’s even safe here, certainly not sure enough to risk exposing you to danger.”
“Me? In danger here in Thalar?” Soumeta seemed to be speaking a foreign language, and Theretha shook her head, trying to understand what the other war maid was thinking. “You should have let me talk to Manuar,” she said with mingled plaintiveness and frustration. “He knows me. For Lillinara’s sake, I’ve eaten lunch in his home, Soumeta!”
“I know you have. And I know that’s one reason you were sent along in the first place. But he made it fairly obvious that there are people here in Thalar who are really upset over our supposed demands and Jolhanna’s supposed hostility. He seems to think some of those upset people might just try to find someone to take revenge on.”
“Revenge for what?” Theretha demanded in total confusion and exasperation. “All I want to do is sell some bottles! This doesn’t make any sense!”
“That’s because no one is feeling particularly sensible just now,” Soumeta told her harshly. “And, for the second time, I don’t have any idea what started it all. The one thing I’m positive of is that it wasn’t Jolhanna who went crazy. After that, I don’t have a clue. Unless—”
“Unless what?” Theretha asked when the other woman paused.
“Unless Trisu and his cronies are trying to concoct some sort of a bizarre pretext, a justification for the way they’ve been systematically infringing on our rights and boundaries.”
“That’s preposterous.” Theretha wished she sounded more certain of that than she felt.
“Of course it is. But that doesn’t mean it’s not happening.” The older war maid shook her head. “You know, I didn’t want to believe it, myself. Not even when the Voice at Quaysar warned Mayor Yalith that the Mother was uneasy. But now—”
She shrugged, and Theretha nodded slowly and miserably. The Voice hadn’t been very specific, or not, at least, in any of the messages from her which Theretha knew anything about. But when a priestess of Lillinara—especially the priestess, at the Quaysar Temple of Lillinara—warned a war maid free-town of impending danger, it was best to pay attention.
“But that’s why we’re getting out of here, now—this evening,” Soumeta continued flatly. “If I knew what was going on, I might not be so concerned over whether or not I could handle it. But this whole thing is so crazy, so bizarre, that I can’t begin to figure out what’s happening, or even what’s already happened. In the meantime, though, it’s my job to be sure you get home safe and sound. You and your art commissions are more important to Kalatha in the long run than opening the local markets, and if Manuar’s telling the truth, not just blowing smoke out of his arse because he’s pissed at me for calling him on his dereliction of his duties, then there might be a genuine danger of something … unpleasant happening to you.
“So climb back up in the cart, Theretha. We’re leaving. Now.”
Theretha opened her mouth, ready for one, final protest. But Soumeta’s expression stopped her. The other woman’s face was like a stone wall, a fortress turned against the world in general and Thalar and Master Manuar in particular. There was no point arguing, the glassblower realized.
The rain was falling harder as Theretha clambered up into the cart, in the center aisle between the crates of glassware they’d brought with them so hopefully. She heard the raindrops hitting the taut canvas above her, like an endless series of tiny fists, punching the cover. Here and there, water broke through the fabric, running downward across its inner curve. Some of it seemed to home in on Theretha, and she wrapped her cloak more tightly still about her as Soumeta walked around to the front of the cart and got a good grip on the cart pony’s halter. The older woman clucked to the pony, and Theretha grabbed at one of the strapped-up crates for balance as the cart lurched back into motion.
She was going to be cold, wet, and thoroughly miserable by dawn, she thought as the sweet chiming of vibrated glass sang softly to the rain patter from the crates. And the fact that Soumeta was going to be even wetter and colder only made her feel even more frustrated and obscurely guilty. Soumeta was right—Mayor Yalith had made it clear she was to be Kalatha’s official representative, and that she was to “look after” Theretha. Yet Theretha couldn’t rid herself of the gnawing suspicion that if she’d only spoken to Manuar herself, she might somehow have made a difference.
But she hadn’t, and as the cart jolted and splashed through the rain, she settled into the most comfortable position she could find and wondered just when everything had started going so dreadfully wrong.
Chapter Nine
“That was delicious, Tala—as always,” Kaeritha said with a deeply satisfied sigh. She laid her spoon neatly in the empty bowl of bread pudding and patted her flat stomach as she leaned back in her chair, smiling at the sturdy, middle-aged hradani woman who’d been sent along by Prince Bahnak as his son’s housekeeper.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it, Milady,” Tala said in a pronounced Navahkan accent. “It’s always a pleasure to cook for someone who knows good food when she tastes it.”
“Or devours it—in copious quantities,” Brandark observed, eyeing the empty platters on the table.
“I didn’t seem to notice you shirking your share of the devouring, Milord,” Tala replied dryly.
“No, but there’s more of me to maintain,” Brandark replied with a grin, and Kaeritha grinned back at him. Brandark might be of less than average height for even a Bloody Sword hradani, but that still left him a good three inches taller than Kaeritha, and he was far more massively built.
“Aye,” Bahzell agreed. “For a sawed-off runt of a hr
adani who’s after sitting on his arse with a pen and a bit of parchment all day, you’ve a bit of meat on your bones, I suppose.”
“I’ll remember that the next time you need some obscure Sothoii text translated,” Brandark assured him.
“Hush, now, Brandark!” the third person at the table scolded. Gharnal Uthmagson was short for a Horse Stealer, but taller than Brandark and almost as massively built. Which still left him over a full foot shorter than his foster brother, Bahzell. “It’s not so very nice of you to be pointing out as how the thin air up where Bahzell’s after keeping his head keeps a man’s brain from working. It’s not as if it was after being his fault he can’t be reading for himself.”
He grinned at Brandark, without a trace of the vitriolic hatred for all Bloody Swords which had made him Brandark’s bitter enemy when the smaller hradani first accompanied Bahzell to Hurgrum.
“Speaking of obscure Sothoii texts,” Kaeritha said in the voice of an adult overlooking a children’s squabble as a smiling Tala withdrew, “I wonder if you’ve come across a copy of the war maids’ charter in your forays through Tellian’s library, Brandark?”
“I haven’t been looking for one,” the Bloody Sword replied. “I’ve done a little research on the entire question of war maids since you and Tellian discussed them the other morning, but I’ve really only scratched the surface so far. I assume there’s probably a copy of the charter and its amending documents somewhere, though. Would you like me to take a look for them?”