Trade (Deridia Book 2)

by Catherine Miller

  Machrus, however, looked offended. He picked up another one, who gave a bleat of surprise at being hoisted, but otherwise did not struggle. “Touch one.” There was no mistaking it was an order.

  She recoiled, but he kept hold of her wrist. “Touch,” he said again.

  She did not want to, not at all, but she bit her lip, forcing herself to be brave. Only, she’d never been good at being brave, not really, so her hand trembled and he had to guide her to the animal, her hand sinking into the softest fluff she could ever have imagined.

  “Oh,” she breathed, staring down at her hand, her fingers twitching.

  “We trim down their fur. It makes our clothing, and our blankets. It will also make yours.”

  She nodded in understanding, a little thrill going through her at the prospect of having something made of cloth so soft. Perhaps she would learn more of the process, would see where her small skill might prove most useful, and in that way, she could be needed.

  Machrus set down the grenpeet with a little pat, and she watched it scamper away with a few others, leaping and bounding with more agility than she would have expected. She wouldn’t say she was comfortable with them, not yet, but there was not a bit of trepidation in Machrus that would suggest they were dangerous.

  Perhaps with time she could believe him.

  “And that’s your home?” she asked, touching his arm and pointing to the structure beyond.

  He bowed his head, his mouth forming its familiar thin line, and she felt a moment’s regret that she should be intruding there when clearly he did not wish it. But before she could offer to sleep elsewhere, he was leading her on, his back straight, his steps resolute.

  The promise of warmth and food were the only thing keeping her feet moving forward, her earlier unease returning along with all her original fears.

  Because she was married now, and had not the least idea what that meant to her husband.

  And they were very much alone.

  5. Alone

  They were to live in a hole in the ground.

  Perhaps not truly, but as he led her through a doorway in the side of the hill, it certainly seemed to be so at first. The sunlight through the windows and door did not reach far, and she expected it to smell richly of dirt and earth, but as she went further in, Machrus stepping forward to tend a fire, she realised she had been mistaken as to their living arrangements.

  Perhaps it was a burrow in a hill, but that did not make it unpleasant. Not in the least.

  The care he had taken in it was obvious. There was not a bit of dirt to be seen, sanded woods panelling the walls, whittled and carved into supports for the ceiling. The floors were wood as well, though you could hardly tell from the woven carpets generously throughout, soft upon her bared feet.

  The fire beckoned, but she was aware of how dirty her feet must be after her walk, and she did not wish to mess his home so soon, not unless she was certain she would be able to clean it properly. It was a tidy space—clearly lived in, but well kept, and she would not taint it by her thoughtlessness.

  He was too far away though to touch, so she stood awkwardly, taking in the nature of his home, wondering what it would be like to live here—to have a home at all. They could not spare the wood in the Wastes to build proper homes, fire to cook their meals taking precedence. Their tents had worked well enough, while some were able to use bits of wreckage to make shelters. But this... this spoke of permanence, and she found it most agreeable.

  The fire was sunken into a recess along the far wall, lined in stones, the smoke presumably finding some outlet up through the grass beyond. It was a clever thing, hidden yet not, just as his people would have been in their trees.

  She suppressed a rueful smile, beginning to understand Sladec’s dismay at his brother’s choice in dwelling—they could not be more opposite.

  He saw her standing by the door and gestured her forward, using only the tips of his fingers to do so. He frowned when she shook her head, and she held up her foot, glad she had remembered their state, as they seemed even worse than she had imagined. Bits of fallen leaves and dirt held fast, and though Machrus seemed impatient with her, he did not press further.

  Neat lines of small doors were near the fire, and he opened one, revealing another recess beyond, and, a cabinet of sorts that held carefully crafted clay cookware. Another impression showed a cylindrical tube, and with a quick pump...

  Water poured out.

  Her eyes widened. She’d heard of such things, knew in a vague sort of way that her people had once thought such luxuries as commonplace, but she had not expected to see it here.

  She thought Machrus had been watching her, but when she glanced at him his focus was on the pot he was filling, a cloth coming from another cupboard, before he was exiting the house. She followed him, uncertain if she was meant to, but he did not go far, instead sitting on the grass and tending to his own dirtied feet.

  The grenpeets had wandered off, though a few heads popped up as they heard the door open and shut once more, their mouths working furiously as they supped on their grass.

  Renna sat down also, and she noted the extra cloth he had brought, though he did not extend it to her. She bit her lip, wondering if she should ask or simply reach for it, but then, perhaps it was not for her at all.

  She was not seated very close to him, but it was easy enough to reach out, her hand touching his arm as lightly as she could. She still questioned how it was possible, this strange way of relating language, but she was not going to bother him with questions. “Is that for me?” she asked timidly, not wanting to presume but also very much hoping for clean feet. She still missed her boots and pushed away her resentment. This entire process would not have been necessary if they had not robbed her of all she had, but dwelling on such things would not be useful.

  Machrus’s grunt was his only vocal reply, but he did push the cloth closer to her, so she supposed that meant it was for her.

  They scrubbed in silence, their hands occupied with tending to their respective feet, the evidence of their walks now streaked across the cloths. She would have to ask him how to launder, but his brow was pulled low, and he seemed generally displeased, so she thought it best not to press him yet with queries about mundane life.

  But the longer he worked on his feet—she noticed the markings extended even so far as to smatter across his toes—the more disgruntled he became, and though she wanted to shrink away, to make herself as inconspicuous as possible, she supposed she should ask him what was troubling him. And if it was her, change whatever it was immediately.

  He stiffened when she reached out again, and she almost took her hand away. But she had come thus far, and she doubted she’d be willing to try again. “Is something wrong?”

  She couldn’t quite look at him and instead studied the cloths they used. They were fine things, of a tighter weave than the nicest clothes they had in the Wastes, and he treated them as mere washrags. There was much she would have to grow used to now that she was to live here.

  He did not reply to her question beyond the usual tightening to his mouth, and he looked to her own feet before putting down his own rag. “Are you satisfied?” he asked instead, and she tried not to be offended that he had so pointedly ignored her.

  “Yes,” she murmured softly, not knowing what had upset him but knowing most assuredly that something had. He collected their dirty things and stood, overturning the pot of water into the grass. She watched the waste glumly, wondering if she could ever be so free with what once had been so precious.

  He did not wait for her to follow him and she considered remaining outside for a bit longer, allowing him privacy to perhaps improve his mood, but when a few of the grenpeets ambled closer, she hurried back in. She could be quiet and unobtrusive, and he could forget she was there, just so long as the grenpeets were outside and the fire was warm.

  She couldn’t mention her mistrust of the creatures again though, not to Machrus directly. He seemed protective of th
em, as well he should be, if they were his to keep. To speak against them would only prove an irritant, and that was the last thing she desired.

  A lump of awareness settled in her belly at what might have displeased him, and she shuffled further into his home, her hands rubbing at her bare arms, the fire drawing her closer even though she knew she should seek him out, to apologise for unknowingly insulting his trade with her response.

  He was not in the main room, and she wondered just how large a home he possessed. The hill did not seem so very large, but even Machrus was able to stand comfortably upright, and she supposed with the proper supports his home might extend well into the hillside.

  The fire was comforting and the rug beneath her clean toes was as soft as the grenpeet he had made her touch, and she found herself sinking onto the floor, coming as close to the fire as she dared. It wouldn’t do to get soot on her white dress, even if she wanted to be even nearer.

  She did not hear his approach, his looming presence startling her as he stood over her. He had changed his clothing, though it did not look so very different. More lived in perhaps, the cut a bit more purposeful, the fabric just a bit more worn. He wore no boots, but his feet were covered by a pair of socks, and she strangely found herself staring at them. It was better than craning her neck back to try to gauge his expression. She probably knew it well enough anyway, so little did it change.

  She almost wished his feet were bare so she could simply reach out and touch him, could begin her apology without trying to uncover bits of his skin so she could speak to him properly. It was a foolish system, this need for touch, and she wondered how difficult it would be to learn his language on her own.

  She tugged at his trouser leg, only a little, and he glanced down at her. He did not seem angry, not really, though his eyes in the firelight made her look away quickly. Machrus did not appear willing to come down to her on the floor, so she went up on her knees, enough that she could reach out and touch his hand. “I’m sorry if I upset you earlier. By being nervous about your animals.”

  He frowned at her, and she expected nothing less from him. She sighed rather miserably, not knowing what else she was supposed to do. He’d complained to Sladec about being hungry, but she did not know where his food was kept or what he liked to eat. For that matter, she did not truly know what was safe for her to eat. Being poisoned was a horrid way to die, she had heard the terrible moans of one of the younger boys when he’d eaten a plant out on the Wastes, his hunger outweighing his good sense.

  But at least she wouldn’t be a bother anymore.

  Her hand fell away from his, hating when her thoughts grew so dark, but not quite able to push them away entirely. She did not expect to feel something warm settle about her shoulders, the weight of it almost heavy from its numerous folds.

  It was a shawl, green as the creatures outside, and she found herself clutching it about her, the closet thing she had felt to a true hug in the longest time.

  She looked up at him, her still on the floor, him so very tall, her fingers tangled in the fabric. “Thank you,” she told him, knowing he would not understand, but needing to say it all the same.

  He gave a nod, her meaning apparently clear enough, but he did not say anything in return, instead turning to his cupboards and beginning to prepare a meal. She sat there stiffly, the knit-work on the shawl more intricate than anything she’d seen, the knots forming a gentle swirl throughout the piece.

  And apparently, it was hers.

  Did he make it?

  Surely there wouldn’t have been time for that.

  She sat there, not knowing what to do, but also knowing there was nothing useful about being a warming lump upon the floor.

  She got to her feet, tying her new shawl in front of her to keep it on her shoulders, before she approached him. He did not react when she came to him, her finger resting upon his hand. “Would you like help? I should be learning this.”

  Machrus glanced at her, his hands not stilling as they arranged chunks of white something on two plates. So he did intend to feed her then. “Why?”

  It was her turn to frown. “Wouldn’t you like that? For me to help?”

  He looked as if he would like nearly anything more than that, and she nearly took her hand away. Perhaps a lump on the floor was the better thing. She bit her lip, her uncertainty causing frustrated tears to sting at her eyes, hating it. Hating all of this. Except her new shawl. She could not quite manage to hate that.

  “What I desire does not appear to matter any longer,” Machrus answered, his tone revealing a trace of bitterness. She did not flinch. She knew he had not wanted her, and though something hurt at the confirmation of it, it was not so very painful. Not when she also felt some measure of relief.

  “It matters to me,” she argued calmly, hoping he would believe her. “I don’t want to be a nuisance to you.”

  He looked down at her, and she had trouble deciding what he was thinking. He did not seem angry, nor was he doubtful. He was... watching her, but she had not the least idea why.

  At last he gave a grunt, the meal evidently finished for he handed her a plate. Water was put into a cup and also handed to her, and she stood awkwardly not certain where to go. He said nothing to her, gave no direction, and she was cold, so she took her things with a quiet, “Thank you,” to him, not caring that he couldn’t understand now that her hands were occupied, and sat down again before the fire.

  He did not follow, and she did not turn her head to see where he might be. He was not a talkative sort, and that was all right, even if at the moment she would have appreciated more direction from him. But he’d given her a meal, and that seemed to be a plain enough course.

  Assuming something did not poison her.

  The water was cool and clear, the cup a finer thing than she had seen before. Their own cups and jugs were rough clay, dried in the sun and heated in the fire. They were functional, but hardly pretty things. These were smooth and glazed, her lip no longer catching on a roughened edge, no lingering taste of earth remaining in her mouth after her first careful sip.

  She took another and another. Something hot would have been nice, but she had not noticed how thirsty she had become.

  The foods were more difficult to assess. Nothing was remotely familiar, and her nerves were making her stomach roil, the thought of strange, possibly poisonous food less than appealing. There was a round thing that when she poked at it did not feel like something grown. She tore a bit off, the texture unusual, but soft when she touched it. Cooked was probably better than raw, and she nibbled. She would not insult him by rejecting his first offering of food.

  There was no horrible cramping pain in her stomach that would suggest an immediate death, and the flavour was strangely likeable—somewhat sour on her tongue, yet also just a little bit sweet, the crust chewier than she would have thought, but overall agreeable.

  She took another bite, and still nothing felt wrong. She might die in her sleep that night, but for now she would enjoy it.

  There was a creamy spread of something wholly unidentifiable. It did not seem terribly tempting, but he’d given it to her, so she poked her fingertip in and stuck it tentatively in her mouth. Her nose wrinkled at the taste, uncertain if she liked it. The texture was pleasant enough, but there was a sharpness to it that she had not expected.

  Machrus appeared at her side, sighing down at her before placing a wooden chair beside her place on the floor. She had never seen a proper one. There were a few tattered remnants of ship seats scattered throughout the Wastes, but the general shape of Machrus’s offerings made their function quite obvious. He nodded toward it pointedly, and she flushed. Perhaps they thought it childish to sit on the floor. She’d known little else though, materials being put to much more needed use than simply for seating. But she obliged him, glad that he at least let her remain by the fire.

  She was a little surprised when he brought another chair, and she belatedly realised that he had a table situated along
the front wall, probably a much more appropriate place to have his meal. She readied herself to stand, to return to where he must have initially seated himself, but he was already settling, his long legs crossed at the ankle as he warmed his feet by the fire.

  He was not glaring, had not tugged her up and brought her to the table himself, so perhaps it was not so very important after all.

  It truly was growing tiresome, this need for contact simply to thank him for her meal. Her hands felt grubby from touching her food and she did not want to offend him had he noticed where they’d been, a cloth laid across his lap, his fingers deftly situating his food so that crumbs and any mess were carefully contained.

  She felt uncivilised and impolite in comparison.

  He had not placed his chair very near hers, but that didn’t seem to matter with his long limbs, this time him instigating contact and conversation as he laid a hand upon her forearm.

  “Do you wash your feet before every entrance?”

  She glanced at him, wondering how he had reached such a conclusion. “Not at all. We do not... we’ve never had...” she took a deep breath, calming her nervousness and trying to explain herself without sounding even more foolish. “They were dirty from the walk. I didn’t want to messy your floors.”

  He nodded, not looking surprised, his hand apparently ready to fall away now that his question had been satisfied. But the silence was a troubling one, and her thoughts were all awhirl, and she found herself prattling before he could fully withdraw. “We never had homes like this. Not with doors and walls and... things you’d want to keep neat.” She had not meant to reveal so much about their previous environment. She did not know what Desmond had told them, if they were meant to seem a strong and capable people, or if it was all right to admit how poorly they had done on their own in the Wastes. It seemed wiser to seem useful, to appear as if they had skills and knowledge worth trading for.