'If the Duchy wants fish to feed its people...and of course, the taxes,' Jadzia said.
'It's their own fault,' said Froma.
Despite the seriousness of the conversation, Agata suppressed a little smile. The earlier meetings of the Committee were never this heated.
Jadzia pointed across the table at Froma. 'Where do you think your dinner comes from?'
'We cannot protect people from their own laziness,' Froma said.
'Go hungry.' Jadzia tossed her mousy-brown hair. 'Or perhaps learn to fish yourself.'
'There are always others--'
The great oak door scraped along the brick floor and the Scion rushed in, his ankle-length bronze-coloured tunic flapping. Two Cousins followed close behind. The Committee straightened their postures, and Karolien and Randvi quickly secured the veils over their faces and circled the sign of the Father on their foreheads. Agata nodded politely as Zavis took his seat beside her but he only stared vaguely in her direction.
'There was considerable damage to the Temple roof last night,' he said, without an apology for his lateness. 'We need--'
'One moment, Scion. Lord Sylwin is giving a report on the damage across the town.'
Zavis narrowed his eyes and pressed his mouth closed. Agata's heart hammered in her chest as she forced a calm expression on her face.
Sylwin continued. 'The Bakehouse lost its roof and the ovens are ankle deep in rainwater. There will be no bread today, my Lady.'
'No fish and no bread,' said Jadzia with a tilt of her head.
'People are needed to help remove the water, fix the shingles and get the ovens firing again,' Sylwin said.
'I need volunteers,' the Scion said, leaning forward, prodding the table top with his finger. His eye of the Father pendant swung from his throat. 'As soon as possible.'
Agata pursed her lips. 'We must provide bread for our people, Scion Zavis.'
'The Festival of the Father is four days away. I do not know what you Neven Clansmen do but here in Ambrovna, we take our celebrations very seriously. This is the first major storm in years. The Father is obviously unhappy with Ambrovna. We cannot be complacent. We must make amends.'
'We also celebrate the Festival of the Father in Tramissa. We are not as frivolous as you may think,' Agata said through clenched teeth. 'There are simply not enough people to do both repairs at once. May I remind you, there is a war and our numbers are limited. We must focus on the greater need. First the Bakehouse and then the Temple.'
'It appears you do not understand the seriousness. It is the fasting season,' the Scion scoffed. 'For the pious, food is not important. This affects the spiritual health of our people. Do you want to further anger the Father? '
The others around the table remained quiet, their eyes lowered to their laps or darting across the room. Agata gritted her teeth. She could not allow the children to go hungry.
'How long will it take to fix the Bakehouse?'
'Two days at least.'
'Who has the skills to repair the roof?'
'There are a few old thatchers left and a couple of girls have shown themselves quite adept with a hammer.'
'Excellent. Focus all volunteers on the Bakehouse today and in two days’ time, send the group to the Temple.'
'If there is more rain, the Temple will be ruined,' said the Scion, his glare white hot.
'The skies are clear today. Perhaps the Father will bless us.'
'The Father does not forgive laziness...'
Froma nodded at Jadzia, who squeezed her lips into a long thin line.
'...or stupidity. The Duke always respects his duties to the Father. He would understand the gravity of this situation. He would never put anything before his duties to our Protector.'
'The Duke is not here. I am in his place.'
The Scion's blazing stare was unwavering. 'With my counsel.'
'And Lord Sylwin's,' Agata replied, her thighs shaking under the table. 'But the final decision lies with me.'
The Scion blinked very slowly, his eyes never leaving Agata's face. 'Let it be on your head then.'
'Lord Sylwin, please arrange for all volunteers to be sent to the Bakehouse first. Once this is fixed, the Temple roof will be mended.'
'If you command, my Lady,' Lord Sylwin said quietly.
Agata drew her shoulders back and held her head high. 'I do. Provide me with an update at luncheon.'
'Yes, my Lady.'
'Now back to these fishing boats...'
Later that morning, Agata had stood by the big windows in the solar, surveying the town below. A broken branch lay on the cobbles underneath the Old Man Tree but he was unperturbed having faced far worse storms in his long life. Agata stretched out her arms and with a deep breath, she smiled. Her worries were unfounded. It had not been so difficult to stand up to the Scion after all. But her happiness vanished as her eyes were drawn to a movement on the Temple roof. She cupped her hands against the glass. Three bent figures were hammering shingles.
Agata flew out of the solar and ran down the brick stairs.
'Where is Lord Sylwin?' she demanded of every servant she passed.
By the time she found him in the main bailey chatting with one of her grey-headed guards, her nostrils were flaring.
'How is this morning's progress, Lord Sylwin?' she said, her voice shaking.
He limped towards her, an old injury from the last Civil War thirty-five years ago.
'Very good, my Lady.'
She narrowed her eyes. 'Is the work at the Bakehouse complete? Is that why people are mending the Temple roof?'
Lord Sylwin rubbed the back of his neck.
'I gave the instructions,' Agata insisted.
The old man bowed his head with a half-shrug.
'I am the ruler of Ambrovna.'
Lord Sylwin wet his lips and looked away.
'Am I not?'
'My dear Duchess. I tried. Believe me, I did.' Lord Sylwin said with a sigh. 'It is not so easy. You are young. You have much to learn.'
Agata picked up her skirts and fled inside, hiding her shameful tears. Each time the Scion thwarted her, she promised he would not win again. But his attacks were like a battering ram. As Agata let the tears fall, she wondered whether her efforts were futile and the Scion was right all along.
***
As the last of the celebratory torches went out in the Square, Agata sighed again, rubbing her eyes. Where was her husband? Her four-poster bed called out to her and she stopped her pacing. Snuffing out the candle, she left the bed curtains ajar and yawned as she slipped under the eiderdown embroidered with the eel sigil. The bed was soft and welcoming but the bed-warmer was stone cold. Despite her feet being like frost, she dozed off quickly in the darkness.
The door hinges creaked and Agata woke with a start. Dim candlelight crept into the room and the Duke hobbled inside, his iron crutch thumping on the brick floor with every step.
'Come, husband.' She patted the feather mattress.
He smiled wearily but stayed standing. 'It has been a long day.'
'And a long year. Come and lie beside me.'
He did not move. 'You appear well, Wife.'
'My only complaint was missing you,' she said.
'The responsibilities were not too great, I hope.'
Agata sat up. 'It was not easy. But Sylwin was a wise advisor and my Committee women proved talented and capable. It gave me a chance to see--'
'And Zavis?'
She grimaced. 'It is obvious what he thinks of me.'
'He is true to his faith.' The Duke shrugged.
'I was scared at first but now-- I have many ideas of how--' She leaned towards him.
'Have you received word from your father?'
Agata stopped short, shaking her head. 'Nothing,' she said in a small voice. 'I do not know if he is alive or dead. Or Taraz.'
The Duke chewed on his lip.
'There is news?' Agata gulped as she grabbed for his hand. 'Please, tell me.'
; 'In war, there are many stories. It is hard to know what is true.'
'Go on.' Her chest tightened.
'They say he aligned himself with Lord Hugon.'
Agata grimaced. The vainglorious Hugon, the great nephew of late King Rados, had been leading her brother astray since they were boys. What immature prank had Hugon roped Taraz into this time?
'There were rumours of a plot. Hugon wanted to challenge Prince Celso's claim to the throne.'
Agata squeezed her eyes shut. Treason? Foolish Taraz. Disloyalty during a Clan war was far more serious than gambling debts and drunken buffoonery. This was a scrape her father could not rescue him from.
'Is he in the dungeons?'
Her husband cleared his throat. 'His head ended up on a spike. At the capital gates after the fall of Sulun.'
Agata covered her mouth with her hand, her mind flooded with bloody images of her brother's dismembered head. 'Who did it?'
The Duke shook his head. 'No one knows. The Hende? One of our Vorosy battalions? One of his own Neven Clansmen?'
She lowered her chin, composed herself as best she could. 'And what of my father?' she choked.
'Your father is a clever man. I hope he has gone into hiding,' he said, patting her arm as she gripped her hands tightly in her lap.
'And what of us? Now the Neven are no longer on the throne, will I cause problems for you? With my accent and my complexion, they will always see a Neven woman.'
'Our Clans have been allies for hundreds of years. This time the Vorosy has triumphed but the alliance stands.'
'But the relationship is not always smooth. And if the stories of my brother are true...'
'You are a Vorosy woman now of the House of Nyvard,' the Duke said as he bowed to kiss her on the forehead. She leaned back her head to reach his lips, but he tilted his head away.
'I am tired, my dear. So much work ahead of me,' he said with a sigh. 'Sleep well, Wife.' He lumbered out of the room and closed the door softly behind him, leaving her alone with her tears.
With her head in her hands, she wept for her beheaded brother, her missing father, and her crippled husband. But mostly, she wept for herself. The men had been home for less than a day and her new-found courage had vanished.
'I tried, Mother,' she whispered. 'But I can never be the woman you hoped I would be.'
Chapter Eight
Rabel watched Iwan snore as he lay on the leaf-stuffed mattress while the rest of the family rose for a new day. Always small framed, he was now skin and bone. His face was sunburned and flaky making him even uglier than she remembered.
Hushing the children, she stoked the fire and heated up the last of the stew. There were barely two bowls in the pot, let alone enough to feed five hungry bellies. Clutching the pocket knife in her cracked red hands, Rabel sliced up the hard bread. When she was young, her hands had been pretty and delicate but now she was just as worn and ugly as him.
'I'm hungry, Ma,' Teo said.
'I know,' she said, serving him the largest portion.
'Thank you.' When his hand lingered over hers as he took the bowl, Rabel's heart clenched. Teo scoffed down the stew then scampered next door to muck out the stables. Her nine-year-old boy off to work while his father lay flat on his back, snuffling like a hog. If only Iwan had stayed away.
As soon as the thought crept into her head, she scolded herself and covered it up with the Teachings. A sin in thought is as true as words and deeds. But like Iwan, her sinful thoughts always came back. Pa had always said she was rotten to the core. Riddled with sin. 'A woman's body is sinful. A woman's thoughts, words and actions must be as pure as the sun.
Iwan jolted upright and yawned loudly, scratching his groin.
'Get me some ale, wife,' he bellowed as he swung his scabby feet out from under the blanket.
'No ale, husband. Only water.'
'What?' He grimaced. 'The army had weevils in the bread and rotten meat that made you dribble shit for days, but there was always ale.'
'Well, there's none here. I've got water.'
'Pfft. Water is for goat herders.'
'Do you think we're the Duke and Duchess,' she muttered.
'I heard that. None of your cheek, woman. Where's my breakfast?'
'Give me a copper and I'll get some bread.' She held out her hand.
'Coppers?'
'The coins you took last night. There must be somethin' left.'
'Are you daft, woman? I don't know what you're talkin' about. My pockets are empty.'
She breathed out through clenched teeth. 'The money you took from the kitty.'
Iwan leaped up and grabbed her by the elbow. 'Watch your mouth. You don't talk to me like that.' He shoved her and she stumbled towards the wall. Her eyes narrowed and angry words bubbled inside her. She knew better but she could not bite her tongue.
'I hear old Orvald is lookin' for men at the Brickworks,' she said.
'I've just come back from war, woman. You think it was all drinkin' and marchin'?' he said. 'I saw mates sliced clean in two. Grown men wailin' like babes with their guts hangin' out and their arms lopped off. I saw rivers of blood and corpses piled sky high. You think I can go shovellin' dirt for Orvald after that? I'm grateful to be standin' here, with my head and both my legs. Coin can wait.'
'If coins can wait, so can the ale.' Rabel pressed her chapped lips.
'Shut your mouth.'
'What are we supposed to do? Teo only earns four coppers. That'll never feed all five of us. And your debts...'
He narrowed his eyes. 'How have you been payin' my debts, wife? I thought you said you had nothin'? Been whorin' yourself?'
Rabel glanced across at the twins playing with Iwan's boot in the corner of the shack, grateful they were too young to fully understand his words. There was a kindly older man, a trader from Neros. She liked his company and he gave her gifts. That was different.
'I did some work for the Plesec Merchants. But it's over now. All the work goes back to the men.'
'Get some silver from that sister of yours.'
'No.'
'Starve then. I'm goin' out.' He tugged his boot away from Jorn and tied the straps as he hopped out the door.
Rabel clutched her head and bared her teeth. She refused to go to her sister. She would not beg again. She slumped, sighed and started to fold up the blanket from the bed, the wool still warm with his body heat. What other choice did she have?
'Bad man,' said Jorn, his lip thrust out.
Rabel's eyes welled as she rushed to her twins and took them in her arms. 'We don't say things like that. He's your Pa. He must be respected. The Father doesn't like it when we say mean things about people, especially--'
Rabel jumped as someone knocked so hard, the door rattled on its hinges. She patted Jorn's sandy head and lifted the latch.
'Mornin' Rabel,' said the shrivelled woman in the doorway. A bald man twice her size loomed behind her.
'Sabet,' Rabel said with a watery smile, her pulse galloping. 'Is it that day already?'
'You should know better than that.'
'With all the excitement...'
'Business is business.'
'I see your son is back?'
'In the eyes of the Father. Now I can go back to my fireside and my knittin'.' Sabet's wheezing chuckle made Rabel's stomach flutter. This time it wasn't hunger.
'I am sorry, Sabet,' she said with a clumsy swallow. 'I've got nothin' for you today.'
'Rabel. Rabel. Rabel,' the old woman tutted, shaking her grey head from side to side. 'That will not do. I am very disappointed in you. One of my best. So good with your payments.'
'We spent too much celebratin' Iwan's return.' Rabel shrugged.
Sabet narrowed her eyes. 'Straight back to his old tricks. I heard he lost a load on the cocks last night. I won't be the only one chasing him today.'
Rabel clutched her hands. 'I can pay you tomorrow, Sabet. I promise.'
'But I need payment today. Who knows what the Father will bri
ng? At any moment I could be dead in my chair with debts unpaid.'
'I'm sorry.' Rabel bowed her head.
Sabet's son pushed past Rabel and into the shack. He searched the table and rifled through the shelving along the back wall. Rabel didn't move to stop him. She knew he'd find nothing of value; she'd tried selling everything many times before.
'Because I am a generous woman and you have been so good, you've got until midday.'
Rabel bit down hard on her lip.
'Thirty-three coppers. Come and find me at the Seaweed Arms before the bells of midday service. If you don't --'
'Nothin' here worth taking, Ma,' Sabet's son said, his voice deep and slow.
'There are always things to take, my boy,' Sabet said, reaching out a finger to stroke Aula's cheek. 'You just need to look closely.'
Rabel pulled Aula close against her chest. 'Thirty-three?'
The old woman hobbled out of the door. 'Midday, Rabel. Midday.'
Rabel slammed the door closed and slumped down on the long bench, her head in her hands.
***
Two days earlier, Agata's Interim Committee had met in the Great Hall of the Eel but today, the women who'd run Ambrovna for the past two years were shoved back into the solar like a sewing circle. The absence of Lord Sylwin and the Scion was particularly glaring.
'Now our men have returned triumphantly,' Agata said. Her face was composed but her fingers fussed with the tassel in her lap, 'our Interim Committee is disbanded. We must go back to the way life was before.'
The six female members nodded. Disappointment hung in the air, despite the more comfortable cushioned surroundings of the warm solar. Even the moist golden almond cakes sat untouched on the platter.
'I would like to thank you for your guidance and counsel. The men are of course too proud to say...'
Karolien and Randvi gasped. Their faces bare and their beige veils hanging loose over their shoulders, they made the round sign of the Father on their foreheads.
Agata lay her hand across her breastbone. 'We have left the town in a good state. I believe we have proven ourselves capable in the eyes of the Father.'
'In the eyes of the Father,' the women chanted in reply. Some more enthusiastically than others.
Women of Wasps and War Page 4