Freedom's Apprentic

by Naomi Kritzer

  “Let’s get inside,” Tamar said, shivering.

  The innkeeper welcomed us graciously, though he did ask to be paid in advance, and became even more gracious when he caught a glimpse of my purse. He ushered us up to a very comfortable suite of rooms, assuring us that our meals would be brought up. The rooms made me think of the inside of an Alashi tent. The floors were covered with thick wool rugs, red and orange and deep golden yellow—though Alashi rugs were usually felt and these were pile. Of course Kyros used rugs for warmth during winter, too, but like most Greeks, he preferred more subdued colors. The walls were hung with tapestries: broad stripes of brown and yellow, little green and blue diamonds, a huge sunburst, a picture of Alexander’s helmet. There was a fireplace in the sitting room, with a roaring fire already built. A copper pot sat on a brazier if we wanted to make tea. I took a quick look in the bedroom. The bed was soft, the quilts were thick and piled high, and I trusted that the innkeeper wouldn’t risk offending wealthy guests with bedbugs. “We’ll take it,” I said.

  “There is a bathhouse down by the courtyard,” he said.

  “We’ll use it right now, if that’s convenient,” I said.

  “I’ll send word down,” he said. “Would you like your dinner at sundown?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  We checked on the horses before we went into the bathhouse. They were unsaddled and groomed. I felt a prick of uneasiness, despite my earlier confidence that our horses wouldn’t attract attention. What if they noticed, and suspected? I suppose we could take the horses now and take off . . . But the prospect of a bath, a warm, comfortable night, and a hot meal were far too tempting.

  Besides, our horses were trained with Alashi equipment. It’s not as if we can just go have Greek saddles made and slap them on. We would have this problem everywhere.

  Our horses seemed content enough in their accommodations, so we went to find the bathhouse.

  The door opened directly onto the courtyard, so we closed it and locked it behind us. A young woman was pouring in a bucket of clean water as we entered. The bath was built from large blocks of smooth marble; it was knee-deep, with shiny copper buckets to wash with. A roaring fire kept the bathhouse itself warm enough to be almost too hot; the young woman was dressed in a very light shift. Tamar gave her a stricken look, and I realized that the young woman was undoubtedly a slave owned by the innkeeper.

  “Would you like to take turns washing, or should I send for another assistant?” the slave asked.

  “We can take turns,” I said.

  I shed my filthy clothing and gave it to the slave to send to be washed; again, it occurred to me that it was made in the Alashi style, but undoubtedly some merchants wore foreign styles. I stepped into the water, which had been warmed but was still chilly enough to make me glad of the heat of the room. The slave poured water over me. I took the soap from her to scrub my own body and hair, and then she poured more water over me to rinse with. The towels were warmed. I dried myself, put on a linen robe that had been laid out, and then combed out my hair while Tamar had her bath.

  The last time I’d been assisted in a bath, it had been Tamar assisting. It was strange to watch Tamar accepting assistance now—especially as she was clearly uncomfortable with it. She was shivering, despite the warmth of the bathhouse, and kept glancing nervously at the slave, who had her eyes fastened on Tamar’s feet even as she was pouring water over her hair. A merchant should know that she’s supposed to just ignore the slave, I thought, and started talking, to try to distract Tamar.

  “I hope we’ll make it back to Daphnia next summer,” I said, and told her a bit about the last time I’d been in Daphnia, about the gardens and green trees from the canals that flowed through the city. I rattled on as Tamar soaped herself up, talking about some of the other cities I’d visited, what they were like, how Tamar would get to see them now that she was my apprentice, alluding a little to the adventures we were going to have. Clean, Tamar dried herself as quickly as she could and put on a robe. “What are they going to do with our clothes?” she asked.

  “They’ll wash them and press them and send them back to our room. For now we can borrow these.” I gave Tamar the comb. She ran it quickly through her short hair, scowling as she realized that the ends of it came almost to her shoulders when it was wet. “Now that we’re back in the Peneleopeian Empire, though, maybe we should buy ourselves new clothes.” I glanced at the slave myself. “Have you seen clothing like ours before?” I asked.

  The slave hesitated, then said, “Most merchants wear clothes of the local style while they’re here.”

  “On our last expedition, this was more practical. However, we need some new clothing now. Please send word to have a tailor sent to our rooms tomorrow.” Our Alashi clothing was worn anyway; we would need replacements soon or we’d find ourselves in rags. I wanted men’s garments, though. It was far more practical for our current occupation, which could probably be most honestly described as urban banditry.

  We were clean, dry, dressed, and combed. “May I be of further service?” the slave asked, her eyes on the floor.

  “No, I think we’re done,” I said.

  Tamar and I hurried back to our room; someone had built up the fire in our absence, and there was hot tea and a plate of sweet cakes waiting for us. I settled down in a cushioned chair beside the fire, poured myself tea, took a honey cake, and sighed with faint satisfaction. Life with the Alashi definitely lacked certain amenities. The honey cakes were perfect, even better than the ones Kyros’s kitchen made: crunchy on the outside, moist inside, and rolled in sesame seeds. I took another. “You should have one of these,” I said to Tamar. “I’m going to finish them all if you don’t stop me.”

  “Help yourself,” she said. She unlatched the shutter to look down at the courtyard.

  “What are you doing? It’s freezing out there and your hair’s still wet.”

  “I want to take her with us, too.”

  “Who?”

  “The bath slave.”

  I didn’t need to ask why. It was quite clear what other “services” she was sometimes called upon to provide.

  “We need to find Uljas first,” I said.

  “But we can take her with us when we go, right?”

  “What are you going to say if I say no?” I glanced at Tamar and met her furious glare. “Yes, then. If she wants to come. We’ll think of some way to get her out.”

  The sun was setting when the innkeeper knocked on our door with dinner. Servants brought in trays of food and a clay jar of wine. “Please send for me if anything is unsatisfactory,” the innkeeper said, “or if you need more wine. Someone will be back later to gather the dishes.”

  I looked out the window; a light still glowed in the window of the bathhouse, and I could see someone ambling away from its door. I closed up the shutters, tossed another stick onto our fire, and sat down to eat.

  The food was excellent—a blend of Greek and Alashi flavors. There was lamb marinated in olive oil and lemon juice and broiled over a fire; there were strips of juicy broiled eggplant; there were hard-cooked eggs in a sauce with ginger and garlic. The bread was fresh and hot and as light as a feather pillow, and crisp wedges of apple finished the meal. I poured myself some wine cautiously. The last time I’d tried to drink Greek wine, the very smell had swept me back to the room where Sophos had raped me. Tonight I sniffed it carefully, but somehow my awareness of the possibility kept it from happening. I took a cautious sip, then another. I didn’t really want a second cup, though, and Tamar took no wine at all.

  “We could ask the bath slave if she knows where to find Uljas,” Tamar said as we were finishing.

  “Why would she know? I doubt she ever leaves the inn.”

  “If you want to find honey, ask the bee, not the bear.”

  “Yeah, but if you’re looking for a particular bee . . .” I shrugged. “Well, if you want to ask her, go ahead.”

  Tamar looked out the window. A thread of l
ight gleamed under the bathhouse door, but it was shut up tight. “Tomorrow,” she said, and turned toward the bed.

  After months of sleeping on the ground, stretching out in the bed was delightful. There was no shifting and tossing to try to get comfortable; I just lay down. The sheets were linen, and there were thick wool blankets and then quilts, and the room was still warm from the fire. “I could get used to this,” Tamar mumbled, and then I fell asleep.

  I dreamed of Zhanna again. The first time, I had woken quite certain that it was a true dream—that Zhanna had come to me from her dreams to mine. Tonight, though, I wasn’t sure whether she was trying to dream of me, or if it rose from some corner of my own soul. She said nothing, and I said nothing, but we stared at each other for a long time across a fire, alone in an Alashi camp. Then the fire flared a little higher and my eyes burned from the smoke, and when I had finished rubbing them, she was gone. And then I remembered that I was banished and would never see her again. The steppe was dark around me like the depths of a mine, and I wrapped my arms around myself against the cold wind.

  I had been a misfit child. There were other free Danibeki families in Elpisia, but their children avoided me. I realized thinking back that this was probably because I was Kyros’s child, but at the time I thought it was because my mother liked to pretend we were Greek. We weren’t Greek, of course, so I didn’t fit in with the Greek children, either. When Kyros had arranged for me to come work for him, I had a purpose and a mentor; I even developed friends among his other servants. Still, I had truly found peers and equals for the first time in the Alashi sword sisterhood. And then I had been cast out. Alone. I ached with loneliness.

  But you’re not alone, I heard Zhanna whisper, and this time I thought the message really came from Zhanna. You’re never alone. She meant the djinni—Zhanna, like Tamar, still worshipped the djinni far more than Prometheus and Arachne. But I thought of Tamar when I heard her words, and smiled, and sank into dreamless sleep.

  Her name is Zarina,” Tamar said. “The bath slave, I mean.”

  “Does she know where to find Uljas?”

  “No. You were right, she doesn’t leave the inn much.”

  Another slave returned with our clothes as we were finishing breakfast. They’d been scrubbed clean and ironed dry; they were perfectly pressed and still warm, with a scent like fresh rosemary. I laid them out to get dressed; the laundering only made it more apparent that we needed to see a tailor. The style made us too distinctive, and the cloth was worn thin.

  To my surprise, as soon as we were dressed, Tamar laid out a set of pots and brushes. “Sit down by the window, where there’s light,” she said. “I’m going to paint your face.”

  “Where did you get those?”

  “From Zarina, of course.” She opened the pots. “Look up. Now hold still.”

  When she was done, she ran down to the bathhouse to borrow a hand mirror, so that I could inspect her work. The effect was subtle, but definite. She’d made me look older, and more foreign. She’d also used the paints to make it look like I had a healed scar under one eye. “Why did you give me a scar?” I asked.

  “It’ll draw attention away from the rest of your face. Anyone who knows you well will still recognize you, but people who’ve met you only a few times, maybe not.”

  A tailor knocked on our door shortly after Tamar had finished. Zarina had sent for him, we gathered from his murmur as he came in. “You’ll be wanting something less conspicuous,” he said. “But warm. Practical. For merchants such as yourselves. Would you care to pay the rush fee?” We weren’t in any particular hurry, but that could always change, so after he took our measurements, we agreed to pay the fee and he assured us that the clothes would be ready within a day.

  “Well,” Tamar said, staring after him as our door closed. “I was planning to ask more slaves where to find Uljas. I even secured some wine to use as payment.”

  “We still need to buy a tent,” I said. “And horses . . .”

  “How conspicuous are these clothes?” Tamar asked, plucking at her trousers.

  “With our coats on, no one can really see them. Let’s go buy a tent.”

  The tent maker was able to sell us a tent on the spot. He said that it would hold six people, though looking at the circle of fabric I thought that it might hold six children, if they were small, or six adults if they were stacked on top of each other. At least it would hold the two of us plus Zarina and Uljas, assuming that we all made it out alive, and some of our gear. We’d need a shelter for the horses, as well, before too long, but for now they’d be all right outside.

  Tamar was able to slip away and speak quietly to the tent-maker’s slaves, offering small bribes of wine in exchange for anything they knew about Uljas. Back out in the street, she told me that one man had thought Uljas’s name sounded familiar, but couldn’t remember where he’d heard it. “If we can’t find anyone else, maybe we can stop back here and see if he remembers . . .”

  “I suppose,” I said, hoping that it wouldn’t come to that.

  It was midday and I was getting hungry. We bought food from a street vendor, skewered pieces of mutton drenched in lemon juice, grilled over a little brazier on the street. When we’d finished that, we bought some apples. The skin was red and gold, the flesh white and crisp. They were small, so we bought a half dozen and ate three apiece.

  “Where do we go to buy horses?” Tamar asked as we licked apple juice from our fingers.

  “There’s a big market near one of the gates—it’s where all the itinerant merchants go. Fruit dealers, horse dealers . . .” Slave dealers. I paused, wondering if Tamar was going to insist that we steal every last slave she laid eyes on.

  “Only the rivers’ return can free them all,” she said. The logic of faith: I’d heard the same statement from my mother when I’d asked her why we were free people when most of the other Danibeki in Elpisia were slaves. When I’d pressed her—because it didn’t make sense to me—she had explained that to defeat our people, the Sisterhood of Weavers had bound the northern great river, and had redirected the southern one, using aerika to dig a long tunnel to send the water to Persia. Yes, but if the rivers came back, how would that free people? She’d sighed and said that she didn’t know, it’s just what she’d always been told. Then she amended: “If the rivers did return, it would change things. It would mean that the power of the Sisterhood of Weavers had weakened. So maybe it’s not so much that the rivers would free the slaves, but that whatever freed the rivers would also free the slaves.”

  I wasn’t going to argue the point with Tamar. Under the circumstances, I was still afraid she’d see a child who reminded her of herself, or some other impossibly tempting target. Fearing that same possibility, too, she kept her head down as we entered the market. That didn’t last, though; there were too many interesting things to see.

  Kyros had paid me a small salary, and I’d saved it up to spend during trips to Daphnia. On one of my first trips to Daphnia by myself, I’d decided to buy a gift for my mother and wandered the marketplace for hours. I’d been most impressed by the exotic textiles—there was a heavy indigo linen with gold threads running through it, a gauzy cotton that looked like it would float away in the breeze if it weren’t rolled up, and silk the color of embers. I’d spent hours examining the different fabrics, running from vendor to vendor in indecision. I’d finally worked up the nerve to begin the bargain, only to find that all were far more expensive than I could afford. The merchant had called after me, “Wait, I’ll give you a better price! How much will you offer?” and I’d turned back with an apologetic shrug, sorry to have wasted his time.

  In the end, I had bought my mother a silver clasp for her hair. She’d been wearing it the last time I saw her.

  Tamar and I made our way past a merchant selling copper pots and sharp knives; the next merchant was selling songbirds, the next sold carved jade bracelets. “Is there anything in particular you want to look for?” I asked when I saw Tamar stari
ng at the bracelets.

  She shook herself. “I don’t need a bracelet,” she said. “We need food, right? Should we start with that?”

  The food vendors were in a cluster not too far away. We bought sacks of rice and lentils, dried meat, a small bag of raisins, apples. There were other supplies we were running low on, and we restocked those as well. For good measure, I bought some nice rope in case that came in handy for breaking in and out of houses, and coats and sturdy clothes for Zarina and Uljas. We could barely carry it all, and I started thinking about buying a pack horse as well, if we could afford it. I couldn’t remember how the market was laid out, but we heard the whinney of a horse and I followed the sound.

  Greek horses and Alashi horses were different. The Alashi horses were smaller, and, I’d realized during my time with the Alashi, hardier. I wasn’t sure whether we’d be able to buy Alashi horses in a Greek market, but if we could, that’s what I wanted. There were at least a dozen different horse dealers, I saw as we approached; they appeared to specialize. Most sold Greek horses, but a few sold Alashi ones, and there were others who sold horses different in appearance from any I’d seen before. One sold ponies so small that my first thought was that they were meant as mounts for young children; then I saw one whip its head back. Definitely not for children.

  I wandered past the pens, mulling over my options, trying not to look too closely at any one horse lest I attract the attention of the dealer. I knew I wanted mares, since both Tamar and I were riding mares already; also, I wanted the sort of sedate, predictable horses that could be trusted with beginning riders. Then I heard a loud nicker and turned to see the most beautiful horse I’d ever seen in my life. She looked like a cross between the Greek and Alashi breeds. She was chestnut, with a coat that shone in the late afternoon sun, and she had just dumped a chagrined Greek officer on his ass in the dust. Zarina can ride Kara, I thought instantly. I want that one.