Sweetblade

by Carol A Park

  And as she straightened and turned, she was startled to find him standing directly behind her.

  Without a word, he grasped her wrist and turned the hand over. He pressed his thumb into the bottom of her palm, right below the cut. She flinched back as the pressure forced more blood out of the wound—but it also forced her to keep her hand open.

  It trickled down the side of her hand and dripped onto the floor.

  “Did you… Did you have a rag then?” she whispered.

  He wrenched his eyes away from her palm and met her own, and she was almost certain that he knew exactly what he was doing.

  He lifted his free hand, in which he held a clean cloth, and pressed it into her palm. “This profession also does not tolerate carelessness.”

  He let go of her wrist and stalked back to his place on the crate.

  She wavered for a moment at the release of his grip, then stood, frozen to the floor, staring at him as he went back to his ledger as though nothing had happened.

  She wrapped the cloth around her hand as best she could, tied it sloppily at one end, and then moved back to her crate and picked up her book.

  She opened it and pretended to read, but instead she watched Elidor.

  He didn’t look at her hands again.

  Disgraced

  Ivana’s father used his pristine sheet of paper to write a letter to Gan Gildas the same night she had told her parents, demanding an annual stipend for the care of the child. Gan Gildas could certainly afford it.

  Ivana knew that far too personally.

  Weeks went by without a response. Her state could no longer be hidden, and she was fired from her job at the tavern. The town talked, and Ivana rarely left the house because of it. She couldn’t bear the scrutiny, the looks that told her what everyone thought of her, though most wouldn’t say it to her face.

  Whore.

  Izel kept her informed about what was being said, but Ivana didn’t need the confirmation from her sister. She could see it in their eyes; she could hear the whispers when her back was turned. She saw it and heard it so often that she began to believe it.

  Whore. Whore. Whore.

  The only thing worse would have been becoming a Banebringer.

  Her father, despite his initial reaction, became her staunch ally and would stare down anyone who dared to look at her askance if they were together, including Lord Kadmon himself. Despite the well-known fact that Kadmon had sired a few of his own bastards in his day, his father’s noble employer might once have dared to suggest that it was a bit of a blemish on his household to have a man in his employ with a known whoring daughter—at which point her father dared him to find such an accomplished scholar to replace him at the price he paid.

  Kadmon had backed down; his reputation for cowardice and greed served their family well in that case.

  Her mother busied herself with sewing clothes for the baby and fussing over Ivana anytime she even hinted at feeling ill or tired.

  And Izel…

  Well, they didn’t speak much anymore. The entire affair had breached their relationship. Ivana didn’t know if Izel felt guilty for keeping Ivana’s secret or if she thought Ivana’s whoring would rub off on her, or both.

  Whatever the case, it was that relationship that Ivana missed the most.

  There were days when Ivana could almost pretend that this was a happy occasion. That she were married and visiting her parents during her last months of pregnancy.

  She sat on the couch on one of those days, marveling at the strange feeling of tiny kicks and punches coming from inside her own body while her mother knitted, when the front door slammed open.

  Her father marched in. “Gan Gildas is here,” he said.

  Her mother rose, panic on her face. “What? Here? At our house?”

  “No,” her father said. “At Kadmon’s estate, on business.” He went into their bedroom, and when he had come out, he had changed his tunic for formal wear. A ceremonial dueling sword hung awkwardly at his hip.

  “Galvyn,” her mother said, eying the sword, “what do you aim to do?”

  “Nothing drastic, I assure you. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps my message never got to him.” Her father sounded doubtful. “So I aim to deliver it personally.”

  “Perhaps if you tried again—”

  Her father spun. “The man is deliberately ignoring me. He’s hoping I’ll go away. Well, I won’t. He’ll answer me, one way or the other, and then we’ll at least know what we have to work with.”

  Ivana’s mother bit her lip. “We can manage without the money,” she said. “Is it worth all of this?”

  Her father slammed his hand down on his workbench. “It’s the principle of the matter, Avira! If he were truly noble, he would live up to the namesake and do what is right.”

  Ivana’s mother inclined her head.

  Her father strode toward the door. “Ivana, come with me.”

  Ivana’s head jerked up. “What? Me? Why?”

  “A man’s word may not be enough to move him; a woman with child may be,” he said.

  She didn’t want to go out there. She didn’t want to see Airell’s father, or anyone else. But she rose obediently.

  Her father was her ally, but her mother seemed to understand the impact of the situation on Ivana’s psyche in a way her father didn’t. She glanced at Ivana. “Is that really necessary? It’s turned so cold. She should stay in.”

  “She’s pregnant, not an invalid,” her father said.

  Her mother sighed, and Ivana gave her a small smile for the effort.

  Ivana wrapped herself in her winter cloak—it did little to hide her growing abdomen—and followed her father out into the cold.

  Ivana was out of breath by the time they reached the gate to Kadmon’s estate house proper. It was easy to underestimate how tiring it could be carrying such a load on a long, brisk walk.

  “Dal Galvyn,” the guard at the gate said with a nod as they approached. He glanced once at Ivana and then averted his eyes, as though he had seen something shameful he shouldn’t have.

  She ducked her head, her face burning.

  “Did the Gan arrange a special session?” the guard asked, consulting a list and frowning. “You aren’t normally here at this time.”

  Her father seemed to grow larger. “Attie,” he said. “I’m here to speak with Gan Gildas.”

  The guard’s eyes grew wide. “I-I’m sorry, Dal, but I don’t have such an appointment on the list.”

  “I don’t have an appointment. I’m content to wait until he finishes his business with Kadmon.”

  The guard glanced back at the guardhouse and then shifted from foot to foot. “Ah. Then you’ll have to wait here, Dal.”

  Her father frowned. “Very well,” he said. “Could my daughter wait inside the guard-house, at least?”

  The guard hesitated and then shrugged. He didn’t look at Ivana again.

  Ivana’s throat tightened. Don’t draw attention to me, please, she wanted to say. She wanted to shrink and disappear into the ground. “I’ll be fine, Papa,” she whispered, hovering at his elbow. It wasn’t that cold.

  “No doubt,” he said. “But your mother will have my head if she finds out I let you loiter in the cold.”

  Were there other guards in the guardhouse? She didn’t want to bear their scrutiny.

  Fortunately, she didn’t have to face the vexing situation because at that moment, Gan Gildas’ carriage pulled up to the front of Kadmon’s house. The man himself appeared through the front door, shaking Lord Kadmon’s hand vigorously while a footman hopped down and opened the carriage door.

  She couldn’t help but wonder what deal they had just made.

  Another guard appeared from the guardhouse as the carriage approached, and together the two guards pulled open the gates to let the carriage pass.

  “Stand aside, please, Dal,” the guard her father had been speaking with said.

  Ivana moved back, and her father moved out
of the way so they could open the gates.

  He did not, however, stand aside.

  The moment the carriage passed through the gates, he strode to the middle of the road and stood there, forcing the carriage driver to stop.

  The horrified guard moved to remove him, but Gan Gildas’ head poked out of the carriage to address the driver. “Why are we stopped?”

  “Dal, you must move,” the driver said.

  The guard drew his sword. “Dal Galvyn,” he said, his earlier hesitancy gone, “I demand you stand aside. Now.”

  “Papa!” Ivana cried, her heart pounding.

  “Gan Gildas!” her father called. “I insist you meet with me since you’ve ignored my messages.”

  Messages? He had written multiple letters? That was news to her.

  Gan Gildas held up his hand to stay the guard and scowled at her father. “What is it, man? You think I have time to deal with every man who thinks they have a grievance against me? Come, speak up! I haven’t got all day.”

  That didn’t bode well. “Papa,” she said in a low voice. “Please. Can we go?”

  Gildas flicked his eyes toward her. They roved over her entire body. Then—then—as if her state were a distasteful jest, he rolled his eyes.

  Her throat tightened. They weren’t going to get anything out of this man. They should leave. But her father ignored her plea.

  “Very well, my lord,” her father said. “I had hoped to handle this discreetly, but I shall come straight to the point. Your son, Lord Airell, sired a bastard on my daughter.” He gestured to Ivana, who wanted to melt into the ground.

  Both guards’ eyes widened. The talk of who the father was had been the second-most common rumor, after the rumors of her whoring ways. Her father had insisted the family keep quiet. He wanted to deal with it in as honorable way as possible and give Gildas a chance to do the right thing.

  “I insist upon a stipend for care of the child. That is all, my lord, and a fair request given the circumstances.”

  They were attracting additional onlookers—those who had been going about their business on Kadmon’s outer estate.

  Gildas snorted.

  “Fair, indeed,” he said, smiling to the growing crowd as if this were some grand jest, “if what you claim is even true. Do you think every man claiming my son sired a bastard on his daughter ought to get a share of my treasury? For all I know, you set her on him just for that purpose.”

  Her father’s jaw jumped, and he opened his mouth, but Gildas cut him off. “Good day to you.” He made to duck back in his carriage, but her father took the opportunity to speak again.

  “I will accept an upfront lump sum,” he said, “if an annual stipend would be a hardship for you.”

  Ivana wished the wind would whisk her away somewhere, anywhere else. She could hear the whispers. Why, oh why, couldn’t her father just let it go?

  Gildas’ smile froze on his face. Her father’s words were respectful, but no one in their right mind believed that Gildas could not afford some small annual sum to help with the care of a child. He was one of the wealthiest nobles in Ferehar. There was some talk that he was posturing to be the next Ri.

  No, no one could miss the sarcasm in her father’s voice, least of all Gan Gildas.

  Gildas exited his carriage and strode to meet her father. He was a large man—not fat, but tall and well-built. Even her father, who was not a small man himself, could not match him in size. Gildas dwarfed him in every possible way. “You will accept?” He sneered. “You are Kadmon’s tutor, are you not?”

  So he had received the messages. That was the only way he could have known that. Gildas had never met her father before.

  He didn’t wait for her father to reply. “Well, let me give you a lesson, man. You do not tell me what you will accept. I will tell you.” He glanced around the crowd. “And I do not accept your claims.” His gaze fell on Ivana, and she shrank back. “Next time, rather than demanding another man’s money, keep your whoring daughter under control.”

  Ivana felt rather than saw her father’s anger grow. “Perhaps, rather, you should keep your ‘whoring’ son under control, Gildas.”

  Gildas’ eyes glinted, a murmur ran through the crowd, and the cold finally seeped through Ivana’s skin.

  “You dare to address me as an equal?” Gildas spat. “Insolent, ungrateful man. I will be sure to inform Lord Kadmon of this incident.”

  Ivana felt sick. Her father couldn’t lose her position over this. He couldn’t! What would they do? She found herself shivering in fear. “Please, Papa,” she tried again. “Let’s just go.”

  Then, to her utmost horror, her father drew his sword. His pitiful ceremonial sword, worn when Lord Kadmon wanted to put him on display at some banquet or ball. It was sharp, to be sure, but her father was a scholar, not a swordsman. “Coward,” he said through his teeth. “You can’t even accept enough responsibility for your son’s misdemeanor to dip into your own overflowing coffers for a token gesture.” He held his sword up. “You are dishonorable and don’t deserve to be called ‘noble.’”

  Ivana gasped. “Papa! No!” she cried out. What was he doing?

  Gildas snorted again and drew his own sword. “Know that you have forced me to this,” he said, pitching his voice so that everyone could hear him. He paced back several steps and held his sword up in front of him by way of salute.

  Her father didn’t even have the chance to defend. No heroic clash of steel upon steel filled the air, no dance of dueling feet—a single stab from Gildas, which her father tried, and failed, to meet with his own sword.

  “Papa!” Ivana screamed. She broke out of the crowd and ran to her father’s side, who had collapsed to his knees, doubled-over. “Papa, Papa,” she cried, trying to get him to respond. He looked up at her dully. “I…didn’t really think he would…” He crumpled to the side.

  “No,” she whispered. “No, no, no!” She flung herself over him, heedless of the blood flowing from the wound in his chest. “Please, Papa!”

  Gildas still stood over them. Ivana looked up at him. His dripping sword dangled carelessly from his hand, as though he did this every day. Tears of grief and rage blurred her vision. “Monster,” she whispered.

  Gildas leaned down next to her ear. “The next time you want to play the whore, girl,” he said, for her benefit, “at least ask for payment first.”

  He straightened up and waved to the guards. “Get them out of my path. I’ve wasted too much time here already.”

  Guards dragged her, kicking and screaming, out of the middle of the road, then dragged her father’s body.

  They left them there at the side of the road. “Help him!” she screamed at the retreating guards. She turned to the crowd, which was fast dispersing. “Someone, please, help him!” But it was too late. The blood had slowed, and her father’s eyes had gone blank.

  She clung to his still-warm body, denial and disbelief choking her as the carriage moved away, leaving them in a cloud of dust.

  Why did he have to be so brave, so stupid? For what? For what? For the principle of the matter? What use were principles when one was dead?

  This was her fault.

  That terrible knowledge sank down over her like the dirt that would bury her own father’s corpse.

  Every tear that dripped off her face was a silent accusation. Her fault. Her fault.

  Her fault.

  Chapter Eleven

  The sharp tap-tap-tap of heeled shoes against the hardwood floor of Elidor’s dining room slowly encircled Ivana, around and around. She was torn between following the woman who was inspecting her with her eyes and looking away in embarrassment.

  The former won; whether it was a spark of defiance or curiosity, she didn’t know, but she studied her all the same.

  With the creamy brown skin of the central three regions, Da Lavena was solidly Setanan, like Elidor. Her hair was chestnut brown, thick and luxurious despite the strands of grey interwoven throughout. Her eyes weren’t a
s hard as Ivana had imagined, but neither were they sympathetic. They were professional. Shrewd. And encased in a thick line of eye makeup.

  She didn’t seem bothered by Ivana’s scrutiny; indeed, the few times her eyes flicked to meet Ivana’s own, she seemed almost amused by it.

  Elidor stood nearby, his hands behind his back. “Well?” he finally said, a note of impatience in his voice. “Can you work with her?”

  “Dal,” she said, “I can work with almost anything.” She tilted her head and circled Ivana once again. “The real question is, will she work with me?”

  Ivana swallowed. She could tell. She could see the fear, the hesitation, the shame in Ivana’s eyes.

  Elidor waved his hand in irritation. “She will work with you. But am I correct? Will this sort of training be of benefit? I do not wish to waste her time.”

  Lavena stopped in front of Ivana. Her eyes swept over Ivana’s body once more, then settled on Ivana’s eyes. “She could fit in among my ladies easily enough.”

  Was it supposed to be a compliment that she wouldn’t stand out among whores? Then again, she already knew that. Bile rose in Ivana’s throat and then settled back down in her stomach as bitterness.

  “I don’t need her trained for entertainment,” Elidor said. “I need her trained as a weapon.”

  Lavena’s lips pursed. “Is there a difference?” She turned to face Elidor. “Yes. She will do. But I will only train her if certain conditions are agreed to. First, I require unrestricted access to her. If I say she needs to come with me, she comes with me, no matter the time or day.”

  Elidor jerked his head in acquiescence.

  “Second, in addition to my fee for this service, you—or your masters—will pay any costs associated with her training. I am not ultimately to be her mistress; I will not invest my own money in her.”

  “Such as?” he asked.

  “Clothes, makeup, and the like,” Lavena answered. “And certainly tanthalia, at some point, until she no longer needs it.”

  Ivana recoiled. Tanthalia? She would never bear a child again. It would rob her womb of anything capable of sustaining life—permanently.