Rhaina wasn't one to mess with, however. She didn't budge, even when the other girl slammed into her head-on and began scratching and kicking.
"Stop it, ya minger, they're just tryin' ta help ya!" Rhaina shouted, then bellowed "Ow!" when Char grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked. Hard.
A half-second later NaVarre and another man arrived, and it took both of them to pull Char away from the door and back into the foyer, where NaVarre held her while the other man fought to restrain her arms with a padded strap.
"Let me go!" Char screeched. In Tettian. "Get your hands off of me! I'm not going back! I'm not going back..." Her sharp, ghostly-pale face crumpled into a terrified sob and she went completely limp.
NaVarre wasn't prepared, and Char fell to the floor, landing in a pitifully small heap at his feet.
The other man was still buckling the restraint, and bent with her, only to receive a vicious header to the nose as Char lunged upward. The man reeled sideways, cupping his face, and Char scrambled in the other direction, making a new break for the exit while somehow evading both NaVarre and Rhaina.
Now I was the one standing in the doorway. Which made me the only thing between Char and freedom.
Frightened grey-green eyes locked on me, and I caught the flash of bared teeth and skinny fingers curved into claws ready to snatch me bald.
~~~
Bagarrow: a field sport in which three teams of players attempt to steal a painted rod of wood called the 'king's arrow' from the other teams while defending their own. The defender is usually the largest, beefiest member of the team, and they are expected to stop all incoming threats without moving beyond a certain boundary.
40. Proving Useful
11th of Nima, Continued
"Adei," I got out, lifting my hands as if that would have kept her from mauling me.
To my amazement it did. Char stumbled to a halt mid-flight, her gaze zeroing in on my mouth. "What did you say?" Again, in Tettian. Low Tettian, with a thick poor-district accent.
"Stop," I repeated, glancing beyond her at NaVarre, unsure what I should do. "You don't have to run." Then I switched back to Altyran. "What do you need to tell her?"
Char jerked as if I had struck her and whipped around to face the others, her chest heaving.
"We need to set her ankle," NaVarre said calmly. If he was surprised to see me, he didn't show it.
"They just want to fix your ankle," I translated, and Char rounded on me again, backing up against the wall so she could see all of us at once. I gentled my tone and lowered my hands. "Is your ankle hurt?"
Char blinked and took a slow breath, letting it out through her nose as if she were steadying herself. She shifted her weight, rubbing her palms up and down her arms as she considered her options. "That's all the reighan want? Fix me up, then they'll let me go?"
"She wants to know if you'll let her go after her ankle is fixed," I provided for the others, leaving out the vulgar word Char had just called them.
NaVarre nodded. "Tell her it isn't safe in the woods at night, and we have food."
"He says you're free to go wherever you want," I said in Tettian, hoping that was true, "but that it isn't safe in the woods after dark. And they have food."
"Tell her this is Dr. Longalli," NaVarre said, his eyes on Char as he gestured toward the small, plump woman in the doorway to the circularri. "And this is Mr. Longalli, the Director," he added, indicating the other man, who was pinching the bridge of his bloodied nose with a handkerchief. Next was the young woman beside the doctor, "And this is Jinny," followed by, "and that's Rhaina. They're all very nice people. She's safe here."
I repeated what he had said as closely as I could.
Her movements sharp and birdlike, Char shot a wary glance from one person to the next. Her shoulders were beginning to shake. "I don't want to go back in that room," she whispered. "There is no air in there."
I translated and Dr. Longalli took a small step forward, holding up a medical box. "That's alright. I can see to your ankle right here, if you would like."
Char flinched away from the Doctor's voice, but then she gave a jerky little nod when I explained in Tettian, sank down with her back against the wall, and didn't so much as make a peep while the doctor reset a dislocated bone and bound her foot with surgeon's linen.
There wasn't any need to translate 'food'. When Jinny left and came back with a bowl of soup and a thick wedge of dark bread, Char snatched it from her and turned to face the wall, devouring all of it as quickly as possible, as if someone might take it away at any moment.
While the girl was eating, the doctor came to stand next to me. "Thank you. I'm not sure how she was able to get so far on that ankle. Fear, I suppose. She's one of the more challenging cases we have at present, partly because no one can understand what she's saying. What language is she speaking? Jinny can't place it."
"Poor-district Tettian," I murmured. "They use a lot of street slang. What... um..." I didn't finish my question, not entirely sure I wanted to know the answer.
The Doctor supplied one anyway. "As far as we can tell, she was a slave on a tea plantation near Reixvald. I'm only guessing from those dark stains on her fingers. That's something we see with the girls who packed tea leaves. Judging from the state of her, I'd say she has been malnourished for quite some time, which probably means her driver used food as an incentive to get his chain to fill their quota. Hungry slaves cooperate better. They can't run as far, either."
All those times I had opened a new tin of Altyran Provincial and eagerly inhaled that musky-sweet fragrance... I must have emptied and discarded thousands of those little waxed envelopes.
The Doctor wasn't done. "She dislocated her ankle trying to get out of the shackles in the cargo bin we pulled her from. Worst haul we've ever had." Dr. Longalli paused, her eyes sad as she watched Char gnawing down the bread. "Now here she is, starting at any sudden sounds, keeping her back to walls and corners, constantly making sure she knows where the doors are. She'll have to learn not to fight with the other girls over food, how to keep from stealing and hoarding things she thinks she might need."
Char finished gulping every last drop of soup and stared into the bottom of the bowl as if hoping it would magically refill. Her eyes drooped and she began swaying, then listing sideways, her chin hitting her chest, and the Doctor moved quickly to kneel next to her, keeping Char from landing hard on the tile floor as the girl finally stopped fighting the sleep-easy in the broth and went under.
Dr. Longalli made sure Char's mouth was empty, and nodded to Jinny, who had slipped out and come back with a stretcher.
Char was shifted carefully onto it, and NaVarre and the Director carried her across the foyer and on through into the circularri, with the Doctor, Jinny, and Rhaina trailing along behind them.
"There is something the Council needs to discuss," the Doctor was saying as they left.
Unsure whether I should go or stay, I didn't follow.
The door shut slowly.
The outer surface was made to look like the wall of the entryway, painted white with floral-relief paneling at the bottom. If it hadn't been open when I arrived, I wouldn't have known it was there. I stood watching it inch shut on silent hinges, closing me up in cool, stony stillness.
Then NaVarre's surprised, "Where is Miss Westerby?" filtered through what was left of the gap, and Rhaina came trotting back to fetch me.
~~~
Circularri: (serk-oo-lah-ree). A large, elaborately decorated central conversation room common in Lodesian high society architecture, designed to show off the wealth of the owner. It is the first room accessed from the public entrance, and is often round, with other passages leading off of it. Newer construction may have a dome overhead, but in older estates the roof is left open in the middle. Only those accepted into the owner's inner-most circle are allowed past the circularri and into the rest of the house, thus the phrase, "I'm past the circularri" connotes having an in with someone powerful or rich, having goo
d prospects, or having a reliable source of income or information.
41. Warring's Daughter
11th of Nima, Continued
The Director's office was spacious, with a desk in a large curve of windows overlooking a beautifully manicured garden. There wasn't time to admire the view, however. The Doctor, NaVarre and I walked in, and the Director immediately closed the door behind us, locking it before turning to face the three of us, his expression serious. "They've stopped putting food in the cargo bins."
NaVarre moved to stand near the desk, but didn't sit, simply waiting for all the bricks to fall.
I wasn't quite sure what I was supposed to do, or where I should be, so I eased into the corner nearest the door.
"That's not the worst of it," the Director continued, addressing NaVarre. "The last several groups we took were starving. We only saved ten out of the last bunch. The others are old – too old to have been sold on the Blocks, far older than the Coventry's normal fare. Three are miners with Salt Lung. One is a retired foot soldier with terminal Li-Padh disease, another lost two limbs and half his face to an incendiary in the war. Four are street women addicted to Whitecloud."
"I think it was deliberate. I think they filled those last bins with the sick and dying so we would have nothing but graves to dig," the Doctor said quietly, settling into one of the armchairs in front of the desk.
The Director nodded. "The message seems clear enough. They know about the Opposition, and this is their response. We'll only be sealing the fate of future shipments with every bin we take."
NaVarre crossed his arms over his chest, closed his eyes and ground his teeth together.
"Did you get to Warring?" The Director asked after a moment.
Eyes still shut, NaVarre shook his head.
The Longallis shared a glance. "So, the information —"
"It's out," NaVarre rasped, his voice hoarse. "He got it out. I just have to find it."
The Doctor's gaze landed on me, then, frank and appraising. "Pardon, my dear, but how did you get swept up in all this... madness?" She cast a meaningful look at NaVarre, her unspoken question hanging in the air, 'And who are you?'
"This is Warring's daughter," NaVarre said, not quite meeting my eyes.
The Longallis went very quiet.
I picked at my thumbnail. Plucked an invisible piece of lint off my sleeve. Anything but find out if that silence was full of pity.
The Doctor finally cleared her throat. To my relief, she changed the subject. "I can't tell you how much we appreciated what you did today... How many languages do you speak?"
"Standard and Low Altyran, Ronyran, two forms of Tettian, High and Low Edonian and Lodesian..." I recited, still examining my fingers. "I also speak Illyrian, Panesian, and a few dialects of Caraki... and I can get by in Tradeslang."
Dr. Longalli coughed out a short laugh. "Would you like a job? We are in desperate need of a translator."
"Quite right, wonderful idea," the Director said, his voice just a little too jovial. "My dear, I wonder if Miss Warring —"
"Westerby," NaVarre muttered. "She's going by Indaria Westerby."
"Miss Westerby... would like to meet Jinny and some of the girls from the Dorm before the gopher runs back down to town?"
"Yes," the Doctor said slowly, giving her husband a searching look as she got to her feet. Her hesitation was gone as soon as she turned to smile at me. "Yes, that's an excellent idea. They can see that you get to the hello on the beach tonight, then, too."
I blinked at her, feeling distinctly like a piece of spare furniture nobody knew where to put. It was clear that the Director wanted to speak to NaVarre alone, though, so I nodded, joining the Doctor as she moved to unlock the door.
I was right. As soon as Dr. Longalli began closing the door, the Director stepped forward, his hands at his hips, his words low and tense: "The Shadow Road is still active. Orrelian is getting desperate. He's operating blind. Without Warring, we have no way of knowing where or when the shipments are being made."
NaVarre sighed. "I know. We can't keep sniping at ghosts. We have to take the fight to them."
The latch clicked behind us, then, and the Doctor pocketed the key. "I'm so sorry. That must have been dreadful."
I pressed my lips together in a tight smile, then followed as she led the way out of the Administration offices and down the hallway to the Language Studies suite, where Jinny was preparing to leave for the day. After a brief, very polite, much more official introduction, and instructions to take me down to the beach and make me feel at home, the Doctor left, and just like that I had been handed off like an extra lounge cushion.
Jinny took it in stride, apparently well-used to dealing with new arrivals. She came around her desk, a big smile lighting up her pretty oval face, and linked her arm through mine, ushering me back out into the hallway. "I must say, it will be wonderful to have another wordy sort of person here, although I should warn you, you won't believe how much work you're going to save me tomorrow." She pulled a face, then grinned. "But for now, we'll just settle for getting you to the hello."
There it was again. "What is a 'hello on the beach'?"
She took a left into a smaller hallway that ended at a side exit and a portico over the drive. "Whenever our ships come home, we have a party on the beach in Fox Cove to welcome everyone. To say 'hello.' Basically, it's just an excuse to eat a lot and dance."
"I see," I said, letting her pull me along. A dance sounded like a very long end to an already long day.
A flock of other girls had gathered beneath the portico, and as Jinny and I stepped out onto the crushed shell of the drive, the gopher came rattling around the far end of the building. A matter of minutes later we were all jouncing our way back down the hill.
The chatter of the girls around me blended with the deep rumble of the ancient gopher engine. An odd, twisting sensation had settled into the pit of my stomach that wasn't entirely due to the lurching of the seat beneath me. This new life was rushing along, twining around me already, pulling me in. How long before it started to come apart around me, torn apart by the secrets in Father's binder?
42. Rikkafilla
11th of Nima, Continued
The gopher ground to a halt at the front gate of the Women's Dormitory, the idle engine puttering as Persha set the brake and released the tailgate. Around me, the girls who worked at the school rose from the bench seats and shuffled to the end of the cargo bin, lining up to descend the ladder.
Jinny grinned, then got to her feet. "C'mon. We have an hour, and I think I can find something less... robust and northern... for you to wear."
I unhooked my aching fingernails from the seat beneath me and pushed my numb bones upright, hobbling after her as she climbed down to the street. Then I followed her through the main gates of the Dormitory.
The whole place was buzzing with activity. Girls and women of all ages were getting ready for the dance, and again I could very well have stepped into a day at Kingsbridge Academy. There were stays and lightweight petticoats everywhere, talk and laughter and perfume in the air, flowers and ribbons and jewelry swapping hands.
Jinny's room was on the second floor, only a few doors down from mine. As soon as she came up the stairs, a girl popped out of an open doorway, her hair spilling loose down her back in a waterfall of gold. She trailed after us as Jinny unlocked her room, then flounced inside like she lived there. "Did you see the new groundskeeper?"
"Indaria, this is Umelle," Jinny provided, putting her hat and bag on a faded armchair by the window.
Umelle waved a haphazard flutter of fingers in my general direction. "Hello. But did you see him?"
"Yes. He had to fix the window in my classroom, and he seems like a decent, hard-working person."
Umelle let out a giddy squeal. "Did you see the size of his arms? And his shoulders! And that backside..."
"Oh, don't get your dander fluffed, he's already taken," another girl said, coming to lean on the door jamb. This on
e was built tall and strong like most Ronyran women, with rich sable skin and dark wavy hair. Unlike most Ronyran women, her hair was cropped short, and instead of a tirna, she was wearing a grease-stained pair of men's denim covers over a work shirt with the sleeves cut clean off. She tilted her head, studying me, her almond-shaped coppery eyes narrowing. "So, who's the new rikkafilla?"
My jaw dropped. "I beg your -"
"This is Indaria," Jinny said again, opening her closet and pulling out a pretty blue summer skirt. She gave me an apologetic glance. "Around here being a Rikkafilla just means you aren't a Shacklefoot. You really shouldn't call the new girls that, Grenna. You know what it actually means."
"Ah," I said, "What's a —"
"Shacklefoot?" Grenna grinned and came all the way in to flop onto Jinny's bed. "That's what we call the people that were bound slaves a'fore they got here. They all walk funny at first because they never knew a time when they could move one foot more than half a stride from the other. Have to figure out they don't have to raise both hands at the same time to eat..." Grenna pantomimed eating with both hands. Then she held out her bare arms, palm up, showing a set of thick scars at her wrists, very similar to Ydara's. "Took me only two weeks to figure it out. Some it takes months. Ydara says I should wear them with pride, now. Like a badge of honor."
I didn't doubt that at all.
Jinny sized me up and brought a gathered cotton skirt out of her closet. "I'm a little taller than you, but this cinches in fairly well. Maybe if we use a bodice instead of a belt, we can raise it?"
Umelle perked up. "Oooo! She needs clothes? I'll be right back!" she called, already hurrying out.
"Now you're done for," Grenna laughed, rolling over. "You've become Umelle's new pet project. Jin, can I borrow that neck ribbon with the roses?"
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