Lowering my feet into the cool river water was the most delicious feeling I had ever had in all my life.
The simple relief of pain rippled up my legs all the way to my hair. I almost swooned. Some of my blisters had burst, and now stung sharply, but that was nothing compared to the sheer bliss of sitting still and soaking my rubbed-raw feet. It turned out that Epicurus was right. Pleasure is the absence of pain.
I’d thought I was a strong and active person. Apparently I was wrong. Walking from Perpignan to the ocean-port town at the Tet’s mouth was very different from scurrying around our villa in soft slippers, and strolling the marketplace in pretty padded sandals with servants to carry the things I bought.
Wearing the stiff, heavy sandals of a boy was a bad idea. I’d stolen them from Akil, whose arrogant attitude annoyed me to where I felt he deserved whatever he got. When I tried to engage him in conversation, he gave me only cryptic, maddening answers designed to make me feel stupid. I wanted to like him because he was beloved of Miss Marsh, but he made it very hard. He could wheedle new sandals from his mistress, since he was so clever.
If I was clever, I would have stolen a donkey to ride. Too late now.
I sighed. Another thing: binding my breasts so tightly that I could barely breathe was unfortunate… but if I didn’t they would give me away.
The water flowed past, uncaring. I flexed my toes and let out a groan. Miss Marsh, damn her pale eyes, had made it all sound daring and fun. I let myself hate her a bit, all I could muster at present, and sank backwards on the sandy shore, leaving my feet in the water. I felt Grandfather’s precious gravity pull me down, down toward the centre of the world. A thin screen of reeds, brambles and palm trunks hid me from the road, and I was quite sure my layers of sweat and road dust made me vanish into the dirt.
An intense wave of homesickness swept over me. How could I have imagined I was a self-sacrificing adventuress? I felt ashamed. Even the people I’d walked past had shamed me. They had so little, and were constantly scavenging or trading for just a little bit more of what I would spurn. Grain scattered from an ox’s feedbag, twigs fallen from a bundle of firewood on an ass’s back.
The old men had watched me pass from their shady benches, eyes glittering as they talked and sipped their tea. The women worked, the children ran and yelled happily, fighting the dogs for bones to chew on. The animals I saw were hobbled, even the goats, who had learned to hop around in their constant search for something edible.
A veiled woman, riding a donkey sidesaddle with her feet almost trailing the ground, had clopped past me as I trudged along, sending me a suspicious glare as she poked her little beast with a sharp twig to make it trot faster.
I should definitely have stolen a donkey.
Sitting up again, I dipped my hands in the water, sluicing it against my hot, dusty face. In these months—high summer—rain fell so rarely that it was never expected, only welcomed, as an exotic stranger bearing gifts would be welcomed. I didn’t dare remove the makeshift turban that hid my hair. Last night I had held my dagger against the twisted black rope of hair in my hand, pulled tight and ready to be sliced off at the nape of my neck, but hadn’t possessed the fortitude to do it. I was too vain.
All along, while stockpiling food and collecting coins, I prayed for Papa to suddenly arrive home and tell me all was well and we were safe, and let me go back to the way it was before. Instead all I had was the orange cat who insisted on curling up on top of the little pile of belongings I was trying to cram into a satchel. At least the damned cat liked me.
I knew one thing: Papa would get himself in trouble with Petru the moment he learned of our treatment at that monster’s hands. Oh Sisters, keep him far away. Keep him safe.
My skin itched from sun and dust. I wondered briefly if I could use da resu skills to make the particles of dust fly off my clothes and skin, and become clean without benefit of water or scented oil. It should be easy, but I couldn’t drum up the strength or interest. Besides, my layers of dirt were a good disguise. I had even rubbed some on my face as a sort of beard, hoping that from a distance it would look like a man’s stubble. I made myself replace what I’d just washed off.
A line of wagons rumbled slowly by, the drivers yelling and chattering, so close I could smell the oxen’s sweaty hides and dung-spattered legs. I held perfectly still. A dog following the train briefly ran down the bank to drink, sniffed at me, growled, then scrambled back though the spiny underbrush at his master’s whistle. They passed and I breathed again.
I might be caught at any moment, found out as a female runaway and either sold into slavery or hustled home quickly for a reward. But if I did escape Petru, and my destiny, what would happen to Mother and Father? Was I doing something very, very foolish?
No. I was not. I saw no other course.
My mother had lost whatever advantage she might have had the moment Petru threatened me. I was afraid of what she might bargain away to protect me.
I was a pawn, small and useless in the game, but capable of bringing down a queen.
I hadn’t eaten any of the food I had brought, only lapped water from the river in my cupped hands, having neglected to bring an actual cup. But the bread was hard as rock, the cheese smelled rancid and greasy when I sniffed it.
Also, I was much too conspicuous travelling alone to stop and eat, or to advertise the fact that I might be worth robbing by buying food. Despite the plentiful traffic and the marshals patrolling the roadways, even a young “man” striding along as if with some grand purpose was liable to be accosted and roughed up just for looking different. For casting his gaze too low, or not low enough. I spent a lot of my time diving for cover.
My thoughts turned mutinous. If I were already dead, and in my resura existence, I could take my bird form and fly over all this dust and dung and danger. I would never have to return to Perpignan.
But at that image, myself forever wandering alone, I caught my breath in a wave of misery and tried not to sob. I failed.
Night started to creep in as I huddled lamenting my fate, and with it came cooler air, but, oddly, more traffic on the road. Bright moonlight showed more men and fast-moving chariots, fewer families or flocks. I could hear the constant, lugubrious chug of the pumps to the north, and see a glow on the south-east horizon which I knew must be the torch and lamplights of the small port city of Linqua, which was my goal. Since my plan included creeping into the city under cover of darkness, I forced myself to stand. I debated donning the ghastly sandals once more, and decided to pick my way barefoot.
Soon I could smell the ocean. A tang of salt freshened the air, almost making me feel hungry. All day I had observed the many boats plying the river, up and down. Papa had described many of them to me, and I now I could identify some: square-rigged, old-fashioned knar; wallowing cargo cogs; a few lateen-rigged carvels with their rakishly back-swept triangles of sail.
The river was more busy than I had ever seen it, even now as night was falling. Some ships were man-powered, the largest I saw having twenty-five oars on each side. I heard the men grunt and chant, and the drum boom, as they sped past upstream. The ships were on their way up to Perpignan, or on the downstream route to far-off places, loaded with olive oil, wine, grain, cloth, cork, metal, people—everything that could be contained in a crate, barrel or sack, or chained securely to the deck. Some were built especially to transport horses, though I could hear or smell none today.
Many must be carrying instruments of war, for war, my Pada assured me, was not far off.
I’d seen interesting things today, which once would have delighted me. The vast, groaning Archimedes pumps sucking away at the swampland to make more fields, gangs of men and mules carving out channels in the muck, the tiny clusters of dwellings and shops close on the roadway, everyone busy trying to sell whatever they had to sell. Tempted by some sweet pastries dripping with butter and stuffed with walnuts, I had almost tried my talents at acting the boy to buy some, but feared I’d be instantly found out as a female. Stoically, I had walked on.
And I was still walking. How had Miss Carolina Marsh, small and thin, found the nerve to accept rides? Was she courageous, or merely desperate, as she had claimed? Perhaps I wasn’t quite desperate enough.
I reached the outskirts of Linqua and found a secluded corner where I hunkered down and made myself munch through some of the vile cheese and lumps of bread. My headache receded, at least. A nearby public fountain quenched my thirst. After scouring the taste of cheese from my teeth with one of my little bundle of siwak twigs, I gobbled a few almonds and sweet, sticky dates as a reward and returned to my corner. I should have brought more of those and tossed the cheese into the river.
Crossing my legs tailor-fashion, I leaned against the still-warm stone wall, feeling somewhat revived. It had taken a while to find a spot that smelled only a little of urine.
But the city had what I needed: ships that travelled the known world.
A world that was getting larger all the time. “We are in a marvellous time, Vara!” I could see my Pada striding up and down, the faithful Saskia following his every move with her sad eyes. “The Vikings and the Vascones led the way, and now everyone is sailing west to the new world. There are schools teaching the ways of the savages there, better to trade with the arrogant bastards. It’s marvellous!”
His favourite word.
What now? Hobble my way to the harbour? Try to snatch an hour of sleep? That would be foolish; even in this little corner I was exposed and helpless. My only hope was to complete my plan: buy passage on the first ship heading anywhere. I hoped my little store of coins and trinkets might be enough.
I found my way simply by heading toward the brightest glow. Torches and oil lamps flared everywhere along the waterfront, and smoking braziers where ruddy-skinned men with eagle feathers in their long black hair were cooking food for the workers. The port scene danced in the moving flame, the orange and black of light and shadow adding exotic life to the wharves, cranes, towering piles of bales, boxes, kegs and amphora of oil and wine, lines of animals, crates of squawking birds crammed in till their feathers flew, and countless men. Men of all colours, most young, muscular and sleek with sweat as they worked.
Gawking like a country clod, I was certain this port never slept. Only a few women were to be seen, heavily veiled and hurrying in purposeful directions. Papa had told me that quite a few companies of traders, shipbuilders, merchants and foreign moneylenders were owned and operated by women, though in many countries the women had to employ a front line of suitable males to appease the sensibilities of foreigners, as some cultures were of the opinion that women were foolish and easily cheated.
Hoping I wasn’t one such, I was scrutinizing the ships in hopes that one would bear a big banner stating Welcome all Runaways! Low Rates, Clean Beds, when a woman caught my eye.
She was different from the rest. For one thing, she wore only a loose robe of fine red silk, her sleek, muscular arms bare and shining under the golden glow of torches. For another, she had no male at her side to guard her. Tall and straight, black as the ebony of Petru’s killing bench, she strode along bearing a basket laden with skeins of creamy white wool atop her head.
She was beautiful, and not very old, perhaps twenty-five. Both her ankles bore metal cuffs with a hammered design that looked like words in some strange language. They looked like slave cuffs with the chains removed. Around her neck were ropes of beads, shells and teeth.
The light caught her high cheekbones, and illuminated her one flaw: scars on her cheeks like those borne by Miss Marsh. A phrase from some eastern language I had learned recently came to mind: The warrior’s face shall be fearsome. That was one translation. Another was: Let the scars tell of a warrior. Now I understood what the scars must mean.
What had Miss Marsh done to earn hers?
A line of three girls, small, medium and large, filed behind her, also with baskets on their close-shorn heads. She and her basket towered above the men around her, men who dropped their eyes as she approached, but raised them again to watch her avidly as she moved away.
The girls, probably her daughters, followed obediently, eyes down. One of the men reached out a hand and, quick as a mongoose, grabbed the trailing girl’s arm, hauled her close and dug a hand between her legs. He released her almost immediately, snickering, and the girl stumbled away. Her basket of wool dropped to the ground, she caught her balance and let out one shrill scream, like a bird’s shriek.
Her mother turned.
The air seemed to shimmer between the woman and the man. I smelled a sudden pungent gust of sea air, cold and salty as winter’s ocean. Her black eyes locked with his. A knife appeared in her hand, and before I could see how she did it, the blade flew across the distance between them and pierced the ruffian’s heart. She walked close, retrieved her knife and spat upon his twitching form. Then, standing over the corpse, she screamed as her child had done. A seabird’s wild cry.
I saw the man’s body soften and melt, turn into a puddle and seep away into the cracks between the street-stones. It took only a moment. The man’s companions climbed over each other in their efforts to get away. She helped her child settle the wool-basket upon her head once more, and they formed once again into their line and strode off.
Staring, mouth open, I realized what she was: a Kek freewoman. Men and women like her weren’t mere ordinary folk who had been released from servitude by a sympathetic master, or who had managed to pay off a slave-bond. The Kek were once slaves—born that way, or captured and sold into slavery—but had done something so miraculous, politically expedient, or courageous as to earn permanent freedom. Rather like a gladiator who’d vanquished an unbeatable foe. What had this woman done?
She had a God on her side. A God of women? Brutal, unforgiving but just. A god who favoured the weak. As the woman and girls turned a corner and vanished, I found my gaze shifting to the drying trickle of greasy water that marked the foolish man’s last moment of life.
Perhaps… perhaps for my third resura form, I might consider such a one, or a melding of the Kek woman and the Theravedan female who had tried vainly to teach me; the ultimate fighter… surely better than a snake.
Turning at a slight sound, I suddenly found myself on my belly, gasping. Someone had knocked me down. I looked around to shout my anger, but quickly closed my mouth.
Two men leered down at me, both clad only in baggy breeches, their greasy hair in the patterned coils of an imported bound-worker. I’d seen a few in company with the traders who owned them at our villa, making deals as proxy for their bosses far away. Neither slaves, servants nor employees, they had just enough authority to lord it over a child or woman.
Which did they think I was?
If that Kek woman reappeared now, would she come to my aid? But she was gone.
I tried to get to my feet, but the taller of the men pushed me back down with one foot, standing over me and laughing. The shorter one was swinging my satchel tauntingly.
“What is this?” cackled the tall one. “A boy fresh from the hills and ready to pluck!” He poked at me with a toe, and I tried not to shriek. Did I have the nerve to try what I’d learned? He leaned over, peering at me in some confusion, his legs straddling mine. This was too good an opportunity to pass up. I kicked upwards as hard as I could, then scrambled to my feet.
With a thrill of glee I watched the lout curl into a ball around his tender parts. He clutched himself and howled. Tears leaked from his eyes, which were screwed shut. He’d lost interest in me, but the other man let out a curse and lunged for me. At last I remembered my dagger, but as I fumbled for it I was kicked down to my belly again. A string of curse words told me who he was.
He’d left off Latin and started speaking Tamasheq, a north African language which I understood and could speak a little.
“Leave me alone!” I cried in his language as I grovelled on the ground. “Don’t touch me or, or—” The man snatched my dagger away and stuck it in his belt, giving me a humiliating slap. The man I’d kicked had recovered enough to emit a few curses in between gasps of pain.
The shorter man narrowed his eyes at me. “What is this? Not a boy, I think.” Suddenly he made a grab for my improvised turban and yanked it away. My hair fell free. “Ha! Look at this!”
He took me by one foot and dragged me along the ground for a few feet till I was weeping in pain and fury. He laughed and flipped me onto my back, then he squatted down and gave my breasts a vicious squeeze. The game was up now. Instead of just a beating and robbery, I could expect much worse.