The Dragon Revenant (12 page)

They left the ship at Ronaton and spent another two days riding northwest to the hill town of Wylinth, where the widow Alaena lived. Pommaeo was so arrogant and demanding that, by the time they finally arrived, Rhodry had decided that the shame of being a courting gift was a small thing compared to the joy of getting away from him. All white stucco and flowering trees, Wylinth spread out over clustered hilltops behind walls of pink sandstone. After he paid the toll at the city gates, Pommaeo led his minature caravan to a long, sprawling inn in the center of town and hired a suite. The main chamber had a floor tiled in blue and green, and a marble fountain splashed lazily in the center of the room. The two slaves carried up the mounds of luggage; then Pommaeo gave Miko a string of orders, while Rhodry spread Pommaeo’s embroidered blankets on the bed instead of the innkeep’s plain ones.

“I’m going to the market,” the master said. “Rhodry, do what the boy tells you.”

Miko’s orders were welcome enough. Apparently the master was going to give Rhodry away that very night, and he wanted him presentable. Rhodry was more than willing to go down to the slave’s corner of the bathhouse and get truly clean for the first time in weeks. He even let the boy cut his hair for him with only a minimum of grumbling. Pommaeo returned from the market shortly after, and in a few minutes, when a slave arrived with an armful of purchases, Rhodry noticed with some interest that Pommaeo did indeed tip the man a couple of coppers. The master pawed through the bundles and tossed one to Rhodry.

“Put these on. You won’t be much of a gift with horse sweat all over your clothes.”

Inside was a plain but good-quality white tunic and a new pair of sandals, a hair comb, and—much to Rhodry’s surprise—a good bronze razor in a plain sheath.

“Well, you’ll need to shave every day,” the master said; he’d apparently noticed Rhodry’s surprise even if he seemed to think nothing of handing a slave a potential weapon. “You’re a house slave now, and you’ll be expected to keep yourself clean, not wallow with the animals like a barbarian. Speak humbly at all times, and do exactly what the chamberlain tells you. If you do one wrong thing, and I’m not here to flog you, then her brother-in-law will. And try to do something about those Deverry table manners, will you? Her other slaves are civilized people, and they’ll have to share a table with you.”

They left the inn just after sundown. Carrying a lantern, Miko went a few paces ahead as they walked through the wide, straight-running streets, lined with palm trees and jasmine. They passed the market square, where tiny oil lamps were flickering into life like the evening stars, then climbed a hill to a neighborhood where enormous houses stood in their compounds behind stucco walls. Although it was hard to see clearly in the lantern light, Rhodry could make out elaborate frescoes painted on every one of them. Eventually they came to a wall painted with a rural scene; set in a painted cottage was a real wooden door. When Pommaeo called out, an elderly slave opened it and ushered them inside.

In the midst of tangled jasmine and spent roses a fountain leapt and splashed in a courtyard, which was lined with the tall wooden statues of the clan’s ancestors. The longhouse itself, with a pair of crossed oars in front of the door, stood toward the rear. At a tiled entranceway a maidservant bowed low, then took them down the hall into a large, airy room with a blue and white floor. The walls were painted in a cunning illusion of branches, leaves, and bright-feathered birds, as if the room were set in the treetops of a forest. Dozens of oil lamps glowed in niches and on shelves and glittered on silver oddments and glass vases of flowers. Toward one end was a low dais piled with velvet cushions. Lounging among them was one of the most beautiful women Rhodry had ever seen.

She was not very tall, but slender with coppery skin set off by curly black hair that waved tightly around her perfect oval face. Her enormous dark eyes watched Pommaeo with just the right touch of humorous disdain, while her long, slender fingers played with a silk scarf. In the lamplight she looked like a girl, but her movements and expression made Rhodry think that she must be well past thirty. Pommaeo gave Rhodry a cuff to make him kneel before the dais, then launched into a long and flowery speech, whose point was mainly that his humble gift was unworthy of her great beauty. So this is the poor old widow, is it? Rhodry thought. He found it in his heart to think better of his temporary owner. Laughing under her breath, Alaena tossed the scarf aside and sat up to look Rhodry over.

“Oh how sweet! For me? You shouldn’t have!”

His arrogance dissolving into a love-besotted simper, Pommaeo perched on the edge of the dais. Alaena patted Rhodry on the head like a dog, giggled when she held up a soft brown hand to compare the color of his skin, then called to the maidservant to bring an oil lamp. Together they stared into Rhodry’s eyes.

“Look, Disna!” the mistress said. “They’re blue!”

When Disna giggled and shot him a sidelong glance, Rhodry realized first that the slavegirl was almost as pretty as her owner, and second, that he might find some consolations in his captivity. Alaena turned to Pommaeo and held out her hand for him to kiss—the gift, apparently, was a great success.

Although Miko stayed to pour wine for the masters, Rhodry followed Disna to the enormous kitchen, tiled in browns and reds. At one end was an adobe cooking hearth where three women were busy preparing the meal; at the other, a welter of storage jars and wooden barrels. In between was a low table, a bit nicked but as expensive-looking as anything in many a Deverry lord’s hall. Sitting there was a dignified-looking man of about sixty and a boy of twelve or so. In a flood of giggles, which drew a sharp remark from the old man, Disna explained who Rhodry was. The man got up and gave him a distant but not unkind smile.

“My name is Porto, and in Deverry you’d call me a chamberlain, I believe. Here, I’m called the warreko, and never forget it.”

“Yes, sir.” Rhodry knew authority when he heard it in a man’s voice. “My name is Rhodry.”

“Good. You give me no trouble—you’ll get no trouble. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good. Well, we’ve needed another man around here. Come with me.”

They went up a narrow, twisting stairway to the top floor, just under the roof, where the clay’s heat still hung close and stifling. On one side of a hall were the women’s quarters, on the other, the men’s, with four narrow bunks set into the wall. Only two had blankets, but Porto rummaged in a wooden chest and brought out a pair which he tossed onto one of the empty beds. His gestures, the setting, were so familiar in a strange way that Rhodry felt his mind struggling to remember something, a place no doubt, or no, a string of places, all much the same. Finally he shook his head and gave it up as a bad job. Porto was looking him curiously.

“Don’t you feel well?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just the heat. I’m not used to it yet.”

“Heat?” The old man paused for a grin. “It’s almost winter, boy. You wait until the summer comes if you want heat.”

Rhodry spent the rest of the evening in the kitchen. After the meal was served, first to Alaena and Pommaeo, then to the slaves, he hauled water from the well outside, then helped scrub pots under the cook’s keen eye. He realized straightaway that Vinsima was the other center of power among the slaves. A woman of fifty, with skin so dark it was a glittery brown-black, she was tall and broad-hipped, with arms as well-muscled as a warrior’s and the reflexes to match. Once, when the young boy made an insolent remark, she rapped him on the skull so hard with a wooden spoon that he cried out. The look she shot Rhodry implied that he’d be next if he didn’t watch his step.

After the work was over, everyone settled in around the table to talk over the events of the day. Every now and then a little bell rang, summoning Disna to bring more wine or a plate of sweetmeats. When she returned, she would report on what was happening in the other chamber. It was obvious that none of the slaves wanted Alaena to marry Pommaeo; after putting up with the man for a few days, Rhodry had to agree. Gradually Rhodry learned everyone’s name and began to sort out the hierarchy in the household. Porto and Vinsima were at the top, although Disna, who had the mistress’s personal favor, had a certain independence. At the absolute bottom were the litter bearers, four young men who lived in a shed behind the house and who were fed out there like dogs. Rhodry got quite a shock over the boy, Syon, who turned out to be Porto’s personal slave, bought with tips to do the jobs that Porto disliked, such as polishing the lady’s enormous collection of silver animal figurines. That one slave would own another was utterly beyond Rhodry’s understanding, but it was clear from the conversation that this vicarage, as it was called, was perfectly common.

Since Rhodry himself was new and therefore an unknown quantity in this elaborate scheme of things, he often caught Porto studying him, doubtless wondering if he’d turn out to be a good worker or a troublemaker. There was something oddly familiar in that appraisal, so much so that Rhodry found himself wondering about it while he tried to get to sleep in his narrow and lumpy new bed. All at once a chunk of memory rose to his mind, and with it a rush of information. Captains of warbands had looked at him that same way, when he was a silver dagger back in Deverry. He could remember several faces, several names, several duns, even, where he’d briefly stayed. The information was so exciting that he stayed awake half the night, musing over it.

Unfortunately Porto woke him just at dawn. Yawning and stumbling Rhodry went down to the kitchen, to find Vinsima kneading a vast lump of bread dough on a marble slab.

“Firewood, boy, Short lengths, about as thick as your arm, and lots of them for the baking. The woodshed’s straight out the door and to your left.” She pointed to a rack on the kitchen wall. “There’s the axe.”

To his surprise Rhodry saw a heavy woodsman’s axe with a good steel head, a dangerous weapon in the hands of a man who knew how to use it. He took it outside, found the woodshed easily, and set to work, wondering as he splintered the kindling why anyone would leave a tool like that where the slaves could get it. In a few minutes Porto strolled out and stood sipping a steaming cup of hot milk while he watched. Finally he motioned to Rhodry to rest for a moment.

“You’re a hard worker, I see. Good. Let me give you some advice, boy. Be nice to the mistress’s friends. Smile a lot, and do whatever they ask you to. Most of them are older than her, a lot of old hens, really, and they’ll enjoy tossing a few coins at a good-looking young man.”

“I see. Does your—I mean, our mistress entertain a lot?”

“Oh yes, and also you’re going to be her footman. She needs an escort when she goes out, and I’ve got too much to do here as it is.”

“I’ll do whatever you want, as long as you explain things to me. I don’t understand all the customs of the country.”

“You haven’t been here long?”

“No, sir.” Rhodry realized that he’d better come up with some convenient story. “I came here as a bodyguard for a rich merchant and got way over my head in debt, gambling. That was only a couple of months ago.”

“Your merchant wouldn’t buy the notes back?”

“No, sir. I was nothing to him, only a kind of mercenary soldier called a silver dagger. Ever hear of them?”

“No, but I take it they have no status to speak of. Well, that’s too bad.” He paused, looking shrewdly at the axe. “Let me tell you something, boy. Do you know what happens if a slave murders his master?”

“They hunt him down and torture him to death.”

“Oh yes, but they also kill every other slave in the household, whether they had anything to do with the murder or not.”

“What?!”

“They drag them out and slit their throats, except for a few that they torture to give evidence in the courts.” Porto’s voice had gone flat and soft. “I saw it happen once, in the house across the street from the one where I was born. The master was a beast, a sadistic animal, and everyone knew it, but when one of his men killed him, the archon’s men slaughtered the whole household, dragged them screaming to the public square and killed them all, right down to the cook’s babe-in-arms. I’ll never forget that. I see it in nightmares still, even though it was over fifty years ago.” He shook himself like a wet dog. “I can’t imagine why anyone would lift a hand against our lady, Alaena, but if she accepts Pommaeo, he’ll be lord and master here. I warn you, if I ever think you’re so much as dreaming of violence, I’ll turn you over to the archon myself. Understand me?”

“Yes, sir, but as we say at home, don’t trouble your heart over it. I’d never do anything that would put the rest of you at risk.”

“I think you mean it, and you know, Rhodry, I think you’re a good boy at heart. Too bad about the gambling, it really is. I’ve always heard that you barbarians are too fond of the dice.”

“Barbarians? We’re barbarians, are we? Ye gods, your wretched laws sound savage from what you’ve just told me.”

“Savage? Oh no, merely practical. Slaves who murder their masters are very very rare in the islands.” And yet he looked away with a world of sadness welling in his eyes.

About the middle of the morning, Rhodry got his first taste of his new dudes when Alaena decided to pay a call before Pommaeo returned to her house. Porto gave Rhodry an ebony staff with a heavy silver knob at one end and a small leather whip—the whip for the litter slaves, the staff for the beggars and other riffraff who might block the lady’s way. When the litter came round to the courtyard, he finally saw these supposedly bestial dregs of slavery: four boys, not more than fifteen, who shrank back at the sight of the whip. Paler than most Bardek men, they had strange yellow eyes, oddly slit and staring. With a shock Rhodry wondered if they had elven blood in their veins. As if they’d heard his wondering, some of the Wildfolk appeared, and the boys’ eyes moved, following them as they strolled around.

“They come from Anmurdio,” Porto said, meaning of course the slaves, not the spirits. “It’s a horrible, primitive place, lots of small islands, all infested with disease. They say the people there are cannibals.” He shrugged, dismissing the island group and its inhabitants both. “Here’s a rag. Take it and dust off the litter. The mistress is almost ready.”