Authors: Susan Palwick

The Necessary Beggar (19 page)

BOOK: The Necessary Beggar

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“You were good to come,” she says quietly, and he trembles.

“You are in troubleâ”

“My mother found the carpet,” she says bitterly. “I hid it behind my summer robes, and sheâwell, no matter how she found it. She did, and she told my father, and he is furious. He thinks I have shamed myself.” She looks down, blushing. “He demands that I return it. And he demands that I demand back the money I paid for it.” She looks up again, smiling grimly. “You see my difficulty.”

“Where is it now, lady?”

She bends her head. “I hid it in an alley, not far from here. This morning. I told my father I would take it back to the Market, for he stormed and raged and threatened to disown me.” She has begun to cry; it is all Darroti can do not to reach out and wipe the tears from her cheeks. Instead he pulls a cloth from his pocket and passes it to her; their hands touch as she takes it, and Darroti's flesh thrills. Dare he hope that hers does also? “My father threatened to disown me,” Gallicina goes on, her voice thick, “and then he went to meet with the other men who own land east of the city, to talk rents and tithes. He will be back tonight, with money on his mind. He will demand the price of the carpet, as if I am a farmer who owes him bushels of corn.”

Darroti reaches back into his pocket. He always carries quite a bit of money, and he has more than usual now, because Stini remitted half her fee last night. “Here, lady. Here are two hundred alaris. Willâ”

“No! I did not come here to take your money!” She is clutching the cloth he gave her, her knuckles white. “This is wrong! You are a merchant and I steal your livelihoodâ”

“Hush,” he tells her, for the other people in the square have glanced over at them. “Lower your voice, lady. You steal nothing from me. I give it to you. LadyâGallicinaâI am not a good man. I give you what in a week, or less than that, I would spend on wine and whores.” He takes a deep breath; there. She cannot think him better than he is, now. “And now I will not have that money to spend on those things, and so you see, you make me better. You help me. It is an honor for me to give you this.”

She stares at him. Those eyes! She shakes her head. “You are a good man. I know you are a good man. Youâ”

“Take the money,” he says quietly, and dares to take her hand to press the alaris into it. Her hand is very warm. He folds her slender fingers over the gift, holds her hand in both of his own for a moment, and then releases her, his skin burning from her touch. Her free hand still holds his cloth. “The money is the least of it. There are larger problems than that to solve. You cannot keep your soul in an alley, lady.”

“No.” She looks away. Is that a flush on her cheeks, in the dim light of dusk? “I cannot. But where then shall I keep it?”

The answer comes to him at once, but he hesitates. “IâI want to help you. I have a way to help you. But I do not wish you to believe yourself beholden. I do not wish to place you under any obligation. Gallicina, do you understand? I would not poison your soul. I would help you keep it.”

“How?” Her voice is taut.

“I can rent an alcove in the Temple for my own prayer carpet. And I can buy a bag with straps, which many people use, and put yours in it, and tell my family it is mine. They will not look. And thenâ”

“And then,” she says, “and then we will have to meet, for me to study my carpet.” Her voice has a new, odd note in it, which he cannot read. Is she happy, or reluctant? “But where, Darroti? I cannot go to Temple.”

“Do you have friends you can take into your confidence? You could go to someone's house, perhaps? You wouldâyou would never have to see me, if you did not wish to. I could meet your friend, or your friend's servant, and give that person the bagâor meet you only for a moment to give it to you, orâ”

“I have no friends whom I would willingly expose to my father's wrath,” she says. “Most servants gossip. No, that way is not safe, Darroti.”

He understands at once. She can expose Darroti to her father's wrath because he is a merchant. “Very well, then,” he says. “There are innsâ”

She shudders. “No. That involves more money, and I cannot pay and do not wish you to payâ”

“I have friends,” he says. “I will find some other way. We will find a way. But Gallicina, tell me this, now: if it took you two years to save fifty alaris, how will you tell your father you saved two hundred? Especially if he thinks that you, that youâ”

“Sold myself,” she finishes flatly. She puts her chin in her hand and ponders. “I will tell him I sold some jewelry, some trinkets an aunt gave me. He dislikes that aunt. He would not be angry that I sold her gifts.”

“Very good. And how will you explain that you did not tell him that before?”

“Ah. You have a quick mind; thank you. I will tell him that I was too hurt by his accusations even to answer them, which is only the truth.”

Darroti nods. “And where does your family think you are now, while you speak to me?”

She smiles. “They think I am napping in my room before dinner, as I have done every day since I was small.”

He shakes his head. “If they looked in on youâ”

“I would be undone. But they will not; they never have. And I think I will take Adda into my confidence, for I would trust her with my life, although she is a servant.”

He shakes his head again. “If your father is as cruel as you say, would she not forfeit her own life, if the ruse were discovered?”

She laughs now. “No, he would not kill her! She might lose her job, but she would get another, and my mother would fight to keep her. Adda runs the house while my mother plays at cards. No, the punishment would fall on me. And that is how it should be. And I promise you that even so, I will not tell her your name, lest my father learn it. You will meet me here tomorrow, Darroti, at the same time, and tell me what is to be done?”

“Of course,” he says. He is both delighted, delirious with joy, and afraid: they are weaving a complicated pattern indeed, and it may trap them. “But should we pick another place? If we are seen here too oftenâ”

“Very good,” she says, smiling, and names another square, not too far away. “Farewell, good Darroti, until tomorrow. And thank you.” She gives him back his cloth; it is all he can do not to press it to his face, to inhale any lingering aroma she has left there.

“Bring the carpet tomorrow,” he tells her. “And I will bring the bag for it.”

By the next evening, he has arranged everything, having gone straight from his meeting with Gallicina to the whorehouse, where Stini has agreedâfor a feeâto grant him the use of her private apartment for two hours every early evening, when she is at work. Her apartment is in a quiet, respectable part of the city, neither too wealthy nor too poor, and not so far from where Gallicina lives that all the time will be taken up in travel. He will not tell Gallicina it is a whore's apartment; she knows now that he has been with women he had to pay, but he does not wish her to know that he is paying for the space. He remembers what she said when he suggested an inn. He will tell her that he is borrowing the place from a friend, which is also true enough.

“I have let others use it for lovers' assignations,” Stini tells him in satisfaction, “and most of them are married now. It is a place of good omen. I wish you luck and joy, Darroti. Here are two keys.”

“It will be used for prayer.”

“Oh, indeed!” Stini says, and laughs until her belly shakes.

“Truly,” Darroti says, patient. He cannot blame Stini for not believing him. “May she keep her prayer bag there?”

“She may keep there anything she wishes,” Stini says, grinning, “as long as it fits neatly upon the wall. Prayer carpets are fine for making love,
Darroti, although sleeping mats are thicker. I have done so myself, many times.”

And so he meets Gallicina; she has the carpet, which he puts into the bag, and then he leads her to Stini's apartment, a small, neat place, surprisingly spare, looking out onto a courtyard with a pomegranate tree. He takes Gallicina into the apartment, and hands her the prayer bag, and hands her a key. “Lady, you may keep the prayer bag here; my friend agrees. Now you have what you need, and you can come here every day if you so choose, to learn the pattern of your soul.”

“Where is your friend?”

“Working. Will you pray now, Gallicina?”

“In a moment.” Gallicina wanders restlessly around the room; she has thrown back her hood, for the first time since Darroti has known her, and he can see the silky mass of her hair, drawn back into a bun, the clean line of her neck below it. “Darroti, how can I come here if you are not here too? It is your friend who has given me the place. It would feel too strange.”

How he yearns to accept that invitation! But he must not; it would be dishonorable. “The place is for your use this little time each day, Gallicina. I have other things to do. I will be glad to see you sometimes, but I do notâ”

“Ah!” She has stopped in front of a mirror and removed something that is hanging on it. “A hairband. And here are earrings. Now I understand. This is a woman's apartment. You have aâa lover, it must be, if she is not your wife, youâ”

“No,” he says, and quickly spins a lie. “She is an old family friend, old enough to be my mother.” That part, at least, is true. “She has been fond of me since I was a child; she wishes to help me.”

“Why?”

The question startles him. “Because I asked her to.”

“Why?” She turns from the mirror, comes now to stand in front of him, her small fists clenched. “She knows who I am, and wishes to further your suit with a noble's daughter?”

“No,” he says, stung. “No, Gallicina! I have no dishonorable intentions, I swear to you, and she does not know your name. I have not told her that!” He makes the slashing X, the symbol for silence and secrecy, but before he can complete the gesture, Gallicina has put both of her hands on his, to keep it still.

“Kind friend,” she says softly, “I did not speak of dishonor.” And then she raises his hand and kisses it.

They are both trembling. Darroti's veins are full of fire. He forces himself to be calm, to be rational. “Gallicinaâlady, I have only known you a
handful of days. I have spent less than three hours with you. I have helped you because you raise me above myself, but I would not presumeâ”

“To give me my soul? To help me hide it? To help me keep secrets from my father? All that you have presumed, Darroti.” She kisses his hand again, more fervently this time; again he forces himself to remain still, although it is an agony. He must be very careful here. He reminds himself that he does not really know this girl: if she claimed rape, she could ruin him and his family. But then she says, “Darroti, tell the truth: do you love me?”

He closes his eyes. Why is she tormenting him? “Gallicina-Malinafa Odarettari, you are a noble's daughter, and I am a merchant and a merchant's son. I will tell you the truth: I have loved you since the moment I saw you. But I am not helping you because I ask for your love in return. You are too far above me. I love you as the reed loves the river and the sunlight: he depends on both for his very existence, but he knows that were he to draw too close to either, he would be consumed. He must love them from a distance.”

“Because you are Earth and Air, and I am Fire and Water,” she murmurs.

He swallows and opens his eyes. Her face is radiant, luminous, only inches from his. “Yes. That is exactly right.”

“Do not say consumed, then. Say completed. For it takes four Elements to make a soul.”

And then her mouth is on his and he succumbs, gives way, puts his arms around her and crushes her to him, and her mouth is open now and he can taste her, and his hands are in her hair and her hands are tugging at his tunic and their clothing falls away and they are on the prayer mat, and Stini is right, it is a fine place for coupling, and she is poised above him now, and his head clears just long enough for him to gasp and roll away.

“Gallicina! We must take care, we must take care. You must not conceive a child. Not until you marry.” He dares not say,
Until we marry
.

“Clever Darroti,” she says, her voice thick, and kisses him again. “You are right. Show me what to do, then, to avoid that fate.”

And so he does. He uses all his skill, everything he has learned from his hours with the whores, to please her with hand and tongue; he teaches her to please him. She is an apt and ready pupil. They devour one another. All too soon the time has fled; he longs to hold her in his arms for hours more, but instead he hands her her clothing, and dons his own.

“You did not pray,” he says ruefully, pulling on his tunic.

She laughs. “Was what we did not prayer?”

“Not of a type that is accepted in the Temple, beloved.”

BOOK: The Necessary Beggar

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