Authors: J. V. Jones
"What have
you for me today? A girl from Annis, perhaps?" Of all the northern cities,
Annis had the reputation for the most beautiful women.
"No, from the
kingdoms." Fiscel's high voice grated upon Bailor's nerves,
"Women from
the kingdoms are plain and bad tempered."
"Not this
one, she's a beauty. Court trained, too."
"A nobleman's
daughter?"
Fiscel nodded.
"A nobleman's bastard."
"Well, bring
her in, then." The head of the duke's household was becoming impatient.
"Come now,
Bailor. You know I like to set a minimum before I let you see the goods."
"How
much?"
Fiscel leaned back
in his chair. "Five hundred golds."
"Don't be
ridiculous. There's no way I can guarantee that as a minimum." It was an
outrageous price, three times what was normally asked.
The flesh-trader's
hand closed about his walking stick as he braced himself to stand. "Very
well, then. I will take my business elsewhere."
Bailor's interest
was now piqued. He couldn't let the man leave without seeing the woman who
could command such a minimum. Putting an arm on the man's shoulder, he said,
"There's no rush, my friend. Stay and take a cup of wine."
"Like you,
Bailor, I don't drink during negotiations." Both men had each other's
measure.
"Three
hundred golds," said Bailor, "and I'll see her this instant."
"Five hundred
golds or you'll see her not at all."
This was not the
way negotiations normally went. Somewhere along the way, he'd lost control.
Damn Fiscel! The truth was that he now desperately wanted to see the girl.
Perhaps this one
might engage the duke's interest longer than a week. "Four hundred, then.
That's my final offer."
"Then this is
my final refusal." Fiscel's good eye gleamed with cunning. "Look,
Bailor, you and I have known each other for many years. Would I demand such a
price without first being sure of the value of my goods?"
"Very well,
five hundred minimum, but I don't promise I'll purchase."
Fiscel stood up.
"You'll purchase."
Alysha's long and
elegant fingers bit into her flesh like talons. Not once had she loosened her
grip since they'd entered the palace. Melli hated the woman. She had spent
hours this morning being scrubbed and plucked like a pheasant for the table;
there was a new dress, ribbons for her hair, and pearls for wrist and throat.
Alysha had been merciless; coarse brushes, tweezers, toothpicks, and caustic
ointments were her instruments of torture.
Fiscel was
returning. The sight of him limping across the courtyard sent a tremor of
apprehension up Melli's spine. Alysha's grip became tighter, and she was forced
forward to meet him.
"Did he agree
to the minimum?" Alysha's voice betrayed uncharacteristic concern.
Fiscel was out of
breath. He leaned heavily on his stick. "Yes, Follow me. We must display
while the man is still curious."
Display! Melli did
not like the sound of this one bit. She stood her ground and refused to be
moved. They were in one of the palace courtyards and a few noblemen were
walking around the shrubs and fountains. She could shout to them, tell them that
she was a nobleman's daughter and demand that they help her. Only she was a
long way from home and the name Maybor would mean nothing to people of Bren.
Even if it did, Melli couldn't be sure that her father wouldn't just disown
her.
She was trapped.
Fiscel and Alysha watched her constantly. She hadn't been allowed out of the
wagon for over a week. Everything, including using the chamberpot, had to be
done in full view of Alysha's sly and smiling face. At first Melli had been on
her guard, looking for chances to run away, constantly feeling for her knife,
but no opportunities occurred and gradually her watchfulness was replaced with
planning. Melli had given a lot of thought to escape, and she had decided that
her best option was to wait until she was sold. The man who bought her would
get no interest on his investment. She would be gone before he could lay a hand
upon her.
At least that was
the plan up until a few hours ago. When they entered Bren late last night, she
hadn't expected to be taken to the duke's palace. Escaping from here was not
going to be easy. It looked open enough-servants coming and going, courtiers
strolling about-yet guards were posted on every corner and the portcullis
smelled of newly rubbed oil.
Alysha's grip bit
to the bone and Melli stepped forward. As they crossed the castle grounds,
people turned to stare at them, and many a knowing look was flashed their way.
Eventually they came to a small wooden doorway just past the entrance to the
kitchens. Fiscel turned abruptly and raised his stick to Melli's chest.
"One smart
word out of you, my precious, and I'll beat your ribs to splinters." And
then to Alysha: "You stay here." Melli was pushed through the
doorway, Fiscel following behind. They entered a small cramped room that was
lit by four candles. A plump man, plainly dressed, sat behind a wooden table.
"Here she is,
Bailor. Did I overestimate her charms?" The stranger stood up, his face
registering no emotion. He caught hold of Melli's arm and drew her toward the
light of the candles. Dressed plainly he might be, but he smelled of expensive
oils. Melli tried hard to keep calm during the scrutiny. Strangely, it helped
that the man didn't seem too impressed by her. If he'd been smiling and
gloating, it would have been a different matter.
After a while, the
man turned to Fiscel. "I'll take her," he said.
The flesh-trader
licked a speckle of drool from his lips. "Aah, but we haven't agreed to a
price."
"Five hundred
was the price." Judging by the man's voice, Melli realized that he was
more than a common servant.
"Five hundred
was the minimum," corrected Fiscel. "We both know she is worth more
than that." He contemplated the knotted end of his stick. "Say, eight
hundred."
"This is
ridiculous, you know I'm not authorized to pay such an amount, His Grace-"
"Save your
breath, Bailor," interrupted Fiscel. "You're not bargaining with some
local brothel-keeper now. You can pay, we both know it."
Melli's hand.
rubbed against the bodice of her dress. The knife still sang beneath. Amidst
all this madness, nothing seemed as sane as the blade. Fiscel would get his
way, she did not doubt it. She should be pleased; here was a chance to rid
herself of the abominable twosome and finally escape. Why then were her hands
shaking and her legs so weak they could hardly bear her weight?
"Very well,
Fiscel," the man was saying. "I'll take her for eight." He
looked Melli up and down one final time. "Are you sure she's a
virgin?"
Now the deal was
done, Fiscel was at his most humble. He bowed profusely and the good half of
his mouth came close to a smile. "She was tested by my girl, Alysha, who's
from the Far South."
This explanation
seemed to satisfy the man. Obviously women of the Far South were famous for
more than just duplicity and facial hair.
The man left the
room, closing the door behind him. "Made a handsome profit out of me,
didn't you?" Melli realized she now had nothing to fear from Fiscel.
"If I were you, I'd take it straight to a surgeon and ask him to sew up
the slack side of your mouth."
The flesh-trader
grabbed hold of her hair. He pulled on it so forcefully that Melli's neck
snapped back. "If you try and run away from here, I swear I will hunt you
down and slay you." There was a world of malice in Fiscel's good eye.
Melli pulled away
from him, hardly caring if she left a fistful of hair behind. She looked at him
coldly, and said, "What makes you so sure I won't do the same to
you?"
The door opened
again and Melli turned her back as the gold changed hands. The true magnitude
of what was happening to her was beginning to sink in. The two men in this room
were buying and selling her! She, Maybor's daughter, once promised to a prince,
had been bargained for like a bolt of Marls' silk. Running away from Castle
Harvell had proven fruitless, for here she was, hundreds of leagues to the
east, in a city she had no knowledge of, in a position a thousand times more
degrading than being married against her will.
"Farewell, my
precious." It was Fiscel, acting the part of a benevolent patron. "I
trust you will remember my advice."
"Don't worry,
Fiscel," said Melli, "I will never forget a single thing you said or
did to me."
The flesh-trader
sent her a warning glance, but Melli didn't deign to acknowledge it. The moment
the door was closed, she turned to the stranger. "So, who paid a king's
ransom for me?"
The man smiled; he
seemed relieved to be rid of Fiscel. "Why, you are honored, my dear. You
will be sent to His Grace."
Melli was
confused. His Grace was a title usually given to younger brothers of kings, yet
in Bren there was no king ... only a duke. Comprehension dawned, and the
stranger nodded in delight.
"Yes, my
dear, you belong to the duke of Bren." Gently, he took her hand. Melli was
almost glad of it. The shock of hearing she had been purchased by the most
powerful man in the north had sent her head reeling. "Let me introduce
myself. I'm Bailor, head of the duke's household. And what is your name?"
"Melli."
She leaned against him for support. This seemed to please him and he patted her
arm gently.
"Melli from
where?"
"Deepwood.
Melli of Deepwood."
"Aah."
The syllable was hung with doubt. "Well, Melli of Deepwood, as long as
you're good and do what I tell you, your stay here will be a pleasure for both
of us." A slight leer spoiled Bailor's attempt at pleasantry. "Now,
I'll show you to your room and let you have a little rest." Melli was
relieved. For the first time in many days, she would finally be alone.
"So, Your
Grace, when do you intend to set a marriage date?" Baralis brought the cup
to his lips, but no wine met his tongue. They were in the duke's chambers, a
sparse set of rooms with no rugs to cushion the stone, nor linen to soften the
light. Baralis was determined to have answers. He was not prepared to let the
Hawk circle cautiously any longer. It was time he came to land.
"The
betrothal has not yet been finalized." The duke didn't even bother with
the pretense of drinking. His cup lay untouched on the table.
"The
betrothal can be formalized by proxy. We can settle this matter here and
now." Baralis altered the tone of his voice, mixing grit with the oil.
"Unless you care to ignore your court's affirmation of the match."
The duke stood up
and pulled his sword from his belt. He drew the blade to the light and began to
examine the edge. "Quite a politician, aren't you, Baralis? But here in
Bren we value strength, not smoothness of tongue."
"In the
kingdoms we value straight answers."
To Baralis'
surprise, the duke seemed pleased with this retort. He put down his sword and
then swung around. "Well, seeing you value straight answers, you might
like to give me one. It is true that Kylock is planning a new offensive on
Halcus?"
Baralis cursed
Maybor. Yesterday they both received messages from the kingdoms, and it
appeared that the man had wasted no time telling the duke about Kylock's
intentions. "So the king is seeking to strengthen his borders. What is
wrong with that?"
"It sounded
more like an invasion," said the duke, cool as ever, "than a simple
border defense."
"Who can
blame Kylock for wanting the border dispute to be settled once and for all?
It's raged for over five years now. He wants to present his new bride with a
country both prosperous and secure."
"A fine
sentiment, Baralis."
"Catherine
will be a queen, Your Grace."
"Would you
have her an empress, too?"
There it was: the
heart of the matter. How much did the Hawk suspect? And if he did guess at the
plan for a northern empire, how willing was he to go along with it?
Baralis decided it
was wise to back away from the subject. The duke was not the sort of man to be
fooled by fine words of glory. "Whenever two powers join as one, there is
always a risk of what is created being called an empire."
The duke drew his
thin lips to an even thinner line. "Before I set a marriage date, certain
stipulations need to be agreed upon."
Baralis did not
permit himself even the tiniest show of relief at the duke's apparent
willingness to drop such a dangerous subject. "Those are matters for the
lawyers, Your Grace."
"Surely you
and I can decide upon a few things among ourselves, King's Chancellor."
The use of his title was almost a challenge.
Although wary,
Baralis had little choice but to ask: "What things, Your Grace?"
"Timber and
grain tributes to start with, and then perhaps you could give me a written
guarantee that the resources of Bren will be used in no war that is not of our
own making." The duke smiled, his first of the meeting. "Your powers
of proxy can surely cover these little details."
The duke was
shrewd. Asking for timber and grain tributes was nothing short of blackmail. It
also gave him something tangible to show to his people-a direct benefit of the
match. As for the other matter-a written guarantee-well, he could have one. Who
would be around to enforce it once His Grace had died a painful death? "What
level of resources do you require?"
"I realize
it's difficult to transport grain and timber over the mountains, so I will
limit the tribute to three times a year. Say, five thousand bushels of grain
and nine hundred weight of timber."
Baralis brought
his cup to his lips and actually swallowed. The amount the duke was asking was
too high. "I agree," he said. Nothing was going to prevent this
marriage from taking place.