Passion Play (15 page)

The tenth day found her wandering through a new quarter, on the northern side of Tiralien. The watch had rousted her a few hours before, and she had only escaped by clambering through a broken fence. Her flight had taken her into this new district, filled with shops selling fine silks, jewels, and porcelain figures—things of beauty she had once loved, but which could not feed her.

Ilse stumbled and fell to her knees. Her head spun. Her vision blurred. She needed food or she would die soon. A day or two, no longer. All because she had panicked and fled her father’s house. Because she had trusted without reason. Because she was a foolish girl without any knowledge of the world.

I could have stayed in Melnek. I could have pretended with Theodr Galt. I could have—

She broke off those thoughts with a cry. Never. She could never have pretended with Theodr Galt. Even if she had tried, he would have guessed the truth. He would have punished her the way he must have punished Marina Bartos. Worse, because a wife could never escape, and if she were to try, Galt would hunt her down. Better to die now, free, than to have killed her soul outright. Ilse lurched to her feet and continued.

The street ended in a large plaza. Near the center of the square stood a fountain, its waters gleaming blue and white beneath the full moon. Beyond it, everything was dark. She would find no shelter here. Ilse turned, uncertain where to go next, when she heard a muttered curse. A second voice, louder, said something about who would get the larger share. Peering into the shadows, she saw half a dozen figures beneath the lee of a large building. The breeze shifted, carrying a whiff of smoked beef to her.

Her mouth watered. She took a step forward into the moonlit square. It was a gang of boys. She’d seen them around before, quarrelsome, laughing, rude. If they would just give her a mouthful. Just one. She would do anything, anything at all for a taste of that beef.

She must have spoken, or made a sound, because one boy jerked up his head in surprise. He hissed and tugged at another boy’s arm. The other boy laughed. “It’s the new whore. Whatcha want, girl?”

“Food,” Ilse whispered. “I’m so hungry.”

“Food, huh. How much?”

“Look at her. She’s got no coins.”

“Yeah, but maybe she’s got something else.”

Ilse watched as the gang spread out in a semicircle. If she could only be sure they would give her a few bites of meat afterward.

It’s a favor, wench. Say the word.

A trade.

Four a night. Six when she learns the trade.

No. I won’t. Not again.

She spun around, but the gang was upon her in moments. They dragged her into the nearest alley. She fought back, screaming and kicking and biting. One boy punched her in the face. She tasted blood, choked, and lashed out with another kick. Someone grabbed her ankle. She twisted around. A blow to her throat. A kick to her belly. Her vision went dark.

“’S the watch. Run!”

The boys scattered. Ilse rolled onto her knees, her stomach heaving. Through a red haze, she glimpsed several tall figures striding toward her.

“Damned trash. What have they got?”

“A girl.”

“We better take her in. Maybe she’s part of the gang.”

Ilse staggered to her feet and ran.

“Stop!” one of the guards called out.

Ilse dodged around the next corner, into a covered street. A hot pain stabbed at her belly. Her stomach lurched, and she pitched forward onto her hands and knees.
Must get away. Must not let them catch me.
The boys would beat her. The watch would lock her in prison, send her back to her father. She crawled onward, dimly aware that she had entered a maze of alleys and narrow lanes. The sharp scent of manure filled the air, mixed with the sweeter scent of fresh hay. Somewhere behind the fences, a horse nickered loudly. She came to an open gate and crawled through it into the lane beyond.

Trees and gardens stretched out before her. Beyond them, she saw tall brick walls, a courtyard with a fountain, and lighted windows. A woman’s husky voice floated from one open window, rising in counterpoint to a man’s deeper laugh. Soft strains of music sounded from another window. A rich family’s house, she thought. Not a place for her.

She hauled herself upright and stumbled onward. Step. Pause. Press hand over her stomach. Door looming to her right. Another spasm took her. She retched and fell over. Her head thumped against the door. “Please, oh please. Oh please.” She hardly knew what she was begging for. Another chance. A different future. The wisdom to make better choices.

Her heart tripped and raced forward. The quarter and hour bells rang and rang again, echoing inside her head. Voices of the city, she thought. Melnek had a solemn voice. Practical dutiful Melnek. Tiralien. Fair and bright and deceptive, offering no shelter. Duenne …

There was a commotion behind her. Loud voices called out. Someone was coming for her. Before they reached her, a latch clicked, and the door swung open. A pair of strong arms caught Ilse before her head hit the stone tiles.

“I’m sorry I left,” she mumbled, thinking in her confusion Alarik Brandt had found her again. “I’ll do what you want now.”

She pulled up her skirt and reached for her new partner. Her hands encountered a smooth cheek. She stopped in confusion. A woman?

The person gently caught her by the wrist. “That’s not necessary. Here, let me bring you inside.”

It was a woman’s contralto voice. But it was a man who gathered her into his arms—a large man with a broad chest and muscled arms, who smelled of wood smoke and cedarwood and the unmistakable scent of a man’s spending.

The man did not touch her breasts or mouth. Instead he lifted her gently and stood. His shirt had parted, and her cheek rested against a smooth expanse of warm skin. No hair, not even as much as Volker’s wispy fuzz.

He carried her down a hallway. Music filtered through the walls. Laughter. Then she heard another man’s voice, deeper and rougher, asking questions. Her rescuer answered softly, something about fetching Hedda. Footsteps came and went. Eventually the man stopped walking and laid her on a soft, yielding mattress. A hand brushed her cheek, wiping away the tears she hadn’t noticed before. From his tone, he was asking her questions, but Ilse couldn’t hear much above the roaring in her ears.

“Please help me,” she whispered.

“I will. I promise.”

Again that voice, balanced between male and female. Ilse tried again to focus on her rescuer’s face. She saw large golden eyes, inches from hers, and an abundance of dark hair. Then her vision blurred, and she slipped into darkness.

*  *  *

HOURS LATER SHE
woke to find herself lying beneath thick cotton blankets. Someone had stripped away her bloody clothes, bathed her, dressed her in a clean warm shift, and bound rags between her legs. Her hair had been brushed smooth and lay loose over the pillow. Though her body still ached from scalp to foot, it was a dull faraway ache.

A figure approached her bed—a stout woman, with skin so black, the lamplight hardly made a difference. The woman bent over Ilse and touched her throat. She looked old, her face creased and scored by wrinkles. Silver glinted in her dark cloud of hair, and her hands smelled of magic. She studied Ilse through slitted eyes.

“Is she awake?” said another voice, whose fluting tones sounded familiar.

“Yes, and she’s resisting my spells,” the woman said. “Not good.”

“Why not, Mistress Hedda? Resisting means she has the strength to live.”

At this comment the woman laughed softly. “You would argue with Toc himself, my lord, wouldn’t you? Yes, it means she has enough fight to survive.”

The second person came into the circle of lamplight and stood next to the bed. It was a man, with long dark hair, casually tied back with a ribbon, and skin the color of finely drawn honey. He wore loose clothing, drifting in swathes of jewel-bright colors around his body.

Ilse opened her mouth; nothing came out except a scratchy whisper.

“Hush.” Mistress Hedda brushed her fingers over Ilse’s damp forehead. She spoke again, and the green scent intensified, causing the pain to recede.

“She will live,” she said, as though answering an earlier question. “Despite the ill-usage. Despite losing the child.”

Child?

Ilse struggled to sit up. Two pairs of hands caught her and pressed her gently back against the pillows. She caught a whiff of cedarwood before the man withdrew.

“Now you’ve distressed her. She must not have known.”

“Impossible not to know, my lord. She was nearly two months gone—”

“Hush, I said.”

A long stiff silence followed. Then the woman cleared her throat. “My apologies, my lord. So you wish her healed?”

“Of course.”

“A stranger, my lord?”

The man made an impatient noise. “I found the girl outside my house and brought her inside. You would do the same.”

Ilse listened as well as she could. She heard doubt in the woman’s voice. The man’s voice, so strange to her ear, was much harder to read. Cool and controlled, with undercurrents she could not identify.

Mistress Hedda laid her palm against Ilse’s cheek. Ilse leaned against her warm hand and heard the woman’s soft intake of breath. “She’s a trusting girl,” Mistress Hedda said. “Too trusting.”

“Obviously.” He said it without sarcasm, his tone thoughtful.

Their conversation dropped into a low murmur. Ilse wished she could hear more, but at her first restless movement, Mistress Hedda broke off and returned to her side. With another spell, she sent Ilse into a deep sleep, a sleep without dreams or whispers that did not break until morning.

CHAPTER SEVEN

SHE WOKE TO
bells ringing from a nearby tower. Four peals, late afternoon. Sunlight poured through the windows of the small room where she lay. A cool fresh breeze stirred the room’s silken tapestries; it carried a strong salt tang mixed with earth and changing leaves.

Her thoughts drifted from one hazy memory to the next. Starvation. Moonlight in the square. The boys’ attack. Running from the watch. The sharp pains in her belly. A strange high voice. An old woman speaking magic words. And then a whispered conversation.

She lost the child.

She must not have known.

How could she not know?

Suddenly awake, Ilse caught her breath. How could she know?

She tried to recall her last bleeding. There’d been one shortly after she made her bargain with Alarik Brandt. The men hadn’t cared. Some liked it better. Her skin growing colder, she found she could not remember another since.

Hot tears spilled over her cheeks. Stupid. Crying for the bastard get of three dozen men. Or was she really crying for herself?

The bellsong faded away. Gradually other sounds intruded on her notice. Crows chattering outside her window. The rattle of wings as they took flight. Someone in the corridor, humming softly to herself.

The door opened and a young woman, still humming, backed into the room. Her dark blue gown swirled around her legs as she turned and set a tray on the bedside table. She smiled at Ilse. “I’m glad to find you awake. It’s long past time for a meal.”

Her face was round and pleasant, her skin dusky brown, and she wore her hair sensibly pulled back into a tight braid. The sight of such friendliness and competence threatened to bring back Ilse’s senseless tears. She swallowed them back. “I’m not hungry.”

The young woman poured out a cup of tea. “Drink, then. It helps ease the pain.”

Gently she helped Ilse to sit up, then plumped the pillows and held the cup to Ilse’s lips. Tart and black, laced with willow extract and sweetened with honey.

“Now to eat.” The young woman fed Ilse steaming mash, flavored with cinnamon and fresh apples. Summer fruits in winter—most likely shipped from southern lands or grown by magic. She had come to a wealthy household, if they did not stint at such luxuries.

“You’re nothing but bones and twigs,” the young woman observed. “Lord Kosenmark said to feed you well so you don’t starve before the medicine takes hold.”

“I won’t starve.”

The young woman flashed a smile. “And Mistress Hedda said you were stubborn. That’s good. That means you’ll get better, faster. My name’s Kathe, by the way. Now to finish off a couple more spoonfuls.”

Before Ilse knew it, Kathe had fed her the rest of the mash, then coaxed her into drinking another cup of tea. This time, Ilse managed to hold the cup herself.

“You look better,” Kathe said thoughtfully. “Hot food—lots of it—and sleep. Another visit from Mistress Hedda, and you’ll be dancing.”

“That,” said another voice, “is not
quite
what Mistress Hedda said.”