Silk Dreams - Songs of the North 3 (19 page)

He laughed, but Valdis wasn't convinced he was joking. His ruthlessness was not confined to the marketplace. Damian had warned her of his temper. So far, Habib Ibn Mahomet lived up to his reputation as a dangerous man.

“So, by your dark arts you divined my true identity?’

In the interest of peace, Valdis could have agreed with him, but then he might expect even more outlandish displays of prescience. The truth, leavened with a bit of flattery, would serve her better now.

“Alas, my power to see into the mists of the unknowable is not one I can conjure at will,” she said. “I deduced you were master here by simple observation. A servant's garb could not obliterate your aura of authority.”

“Then it seems those unusual eyes of yours see quite well enough without the benefit of additional Sight.” He dropped his voice so only she could hear him as the reedy music resumed. “Observe then, my seeress, and tell me what you divine in each of my dinner companions.”

Valdis glanced down the row of diners and began with a safe guess. “The Nubian is a trading partner of yours, is he not?”

Mahomet nodded and raised his goblet to drink.

“He is as he appears—a man in whom there is no guile,” Valdis said, deciding to reward the man for his open smile. “He may drive a hard bargain, but he will not cheat you.”

Habib grunted his agreement.

Valdis studied the man beside the Nubian. “The young man next to him has traveled far to reach the great city,” she finally said.

“How can you know that?”

“The tops of his sandals are freshly gilded, but the soles are thin and worn. Judging by his clothing, I would say he is a son of wealth, possibly Frankish,” she added when she noticed the unique embroidery at the man's cuffs. She'd seen similar ornamentation on the Frankish twin's clothing.

“Remarkable,” Mahomet said. “He is indeed a Frank. He claims to be a glass dealer wanting to establish a trading link between his house and mine, but I don't trust him. What is his true business in my home?”

“It would require a visitation of the spirit world for me to know that, master,” she said with a deferential nod. It was strange that in all the time she was under Damian's roof, he never made her feel a slave as this man did. She knew she must tread carefully or Mahomet would do her harm. The steely glint in his dark eyes warned of black rages, and she'd already seen him debase his valet before dinner guests. After his comment about cutting off her feet, she'd decided it would be unwise to stretch to her full height in his presence again. He was a man without limits. Who knew what he might do to a woman who displeased him?

“Seek such a visitation then and be quick about it,” he grumbled.

“Alas, the spirit world summons me, not the other way around, but,” she hastened to add, “I will attempt to discover this Frank's motives for you.”

Surely Damian had someone he could order to spy upon the fellow and find out if his interest in Mahomet was truly just trade. She'd ask Aristarchus tomorrow when he brought her “medicinal herbs.”

Her promise seemed to pacify Mahomet, and his razor-sharp gaze cut to the Greek at the end of the row.

“The Greek is not a man of great stature, but he has the ear of one, else he would not be dining with you.” Before he could ask how she knew this, she explained, “If he himself were a man of importance, he would be seated near you.”

Mahomet nodded sagely. “And the others?”

Valdis glanced at the remaining guests and then leaned toward Mahomet to speak. “The fat fellow's gods are his belly and his purse. Fatten either and he is your friend... until he finds someone who offers him more.”

“And what can you tell me of Achmed Ibn Abdullah?” Mahomet inclined his head toward the man with the scarlet beard. The gentleman in question acknowledged the gesture with a pinched smile.

Valdis decided to let her personal distaste for this man taint her characterization of him. If she wronged him, she would never know, but every strand of intuition she possessed quivered violently whenever she looked at Achmed Ibn Abdullah.

“That one has the look of a dog-fox,” Valdis said. “In the Northlands, it is said that Loki, our trickster godling, takes the form of a fox when he wishes to outwit someone. This man may profess to love you, but look to your back.”

“This I have suspected for some time. You merely confirm my thoughts on the matter.” Mahomet took a sip from his iced goblet. “And the Varangian, a countryman of yours, I gather? I would know his true purpose. What do you see in him?”

The man I could love till I am but dust on the waves,
almost leapt to her lips. She allowed herself a quick glance at Erik. How had he managed to attach himself to Mahomet's household so quickly?

Once again, only the truth would serve. She suspected Habib Ibn Mahomet had not advanced so far in business and politics without being able to scent a lie.

“The Varangian is here to protect someone.” She didn't add that the someone was herself.

“You have hit the mark squarely. He is another new addition to my household, albeit a temporary one,” Mahomet said. “Perhaps you have the ability to call upon your familiar spirits more often than you realize. Such acute perception is power in itself. I definitely have use for someone with your talents.” He popped a ripe olive into his mouth and chewed it slowly, as if ruminating on Valdis's revelations. “Publius has pleased me greatly by acquiring you. I will instruct him to accord you all honor available to a woman of the
zenana
. Welcome to my humble home. You may retire now.”

Summarily dismissed, Valdis rose in a fluid motion.

“Valdis of the North, you would do well to remember this,” Mahomet warned. “I reward with a lavish hand all who please me. And with an equally lavish hand, I punish those who do not.”

“I will remember, master,” she said with a bow. She walked from the room, conscious of the many pairs of male eyes intent on every swish of silk.

She didn't dare a parting glance at Erik, but felt the heat of his gaze anyway. Even though they breathed the same air, he was as unreachable as if he were back in the Northlands.

How would she bear knowing he was within the same marble walls?

“Ask whatever you will of me and I will happily comply.” Publius positively preened over Valdis's successful debut with his master. “What will you have?”

She wanted her freedom, but knew his effusiveness would only extend so far. Publius had been a slave since he was gelded, which Damian told her was fairly early in his life. He probably wouldn't even understand her desire to own herself.

“Come, my dear, don't be shy. Would you like some special delicacy? An iced drink perhaps?”

Valdis recognized this as an enormous mark of favor. Ice was decadently expensive, shipped overland from the mountains in straw-packed crates in a race against time. But to a daughter of the North, ice was only a reminder of the bitterness of winter.

“Just bring me what the other women are having.” Special treatment would breed resentment among the inhabitants of the
zenana
and she might need all the friends she could cultivate behind these gilded bars.

She was surprised when Habib Ibn Mahomet sent her away after her success without offering her even a mouthful of his sumptuous banquet. Publius explained that occasionally the master dined alone with one of his wives or concubines, but the women of the
zenana
never ate before other male guests.

“A woman unveiled and placing items in her mouth, of all unseemly things!” Publius was horrified when she mentioned it. “Such a sight might so enflame a man's passions that he could not be held responsible for his actions even if he insulted his host by ravishing the brazen woman on the spot.”

Perhaps her tutelage in the carnal arts wasn't as complete as she imagined. If seeing a woman eat was all it took to render a man incapable of self-control, Valdis thought the men who visited Mahomet's household too easily roused.

Publius left her, promising to see to her supper with his own hands. He wasn't gone more than a few heartbeats when Valdis heard a timid rap on her door.

It was the Frankish girl.

“Oh, it is you!” she said in heavily accented Greek. “I thought so, but feared my mind was playing tricks on me again. Do you remember me? We were sold together. Our captors wouldn't let us speak much when they brought us to this horrid city, but you were ever kind to me and ... my sister.”

“Of course, I remember. Come in,” Valdis said, before anyone could mark that she and the Frank appeared to know each other. “I'm called Valdis Ivorsdottir.”

“I am Landina. There is no need to give you my full title. Such things are of no import in this house." The Frank made nervous fluttering motions with her hands as she spoke, as if she feared her words might go astray and she must be ready to catch them. “My sister and I always spoke of you as the Norse princess since we did not know your name.”

Her heart-shaped face puckered into an expression of such sadness, Valdis felt tears prick at her own eyes in empathy.

“Valdis,” Landina said, letting the name settle on her tongue. “How did you come to this terrible place?”

Valdis couldn't very well tell the Frank she'd been carefully placed in this
zenana
by a Byzantine spymaster, so she deflected the question with one of her own. “What makes it so terrible?”

A guarded look came into Landina's emerald eyes. “You have not been here long enough or you would not ask.”

“So far, I have been treated with respect. My room is sumptuous, far grander than anything I might have aspired to in my own country.” Damian had warned her to trust no one. If the girl had been sent to spy for signs of discontent, Valdis would give her nothing to report. “You are well-clothed and look like you've gained flesh since I last saw you, so they must feed you well.” Valdis took the girl's hand and led her into her sitting room. “What has happened to you here to render you so unhappy?”

“You have not yet been called to serve the monster who calls himself our master. At least not in his bedchamber,” Landina said with bitterness. “He has what that fat lout, Publius, calls 'particular tastes' With each of the women in his harem, Habib Ibn Mahomet—may he writhe in the hottest flames of Hell—indulges in a different perversion.”

Landina slipped her tunic off one delicate shoulder and turned to bare her back to Valdis. The girl's pale skin was crisscrossed with tiny welts and barely healed narrow scars.

“As you can see, he uses me to assuage his need to inflict pain.” Landina covered herself again and Valdis noticed for the first time the network of tiny lines that had gathered at the corners of the girl's eyes and mouth. Habib Ibn Mahomet may have been careful to whip the girl only where the scars would not show, but the bitterness of her degradation left a mark of its own.

“I suppose I should count myself lucky,” Landina went on. “Poor Fatima had all her teeth yanked out, lest she accidentally graze his member with a tooth. Have you any idea why Publius acquired you?”

Valdis explained the carefully rehearsed recital of her supposed powers. Landina looked suitably impressed and Valdis didn't doubt the tale would grow with each telling as it circulated in the
zenana
.

“Then you are of all women most fortunate,” Landina said. “My only hope is in my memories, and those have become so real to me, I fear for my mind sometimes. Do you know, I actually thought I saw Bernard in the courtyard earlier today?”

“Bernard? Who is he?”

“The young man I was betrothed to in my own country.” Landina wandered toward the couch. She wore a long tunic over baggy pantalets gathered at the ankle. A gauzy slitted skirt covered the pantalets, yet allowed them to peep out with each step the girl took. Landina draped herself on a couch and spread the silk skirts to cover her delicate ankles as she tucked up her tiny feet. “If I had not been abducted by those Moorish pirates, I would be married, probably a mother happily made, by now.”

“What did your young man look like?”

“He was tall—oh, not as your people count tallness—but among we Franks he stood out well enough. His eyes were amber brown, the windows to a good soul, I always thought. His hair was a ruddy hue, like a maple leaf in autumn."

She described the pale fellow dining next to the Nubian down to the eyelash. “And you thought you saw him today?”

“Yes, when I chanced to peep out the window of the common room this afternoon, shortly before you came. A man who resembled Bernard dismounted and walked across the courtyard. He moved just as I remember him, confident and swift.” Landina's mouth tightened into a thin line. “You see now why I had to come to your room. Twice today, I thought myself visited by a ghost from my past and I had to see if it truly was you or if my mind was leaving me.”

“There is nothing wrong with your mind,” Valdis said. “Sometimes we all see what we most wish to see, whether it is there or not.” Valdis decided not to tell her Bernard was actually here till she was certain of it. The Frank at Mahomet's table might be just a trader as he'd claimed.

But if Bernard was in Mahomet's house, the danger to Landina increased tenfold. If their master beat her merely for pleasure, what would he do if he found her with a lover?

“Whether it is seemly or not, Publius, I must take Loki out from time to time,” Valdis argued. “He is well-trained, but I'm sure you don't wish to clean up after a dog in this lovely room.”

“But—”

“You may accompany me if you wish, though I hardly think seeing to a dog's toilet is appropriate for one of your stature.”

“Certainly not,” Publius said with distaste. He puffed his flabby chest out like a pigeon. “One of the pages can take the beast out.”

“Loki is accustomed to me, and as you know, this little dog and I are linked by my special powers, which have so endeared you to your master.” Valdis stooped down and attached a slender leash to Loki's collar. “I must go with him into the courtyard whenever possible. Be assured, I will remain veiled and will conduct myself with the utmost decorum.”