The air reeked of stale urine, old wine, and moldering garbage. “What is this place?” Tsorreh asked.
“Haven’t you seen slave quarters before?” Astreya said.
Tsorreh shook her head. “We have nothing like this in Meklavar. If these people are slaves, where are their masters? Why don’t they run away, leave the city? Go someplace clean, where they can live like human beings?”
Astreya explained that being able to live in a place like
this was a privilege, and that the penalties for any slave who failed to appear for work at the designated time were extreme. Slave-owners liked the arrangement because they no longer needed to supply food or shelter. Slaves were usually given a little time off to work on their own for enough money to buy the cheapest sort of food and share the meager rent, crowding into the old apartments.
Tsorreh’s temper rose. She did not know what made her more angry, the plight of these poor wretches or the sudden suspicion that Lycian had intended her to see this place as a warning. Her face hot, she turned to the younger woman.
“Were you told to bring me by this route?”
Astreya looked puzzled. “There is no other way. All the outer areas are like this.”
The streets dwindled into lanes of hard-packed dirt lined by fenced yards and sprawling, ramshackle buildings. As Astreya had indicated, the street of the cloth-groomers was well isolated from the richer neighborhoods, in a district that included tanners. When they left Jaxar’s compound, the day had been mild, the breezes cool and laden with pleasant scents of herbs and flowers. The air here reeked of noxious substances. In the stench, Tsorreh smelled sulfur. Within a few moments, her eyes were burning and her lungs felt raw.
Astreya led the way to a yard of modest size. Under an airy lattice canopy, half a dozen youths barely out of their teens marched in place in broad wooden tubs. They had tucked their tunics above their knees to avoid being splashed. The tubs, easily wide enough for a grown man to bathe in, were filled with dark water and sodden cloth. The rest of the open space was taken up by drying racks, frames of wicker on which clean cloth was stretched.
The boys chanted in unison, sweating in the mild morning, but grinned and waved as Astreya and Tsorreh maneuvered their panniers through the gates.
“They’re grooming new cloth,” Astreya said, and headed for the squat stone building. “The laundering is done inside.”
Stepping into the washery was like entering a furnace.
Despite the high-set openings, the large single chamber was dark and close. Tsorreh’s breath caught in her lungs. The air was laden with moisture, although the stench was not so bad.
In the center of the room, an enormous vat perched over a roaring fire. The flames cast a red glow over the walls, racks, piles of clothing and linen, and the sweating faces of the washers. An aperture in the ceiling let the worst of the steam and smoke escape.
The washer-chief grunted in greeting and straightened up from where she and two others, a boy and a middle-aged woman, stirred clothes around in the bubbling water. Tsorreh had never seen such a large, muscular woman before, easily a head taller than Shorrenon, and he had been a tall man. Tsorreh did not know the Xian folk well, but guessed that this powerful-looking woman must be one of them.
The washer grinned, revealing a missing front top tooth. “A fair day to you, young one.” She spoke with a slight twang.
Astreya set down her panniers with a sigh of relief. “We’ve brought the laundry from Lord Jaxar.”
“Xathan’s hairy balls! You’re days early! All my apprentices are at work on a rush order from the Palace.” The woman peered at Tsorreh. “What’s this? Has Issios sent me some extra help to make up for the inconvenience?”
“Tsorreh, don’t take anything Czi-sotal says seriously or she’ll have you doing all the work by yourself,” Astreya said tartly. “Everyone knows how lazy Xians are.”
Czi-sotal gave a low, rumbling laugh. She shuffled closer, her bulk shutting out half the room. Although sweat rolled off the folds of her skin, she smelled surprisingly clean.
“Sor-ra, is it?” she drawled as she took Tsorreh’s panniers, lifting them as if they weighed nothing. “You ever wash clothes?”
Tsorreh shook her head. Of all the things she had done in her life, laundry was not one of them. In Meklavar, as here, skilled workers prepared the finished cloth and cleaned it for others.
“Come, then, and I’ll show you how it’s done.”
Astreya went outside to gossip with the boys in the tubs; one was apparently a distant cousin. Czi-sotal showed Tsorreh how she stirred and beat and boiled the tangled lengths of cotton. When they were sufficiently clean, Czi-sotal explained, she took them outside and draped them over drying frames to expose them to the sun, or on curved frames over pots of fuming sulfur for further bleaching. Then more heaps of rumpled, soiled linens and robes would go into the vat.
The enormous woman was clearly deriving a great deal of enjoyment from her captive audience. Years of assuming a polite expression during court ceremonies had given Tsorreh the ability to look interested while her thoughts wandered. She nodded now and again as her thoughts drifted.
The light in the room changed. Something moved in the shadows, something cold and sweltering at the same time. Tsorreh no longer felt the waves of heat from the fire. The red-tinged light went gray.
A massive hand on her shoulder jerked her awake. The grip was hard, the calluses like armor. The large woman shook her, peering into her face.
“Nothing but a wet rag, you are. Outside with you, then. Can’t have you fainting into the wash pot.” She pushed Tsorreh toward the door.
Tsorreh stumbled to the entrance. Daylight blinded her for a moment. She reeled, caught by the sudden brilliance and the cool, sweet air. Her lungs ached when she drew a deep breath.
I must be delirious with the heat
, Tsorreh mused. Her cheek throbbed where Lycian had struck her.
Whistling cheerily, Astreya sauntered up. “Come on, if you’ve had enough lessons in laundry. Czi-sotal’s happy to have something to complain about, but our order will be ready in time. She won’t risk losing Lord Jaxar’s custom.”
A smile lit the corners of Astreya’s mouth, and her eyes took on an expression both eager and dreamy. Reaching
into a pocket, she clinked two coins together. “We don’t have to go straight back. It will be some time yet before we’re missed, so let’s enjoy ourselves. I saw you looking at the market performers.”
Tsorreh followed Astreya along the dusty avenue toward the center of the city. Perhaps she might find the man who had spoken her own language. It made sense that there were other Meklavarans in this cosmopolitan city, with its diversity of cultures.
If she found a countryman, what then? Her spirits leapt as the thought came to her that she might, with the right help, be able to make her way past the borders of Gelon and eventually return home.
They stopped at a food stall, and Astreya bought pastries: dough twisted around a fruit filling, then fried crisp and dusted with cinnamon and powdered almonds. Then she made for another line of booths that had been set up along one side, and Tsorreh followed. Wares were arranged on tables beneath sun-shades of open-weave fabric, draped over slanted frames. They passed baskets of apples and other fruit, as well as tubers of a dozen kinds, smaller baskets of seeds and dried beans, then on to a row where clothing in bright colors was spread out on tables or hung from ropes strung between the poles of the booths.
They approached several sellers of footwear, leather shoes that looked soft and supple, thick-soled boots, sandals, knitted wool socks, and brocade slippers. Some clearly were samples, to be custom made, but there also appeared to be a stock for direct sale. Tsorreh’s feet burned where the rope sandals had rubbed blisters.
Astreya, seeing Tsorreh’s interest, halted. “Wait here and promise not to wander off. You can look all you want. Just don’t steal anything, or we’ll both be in trouble.”
Tsorreh was about to protest that she was not a thief, when she reminded herself that nothing from her former life was the same. She was no longer
te-ravah
of Meklavar, wife of Maharrad. She did not know what she was.
“Well, don’t look so covetous, then,” Astreya said. “I
know these merchants. If they see a slave eyeing their goods a little too eagerly, they’ll call the city patrol.”
Tsorreh’s mouth dropped open in surprise. The girl was proposing to leave her here, in the market plaza, without supervision? What would prevent her from disappearing into the crowd?
Or was that what Lycian had intended, sending Tsorreh and Astreya on this errand? Escape would be easy. Too easy.
Lycian must be very sure that I would be captured again.
Whether Tsorreh were arrested or if by chance she managed to escape, the result would be the same. She would be gone from Lycian’s house.
Tsorreh composed her features into a suitable expression of indifference. “I’ll wait for you here, then.”
Astreya nodded and headed toward the far end of the shops. Her pace increased, her feet flying over the ground. Tsorreh followed for a step or two, in time to see Astreya reach a doorway. The shop looked ordinary enough. A sign painted with a two-handled jar hung above the open door. A young man in a canvas apron had just carried out a similar vessel, easily as tall as his own torso, its neck sealed with red wax, and placed it in a donkey-drawn cart. Spying Astreya, he rushed over and caught her in his arms.
Tsorreh smiled despite herself, but the pulse of warmth faded quickly into sadness. She had never been in love like that, certainly not with Maharrad, not even with the occasional noble who had sought her favor before her marriage. She had become pregnant with Zevaron almost immediately, and then her life seemed to revolve around him and the city and the care of her aged spouse. She’d had a husband, a son, rank, and ease. What more could a woman dream of?
Love was a thing for fools and poets, those without duty.
Then what was this empty ache in her heart, as if it had broken without her knowing why?
The ache shifted to the now-familiar pulse of warning from the
te-alvar
. Tsorreh glanced around, but the market
seemed perfectly normal. People stood bargaining with the vendors at their booths. The tinkle of a dance melody wafted through the air. The sun shone as brightly as before, and yet a shadow seemed to have fallen over the plaza, or perhaps behind her eyes.
Nothing.
Still nothing, as the ache faded. She wondered if the
te-alvar
had warned her against longing for what she could never have. Had it been trying to remind her that her life was not hers and had never been, but belonged to a greater purpose?
If so, she thought with a tinge of acerbity, it was going to have to speak more plainly to her.
Tsorreh turned back to the cobbler’s booth. At least, the
te-alvar
had no objection to her hungering for decent footwear. If she could not dream of a lover, at least she could imagine the comfort of a well-made pair of shoes instead of rope sandals.
The young man who was minding the booth, an apprentice, she thought, looked up as she approached. He had the loose, gangly frame of an adolescent in the midst of his growth spurt, and acne blotched his face. By the plain pewter ornaments on each shoulder of his coarse-woven tunic, he was poor but free. His gaze flickered over her plain dress, her
slave’s
dress, and his mouth tightened. Clearly, he intended to keep a close eye on her, and hurry her off as soon as a paying customer arrived.
Drawing her shoulders back and her head up, she strode up to the booth and faced him across the table where the shoes were displayed. “I’m to examine the quality of your wares,” she said, meeting his gaze directly. “It’s for my mistress. If I give her a good report, she will send me back with a substantial order.”
“Whom have I the honor of serving?”
Tsorreh tossed her head. “My mistress does not reveal her identity to common craftsmen. You may take it that she is newly arrived in Aidon.”
She almost giggled at the sight of the poor cobbler’s apprentice
quickly laying out a row of the most expensive-looking merchandise. Tsorreh picked up a slipper, finding the sole as thin and supple as satin. Bright embroidery and tiny pearls embellished the top. As she pretended to examine the stitches, she reflected that once she would have worn such shoes. She would have given little thought to how durable they were or how her feet would feel after hours of scrambling through volcanic tunnels or trudging across the sand. Or even walking from one end of Aidon to the other, she thought, shifting to ease the cramp in one arch.
She must have been frowning, for the apprentice quickly handed her another. “See the quality of the leather, fine enough to grace the tender foot of a lady.”
“I suppose.” Tsorreh sniffed. She was having fun at the poor boy’s expense, which was unkind but would produce no lasting harm. In fact, she decided, demanding to see a pair of dancing sandals, a little intimidation might improve his manners. As she inspected the merchandise, she hazarded an occasional glance at the sturdier shoes and boots in one direction, and the oil merchant’s shop into which Astreya had disappeared, in the other. She could not linger here indefinitely. The apprentice’s patience undoubtedly had its limits. Then she’d have to move on.
What was taking Astreya so long? At this rate, they would be so long in returning that Lycian would not have to invent a reason for punishing them.
I’m seeing schemes and plots everywhere!
Just as she made up her mind that, in order to play the part she had created, she must stalk off in an aura of disapproval, she felt a presence behind her shoulder. A voice, low and masculine, murmured in her ear.
“Forgive my rudeness in speaking. I know every one of our people in this city, free or slave, trader or money-lender or craftsman, but I do not know you.”
The words were spoken in Meklavaran, yet too low to be easily overheard. Startled, Tsorreh turned her head to see a man, slight of build but tall, dressed in the robes and intricately folded cloth cap of a Meklavaran physician. At once,
she took in the trimmed, gray-streaked beard, weathered skin the color of honey, the creases around the eyes, the arch of cheekbone and nose.