Dragonspell: The Southern Sea. Katharine Kerr

floor. The walls were painted in a cunning illusion of branches, leaves, and bright-feathered birds, as if the room were set in the treetops of a forest. Dozens of oil-lamps glowed in niches and on shelves and glittered on silver oddments and glass vases of flowers. Toward one end was a low dais piled with velvet cushions. Lounging among them was one of the most beautiful women Rhodry had ever seen.

      She was not very tall, but slender with coppery skin set off by curly black hair that waved tightly around her perfect oval face. Her enormous dark eyes watched Pommaeo with just the right touch of humorous disdain while her long, slender fingers played with a silk scarf. In the lamplight she looked like a girl, but her movements and expression made Rhodry think that she must be well past thirty. Pommaeo gave Rhodry a cuff to make him kneel before the dais, then launched into a long and flowery speech, whose point was mainly that his humble gift was unworthy of her great beauty. So this is the poor old widow, is it? Rhodry thought. He found it in his heart to think a little better of his temporary owner. Laughing under her breath, Alaena tossed the scarf aside and sat up to look Rhodry over.

      ‘Oh how sweet! For me? You shouldn’t have!’

      His arrogance dissolving into a love-besotted simper, Pommaeo perched on the edge of the dais. Alaena patted Rhodry on the head like a dog, giggled when she held up a soft brown hand to compare the colour of his skin, then called to the maidservant to bring an oil-lamp. Together they stared into Rhodry’s eyes.

      ‘Look, Disna!’ the mistress said. ‘They’re blue!’

      When Disna giggled and shot him a sidelong glance, Rhodry realized first that the slave-girl was almost as pretty as her owner, and second, that he might find some consolations in his captivity. Alaena turned to Pommaeo and held out her hand for him to kiss – the gift, apparently, was a great success.

      Although Miko stayed to pour wine for the masters, Rhodry followed Disna to the enormous kitchen, tiled in browns and reds. At one end was an adobe cooking-hearth where three women were busy preparing the meal; at the other, a welter of storage jars and wooden barrels. In between was a low table, a bit nicked but as expensive-looking as anything in many a Deverry lord’s hall. Sitting there was a dignified-looking man of about sixty and a boy of twelve or so. In a flood of giggles, which drew a sharp remark from the old man, Disna explained who Rhodry was. The man got up and gave him a distant but not unkind smile.

      ‘My name is Porto, and in Deverry you’d call me a chamberlain, I believe. Here, I’m called the warreko, and never forget it.’

      ‘Yes sir.’ Rhodry knew authority when he heard it in a man’s voice. ‘My name is Rhodry.’

      ‘Good. You give me no trouble – you’ll get no trouble. Understand?’

      ‘Yes sir.’

      ‘Very good. Well, we’ve needed another man around here. Come with me.’

      They went up a narrow, twisting stairway to the top floor, just under the roof, where the day’s heat still hung close and stifling. On one side of a hall was the women’s quarters, on the other, the men’s, with four narrow bunks set into the wall. Only two had blankets, but Porto rummaged in a wooden chest and brought out a pair which he tossed on to one of the empty beds. His gestures, the setting were so familiar in a strange way that Rhodry felt his mind struggling to remember something, a place no doubt, or no, a string of places, all much the same. Finally he shook his head and gave it up as a bad job. Porto was looking at him curiously.

      ‘Don’t you feel well?’

      ‘I’m sorry. It’s just the heat. I’m not used to it yet.’

      ‘Heat?’ The old man paused for a grin. ‘It’s almost winter, boy. You wait until the summer comes if you want heat.’

      Rhodry spent the rest of the evening in the kitchen. After the meal was served, first to Alaena and Pommaeo, then to the slaves, he hauled water from the well outside, then helped scrub pots under the cook’s keen eye. He realized straightaway that Vinsima was the other centre of power among the slaves. A woman of fifty, with skin so dark it was a glittery brown-black, she was tall and broad-hipped, with arms as well-muscled as a warrior’s and the reflexes to match. Once, when the young boy made an insolent remark, she rapped him on the skull so hard with a wooden spoon that he cried out. The look she shot Rhodry implied that he’d be next if he didn’t watch his step.

      After the work was over, everyone settled in around the table to talk over the events of the day. Every now and then a little bell rang, summoning Disna to bring more wine or a plate of sweetmeats. When she returned, she would report on what was happening in the other chamber. It was obvious that none of the slaves wanted Alaena to marry Pommaeo; after putting up with the man for a few days, Rhodry had to agree. Gradually Rhodry learned everyone’s name and began to sort out the hierarchy in the household. Porto and Vinsima were at the top, although Disna, who had the mistress’s personal favour, had a certain independence. At the absolute bottom were the litter-bearers, four young men who lived in a shed behind the house and who were fed out there like dogs. Rhodry got quite a shock over the boy, Syon, who turned out to be Porto’s personal slave, bought with tips to do the jobs that Porto disliked, such as polishing the lady’s enormous collection of silver animal figurines. That one slave would own another was utterly beyond Rhodry’s understanding, but it was clear from the conversation that this vicarage, as it was called, was perfectly common.

      Since Rhodry himself was new and therefore an unknown quantity in this elaborate scheme of things, he often caught Porto studying him, doubtless wondering if he’d turn out to be a good worker or a trouble-maker. There was something oddly familiar in that appraisal, so much so that Rhodry found himself wondering about it while he tried to get to sleep in his narrow and lumpy new bed. All at once a chunk of memory rose to his mind, and with it a rush of information. Captains of warbands had looked at him that same way, when he was a silver dagger back in Deverry. He could remember several faces, several names, several duns, even, where he’d briefly stayed. The information was so exciting that he stayed awake half the night, musing over it.

      Unfortunately Porto woke him just at dawn. Yawning and stumbling Rhodry went down to the kitchen, to find Vinsima kneading a vast lump of bread-dough on a marble slab.

      ‘Firewood, boy. Short lengths, about as thick as your arm, and lots of them for the baking. The woodshed’s straight out the door and to your left.’ She pointed to a rack on the kitchen wall. ‘There’s the axe.’

      To his surprise Rhodry saw a heavy woodsman’s axe with a good steel head, a dangerous weapon in the hands of a man who knew how to use it. He took it outside, found the woodshed easily, and set to work, wondering as he splintered the kindling why anyone would leave a tool like that where the slaves could get at it. In a few minutes Porto strolled out and stood sipping a steaming cup of hot milk while he watched. Finally he motioned to Rhodry to rest for a moment.

      ‘You’re a hard worker, I see. Good. Let me give you some advice, boy. Be nice to the mistress’s friends. Smile a lot, and do whatever they ask you to. Most of them are older than her, a lot of old hens, really, and they’ll enjoy tossing a few coins at a good-looking young man.’

      ‘I see. Does your – I mean, our mistress entertain a lot?’

      ‘Oh yes, and also you’re going to be her footman. She needs an escort when she goes out, and I’ve got too much to do here as it is.’

      ‘I’ll do whatever you want, as long as you explain things to me. I don’t understand all the customs of the country.’

      ‘You haven’t been here long?’

      ‘No sir.’ Rhodry realized that he’d better come up with some convenient story. ‘I came here as a bodyguard for a rich merchant and got way over my head in debt, gambling. That was only a couple of months ago.’

      ‘Your merchant wouldn’t buy the notes back?’

      ‘No sir. I was nothing to him, only a kind of mercenary soldier called a silver dagger. Ever hear of them?’

      ‘No, but I take it they have no status to speak of. Well,