Ringil called Sherin to mind, his own faded childhood memories and what Ishil had told him about her lineage. He had the charcoal line sketch of what she looked like in his pocket, but better right now to play it looser than that. He didn’t want to tip his hand too early.
“You have in this city, I’m told, a race who live out on the marsh. Is it so?”
“Yes.” Hale was watching him warily. “That’s so. What of it?”
Ringil cleared his throat. “Numerous countrymen of mine have told me that the marsh women behave uhm, well . . . differently in bed. You know. That they, uhm, abandon themselves to the act. Utterly. Like animals.”
It was flat-out fabrication—the marsh dwellers had no such reputation in Yhelteth, in fact most untraveled imperials would have no knowledge that they existed at all as a discrete group. As far as the Empire was concerned, the whole of the Trelayne territory was filled with backward, marsh-grubbing peasants. Only the very well informed knew enough to make distinctions. But no matter—it would play well enough. You could hear the same basic whisper of abandoned sexuality about women from any brutalized or excluded race under the band. Ringil had sat and listened to soldiers repeat it around campfires in every disputed piece of territory he’d fought in after the war with the Scaled Folk was done. It was a basic justification for rape.
He sometimes thought they would have said it about the lizard females as well, if the Scaled Folk had not been so unremittingly alien.
Well, I wouldn’t rule that out, either, Archeth once told him, huddled against the coastal wind in Gergis, watching the camp below them. These men would fuck mud if it was warmed to a decent temperature.
She was talking about her own command.
“Marsh dwellers, eh?” Terip Hale rolled out a slow smile. “Well, I’ve not heard that one before, exactly. But of course, if that’s your preference. Janesh.”
The doorman took a step forward. “My lord.”
“We’ll be paying a visit to the joyous longshank girls. Go down ahead of us and see that everything’s opened up. So to speak.”
The doorman’s face split in a fierce grin. “Yes, sir.”
Hale watched him go with a sober expression at odds with the joke. He seemed to be working through something in his head.
“We don’t deal that much in full-blood dwellers,” he said reflectively. “Though if what you tell me is true, perhaps we should. But it’s problematic, you see. Their families are mostly very tightly knit, and as a people they’re a stubborn, unthinking lot. I’ve seen cases where a man on the marsh would rather starve than sell his children. I mean, what can you do with people like that?”
Ringil hid his face in his goblet.
“Fortunately, though, marsh dweller blood isn’t quite as uncommon among our ordinary citizens”—Hale permitted himself a thin smile—“as those same citizens would have you believe. It’s been known to leak into even the noblest of Trelayne families. Don’t worry yourself, Laraninthal of Shenshenath, I’m quite sure we’ll be able to find you a girl with suitable blood.”
They made small talk after that, while Ringil finished his wine, played the diffident imperial fop, and kept his feelings masked. Inwardly, a cautious optimism was rising through him. He didn’t really expect to find Sherin here—even if she had passed through Hale’s stable, and not one of the others that specialized in concubinage, that was a month ago. Despite the slave trader’s comments about the difficulties of training spirited girls, Ringil didn’t think it would require that long to break a young woman who probably already considered herself worthless for her lack of childbearing ability; who had already been shunned by her whole family and then, finally, betrayed by the man who’d taken her away from them.
But if she had been here, there’d be traces. Memories among the other girls, among servants and handlers. There’d be documents of sale, somewhere. It was a legal trade now, all above board. Part of the brave new world they’d all been fighting for. If this was the place, the door was halfway levered open, and Ringil could do the rest in easy stages—even if that meant taking Terip Hale somewhere secluded and getting what he needed out of him with hot coals and iron.
If this was not the place, well, he had the other names on Milacar’s list. He could start all over again.
“Shall we go down?” Hale asked him.
He smiled and nodded in eager, foppish assent.
IT SEEMED THE JOYOUS LONGSHANK GIRLS WERE KEPT ON THE OTHER side of the building. Ringil followed Hale down to ground level and out to the courtyard. Eril and Girsh brought up the rear, along with Hale’s flail-equipped muscle. Everybody watched everybody else with hardened calm. The night had turned clear and cold while they were inside—they crossed the courtyard in silence under sharp stars and the long cool arc of the band. Ringil saw his breath puff ice white in the air.
If the cold bothered Hale, in his silk dressing gown and slippers, he gave no sign. He led them through another side door in the courtyard wall, down three sets of stone steps and into a semicircular basement chamber with five curtained alcoves along its curving wall. Janesh the doorman was already there, the grin still plastered across his face—apparently he’d been enjoying his work. Bandlight spilled in from small barred windows near the roof, but most of the illumination came from two lanterns set down in the center of the room. There were Majak rugs on the floor, lewd murals etched into the curving wall—though rather prim of content compared with Grace-of-Heaven’s ceiling—and a vast black iron candelabra hanging from the vaulted roof.
Terip Hale turned to face them.
“Allow me to present,” he said gravely. “The joyous longshank girls.”
The curtains whisked aside in their alcoves. Armed men stood there grinning. Short-swords and hatchets, maces and clubs. Two men to an alcove, at least. Ringil saw at least one crossbow, raised and cocked.
The doorman caught his eye and winked.
“Now,” said Hale. “Perhaps, Laraninthal of Shenshenath, you’d like to tell me who exactly the fuck you really are.”
CHAPTER 18
Egar rode out a couple of hours before sunset.
He didn’t really need the extra time; the Skaranak buried their dead relatively close to wherever they happened to be camped at the time, and their migrations across the steppe were roughly seasonal. As the anniversary of his father’s death swung around each year, so did the proximity of the grave Erkan was laid in. Egar could track it by the changes in the sky and the few windswept landmarks that marked the steppe, could feel it circling beyond the horizon as the seasons turned, curving slowly inward as the warmth ebbed from each year and winter crept in, closing on him like the anniversary itself.
He didn’t need the extra time.
But Sula was driving him up a fucking guy rope right now with her youth and her breezy nomad matter-of-factness; she was blunt and clumsy around his feelings, would not give him space, thought sucking him off was the solution to pretty much everything.
Can hardly blame the lass. Not like you’ve given her any reason to think any different, is it?
So he told her lies as he dressed.
“I’ll do the last league on foot,” he said. “For respect.”
“But that’s stupid!”
He held down his temper with an effort. “It’s a tradition, Sula.”
“Yeah.” A throaty snort. “Not since my fucking grandfather died, it isn’t.”
“Well, that wasn’t all that long ago, was it?”
She stared at him, stricken. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
It means I remember your grandfather as a young man about the camp. It means I’m easily old enough to be your father. It means you’re sixteen fucking years old, girl, sitting in my yurt like you own it, and beyond all of that it means that at my age I really should know better than to keep doing this.