"That is good," Walker said politely. Sucker. He had an eye on several of Shaumsrix Telenthaur's son's followers, and he suspected the Iraiina would be less than pleased when they switched allegiance.
"We should make a thank-offering to the gods," he went on.
"Else no few of our fear-despising heroes will lie sleepless in dread of Dead Walkers," the Iraiina chief agreed. "Hmm. One horse and, eka, four cattle? That will make enough fresh meat for the victory feast." He grinned, a carnivore expression. "We've given enough man-meat to please the Mirutha and the Crow Goddess. He of the Long Spear was with us, and the Blood Hag drank deep."
"Your word is strong," Walker said, clasping wrists with the other man. "Let it be as you say."
He walked over to where the prisoners waited, weeping or stoic or watching with silent dread. The men and older boys had been bound at wrist and ankle and shoved into a hut with a barred door. The locals were surprised he hadn't just cut their throats… but then, the Iraiina had little idea of how to make men work. Three among the remainder caught his eyes, two girls about twelve and an older one of eighteen or so, holding the younger ones against herself. They looked enough alike to be sisters and probably were, with seal-brown hair and gray eyes. Their clothing was good by local standards, the bright plaid wool of their long dresses woven in a sort of herringbone twill, and the older wore a gold bracelet; they all had shoes, which was swank among the natives. The way their hair tumbled loose to their shoulders meant they were unmarried.
Alice said she could use some more household help, he thought. Fair enough; it was wasteful to have a qualified medico doing scutwork, and he wanted to keep her happy. Not to mention…
"You," he said, smiling and beckoning.
The younger ones whimpered, and the older girl clutched them tighter. "You, come here," Walker went on. They stumbled to him. I must look strange, he thought. Rumors about the new wizard who'd taken up residence among the Iraiina would have spread far, too.
He gripped the older girl by the hair, just hard enough to immobilize her, and checked her over. Some of these women carried razor-sharp little triangular bronze knives tucked away in the most unexpected places. There was nothing beneath her clothing but girl though, shaped very pleasantly… and these people didn't wear underwear. Walker looked around while his hand moved beneath her skirt. The girl trembled and closed her eyes, biting at her lip. She didn't seem very surprised, though; this was what happened after a lost battle, here.
"All right, boys," he said in English. "Party time. Pick one each. Remember, the supply's limited, and you'll be taking these back home, so don't get too rough." Then he repeated it in the more formal phrasing of Iraiina.
There was going to be a lot of work, getting all this stuff and the people back to the base he'd named Walkerburg. No reason not to relax tonight, of course. A raw whoop rose from his followers, and the war bands of the other chiefs jostled, waiting their turn to pick. He noticed McAndrews hanging back. Can't have that, he thought.
He released the brown-haired girl for a moment and grabbed another, a full-figured blonde in her twenties who was wiping away her tears and trying to smile at the conquerors. Obviously one with an eye for the main chance. The ones glaring defiance or standing slumped in despair wouldn't do for a shrinking violet like the cadet from Tennessee. The eyes went wide in alarm as he ripped the dress off her shoulders and shoved her over to McAndrews; nobody around here had ever seen blacks before.
"You're entitled to your share, Ensign," he said. The younger man stuttered, obviously torn between horror and temptation. "You wouldn't want anyone to think you were looking down on us, would you?" Walker said. His smile was cold. "Not hurt anyone's feelings? I'd just purely hate to have you hurt m' feelings, McAndrews."
"Ah… no, of course not, sir."
"Good man. Have fun."
Laughing, he turned and pushed the brown-haired girl he'd chosen into the hall, scooping up one of the jugs of mead as he passed; her younger sisters tailed along uncertainly. It was dark and smoky within, but the turf walls and the fires smoldering in pits down the length of the floor kept it reasonably warm; there were a few low wicker partitions, but otherwise it was just one big room, with tools and bundles of herbs and hams hanging from the low rafters. He led the others behind one of the woven barriers; the younger girls huddled in the corner, clinging to each other. Furs and wool blankets covered straw.
"What's your name?" he asked, shedding his sword belt and hanging the weapons carefully behind him. No sense in taking chances, he thought, undoing the latches of his armor and swinging out of the suit.
"Keruwthena, lord," she said, clenching her hands and looking down. Then she forced her eyes back up. She seemed a little reassured that he looked like other men beneath the steel.
"Lord, my sisters… they're very young," she went on, as she unfastened the pins that held her gown at the shoulders.
Meaning, please don't throw them to your men, he supposed. "Don't worry," Walker said. Not often your fantasies come true so precisely, he thought, laughing at the hammering of his own heart. "They're safe enough, if you're going to be sensible."
Some time later he rose and began dressing. Keruwthena did too. "I…" she said. "I am glad you are not a cruel man, lord," she said after a moment. "The stories…"
Walker finished off the jug of mead. "Not cruel unless I'm crossed," he said genially.
A woman in her position's best hope was to end up a prominent warrior's possession, and work her way up to minor wife and personal freedom, or as much freedom as a woman ever had among the eastern tribes. She doubtless thought she'd lucked out, with him. Then he laughed; Keruwthena tried a shaky smile, and the two young girls stared at him in terrified awe.
You're lucky so far, he thought. But then you haven't met Alice yet.
It was still near-dark along Main Street, and cold fog swirled about the iron lampposts and the trunks of the great elms, blown in the damp chill air from the sea. Jared Cofflin ambled slowly up the street, past the small crowd already gathered near the bulletin boards at the Hub, the store halfway up Main; there wasn't enough paper to print a newspaper yet, but the Inquirer and Mirror continued its hundred-and-seventy-year tradition by posting a newsletter in strategic places. He inhaled deeply, taking in the cold salt air, as familiar as breathing itself. Snow tonight, most likely. Or mebbe not. Everything else had changed, but walking up the brick sidewalk in a December fog still felt the same.
As if to give him the lie, a shrill steam whistle split the air. That must be one of the tugs, heading out to haul back another raft of mainland firewood and charcoal and planks while the sea allowed. Moisture dripped down his collar, and he hurried his pace a little. Another new smell reached him, one he didn't mind at all-the scent of new-baked bread in wood-fired ovens.
His stomach rumbled. Smells great, tastes delicious, doesn't keep worth a damn, he thought; so it had to be baked fresh every day, which meant a couple of dozen new bakeries to use the fruits of the harvest. A couple of slices with an egg or two and some cranberry preserve made a decent breakfast. Possibly we'll have coffee again about the time I die, he thought. Angelica Brand was growing several hundred seedlings in her greenhouses, and the plan was to drop a boat down to Puerto Rico in the spring and plant them out along with the oranges and lemons and whatnot. God knew if it would work; the birds might eat them all, or something.