The Shewstone Page 20

  “Could we go to a tavern somewhere, for a drink and a chat?”

  “About what?”

  “I’d like to buy something. I’m hoping you can help.”

  Chapter Eight

  Eawynn fastened the studded belt around her waist. The loose pants felt odd, flapping against her ankles when she walked, but the style allowed easy movement and would be cool. The yellow tunic fell to just below her hips and was decorated around the hem with geometric patterns. The matching cloak was big enough to go around her twice. The weight was heavy on her shoulders but would be a welcome protection against the dawn chill. By all accounts, Cyningesburg would swelter in summer and freeze in winter, and the style of dress was designed to meet both extremes.

  Her clothes had none of the ornate embroidery seen on the Sideamuda streets, but were good enough to sit comfortably in the lower end of the Rihtcynn costume range. All were paid for with stolen money. She grimaced at the thought. It meant her current attire was no different from anything else she had worn or eaten since setting foot in The Jolly Wagoner. The knowledge troubled her, but what other option did she have?

  Eawynn gave the room one last check for missed belongings but found nothing. Matt had taken everything except the new clothes when she left the previous evening. Nothing remained for Eawynn to do, apart from get herself down to the portgerefan office.

  The landlady was bobbing up and down by the front door. “Farewell, my lady. It’s been a privilege to have you under our roof.”

  “It’s been a pleasant stay.”

  “You’re very kind, my lady.”

  “I believe my servant settled the bill.”

  “Indeed she did, my lady.”

  “She was fortunate to find quick passage back to Fortaine. I’ve purchased a maid to attend me hereafter.”

  “Very wise, my lady.”

  Eawynn pressed a silver coin into the woman’s hand. She would happily have got rid of all the stolen coins, but that would be unwise. The landlady would certainly think it strange. Anyway, Matt would only go and steal more.

  “Farewell.”

  “You’re very generous, my lady. Safe travels. May the gods guide your footsteps.”

  The streets were quiet in the early hours, but not empty. The ratio of slaves to free-folk was higher than Eawynn had seen before. She felt guilty at being relieved there was also a strong presence of black-cloaked soldiers. The sentries on the city gates waved her through. Eawynn hesitated. Who knew when she would next have a chance to bathe? She had no wish to go all the way to Cyningesburg with horse dung in her hair, should another person want to use her as a target.

  “I wonder if I could have an escort to the portgerefan office?”

  At the sergeant’s nod, two soldiers joined her for the short walk to the quay. Nine open wagons were drawn up, each pulled by a team of huge, shaggy horses. Longshoremen were busy loading barrels and crates. Other people, presumably the wagon crews, were tending to the horses and harness.

  Three Rihtcynn stood watching, two men and a woman. All were dressed in well-worn travel clothes—long, dusty cloaks with muddy hems, sweat-stained shirts, and tough, leather boots and gloves. Despite their appearance, their keen oversight of the work, along with their self-assured posture, left Eawynn in no doubt they were in charge of the caravan.

  “Excuse me. I was told to report here. My name is Eawynn Husa Achangrena.”

  The older man looked her up and down. “Yes. We were told about you. I am Hunwald Husa Earncynna, caravan master. These are my deputies.”

  But what were you told? The tight smiles and curious looks implied something.

  “I bought a slave at the market. She was supposed to arrive here with my bags.”

  “She has. Over there.” Hunwald pointed. He looked as if he might say more, but the action of a longshoreman claimed his attention. “Hey, you. Be careful with that. You’re going to drop it.” He marched off.

  Eawynn nodded to the deputies and went in search of Matt. The caravan master had shown no surprise or suspicion when she spoke of buying a slave. She had gone to the market the previous morning, with the watcher tailing her, and Matt tailing the watcher. Or so Matt said. For her part, Eawynn had been unable to pick the spy out from the crowd. According to Matt, the watcher had spent more time studying the attributes of naked whores on sale than checking up on what Eawynn was doing. He had not stayed close enough to know she had not actually made a purchase.

  Eawynn found Matt sitting cross-legged on the ground at the other side of the wagons, gazing out to sea. She was clad in beige, coarse-weave cloth, garments so baggy the style was hard to judge. Thick soled leather sandals were on her feet, and around her neck was an iron collar.

  The sight pulled Eawynn up short. Before now, she had found the concept of slavery distasteful, but that had been in the abstract, even when walking by slaves on the streets. This is what slavery means. Eawynn had not anticipated the effect seeing the collar would have on her. The symbol turned someone she knew into a possession. So what does it feel like to Matt, wearing it? Eawynn swallowed hard and carried on walking.

  Matt scrambled up and ducked her head. “Good morning, my lady.”

  Did you bid a slave good morning? What was the etiquette of this? Eawynn felt absurdly self-conscious, playing a role she suddenly had no stomach for. “Follow me.”

  She walked far enough to be out of earshot of those around the wagons. “How are you doing?”

  “Fine.”

  “Your contacts had what you wanted?” Matt had been vague, but the collar must have been part of it.

  “Yes.”

  Eawynn saw the collar was formed from two curved iron strips. On either side of Matt’s neck, the ends projected out far enough to be fastened together. The heads of large rivets, a half inch in diameter, were flattened discs on each side. A hammer must have been used to seal the collar. A blacksmith’s saw would be needed to open it. And Matt had allowed it to be done. Eawynn had trouble tearing her eyes away.

  “They’re fakes,” Matt said.

  “Pardon?”

  “The rivets. They’re fakes. The ends screw together. It doesn’t show, because the sticky-out bit covers the join. I saw you were looking.” Matt grinned. “I could be out of this in seconds. Probably best if I don’t demonstrate right now.”

  “How did you get it?”

  “I was sure there’d be some way to fake collars. I just asked the right man, a dock handler.”

  “He’s an official?”

  “Not one the authorities recognise.”

  A shout rang out from the caravan master. “All aboard. We’re rolling.”

  Matt said, “The bags are on the second wagon from the front. That’s where you sit as well.”

  “What about you?”

  Matt’s smile took on a wry twist. “I think I walk.”

  *

  Walking would not have been so bad, had it not been walking at the back in clouds of dust. On top of this, wheels got stuck in ruts with annoying regularity, so Matt and the other slaves had to help shove the heavy wagons free.

  The caravan consisted of the wagons, each with a two-man crew, six mounted soldiers as guards, five passengers in the second wagon, including Eawynn, and eight slaves on foot. The caravan master on a pony trotted in the lead, while his deputies were drivers on the first and last wagons. Two scouts also set out with the caravan. However, since they apparently felt their job consisted of staying out of sight at all times, their inclusion in the reckoning was open to dispute.

  For the first half dozen miles, the road was wide and well marked, passing through farmland. The fields were vineyards and olive groves, laid out in neat rows. Herds of goats rambled across the rougher patches of ground. Three small villages lay on route. Children stopped to watch them pass, their attention clearly on the uniformed soldiers, but adults continued their work with barely a glance. The caravan also went by scattered farmhouses, where chickens dared each other to run across t
he road between the lumbering wagon wheels.

  To the south, a high mountain chain threw snowy peaks against the blue sky. Their route was heading for the one obvious break in the wall. Before long, the road began to rise, skirting the foothills. By midday, Sideamuda was laid out behind them, a toy town on the edge of the shimmering sea. The view might have caught the fancy of the caravan master, who called the stop for lunch.

  The sun was hot enough to have sweat trickling down Matt’s back, and the dust had given her a raw cough. She would have been grateful for the break and a chance to catch her breath. However, a number of jobs needed doing, and nobody else would lift a finger when slaves were available.

  The lead wagon contained supplies for the journey, the food, and tents. Matt helped prepare the meal, fetching water from a stream. Others slaves led the unharnessed horses down to drink. The lunch was simple fare—sliced sausage, cheese, and bread, with dates and olives, all washed down with weak wine and followed by small spiced cakes. Magically, the two scouts appeared for the first time since leaving Sideamuda the instant wine was poured.

  Only once the free-folk were content did the slaves get their even simpler meal of dried fruit, heavy rye bread, and tough jerky, with water to drink.

  Matt joined the circle of slaves and sank to the ground, grateful for the chance to rest. She took a bite of her jerky. It required a lot of chewing for not a lot of gain.

  “Someone’s lost their dog, I see.” The man sitting beside Matt was equally unimpressed.

  “Or their boots.”

  Other suggestions followed.

  The slaves were mostly young and fit. Three belonged to the caravan master and had taken the lead in allocating tasks. Two others, a man and a woman, were the property of another passenger. They sat holding each other’s hand and saying little. A stocky man was attendant to the soldier captain. The last slave was the oldest, although not past middle age. Her exact state of ownership was unclear. None of the Rihtcynn had shown possessiveness around her, or given her orders, and she had been excused from wagon shoving duties.

  She joined in. “The really sad thing is, by the time we reach Cyningesburg, you’ll be looking back fondly on this jerky.”

  “How long will it take to get there? Do you know?” Matt asked. Eawynn had already told her the distance was over three hundred miles.

  “Eighteen days. The toughest bit is in two days’ time. After that it’s an easy run across the plains. Except we’ll be on bread and water for the last three days.”

  “Why?”

  She pointed at the caravan master’s slaves. “They can tell you.”

  One pulled a face. “The boss skims the money he’s given for our food. He daren’t touch the free-folks’ rations. But he knows three days on bread and water won’t kill us.”

  “He’d have us on bread and water the whole way,” another added. “But we might not be strong enough to pull the wagons out of holes.”

  “I pity you,” the older woman said. “I only do this twice a year, at most. You’re at it all the time.”

  “Huh. Tell me about it. The old bastard.”

  Matt took another bite of jerky and tried to be appreciative. At least water was not in short supply and cleared the dust from her throat.

  Much sooner than she would have liked, the call to harness the horses and get moving rang out. Matt slipped the last of her jerky into a pouch, either to chew on the road or keep for the days of bread and water.

  The road was becoming less well travelled, which had dual benefits. The ruts were shallower, and a patchy grass covering survived, cutting down on the dust. The walk was still tiring, but no longer such an ordeal, especially once the terrain flattened out. The uplands soil was stony, unsuited to agriculture. Flocks of sheep and goats were the only farming activity.

  Matt fell in beside the older woman, who seemed to be knowledgeable and willing to speak freely. “Good to meet you. My name’s Matt.”

  The woman smiled. “I don’t know about good. Certainly not here. Maybe good in a tavern a long way away.”

  “Well, there’s that.”

  “My name’s Bertana, by the way.” She spoke with a heavy accent.

  “I’m guessing there’s not much in the way of taverns in Cyningesburg.”

  “There’s a few, just none you or I would be allowed in.” She gave Matt a sharp look. “You’ve not been a slave long?”

  “No. Not long at all.”

  “I thought as much. I could tell by the way you hold your head.”

  “Oh.” Matt would watch carefully and adapt.

  “Do you speak Cynnreord?”

  “Only a few words. I guess I’ll have to learn.”

  “You only need a few words, enough to understand orders. Slaves mostly stick to Tradetalk.”

  “Don’t the owners want us to speak Cynnreord?”

  “As I said, enough to understand orders. Rihtcynn like to think they’re the only ones clever enough to speak Cynnreord properly.”

  “Being an arrogant arsehole obviously comes with the blood.”

  “Maybe, but I wouldn’t recommend saying it aloud. Some slaves will happily try to earn favour by reporting you.”

  Matt grimaced. A rat was as low as you could get. “Thanks for the warning. But what about you? Have you been a slave long?”

  “All my life. I was born one, in Cyningesburg.”

  “So you know the city well.”

  “Not as well as I used to.”

  “You’ve been away?”

  “The city’s changed.”

  “How?”

  “It’s all down to Theodcwen Aedilhild Wisa Mearcweada Bregu Rihtcynn.”

  “Who?”

  “The theodcwen, or great queen, which translates as empress in Tradetalk. She became elder of the Mearcweada clan when her father died, six years ago.”

  “She’s changed things?”

  “Oh, yes. The Rihtcynn have been in a sulk ever since their empire collapsed. They had their puffed up attitude, but they were going nowhere. Even around here their grip was failing. More folk were moving in, pushing them back. Sideamuda was a free port, and everyone was getting along with each other just fine, so I’ve been told. Cyningesburg was deserted most of the year.”

  “But you were born there?”

  “In the Temple of Liffrea. The priests kept it going. The tribes would gather for ceremonies a few times a year and listen to the old diehards, who still thought they ruled the world. Or that they ought to, and everything else was a temporary setback. But, like I said, they weren’t doing anything about it, just sitting around sulking.”

  “Then the old emperor died?”

  “Aedilhild’s father never claimed to be emperor. He was elder of the Mearcweada clan—that’s what Wisa means, as opposed to Husa, which means of the house. There are twelve main Rihtcynn clans, and dozens of smaller ones. When the empire fell apart, they did too, all blaming each other. They spent more time fighting among themselves than bothering anyone else. The last five Rihtcynn emperors before the fall of the empire had been Mearcweada, but nobody cared about it, until Aedilhild took over the clan and started calling herself Empress of all the Rihtcynn. Then we all peed ourselves laughing.” Bertana sighed. “We’re not laughing now. I’ve no idea how far she’ll be able to take things. She managed to unite all the clans under her. The Langcnifas were the last to give in. They accepted her claim two years back. The following fall, her army moved into Sideamuda. The port was supposed to be a vassal state, but without a Rihtcynn emperor, that meant bugger all. But you’ve been in the town now. You’ve seen what it’s like.”

  “Yes.”

  “Each time I go back, it’s worse. This has been my third visit.”

  “Why do you keep going there?”

  “I’m an artist. When I was a child, the priests discovered I could paint, so they had me tarting up all the old frescos. Now Empress Aedilhild has moved back to the old capital, she’s trying to restore its lost glory.�
� Bertana shrugged. “She could have twenty of me and still wouldn’t get it finished in her lifetime. Especially since they want to repaint the government hall in Sideamuda. I’m not doing the work myself, but I have to oversee it. Which is what I was doing there.”

  The road rolled over the crest of the highest hill so far. The view from the top was across a wide valley. A dried up riverbed wound its way across the bottom. Matt could tell many decades had passed since water last flowed. Tall trees sprouted from the eroded bed, but once, it must have been a great waterway.

  Bertana nodded at it. “That’s what did in the Rihtcynn Empire, you know.”

  “The river?”

  “Its drying up. It used to be the River Sidea. Barges could go up it, all the way to Cyningesburg. But just under two hundred years ago, there was a small earthquake. We get them around here from time to time. Nothing unremarkable, except that overnight, the river changed course. Now it flows way to the east, around the end of the Stanscylfa Mountains. It never gets within eighty miles of Cyningesburg.” She shrugged. “I guess, in time, the Rihtcynn could have moved their capital, or dug a canal, or something. But of course, nobody was fool enough to give them time.”

  Matt had heard many explanations for the end of the empire, including the one about a changing river. Most of the other stories were far more entertaining, and more improbable, especially now she was walking the road to Cyningesburg, with the dried up riverbed in sight.

  “Do you have any skills?” Bertana asked.

  I’m good at stealing things. “Nothing special. I’m a maid to Eawynn Husa Achangrena.”

  “Then don’t count on getting much rest. When you’re not running after her ladyship, you’ll be lugging stones across the city.”

  “The rebuilding work?”

  “And then some more. The good thing is you’ll get plenty to eat and drink. They need healthy slaves for the work. You’ll even get beer to drink rather than water.”

  “So not too bad, if you’re fit.” The jerky was giving Matt indigestion.

  “And can stay out of trouble. The Rihtcynn are fired up and ready to pick a fight. Any excuse will do. It’s like sitting next to the fire. Nice and warm, you just have to make sure you don’t get burned.”