Once outside and out of earshot, Riga muttered, “I think I’d prefer ship biscuits and salted meat to hospitality such as his.”
“They are not a nice people,” Father agreed. “But we need the trading stop. If we could transport only across the lake back home and stay solvent, I’d do that. We need proper trading voyages now and then, though. It’s also good learning for you two.”
“We need to learn that some people are pure evil?” Erki asked.
“The Amar is brutal even by our warrior standards,” Father said, “but he is not evil. At least their trade is honest, and tariffs fair. They’ve held off Miklamar’s encroachments so far. If you want evil, you remember the refugees fleeing that murderous thug.”
“I do,” Erki said as he rubbed his stubby thumb. So did Riga. She vividly remembered him losing half that thumb when the two youths had had to be warriors and guides for those refugees.
“Tonight is our last night in the inn,” Father said. “We’ll remain aboard ship, under tent, until we leave.”
“Oh, good,” Riga said. “I prefer our tent to their opulence. It’s friendlier.” Nothing about this city was friendly except the other traders and embassies. Of course, they weren’t of this city. Riga wore heavy clothes despite the mild weather but no sword. Erki and Father carried swords. They were her protectors. Her status: none. At home she wore her cat-jeweled sword, and no one would be silly enough to ask if she knew its use.
The feast was not a happy event. It could have been, but . . .
Riga had no complaints about the food. She didn’t like being behind a curtain at a second, remote table set up for women, where she ate with the wives and servants. She didn’t like getting what were basically the leavings from the men. The entertainment would be better if she could actually see it, rather than just hear hints of it past the curtain. The food was wonderful, though, redolent with spices and rich and savory. The manner took getting used to. One formed rice into balls, or tore pieces of bread, and just reached in to scoop up the saucy mess.
Even at the women’s table, there was a hierarchy. The senior wife sat at the far end. Her two junior wives flanked her, and the wives and concubine of two other guests sat down from there. Riga guessed her position at a table end was of some status, and two daughters flanked her. Between were the servants.
A warm, sweet smell seemed to indicate dessert, or at least a dessert. There’d been two so far. Jesrin served the men, then came through to serve the women.
As she leaned past Riga to put down a platter of pastry, her layered gown slipped, revealing some shoulder.
Riga almost recoiled in horror at what she glimpsed. That delicate shoulder was a mass of blood blisters, bruises and welts. Their color indicated they were healing, but he’d laid into this girl horribly.
Steeling herself, she said nothing, made no acknowledgement—servants weren’t people here—and ate quietly. The food was good. It would have been twice as good if she’d been granted the courtesy of eating with the men. She reminded herself that her own people regarded her as a warrior. No insults here could change that.
Of course, Father had asked that she diplomatically not discuss any of her “manly” skills. While she knew weaving and a little of spinning, she knew much more of boatkeeping and lading, numbers, letters, horse care, and maneuver. The women chatted amiably about textiles and art, and Riga just nodded and smiled.
Jesrin slipped back through a few minutes later, came over, and discreetly handed Riga a slip of parchment, which Riga just as discreetly opened in her lap and read.
“We are staying here tonight. Your room will be across the hall from mine—GundeFather.”
If there was one thing Riga didn’t want to do, it was stay here, beneath her status. She momentarily raged inside.
It wasn’t just being treated as an inferior. It was that it didn’t matter what her status was, didn’t matter her skills. She could run the business herself if need be. She lacked Father’s decades, but she had a grounding in all the basics and plenty of her own travels and deals and war. But here, just being born female meant that she was beneath a horse, even beneath a dog, and wouldn’t even be treated with contempt. She just wouldn’t be treated at all. The offered hospitality was for Father and Erki, not her. Her room was a mere courtesy to Father, otherwise they’d stick her in a hole with the servants, she was sure.
After that, she withdrew completely from the conversation and just steamed silently, until Jesrin led her up the marble stairs, long after the men had retreated, to a frilly, dainty, girly room. It was very lavish, of course. See how well the Amar treats even a daughter of a trader?
“If you need,” Jesrin said, “That cord will ring a bell below. I’ll hurry right up.”
“You won’t sleep yourself?” Riga asked.
Jesrin seemed confused by Riga’s accent, or perhaps the question itself.
“Of course, I’ll wake up. It’s my duty to serve. If I’m not available, then Aysa will come.”
“Thank you, though I’ll be fine. You’ve been so gracious.”
Jesrin replied with a demure bow. “Thank you, all I do is on behalf of my lord.”
Riga couldn’t wait, so asked, “Jesrin, would you like me to look at your shoulder? I may have a salve that will help.”
“Oh, Miss Riga, you are gracious, no. The house-mistress is taking care of it. I will be fine.” The poor girl seemed embarrassed and ashamed just to discuss it.
With nothing else to offer, Riga said, “Then I shall retire. I hope to see you in the morning, and please rest. You’ve made me most comfortable, thank you.”
“A blessing on you.” Jesrin bowed and withdrew with what looked like a happy smile. It made Riga shudder.
The next morning, Riga awoke to sun peeking through chiseled piercework in the shutters. The weather was wonderfully mild. The bed was silken over feathers, with a very fine cotton sheet.
Riga would gladly give it all up to keep her status.
A breakfast of fruit and pastry sat on a tray near the door. She snagged a couple of fat strawberries and a roll, partly to quiet her stomach and partly to be polite to Jesrin and the other servants. She didn’t care what the Amar thought and was pretty sure he wouldn’t even ask how she’d fared. She rebraided her hair, threw a scarf over it to appease local customs, and opened the door.
No one was around, so she crept across and tapped on what she hoped was Father’s door. She could hear his voice, and Erki’s, and that brightened her mood a lot.
He swung the door open and said, “Welcome, Daughter! I’m sure you’re dreading returning to the
“Oh, yes, very much, Father.”
Once downstairs, she stood back while Father, Erki, and the Amar exchanged bows. She wasn’t expected to participate, for which she was glad.
A few minutes later they were striding down the broad, dusty street toward the port.
Erki said, “I’ll be glad to eat normal food. I got sick of the rich, fancy stuff very quickly.”
“I enjoyed the food. Not the company. I wish I could have. Jesrin seems like a nice girl,” she said.
“She does. He sent her to my room an hour after bed last night,” Father admitted.
“Oh, Father, you
“Of course I didn’t,” he replied with a grimace and shiver. “Gods, she’s barely older than you, girl. Ugh.” He cringed again. “I bade her sit and talk for a while, gave her some medicine for the pain and some herbs to help heal. They don’t do that here, either. Herbs are the work of the devils. She wasn’t easy to convince, but I promised her I’d never mention it. Then I made her sleep on the divan. She seemed both grateful and put upon.”
Riga wasn’t sure she parsed that, but no matter. “Thank you,” she replied.
“For what? Not bedding a child? I need no thanks for that.” He sounded annoyed.
“I wish we could help her. Buy her, perhaps?”
Father leaned up and back and met her eyes.
“I know you mean well, but no. Her looks make her highly prized.”
“You could ask,” she said. “I have my share to pledge against the cost.”
He sighed and looked uncomfortable.
