“I will not squat in front of that dank cell just to pass words with a criminal,” she responded. “And as for my safety…” She leveled her gaze at him like a stone mallet, flat grey irises circled by emerald satellites. “I am a Hand of the Third Class. Do you think I lack for protection?”
He deflated from either fear or disappointment and stuttered, “No, Mistress, of course not. Gaia watches over those who serve.”
Renna sniffed. Not what I meant, but I suppose it will do.
He turned back to the cell gate. The fair-faced young man placed his palm on the flat binding of the grabber vine second from the top and it sprang to life, writhing away from the bars that secured the door. Next came the bottom lock, then the top, and lastly the next-to-bottom. She had known the creator of this grabber-lock design; he was one of the rare males that had any gift at all. He had never progressed beyond the Sixth Class, of course – no male ever did – and he had died soon after he’d publicized his invention, strangled by some new vine he was working on. What was his name? Cletus? Clester? No matter. No one liked a man reaching beyond his station.
The boy held open the cell door, scratching at his vile stubble with one hand. The dark-skinned young woman sat up in her cot, taking a more active interest now that the gate was open. “Come on out. Her Honor wants to speak with you.” He managed a halfway passable tone of command with the young woman. He must think her attractive. She’s not ugly, I suppose, in a backwater kind of way.
“I know what she wants. I’m not deaf,” the girl drawled. She sounded impossibly bored, but she refused to meet either Renna’s or the guard’s eyes. She’s scared. That should make it easier.
The boy reddened again, thwarted at every turn, and stormed into the cell, grabbing her roughly by the arm and pushing her before him out of the cell and into the light of the lamp. The girl gasped in pain as she moved, keeping her elbow tucked into her left side and hunching over her ribs in that direction, limping on a bad ankle. She had seen rougher handling than this previously, it seemed. She looked past Renna to the door, licking her lips. Quite scared, yes. Authority was so very intimidating to those who lacked it. Indeed, the girl sensed her focus even without looking and shifted her feet in discomfort.
She addressed the watchman. “Leave us.”
He gaped at her. “Where… I, ah… of course, Mistress. Shall I just…?” He stuttered and shuffled, edging toward the door. “I’ll just… wait outside, then.” She said nothing, merely kept her warhammer gaze on him until he ducked out the door. He stood on the stairs, and she strode over and shut the door in his face, sliding the bolt home. His confusion was delectable.
She turned to the girl and pointed to the spot in front of the desk. “Over there,” she said peremptorily, as she seated herself behind the desk in the only chair available. The dusky little waif shuffled over warily, her arm still tucked into her side, that hand clutching her other arm where the guard had bruised her. Her silken black hair hung in sheets to her chin, falling over one eye. Everything about her proclaimed reticence and fear. “Do you know who I am?” The girl kept her eyes on the floor and shook her head. Renna tsked, regretting her own choice of words. “Do you know what I am?”
“Weaver priestess,” she answered tonelessly. The utterance was too short and too vague to extract any additional meaning from, and the older woman wanted to know more. Yes, the girl recognized her clothes – who wouldn’t? – but was she a believer? Was she frightened of the priesthood? Was she a person that bent to power and authority? Renna waited, letting the silence draw out and become uncomfortable. Usually that set people to babbling when they were scared, but not this one. She simply stood still with her eyes fixed in one spot. Inert. Either there’s something very wrong with her, or she’s a veteran criminal. It would be easy enough to sort out which with a little more prodding.
“So,” she began vigorously, shattering the silence. “You came in on a ship of dead sailors, and then you sank it. Quite a feat for a girl your age.” The girl shrugged one shoulder, and Renna suppressed a sigh. If I wanted to deal with sulky children, I’d volunteer to care for the initiates back on New Gaia. “How many dead?”
She shrugged again. “I didn’t count.”
Renna’s lip twitched. “Guess.”
“Thirty? Forty?” The girl spread her hands apologetically, her gaze never shifting. She had long, lithe fingers. A thief’s hands. And where’s she from? She sounds like a westerner, but with skin that dark, she must be from one of the local backwaters. Such folk were often farmers and the like, but every barrel had bad apples. Not that Renna thought she was a thief, necessarily. From her paucity of speech, she was beginning to suspect that the girl was slow. Usually, it was the job of the extended family to take care of such children, to relieve the burden from the parents. They’d come in the night and smother the malformed or stupid child in their cradle, or else spirit it out to the wilds for the Naga to devour. Every now
