Delia of Vallia (18 page)

“There is no more news?”

“Only that the emperor is still absent from Vondium, the Lord Farris rules as Crebent Justicar, and Drak the Prince Majister prances around in the west country fighting the rebels. The army is split between Hamal and the frontiers in Vallia. If only that bitch of an empress would come!”

“And there is no news of her since she left Mellinsmot?”

“None.” Nyleen threw a paline at Sissy. She did not laugh, as Sissy, attempting to catch it in her mouth — to pop a paline — missed and the yellow berry hit a wersting, who snarled and gaped blunted fangs. “None at all. I think she went to see her SoR friends. There are rumors that their misbegotten mistress is ill. I hope she is. But — where is the empress now?”

“Lancival?”

“I expect news from there shortly.”

At these words Delia hit a false note. The string twanged angrily until she stopped it. She went on playing without looking up. This one false note, apparently, was allowed to pass as a result of her beating.

If these Whip Women suborned a sister who knew Delia and she turned up here, the minions of Hodan Set would be let loose in the cant saying. Both fur and feathers would fly, not to mention silver tissue and pearl beads.

The likenesses stamped on coins, no matter how beautiful the original engraving, would never betray her. Her portraits hung mostly in the homes of friends. During the great festivals of the calendar season she would be seen by thousands of cheering people; but to them she would appear as a distant golden figure, haloed in light. The clusters of nearer nobles and guards would know her face. If she met one of them, they would treat her as the empress. It had been her misfortune to be taken up by a pack of rascally slavemongers who actively plotted against her.

Nyleen was never left alone with Delia.

Always the folk of her retinue accompanied her. Nadia and her guards; the wersting handler, a creature of northern Evir called Rinka the Stripe; Ilka the Silver Rod; Paline Pontora the chatelaine; various slaves to run and fetch and wave fans. Her cronies came and went. Her brother made punctilious appearances. If Delia could get Nyleen alone...

Yes, that was one way she’d extract the information she required. She’d ask outright, fair and square. And Nyleen would answer. Yes, Delia considered, equably, Nyleen would answer.

Her back mended. She gathered other scraps of information. More people were in the plot than she’d at first suspected. The witch stayed close. And then Nyleen announced she was leaving for a visit, she did not say where, and she would be taking her retinue, including Sissy, but excluding Alyss. Recognizing that if she had not completely failed there was no more she could do, Delia made up her mind to escape this very night.

Chapter fourteen

Cranchar the Cranchu Carouses

When she was in a hurry Delia used needle and thread in a fine free way. Her stitches were uneven, rambling, usually overlarge, generous in the amount of material she expected them to deal with. When she had the time — which was pretty damn-well never, by Vox! — she could make herself be a fine seamstress. Then her stitches were marvels of neatness and exactitude, cunning in their beauty.

Now, with the silver tissue on her knees, her head on one side, and her face puckered up into a scowl, she made herself put in neat, precise stitching. An open window in the small room she and Sissy shared let a gentle zephyr play on her half-naked body. Sissy was washing her hair in the corner, making a tremendous fuss with spilled water and splashed suds, chattering all the time.

“You should not, then, have let her tear the tissue,” said Delia, and bit a thread, her teeth even and white and sharp enough to bite clean through Nyleen Gillois’s jugular.

“How could I stop her — ow!” and Sissy groped in agony for the towel. “My eye!”

Rising and laying the stitching aside, Delia passed across the yellow towel. Sissy came from Evir, from a family who owned land in a small way. She was wrapped up in the fortunes of Nyleen, but she was a scatterbrain, really, and hardly responsible.

“I am sorry you are not to come with us. The kovneva likes your playing. But we could not take the harp with us, and you are in disgrace, anyway.”

“You sound pleased.”

Sissy stopped toweling herself and one bright eye peered out. “Oh, no, Alyss! I did not mean that!”

“I believe you.”

Oddly enough, Delia did. Sissy was too open to nourish jealousy. She was far removed from the hard brittle women who clustered about Nyleen Gillois.

Now, toweling herself vigorously, she spoke in what Delia could only believe was an unthinking way.

“Still. I did laugh when you wet the kovneva.”

Threading a fresh needle, Delia felt it politic not to reply. Almost immediately Sissy stopped toweling herself. With her hair standing in spikes she stared sickly at Delia. The handmaid’s face shook, her mouth trembled. “Oh,” she said and the saying was a gasp, “I did not mean that!”

Delia replied equably. “No one heard you.”

“You did!”

“But I am your friend — am I not?”

Sissy nodded with great eagerness.

“Oh, yes!”

“So that’s all right, then.” The needle was sharp and Delia was careful. The silver tissue was drawing together nicely, but it was fastidious work, demanding great attention. Why these great folk liked to clothe their slave girls in this diaphanous stuff, drape them in exotic costumes, almost escaped Delia. She could see why, of course; but the act reflected scant credit on any warmth of humanity. At least, and for this she was devoutly thankful, Nyleen did not chain them up. They were not true Chail Sheom, chained obedient slaves for erotic pastimes. The chaining of women was just one of the reasons for the reactions of women like Nyleen and her cronies.

“You won’t tell?”

“No. I thought you liked the kovneva.”

“I do! But — she frightens me. I wish...”

“Yes?”

“I wish I was strong, like a Jikai Vuvushi, and could use a sword! Then...”

“Yes?”

“Nothing. The lady Nyleen is gracious and a true jena, a true lady. I joy to serve her.”

“Yes,” said Delia, and dragged a stitch through the silver tissue, and so spoke her mind on that, whereat Sissy gasped.

“Alyss!”

Then Ilka stormed in, brandishing her silver rod and uttering threats, so Delia had to cobble the last few stitches together. Sissy brushed out her hair at lightning speed, took the silver tissue and popped it about her shoulders and ran out. Slaves would take down her small traveling bag. Ilka looked at Delia, and switched her rod, and smiled — a smile of no friendship — and went off. Delia threw the sewing things back into their basket, closed the lid, then sat back. A puff of disgust parted her lips.

Tonight, as ever was, by the gracious Dee Sheon!

As for the name Alyss. She had used the name before in some of her nefarious schemes for the SoR. Her husband had chanced upon it, and had laughed immoderately. When Delia asked him what caused this merriment, he replied that, yes, by Zair, Alyss did live in Wonderland.

So she was left behind as Nyleen Gillois na Sagaie, Kovneva of Vindelka, rode out with her entourage.

The kovneva’s brother, the Lord Cranchar Gillois, known as the Cranchu, remained in the castle. Almost at once a change came over the place. Instead of the light sound of women’s voices, the heavier beat of men’s voices echoed along the passages and halls. Serving wenches stayed close to their slave mistresses, and a wary look entered all their eyes.

Chica the battle maiden brought in a new bunch of slaves, garnered from some hell hole. The men were sent about learning what the whip could do to their backs. The women and girls were reserved for a different fate. As Delia discovered, what Cranchar and his henchmen planned would not happen if the kovneva remained in the castle.

Within a slave structure differences of status must exist. Delia, because she had been born into a slave-owning society, understood the hierarchy. She had renounced and denounced slavery. But she knew that these women dragged into the castle stood on the lowest rung. Slaves like Sissy were very near the top, and she would not have been slave at all if her parents had not run into debt and sold her. Better for Sissy had they found her a decent husband; but then, some folk could not trust gold at second hand.

Four hulking great fellows blundered into the kovneva’s retiring room and took the harp down to the refectory. Delia waited for the summons. She donned a clean yellow breech-clout and a tunic, old but serviceable, of a dull brown color she’d found wrapped around a silver bowl in a wooden chest. Her biological rhythms seldom gave her trouble — sometimes there was a little discomfort but almost never any pain, she was far too active a girl. She did not think that would make much difference to the slave girls below. There was much to ponder and think on as, summoned by a girl with a black eye and half her grey tunic torn off, she went down to the refectory.

The stink of spilled wine and sweat and cheap perfume stung her nostrils as she entered. Many torches blazed from sconces along the walls. The tables had been pushed to either side to form a cleared area in the center, and along the walls sat Cranchar’s retainers, supping and drinking and shouting and banging their goblets on the tables, roaring.

Four girls stood at the center wearing layers of variously colored veils, and shivering. So it was to be the Dance of the Nine Veils. Each girl, of course, would be wearing only eight.

Nath the Muncible looked up from where he sat at Cranchar’s right hand. His face flushed. “Here she is!”

Cranchar did not turn around.

“Play, girl... You know the tune.”

Without a word, Delia went to the harp, sat down, tilted it into her knees, rested her hands on the strings.

Well, now...

The refectory had at a stroke been turned into a male province of hell. Half-naked wenches ran with brimming pitchers. The heat poured from the fires in the alcove where Nan the Bosom laid about her with her ladle. The food heaped high on silver platters. Many amphorae had been overturned in some tussle, and their contents ran and spilled between the cracks of the floor. No one took any notice. The stink of wine and greasy food, the yells and bangings on the table, the fights that broke out here and there and which ended in a thwack and a curse, all this pandemonium formed the background to the playing of Delia of Delphond.

She touched the strings, and brought forth that mysterious, heart-searching note from the soul of the harp.

Everyone turned toward her.

Cranchar wiped his lips and bellowed.

“Dance!”

The girls had probably been picked up from some low tavern, even a dopa den. They knew the dance, and performed it with a trembling languor that changed with the tempo into a most vigorous demonstration. Their limbs flashed. They smiled. They twirled their arms, pirouetting, posturing, and the veils flew off and floated free. When it was finished and the men set up a crowing racket of approval, the girls ran out, more drink was poured and drunk, and the next item began. This consisted of girls contorting themselves in weird and wonderful ways. Again, observing not so much with distaste as a deliberate blanking of her feelings — for now — Delia saw that these girls were professionals. They’d quite clearly been trained from very early ages to contort and twist themselves so. They were clever and agile, no doubt of that.

There was a difference in the performances of the contortionists and the dancers that did not escape Delia.

The men applauded wildly, shouting and drinking and roaring, enjoying themselves. They could not see anything odd in a girl shedding veils in a dance for their delight. The more beautiful she was, the more artful in her dance, the more they appreciated her. They did not see that to a woman who danced in this way an act of indignity was being forced on her. There were pros and cons, of course. But Delia was well aware that the Kovneva Nyleen would see in this spectacle only a familiar story of men persecuting women. She would fill her mind with thoughts of revenge, and fail to look deeper at the fundamental relationships between men and women.

The revenge taken by Nyleen here in this very room was her way of striking back. That it would solve nothing did not matter. There were ways to redress the balance; Nyleen’s way was not one to be recommended. Delia sat back from the harp as the contortionists finished, wondering if her grandiose thoughts were all to be proved wrong when the next item wheeled in.

Chica must have stumbled on a traveling fair, a troupe of perambulating actors, for now a play was presented. That it was bawdy in the extreme and thus caused enormous merriment probably accounted for the gang of ruffians watching. They were scarcely followers of the playwrights acknowledged as masters and mistresses of the boards. It was all pretty crude stuff, with a deal of bladders and feathers, false noses and tails — the impersonation of a Kataki was particularly splendidly done — and a deal of falling about and head thwacking.

Delia glanced across to the alcove where the kitchen staff gawped away, fascinated. Nan the Bosom, no doubt, was busy picking up techniques of head thwacking.

During the short interludes between acts and scenes, Delia was called on to provide incidental music, which she did. While the players postured through their buffoonery, she studied this Chica and this Nath the Muncible. She very soon came to the conclusion that what Sissy had said was right. They did not get on. Chica, so Sissy had said, awed, would slit a man’s throat as soon as kiss him.

“And has Nath kissed you, Sissy?”

Whereupon Sissy had giggled in her own not-silly way, and left Delia with the assumption that Nath the Muncible and Sissy were farther along the road of romance than anyone suspected.

The atmosphere thickened. Smoke from the fires began to twine tendrils into the refectory, and a subsequent tremendous racket sorted out the damned stupid incompetent whip-fodder slaves to attend to their fires. Some of the men enjoyed that. They flexed their arms afterward. The fires were attended to; but Lart the Boil had a broken arm and Nath the Turnips had not one but two black eyes, and others of the slaves nursed their bruises.