Passion Play (8 page)

Therez dropped her bag onto the ground and rummaged through her clothes for the purse, which she’d stowed underneath. Her neck felt hot under the man’s amused gaze, but at last she untangled the purse and rooted through its contents. Finally she separated three gold denier from the rest. She shoved her purse back into her bag and stood up.

The man held out one hand, and Therez placed the sum into his callused palm. His hands were as dark as his face, the skin pebbly, and a crooked scar twisted the flesh around his thumb. Unexpectedly, her thoughts veered back to her father’s hands, as smooth as the bales of silk in his warehouse, and to his voice, which never rose above a thin whisper. This man was as unlike her father as she could have wished.

“That was the price of a seat,” he said. “If you want meals, that’s two more denier.”

Gold ones, his tone said. The price
was
too high, but she had no more time. Another hour and her mother would discover her absence. “Two for meals,” she said, as matter-of-factly as she could. She dug out two more coins from her pack.

He took them with a grin. “I like a girl who pays her debts.”

She nodded, not knowing how to answer that. At her silence, Brandt grunted and waved a hand toward another wagon. “Take a seat in that one. Oh, and if you want a bite, ask Ulf, the cook, for some bread and coffee. Tell him Alarik sent you.”

“Where is the cook wagon?”

“Ask.” He was already moving away.

Therez released a shaky breath, still unsettled by the transaction. Liberty at the cost of five gold coins. Fair or not, she would have paid twice that.

One of the smaller boys pointed out the cook wagon for her. Ulf had packed most of his gear, but he poured her a cup of thick black coffee and hacked off a generous slab of bread. “Best I can do, girl. Alarik should have sent you earlier. Here, have another cup of coffee. You look worn out. Bring me the mug when you’re done.”

The bread was tough, the coffee bitter and thick with grinds, but the meal filled her empty stomach and revived her strength. Therez brought the mug back to Ulf, thanking him. Ulf’s glance snagged momentarily on her face, curious. “Going to Duenne?”

“To stay with my aunt.” The lie came more easily this second time. “My parents died. My aunt said she can find me a posting. At least I hope she can.”

Ulf grunted, indifferent to aunts and dying parents, and turned back to his duties. Therez hurried back to her wagon and squeezed into a gap between the tightly packed crates, directly behind the driver. Nearby, a scholar in his black robes perched in another wagon, reading from a small book. A troupe of tumblers practiced their tricks in the small clearing between. Soon one of Brandt’s men came by, shooing them to take their places.

Alarik Brandt mounted his horse and started bellowing out orders. The crew was furiously loading the last few boxes, while mounted guards circled the wagons. A drover’s herd of sheep streamed past, bleating, with dogs nipping at their legs. Dust choked the air. Somewhere a child was sobbing. The noise rose until Therez thought she would go deaf. Then a voice called out from atop the city walls. Others, whom she could not see, pushed the gates open.

“Wagon first, start forward,” Brandt called out.

One by one the wagons rolled through the gates. Therez’s teeth clacked together at the first jolt, and her head knocked against one of the crates. The driver grinned. “Hold on, girl.”

Outside the city, they passed a stretch of grasslands where goats and cows grazed, followed by scattered workshops, then a village. Keeping one hand on the wagon to steady herself, Therez rose to her knees for one last look at Melnek’s rust-red towers and walls. She could just make out the governor’s palace and the chief bell tower near her father’s house. A faint echo of chimes sounded in the air. One. Two. Three quarters. Six deep-throated peals for the hour.

The last time she would hear these particular bells. Therez’s throat squeezed shut. She felt a peculiar emptiness inside, even as she told herself that she was glad, so very glad, to finally be quit of Melnek, of her father’s house. Oh why, then, was she crying? Stupid, foolish tears. She wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve.
I’m just tired. That’s all.

As the sun climbed higher, Therez pillowed her head on her arms. Before long she fell into a doze. This time, no dreams broke her rest. No voice whispered threats. When the wagon hit a deep rut, she woke with a stifled cry.

Melnek had disappeared from view. Sunlight glanced over the open fields, where farmers swung their scythes, bent to the ground, and straightened once more. To the north, Veraene’s border hills and mountains blended with low clouds, making a wall of dark blue shadows.

Therez sucked in a deep breath of air that smelled of dust and fresh-cut hay. She twisted around to see their direction. Ahead, the caravan stretched out with riders to either side. Brandt himself was in the lead. Even as she turned back, he bellowed out new orders to his crew. “Volker, Brenn, you miserable get of a gang-fucked bitch, I wanted you forward now!”

Someone laughed, but it was a muffled sound, calculated not to carry forward. A moment later, one of the outriders passed Therez’s wagon. He looked young, with smooth round cheeks and a patchy beard. Catching her glance, he grinned.

“Volker, you piss-drinking whoreson. I said now.”

Therez flinched. The boy simply shrugged and urged his horse forward. Another rider followed. He looked a few years older than his partner. His dark brown face was leaner, and his eyes canted more, but she saw the resemblance between them. Both carried knives and clubs in their belts, but no swords.

By late morning the hay fields gave way to a stubbled expanse, then to green-gold meadows bordered by stands of dark-blue pines. Not long afterward, the caravan halted by a clearing to rest the horses.

Working in unison, Brandt’s crew swiftly unhitched the horses and tied them in pickets beside the road. Others had unloaded cooking gear, while Ulf, the cook, and his boys lit several fires. Mugs of hot coffee and slabs of bread toasted with cheese were the fare. Therez carried her portion to one side, where she found a seat on the grass.

Therez nibbled at the chewy bread, studying her new companions, crew and passengers alike. Most had settled around the wagons for their meal. A few, like Ulf and his assistants, still busied themselves with chores, eating as they worked. As Therez watched, she tried to guess where each one came from. Most, she could tell, came from the central plains—thick black hair and round, dusky brown faces. A few had the same borderland features and accents she was used to. Several more had the much darker coloring typical of men from Fortezzien and the other southeastern provinces; they spoke with a lilt and wore their hair tied back in complicated braids. Ah but that man over there, with the pale brown eyes, was clearly from the kingdom of Ysterien in the west.

Whatever their origins, the men who belonged to the caravan were mostly lean, their whipcord muscles hardened by years of hefting barrels and crates onto wagons. Some, like Volker and Brenn, were hardly more than boys.

The other passengers had collected into small groups, talking among themselves over their breakfast. The scholar sat by himself. Nearby was another solitary man, carving a stick of wood into pipes. Therez saw the tumbling troupe with their colorful tunics and knitted hose of southern style. The four or five families—she couldn’t quite tell them apart—looked like farmers on their way to Hammenz or Kassel. She would have to be careful. If asked, they might remember a solitary girl traveling to Duenne.

Volker was walking toward her, carrying a mug of coffee and a plate. He gave her a sunny, infectious smile. “Hello. I saw you this morning.”

She smiled back. “You rode past my wagon.”

He grinned. “You mean Otto’s wagon.” With his mug, he indicated the spot next to Therez. “D’you mind some company?”

She shook her head. With practiced ease, he settled onto the ground, sitting cross-legged with his plate on his lap. “So what’s your name?”

“Ilse,” she said, somewhat quickly. “My name’s Ilse.”

She had chosen the name while sitting in the wagon. A pretty name. Different from her own. It sounded odd on her tongue, but Volker didn’t seem to notice. “I’m Volker, in case you missed what Alarik was saying. Alarik Brandt—he’s the caravan master. Or did you talk to Niko? He’s the second. That’s him over there, by the piebald mare.”

He pointed toward a lean man in dusty brown trousers, who was wiping his face with his shirt. Before Therez could answer, the second outrider she’d seen earlier came up behind Volker. “She talked to Alarik. I saw her while you were busy with the horses.” He nodded at Therez. “I’m Brenn,” he said. “Volker’s my brother. Where are you bound?”

“Duenne … to my aunt’s house. She promised to find me work.”

She saw them exchange a glance. Was it her accent? No, Brenn was looking at her hands. “What kind of work?” he asked.

For that she had an answer, too. “Lady’s maid, if I’m lucky. I can stitch and sew and read a little.”

Again the brothers looked at each other. “We wondered about that,” Volker said. “You talk so pretty, like you don’t need to work.”

“Ladies’ maids talk pretty, too,” Brenn said quietly. Unlike his brother, he was studying Therez with a thoughtful expression.

Volker nodded. “So they do.”

Therez pretended an interest in the state of her skirt. “I need the work badly enough. My father and mother died, and, well, my aunt said she could keep me long enough to find a posting, no longer. Said I was old enough to earn my own living.”

Volker laughed. “Our da said the same.” He drank down his coffee and wiped his face with the back of his hand. “Say, I hope you didn’t let Alarik bully you into paying too much.”

“But don’t argue with him,” Brenn said. “He doesn’t like that. He—”

A string of shouted curses interrupted their conversation. Brandt was shouting to his crew, orders mixed with blistering threats. “Break’s over,” he barked at the riders. “Trim your tongues, stuff your pricks into your trousers, and get those wagons moving.”

Brenn and Volker shrugged, and with muttered good-byes they ran to their posts. Therez handed her cup to the cook’s boy and reclaimed her seat. Within a short time, they had retaken the road.

*  *  *

THE CARAVAN MARKED
a dozen long dusty miles that day. With every one, Therez breathed more easily. So many hours for the maids to discover her absence. Another frantic hour while they searched the house and grounds. Some undetermined interval before they reported the matter to Therez’s parents. The questions, the accusations, the weighty silence of her father’s anger. She had difficulty imagining what came next. He might spend the day in isolation, working over his accounts. He might order a wider search. He might do nothing at all, consigning her to her fate as he would a cargo of spoiled goods, but she could not depend on that.

“How many weeks until we reach Duenne?” she asked Brenn that evening.

“Ten,” Brenn replied. “Maybe twelve. Depends on the rain.”

“That long?” She had calculated half the time.

“We start off fast, but then we slow down,” Brenn said. “From Kassel on it’s stop here, unload those crates, pack up new goods, restock the supplies. And we make an overnight stay in Strahlsende, because that’s one of the main stopovers.”

He went on to describe how Melnek’s fish traded for Kassel’s combed wool, which traded for lumber from Strahlsende’s forests, which in turn traded for rare furs trapped in the Gallenz Valley. He was describing the interior plains when Volker joined them. “You like traveling?” he asked Therez.

“Well enough.” She nibbled at her plate of roasted beef, which was salty and tough.

“Have some ale,” Volker said.

Mutely, she shook her head.

“Not fine enough for a lady’s maid?” Brenn said. He was smiling, but Therez stiffened.

“Don’t tease,” Volker said to his brother. “But speaking of fine … did you see the carnival girls?”

Brenn shrugged. “They look nice.”

“Not as pretty as Ilse,” Volker said. “But they promised to show me their magic tricks later.”

Brenn covered his laugh with a cough. He muttered something to Volker, who turned red. “That’s not what I meant.”

“It is.”

“Is not. That’s your blood talking.”

“Fah! Your blood you mean.”

They spent the rest of their break trading insults, until Brandt’s second, Niko, ordered them off to first watch. Therez finished her meal slowly, picking at the meat. She knew what Brenn meant by blood.
Desire.
Galt had desired her. The memory of his proximity made her cheeks turn hot. Other memories—how his mouth thinned when she danced with Mann, his cool precise voice as he spoke about perfection in art—drove the blood away. She shivered and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she saw one of the horse boys, just glancing away.

That night she slept under her wagon, with her knapsack as her pillow, wrapped in all her blankets. The ground felt cold and hard, and a trace of frost sharpened the air. Gazing between the wagon spokes, she counted the stars glittering in the night sky—the Crone’s Eye, Toc the Hunter, Lir’s Necklace. A milky expanse overspread the western horizon.