Ship of Destiny (6 page)

She leaned back in the immense chair, and wished briefly that Davad Restart had been a smaller man. Everything in this room was oversized for her. Sometimes she felt like a child pretending to be an adult. Sometimes all of Bingtown society seemed to have that effect on her. Her entire presence here was a pose. Her “authority from the Satrap” was a document she had coerced Satrap Cosgo into signing when he was ill. All her power, all her claims to social stature were based on it. And its power, in turn, was based on the concept that the Satrapy of Jamaillia lawfully ruled over Bingtown. She had been shocked the first time she had realized how prevalent the Bingtown Traders’ talk of sovereignty was. It made her supposed status amongst them even more dubious. Perhaps she would have been wiser to have sided with the New Traders. But no, for at least some among them realized that Jamaillia City nobles were trying to shake off the Satrap’s authority. If the Satrap’s power in the capital was questionable, how tenuous was it here in the Satrapy’s farthest province?

It was too late to flinch. She’d made her choice and assumed her role. Now her last, best hope was to play it well. If she succeeded, Bingtown would be her home to the end of her days. That had been her dream ever since, as a young woman, she had heard that in Bingtown a woman could claim the same rights as a man.

She rested against the cushions for an instant as her eyes traveled the room. A generous fire burned on the hearth of the study. The light from it and from the many tapers in the room gleamed warmly on the polished wood of the desk. She liked this room. Oh, the drapes were intolerable, and the books in the many cases lining the wall were disorganized and tatty, but all that could be changed. The rustic styling had been unsettling at first, almost annoying, but now that the estate was hers, it made her feel she was truly a part of Bingtown. Most of the Old-Trader homes she had seen looked much like this one. She could adapt. She wiggled her toes inside the cozy lambswool slippers she wore. They had been Kekki’s, and they were just a bit tight. Idly she wondered if Kekki’s feet were cold right now, but no doubt the Rain Wild Traders were taking good care of their noble hostages. She did not restrain her smile of satisfaction. Even in small servings, revenge was sweet. The Satrap probably had not yet discerned that she had arranged his snatching.

“Lady Companion?”

It was the serving boy again. “I said I was busy,” she reminded him warningly. Bingtown servants had no real concept of deference to their masters. She had studied Bingtown all her life, but nothing in its official history had prepared her for the egalitarian reality. She set her teeth as the boy spoke back to her.

“I told the woman that you were busy,” the boy explained carefully. “But she insisted she would see you now. She says that you have no right to possess Davad Restart’s house. She says that she will give you one chance to explain yourself before she presents this grievance to the Bingtown Council on behalf of Davad’s lawful heirs.”

Serilla flung her pen down on the desk. Such words were too much to tolerate from anyone, let alone a servant. “Davad Restart was a traitor. By his actions, he forfeited all rights to his property. That includes the claims of his heirs as well.” She suddenly realized she was explaining herself to a serving boy. Her temper snapped. “Tell her to go away, that I have no time to see her, not today, not any day.”

“Tell me that yourself, and we’ll have more time to argue it.”

Serilla stared in shock at the old woman framed in the doorway. She was dressed simply, in worn but clean clothes. She wore no jewelry, but her gleaming hair was meticulously neat. Her posture more than her accoutrements proclaimed her Trader status. She looked familiar, but as intermarried as the Bingtown Old Traders were, that did not surprise Serilla. Half of them were their own second cousins. Serilla glared at her. “Go away,” she said bluntly. She picked up her pen in a show of calmness.

“No. I won’t. Not until I have satisfaction.” A cold anger was in the Trader’s voice. “Davad Restart was not a traitor. By branding him as such, you’ve been able to take over his holdings for yourself. Perhaps you don’t mind stealing from a dead man, even one who opened the hospitality of his home to you. But your false accusations have brought disaster to me. The Vestrit family has been attacked and near murdered, I’ve been driven from my home, my possessions stolen, and all because of your slander. I will not tolerate it longer. If you force me to take this before the Bingtown Council, you will find that power and wealth do not sway justice here as in Jamaillia. All the Trader families were little more than beggars when we came here. Our society is founded on the idea that a man’s word binds him, regardless of his wealth. Our survival has depended on our ability to trust one another’s word. To give false witness here is more grievous than you can imagine.”

This must be Ronica Vestrit! She looked little like the elegant old woman at the ball. All she had retained was her dignity. Serilla reminded herself that she was the one in authority here. She held that thought until she could believe it. She dared not let anyone question her supremacy. The sooner the old woman was managed, the less trouble for all. Her memory swept her back to her days at the Satrap’s court. How had he handled such complaints? She kept her face impassive as she declared, “You waste my time with this long list of supposed grievances. I will not be bullied by your threats and implications.” She leaned back in her chair, attempting to appear serenely confident. “Don’t you know that you are an accused traitor? To charge in here with your wild accusations is not only foolhardy but ridiculous. You are fortunate I do not have you clapped into chains immediately.” Serilla tried to catch the serving boy’s eyes. He should take that hint that he should run for aid. Instead, he only watched the two women with avid interest.

Instead of being cowed, Ronica only became more incensed. “That might work in Jamaillia, where tyrants are worshipped. But this is Bingtown. Here, my voice is as loud as yours. Nor do we chain folk up without giving them a chance to speak first. I demand the opportunity to address the Bingtown Traders’ Council. I want to clear Davad’s name, or to be shown the evidence that condemns him. I demand decent burial for his remains in either case.” The old woman advanced into the room. Her bony hands were clenched at her sides. Her eyes roved over the room, her outrage plainly growing as she noted the signs of Serilla’s occupancy. Her words became more clipped. “I want Davad’s property surrendered to his heirs. I want my own name cleared, and an apology from those who endangered my family. I expect reparations from them as well.” The woman came even closer. “If you force me to go to the Council, I will be heard. This is not Jamaillia, Companion. Complaints from a Trader, even an unpopular Trader, will not be ignored.”

That scatterbrained serving boy had fled. Serilla longed to go to the door and shout for assistance. But she feared even to stand lest she provoke an attack. Already her traitorous hands were trembling. Confrontation unnerved her now. Ever since— No. She would not think of that now, she would not let it weaken her. To dwell on that was to concede that it had changed her irrevocably. No one had that sort of power over her, no one! She would be strong.

“Answer me!” the woman suddenly demanded. Serilla started wildly and her flailing hands scattered the papers on the desk. The old woman leaned over the desk, her eyes blazing with anger. “How dare you sit there and ignore me? I am Ronica Vestrit of the Bingtown Traders. Who do you think you are, to sit in silence and stare at me?”

Ironically, that was the only question that could have broken Serilla from her frozen panic. It was a question she had asked herself often of late. She had rehearsed the answer to her mirror in endless self-validation. She stood. Her voice quavered only slightly. “I am Serilla, vowed Companion to Satrap Cosgo. More than that, I am his representative here in Bingtown. I have the signed documents to prove it, documents that the Satrap created specifically to deal with this situation. While he is in hiding for his personal safety, my word holds the same force as his, my decisions are what his would be, and my rulings are as binding. I myself have investigated the matter of Davad Restart’s treachery, and I have found him guilty of treason. Under Jamaillian law, all he owned is forfeit to the throne. As I represent the throne, I have decided to make use of it.”

For a moment, the old woman looked daunted. Serilla took courage from that evidence of weakness. She picked up her pen once more. Leaning over the desk, she pretended to peruse her notes, then lifted her eyes to the Vestrit woman.

“As of yet, I have found no direct evidence of your treason. I have made no official pronouncement against you. I suggest that you do not goad me to look more deeply into your involvement. Your concerns for a dead traitor do not do you credit. If you are wise, you will leave now.” Serilla dismissed her by looking down at her papers once more. She prayed the woman would just go away. Once she left, Serilla could summon armed men and send them after her. She pressed her toes against the floor to keep her knees from shaking.

Silence lasted. Serilla refused to look up. She waited to hear this Ronica Vestrit trudge away in defeat. Instead, the Trader’s fist suddenly slammed down on the desk, making the ink hop in its well. “You are not in Jamaillia!” Ronica declared harshly. “You are in Bingtown. And here the truth is fixed by the facts, not by your decree.” Ronica’s features were contorted with anger and determination. The Bingtown Trader leaned across the desk, shoving her face close to Serilla’s. “If Davad had been a traitor, there would be proof of it, here, in his records. However foolish he might have been, his accounts were always in order.”

Serilla pressed herself back into the chair. Her heart was hammering, and there was a roaring in her ears. The woman was completely deranged. She sought the will to leap to her feet and flee, but she was paralyzed. She glimpsed the serving boy behind Ronica, and then relief engulfed her as she saw several Traders behind him. A few minutes ago, she would have been furious at him for presenting them unannounced. Now she was so pitifully grateful that tears stung her eyes.

“Restrain her!” she implored them. “She threatens me!”

Ronica swiveled her head to look back at the men. For their part, they seemed shocked into immobility. Ronica straightened slowly, turning her back on Serilla. Her voice was cold with courtesy as she greeted them by their names. “Trader Drur. Trader Conry. Trader Devouchet. I am glad to see you here. Perhaps now my questions will be answered.”

The expressions that passed over the Traders’ faces told Serilla that her situation had not improved. Shock and guilt were quickly masked with polite concern.

Only Trader Devouchet stared at her. “Ronica Vestrit?” he asked incredulously. “But I thought . . .” He turned to look at his companions but they had been swifter to compose themselves.

“Is there a problem here?” Trader Drur began but Conry overrode him with, “I fear we have intruded on a private conversation. We can return later.”

“Not at all,” Ronica answered gravely, as if they had addressed her. “Unless you think my survival is a problem to be solved by the Companion. The true problem here is one more fit to be resolved by the Traders’ Council than by a Satrap’s Companion. Gentlemen, as you obviously know, my family has been savagely attacked, and our reputation smeared to the point at which it endangers our lives. Trader Restart has been treacherously murdered, and so maligned after the fact that those who killed him claim they were justified. I am here to demand that the Council investigate this matter and render justice.”

Devouchet’s eyes grew stony. “Justice has already been done. Restart was a traitor. Everyone knows that.”

Ronica Vestrit’s face was impassive. “So I keep hearing. But no one has presented me with one shred of evidence.”

“Ronica, be reasonable,” Trader Drur rebuked her. “Bingtown is a shambles. We are in the midst of a civil war. The Council has no time to convene on private matters, it must . . .”

“Murder is not a private matter! The Council must answer the complaints of any Bingtown Trader. That was why the Council was formed, to see that regardless of wealth or poor fortune, justice was available to every Trader. That is what I demand. I believe Davad was killed and my family attacked on the basis of a rumor. That is not justice, that is murder and assault. Furthermore, while you believe that the culprit has been punished, I believe the true traitors go free. I don’t know what became of the Satrap. However, this woman seems to, by her own admission. I know he was taken by force that night. That scarcely seems to me that he ‘went into hiding, entrusting his power to her.’ It seems to me more likely that Bingtown has been dragged into a Jamaillian plot to unseat the Satrap, one that may smear all of us with blame. I have heard that she even wishes to treat with the Chalcedeans. What will she give them, gentlemen, to placate them? What does she have to give them, save what is Bingtown’s? She benefits in power and wealth by the Satrap’s absence. Have some Traders been tricked into kidnapping the Satrap, for this woman’s own ends? If such is the case, she has led them into treason. Is not that a matter for the Council to judge, if it will not consider Davad Restart’s murder? Or are all of those ‘private matters’?”

Serilla’s mouth had gone dry. The three men exchanged uncertain glances. They were being swayed by this madwoman’s words. They would turn on her! Behind them, the serving boy lingered near the door, listening curiously. There was movement in the passage beyond him, and then Roed Caern and Krion Trentor entered the room. Tall and lean, Roed towered over his shorter, softer companion. Roed had bound his long black hair back in a tail as if he were a barbarian warrior. His dark eyes had always held a feral glint; now they shone with a predator’s lust. He stared at Ronica. Despite the uneasiness the young Trader always roused in her, Serilla felt a sudden wash of relief at his appearance. He, at least, would side with her.

“I heard the name of Davad Restart,” Roed observed harshly. “If anyone has a dispute with how he ended, they should speak to me.” His eyes challenged Ronica.