Page 2 of Davoren
My heart twisted. Another life caught up in the wreckage of mine.
"When we reach Ashfall," I said slowly, "I'll petition Lord Solmar to bring Toma to work in the kitchens. A great house always needs skilled bakers."
"You would do that?" Hope bloomed in her voice. "But why?"
Because I knew what it was like to lose everything. Because protecting others was the only control I had left. Because maybe, if I could save one person's happiness, it would balance the scales somehow.
"Everyone deserves a chance at love," I said instead. "Plus, I love white butter. It’s divine!"
The geysers of Ember Oasis sent up clouds of mineral-scented steam that made the air shimmer like a fever dream. I pressed my face to the gap in the curtains, grateful for even this small glimpse of the world beyond my gilded cage. The trading post sprawled around the largest spring, a collection of mud-brick buildings and canvas-covered stalls that looked impossibly solid after hours of swaying movement.
Our guards clustered near the station master's hut, voices raised in the universal song of commerce and complaint. Fees for watering. Fees for shade. Fees for breathing, probably, if the station master could figure out how to charge for it. I knew the dance—had watched my father perform it a thousand times. The key was to complain just enough to show you weren't easily fooled, but not so much that you caused actual offense.
Movement near the silk merchant's wagon caught my eye. A boy—maybe twelve, thirteen at most—struggled with a water barrel nearly as tall as himself. His arms shook with the effort, sweat cutting clean lines through the dust on his face. The merchant, a soft-bellied man in rich purple robes, watched with the kind of anticipation that made my skin crawl.
The inevitable happened. The boy's grip slipped, water cascading across the packed earth and spattering the hem of the merchant's silk display.
The first blow caught the boy across the shoulders, sending him sprawling. The merchant's walking stick—ivory handled, because of course it was—rose again.
"Stupid wretch! Do you know what water stains do to Qarashi silk?" Another blow, this one to the boy's ribs. "I'll take it out of your hide, you careless—"
I moved before thinking, the shackles around my wrists be damned. The caravan door burst open under my shoulder's impact, and I stumbled out into blazing daylight. The guards turned at the noise, hands reaching for swords, but I was already moving. I didn’t know what my plan was, other than to stop the boy’s beating, but I didn’t get the chance even to do that.
My ankle caught on something—a rock I didn’t have time to see—and I pitched forward with a cry of dismay.
I crashed directly into the merchant's substantial bulk.
We went down in a tangle of silk and outrage, his walking stick flying one direction while I rolled the other. By pure chance—terrible, unfortunate chance—he landed face-first in the pile of drake dung the stable hands hadn't cleared yet.
"My lady!" Mira appeared at my elbow, helping me struggle upright. The chains made it appropriately difficult, adding to the performance. "Are you hurt?"
"I'm so terribly sorry," I gasped, pressing a hand to my chest in feigned distress. "These chains, you see. I'm not accustomed to the weight. And the heat—I felt quite faint—"
The merchant sputtered and spat, pulling himself from the muck with murder in his eyes. Before he could speak, I noticed my pearl hair comb lying in the dust near the boy's feet. The one my grandmother had given me, worth more than most people saw in a year.
"My comb!" I pointed dramatically. "Boy—yes, you—retrieve it at once. Careful now, it's quite valuable."
The boy scrambled to obey, eyes wide with lingering fear. As he approached, I saw what I'd suspected—old burn scars wrapped around both forearms like shackles of melted flesh. Runaway slave marks. The kind they gave you when they dragged you back the first time, so everyone would know what you were.
"Here." I took the comb with exaggerated care, making a show of examining it for damage. Under the pretense of checking the pearl's setting, I pressed three gold coins into his palm. "For your quick thinking. Hide these well, and disappear until sunset. The stable master at the north end is hiring runners."
His fingers closed over the coins, understanding flickering in eyes too old for his face. He'd survive another day. Maybe more, if he was clever about it.
"You stupid girl!" The merchant had found his voice and his footing, though the stench of drake dung would follow him for days. "Look what you've done! My silks—"
"Are unharmed, I'm certain." I straightened as much as the chains allowed, letting every inch of my noble bearing show. "Though I do hope that unfortunate substance hasn't permanently stained your robes. Such a distinctive color. I'll be sure to mention it to my future husband—Lord Varek Solmar? Perhaps you know of him?—when I tell him about the merchant who was so vigorous in his . . . training methods . . . at Ember Oasis."
The merchant's face went through several interesting color changes. "I was merely disciplining—"
"A child." I let ice creep into my voice. "In public. With a weapon. I'm certain the Trade Guild would find that fascinating, especially given their recent edicts about the treatment of bonded workers. My father sits on the western council, you know. Lord Marcus Lyris? He takes such matters quite seriously."
Each name was a nail in the merchant's commercial coffin, and he knew it. Cross a future magnate's wife, irritate a Trade Guild councilor, draw the wrong kind of attention—any merchant worth his scales knew when to cut losses.
"A misunderstanding," he ground out. "The boy is clumsy. Nothing more."
"How fortunate that misunderstandings can be so easily forgotten." I smiled sweetly. "Especially ones that involve no permanent harm to valuable silk goods."
The merchant muttered something that might have been agreement or profanity, gathered his dignity and his walking stick, and stalked back to his wagon. The smell followed him like an accusation.
