Misery's Child (The Cadian Chronicles) Read online

  She crept up behind him, standing on tiptoe to clap her hands over his eyes.

  He grabbed her hand hard enough to make her cry out as he spun around.

  “Oh, it’s you.” His voice matched his looks, bright and cruel. He released her hand and frowned absently. “Oman’s beard, girl. Don’t you know better than to sneak up on a man down here? I might have drawn my dagger on you.”

  “You hurt me,” she pouted, rubbing her bruised wrist. But she could tell he was in no mood for gallant apologies. She changed her tactics quickly, tossing her head and laughing. “As if a thief would walk up to you in broad daylight and cover your eyes with soft, white hands!”

  He was not as tall as her father, but few men were. He was sturdy and broad chested with thickly muscled arms from working on his father’s ships. Danaus was in no danger of spoiling his seven sons. He put them to work at early ages learning the family business. It was only in the last summer that Tomack had distinguished himself enough to be trusted with overseeing the unloading of the cargo rather than heaving it ashore along with the other hands.

  But he was handsome, this eldest son of Jennymeede’s wealthiest family, with bright blonde hair cut short in the military fashion, like his father’s, and strong, wide cheekbones, also like his father’s. From his mother came the heavy-lidded blue eyes and the brooding, almost sultry lips that curled ever so slightly under his short, thick beard, turning his smiles into something nearer a sneer.

  He smiled then. Marta pressed against him for a fraction of a second, letting her small breasts rest against his arm. He reached for her but she danced out of his grasp.

  “Bah,” he grunted, turning his attention back to the cargo bill, “run on home, child, to your mother and send your sister back in your place—”

  She kicked him. He bellowed as if in mortal pain.

  “Ow! What’d ya go and do that for, silly goose?”

  “Because you’re a dolt, that’s why!” She wanted to kick him again, but stomped her foot impotently instead. He’d mentioned Lillitha just to rile her; surely, even Tomack was smart enough to know that he’d never, ever get his hands on her, not if he lived to be two hundred and twelve. No one in the village had even seen Lillitha in four summers, not without a ton of robes and veils and Yannamarie two steps from her side.

  It never occurred to Marta that her future plans would have been hopeless had not her sister been consecrated as an Offering to Oman. If Lillitha were still available as the eldest marriageable daughter of House Kirrisian, Marta would be nothing more than the second daughter, hardly worth the trouble of marrying for the meager dowry she would bring, more likely a candidate for the cadia’s lesser legions.

  “I was only teasing,” he muttered, rubbing his shin. His blue eyes glinted maliciously. “Which is no more and no less than what you’re doing now, is it?”

  “Do you dare accuse me of teasing you?” Marta put her hands on her hips, swaying invitingly. She arranged her face into an expression of wounded innocence. “If anyone is playing fast and loose with their affections, it’s you, Tomack.”

  “Oh, no! You’ll not be turning this around on me! I waited half the night for you by the olive grove and you never came—”

  Idiot, she thought contemptuously. Did he really believe she could just slip out of her father’s house in the middle of the night like some village girl?

  “Of course, I didn’t come! I won’t have those lips against mine after they’ve touched such riffraff as Annya Syfert’s!” She thrust her lower lip out as if to invite a kiss and regarded him from under her lashes. “Even if they are such sweet lips...”

  She nearly laughed at the surprise on his face. So he thought she didn’t know where he’d been spending his nights, did he? Annya was a silly cow, bragging all over the market that she’d snared Danaus’ heir in her web of giggles and airy chatter. As if Danaus would ever allow his eldest son to wed a scatterbrained girl already nineteen, pretty though she might be. A few too many buckets had been dipped in Annya’s well. Perhaps Syfert’s dim wits had been passed down to his son, Annya’s father, for the man should have married off his wayward daughter long before.

  “Tis not my fault the wench can’t keep her legs together,” Tomack shrugged. “Least she’s old enough to give a man what he wants.”

  “Well,” she said loftily, clasping her hands behind her back in a posture that accentuated her ripening figure, “if you don’t mind wallowing in other men’s leavings...”

  His head flew back and laugher rang. “Oh, sweet calla Marta, your flesh may be only fourteen summers, but you’ve a mouth much too old for such a child.”

  “Stop calling me that!”

  “Calling you what? But you are a child, aren’t you? Your mother still allows you out of the house with your hair unbound, as loathe as I am to see it hidden under kerchiefs and wimples—”

  Her eyes flashed up at him as she leaned close enough to whisper.

  “If I am still a child then why can you not keep your hands off me? Can a child kiss you the way I do? Do a child’s lips taste as sweet as mine, dearest Tomack?”

  “Oman’s beard, I don’t know what you are!” he grunted, stepping away from her reluctantly. As much as Tomack enjoyed the chase, he was too afraid of his father to play such games where Danaus might come upon him. And certainly not with this one. Danaus had an eye for the ladies himself, but not when it interfered with business. “The devil’s own daughter, perhaps. Will I see you tonight then?”

  She confused him and Tomack was not a man who liked to be confused. His mind whispered she was too young even as his flesh was sorely tempted. The child could kiss as if her mouth had been fashioned for just such sport.

  “No, my sweet dolt,” she sighed wistfully, “I fear you’ve missed your chance for now. My father’s expected home this evening.”

  He had hardly noticed her until last summer when he’d seen her as if for the first time at the Festival of the Tides. Like all the boys, he’d been straining for a look at Lillitha, the consecratia, but she’d been nothing more than downcast eyes behind a veil. The cadia who stood beside her in severe black robes seemed to dare anyone to come within speaking distance of her charge. But then a flash of red behind the consecratia had caught his eye, a cascade of incredible hair and dancing eyes that looked right at him and smiled coyly. When he saw the thin childish body, he dismissed her from his mind, only to spy her again later that day, dancing the Shaka with the other children, as her body moved in ways that made the childhood game seem obscene. Again she smiled at him. It was a woman’s smile, one that hinted at all sorts of possibilities. He couldn’t help but notice the hair, the graceful curve of her throat, the ripeness of those pink lips...

  “Have you finished the unloading then, that you’re standing around passing the time of day like some lolling dandy?” Danaus stumped down the pier toward him, and Tomack’s spine stiffened.

  Recognition came to his father’s face. The older man bowed stiffly to Marta with the bearing of a man who did not easily or willingly bend a knee to anyone. “My lady, I beg your pardon. I did not realize to whom my son was speaking.”

  “No, I should beg your pardon, sir.” Marta inclined her head slightly as her mother had taught her to do in deference to her elders. “Your son was too gallant to inform me that I was keeping him from his duties. But I do find the ships so fascinating! And the cargo! So many things from such faraway places!”

  Danaus was not too old to be swayed by Marta’s smile or by her appeal to his enormous pride in his ships. His face relaxed and he offered his arm.

  “Allow me to give you a tour, if it pleases you, my lady.” He gestured with a thick, jeweled hand. “The Danaus Iberius, only two summers old and a sounder vessel does not float in these waters...”

  Tomack made as if to follow them but Danaus turned and scowled.

  “Get back to your work, boy, before the rest of the crates rot in the hold.”

  “Yes, father.” />
  He explained in tedious detail how he’d designed the Iberius himself. Marta nodded pleasantly though she wondered if one could be bored to death. She didn’t care how many iron staves circled the ship’s belly or about the improved mixture of pitch that sealed the hull. She wanted to see the cargo, even now being hoisted from the hold.

  Danaus ordered one of the seamen to pry open a crate. Marta gasped as the lid was set aside, revealing rolls of real silk. All the colors of creation were inside, some woven with gold and silver threads, some bordered in brilliant needlework. Danaus took no small satisfaction in her reaction, for he felt a similar thrill every time he surveyed his own merchandise, a lust based more on his ownership of it than its beauty.

  “The Iberius docked at Glisenheath in Modan and took on this cloth,” he explained. “The Modanite weavers are second only to Oman’s cadia in the quality of their cloth. Of course, cadian linen and silk is almost impossible to procure at any price, so it’s hardly worth making a comparison...”

  He opened a small chest containing ropes of gold and copper, beaten metal bracelets studded with ganymite, chains of silver and medallions of all shapes and sizes inset with glistening stones.

  “So beautiful,” Marta breathed, her admiration sincere. “The gold chain is from Polania, isn’t it? And the ganymite, it is mined in the Darban hills, is it not?”

  “Very good,” Danaus said, obviously pleased. So Rowle’s youngest daughter had a head on her shoulders for something other than silly girlish games. That was very good indeed. “You know something of the craftsmen in Correlia?”

  Marta feigned embarrassment, as any proper girl should for speaking so boldly.

  “I’m afraid my father says I soak up such things like a sponge and shouldn’t eavesdrop on the merchants in the market,” she confessed, widening her eyes as she looked up at him quickly, then dropped her gaze to the ground. “But it’s so interesting! Everyone says the finest jewel craft comes from Correlia and the best wines, too. Of course, I’ve never seen such things before up close, only behind the glass cases in the village shops...”

  He fell silent and she was afraid she’d gambled and lost with such a bald invitation. So she smiled brightly and began to move away. A gentle hand on her arm pulled her back.

  “Tis a pity that a child with your eye for quality should have to gaze at such things behind a jeweler’s glass. Allow me to make a small gift of some token. Is there a piece here that catches your eye?”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t!” She forced her gaze from the open chest that beckoned wickedly, wildly praying that Danaus would not accept her token protest. “I am most indebted for the offer but—”

  “I insist. It would be an honor if you’d accept something from this meager assortment.”

  Danaus gritted his teeth against belittling his own merchandise, but certain rules of gallantry could not be ignored, even though he knew Marta spoke the truth when she said such treasures were beyond her grasp. The House Kirrisian hadn’t seen such luxuries in two generations. Her grandfather, may Oman have mercy on his ale-sodden heart, had been a fool. A lucky thing for Danaus’ own father.

  Though giving away even a copper trinket for nothing went against his grain, he was curious to see just how good an eye the child really had. Granting small favors to the lord of the province’s only marriageable daughter—and the sister of a possible shallana breda—was a good investment in the future.

  Marta’s dimples deepened as she bent timidly over the chest. Her eye was drawn immediately to the heaviest gold chain with a nugget of ganymite imbedded in a large medallion, but it would be bad manners to choose something so expensive. Besides, she could never hide something so large and flashy from her mother, as much as the enormous medallion appealed to her.

  She knew Danaus was watching her intently. He would think her foolish to chose anything as common as the copper bracelets and armlets. So she pushed some of the chains and ropes aside until she came upon a gold chain similar to the one she really desired, but much daintier. She pulled it from the heap and admired the small oval medallion that dangled from the chain, its stone catching the sunlight.

  “A very good eye, indeed,” the merchant sighed appreciatively. So, she was smart enough to pick something of quality, but more importantly, clever enough not to appear greedy. It was a fine piece, easily worth thirty placas. “That clear white stone, they call that the Star of Belah. And the craftsmanship of the chain is quite fine. A good choice.”

  “Thank you most sincerely,” Marta said, grinning widely at this stroke of good fortune as she draped the chain around her neck. “I never dreamed of owning anything so splendid.”

  Impulsively, she tiptoed to brush his cheek with her lips, then gave him the little-girl smile she usually saved for her father. It was an innocent smile that rendered her blameless for such a brazen show of affection to a man outside her own family.

  Danaus was no fool. After he escorted the girl down the gangplank and bid her good-bye, he stood beside his son, watching the subtle swing of her hips as she made her way back up the lane. Before she vanished between the rows of whitewashed buildings, she spun quickly and waved once more.

  “Be careful of that one,” Danaus said lowly to his son.

  “She’s just a child, father,” Tomack protested, feeling a guilty heat rise to his face. “She doesn’t mean any harm—”

  The merchant grunted something between a laugh and a snort of contempt for his son’s feeble defense.

  “The hell she doesn’t. That child knows exactly what she’s doing. You be careful with that one, or I’ll skin you alive and throw what’s left of you to the nivey fish.”

  “I would never lay a hand on her—”

  “You’d better not,” Danaus said as he turned to go. “If I have my way, you’ll be marrying that girl.”

  ***

  Marta slipped inside the gate and impulsively blew a taunting, almost cruel kiss to the lone sentinel as she hurried past. The guard was a sallow-faced young man named Garolic, from one of the far villages and therefore even more unsophisticated than the local soldiers in her father’s troop; they were a scruffy lot, thought Marta, all dumb as posts. Garolic’s presence on the parapet was more tradition than necessity; the Omani Realm had known no war in more than two hundred summers, unless one counted the occasional skirmishes along the border. The Torian raiders that hid in the Shumdan Mountains harried the people in Gezana, Bann and Bethosa, but here in Kirrisian along the coast of the Far Sea, there was little to fear.

  Marta glanced upwards as she mounted the crumbling front steps and felt once more the ominous weight settle on her shoulders. House Kirrisian was a relic from the time before Belah united the twelve quarrelsome tribes into the Realm of Omani as one people under a common god. The house looked like what it was: a fort constructed for defense and safety, not aesthetics. Built of heavy stone dragged from the quarries in Narkissa, some three hundred parsecs to the east, it was a bland but sturdy structure that would not burn, nor could its smooth surface be easily scaled. Each corner was topped by a small, squat tower; square rather than rounded, as was the fashion of more recent times. The towers were connected by a parapet that circled the entire perimeter in grim, narrow alleys where soldiers once crouched with siva bows and boiling cauldrons, ready to rain down arrows or hot pitch on besieging armies.

  Marta longed for the day when she’d leave this house forever. Let her younger brother Paul inherit it lock, stock and barrel, that was fine with her. It was an ugly place, bereft of columns or porticos, and even the stone carvings around the front entrance were falling into disrepair.

  Inside, the main hall was dark and dank, the odor of rotting tapestries thick in the still air. Because it had been built as a fortress, the lower hall had no windows to catch the breeze off the ocean. In the winter, smoke from the hearth often backed up in the chimney and turned the room into a hazy hell, blackening the wooden beams that supported the ceiling and almost completely obscurin
g the ancient frescos painted there. Her father’s armor, also black with tarnish and soot, hung over the mantel, a souvenir of the days when a younger man had done his duty to Oman and realm.

  But for the armor, the room was clean, kept in as good order as Ersala could manage. The armor, by tradition, could never be polished; to do so invited bad luck and war. It was a silly superstition, to Marta’s thinking, but at least it was one less bit of work for her.

  Marta could not appreciate the gleaming wood beneath her feet, so bitterly did she resent the back-breaking labor and chapped hands that kept them in such good condition. She was sick of sweeping this room, sick of beating the rugs and raking out the hearth. It wasn’t fair that she spent hours on her hands and knees scrubbing while her sister lounged in her tower like some princess in a calla-mundie. But then her sister was never allowed into the hall where once every moonrise, her father received petitions while seated on the enormous chair of carved fen wood. Marta loved petition days almost as much as she dreaded them, humiliated for her father and herself yet unable to resist the tawdry pageantry as ragged peasants and well-dressed merchants elbowed each other impatiently for their chance to complain to Vidor Rowle. And they always complained about the same things.

  “The man is thief, my lord,” some beggar would moan, naming one of the shopkeepers in the village. “He overcharges for grain he knows is filled with weevils, then threatens me with the stocks if I do not pay him—”

  “My good Vidor Rowle,” a fat merchant would begin, his voice as slippery as a nivey fish, “it is becoming impossible for an honest man to make a living along the waterfront! Decent women are afraid to bring their daughters into my shop because of the abominable behavior of drunken sailors coming out of the Blue Darma at all hours of the day and night—”

  They came and brought with them all the news of Kirrisian in their troubles and woes, their quarrels and scandals. Marta always hurried through her chores in order to sit on the small stool at her father’s feet and listen. Ersala opposed it at first, saying that court matters were often unfit for the child’s ears; but Rowle encouraged her interest, mistaking her gossip’s curiosity for a civic concern and daughterly devotion. Eventually, Marta’s presence became routine, a lone female amid the justice of the court, though some of the older men of the village grumbled that Vidor Rowle was too lax with his women folk.