Exile's Children (44 page)

He proceeded to outline conditions of behavior. Arcole listened with half an ear, studying the man.

Spelt was in his middle years, gray already streaking his temples. His face was deeply tanned and deeper lined, gray eyes peering from beneath craggy brows. He looked, Arcole thought, to be carved from the same timber as Grostheim itself, weathered and harsh. He wore a saber and a brace of pistols, and all the while he spoke, his fingers drummed against the silver-chased butts. Arcole noticed that his fingers were stained dark with tobacco, the nails chewed down and ragged. He formed the impression that this Major Alyx Spelt hid tension behind a screen of discipline.

When the man was done speaking, two soldiers swung the doors
open. Like cattle herded to a byre, the newcomers were marched inside. It was not unlike that warehouse that had been their last resting place in Evander, as if they were not human folk but only living cargo to be stored until dispensed. The floor was hard-packed earth, its only covering the blankets strewn carelessly about. Along two walls there were windows cut, glassless and set high, allowing just enough light the occupants might see one another. At the farther end stood a wooden partition separating the main area from what were, by the sour odor, open latrines. Two water butts flanked the doors, beside them stacks of earthenware platters and crude-fashioned mugs, none too clean.

Arcole led Flysse and Davyd to a place close by the doors. By dint of the reputation earned aboard the
Pride of the Lord,
none argued, and they gathered blankets for their beds. Arcole wondered how cold the night might be, and how long they would remain before they were—What had Spelt said?—“assigned your owners”? He hoped Var's promised intercession would favorably influence the governor. All well, he might find some comfortable position, learn about this place, and then … No, best not allow his hopes too free a rein. That should be too much akin to assuming a round of petanoye won on the first deal; wiser to be patient, learn all he might, and then decide how to play the hand.

Tomas Var accepted the glass the servant proffered, waiting in dutiful silence as the governor ostentatiously tamped his pipe. They sat in what Wyme described as his “sanctum”—for sake of privacy, Var assumed. Captain Bennan waited in an outer room, entertained by the governor's lady, Celinda, and Major Spelt concluded his duties in the town. Wyme had expressed a desire to hear a summary of Var's report before they ate, so now Var sat in an overstuffed chair facing a massive desk, both items—like every other piece of furniture in the mansion—imported from Evander. He could not help but wonder at the cost of shipment, and think that it should surely have been easier to obtain pieces made locally. But that was not, he thought, Wyme's style.

He had met Andru Wyme only once before, and not much liked the man then, nor, as yet, found reason to change his mind. He supposed he was at fault in that, for Wyme was well regarded by the Autarchy. His appointment here was evidence of that, for only the most trusted of the Autarchy's officers were granted such position, effectively rulers of this western continent—but still he could not help thinking the man pompous. He thought now that Wyme made him wait deliberately, looking to emphasize his elevation over a mere captain of marines. And the way he
dressed his servants—all brocaded waistcoats and silver-buckled shoes that seemed an odd contrast to the brands upon their cheeks—seemed to Var an affectation. While Wyme might love his duty, Var thought, he loved his comfort more. He smiled as an errant thought crossed his mind—Arcole Blayke would feel quite at home here.

“Something amuses you?”

Wyme touched a lucifer to his pipe and inhaled deeply as Var said, “I thought of an exile, a most remarkable man.” He gestured at the room. “One I suspect is more accustomed to such quarters than the hold of a transport ship. I'd discuss him with you, by your leave.”

“Later.” Wyme shook the lucifer, the smell of sulphur a moment pungent, and tossed the spent match away. The waiting servant stooped to retrieve the stick. “First, your report.”

Var nodded obediently: Arcole Blayke must, inevitably, play a large part in that.

When he was done speaking, Wyme grunted, thick brows arching over heavy-lidded eyes. “He impressed you, eh?” His tone was noncommittal.

“He saved the ship,” Var said. “Were it not for his wits and courage, why, I believe the serpent must have sunk us. Surely far more lives would have been lost.”

Wyme motioned for the servant to fill their glasses before he spoke again. “And yet he killed a man and damaged two others—all property of the Autarchy. That cannot be forgotten.”

“He fought in defense of others,” Var replied carefully, “who are also property of the Autarchy. And he was punished for that.”

“Twelve lashes?” Wyme turned his glass between thick fingers, savoring the bouquet. “Hardly fitting for what he did.”

“I deemed it adequate. I felt he acted honorably.”

“Honorably?” Wyme's brows rose high at that, and he chuckled scornfully. “My dear Var, the man's an
exile
. Do you suggest these people possess notions of honor now?”

His tone, his expression, denied such a notion was acceptable. Not taking his eyes from the governor's face, Var watched the servant. The man's features remained immobile, his ears deaf to the insult.

“I'd say Blayke does. Certainly he's no common criminal. I understand that in the Levan he was regarded as a gentleman, even moved in aristocratic circles.”

“In the Levan, perhaps.” Wyme's hand described a dismissive arc. “But this is Salvation, and this fellow—Blayke, you name him?—comes here with the brand on his face like any other. Ergo, he
is
a criminal.”

“Even so.” Var hesitated, torn between fulfilling his promise to Arcole and fear of angering Wyme by pressing too hard. “That he saved the ship must count in his favor, no?”

“Perhaps,” Wyme allowed. “But it would not do to give these people airs. God knows, they're the sweepings of humanity.” He snorted disdainfully, oblivious of the branded man standing at his elbow. “You say he's some gentlemanly qualities?”

Var said, “Indeed, he has.”

“Then I'll consider him for a manservant.” Wyme raised his glass. “What think you of this wine?”

“Excellent.” Var accepted the change of subject: he had fulfilled his promise and could do no more. “The vineyards flourish?”

“Largely.” Wyme scowled, thick lips pursing. “We'll speak of them and other matters at dinner. Now, however, do you apprise me of events at home?”

Var wondered what occasioned the shadow he saw darken the governor's fleshy face. He began to speak of Evander and its subject lands, and by the time he was done, a gong belled, announcing the evening meal.

The governor's dining room was opulent, graced with crystal chandeliers and lace curtains, silverware on the long table and plates of fine imported china. Servants waited attentive behind each chair. Var found himself seated beside Celinda; Alyx Spelt and Captain Bennan faced him across the damask cloth, and Wyme took the head.

Their conversation was at first a disappointment to the marine. There was, he sensed, a topic that went undiscussed as they exchanged news, Celinda demanding he and Bennan tell her of Evander's latest fashions and what gossip circulated—both subjects of little interest to the two visitors. Spelt and Wyme made contribution, but all the while Var remembered the expression on the governor's face and wondered when it should be explained.

His curiosity remained unsatisfied until Celinda withdrew, leaving the men to their pipes and the port shipped over on the
Pride of the Lord
. The table was cleared of all but the decanter and the servants were dismissed before Wyme spoke, and even then softly, as if he feared eavesdroppers.

“We've alarming news,” he declared. “It would seem we are not the only inhabitants of Salvation.”

Across the table Bennan gulped in surprise, choking on port. Var gasped, setting down his pipe. “But I thought …” He gathered his wits, scattered by this unexpected announcement. “It's surely common knowledge none others lay claim to this land.”

“That's surely the common
belief
.” Spelt's voice was dry, and even though he spoke no louder than Wyme, it seemed his words rattled loud as musket fire. “But it would appear incorrect. We've evidence of others.”

“Bloody evidence,” Wyme said. “We share this land with savages.”

Like cattle herded to market, the exiles were driven through the streets to an open enclosure, where they were penned under the watchful gaze of Militiamen. The sun was hot and there was no shade. Folk gathered along the fence, studying the newcomers with calculating eyes, and to one side a pavilion afforded shadow to those Arcole assumed to be the aristocracy of Salvation. He saw Tomas Var there, with the major and the man he thought must be the governor; several others, as many women as men. All save the officers, whose uniforms were unchanging, were dressed in outmoded fashion. He wondered if Var had made good his promise, and what good it might do him. At his side, Davyd looked nervously about; Flysse fidgeted with her shawl, her eyes downcast. Almost, Arcole took her hand, for she looked so forlorn.

For those outside the fence—the free folk—this seemed a festive occasion. Their voices were loud as they discussed the likely merits of the exiles. Arcole was reminded of horse auctions he had attended, save now he was in the position of the beast. He liked the feeling not at all. Then the governor raised a hand and silence fell. He spoke a moment with Spelt, and the major barked an order that brought soldiers forward, urging the exiles to a circumnavigation of the pen. Like shuffling animals they were paraded before the onlookers: Arcole must curb his resentment, struggling to assume a docile expression.

As he passed the pavilion he saw Var lean toward the governor and
the man nod, waving an indolent hand in his direction. A Militiaman tapped his shoulder, indicating he quit the circle. He heard Davyd's sudden intake of breath and the small cry Flysse gave. He found it difficult to meet their eyes as he followed the soldier to the side of the pen.

“You're in luck,” the Militiaman murmured. “Governor's chosen you, an' that's an easy life.”

Arcole said nothing in reply, only stood silent as the fates of his fellow exiles were decided.

It appeared the governor and his companions took first pick of the newcomers, for as the circle continued its round, soldiers removed several more to stand with Arcole. He was surprised to find himself so pleased that Flysse was selected, and when she came to his side he could not help returning her smile. Neither when Davyd joined them: he wondered if destiny kept them together.

Then it was the turn of Salvation's lesser citizens, who must bid for their servants.

Gradually the circle thinned, until finally all were accounted for and the ritual of indenture ended. The newcome exiles followed their masters into the streets. Arcole wondered if the governor had selected Flysse and Davyd too.

But then a tall, thin man emerged from the pavilion to beckon Davyd away.

The boy hesitated, taking Flysse and Arcole both by the hand. “I'll see you again,” he said.

It was as much a question as a statement, and Arcole nodded, forcing a smile. “No doubt. This seems not so large a place, eh?”

Flysse said, “Take care, Davyd,” in a tremulous voice.

“Well, lad?” The thin man beckoned again, though he seemed not overly impatient. “Do you say your farewells and follow me.”

“Go on,” Arcole urged. “Best not anger your new … employer.” He could not bring himself to say “owner.”

Davyd nodded and swallowed, then released their hands and turned toward the thin man, who said, “I am Rupyrt Gahame. You will address me as ‘Master' or ‘Sieur Gahame.' Your name?”

“Davyd Furth,” came the answer, “ 'sieur Gahame.”

Gahame nodded as if satisfied, and walked away. He did not look back, as if he assumed Davyd must follow like, Arcole thought, a trained hound. The boy cast a last, lingering glance back, then squared his shoulders and trotted after the man. Arcole watched him go, quite unaware that Flysse now held his hand. It seemed curiously natural that she should.

He turned to survey the pavilion. The governor still sat in conversation with Spelt and Var, a red-haired woman in a gown fashionable some years past at his side. It was she waved a man forward, clearly issuing instructions, for the fellow bowed and came immediately to the pen.

His cheek marked him as indentured, his outfit as a servant of some kind. Over a shirt of coarse cotton he wore a garish red waistcoat, all brocade and frogging; his breeches ended at the calf, fastened over white stockings that descended to pewter-buckled shoes: Arcole surveyed the uniform with distaste.

“You're to come with me.” He halted before Arcole and Flysse. “I'm Nathanial. How're you called?”

Arcole said, “I am Arcole Blayke, and this is Mistress Flysse Cobal.”

Nathanial chuckled. “Not here you're not, my friend. You're plain Arcole and she's plain Flysse. For all she's not”—he studied Flysse with a lewd eye—“what you call plain.”

He saw Arcole's face darken and his smile disappeared. “No offense, friend Arcole—if she's with you, so be it. But folk like us don't own second names. Just those the masters allow us. Now, come on, before madame sees you dawdling. No good to upsetting her your first day.”

He led the way out of the enclosure and they fell into step beside him, down streets lined with wooden houses, none more than two stories tall. Grostheim was, Arcole thought, a decidedly rustic place. “The governor chose us?” he asked.

“He picked you. You come recommended by that marine captain. Said you saved the ship, he did. Like to hear about that later, I would.” Nathanial glanced speculatively at Arcole, then turned to wink at Flysse. “Flysse here, madame took a fancy to. Reckons she's got the makings of a maid, she does.”