Exile's Children (45 page)

So Var had kept his promise: Arcole decided the man was honorable, for all he was an Evanderan. “What am I to be?” he asked.

Nathanial shrugged. “I don't rightly know yet. Most likely a manservant, unless Wyme sets you to working the stables or some such.”

“Wyme?” Arcole said.

“Governor Andru Wyme,” Nathanial replied. “By God's grace, leader of this colony. That and a little help from his friends—he's a brother who's some sort of high-ranking officer in the Autarchy. Still, it's an easier life in his mansion than many another place. Save you upset him or madame, that is.”

“Do you know a man called Rupyrt Gahame?”

Flysse's question surprised Arcole: he was for the moment more interested in discovering what he might of Wyme and his household.

“He's a trader,” Nathanial said. “Got the licence to supply weapons and such to the inland settlers. Why?”

Flysse said, “He took a friend.”

“That carrot-topped lad?” Nathanial nodded. “Then he's lucky. There're worse masters than 'sieur Gahame.”

Arcole frowned. Flysse's concern prompted a small pang of guilt that he had not thought more of the boy. “Gahame's an enterprise here?”

“Got a warehouse and an office in Grostheim,” Nathanial agreed, “but he travels a good deal inland.”

Arcole nodded, hiding his disappointment. It occurred to him that if Gahame took his indentured servants with him when he traveled inland, there might well be opportunity to escape—it might well have served him better had Gahame selected him rather than Davyd. “What lies inland?” he asked.

“Farms and vineyards, some mills. Then the wilderness.”

“And what's there?” Arcole made the question deliberately casual.

“What's there?” Nathanial scratched a mop of dark brown hair. “I'd not rightly know. Forest, mostly, so I hear; wild beasts, folks claim. I've never seen it, nor want to. Only been past the walls once.”

Arcole glanced up. The walls were clearly visible above the buildings, and on them the red coats of the God's Militia. They seemed suddenly the walls of a prison. “You don't go beyond the walls?” he asked.

“What for?” Nathanial favored him with a puzzled look. “I'd not want to work on a farm nor tend the grapes. No, not me. Born in Avanache, I was, and no wish to see the countryside.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Close on eight years.”

“And only once stepped past the walls?” Arcole was horrified.

“Not counting the jaunt to the dock, yes.” Nathanial nodded cheerfully. “I'm happy enough here; I know when I'm well off. You'll learn that in time, my friend. You'll learn to make the best of it.”

Arcole thought no; at least, not in the way Nathanial meant. The fellow appeared to have accepted indenture without thought of rebellion. He would not—by God, he would not! He smiled grimly and turned to Nathanial again.

“I saw the hexes on the walls. Are they to keep us in?”

“No point to that,” Nathanial said. “No one escapes.”

“None try?”

“No point,” came the answer again. “There's nowhere to go, save the wilderness. And only a crazy man'd go there. Get eaten by the wild
animals, likely, or starve. There've been a few, but Major Spelt and his redcoats brought them back and they were flogged, then set to hard labor.”

“Then why hex the walls?” Arcole demanded.

“Habit, I suppose.” Nathanial shrugged. “When they built Grostheim, they didn't know Salvation was empty, so they put the magic marks up there in case. But now, why, there's not even an Inquisitor here to renew the hexes. They've never been tested. For all I know, they don't even work.”

“How do you know the wilderness is empty?” Arcole asked.

“Stands to reason, no?” said Nathanial. “They've been cutting back the forest since Grost's time, and there's been no sign of anyone else. The farmers and the wine growers never seen anyone; there's hunters go after game back in there, and they've never seen anyone. No, there's nothing out there save trees and wild beasts.”

“No one explores?”

Arcole feared he perhaps plied Nathanial with too many questions, that the man should become suspicious, but he appeared not to notice, or not to mind. Perhaps, Arcole thought, he assumed the newcomers afraid and looked to comfort them, or such questions were usual from those just arrived.

“What for?” Nathanial gave him back. “The land already cleared provides us with all we need, so there's no reason. Leastways, not until more settlers come out.” He chuckled with careless cynicism and touched the brand on his cheek. “Or Evander sends more of us folk to clear the forests.”

Arcole laughed in response, unamused but seeking to encourage Nathanial. “And the farms and such?” he asked. “They employ indentured folk?”

“Who else'd do the work?” Nathanial favored Arcole with a pitying glance. “Like I say—you've landed easy.”

“Don't they ever attempt escape?” Arcole wondered.

Nathanial laughed again. “Don't you listen, friend?
There's nowhere to go
. God, even if a man did flee—even if the redcoats didn't catch him, and he got away—there's nothing but God-knows-how-many leagues of wilderness beyond the farms. And then there're Wyme's hexes.”

Sharp, Arcole said, “Wyme's hexes.”

“Aye, Wyme's hexes,” Nathanial confirmed. “The governor's got the hexing gift. Not like an Inquisitor, mind you, but enough he can spell a man, or”—with a sidelong glance at Flysse—“a woman. Any of us go past the walls, the governor sets a hex on them. Then the major can hunt them down real easy.”

Arcole felt Flysse's hand clench tight on his, and blessed her for asking the question that sprang to his lips: “Shall Davyd be hexed, then?”

“Does 'sieur Gahame choose to take him out, yes,” Nathanial answered, mistaking her tone for selfish fear. “But you needn't worry—it's only them who go beyond the walls that Wyme hexes. It tires him, I suppose.”

This knowledge Arcole filed away for future reference: that Davyd might be hexed could affect his inchoate plans. He mulled the notion, falling silent as they continued through the streets.

Was Nathanial aware of his sudden quiet, the man gave no sign, but kept on talking, speaking of life in Grostheim and the benefits of indenture to Wyme's service as if he would deliver all the information at his disposal in the single lengthy address. There were, he explained, those amongst the governor's servants of higher rank than others, to whom the lesser servants must submit—to wit, the majordomo Benjamyn, the housekeeper Chryselle, the cook Dido, and the head groom Fredrik. He named assorted others, but Arcole paid scant attention: Nathanial's litany forced home the knowledge that he was become such a creature as he had always taken for granted—a servant, faceless. He rubbed at the scar decorating his cheek, anger welling anew so that he must struggle to maintain a bland expression, bite back the retort that he was no man's menial. Here he was exactly that, and did he claim difference he must suffer for his presumption. It sat ill, and in silence he swore that he would accept the indignity no longer than he must.

Then Nathanial halted before a chest-high fence trailed with roses; past the barrier lay lawns and flowerbeds, and a wide drive leading to a portico extending from the frontage of a sizable house. It was constructed in the style of an Evanderan country mansion, but all of wood, so that it looked to Arcole like a grandiose hunting lodge, a folly such as a rich man might order built in the forests.

Nathanial said, “The governor's mansion.” And when Arcole moved toward the open gates, “No, no,” hastily. “We're not allowed the front entrance. There's a servants' gate out back.”

It seemed to Arcole strange to enter a house from the rear, but he steeled himself and followed Nathanial around the fence to a humbler gate that opened into a yard. Wash was hung there to dry, and three women, their rolled sleeves exposing the brands on their arms, labored over steaming tubs. They looked up as Nathanial led Arcole and Flysse across the yard, but did not speak or halt their work.

Nathanial brought the newcomers to a servants' hall, where more indentured folk busied themselves with the sundry tasks that fall to
menials. Arcole had never before set foot in this part of a house; never before paused to wonder at a servant's lot. He gazed about, noticing that the men all wore outfits similar to his guide's, and that the women were dressed in uniform dirndls, the skirts white beneath green bodices.

At the farther end of the hall a white-haired man rose to his feet, an expression of inquiry on his lined face. He wore waistcoat and breeches like the others, but his shirt was of finer material, fastened at the neck with a silk foulard, and his shoes were buckled with polished silver.

“Benjamyn,” Nathanial said, head bobbing, “these are the two the master's chosen. Flysse and Arcole, they're called.”

Benjamyn nodded and waved Nathanial away. He looked to Arcole to be in his latter years, but his eyes were bright as they studied the newcomers, and he held himself rigidly erect. The brand on his cheek was so ancient it was barely visible. He took his time examining them, all the while making a little clucking sound, as if he ticked of mental points.

Finally he spoke: “I am Benjamyn, majordomo of this household. Nathanial has explained arrangements here?”

Arcole nodded. “Yes, he has.” Then he frowned as he saw Flysse drop a curtsy. Old habits, he supposed, died hard; likely hard as the acquiring of new.

“Then you understand that after the master and his lady,” Benjamyn continued, “you answer to me. Be always obedient, perform your duties, and you shall find this a comfortable home. What are your skills?”

Arcole hesitated. He had anticipated conversation with Wyme, the chance to outline his various abilities in a manner that would convince the governor he be placed in some suitable position—he was unsure how to answer this servant. He was not accustomed to speaking with servants beyond the issuing of requests that were, in reality, orders. He was grateful Flysse spoke up.

“I was a serving girl in a tavern,” she said. “Before that I worked as a lady's maid, and on my parents' farm.”

Benjamyn nodded, tongue clicking vigorously. “Then perhaps you've the makings of a maid,” he said. “But I think we'll start you in the kitchens, does Dido agree.”

Bright black eyes turned to Arcole, brows raised questioningly. “And you, Arcole?”

“I …” Arcole shrugged helplessly: of a sudden his catalogue of accomplishments seemed of poor advantage. “I am accounted a fair cardsman; I play the harpsichord and the spinet; I can sketch and paint; I box quite well; and I can use a sword or pistol.”

Arcole heard someone chuckle. Amongst the wrinkles furrowing
Benjamyn's forehead, two or three grew deeper. It was impossible to tell whether he smiled or frowned. “All very well,” he said, “were you a gentleman. But what
useful
talents have you?”

Almost, Arcole said that he
was
a gentleman, but he bit back the claim—it was meaningless now, and he thought it could serve only to damage him in this strange new situation. Instead, he said, “I can ride. In the Levan I was considered a good horseman.”

Benjamyn's tongue clicked louder. “Then I think,” he said slowly, “that you shall begin your service in the stables. Nathanial, do you take him to Fredrik. Flysse, follow me.”

He turned away. Flysse looked to Arcole with something akin to sorrow in her eyes. Arcole stood dumbstruck. A stableman? He was to be a stableman? He moved after Benjamyn, a protest forming—and was halted by Nathanial's hand on his arm.

“Don't argue,” whispered the brown-haired man. “Else old Benjamyn'll make your life truly miserable.”

Arcole could think of few things more miserable than working in the stables, but heeded the warning. Surely in time he must be elevated to some more suitable position, and it would not do to rebel so early. He told himself that access to riding animals might well prove useful and, smarting beneath an expression of assumed docility, he allowed Nathanial to lead him from the hall.

They crossed the yard to another, redolent of the animals penned in the stables that stood against one wall. Two men in leather waistcoats sat on a bench polishing tackle; at Nathanial's shout, a third emerged from the stables.

“Fredrik, this is Arcole. Benjamyn sends him.”

Fredrik eyed Arcole much as had the majordomo. He was some years younger, his face dark as old leather, a small, bowlegged man, his graying hair drawn back in a tail fastened with a blue bow.

“So.” The bowing of his legs gave him a waddling gait. “You know horses, eh?” His accent belonged to the Levan.

Arcole nodded and said, “I've some skill.”

Fredrik cocked his head. “You're Levanite?”

“I am,” said Arcole, thinking to have found a friend.

The head groom dashed his hopes. “Don't look for favors on that account, eh? The Levan counts for naught here. We're all exiles, eh?” He tapped his scarred cheek in emphasis. “Show me your hands.”

Arcole offered his palms for examination. Fredrik studied them and chuckled. “Ever groomed a horse?”

Arcole answered with a nod.

“Ever cleaned your own tack?”

Arcole shook his head.

Fredrik said, “You'll learn,” and turned to the watching grooms. “Wyllem, do you see him kitted out, then put him to work.”

Wyllem uncoiled a lanky frame from the bench and beckoned Arcole. “So what were you,” he asked, “before you got sent here?”

Arcole said, “A gentleman.”

“Well, you're no gentleman here, my friend,” Wyllem chuckled. “What'd you do to earn your brand?”

“I killed a man in a duel,” Arcole replied.