Exile's Children (46 page)

Wyllem appeared unimpressed. “I stole a pig,” he said, and chuckled. “Then I killed it and ate it.”

He seemed not much put out that his theft had delivered him to Salvation. Arcole wondered if all exiles accepted their fate so readily. He felt stunned, events moved with a numbing swiftness after the slow days aboard the schooner, and he followed Wyllem in silence as the groom brought him to an outhouse.

“We sleep in here.” He pushed the door open, revealing a bare, dirt-floored shed containing four bunks, stabbing a finger at a section at the farther end that was walled off. “Those are Fredrik's quarters. Now, I reckon Bertran's gear'll fit you.”

From a chest beside one bunk he produced breeches and a waistcoat the like of his own. Arcole asked, “What happened to Bertran?”

“He died,” said Wyllem, grinning at Arcole's expression. “Of old age, be you afeared of fever.”

Arcole hoped the clothing had been washed. At least he was allowed to keep his own shirt and boots; at least he need not wear the demeaning uniform of the house servants.

“Right,” Wyllem declared when he was done, “now let's get to work.”

They returned to the bench, where Wyllem introduced his fellow stableman, a taciturn Evanderan named Gylbert, whose only greeting was a grunt, after which he said nothing more.

As he scrubbed leather and polished harness, Arcole learnt that Wyme owned a stable of four horses and an equipage that was seldom used save when occasion demanded the ceremony of a carriage, or the governor made a trip inland.

“Then,” Wyllem explained, “Fredrik handles the reins and we all get dressed up to play coachmen.”

“He's no riding animals?” Arcole inquired.

“What for?” Wyllem shook his head, frowning, then chuckled. “Of course, you wouldn't know—the master's crippled, can't barely use his
legs. He hobbles about on crutches in the house, and he's a chair and four big fellows to carry it when he goes about the town. Mistress, she's got another. Only sedan chairs in Grostheim, they are, shipped in from Evander.”

He seemed proud of that monopoly, which seemed to Arcole very strange. It was as though the stableman felt himself somehow elevated by his master's prominence, and Arcole wondered if all servants felt the same reflected glory. The enormity of his situation sank in, perhaps for the first time: untold leagues separated him from his home, and he entered a world new in more than only geographic terms. He came close then to cursing Dom for that act supposed kind that had saved him from execution only to bring him here. But here he was, and now must make the best of it, even be he a stranger in a strange new world. He had, he recognized, much to learn—that what lessons he had accrued from contact with Flysse and Davyd were only a beginning.

“And does he hex you … us … when he travels abroad?” he asked.

“Nathanial told you about the master's gift, eh?” Wyllem smiled. “No, not us. Likely because he never goes past the walls without a squadron of Major Spelt's Militiamen along. No point to using his hex power when a musket ball can stop you from running, eh? Anyway, there's nowhere to go. Didn't Nathanial tell you that?”

“Yes,” Arcole replied, “he did. He said there's only empty wilderness out there.”

“Well then,” said Wyllem, “there you are.”

“Yes.” Arcole sighed. “Here I am.”

“You sleep here.” Gahame indicated a corner of the warehouse, screened by crates, a mattress, and blankets on the floor. “There's a pump in the yard for washing, and you'll eat with the others. Those are your only clothes?”

“Yes, 'sieur Gahame.” Davyd nodded, surveying his quarters. He hoped there were no rats; at least there was a window looking onto the yard outside.

“Well, we'll have to see what we can find you,” Gahame said. “I'll not have my indentured folk in stinking rags.”

Davyd did not think his clothes stank, nor were they unduly ragged, but he said dutifully, “No, 'sieur Gahame.”

“As to your duties.” Gahame paused. “Why were you exiled?”

Davyd hesitated. “I was caught trying to steal, 'sieur Gahame …”

The thin man nodded thoughtfully. “Best not try such tricks with me, eh?” His tone was mild, but Davyd heard the threat beneath and shook his head vigorously.

“Oh, no, 'sieur Gahame, I'd not do that. It was only that I was starving.”

“Could you not find honest work?”

Gahame eyed him speculatively and Davyd shook his head, dissembling. “Work's hard to find in Bantar, 'sieur. Leastways when you're like me, and an orphan.” He assumed what he hoped was a suitably crestfallen expression and added an element of truth, “I might've begged, but I didn't like to do that.”

“A point in your favor,” Gahame said. “But tell me: were you orphaned, why were you not placed in a workhouse?”

“I don't know, 'sieur,” Davyd said, which was more or less the truth. “But I wasn't, and I had no money, and, well …” He shrugged expressively.

“To steal is to sin,” Gahame declared. “Are you a believer, Davyd?”

Davyd nodded enthusiastically, omitting to say just what he believed in.

“Then,” said Gahame, “you will be pleased to know that I allow my servants to attend church. In fact, I insist on it.”

“Oh,” said Davyd, “good. I shall enjoy that, 'sieur Gahame.”

Which was an absolute lie, for the idea filled him with renewed terror that he found difficult to conceal. In Bantar he had avoided churches as he avoided the Inquisitors and the Militia, for fear the priests owned the ability to sniff out his dreaming. Perhaps it was different here, but still the notion filled him with dread. It was a dilemma—he'd gain this man's goodwill, and could hardly refuse if Gahame insisted he attend services; did he protest, then it might be Gahame would suspect him and he be found out anyway. He wished Arcole were present to counsel him, but Arcole was gone and he must rely on his own wits.

“What's amiss?” he heard Gahame ask. “You're gone all pale, lad.”

Davyd forced his mouth to parody a weak smile and mumbled, “You're too kind, 'sieur. I'd not expected such kindness.”

“I do no more than any God-fearing man,” Gahame said, though he appeared pleased with Davyd's response. “Now, tell me, have you any especial skills that might be useful in my enterprise?”

Not save you need locks picked, Davyd thought, or purses cut, but he shook his head and said, “I don't think so, 'sieur. What is the nature of your enterprise?”

“Of course, you'd not know.” Gahame smiled, a benefactor proud
of his success. “I've the governor's licence to supply the folk of Salvation with arms, also general hardware. Anyone in all this land requiring a musket, ball, or powder, also tools—ax heads, plowshares, and the like—must come to me. Or I go to them.”

“You travel beyond Grostheim's walls?” That seemed to Davyd a somewhat unpleasant notion: he was familiar with cities, not the countryside, which struck him as a vaguely dangerous place. He had sooner remain safe behind the walls of this small city, even must he risk priestly discovery. It was an afterthought to add, “Master.”

The trader seemed not to notice the lapse, though he was aware of Davyd's discomfort and chuckled encouragingly. “There's no danger in Salvation,” he said confidently. “Save the odd wild beast come awandering out of the forest, and those we can easily shoot. No, lad, have no fear on that account—my weapons are used for hunting only. Besides, I'd not take you along yet. Until you're better seasoned, I'll find you work about these premises; you'll not be idle, I promise you.”

Dutifully, Davyd nodded.

“Well, then,” Gahame said, “follow me and I'll introduce you to your fellows.” He strode away, Davyd at his heels.

Davyd thought this Rupyrt Gahame seemed a decent enough master. Save for this disturbing business of the church, he thought he'd landed on his feet. He wondered how Flysse and Arcole fared, and when he might see them again.

Flysse followed Dido, wondering how the woman could be so thin. Mistress Banlyn had ruled the cookhouse of the Flying Horse, and she had been, to put it kindly, an ample woman. But Dido, for all she was undoubted mistress of the mansion's kitchen, was gaunt. She looked to Flysse as if she hardly are, her pale skin stretched tight over prominent bones so that she appeared all hollows and sharp angles that gave her a forbidding appearance. Her narrow face suggested asperity, but as yet she had shown Flysse only kindness.

Flysse had felt nervous when Benjamyn brought her to the cook—much as she had felt when first she approached the patroness of the Flying Horse—so she had curtsied and stood silent as the majordomo introduced her. But then he had left and Dido had given warm greeting, escorting her personally to the room she was to share with the three other scullions and the five housemaids. It had looked to Flysse neither worse nor better than her quarters in the tavern, and the underclothes and dirndl she must wear afforded her no embarrassment—it seemed to her quite natural that servants should be uniformed. She thought that
Arcole must find it far harder, for he was quite unaccustomed to that lowly station; she thought that in this respect she was likely better suited to her newfound station. It was, after all, not so different from what she had known in Evander.

She listened obediently as Dido outlined her duties, and told her something of the mansion's arrangement. She was to heed the cook in all matters, save when Benjamyn or Chryselle gave direct instruction—which, Dido explained, was unlikely, Flysse being at present the lowest of the low and therefore beneath their notice. she was to bathe regularly—Dido would not tolerate unwashed kitchen maids—and keep her clothes clean. She was forbidden the main part of the house, but might move freely in the kitchen and the yards behind. She was to be modest—there were six footmen and, now, three stablemen, and they would likely seek her favors, she being, Dido must admit, a pretty little thing. She was to ignore their blandishments, and did any invite her to their quarters, she was to refuse them and report their lewdness to Dido or Benjamyn.

She had asked then, “Does Arcole sleep there, by the stables?”

And Dido had studied her with a shrewd eye and asked in turn, “He's your sweetheart?”

Which had prompted Flysse to blush furiously and explain to the cook all that had transpired on board the
Pride of the Lord
; except, that was, for the fact that she now believed herself firmly in love.

Dido had nodded then, as if she understood, and said, “He appears a remarkable man. A gentleman, you say? Well, my girl, don't allow your heart to rule your head. It was the attentions of a
gentleman
”—she gave the word offensive connotations—“that got me sent here.”

“Arcole's not like that,” Flysse protested.

But Dido ignored her denial. “Men are men,” she declared, “and your Arcole's just another. Nor's he a gentleman any longer, not here. Here he's just another exile, and whether he's better or worse than the rest remains to be seen. You'll not seek him out, d'you understand?”

“Yes.” Flysse had nodded, blushing anew at the suggestion, but quite unable to resist asking, “But shall I see him sometimes?”

“Like as not,” Dido had allowed, “for you'll be scrubbing pots out in the yard often enough, and we eat together. And then there's church.”

“Church?” Flysse had asked.

“Indeed, church,” Dido had replied. “This is a God-fearing household, and the master allows us to attend the early morning service each Sunday. You'll see him then. But there'll be no dawdling or such foolery, you hear me?”

“No,” Flysse had promised. And then was struck by another thought: “Shall Davyd be there?”

“The lad from the ship?” Dido had ducked her gaunt gray head in agreement. “Master Gahame's a God-fearing man, so he'll be attending. Your young friend was lucky to find such a master.”

That had pleased Flysse, and Dido's manner had seemed so kindly that she had ventured to ask if they might meet on other occasions. She thought it should pleasant to find Davyd again.

“Other occasions?” Dido had seemed to find the question hard of understanding. “What other occasions?”

“I wondered …” Flysse had hesitated: the cook's seeming incomprehension disturbed her. “I wondered if I might not see him about the town.”

“About the town?” Dido had echoed, and then laughed. “God knows, missy, you won't be going about the town for a long time. That's a privilege, don't you know? It'll be a few years before you earn that.”

Flysse felt her heart sink. Was this mansion to be all her world for years to come? Abruptly timid, she said, “But Nathanial … ”

“Is a manservant,” Dido concluded, “and been with the master years now. Nathanial's earned the master's trust, so sometimes he's allowed out, like Benjamyn or me. But you? No, young Flysse, you won't be setting foot outside until you've earned the privilege. You just work hard and prove yourself, and then”—she smiled benignly, as if granting a gift—“why, in a few years' time perhaps you'll be allowed the odd trip to market or suchlike.”

Flysse had swallowed, fighting sudden tears. This apparently kindly woman obviously saw nothing untoward or odd in such confinement. Indeed, she clearly considered the promise of a tiny measure of freedom a prize worthy of the striving. Flysse supposed that was the cost of exile, of indenture: it seemed a dreadful price. she endeavored to console herself with the thought that she shared this mansion prison with Arcole, and somehow—even be it at risk of punishment—she would contrive to see him, to spend what time she could with him.

She had wiped away her tears then and put on the dirndl, and followed Dido to the kitchen and the first day of her new life.