Spirit of the Sword: Pride and Fury (The First Sword Chronicles Book 1) (8 page)

"Warriors?"

"Many of us have magical gifts, in some form or another," Lucifer said. "In fact I doubt there is such a large association of magic users anywhere in the Empire outside of the Corps of Mages. The rest of us are skilled fighters in our own right."

Miranda pursed her lips. While she appreciated the idea of taking children who would otherwise have perished in poverty or worse, the fact that Lord Quirian expected those children to repay him by making them risk their lives in his service was a notion she could not find less than odious. She hardly felt in a position to say that at the moment however, and so she said nothing as she allowed Lucifer to lead her back to the room in which she had awoken. When they arrived at the top she collapsed into bed without even getting undressed, her eyes closed almost instantly as she was engulfed by sleep.

III

Aurelia's Heir

Miranda's eyes opened as the sounds of the city abuzz floated in through the open window of her tower room.

She half sat up, and looked around. Her room was spacious, considering what it was, with Xarzian carpets on the floor and the walls painted with frescoes of every day life: ploughing the fields, baking bread, feast days and the like. From out the window she could see smoke rising from all over the city, and hear the sounds of all the commerce of life beginning around her.

"I trust you slept well, dear?"

Miranda started as she realised that there was someone else in the room with her. An old woman, her hair long and black and streaked with grey, sat on a stool at the foot of the bed regarding Miranda keenly. In her hands she held a pair of knitting needles, which clacked together as she worked them furiously without ever once taking her eyes off Miranda.

"Have you been watching me sleep?" Miranda demanded.

The old woman shrugged. "Not for very long, if it is any consolation to you, dear."

"It isn't really," Miranda muttered. "And my name is Miranda, thank you, not 'dear'."

"I understood your name was Rebecca?" the old woman asked, with a faint hit of rich Prolixine brogue in her accent

"My name is what I say my name is, and I say it is Miranda," Miranda replied irritably. "Who are you?"

"Abigail, dear, I'm your lady's maid," Abigail said. "Lord Quirian has appointed me to tend to you."

"A slave?" Miranda asked.

"I am free in my mind, that is all that matters."

"Don't be trite," Miranda said. "I have no need of a slave." She had never been comfortable around slaves, never owned any of her own but never liked to be around those that belonged to other people either. This was not only because she could never quite bring herself to believe that it was right for one man to own another, but also because of reasons far more pragmatic than they were noble. If slaves were - or appeared to be - happy in their lot then that meant they were either sincere, which was too uncomfortable a reminder of Michael and his madness for her liking, or they were lying, in which case they could not be trusted. But if they were honest in their discontent then, well, who would want someone openly mutinous going anywhere near their meals?

Servants had never been much better. She had employed them, of course, once she had become established; she had not worked hard to improve her station in life only to clean her own house or cook her own dinners when she had better things to be getting on with. But she had never liked her staff, never liked dealing with them, never been more comfortable than when she had dismissed them just prior to leaving with Lysimachus.

"I do not intend to stay in this house," Miranda continued. "Before I leave I will attempt to secure your freedom, if you wish."

"That's very generous of you, but what would I do with freedom?" Abigail asked with a smile. Miranda had the impression it was supposed to be a sweet and grandmotherly smile, though the effect was spoiled by the fact that it did not reach her impenetrable grey eyes. "I am exactly where I am meant to be."

"Oh, God preserve us," Miranda murmured, rolling her eyes. She found her stick leaning against the wall where she had left it, and used it to push herself off the bed and to her feet. She hobbled around the bed, and Abigail, to find the bags she had brought with her from Lover's Rock. "You can leave now, I'm going to get dressed."

"I could help you with that. It is my job, after all," Abigail observed.

"I don't need your help," Miranda replied sharply. "I have been dressing myself since I was a child."

"Are you so modest about your appearance?" Abigail asked, sounding amused. "Or are you worried I will think less of you for needing assistance?"

"My reasons are none of your business," Miranda snapped. "Out! I command it!"

"For someone who does not like slaves you certainly know the tone of voice in which to command them," Abigail said.

"For a slave you are remarkably insolent," Miranda replied. "Are you so eager to work?"

"Perhaps my insolence is calculated to get a taste of the lash."

"Then you will be disappointed," Miranda said firmly. "I'll not have anyone whipped on my account or in my presence." Michael had been flogged more than once by his master, the same man whom Michael would praise as a model of gentility and piety. Jonathan Dolabella treated his horses better than he treated his fellow men and for such an enlightened attitude he was regarded the best man in town and a model Turonim. He turned Michael's back into a mass of scars yet Michael would sing his praises, wash the fellow's feet with his hair and probably eat the scraps from his table too if he was asked. Miranda hated the hypocrisy of it, the sheer casual wickedness of it all. She hated how it looked too, the blood, the pain. How could these so-called great men treat other men so? Did they truly believe they were a breed apart?

She would beat no slaves, nor suffer any slaves to be beaten. If she had her way there would be no slaves at all.

Perhaps, after Prince Antiochus has taken the throne, he will be grateful enough to grant universal emancipation as a boon to me.

"Stay if you must," Miranda told Abigail. "But I need no assistance." She set her stick upon the bed, leaned against the wall with one hand, and began to unfasten the back of her blouse with the other. That done, she began to pull it off until it was hanging by the arm which she was using to lean on the wall. She switched arms in order to finish getting the blue blouse off, then sat down upon the bed in her smalls. Then she began to take those off too.

At that moment the door opened and a tall, ungainly girl walked in carrying a tray of steaming hot pastries. "Morning! I thought you might be hungry so I brought you some breakf─" The girl saw Miranda, sitting on the bed with basically nothing on, and stopped in midsentence. She squeaked like a mouse when confronted by a cat. A bright red blush spread across her face. She stood absolutely still, trembling a little as her face.

"Um, I, er..." Miranda looked around desperately. "Would you mind closing the door? There's a bit of a draught."

The girl squeaked some more, but did not move.

Miranda sighed. "Abigail, would you mind?"

"Of course not, dear," Abigail got up, setting her knitting to one side as she did so, and darted around the girl with the pastry tray to shut the door.

The girl had not stopped staring, to the point Miranda was now starting to find it a little off-putting.

"Would you mind looking somewhere else please," Miranda said. "You must have your own equivalent to what you can see here?"

The girl squeaked again. Her hair was cornflower yellow, worn in an unruly pixie cut with long bangs that fell between her golden eyes. Her features were soft, her nose in particular being very small and delicate in a way made Miranda want to kiss it. Her arms were very long, fitting for her storkish body, and she had a very noticeable hump on her back. That aside, she was quite pretty. She would have been more so if she hadn't looked so awkward and ill at ease with her surroundings but also, Miranda thought, with her own skin too. And of course her desirability would have been greatly improved if she could have torn her eyes away from Miranda's breasts.

The girl's nose started to bleed. Miranda couldn't roll her eyes far enough back.

"Would you pass me a fascia, please?" Miranda asked.

Abigail, who had a smug half-smile upon her aged and wrinkled face, nodded. "Certainly." She bent down and started rooting through the clothes Miranda had brought with her. "The lacy one?"

"I don't have a salt-spoiled lacy one," Miranda said loudly. She could have sworn she heard Abigail chuckle as she handed Miranda one of her linen breast bands.

Miranda fastened it on and covered herself as quickly as she could. "Right, now that that's been put away perhaps you'll stop looking."

The girl nodded her head frantically. "Yes, right, sorry!"

Miranda stood up to put on a loose fitting white shift with elbow length sleeves and a high neckline. She asked the awkward girl, "Who are you anyway?"

"Oh, right, we haven't met yet have we?" the girl asked. She smiled brightly, something which accentuated the sweetness of her face. "My name's Octavia, Octavia Volucris. I'm one of Lord Quirian's Lost and he asked me to be your bodyguard because the city can get quite rough sometimes and he knew that I was strong enough to take care of you and I know that we're going to be great friends and have so much─"

"Calm down, please, before you suffocate," Miranda said. "I was not asked if I wanted a bodyguard, nor do I think I need one. It isn't as though I intend to go wandering the rough parts of the city in the dead of night."

"You never know what can happen," Abigail murmured. "A big city is not like a small town."

"No, this city doesn't have the Crimson Rose anywhere near it," Miranda retorted. "It was kind of Lord Quirian to make the offer but I have no need of a warrior to follow me around. Your protection is not required." In truth she found it hard to believe that this awkward, ungainly girl was one of Lord Quirian's elite. But then, Captain Lucifer sounded very young as well.

Octavia looked crushed. "Really? You...you don't want me?"

"No, it isn't that-"

"Is it because I walked in on you?"

"No, that has nothing to do with it," Miranda said. "I simply don't feel in any danger."

"But I want to help!" Octavia insisted. "If you don't let me stay then I'll never be able to show Lord Quirian what I can do! And I'll never get any respect from anyone in the Lost."

"Respect?" Miranda asked.

"I'm sorry, you don't need to know. You don't care," Octavia said, bowing her head forlornly.

Miranda sighed. "Please don't look like that. Look, thank you for thinking of me and bringing me breakfast. Sit down, and we'll share them. And while we eat I promise to think about it."

Octavia looked surprised. "You... you want to eat with me?"

"Is that so surprising?" Miranda asked.

"I, um..." Octavia hesitated. Her voice, when it came, was barely louder than a whisper. "Thank you."

She sat down, and the two of them began to share the tray of pastries while they were still warm.

"So, tell me," Miranda asked. "Did you like what you saw?"

Octavia squeaked louder than ever before, the blush returning to her face with a vengeance.

Miranda could only laugh.

Octavia, though she revealed that Lord Quirian was wealthy enough to have a private bath in his house, did not wish to go down to bathe with Miranda. It was a pity really, Miranda would have liked to have seen a little more of Octavia just as the tall girl had seen rather a lot of her. But she supposed Octavia was a little self-conscious about the hump on her back, and considering how she had hated her own leg in her childhood Miranda could hardly find fault with that. But it did mean she was left with old Abigail to escort her down to the bath, to sit and watch while Miranda washed herself and then got dressed again.

It was only after she had dressed for the second time that day that Miranda was intercepted on her way back to her room by Metella Kardia.

"Lord Father requests your presence," Metella said softly, managing to make it seem less like a request and more like a command by dint of her impassive face and stern manner. "You will follow me."

Miranda nodded. "As you say. Lead on."

Metella half turned, but then fixed her eyes upon Abigail. "Where is Octavia?"

"Up in my room I suppose," Miranda replied.

Metella gave a faint, barely noticeable sigh. "I will have her summoned. She should not have left your presence."

"Surely I am allowed some privacy," Miranda said. "I don't intend to take Quirian's bodyguard with me into my new home."

Metella looked at her sideways. To Abigail she said, "Your presence is not required."

"Is that so, dear? What a pity," Abigail said. "I might quite want to watch."

"Very well, if Lord Father will permit it," Metella said. "Follow."

She led them down wide, red-walled corridors decorated with more statues. The frescoes here were of battles and heroes long ago, the mosaics depicted famous scenes from stories Miranda vaguely remembered.

"Lord Quirian is certainly a great enthusiast for history, isn't he?" Miranda observed, attempting to make conversation.

Metella did not respond, but Abigail said, "In my day, we called it living in the past."

Miranda laughed. "I know the taste of that better than most. When Lord Quirian starts babbling about honour and the Corona Firstborn and his antique chivalry then I will worry. At the moment he gives me no concerns."

"There are more ways to live in the past than to seek to abide by history's values, dear," Abigail admonished. "Worse ways, perhaps."

"I doubt that very much," Miranda replied.

Metella paused at the entrance to the dining room, the same room where Miranda had met Lord Quirian the night before, to give instruction to a young man with close cropped brown hair, who ran off to do her bidding. Then she led Miranda in.