down and be comfortable.’
Rache had brought coffee and small cakes and cream and spices on a tray. She set it up on a small table, and left the room. Keffria served them. For a time the only talk was whether or not cream and spices were preferred in the coffee. When all were served, Keffria seated herself and smiled round at their guests. Delo was sitting nervously on the edge of her seat, and she kept glancing towards the door. Ronica guessed she was hoping Malta would appear and take her out of the grown-up setting. At least, so she hoped.
Keffria immediately returned to her attack. ‘So. What does bring you calling here today, Cerwin?’
He met her eyes boldly, but his voice was soft as he said, ‘Malta invited me… us. I had taken Delo into the market for an afternoon of shopping. We chanced to meet Malta and we all took some refreshment together. And Malta extended to us an invitation to call on her at home.’
‘She did.’ Keffria’s tone did not question his story. Ronica hoped her dismay did not show as plainly as her daughter’s. ‘Well. The silly child never told us to expect you. But that is how girls are, I suppose, and Malta worse so than most. Her head is full of foolish fancies, I am afraid, and they crowd out all common sense and courtesy.’
Ronica heard Keffria’s words with half an ear. She was already wondering how often Malta had slipped away to market on her own, and if the meeting had truly been as chance as Trell made it sound. She looked at Delo speculatively; could the two girls have planned the ‘accidental’ encounter?
As if on cue, Malta entered the room. She glanced around in consternation at them all taking refreshments together so socially. A sly wariness came over her face, very ugly to Ronica’s eye. When had the girl become capable of such cunning? It was plain she had hoped to greet Delo and Cerwin on her own. At least she did not appear to have expected them today. Although her hair was freshly brushed and there was a touch of paint on her lips, her dress at least was appropriate to a girl of her age. She wore a simple woollen shift, embroidered at the throat and hem. Yet there was something in the way she wore it, sashed tight to show her waist and pull the fabric firm against her rounding bosom that suggested there was a woman in the child’s clothes. And Cerwin Trell had risen to his feet as if it were a young woman entering rather than a little girl.
This was worse than Ronica had feared.
‘Malta,’ her mother greeted her. She smiled at her daughter. ‘Delo has come over to visit with you. But won’t you have some cakes and coffee with us first?’
Delo’s and Malta’s eyes met. Delo swallowed and licked her lips. ‘And afterwards, perhaps you can show us the trumpet vine that you said was on bud.’ She cleared her throat and spoke louder than was needed as she added to Keffria, ‘Malta was telling us about your hothouse room when last we met. My brother is very interested in flowers.’
Keffria smiled, a stretching of her lips. ‘Is he? Then he shall have a tour. Malta spends so little time in the flower rooms, I am surprised that she even recalled we had a trumpet vine. I shall show it to Cerwin myself. After all,’ and she turned the smile on Cerwin, ‘I can scarcely trust him alone with my goldfish, after what he tried the last time!’
Ronica almost felt sorry for the boy, as he forced a smile to his face and tried not to show his full understanding of her words.
‘I am sure I would enjoy that very much, Keffria.’
Ronica had expected to have to take control of this situation. But in this area, at least, Keffria seemed to have finally assumed her full role. Ronica said little other than courtesy talk as they finished the coffee and cakes. Instead, she watched. She was soon convinced that Malta and Delo were conspirators in this, with Delo far more uneasy and guilt-stricken over it than Malta. Malta looked, if not at ease, at least determined. She focused herself and her conversation at Cerwin in a way he could not help but respond to. Cerwin himself seemed well aware of the impropriety of the situation, but like a mouse fascinated by a snake, he could not seem to recover himself from it. Instead he strove to remain focused on Keffria’s stream of polite conversation, while Malta smiled at him over the rim of her coffee cup. Mentally, Ronica shook her head. Keffria had worried that Malta was too naive to be brought into Bingtown society as a young woman, fearing that men might take advantage of her. The opposite was more likely true. Malta watched Cerwin with the avidity of a stalking cat. Deep in her heart, Ronica wondered which was more important to her; the man or the hunting of him. Cerwin was young, and from what little Ronica had seen of him, inexperienced in games such as these. If Malta won him too easily… and he showed little sign of resisting her attentions… then Malta might discard him for more challenging conquests.
Ronica was looking at her grand-daughter with new eyes. What she saw there she found no more admirable in a woman than in a man. A little predator, she was. Ronica wondered if it were already too late to do anything about it. When had the pretty little girl metamorphosed into not a woman but a grasping, conquering female? She found herself thinking that perhaps it was just as well Kyle had drawn Wintrow back from the priesthood. If one of them must inherit the Vestrit Trader legacy, she would rather it went to him than to Malta as she was now.
Her thoughts turned to Wintrow. She hoped the boy was doing well. It would be more realistic, she knew, to hope he was surviving. There had been one message from the monastery. A certain Berandol had written to inquire after the boy, and ask when they might expect him to return. Ronica had turned the missive over to Keffria. Let her answer it as she saw fit.
There were times when Ronica wanted to punish Keffria savagely for not having the spine to stand up to Kyle. She wanted to force her to confront every bit of the pain that man had managed to cause in the few short months since Ephron had died. Wintrow had been virtually kidnapped and forced into slavery on his own family ship. Sa only knew what had become of Althea; sometimes that was the hardest for Ronica, to lie awake at night and wonder endlessly what had become of her wayward daughter. Did her body rot in a hasty grave somewhere? Did she live somewhere in Bingtown in dreadful circumstances, doing whatever she must to support herself? This last Ronica doubted. She had made too many inquiries and received not even a titbit of gossip about her daughter. If Althea lived, she had left Bingtown. Under what circumstances, though?
Bingtown was no longer the civilized place it had been but five years ago. These newcomers had brought all sorts of vices with them, and very contagious attitudes toward both servants and women. The newcomers were mostly men. She did not know how they treated their women at home, but the women in their households now were servants only nominally different from slaves. And slaves were often treated as less than animals. The first time Ronica had seen a newcomer man strike one of his servants in the face right there in the market, she had been shocked. Not that the man had done it; there were ill-tempered tyrants among the Bingtown Traders as there were anywhere else, folk who lost their tempers with servants or kin and lashed out at them. Usually they ended up with what they deserved: servants who stole and lied and did as little as possible. But the servant in the market only cowered away from his master; he did not speak out at all, did not threaten to leave his employer or even complain it was an injustice. And somehow by not speaking out on his own behalf, he made it impossible for anyone else to object. One hesitated, wondering, did he perhaps truly deserve the blow? Was he acknowledging his own fault in the matter by accepting it? And so no one else spoke out for the man.
Now it had evolved that there were two classes of servants in Bingtown. True servants, like Nana, paid a living wage and entitled to their own dignity and lives — for waiting on the Vestrits was only her job, not her life. And the newcomers’ servants, who were no more than slaves, whose very existence was to please any whim of their owners. It was not legal, but how did one go about proving a man was a slave and not merely a servant? When asked, such servants immediately and fearfully asserted they were, indeed, servants whose wages were sent home to their families. Many insisted they
