Bingtown.
She considered again the bird-message Roed Caern had intercepted and brought to her. It had promised a Jamaillian fleet would soon set out to take revenge on the corrupt and rebellious Old Traders for the murder of the Satrap. Just to think of it made Serilla cold. The message had arrived too soon. No bird could fly that fast. To her, it meant that the conspiracy was widespread, extending to the nobility of Jamaillia City itself. Whoever had sent the bird to Jamaillia had expected that the Satrap would be murdered and that evidence would point to the Old Traders. The swiftness of the reply indicated that those who responded had been awaiting the message.
The only question was how extensive the conspiracy was. Even if she could root out the source of it, she did not know if she could destroy it. If only Roed Caern and his men had not been so hasty the night that they seized the Satrap. If Davad Restart and the Vestrits had survived, the truth might have been wrung from them. They might have revealed who of the Jamaillian nobility were involved in this. But Restart was dead and the Vestrits missing. She’d get no answers there.
She pushed the chart to one side and replaced it with an elegant map of Bingtown. The finely-inked and illustrated work was one of the wonders she’d discovered in Restart’s library. In addition to the original grants of all the Old Traders, with each holding inked in the family’s colour, Davad had penned in the main claims of the New Traders. She studied it, wondering if it might offer some clue to his allies. She frowned over it, then lifted her pen, dipped it, and made a note to herself. She liked the location of Barberry Hill. It would be a convenient summer home for her, once all this strife was settled. It had been a New Trader holding; likely the Bingtown Traders would be glad to cede it to her. Or as the Satrap’s representative, she could simply take it.
She leaned back in the immense chair, and wished briefly that Davad Restart had been a smaller man. Everything in this room was oversized for her. Sometimes she felt like a child pretending to be an adult. Sometimes all of Bingtown society seemed to have that effect on her. Her entire presence here was a pose. Her ‘authority from the Satrap’ was a document she had coerced Satrap Cosgo into signing when he was ill. All her power, all her claims to social stature were based on it. And its power, in turn, was based on the concept that the Satrapy of Jamaillia lawfully ruled over Bingtown. She had been shocked the first time she had realized how prevalent the Bingtown Traders’ talk of sovereignty was. It made her supposed status amongst them even more dubious. Perhaps she would have been wiser to have sided with the New Traders. But no, for at least some among them realized that Jamaillia City nobles were trying to shake off the Satrap’s authority. If the Satrap’s power in the capital was questionable, how tenuous was it here in the Satrapy’s farthest province?
It was too late to flinch. She’d made her choice and assumed her role. Now her last, best hope was to play it well. If she succeeded, Bingtown would be her home to the end of her days. That had been her dream ever since as a young woman, she had heard that in Bingtown a woman could claim the same rights as a man.
She rested against the cushions for an instant as her eyes travelled the room. A generous fire burned on the hearth of the study. The light from it and from the many tapers in the room gleamed warmly on the polished wood of the desk. She liked this room. Oh, the drapes were intolerable, and the books in the many cases lining the wall were disorganized and tatty, but all that could be changed. The rustic styling had been unsettling at first, almost annoying, but now that the estate was hers, it made her feel she was truly a part of Bingtown. Most of the Old Trader homes she had seen looked much like this one. She could adapt. She wiggled her toes inside the cosy lambswool slippers she wore. They had been Kekki’s, and they were just a bit tight. Idly she wondered if Kekki’s feet were cold right now, but no doubt the Rain Wild Traders were taking good care of their noble hostages. She did not restrain her smile of satisfaction. Even in small servings, revenge was sweet. The Satrap probably had not yet discerned that she had arranged his snatching.
‘Lady Companion?’
It was the serving boy again. ‘I said I was busy,’ she reminded him warningly. Bingtown servants had no real concept of deference to their masters. She had studied Bingtown all her life, but nothing in its official history had prepared her for the egalitarian reality. She set her teeth as the boy spoke back to her.
‘I told the woman that you were busy,’ the boy explained carefully. ‘But she insisted she would see you now. She says that you have no right to possess Davad Restart’s house. She says that she will give you one chance to explain yourself before she presents this grievance to the Bingtown Council on behalf of Davad’s lawful heirs.’
Serilla flung her pen down on the desk. Such words were too much to tolerate from anyone, let alone a servant. ‘Davad Restart was a traitor. By his actions, he forfeited all rights to his property. That includes the claims of his heirs as well.’ She suddenly realized she was explaining herself to a serving boy. Her temper snapped. ‘Tell her to go away, that I have no time to see her, not today, not any day.’
‘Tell me that yourself, and we’ll have more time to argue it.’
Serilla stared in shock at the old woman framed in the doorway. She was dressed simply, in worn but clean clothes. She wore no jewellery, but her gleaming hair was meticulously neat. Her posture more than her accoutrements proclaimed her Trader status. She looked familiar, but as inter-married as the Bingtown Old Traders were, that did not surprise Serilla. Half of them were their own second cousins. Serilla glared at her. ‘Go away,’ she said bluntly. She picked up her pen in a show of calmness.
‘No. I won’t. Not until I have satisfaction.’ A cold anger was in the Trader’s voice. ‘Davad Restart was not a traitor. By branding him as such, you’ve been able to take over his holdings for yourself. Perhaps you don’t mind stealing from a dead man, even one who opened the hospitality of his home to you. But your false accusations have brought disaster to me. The Vestrit family has been attacked and near murdered, I’ve been driven from my home, my possessions stolen, and all because of your slander. I will not tolerate it longer. If you force me to take this before the Bingtown Council, you will find that power and wealth do not sway justice here as in Jamaillia. All the Trader families were little more than beggars when we came here. Our society is founded on the idea that a man’s word binds him, regardless of his wealth. Our survival has depended on our ability to trust one another’s word. To give false witness here is more grievous than you can imagine.’
This must be Ronica Vestrit! She looked little like the elegant old woman at the ball. All she had retained was her dignity. Serilla reminded herself that she was the one in authority here. She held that thought until she could believe it. She dared not let anyone question her supremacy. The sooner the old woman was managed, the less trouble for all. Her memory swept her back to her days at the Satrap’s court. How had he handled such complaints? She kept her face impassive as she declared, ‘You waste my time with this long list of supposed grievances. I will not be bullied by your threats and implications.’ She leaned back in her chair, attempting to appear serenely confident. ‘Don’t you know that you are an accused traitor? To charge in here with your wild accusations is not only foolhardy but ridiculous. You are fortunate I do not have you clapped into chains immediately.’ Serilla tried to catch the serving boy’s eyes. He should take the hint that he should run for aid. Instead, he only watched the two women with avid interest.
Instead of being cowed, Ronica only became more incensed. ‘That might work in Jamaillia, where tyrants are worshipped. But this is Bingtown. Here, my voice is as loud as yours. Nor do we chain folk up without giving them a chance to speak first. I demand the opportunity to address the Bingtown Traders’ Council. I want to clear Davad’s name, or to be shown the evidence that condemns him. I demand decent burial for his remains in either case.’ The old woman advanced into the room. Her bony hands were clenched at her sides. Her eyes roved over the room, her outrage plainly growing as she noted the signs of Serilla’s occupancy. Her words became more clipped. ‘I
