She could not forget that the Chalcedean captain had possessed life and death control over her. She could not forget that the Satrap, the boyish, spoiled, self-indulgent Satrap, had had the power to put her in such a position. It had forever altered her image of herself. It had made her recognize the full extent of the power men had over her. Well, she had power now, and as long as she guarded that power well, she would be safe. No man could ever impose his will on her again. She had the strength of her exalted position. Position would protect her. She must maintain it at any cost.
Yet for power, there was a price.
She lifted the corner of the curtain again and peered out. Even here in Bingtown, she was not safe from assassination attempts. She knew that. She never went out unaccompanied. She never dined alone and she always made sure that her guests were served before her and from the same dishes of which she would partake. If they did manage to kill her, at least she would not die alone. But she would not let them kill her, nor wrest from her the influence she had fought so hard to secure. There were threats to that power, but she could defeat them. She could keep the Satrap isolated and unable to communicate. For his own good, of course. She permitted herself a small smile. She wished they had not taken him so far away. If he were here in Bingtown, she could see that he got the pleasure herbs and comforts that would keep him manageable. She could find a way to separate him from Kekki. She could convince him that he was wise to lie low and let her manage things for him.
A discreet rap at the door interrupted her thoughts. She let the curtain fall again and turned back to the chamber. ‘Enter.’
The serving woman had a tattooed face. Serilla was repulsed by the tattoo that spidered greenly across her cheek. She refused to look at her any more than she must. She would not have kept her, save that she was the only servant Serilla could find that was properly trained in Jamaillian courtesy. ‘What is it?’ she demanded as the woman curtseyed.
‘Trader Vestrit wishes to speak with you, Companion Serilla.’
‘Let her enter,’ Serilla replied listlessly. Her spirits dropped yet another notch. She knew she was wise to keep the woman close, where she could watch her. Even Roed Caern had agreed to that. Serilla had been so pleased with herself when she first thought of the ruse. In a secret meeting, the heads of the Traders’ Council had been horrified at her demand to have Ronica Vestrit seized. Even in times such as these, they refused to see the wisdom of such an act, and the thought of that confrontation made Serilla grit her teeth. It had proved to her the limitations of her power over them.
But she, in turn, had demonstrated to the Council heads her own resourcefulness. A graciously worded request had summoned the Trader woman to be Serilla’s guest in Restart Hall. Ostensibly, Ronica was to aid Serilla by exploring all of Restart’s records, not only to prove Davad’s innocence but her own. After some hesitation, Ronica had agreed. Serilla had initially been pleased with herself. Having Ronica Vestrit live under her roof simplified Roed’s task of spying on her. He would soon uncover who was in league with her. But there was a cost to Serilla’s tactic. Knowing the Trader woman was close by was like knowing there was a serpent in one’s bed. To be aware of a danger did not necessarily disarm it.
The day Ronica arrived, Serilla had been sure of her triumph. Ronica brought no possessions save the bundles she and her maid carried. Her servant was a tattoo-faced former slave who treated the Trader woman almost as if they were equals. The Vestrit woman had little clothing and no jewellery at all. As plain Ronica had sat eating at the foot of Serilla’s table that evening, the Companion had felt triumphant. This pitiful creature was no threat: she would become a symbol of the Companion’s charity. And eventually some slip of hers would betray her fellow conspirators. Whenever she left the house, Roed followed her.
Nevertheless, since Ronica had moved into Davad’s old bedroom, the woman had not let Serilla have even one day of peace. She was like a humming gnat in her ear. Just when Serilla should be concentrating all her efforts on consolidating her power, Ronica distracted her at every turn. What was she doing about clearing the sunken ships from the harbour? Was there any word of aid from Jamaillia? Had she sent a bird to Chalced, to protest these acts of war? Had she tried to gain the support of the Three Ships folk to patrol the streets at night? Perhaps if the former slaves were offered paying work, they would prefer it to roaming as looting gangs. Why had Serilla not urged the Bingtown Council to convene and take charge of the city again? Every day, Ronica pushed at her with questions like these. In addition, at every opportunity, she reminded Serilla that she was an outsider. When Serilla ignored her other demands, Ronica went back with monotonous tenacity to insisting that Davad was not a traitor, and that Serilla had no right to his property. The woman did not seem to respect her at all, let alone afford her the courtesy due a Satrap’s Companion.
It rankled even more because Serilla was not sure enough of her position to bring her authority to bear on the Trader. Too often she had given in to the woman’s nagging; first, to have Davad buried, and again to surrender some orchard to the traitor’s niece. She would not give in to her again. It only encouraged her.
Roed had reported to her how the woman spent her mornings. Despite the dangers of the street, Ronica Vestrit and her maid ventured out each day, to go on foot from door to door, rallying the Traders to convene. Roed had reported that she was often turned away or treated brusquely by those she called upon, but the woman was insistent. Like rain on a stone, Serilla thought, she wore down the hardest heart. Tonight she would gain her largest triumph. The Council would convene.
If the Traders listened to Ronica tonight and decided that Davad had never been at fault, it would seriously undermine Serilla’s authority. If the Council decided his niece should inherit his estate, Serilla would have to move out of Restart Hall and be forced to ask hospitality of another Trader. She would lose her privacy and her independence. She could not allow that to happen.
Serilla had gently but firmly opposed the Council’s convening, telling them all it was too early, that it was not safe for the Traders to gather in one place where they could be attacked; but they were no longer listening to her.
Time was all Serilla had needed; time to make her alliances stronger, time to know who could be persuaded with flattery and who needed offers of titles and land. Time might bring her another bird with tidings from Jamaillia. One Trader had brought her a bird-message from his trading partner in Jamaillia. Rumours of the Satrap’s death had reached the city, and riots were imminent. Could the Satrap send a missive in his own hand to disperse this dangerous gossip? She had sent back a bird with a message of reassurance that the rumour was false, and a query as to who had received the message about the Satrap’s death, and from whom? She doubted she would get a reply. What else could she do? If only she had another day, another week. A bit more time, and she was sure she could master the Council. Then, with her superior education and experience of politics and knowledge of diplomacy, she could guide them to peace. She could make them see what compromises they must accept. She could unite all the folk of Bingtown and, from that base, treat with the Chalcedeans. That would establish for all her authority in Bingtown. Time was all she needed, and Ronica was stealing it from her.
Ronica Vestrit swept into the room. She carried a ledger under her arm. ‘Good morning,’ she greeted Serilla briskly. As the servant left the room, Ronica glanced after her. ‘Would not it be far simpler for me to announce myself, rather than have me find the servant to knock at the door and say my name?’
‘Simpler, but not proper,’ Serilla pointed out coldly.
‘You’re in Bingtown now,’ Ronica replied evenly. ‘Here we do not believe in wasting time simply for the purpose of impressing others.’ She spoke as if she were instructing a recalcitrant daughter in manners. Without asking leave, she went to the study table and opened the ledger she had brought. ‘I believe I’ve found something here that may interest you.’
Serilla walked
