cannot imagine how appallingly ignorant you sound, with your girlish optimism. I think I’ve had enough provincial philosophy for one day. Leave.’
‘My “girlish optimism” is the Bingtown spirit you have “heard touted about so much”,’ Ronica snapped back at her. ‘You fail to recognize that a belief in being able to conquer your own past is what made it possible for us to survive here. It is what you need to find in yourself, Companion, if you hope to be one of us. Now. Are you going to look at these entries, or not?’
Ronica could almost see the woman’s hackles rise. She wished she could approach Serilla as a friend and ally, but the Companion seemed to regard any woman as a rival or a spy. So she stood straight and cold while she waited for Serilla’s reaction. She watched her with a bargainer’s eyes and saw Serilla’s glance dart to the opened ledgers on the table, and then back to Ronica. The woman wanted to know what was in them, but she did not wish to appear to be giving in. Ronica gave her a bit more time, but when the Companion was still silent, she decided to risk it all.
‘Very well. I see you are uninterested. I had thought you would wish to see what I had discovered before I took it to the Bingtown Council. But if you will not listen to me, I am sure they will.’ With a resolute stride, she crossed to the ledger on the desk. Closing it, she tucked the heavy volume under her arm. She took her time leaving the room, hoping that Serilla would call her back. She walked slowly down the hall, still hoping, but all she heard was the firm shutting of Davad’s study door. It was no use. With a sigh, Ronica began to climb the stairs to Davad’s bedchamber. She halted at the sound of a knock on the great front door, then moved swiftly to stand near the banister and look down silently at the entry below.
A serving woman opened the door, and began a correct greeting, but the young Trader pushed past her. ‘I bear tidings for the Companion Serilla. Where is she?’ Roed Caern demanded.
‘I will let her know that you are –’ the servant began, but Roed shook his head impatiently.
‘This is urgent. A messenger bird has come from the Rain Wilds. Is she in the study? I know the way.’ Without allowing the servant time to reply, he pushed past her. His boots rang on the flagging and his cloak fluttered behind him as he strode arrogantly down the hall. The serving woman trotted at his heels, her protests unheeded. Ronica watched him go, and wondered if she had the courage to venture down to eavesdrop.
‘How dare you charge in like that!’ Serilla spoke as she rose from poking again at the fire. She let every bit of her anger and frustration at the Trader woman vent. Then, as she met the sparks in Roed Caern’s eyes, she took an inadvertent step back towards the hearth.
‘I beg pardon, Companion. I foolishly assumed that tidings from the Rain Wilds would merit your immediate attention.’ Between thumb and forefinger, he held a small brass cylinder of the type messenger birds carried. As she stared at it, he dared to bow stiffly. ‘I shall, of course, await your convenience.’ He turned back towards the door where the serving woman still gaped and spied.
‘Shut that door!’ Serilla snapped at her. Her heart thundered in her chest. The Satrap’s guardians had taken only five messenger birds from Davad’s cotes the night she had dispatched the Satrap to the Rain Wilds. They would not use them needlessly. This was the first message to come since she had heard the Satrap had arrived there and that the Rain Wild folk had consented to hold him in safekeeping. She had sensed then their ambivalence about her request. Had the Satrap swayed the Rain Wilders to his point of view? Was this to charge her with treason? What was in the cylinder and who else had read it? She tried to compose her face, but the cruel amusement on the tall dark man’s face made her fear the worst.
Best to soothe his ruffled fur, first. He reminded her of a savage watchdog, as like to turn on its master as protect her. She wished she did not have such need of him.
‘You are correct, of course, Trader Caern. Such tidings do need to be delivered immediately. In truth, I have been plagued with household affairs this morning. Servant after servant has disturbed my work. Please. Come in. Warm yourself.’ She even went so far as to accord him a gracious bow of her head, though, of course, her rank was far higher than his.
Roed bowed again, deeply, and she suspected, sarcastically. ‘Certainly, Companion. I understand how annoying that can be, especially when such weighty matters press upon your delicate shoulders.’
It was there, a note in his voice, a selection of a word.
‘The message?’ she prompted him.
He advanced, and bowed yet again as he presented the cylinder to her. The wax it had been dipped in appeared undisturbed. But nothing would have prevented him from reading the missive, and then re-dipping the container. Useless to worry. She flicked the wax away from the cylinder, unscrewed it, and coaxed the tiny roll of parchment into her fingers. With a calmness she did not feel, she seated herself at the desk and leaned close to the lamp as she unrolled the message.
The words were brief, and in their brevity, a torment. There had been a major earthquake. The Satrap and his Companion were lost, perhaps killed in the collapse. She read it again, and yet again, willing there to be more information there. Was there any hope he had survived? What did it mean to her ambitions if the Satrap were dead? On the heels of that, she wondered if this message were a deception, for reasons too intricate to unravel? She stared at the crawling letters.
‘Drink this. You look as if you need it.’
It was brandy in a small glass. She had not even noticed Roed taking the bottle down or pouring, but she accepted it gratefully. She sipped it and felt its heat steady her. She did not challenge him as he picked up the tiny missive and read it. Without looking at him, she managed to ask, ‘Will others know this?’
Roed seated himself insolently on the corner of the desk. ‘There are many Traders in this city that keep close ties with their Rain Wild kin. There are other birds a-wing with the same news. Depend on it.’
She had to look up at his smile. ‘What shall I do?’ she heard herself ask, and hated herself. With that one question, she put herself completely in his power.
‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘Nothing, just yet.’
Ronica opened the door of Davad’s bedchamber. Her slippers were still damp. The stout door of the study had contained the Companion’s conversation too well, and her walk through the garden had been fruitless. The study windows were tightly closed as well. Ronica looked around Davad’s room with a sigh. She longed for her own home. She was, perhaps, safer here, and she knew she was closer to the work she must do, but she missed her own home, no matter how ransacked it was. She still felt an intruder here. She found Rache at work scrubbing the floor, apparently bent on eradicating every trace of Davad from the chamber. Ronica shut the door quietly behind her.
‘I know you hate being here, in Davad’s home, amongst his things. You don’t have to stay, you know,’ she said gently. ‘I am more than capable of taking care of myself. You owe me nothing. You could go your own way now, Rache, with little fear of being seized as a runaway slave. You are more than welcome to continue to make your home with me, of course. Or, if you wished, I could give you a letter and directions. You could go to Ingleby, and live on the farm there. I am sure that my old nanny would make you welcome there, and probably be glad of your company.’
Rache dropped her rag into the bucket and got stiffly to her feet. ‘I would not abandon the only one who showed me kindness in Bingtown,’ she informed her. ‘Perhaps you can take care of yourself, but you still have need of me. I care nothing at all for Davad Restart’s memory. What does it matter if he is a traitor, when I know he was a murderer? But I
