Chapter Seven
Ingë
Sitting comfortably in her favourite seat by the fire, Ingë Taranisäii frowned as she examined the latest result of her labours. She ran her fingers over the lines and then turned the parchment this way and that to look at it from different angles.
The sketch was a little rough, but she liked the shape. Perhaps the blade should be a little narrower… should the grip be longer? The ornamentation looked uneven on one side, too.
She scowled and crumpled the picture up before tossing it into the fire and reaching for a fresh sheet and picking up her pen. Leaning over the table was too uncomfortable, so she'd improvised with a piece of flat wood she could rest on her knees. One of her cleverer ideas, she thought.
The pen skated over the paper, scratching out another picture. Ingë's forehead wrinkled in concentration… the blade tapering away from the hilt… a line down the centre to indicate the blood-channel – the crossguard had to be perfectly straight, for balance – the pommel a teardrop shape… perhaps there should be a jewel of some kind set into it?
No! No, not a jewel.
The pen halted its journey as she let the idea form.
'Oh yes,' she said aloud.
The pen raced around the paper, drawing another sword. Yes, yes, that was it… all that nonsense about jewels and gold, as if that mattered!
When she was finished, she put the pen back into the inkpot and sat back to admire the results.
Oh yes.
She had drawn dozens of swords just this evening, and dozens more the previous day and the day before that. But none of them had been as good as this one. Yes, this was it. Nothing like those silly glittery things she had been trying to imagine. Glitter was all very well, but they were nothing but pathetic imitations, trying to be like the weapons she had read about in books and heard about in tales.
'Fine for people in stories,' she said aloud. 'But this is real.'
She smiled to herself, triumphant.
The sword was a deceptively simple thing, with clean lines and a long, straight blade. The crosspiece was designed to look like a pair of dragons lying on their stomachs, tail to tail, and the pommel was in the shape of an egg.
Oh yes, the egg.
She put the picture down and wandered over to her dressing-table, where the egg sat on the little gold stand that had been made for it. It was jet-black and beautifully smooth, and she took it down and held it, cradling it as if it were a baby.
'You'll be on my sword,' she told it. 'Don't you like that?'
She had often talked to the egg; she knew it was silly, but she didn't care. She liked to pretend it was real, and at night when she was lonely she would imagine that it hatched into a dragon. Oh, to have a dragon of her own!
Ingë sighed and put the egg back. She knew that was impossible, but at least she would have her sword, and by the time her parents knew about it they'd be too late to stop her.
She grinned wickedly to herself, imagining the looks on their faces when they found out.
A knock on the door jerked her back to reality. She darted across the room and stuffed her precious drawing under her mattress before going to open it.
'Dinner, my Lady,' said the servant on the other side.
Ingë sighed. 'I'm coming.'
Her mother was already seated by the time she arrived, looking rather bored. 'There you are.'
Ingë sat down and smoothed her skirts. 'Mother.'
The two women sat in silence while the servants laid out the evening meal. Ingë took a cup of wine and sipped it, ignoring her mother's looks toward her.
'So,' she said brightly, once the servants had gone. 'I suppose Father has finished arranging for your journey?'
Her mother nodded. 'We shall be leaving tomorrow morning, as planned.'
Ingë hid a smile. 'And how long do you think you'll be gone?'
'It's a long way, even by coach,' said her mother. 'And once we arrive your father will want to see to other matters as well. I would expect us to be gone at least two months.'
'That's a long time,' said Ingë, still trying not to smirk. 'However will I cope on my own?'
'I'm sure the servants will be able to look after you,' said her mother.
'Of course,' said Ingë.
'Don't take this lightly,' her mother warned. 'This is serious, Ingë. While I'm gone, you'll be expected to manage the household. And two months will be a long time.'
Ingë rolled her eyes. 'I'm nineteen, Mother. I'm sure I'll be able to deal with it.'
Lady Taranisäii managed a smile. 'Of course you will. But we both know how flighty you are – I only want to be certain you'll stay focused instead of thinking you can do whatever you like.'
'I know, I know.'
Ingë pretended to listen to the rest of her mother's dire warnings while they ate, and left at the first possible opportunity. Back in the privacy of her room, she took out the drawing and examined again with pride. She'd manage the household while her parents were gone, of course she would. But that would hardly take up all her time. And with them out of the way, well…
With them out of the way, there was no end to the things she could do.
Lord and Lady Taranisäii left the next morning, as promised, and Ingë saw them off.
Her father, naturally, had plenty of last-minute warnings.
'You'll have access to the treasury, but don't think that means you can spend all you want! And if you decide to go out into the city, dress respectably and take a bodyguard. You know what happens to ladies of quality who go out in public on their own, and I don't want to have to remind you. You can have guests to dinner if you choose, but be certain to plan it properly with the housekeeper. Is all that understood?'
Ingë smiled and hugged him. 'Perfectly well, Father. You don't need to worry; I've been planning for this ever since I found out you were leaving.'
He hugged her back and kissed her on the cheek. 'I trust you.'
Ingë embraced her mother next. 'Tell my betrothed I think about him every day,' she said.
'I will. And I'm sure he thinks of you too.'
'I'm sure he does,' Lord Taranisäii echoed.
Ingë watched their carrige pull away, and sighed to herself. Despite her assurances she was a little nervous.
She wondered what her betrothed would think when he found out about the things she had got up to in their absence.
Well. She shook herself. Now wasn't the time for moping. She was young, unmarried and rich, and for the first time in her life she could do whatever she pleased, without having to sneak past anyone!
Feeling much more cheerful, she went back into the house and returned to her room to change her clothes. Ignoring what her father had said, she selected a plain gown and a simple pendant and matching earrings. She fully intended to go into the city today, but she was damned if she was going to have to drag nineteen-odd silk petticoats with her.
The day was chilly, so she put a cloak on over the top, and put the sketch and a little bag of money in the hidden pocket inside it before leaving the room.
'Sandor; I will go into the city today.'
The tough guardsman stood to attention. 'Yes, my Lady.'
With him in tow, Ingë left the house with her head held high. This would be her first day of freedom, and she knew it would be the best day of her life.
It was a bright, clear day in late autumn, and Ingë strolled through the streets in the market district, taking everything in. She had been here before, of course, but always in her mother's company, and she had been forbidden to talk to or even look at most of the people she saw, who had stared as she went past in her fine gowns and jewels, every inch the Teirmish lady of quality. That had been fun, in a way, but dull.
Now, more or less ignoring Sandor altogether and letting him keep up on his own, she did whatever she wanted.
She examined the wares laid out by various traders, sometimes asking questions, completely ignoring all the people looking curiously at her. In her plain clothes she looked more or less like an ordinary person, but many of those around her already knew her by sight, and more than one looked as if they dearly wanted to ask what she was doing.
Ingë loved it.
She could have spent hours exploring the stalls, but the sketch hidden in her cloak kept nagging at her, and she stopped picking through a selection of leather pouches on a stall and addressed the boy on the other side.
'Excuse me.'
The boy looked at her, wide-eyed. 'Yes, my Lady?'
Ingë smiled at him; he looked so terrified, with his sandy hair hanging in his eyes. 'Don't worry; I won't bite,' she advised. 'Is your father around?'
'He's just gone away, my Lady,' the boy stammered. 'But I can help if there's anything you need, my Lady.'
Ingë chuckled and bought one of the pouches. 'Now then,' she said when she had handed over the money. 'I was wondering if you could tell me if there's anyone in the city who makes swords.'
'Swords?' the boy gaped at her. 'W-well… uh… there's a place… down at the West End, not so far from the docks… there's a man down there makes swords for the city guard, my Lady.'
Ingë's smile widened. 'Perfect! The West End, you say?'
'Yes, my Lady. It's next to a shipyard and past the slave market, my Lady.'
'Excellent. Thankyou…?'
'Cardock, my Lady,' the boy mumbled. 'I'm Cardock.'
She ruffled his hair. 'Thankyou, Cardock. Here. Have this for your trouble.' She dropped an extra coin in front of him, and went on her way.
Sandor caught up with her as she left the market district and went Westward, toward the docks. 'My Lady…'
Ingë stopped impatiently. 'Yes? What?'
He coughed. 'My Lady, I don't think you should go down that way.'
'Oh, why not?'
'The West End is… well, some unsavoury types live there, my Lady. If you was to go down there alone…'
'Well I'm not alone,' said Ingë. 'I have you with me. Now, let's go. I have something very important to do, and I want to do it today.'
Sandow knew better than to argue. 'Yes, my Lady.'
He didn't complain any further, but she noticed that he stayed very close to her as they drew nearer to the docks.
As they wended their way toward the shipyards, Ingë realised they were going to have to pass through one of the most unpleasant parts of the city. It hadn't occurred to her that they might have to do this, and she felt her stomach twist. For a moment she even considered turning back, but the thought of the sword, burning brightly in her mind, made her keep on going. And besides…
Despite herself, she couldn't help but feel a kind of dark thrill at the thought of passing through the slave district. Her mother would have thrown a fit if she had known, and that was another reason to tempt her on.
Deep down, Ingë had always been fascinated by darkness. She liked the unknown, and the dangerous. She liked the forbidden. It was so much more exciting than ordinary life.
And besides, she told herself, you'll be married soon enough. After that you'll never have the chance to do something like this. This is your time to live, my girl! Do something you can tell your children about one day. Do something more than going to dances and being charming to people you don't give a whit about.
Spurred on, she squared her shoulders and went straight into the slave district.
It was smelly there – that was the first thing she noticed. And though the street she was on wasn't covered, it felt darker than it should have… or perhaps she was imagining it.
The people around her seemed like a much less friendly lot than in the marketplace, too.
Some of them glanced at her; most looked away. Nearly all of them were armed.
Suddenly nervous, Ingë kept very close to Sandor and avoided making eye-contact with anyone.
She couldn't make herself look away from the slaves.
They stood in little groups beside the men selling them, chained to posts by the wrists. Most of them were men, all were thin, and all of them had a blank look to them, as if their minds had left their bodies to suffer and gone… somewhere else.
Ingë tried not to feel sorry for them – she knew they were all criminals, sold into slavery where they would be more useful than in prison. Rapists, thieves, swindlers, pagans and perverts, every one.
Ingë shook her head miserably, suddenly feeling as if just looking at them had made her unclean and cruel.
Oh gods, to live like that…
Her excitement had utterly vanished. All she wanted to do now was leave, and as quickly as possible.
She hurried on, keeping her head down, but looked up to the sound of a commotion.
A crowd had gathered up ahead; she could see people at the back craning to see something, and instantly wondered what was so interesting.
Impulsively, she pushed her way into their midst with Sandor's help, and found a couple of men arguing. She couldn't help but feel disappointed.
Annoyed, and a little frightened, she turned to leave, but there were people in the way and she turned back to look for another way out.
And as she turned, she saw him.
The two arguing men were standing in the middle of what had been a slaver's stand, but the posts that had held slaves were all empty now. All except for the one closest to them.
A man was standing chained to it – Ingë had only spotted him because he was so tall. He was bare-chested and had thick, matted black hair, and stood with his head bowed, staring at his big rough hands, which hung limply in front of him with the chains weighing them down.
Seeing him, Ingë suddenly and inexplicably felt frightened. She glanced at the arguing men, and then turned to the nearest person. 'What are they shouting about?'
The stranger, a middle-aged woman, grinned. 'Them two idiots were tryin' t'sell off their last slave, but no-one wants him an' now they don't know what to do.'
Ingë looked at the slave again. 'What can they do with a slave nobody wants?'
'Kill 'em, usually,' the woman said casually. 'Think that's what most of the people here're hopin' for.'
Ingë stared her, horrified. 'What? They're going to kill him? Here in front of everyone?'
The woman glanced at the slavers. 'Looks like.'
Ingë followed her gaze, and saw that they had stopped arguing.
'Well fine!' one of them snapped. 'Do it then.'
His companion growled and drew a long knife. 'Fine. Stand back.'
The crowd moved forward eagerly as he walked over to the slave and grabbed him by the hair. The slave made no effort to break free, but stood there passively and stared at the knife.
'Stop! STOP!'
The slaver lowered the knife and looked around irritably.
Not knowing what she was doing, Ingë pushed toward him. 'Stop!' she said again. 'What are you doing? You can't kill him!'
The slaver spat. 'He's my property, lady. Useless property.'
'If you can't sell him, then just set him free,' said Ingë. 'Then he won't be your property any more.'
Several people nearby laughed.
The slaver wasn't one of them. 'Listen, lady – what I do with my property is my business, so unless you want him…'
Ingë hesitated, and in that instant the slave's eyes turned toward her. They were black, and apparently as empty as their colour, but they sent a strange shock down Ingë's spine.
'How much d'you want for him?' she asked.
The slaver paused, considered, and then let go of the slave's hair and put his knife back into his belt. 'How much can yer pay?'
'Enough,' she said shortly. 'I believe you said he was worthless, so I'll take him for nothing.'
The slaver grinned a gap-toothed grin at that. 'A hundred gold an' he's yours, lady.'
'Done,' said Ingë, without even stopping to think.
'It's a deal, then,' said the slaver. 'You got the money on yer?'
'Of course not,' said Ingë, in her haughtiest voice. 'What sort of lady would carry that much money around with her? Bring him to my house, and I'll pay you there.'
'How do I know this ain't a trick?' said the slaver.
'A trick!' Ingë exclaimed. She drew herself up. 'I am Ingë Taranisäii of the Ancient House of Taranis, and I don't need to trick anybody.' She reached into her cloak and brought out her money pouch. 'There is about thirty gold in here. Bring him to the House of Taranis this evening, and I'll give you the rest.'
The slaver caught the bag and stuffed it in his pocket. 'All right then, my Lady – you've got yerself a slave.'
Ingë smoothed down her hair, aware of all the eyes on her. 'Very well then,' she said, and left with as much dignity as she could – forcing herself not to look at the slave again as she did.
She exited the slave district as quickly and discreetly as she could, all thought of the precious sword forgotten.
Her heart was pounding as she returned home.
Oh gods, what have I done?
Back in her room, she splashed water on her face and tried to breathe deeply.
'All right,' she said aloud. 'There's no need to panic. Don't panic. Think.'
She had bought a slave. Well of course she had bought him. What was she supposed to have done – walk away and let them kill him?
No. She knew she would never have forgiven herself if she'd done that.
She felt her heart begin to steady its beating. This was nothing to panic about. What she had to do was very simple. When the slave arrived, she would give him some food and clean clothes to wear, and then set him free to go wherever he liked. He wouldn't attack her; not when she had saved his life and given him back his freedom.
She felt warm inside at the thought of what she had done and was going to do. This wasn't something to feel guilty or ashamed about, not at all.
Suddenly energised, she dried her face and hurried out of the room to begin making arrangements.