Ware had never been anything but a pleasant guest with her, never alluding to any commerce he might have with the freedmen, never being the least insolent to her. Yet, despite the fact that he was as comely as any of the men in her companion-quarters, the Queen felt no attraction for him. Coupling with a demon was forbidden, anathema, the depth of depravity; the very idea made her nauseous. Adria would sooner have coupled with her prize stallion.
"What are you thinking, you monster?" she asked him lightly. "What schemes are running through that ancient head of yours?"
He steepled his hands in front of his chin. "That this is one who bids fair to follow in the footsteps of her so-talented mother," he replied, just as lightly. But the look he sent her was one of warning. "Elibet was a formidable warrior and magician, and she had her supporters, in her day."
Adria felt a cold finger of fear touch her. So Ware knew whom Xylina's mother was! Well, perhaps she should have expected that. He had served her predecessor, and the Queen before her as well. But was he warning her obliquely that Xylina might well challenge Adria's right to rule, as Elibet had been about to do? His advice, when he tendered it, had always been good in the past.
If so, she should take heed of the warning, and do something to eliminate the girl before she got a good idea of her own power, and where it could lead her.
One of the arena-attendants intercepted Xylina as she headed blindly for the street. "My lady-" he said urgently. "You must take this-" He thrust a small leather bag at her, one that jingled dully.
"This" proved to be a small bag of mixed coins, mostly copper, but more money than Xylina had possessed for some time. But where had it come from? She hesitated to take it, looking at him with some confusion. What would it mean if she accepted it? Could she get into some kind of trouble?
Once again, she longed with a feeling indistinguishable from pain for Marcus. Marcus would have known what to do. He would have been able to advise her.
A deep, musical voice behind her gave her the answer she needed. "Those are gifts from the watchers," the unknown man said, with careful neutrality. "This is a kind of reward for a good and entertaining match. Your supporters and admirers tossed coins out along with the flowers. Most of them are probably real; it would be in very poor taste to throw conjured coin. I'm sure there are a few bits of conjured metal in there, thrown by those who lost money in betting against you, but they will have no city stamp upon them; they will simply be blank disks."
Xylina started, and turned to see who had spoken.
It was the slave she had fought, the one called Faro, who was now her property. In her shock, she had forgotten that by defeating him and making him surrender to her, she had claimed him for her own. As, it appeared, she could claim these coins.
"Ah-thank you," she said, taking them from the arena attendant, who scuttled off, relieved. She looked back at Faro, wondering who had tossed this money-and if they could afford such gifts.
He seemed to read her mind. "Those who showered coins upon you were those who had bet for you to win," he said, with no expression whatsoever. "Considering the odds, they profited well on your performance."
She had heard some of the banter before the fight. Considering the odds, her benefactors could well have afforded a small fortune!
She looked up and down the stone corridor, but the attendant slave had taken himself out of sight, and there seemed to be no one else here at the moment. She looked back at Faro, who stood behind her as impassively as any statue.
Obscurely, she wanted to apologize; she wanted to explain that she hadn't intended to win, that all she had wanted was to make him angry enough to kill her quickly. But something had happened out there in the arena; suddenly, some deeper instinct had taken over and made her fight to live instead. Before she quite knew what had happened, she had won.
But no words came out; they couldn't. And he would never have understood. No Mazonite would apologize to a man for defeating him. No Mazonite would apologize to a man for anything.
So, after a moment of frozen indecision, she turned again, and headed for the street, with Faro following along obediently. She took the shortest way home, in a kind of daze, hardly noticing where she went until she found herself on her own shabby street, approaching the front gate to her house.
When they reached her little home, she felt another moment of shame. This was not a place she cared to bring even a slave-but she had no real choice in the matter. It was, after all, the only thing she owned. They had to sleep somewhere.
She opened the gate in the wall and let him in, but instead of immediately following her inside, her new acquisition stood in the tiny forecourt for a moment, fists on his hips, looking at the building. She flushed, embarrassed. He must have been used to much, much better.
Again he spoke, startling her. "If I were in your place, honored lady, I would make a loan, and buy a better house. I would sell this one, if I could, for earnest money, but it would be very important now that many people knew my face-if I were you-to act upon that notoriety and present a prosperous front."
"I'm not sure I understand," she said, carefully. "Would you explain why I should do this?"
She thought she saw him smile slightly, and his mien definitely softened. He stopped looking beyond her and looked directly into her eyes.
"It’s not just for comfort," he told her. "Gracious lady, you are a woman now; you have the right to engage in business and make contracts. Selling my services, for instance; I assure you that I have been completely educated in everything a scribe should know. But no one with any money will come here . You have to have a house in a decent part of town; you have to look prosperous. In order to make money, you have to look as if you already have it and do not necessarily need it."
She nodded, slowly. That made sense, in an odd kind of way. And speaking of money-
She took the pouch of coins the attendant had given her, and counted out enough to buy both of them food for a good evening meal. "Go to the market, and buy us bread, cheese-a little fruit, and some vegetables," she said, then added, softly, "I'm sorry to use you this way, but-well, you can see-"
"You don't have any other slaves." He looked at her as if her half-apology surprised him, then slowly, almost reluctantly, a faint smile really did appear. It softened his grim features. "That's quite all right, little mistress," he said, and his voice was gentle. "Going to the market is not exactly a hardship. Because I am a scribe I also know how to handle money, and no one will cheat you."
Then, before she could respond to that, he took the coins and headed out on his errand.
She wondered, fleetingly, if he could cook.
Faro awoke in the middle of the night, all his senses alert. Something was wrong.
When he had returned from the marketplace, with far more food than Xylina had expected (having shamelessly used his size and forbidding aspect to frighten vendors into bargain prices), she had astonished him by cooking for both of them. That was just as well, since that was not one of his skills, and he had expected to eat everything raw. In his absence she had conjured a comfortable bed for him, which surprised him yet again.
She was treating him with far more courtesy than he ever remembered being extended to a slave, and he wondered why. He had not always been as suspicious as he was now-and there did not seem to be any guile in this young woman. Perhaps-perhaps he could trust her.