However musical it was, it didn't mean anything to Annette. "I'm sorry, but I don't understand," she said in Arabic.
The blond woman made a face. She said something else. Annette also couldn't follow that. It was probably something like, / don't know what you're talking about, either. The blond woman tried to smooth back her hair again. With a wry shrug, she gave up—it was hopeless.
She spoke again. It must have made her feel better, even if Annette and Emishtar didn't understand. She was halfway between the two of them in age, which put her at the end of her twenties. Annette thought the master had summoned her once or twice. If he had, it didn't seem to have ruined her, the way it had some women. People were all different, and took things different ways.
She's one of the lucky ones, Annette thought. Then she laughed at herself. Had the blond woman been lucky, she would still have been living in her own alternate. She wouldn't have been a slave—or maybe she would have. Maybe the slavers from the home timeline bought her the same way they'd bought Annette.
Annette wondered if she would ever know. To find out, either she would have to learn some of that language that sounded like Erse or she would have to teach the blond woman some Arabic, or maybe some French. She tried not to groan. Another new language to learn without an implant? How would she keep this one and Emishtar's from bumping together in her head?
"Work!" a guard shouted—luckily, not at her. She worked faster anyway. She had more than languages to worry about.
"Oh, them," Jacques said. "Yes, I think they were slaves before. I'm pretty sure, in fact."
For the first time ever, he thought he'd really impressed Khadija. "How do you know?" she demanded.
"Well, it sounds like that's what Dumnorix is saying," Jacques answered.
Her eyes widened. "You can understand him?"
He held his thumb and forefinger close together. "About that much. The language he speaks, it's kind of like Breton. If I knew more Breton, I'd be in good shape, but mostly I just cuss in it a little." He said something.
"What's that?" Khadija asked.
"Well, in French it'd be sacrée merde" he said.
She giggled. "Oh. All right. I understand that. But you can talk with this what's-his-name a little bit? Breton!" She shook her head in amazement. "I suppose I shouldn't be that surprised. I thought it reminded me of the Irish language, but I don't speak Erse."
"You mean there are things you can't do?" Jacques wasn't sure whether he was being sarcastic or he really meant it. "Who would have imagined such a thing?"
Khadija turned away from him, there in the courtyard. He thought she was joking till he saw her shoulders shake. "That's not funny," she said in a strange, muffled voice.
Was she crying? That wasn't what he'd meant to do. He set a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said.
Angrily, she shook off the hand. He remembered how the raiders who'd captured them said she'd thrown men around till somebody knocked her cold. If even a quarter of that was true, he was lucky not to go flying himself. She said, "If I could do everything the way you think I can, would I be here?"
He had no answer for that. He didn't think anyone would have. He did his best: "I said I was sorry." Now—would she believe him or would she stay angry?
"All right," she said, but it didn't sound all right. Sure enough, she went on, "I must be in worse shape than I thought if what you say matters so much to me."
"What you say matters to me, too," Jacques said. "We're the only two people who speak French." He paused to think. "Do they even speak French in the Kingdom of Versailles here?"
"I wouldn't bet on it," Khadija answered. "I wouldn't bet there is a Kingdom of Versailles here."
Jacques nodded. The idea made sense to him, however much he wished it didn't. "That makes you my oldest friend," he said seriously. "That makes you my only friend who remembers my kingdom. I really am sorry, Khadija. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. You know so much—can you wonder when I think you know everything there is to know?"
"Well, I don't." Her voice was tart. "I didn't know this place was here, for instance. I didn't know my own people were running it. And I can't figure out how to get away, either. They watch the way to the chamber down below too well for anybody to sneak by." She stared down at the ground. "Knowing all the things I can't do is one of the reasons I got so mad at you."
"I know. I feel bad. I shouldn't have said that." Jacques paused, listening to her words over again. "One of the reasons? There are others?"
"There are others," Khadija agreed. "You're my oldest friend here, too, you know. It's easy for somebody like that to hurt your feelings, even if he doesn't mean to."
"Yes, I suppose so." Jacques knew Khadija could hurt his feelings. She hadn't tried, but then, he hadn't been trying with her, either. "Here. Maybe this will make things better." He kissed her on the cheek.
She looked so surprised, he wondered again if he was going to go flying. Then she managed a sort of a smile, even if only one corner of her mouth twisted up. "Maybe it makes things better. Maybe it makes them worse, too."
"I—" Jacques began.
Khadija held up a hand and cut him off. "Whatever you're going to say, you'd probably be smarter not to. Maybe the time will come when we can talk about things like that. If it does, we'll both know it, I think. It's not here yet."
Jacques thought it was. But if Khadija didn't, who cared what he thought? Things like that, as she'd put it, took two. If only one was ready, what did you have? A disappointment, that was all. "Well, you know how I feel," he said.
This time, she managed a real smile. "Thank you. It's always a compliment. But. . . here? It's not a good idea, Jacques. If we knew we could never get away—then, maybe, we'd have to make the best of things."
"I never thought I'd find a reason to want to go on being a slave," Jacques said.
Khadija turned away from him again. "Don't be stupid," she snapped. "No reason in the world is good enough to make you want to stay a slave."
Looked at one way, she was right. Looked at another . . . But if he looked at things like that, he would make her angry at him, which was the last thing he wanted. And he did want to get away. E he stayed here too long, he was liable to try to get a guard's musket away from him. But even if he did, so what? Even if he killed all the guards and set himself up as king here, so what? He'd be King of Nowhere.
Seeing that made him nod. "Well, when you're right, you're right."
"Oh, good." Khadija sounded relieved. "I'm glad you can be sensible."
"I can be tired, is what I can be," Jacques answered.
She yawned. "So can I. They work us hard. It's how they have part of their fun." She walked back toward the women's barracks, leaving Jacques scratching his head. He'd never thought much about people who had fun being cruel to other people. But if you had a good time shooting enemies who didn't have muskets of their own, why wouldn't you have fun working your slaves hard and watching them sweat?
On that cheerful note, Jacques headed for bed himself.
Emishtar had trouble saying Jacques' name, but not keeping her eyes open. They sparkled as she said, "He kiss you." She smacked her lips together so Annette wouldn't doubt what she meant. "Last night, he kiss you."
"Not like that," Annette said.
"No?" Her older friend sounded disappointed. "Too bad."
"Just a little one." Annette held her thumb and first finger so they almost touched. "Little."
"Too bad," Emishtar said again. She pulled up a weed by the roots. "What you got better to do?"