‘I’m not distressed, I’m angry,’ Velindre said with shaky accusation. ‘You cut my hair.’
‘I did,’ the Aldabreshin girl admitted with more genuine remorse than she’d shown thus far. ‘I’ve kept it for you. I’m son-y, but it had to be done.’
‘Why?’ snapped Velindre, scrubbing the tears clumsily from her cheeks.
‘Eat this, slowly.’ Risala knelt to place the bowl between Velindre’s hands. Once she was satisfied that the wizard woman had secure hold of it, she lifted the lid. ‘I’ll explain what I can.’
The bowl was warm between Velindre’s hands and against her cotton-clad thighs. A savoury scent rose and her stomach growled again. Swollen golden grain was sinking slowly in a clear broth along with chunks of pale fish. Resentful, she picked up the long, shallow spoon of unadorned silver and began to eat. The sooner she regained her strength, the sooner she would be gone.
‘I’m sorry we had to take you like this.’ Satisfied with the magewoman’s apparent compliance, Risala sat on a folded quilt by the door. But the lives of hundreds depend on the lore that you promised, and much more besides. We must be rid of this dragon.’
The concoction in the bowl was delicious. Velindre forced herself to pause in her eating. What has any of that to do with cutting my hair?’ she asked coldly.
Risala considered her for a moment, blue eyes opaque. ‘You do know what happens to those who use magic in the Archipelago?’
‘Yes,’ said Velindre curtly, shoving the spoon viciously into the delicately poached fish and aromatic grain
‘Then you appreciate the necessity for some disguise.’ Sarcasm coloured Risala’s tone. ‘We’ve a long way to travel and there are plenty of domains who’ve suffered at barbarian hands. More than one warlord prefers killing any unexplained traveller with pale skin or yellow hair over risking further theft or insult. Travelling openly as a northern barbarian would draw every curious eye towards you, never mind risking inevitable suspicion that you might be a mage.’
‘And you have the gall to call us barbarians,’ Velindre muttered, returning to her food. ‘So what’s my part in this masquerade? Slave?’
‘Yes, for the moment. To be safe under Chazen Kheda’s protection, you’ll have to play the part of a slave. Forgive us, but it’s the only way someone so obviously barbarian—’ Risala corrected herself ‘—someone born in the unbroken lands would ever come to the far southern reaches of the Archipelago.’
‘You want my help but you dress me in rags and crop my head like a criminal?’ Velindre scraped crossly at the last few spoonfuls of broth.
‘There’s more to it than that.’ Risala sounded sufficiently awkward to make Velindre look up.
‘Slave or free, you’ll still be turning every head,’ Risala said frankly. ‘The best way to quell that curiosity is to make it known that you’re a eunuch—’
‘What?’ Velindre was dumbfounded.
‘Hear me out.’ Risala leaned forward to retrieve the bowl that was threatening to roll from Velindre’s lap. ‘It must be an omen in our favour that you’ve the build and colouring to make it believable—’
‘That I’m some mutilated man?’ Velindre was still too astonished to be angry.
‘That you’re zamorin who was made so in early youth.’ Risala set the cover back on the bowl and leaned against the wall. ‘If a little boy, and I mean one barely walking, is taken to be made zamorin, he’s bathed in hot water and the seeds of his manhood are squeezed each day until they disappear—’
‘I don’t want to know this,’ Velindre protested, appalled. ‘You need to know, if you’re to be believed.’ Risala overrode her. ‘A eunuch, zamorin in our tongue, who has been made in that way keeps a smooth skin, grows tall for the most part and, if he has barbarian blood to begin with, will often stay fair-haired and fair-skinned. You’ll be entirely believable as such a zamorin, as long as you dress in loose tunics,’ she added apologetically.
Velindre couldn’t help but glance down at her modest bosom, barely showing through the folds of cotton as it was. She had lost still more weight in her drugged sleep on this voyage. ‘You’ll make me out to be one kind of freak, to stop people thinking I’m some other more dangerous oddity. That makes some kind of sense.’ She scowled. ‘Was this Dev’s idea?’
‘Dev knows nothing of this,’ Risala interrupted. ‘It doesn’t concern him. My concern is to get you to Chazen waters undetected and this is the best way to achieve that. You’ll have far more privacy if people think you’re zamorin than you could in any other guise. Zamorin made as little children are actually quite uncommon; it’s hardly something to do lightly, to cut such a young boy off from his chance of fathering children.’
‘An unfortunate turn of phrase,’ commented Velindre coldly.
Risala studied her for a moment before going on. ‘Most zamorin are made as grown men, at best, after thorough consideration and with good reason. At worst, yes, there are domains more interested in the profit to be gained from trading in such slaves than in the violence they do to their captives and their futures. Depending on how it is done, yes, some zamorin are cruelly mutilated. So all zamorin are given a good deal of privacy for bathing and suchlike. You’ll have to do something remarkably stupid to be discovered. Do you think you can manage to avoid that?’ Her tone was unexpectedly cutting.
‘What do I have to do, to play a slave?’ Velindre’s eyes narrowed. ‘Fetch and carry and keep my mouth shut? I think I can manage that. And you can hardly have me stripped and whipped without revealing our secret,’ she concluded with bitter satisfaction.
‘Dev has been telling us you’re very clever. Perhaps, but you’re as ignorant as any other barbarian.’ Risala drew up her knees and laced her hands around them. ‘Let me guess: you’re convinced that all Aldabreshi live lives of indulgent ease, their cruel feet stamping on the necks of downtrodden captives who are worked to death burdened with chains?’
‘I’ve seen the slave market in Relshaz,’ Velindre countered frostily. ‘Every unfortunate who ends up there can expect shackles and manacles, not to mention the lash if they so much as look sideways at the wrong person.’
Risala shrugged. ‘It’s no business of ours what you mainlanders do with people whose fortunes in life bring them to such a pass.’
‘You prey on such unfortunates readily enough,’ retorted Velindre.
‘What do you mainlanders do with those destitute or desperate enough to give themselves over to theft or violence to keep themselves alive?’ Risala countered. ‘You flog them or hang them or leave them to die like dogs in the gutters. No one need fear such a fate in the
Archipelago, slave or free. Besides, what has a slave to complain of, when his own choices have led to his ruin, if a warlord or his lady is prepared to take up the burden of guiding his life toward a better future?’
‘What is there to complain of?’ Velindre stared at the girl. ‘In slavery?’
‘You’ve never seen life beyond your own waters.’ Risala cut her off with a sharp gesture. You need to hide your ignorance if you’re to play your part well enough for us both to stay safe.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Keep your main-lander opinions to yourself or we’ll both be at risk.’
Velindre looked up, uncomprehending, as the ship lurched and voices rose on the deck above. Feet ran, slapping unshod on the planks. There was a splash and the vessel was brought up with a jerk as an anchor bit into the sea bed. Cheerful approval rang through a sudden tumult of voices in the main body of the ship.
‘You also need to learn some skill in our language. We can’t use Tormalin much further south than these waters.’ Risala stood, one hand on the half-open door. ‘We’ll keep you away from other people as far as possible but we don’t want you giving yourself away every time you open your mouth.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Velindre sarcastically.
‘Let’s go ashore and see what you make of our brutal licentiousness.’ Risala smiled with that irritating amusement