"It will be ready, my lord." He had been staying up until long past mid¬night for almost a tennight, burning oil and candles at a prodigious rate (much to the disgust of Puzzle, who had an old man's love for going to bed just after sundown and for pinching coppers until they squeaked). "I only hope it will please you."
"Oh, as do I, Tinwright." Tolly grinned like a fox finding an unguarded bird's nest. "As do I."
The master of Southmarch said a few more quiet words to Havemore, then turned to go, tugging Elan M'Cory after him as though she were a dog or a cloak. When she didn't move quickly enough, Hendon Tolly turned back and grabbed at her shoulder, but wound up pinching the pale flesh of her bosom instead. She winced and let out a little moan.
"When I say step lively," he told her in a quiet, measured voice, "then you must jump, slut, and quickly. If there are any tricks like that in front of my brother I will make you dance as you have never danced before. Now come."
Havemore and the others standing nearby did not even appear to have noticed, and for a mad moment Tinwright could almost believe he had imagined it. Elan silently followed Hendon out, a patch of angry scarlet blooming on the white of her breast.
It was strange to step out this way, her lower limbs moving so freely. In truth, Utta felt disturbingly naked-the shape of her own legs was some¬thing she usually saw only when she bathed or prepared herself for sleep, not striding down a street with nothing between them and the world but a thin layer of worsted woolen hose.
Sister Utta had done her best not to nag at Princess Hriony when the girl had become fixed on wearing boy's clothing, although in her heart Utta had felt it was the sign of something unbalanced in the child, perhaps a reaction to all the sadness around her. But suddenly she could understand a little ot what Briony had meant when she had spoken of "the freedoms men take for granted." Was it truly the gods themselves who had made women the weaker sex, or was it something as simple as differences of dress and custom?
But they are stronger than us, Utta thought. Any woman who has been de¬spoiled or brutalized by a man no taller than she knows that only too well.
Still, strength alone was not enough to make superiority, she reflected, otherwise oxen and growling lions would command empires. Instead, men hobbled oxen so they could not move faster than a walk. Was it true, as Briony had complained, that men hobbled their women as well?
Or do we hobble ourselves? But if so, why would we do such a thing?
Of course, women would not be the first or only slaves to aid their captors.
Listen to me-slaves! Captors! It is these times in which we live-they turn everything downside up and make us question all. But meanwhile, I am not watch¬ing what I am doing and will probably walk myself into the lagoon and drown!
Utta looked up. She hadn't actually reached the lagoon yet, and was in fact only halfway down Tin Street, near the Onir Kyma temple-still out¬side the Skimmer neighborhoods. She was glad of the temple tower and the few other landmarks she recognized: she had never been this far from the castle except on the main road to the causeway when she and her Zorian sisters went to the mainland for the spring fair.
A group of men lolled in the road ahead of her, all but blocking the nar¬row way. As she drew closer she saw they were ordinary men, not Skimmers- laborers by the look of them, unshaven and wearing work-stained clothes. To her surprise, they did not make way as she approached but remained where they were, watching her with sullen interest.
I am used to being a woman, she thought — and a priestess at that. People step aside for me, or even ask blessing. Is this the way it is for all men? Or is there some reason they are blocking the road?
"Here now," one of the smallest of the men said. He had a lazy, self-satisfied tone that suggested he was their leader, size notwithstanding. He pushed himself away from the wall and stood before her, blocking her path. "What do you want, little fellow?"
It was all that an outraged Utta could do not to argue: among women
she was considered tall, and she was nearly the same height as this fellow, although vastly more slender. "I have business ahead," she said in her gruffest voice. "Please let me by."
"Oh, business in Skimmertown, have you?" He raised his voice as though she had said something shameful and he meant everyone to know. "Looking for a little fish-face girl, eh, fellow?"
For a moment Utta could only stare. "Nothing of the sort. Business," she said, and then realized she might sound too haughty. "My master's business."
"Ah," said the one who had been questioning her. "Your master, is it? And what business does he have down in Scummer Town? Hiring fishy-men for cheap, I'll warrant, taking work away from proper fellows. Ah, see the look on his chops now, boys!" The small man brayed a laugh. "Been caught out, he has." He took a step nearer, looked Utta up and down. "Look at you, soft as marrow jelly. Are you a phebe, then? One of those?"
"Let me go." She tried to keep her voice from shaking but didn't entirely succeed.
"Oh, do you think we should?" The man leaned closer. He stank of wine. "Do you?"
"Yes," said a new voice. "Let him go."
Both Utta and her persecutor looked up in surprise. A hairless man had come into the alley from a side-passage-a Skimmer, Utta realized, with a scar down his face that pulled one eyelid out of shape. The crowd of men blocking the alley stirred with an animal shiver of hatred Utta could feel.
"Hoy, Fish-face," said her antagonist. "What are you doing out of your pond? This part of town belongs to pureblood folk."
The Skimmer stared back with a face stiff as a wax effigy. He was not
small, and for a Skimmer he was solidly built, but he was hugely outnum¬
bered. Several of the men moved so that he was more nearly surrounded.
He smiled-his injured eye squinted shut as he did so-then he raised his
head and made a froggy, chirruping noise. Within moments half a dozen
more young Skimmer men began to drift into the alley, one holding a bal¬
ing hook in his fist, another tapping a long wooden club against his leg,
grinning toothlessly.;
"Merciful Zoria," Utta breathed. They're going to kill each other.
"You lot shouldn't be past Barge Street," said the man who had accosted her. He was grinning, too, and he and the first Skimmer had begun to cir¬cle each other, one lazy step at a time. "You shouldn't be here. This is ours, this is." He spoke slowly, like an invocation-he was summoning the powerful mystery of violence, Utta realized, with as much careful method as a priest used to call the attention of a god. She could not help staring at the circling pair, her skin fever-chilled.
"Get out," someone said from just behind her-one of the other Skim¬mers. She felt strong hands take her and pull her away, then another hand shoved her in the small of the back. She took a few stumbling steps away from the center of the now-crowded alley, slipping and tumbling into the mud. She looked back, half-expecting one of the men who had accosted her to try to stop her, or one of the Skimmers to shout at her to run away, but she was out of the center of the violence-spell now and she might as well have ceased to exist. The two main antagonists were feinting gently and almost lovingly at each other with knives she had not seen before. Their comrades were silently facing off, ready to throw themselves at their opposites when the first blow was struck.
Slipping in the wet street, clumsy as a newborn calf, Utta struggled up¬right and hurried away even as someone let out a shout of pain and fury behind her. A larger roar went up, many voices shouting, and people began to step out of the tiny, close-quartered houses to see what was the matter.