Tonight, Reynard Ravel rolled the advice over in his mind. He began to laugh, and his enormous belly convulsed beneath his silk shirt. After a day touring his plantations and an evening spent poring over ledgers, Ravel was tired. His mood, however, remained good. Now at last he could relax over his supper and celebrate his coming victory. Lying on his side amid a bed of colourful pillows, he reached across the floor toward the feast laid out before him, an orgy of meats and fruits and peacock eggs, from which he selected a single, plump fig. He sucked on the fig slowly, admiring the woman dancing before him, her body only partially clothed, glistening with sweat as she turned to the music. An enormous fire in a marble hearth kept the room warm. Ravel watched the perspiration slide down her bare belly and felt a stirring in his loins. She smiled at him, noting his lust, forcing the smile to her lips. Ravel’s girth made him grotesque to women, but his wealth kept them willing. The Merchant-Baron of Andola pinned the fig between his teeth and clapped, grinning like a wolf as he quickened the slave’s pace. The musicians beat their drums and picked their strings faster and faster while the woman sped through her pirouette, her scarlet skirt spinning out around her, the silk around her breasts blurring with colour. Ravel clapped and clapped until she cried with exhaustion, and at that delicate lament he stopped his clapping and watched her collapse to the floor, completing her dance with a toss of her golden hair. The music abruptly stopped. The girl knelt, panting, smiling, looking at him from across the floor. Ravel pulled the fig from his mouth and cheered.
‘Beautiful,’ he applauded. ‘Fate above, you were worth every penny, my dear! Your father wasn’t lying when he said you were an accomplished dancer. I should increase his fee just for that performance.’
A glee that was more like relief flashed through the girl’s blue eyes. ‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said, then let her gaze drop dutifully to her knees. Her heavy breathing quickened Ravel’s own. He glanced at the musicians and shooed them out of the chamber with a wave of his jewelled fingers. The girl waited obediently. Unsure what to do with herself, she adjusted the beads over her breasts. Ravel pursed his lips, loving her innocence.
‘Come here, girl,’ he said at last. She obeyed, padding toward him on bare feet. An arrangement of pillows had been set for her before the feast. Baron Ravel gestured to the soft spot. ‘Sit.’
Again she did as told, folding her legs beneath her as she sat before her new master. She dared not look up at him, but Ravel did not want her to fear him. He had a harem of women just like her, but he had never raised a hand to any of them. He had found out long ago that love given willingly was far sweeter than any love stolen.
‘You please me,’ he told her.
Her reply was curt. ‘Thank you, my lord.’
Her name was Simah, but she was not precisely a slave, or at least not in the traditional sense. There had been no slavery in Liiria since before the reign of Akeela, and in Ravel’s mind that was good and just. But times were tough, and there were fathers throughout Liiria willing to sell their daughters for enough gold or grain to see them through a season. Above all else, Reynard Ravel was a businessman. He knew a bargain when he saw one. And his precious Simah was certainly that. For such a beauty she had come cheaply, and it seemed her father had been glad to be rid of her. To be truthful, Ravel knew her bondage was slavery, but felt no guilt over the deal. It was not his place to moralise, he decided, but to profit. Simah would have a good home here in Andola. For dancing and the occasional night in his bed, she would avoid the starvation that had snared so many others.
‘You are warm,’ he said. Sweat still glistened on her creamy skin. He imagined the taste of it. ‘Forgive the heat. It is a condition of my blood, you see, for I am always cold. I’m like a little flower. You would think so much blubber would keep me warm!’
He went on to tell her how his own father had been a spindly man, a man of little means, who had worked his tiny parcel of land until dropping dead from exhaustion. When he died, Ravel explained, he was as emaciated as a fishbone.
‘I swore that would never happen to me,’ he told the girl. ‘And as you can see I kept my promise.’
He laughed at his jest but Simah simply stared, too confused to make sense of it. Ravel hoped he hadn’t purchased an idiot.
‘Eat,’ he told her.
She shook her head slightly. ‘I have no appetite, my lord.’
‘Oh, but you must. After such a dance? And such a long day? Eat, girl.’
But the girl did not eat. She simply stared at the food, her expression distant.
‘Simah, I purchased you from your family. You know that, yes?’
Simah nodded.
‘Then you know that you are mine now. You are to obey me.’ Baron Ravel softened his tone a bit. ‘My cooks went to trouble for you, to make you feel welcome. Have a little, at least.’
So the slave did as asked, selecting a single olive from a bowl overflowing with them. She put it in her mouth, chewing slowly and not tasting it.
‘It is painful to be taken away from your family, is that it?’ Ravel probed. ‘Then let me ask you this — is it more painful to leave your family, or to know that your father did not want you?’
The cruel question at last made Simah look at him. ‘My father was as poor as your own father, my lord. Did your father sell you?’
Ravel laughed. ‘You are insolent, but honest. And I will not argue bloodlines with you. My father never had coins in his pocket, only dirt. He didn’t know it, but he taught me what not to be in life. And now look at me. I’m the richest man in Liiria. Rich enough to buy your affection, child.’
‘I came willingly to this bargain, my lord,’ said Simah. ‘I was just a burden to my family.’
‘But you will not be one to me, girl; I will not allow it. I know a bargain when I see one and you were a great find, a treasure.’ He looked at her, inspecting her up and down, letting his eyes wander over her curves and smooth skin. She was a delight. Not yet resigned to her fate, true, but that was how all mustangs were at first. In time, she would accept him and her new life. Her eyes darted about the opulent chamber, plainly astonished by it. According to Bern, who had brought the girl to him earlier, Simah’s own home was a hovel. Living just outside the city, she had watched Ravel war with the other merchants, reducing everything around them to dust. Surely she had never seen anything like the merchant-baron’s home. The elaborate friezes on the wall, the festoons of fragrant flowers, the fountain that miraculously never ran out of water; all these things amazed her. They were so unlike the buildings surrounding the castle, unscathed treasures in a time when everything else was broken. In a way, Ravel’s home was an obscenity, and he knew it. Gilded and dramatic, his castle remained oblivious to the battle-scarred streets below.
‘This is your refuge,’ said Ravel proudly. ‘Nothing will hurt you here. You must get used to that idea. Unlearn the fear you’ve been living with, girl. Others may die in fire and war, but not us. Not here.’
The promise left Simah unimpressed. ‘My lord, men like you bring war.’
‘Oh, you have me wrong, child. I am the saviour of Andola! If not for me the city would have been overrun by bandits. Don’t you know how safe you’ve been because of me?’
Simah did not answer, and Ravel realised she had no concept of his explanation. He sighed at his wasted effort. All the peasants of Andola were like Simah. They blamed him for their plight, never once thanking him for the order he’d brought to their city after Akeela’s death. He had battled for Andola, using his wealth to hire every mercenary he could against the opportunists who had tried to claim the city. The fighting had been fierce and had left a burnt-out husk in its wake, but Ravel was slowly rebuilding. Urchins like Simah simply didn’t realise how long it took to consolidate power.