“You think on whatall I told you, Neeka. You do right by me and you can be a rich woman afore long. You need anything tonight, you yell for Iktis.”
Then she turned about and waddled out the door, closing it behind her but, Neeka quickly noticed, not bolting it.
Unfolding the bundle, Neeka found two undergowns of soft cotton, an overgown of bright-orange silk, a pair of gilded leather sandals, a hair-band of beaten copper set with turquoise, a hairbrush, a horn comb and a hand mirror of polished brass, all rolled in a quilted coverlet for the cot. She clothed herself immediately; the garments and sandals fitted as if they had been cut to her very measure.
Seating herself in the wide chair, she poured another thimbleful of the brandy and sipped at it thoughtfully. She had had no more contacts from Ratbane or any other fen cat and was beginning to lose hope. Djordj had said that Master Lokos was an old man. Possibly such a man would be loath to take on so wealthy and ruthless a woman as Djoy Skriffen over a girl he had never even seen.
If escape was impossible, she must make do, make the best she could of a bad situation. She reflected that the fat woman’s offer was tempting. Neeka was certain that she would be well treated as long as Djoy had a use for her, and as long as she did not openly defy her owner. If the guardsman she had attacked had truly died, in fact, she might be safer here than in Master Lokos’ employ, for Djordj had been very harsh to those who had slain any of his men and she had no reason to believe that his successor would be less so.
A bare hint of sound from behind. She turned to see the sinister, ugly Iktis standing in the doorway. Laying a finger across his lips, he mindspoke powerfully.
“Say nothing aloud you don’t wish overheard, child. That hole in the stone is not for ventilation. There are few mindspeakers here, and no one knows that I am one, save you. I should be at my post. I come only to reassure you that steps are being taken to free you from this foul place. But Djoy Skriffen is a rich woman, and powerful in some quarters. And, since she obtained you illegally, it is felt that your freedom must be sought through legal channels. Such is the feeling of the Council. It will be a test of the power of our Klirohnohmeea.”
Neeka wrinkled her brow in puzzlement. “Heritage?” That was the meaning of the word.
Iktis smiled toothlessly. “I forgot, you are from the Northern Ehleenee, child. Your lucky folk have not been ground into the dirt by presumptuous barbarians, as have we. The group that will succor you is properly called the Society for the Preservation of Our Ehleenee Heritage, but that is a mouthful, so most of us just call it Heritage. So you need not entertain any thought of cooperation with Our Lady Monster’s devilish schemes.”
“But …” Neeka beamed. “Did I truly slay that guardsman? If so, I’ll surely be arrested, imprisoned if not hanged.”
Iktis nodded forcefully. “Aye, he’s dead, and he had long earned it child. But do not fear punishment. At the behest of certain Heritage people, his accomplices in this morning’s infamy are even now being put to the severe question, so the new commander will know that your attack on Loo Fahlkop was nothing less than self-defense. Besides, the judge who will hear the case is on our Council.” He grinned again at her stunned look, adding, “We Ehleenee must look out for each other, child.”
Accustomed to a soldier’s bed and daily routine, Neeka woke before dawn, finished what food remained on the tray and drank some of the wine. Then, having too little water left to make even the skimpiest effort to wash, she dressed. It was well that she did for almost the moment she had finished, she heard voices, then Iktis was at the door.
Coldly, he snapped, “Come on upstairs with me, girl. Lady Djoy wants you.” Silently, he mindspoke, “Our people have come for you, child. Judge Oahbros himself came. Komees Pehtros Gahleenahnos of Esmith, the city governor, is with him. And Master Lokos, of course. Djoy Skriffen’s fat knees are rattling like dice in a cup, and the whale is white as curds.”
Neeka was ushered into a huge and garish parlor. Djoy, disheveled and puffy-eyed, sat in another of those padded, carven, overly wide chairs; the fat woman’s hands were tightly clasped in her broad lap, so tightly that the knuckles stood out prominently. And Iktis had been right, she did look pale, pale and ill.
Confronting the madam were three men. The most striking of them was a tall, stately, fine-featured old man, white-haired and richly but conservatively dressed. He was not armed; only a purse and a small, flat wallet rode at his belt, but in one manicured hand he held an ivory lahbrees set in a fluted golden shaft—the double axe of his office. His black eyes looked hard and cold and his face was set in grim lines.
The second man was not so richly dressed, though clearly as old as if not older than the jurist. He was almost bald; only a few skimpy strands of white adorned the top of his scarred scalp and but a bare fringe circled round the back of his head from temple to temple. His nose was as large as was Deris’ and, brooding over his thinner face, resembled the beak of a bird of prey. In addition to his purse and wallet, he had a sheaf of papers thrust under his belt.
The third man was much younger, no more than thirty, and was dressed for riding the hunt—suede-topped jackboots, leather breeches, canvas shirt and flat, velvet cap, with heavy hanger, dirk and sling at his belt. There was a dent across his high, scarred forehead—Djordj had had an identical mark and so Neeka knew that, since it was caused by long and regular wearing of a helm, the man must be or have been a soldier.
He turned his sloe-black eyes on her and smiled. “Very observant, little cheese,” he mindspoke. “In fact, Djordj Muhkawlee was once an ensign in my company of infantry. It was through me that your apprenticeship-indenture was arranged.”
“But enough for now. The judge will ask you questions. Answer them fully and truthfully.”
The tall man beckoned her forward and she halted before him, near the arm of Djoy’s chair.
“What is your name, my child?” he demanded. “And your age.”
“Neeka Mahreemahdees, sir,” she said softly. “I am seventeen.”
The other old man handed his sheaf of papers to the jurist, who unfolded and briefly scanned them, then he asked, “Did you sign an indenture contract of apprenticeship to Master Lokos Prahseenos of this city?”
“Yes sir.”
“Then what are you doing in this pesthole? Why are you not laboring honestly in your employer’s shop?” His tone was stern and reproving.
Neeka was stunned. Did the old man think that she was here by choice?
The mindspeak of the hunter reassured her. “The questions are mere form, Neeka. Judge Gahbros knows most of the truth already. But the form of an inquiry must be observed, he feels. To simply march in here with a dozen spear levymen or mercenaries, as I wanted to do when first I learned of this sorry business, and free you by main force would have been effective and personally satisfying, since I hate this sow and all she represents; but such a course would have been barely legal and detrimental to the aims of our group.”
Neeka recounted the tale of her abduction and told of awakening, nude, in a cellar cell, adding that a guardsman had told her that he had sold her to Djoy Skriffen for a whore.
The tall man nodded once, curtly. “Very well. It is my judgment that you, Neeka Mahreemahdees, indentured apprentice of Master Lokos Prahseenos of Esmithpolisport, were delivered against your will and choice to the woman Djoy Skriffen. I hereby order you to return to your lawful employer, to whose service you have admitted contracting yourself.”