Climate of Change

  By nightfall they were on a wider path, forming into a trail that was used by several villages. They camped at a shelter that was for common use. There was a stream nearby, and a raised platform that enabled them to sleep off the ground. They made a fire and sat around it, three men, three women and two children, and Harbinger and Crenelle played music and sang, making them all feel better. None of them liked leaving home.

  In two more days they reached the coast, where there was a town. Haven felt an eerie familiarity, as if she had been here before, though of course she hadn’t. She had visited neighboring villages, but never seen the sea or any settlement this size. She didn’t like it.

  “Now I’ve been away from town for most of a decade,” Crenelle said. She was explaining to the women, while her brother was explaining to the men. “But there are things that don’t change. We’ll have to check in with the chief.”

  “The chief?” Haven asked. The Farmers had no such offices, but knew that the Traders did.

  “His head of staff. Or whatever official is delegated to harass newcomers. The chief himself is seldom ever seen; his officials do the routine work. Now here’s the thing: those men have power. They can pick a man out of an immigrant family and kill him, and nobody can tell them no. They can pick a woman out and rape her, and she had better not offer any resistance. So we don’t want to look attractive.”

  Haven was beginning to appreciate why Harbinger and Crenelle had preferred to live at the fringe of the Trader culture, and marry Farmers. Crenelle was attractive enough to attract male eyes, and when she was younger she would have been a prize to be used.

  “So we’ll be plain,” Rebel said, adjusting her hair to be more messy.

  “Be plain, not ugly,” Crenelle said. “We want to pass unnoticed. Mostly they don’t bother with immigrants; I just wanted you to know the risk. This is not the occasion to assert oneself.”

  “Is it really necessary to go to the chief?” Haven asked. “Couldn’t we go to a smaller town?”

  “We could, but the Traders have suffered the same drought the Farmers have, so there’s not much there. The capital town has the supplies from the ships, so is independent of the drought. Besides, there are advantages.”

  “There need to be, if we risk execution or rape,” Rebel said dryly.

  “If we pass muster, we’ll have good lodgings and good jobs, and will be under the protection of the chief. That could make for a nice winter.”

  “And there are more jobs for foreigners,” Harbinger called across to them.

  So they had to take a risk, to achieve a better situation. That was ever the way of life. But Haven wished they could have stayed on the farm.

  “There will be a language problem,” Crenelle continued. “You know how much trouble we had understanding each other at the beginning, until my brother and I learned more of your language. Now you’ll have to speak Trader, and that will be awkward.”

  “We do know enough words to make ourselves understood,” Haven reminded her.

  “Yes. But you will never speak fluently, so it’s best to avoid speaking whenever you can. There are those who would take advantage of you.”

  “Cheating us,” Haven agreed.

  Crenelle looked thoughtful. “That, too.” She looked at the children. “You kids speak it more fluently than your elders do. But maybe better not to let on.”

  The two children nodded. Crenelle had spoken her language to them from the outset, and they had learned it readily. The rationale had been straightforward: in case they ever faced the situation they did today.

  The road wound up to the palace, which was a huge rambling wooden structure braced by stone pillars and angled posts. It wasn’t aesthetic, but Haven could see that it was solid; it would not blow down in any likely storm. It was surrounded by a palisade, and there were guards watching from towers buttressing the wall of pointed stakes. She was beginning to appreciate the security provided by the protection of the chief.

  They approached the front gate. There were two guards armed with copper swords. That suggested the wealth of this establishment. She knew that a stone ax was more effective than a copper sword, but much easier to obtain, so of course a chief would look down on it. So this was ostentation rather than defense. If there were a real attack, they would surely bring out the axes and bows and spears soon enough.

  “Halt!” a guard cried, assuming a stance that barred the entrance.

  They stopped. A man came out of the gate tower. He was unarmed, but well garbed, evidently an authority. “What is your business here?”

  Harbinger took one step forward. “Sir, we are Farmers looking for work for the winter.”

  “You’re no Farmer,” the Trader retorted. “You’re Trader.”

  “I am a Trader married to a Farmer,” Harbinger said. “Here is my wife.” He gestured, and Haven stepped forward, her head bowed. “And son.” Risk stepped forward, similarly submissive.

  The Trader peered at Haven. “Peel back that cloak, woman; let me get a look at you.”

  “Do it,” Harbinger murmured tightly.

  Haven opened her cloak, revealing her bloused bosom. She knew she was a well-formed woman; she would arouse suspicion if she tried to conceal it.

  The Trader nodded. “I see why you married Out. She’s solid.” He glanced around. “Who are the others?”

  “My sister.” Harbinger gestured again.

  Crenelle stepped forward, looking the guard in the eye. “Yes, I am Trader, married to a Farmer. Here is my husband.” Hero stepped up. “And daughter.” Tour joined them.

  “Open your cloak, girl.”

  This was bad business. Tour was only seven, but was a very pretty girl, promising to be a lovely woman. She could be attractive to a certain type of man. Crenelle was keeping a straight face, but Haven knew she was nervous and angry. And if Tour suffered a twitching fit, what then?

  Fortunately the Trader’s attention was already moving on. “And these others?”

  “Brother and sister of our spouses,” Harbinger said. “We are entitled to bring them, because they are blood kin to our children.”

  “How many will work?”

  “Five. One will mind the children.”

  “Which one?”

  Haven indicated herself. “I.”

  The man nodded. “Wait outside. I will send a party to guide you to your quarters and acquaint you with the nature of your work.” He glanced across all of them. “You will work hard and well, of course.”

  “Of course,” Harbinger agreed quickly.

  They retreated from the gate somewhat. They did not speak to each other, as the guards or supervisor could have sharp hearing. They were being admitted, but Haven was by no means sure that all was well. Why had the Trader wanted to look at her? And at Tour? To assess them as prospects? Or just to show his power? Maybe it was just as well that he hadn’t gotten a good look at Rebel; she had managed to remain inconspicuous.

  In due course two men came out. One was massively muscular, the other lean. These would be the guides. Haven hoped that was all they were.

  “Hello,” the lean man said, in passable Farmer language. “Do you understand me?”

  Surprised, all of them nodded. “You have been among our kind,” Craft said.

  “Yes. When we needed food, and had things to trade. We have always gotten along well. Your folk have always treated us fairly. I am Ned, and this is my big brother Sam.”

  Haven could appreciate why they had gotten along well; Ned was being very nice.

  “Two of us were Traders,” Harbinger said. “We married Out.”

  “So did I,” Sam said. “My wife Snow is a Farmer.”

  This was looking better yet. “From what village?” Haven asked.

  Sam named the village. It was a distant one they had had no contact with. Still, Haven felt encouraged.

  “You will have to be in the newcomers’ lodgings at first,” Ned said. “They aren’t good. But our sisters will help you get s
ettled. Follow us.”

  They followed him to a different, smaller gate, and through it. This time the guards did not challenge; the group had been checked in.

  Within the guarded compound was a cluster of large buildings close to the larger palace. They entered one. Inside was a huge array of posts and sections, with women working in many. There was the smell of smoke; there were a number of hearth fires burning, with the smoke wending to the ceiling and finding its way out through vents. There were other smells, as seemed inevitable when this many people were in close quarters.

  “This is yours, for now,” Ned said, indicating a dirty alcove. “You should be able to get better quarters in a few days; it depends on the favor of the authorities, which in turn depends on how well you work.”

  “I was afraid of this,” Crenelle muttered. “This is the stinkiest hole. But we won’t stay here long.”

  “I’ll fetch our sisters,” Sam said, evidently feeling awkward about the matter. He departed.

  “Tomorrow Sam and I will take you to the grave,” Ned said.

  “The grave!” Haven exclaimed, appalled.

  He smiled. “You misunderstand. The chief is old, and looking toward his death. We are building a burial vault, for him and all his attendants. It will be a rare privilege to be interred there. But first it has to be constructed. I helped design it, and Sam and I are working on it. We need more manpower, so are glad to see you folk arrive.”

  “That’s why you were assigned to us,” Craft said, catching on. “You need the labor.”

  “Yes. I should clarify that not all of it is physical labor. We need supervisors—men who can make sense of awkward complications. And women to bring food and supplies out on a fairly constant basis, so the work can proceed apace. It’s really a pretty ambitious project, because the chief doesn’t want his grave to be inferior to those of prior kings. So we hope to do a really good job.”

  “We can work well,” Craft said. “I have designed and built houses. I realize that’s not the same—”

  “But it’s an excellent start,” Ned agreed. “You will understand the dynamics of buttresses and arches.”

  “Yes. And of materials organization.”

  “Now I know we’ll get along,” Ned said enthusiastically. He looked up. “Ah, here are our sisters.”

  Two young women were approaching. One was heavyset, the other slender but not pretty.

  “Here is Flo,” Ned said, indicating the heavy one. “And Jes. I will leave you in their hands for now. But you must be ready to work at dawn tomorrow.”

  “We will be,” Craft promised.

  There were brief further introductions, as all the members of the family were identified. Both sisters turned out to speak fair Farmer language.

  “You will need a fire,” Flo said, taking charge. “I’ll show you where to get wood.”

  “I’ll help,” Rebel said. Crenelle nodded; she would watch the children, as she often did.

  Flo led them to an open court where dry wood was piled high. “They bring their leavings here,” she explained, “and anyone who needs it can use it. This is a good meeting place for women.” Indeed, several other women were there, selecting sticks of wood, and Flo nodded to them.

  “One thing to beware,” Flo murmured as she drew on a small log, not looking at the other two. “The officer who interviewed you, and summoned us, is named Bub. He’s not bad unless he wants something, and usually what he wants is sex from prettier women. Stay clear of him if you can. Do not speak of this openly.”

  Haven and Rebel nodded. They had already suspected as much. This was a vindication of Flo; not only did she know their language, she was truly helping them to get along.

  They returned with three armfuls of wood, which should do for their immediate need. Crenelle and Rebel were cleaning out the filthy stall with Jes’s help. “But at least you know the worst,” Jes said. “They start all newcomers here, so they will appreciate better quarters when they get them.”

  Haven looked around as she set down her wood. “The other women—are they friendly?”

  “They would be if they could afford it,” Flo replied. “Don’t count on them.” She glanced briefly at Risk and Tour. “Keep one of your own with your children, always. Especially the girl.”

  “Make her less pretty, if you can,” Jes added quietly. Crenelle, overhearing, nodded.

  Fair warning, indeed.

  “Tomorrow, after you work, you will be issued food,” Flo said. “Tonight you will have to cope on your own.”

  Soon the two women left, and the family settled down to a meal from their scant supplies, and to sleep. There were fleas and mosquitoes, but they were used to them. The worst, perhaps, was over; they had been admitted, and would have lodging and work. Then in spring they could return to the farm for a better season.

  Haven woke before dawn, as she normally did, and kneaded bread for the family. Minding Flo’s warning, she conducted the children and the dogs to the slop trench for natural functions. They did not protest; they knew it could be dangerous among strangers.

  Sam and Ned arrived at dawn to conduct the men to the working site. Not long after, Flo and Jes came to show the women their jobs.

  Haven and the children, left alone, got to work cleaning the stall. They scraped away the layered dirt and scrubbed the posts. Women in the other stalls glanced across incuriously; they were evidently accustomed to dirt. Haven’s impression was that these were not bright or sensitive females. That probably accounted for their presence in this dump.

  A well-garbed man arrived, trailed by a humble woman. Haven recognized Bub, the admitting officer. He spoke in the Trader language, too rapidly for her to follow. She paused in her work, looking at him with calculated blankness.

  “My lord Bub says that it is a shame to see an attractive woman like you confined to a lowly barracks like this,” the woman said in Farmer.

  So she was the translator. But what was this about an attractive woman? Haven could be attractive when she chose, but she had not made an effort today, and indeed, was sweaty and grimy from her labors here. “I don’t understand.”

  Bub glanced at the translator woman. “Take the children to the kitchen for some good food.”

  “No you don’t,” Haven protested. “The children stay with me.”

  “They will not be harmed,” the woman said. “Believe me, it is better.”

  Something was up. Reluctantly, Haven nodded. Risk and Tour straightened up and walked to the woman. She would have to hear what Bub wanted to say to her privately.

  The man wasted no time, once the others were gone. “Want you,” he said in pidgin Farmer.

  There could be no misunderstanding, but she made the effort. “Maid work?”

  He reached forward and caught the hem of her skirt, lifting it up too high. “Sex.”

  She pretended astonishment. “Me? I’m ugly.”

  He caught her shoulder and drew her toward him. She did not resist strongly, wary of angering him. He clasped her breast with his other hand. Then he reached around her and clasped a buttock. “No. Good body.”

  She drew back as far as she could. She had been raped once, and though that had worked out, she didn’t care to repeat the experience. She knew she could not afford to provoke this man. So she tried to talk him out of it. “No. I’m married.”

  “No tell.”

  A private affair? That was hardly an improvement. “No.”

  He nodded, undismayed. “Move good place.”

  So he was bargaining. They could have better quarters if she acceded to his desire. But it was a bargain that repelled her. “No.”

  “Men good jobs.”

  That didn’t move her. “They already have good jobs.”

  “No.”

  Too late, she realized her mistake. Bub was the one who assigned the jobs. He could send the men to bad jobs, or prevent them from getting employment entirely.

  Bub saw she was coming to understand it. He upped the an
te. “Women good jobs.”

  And what was a bad job, for a woman? She hardly cared to know. But how could she accede to his awful demand?

  “Children—” he began.

  “No!” she said fiercely. “Don’t threaten the children!”

  But of course he had already done so. “Come.”

  “No.” But she had the sinking feeling that she couldn’t make it stick.

  He spread his hands inoffensively. “To see. No more.”

  “No more,” she agreed, hating even this partial acquiescence.

  He took her possessively by the elbow and guided her through the barracks and outside. Of course everyone could see this, and would think she had agreed to be his mistress. But Harbinger would believe the reality, and that counted more. What would that reality be?

  He brought her to the palace compound. Here rugs hung on the walls and fine stones made the floor. The residential chambers were closed off by wood and stone, with quiet passages leading between them.

  He paused to draw aside a curtain. Beyond was a beautiful chamber with a solid stone hearth and separate chimney, wooden benches, and raised sleeping platforms piled with bright pillows. The room was huge, with a high ceiling, and it opened onto at least one other chamber beyond. This was surely the residence of a prince.

  “For you,” Bub said. “Your family.”

  She shook her head, unable to believe it. He was cruelly teasing her.

  He understood her doubt. “Ask others,” he said. “Now go. Tomorrow, decide.”

  She made her way back the way they had come, hardly aware of her surroundings. She knew she couldn’t accept his offer, but the wonderful residential suite dazed her. For the family to live in that. . .

  She found herself back in the stinking hole that was their present residence. The woman was returning with the children. Haven felt guilty for forgetting the children even briefly, but they seemed to be all right.

  “The kitchen!” Tour said. “So much food!”

  “We got sweetbread,” Risk said. “So good!”

  Bub hadn’t had the children harmed, but bribed. Showing her what he could do for them. How could she tell them that there would be no more of this?