Bright Thrones
“A Commoner?”
“Yes, that’s what we call them. Since you are a foreigner you may not understand that we keep Commoners separate from proper Patrons like ourselves.”
“Patrons being what you call people of Saroese ancestry, you mean.”
The man grabbed at Beauty’s arm. She jerked away from his fingers, and he made a clumsy attempt to slap her. He was obviously still drunk. “A cursed mule too!”
Agalar had years of practice in suppressing his temper but it blazed now. “Keep your hands off my servant!”
“She’s not yours. She belongs to the mine. To Garon Palace!”
Shaking with emotion, Agalar grabbed his surgical saw. “Get out of my way, you incompetent oaf. After I leave Akheres, be sure everyone will notice how poorly the injured fare under your supervision.”
Of course there was a form of satisfaction in observing Dotas’s fish-mouthed shock at being threatened in such a manner. But the great benefit of wearing a lord’s mantle was that as long as others believed you outranked those you abused, you could get away with it.
“Come along,” he said to Pearl and Beauty.
As they left the barracks and made their way past storehouses to the back of the compound, he kept glancing at Beauty but she wasn’t looking at him. The rigidity of her jaw gave her a mulishly stubborn appearance, but while mules were, in his opinion, generally stronger, smarter, and hardier than horses, he was sure a man like Lord Dotas believed that horses were noble and mules tainted half-breeds.
Behind the storehouses lay the fenced-in yard where ill and injured slaves had dragged themselves in the hope they might get any scrap of medical attention. The fortunate ones rested on mats or blankets beneath a dirty canvas awning, but some simply suffered on the hard ground in the hot sun. None had any attendants because the able-bodied had to work. Ash and several of the other Shipwrights had already arrived with buckets of water and were ladling it out to the parched slaves. Pearl went over to help.
“Here is where the real work begins,” Agalar said to Beauty.
“This looks nothing like hospitals in Saryenia.”
“Did you often visit hospitals?” He set his bag on a shaded table—recently scrubbed, he was glad to note—and rinsed his hands from a pitcher of vinegar.
“Sometimes I went with my mother. She would gather plants and herbs outside the walls and trade with the physicians in exchange for medicines she could not obtain elsewhere.”
“You speak warmly of your mother. Is she as beautiful as you?”
“Am I required to answer that question, my lord?” she asked in the tight tone he was coming to guess meant she was choking down an angry shout.
“Oh!” He dried his hands on clean linen. “Now I understand Lord Dotas’s comment about mules. One of your parents is Saroese and one is Efean. Given that the Saroese look down upon the Efeans, it stands to reason that to them you would seem a figure of contempt and ridicule.…”
Her gaze flashed up, searing him.
He closed his mouth, stricken by shame.
After an awkward pause he said, “Rinse your hands.”
Ash returned to carry the bag as they began their rounds. Agalar knelt beside each patient, took a pulse, and recited symptoms, which Beauty dutifully recorded. Where needed, she translated between Efean and Saroese, a skill that proved useful when they reached a prisoner whose thigh had taken a deep cut and who did not understand Saroese. When Agalar handed her a pair of tweezers to pick fragments of rock and sand out of the gash, she did not flinch. Her hand remained steady as he held the skin back with retractors. The gash had cut almost to the bone, a common enough injury when heated rock exploded and sprayed shards. The patient did not moan; few did, out here. He merely wheezed faster, eyes shut.
“What do you think, Beauty? See how wasted his muscle has become. Undernourished people eat their own bodies to survive. Most of his nails have fallen off, and his wheeze will worsen until he can no longer breathe. He will likely start coughing up blood before then. Should we heal him to return to the mines for weeks or months of agonizing misery, or would it be more merciful to let him die now?”
She did not reply, gaze intent as she sought any last grain or fragment left behind. When she finished, he dabbed a concoction of honey along the edges of the wound and gave her a needle and thread to sew it up. Her stitches were neat and her hand steady, and he only had to correct her twice. When she finally sat back on her heels and held out the bloody needle, he did not take it. As if his refusal was a prod, she answered in a low voice.
“No one knows what will happen in a week or a month. A family might be living quite contentedly with no fears for the future and suddenly in the course of one afternoon find their entire lives upended and torn apart.”
She looked away. A bead of water slid down her cheek to tremble at her jawline.
He raised a hand but caught himself before he touched her face to wipe away the moisture.
“Shall we go on, my lord? There are others waiting to be treated.” Her voice had recovered its harsh quality, and the heat had already evaporated the telltale tear.
By now the afternoon shadows gave some comfort to the last patients, the ones lying on the ground because there was no room under the awning. Pearl had fetched porridge and patiently spooned nourishment into their mouths. He used it as a test: people too apathetic to attempt to eat had passed beyond the point where he could help them.
Beauty’s gaze lingered on the weak stirring of one of the slaves, who made an exhausted attempt to brush flies off cracked lips. “I suppose Lord Eorgas sees no profit in taking better care of his sick and injured slaves. Yet with food and drink and shelter surely some of them might recover and live decent lives.”
“Not in this world, Beauty.”
“Then this world ought to burn until it is nothing but ashes!”
“Even the innocent?”
“They burn anyway, don’t they? So we might as well also rid ourselves of the hateful, grasping, selfish lords who drag us all into the mines to die.” She looked at him. “Why does that make you smile?”
“That you speak such words to me, who bears the title of a lord. I could have you whipped.”
She leaned closer, and if ever the air charged as prelude to the crash of a storm, he felt it now. “Do it, then. I’m not afraid.”
He held her gaze, and she glared, not giving way.
“My lord,” Ash called from the gate. “Lord Eorgas’s steward is here. He says there has been a fight in the guards’ barracks and a broken arm for you to set.”
With an effort, he pulled his gaze away from her challenge. “Surely Dotas can set a broken arm, an elementary procedure!”
“Eorgas wants you,” replied Ash with that crinkling of the eyes that meant he was trying not to laugh. He was a man who found humor in awkward situations.
Agalar dipped his medical tools in vinegar. “Beauty, Pearl will take you back to your companions.”
“Don’t you want me to come with you?”
“No.”
She fastened a remarkably forceful grip over his wrist, fingers like a vise trapping him. “My companions have been strong to make it this far, but they rely on me. Please don’t condemn them to the mines because I haven’t measured up to your standards. I’ll do anything—”
“You misunderstand me.” He twisted his arm out of her grasp even though he was already caught by her bold manner and her fierce heart. “The guards’ barracks is exactly the wrong place for a person with your striking appearance to visit.”
Did she blush at his compliment? Probably it was just the heat.
“You will be working for me henceforth, and your companions will be under my protection. Now do as I command and go with Pearl!”
Her chin trembled but she managed to say, “Yes, my lord. I will do as you command.”
He wanted to say, I hope you never become meek and obedient. Instead he cleared his throat in that irritating way Lord Agala
r had always done when he was tired of being surrounded by people who annoyed him, which was everyone. He grabbed his bag and, with a nod to Pearl, left with Ash.
“You’re courting trouble with that one,” said Ash to him as they passed under the gate.
“She speaks Efean. That’s useful to us.”
“Don’t think we don’t have sympathy for these slaves, but we’re here to steal gold, not to give succor to people already condemned to death. Do I need to remind you of what’s at stake for you personally?”
“Of course you don’t need to remind me!”
“Don’t bite me. I’m on your side.”
“We’re not friends, Ash. I mean no offense, but you and your crew are mercenaries.”
Ash had a sly smile, a man who could knife you in the belly while he was patting you comfortingly on the shoulder. “What does that make you, then?”
What did that make him? It made him a desperate man. That was why he was going to help the girl. She reminded him of himself.
Yes, that was why. Not anything else.
4
After over a month at the mines, Bettany had come to look forward to dusk as the best part of the day. One of Agalar’s Shipwright attendants would escort what they called “Beauty’s family” from their work hauling rocks at the mines back to the building where the doctor resided. Her people had been allowed to build a lean-to against the north-facing wall, and here they would gather for a meal of porridge. If there was leftover bread, they would be allowed to share that as well. Then they would sing softly and pray. After they were settled for sleep on mats on the ground, Bettany would go back into the office, light a lamp, and work.
On the first day, after Lord Agalar had seen her excellent calligraphy, he had set her to making a clean copy of his copious notes from a year of travel across the Three Seas. His Saroese letters were sloppy and imprecise, and his grammar was often wrong, especially if he was writing in haste. She smoothed out the errors and corrected the verbiage.
“You make it sing,” he’d said, reading over a detailed passage describing how to tie off blood vessels to prevent an amputee from bleeding to death, and it still annoyed her how much she had brightened at that scrap of praise. Needing his protection and being beholden to him was bad enough; she wasn’t going to fall into the trap of seeking his approval. He was a lord, and lords couldn’t be trusted, even one with brilliant eyes.
She sat down cross-legged on the floor and set out her tools—brush, inkstone, ruler—on the scribe’s desk. At home she had often made clean copies of her father’s duty reports—his writing was rigidly serviceable but not elegant enough to be filed in the Royal Archives—and written out her mother’s correspondence and contracts on various trade dealings. It was the one thing she was better at than any of her sisters: Maraya was too busy studying, Jes was too restless to write neatly, and Amaya got bored if the words weren’t about her. Writing calmed her because brushstrokes needed concentration and yet were also active, a constant flow of movement. She could drift into a place where her anger would not threaten to eat her alive.
Because Lord Eorgas always invited Agalar to take supper with him at the supervisor’s house, Bettany had become accustomed to having the small office to herself for the entire evening. The solitude had become an unexpected balm, an interlude during which she could imagine that beyond the walls of this chamber spread a landscape filled with justice and mercy, and that she was a warrior-scribe working diligently to keep that world in balance one healed patient at a time.
The sound of male voices impinging on her space much earlier than usual enraged her.
“I was unable to sleep again last night because of indigestion,” Lord Eorgas was saying in a peevish tone as he and Agalar stepped up onto the porch. Eorgas always walked the doctor home to extend their supper conversation. “Have you no cure for this ailment that plagues me?”
Bettany tried to remain calm. Her companions’ faces flashed through her mind. Their lives depended on her staying in Agalar’s graces, but the mine supervisor’s obliviousness was just too much. She could not restrain herself. “You complain of eating too much while people starve around you?”
Eorgas stared at her where she was seated in the pool of lamplight. His mouth worked, but no words came out.
Her flood had just started. “You preside over a charnel house, a factory of death. A man with no conscience would sleep well, but your soul isn’t dead yet so it burns at your insides.”
Agalar laughed a little wildly. Bettany suspected he was drunk, an indulgence he rarely allowed himself.
Eorgas finally stumbled over his voice. “You… you… you can’t speak to me like that.”
He groped for the whip all Saroese lords carried in Efea, the symbol of their power. Tugging it from his belt, he strode across the chamber toward her. She lifted her chin. His anger didn’t frighten her. Pain didn’t frighten her.
Agalar placed himself directly between Eorgas and Bettany, and the other man halted. “Do you know what astounds me, Eorgas?”
“Of course I do!” He was shaking with offended dignity. “That this Commoner—this mule!—speaks to me with such disrespect, a lord and in every way her superior—”
“That you cannot see how your callous cruelty serves you ill.” Of course Agalar could say what he wanted and not be punished for it. “Healthy workers can work harder than exhausted, undernourished ones. Whip and starve them if you will. It’s no concern of mine. But if you offer incentives to the prisoners, like better rations and medical care, they will strive on their own behalf. In Nerash, where I come from, people captured into slavery are given the chance to buy themselves free. It’s a powerful goad.”
“Impossible. Prisoners at the mines can’t be freed. They’re criminals!”
“Who do you consider the criminal?” Bettany broke in, exhilarated by the way Eorgas didn’t have enough nerve to push past Agalar. By the way Agalar wouldn’t let him. “The man who eats another man’s flesh, or the man whose flesh is eaten?”
“You’d have more luck training a dog not to bark than a woman not to spew nonsense,” Eorgas sputtered.
“She’s pointing out that it is, for example, hypocritical to condemn cannibalism as a crime but blame its victims rather than its perpetrators.” Agalar grasped him by the elbow and steered him toward the porch. “I know you’re an intelligent man, Eorgas. Think about it. You’ve told me you get to keep a small share of the gold that is mined here.”
“Healthier workers would mean better production, which would mean I could skim off a bigger profit quite legally. Have I understood you?”
Men like Eorgas would crawl to win a scrap of praise from a man like Agalar.
“Exactly. I’ll explain as I walk back with you. We’re both a bit drunk and need each other to lean on in this gods-forsaken wilderness, don’t we?” He glanced over his shoulder with a curt nod to remind Bettany to stay where she was and keep her mouth shut.
She blotted a line. Of course he still ordered her around. His defense of her was nothing more than asserting his right to discipline her rather than allowing another man to do so. He wasn’t any different from the others. With sheer force of will, she returned her gaze to the papyrus, scraped off the smeared ink, and applied herself to the false peace of writing.
“You have ink on your hand,” said Agalar from so close that she fudged a stroke.
She looked up to find him staring at her from a body’s length away, having crossed the room without a sound. He looked away at once, chin coming up.
“I didn’t hear you come back in.” She often stood close to him during medical rounds without thinking anything of it, but tonight his nearness made her uncomfortable.
“The thick carpets muffle the sound of footsteps,” he said, then muttered to himself, “Yes, yes, she already knows that, you fool.”
Flushed, she turned her attention to cleaning her brush so she didn’t have to look at him not looking at her. He did not move. Afte
r a bit, an intangible sense shifted in the air, a tightening of tension. She glanced up again and met his gaze.
He winced as if the sight of her pained him but he did not look away. “He’ll forget about the incident by morning.”
“I hope foul dreams twist up through his gut and choke him.”
A smile flickered. “A tempting thought, isn’t it? But the man who replaces him would probably be worse. You aren’t wrong about Eorgas. He at least has a sliver of conscience, enough to make excuses for why things are as they are. A different man would simply not notice how many suffer here.”
The lamp’s light softened the perpetual frown lines on his forehead, making her realize he was always worried. What could a wealthy, educated, confident, and supremely competent lord like him possibly have to be anxious about? She stared into those exotic blue eyes as if they might reveal what vexations tugged at his heart.
His lips parted.
She leaned forward, thinking he was about to confide in her. Wishing he would so she might come to understand the contrast between his dismissive treatment of Eorgas and the other Saroese men and his meticulous care of the sick and injured.
He said, “People who take advantage of their power, even with soft affection, are no better than those who use their power for cruelty.” He looked down, breaking their gaze. “Maybe they are worse.”
The words fell so painfully that she pressed a hand to her heart.
“That is no lie, my lord,” she replied, because it wasn’t. It was the story of her own parents even if they would have strenuously denied it. Her very existence was the product of a sentimental falsehood, the pretense that love could build a bridge across what was really an unbridgeable chasm.
Horribly, a tear escaped, and she saw him track its slide down her cheek.
“Oh, Beauty, don’t cry. I would never—I mean—” He threw up a hand, palm out, like a barrier, and took a step back. By his unsteadiness she knew he really was drunk, that he’d said more than he meant to say. He wasn’t talking about her parents. How could he be? She’d never told him anything about their relationship.