Changing the World: All-New Tales of Valdemar

The Amar rose, and the girl crawled to her knees and bowed low. He glanced at her, snapped, “Get to the kitchen,” then turned back to his guests. “Of course, Gunde. May I host you for dinner tomorrow? A feast in farewell before you eat ship rations?”

“My son and I would be honored,” Father said. Of course, Riga was only a daughter and was not mentioned here, any more than a dog would be.

They bowed all around and departed, as the girl scurried limping away, taking the tray and towel with her.

Once outside and out of earshot, Riga muttered, “I think I’d prefer ship biscuits and salted meat to hospitality such as his.”

“They are not a nice people,” Father agreed. “But we need the trading stop. If we could transport only across the lake back home and stay solvent, I’d do that. We need proper trading voyages now and then, though. It’s also good learning for you two.”

“We need to learn that some people are pure evil?” Erki asked.

“The Amar is brutal even by our warrior standards,” Father said, “but he is not evil. At least their trade is honest, and tariffs fair. They’ve held off Miklamar’s encroachments so far. If you want evil, you remember the refugees fleeing that murderous thug.”

“I do,” Erki said as he rubbed his stubby thumb. So did Riga. She vividly remembered him losing half that thumb when the two youths had had to be warriors and guides for those refugees.

“Tonight is our last night in the inn,” Father said. “We’ll remain aboard ship, under tent, until we leave.”

“Oh, good,” Riga said. “I prefer our tent to their opulence. It’s friendlier.” Nothing about this city was friendly except the other traders and embassies. Of course, they weren’t of this city. Riga wore heavy clothes despite the mild weather but no sword. Erki and Father carried swords. They were her protectors. Her status: none. At home she wore her cat-jeweled sword, and no one would be silly enough to ask if she knew its use.

The feast was not a happy event. It could have been, but . . .

Riga had no complaints about the food. She didn’t like being behind a curtain at a second, remote table set up for women, where she ate with the wives and servants. She didn’t like getting what were basically the leavings from the men. The entertainment would be better if she could actually see it, rather than just hear hints of it past the curtain. The food was wonderful, though, redolent with spices and rich and savory. The manner took getting used to. One formed rice into balls, or tore pieces of bread, and just reached in to scoop up the saucy mess.

Even at the women’s table, there was a hierarchy. The senior wife sat at the far end. Her two junior wives flanked her, and the wives and concubine of two other guests sat down from there. Riga guessed her position at a table end was of some status, and two daughters flanked her. Between were the servants.

A warm, sweet smell seemed to indicate dessert, or at least a dessert. There’d been two so far. Jesrin served the men, then came through to serve the women.

As she leaned past Riga to put down a platter of pastry, her layered gown slipped, revealing some shoulder.

Riga almost recoiled in horror at what she glimpsed. That delicate shoulder was a mass of blood blisters, bruises and welts. Their color indicated they were healing, but he’d laid into this girl horribly.

Steeling herself, she said nothing, made no acknowledgement—servants weren’t people here—and ate quietly. The food was good. It would have been twice as good if she’d been granted the courtesy of eating with the men. She reminded herself that her own people regarded her as a warrior. No insults here could change that.

Of course, Father had asked that she diplomatically not discuss any of her “manly” skills. While she knew weaving and a little of spinning, she knew much more of boatkeeping and lading, numbers, letters, horse care, and maneuver. The women chatted amiably about textiles and art, and Riga just nodded and smiled.

Jesrin slipped back through a few minutes later, came over, and discreetly handed Riga a slip of parchment, which Riga just as discreetly opened in her lap and read.

“We are staying here tonight. Your room will be across the hall from mine—GundeFather.”

If there was one thing Riga didn’t want to do, it was stay here, beneath her status. She momentarily raged inside.

It wasn’t just being treated as an inferior. It was that it didn’t matter what her status was, didn’t matter her skills. She could run the business herself if need be. She lacked Father’s decades, but she had a grounding in all the basics and plenty of her own travels and deals and war. But here, just being born female meant that she was beneath a horse, even beneath a dog, and wouldn’t even be treated with contempt. She just wouldn’t be treated at all. The offered hospitality was for Father and Erki, not her. Her room was a mere courtesy to Father, otherwise they’d stick her in a hole with the servants, she was sure.