Worlds That Weren't

“No one’s going to listen to me, frankly,” Yolande said. “If I go to Spessart…He’s over in the command tent right now, thinking, ‘Rosso’s giving me trouble even when she’s dead.’ What’s he going to say if another woman comes in and asks him to please not slaughter the local swine? I’ll tell you what he’ll say: ‘Get the fuck-’”

“All right!”

Her thoughts completed it: Get the fuck out of here and back to the baggage train; quit using the crossbow, because you’re plain crazy.

Prostitution again, at my age?

Ric glared at her, rigid and angry. His fury and disappointment stung her in a raw way she had thought could no longer happen.

“Ask Guillaume Arnisout.” The words were out of her mouth before she thought about them. But it isn’t that stupid an idea. “Guillaume’s a man. He might get listened to. If you can get him to speak for you. Wouldn’t the abbot try to speak for you? He’s your master?”

“My master-”

He broke off. A different pig heaved herself up, walked forward, dipped her snout to Ric’s knee where he sat, and with slow deliberation let herself fall down with her spine snug up against his leg.

“Lully…” The boy slid his fingers down behind her ear, into the soft places. Yolande thought, Dear God, I recognize a pig. This is the one he had at the chapel.

“I’ve been here since I was eight.” Ric’s girl-long lashes blinked down. “I don’t remember much before. A banking house. The men used to travel a lot. I used to hold the horses’ reins for them.”

Yolande could picture him as a page, small and slender and dark-haired. He would have been attractive, which was never an advantage for a slave.

I wonder how much the fat Lord-Abbot paid for the boy? And how much he would ask for him now?

She caught herself. No. Don’t be a fool. The most you can afford is a few derniers for someone from the baggage train to help armor you up. You can’t pay the price needed to get a full-time page or varlet.

Maybe I could borrow the money…

“And then,” Ric said. “And-then. The Lord-Father came. Abbot Muthari. I have to know!”

Her expression must be blank, she realized.

“My master. Your qa’id ’s going to kill him, isn’t he?”

“If he doesn’t bury Margaret.”

“He won’t do that.” Ricimer wiped at his face, leaving it white with dust, his eyes showing up dark and puffy. “He won’t. I know he won’t.”

“Look, you’ll be all right; you can pass for under thirteen, if you try-”

“That’s not it!” His anger flashed out at her. “The Lord-Father-he mustn’t be killed! You’re not going to kill him. Please!”

“Muthari?” Yolande found herself bewildered. “You want Muthari ’s life, too? Your master?”

“Yes!”

He spoke vehemently, where he sat, but with a restraint unlike such a young man. Certainly her son Jean-Philippe was never prone to it.

He doesn’t want to startle his animals.

“I’ll tell.” His eyes fixed on her. “I’ll tell my abbot and your qa’id. You had a vision. You did sorcery.”

Yolande stared. A threat? “You said it was from God! That’s what I came here to ask-what it means-what I’m supposed to do withSorcery? ”

“It was from God. But I’ll say it wasn’t.”

Slaves have to be shrewd. She had seen slaves in Constantinople who maneuvered the paths of politics with far more skill than their masters. Being able to be killed with no more thought than men give to the slaughter of a farmyard animal will do that to you. Slaves listen. Notice. Notice what Spessart says to Muthari, and how the Lord-Father reacts, and what the mercenary captain needs right now…because knowledge, information, that’s all a slave has.

Ric said, “I counted. There’s a hundred of you. There are seventy monks here. Your qa’id needs the place kept quiet. If he hears about a woman having visions from God…that’s trouble. He can’t have trouble.”

Well, damn. Listen to the boy.

Yes, the company’s no larger than a centenier right now. And, yes, he can threaten to tell Spessart. The captain’s always been half and half about women soldiers: wants us when we’re good, doesn’t want any of the trouble that might come with us.

“I’ll tell them you made me do it,” he added. “The sorcery. They’ll believe it.”

“They will, too.” Yolande gazed down at him. Because I’m old enough to be your mother. “They probably would burn me. Even Spessart wouldn’t tolerate a witch,” she said quietly. “But Spessart doesn’t have any patience. He solves most problems by killing them. Including heretic priests who have heretic visionaries in their monastery.”

Ric stared, his face appalled.

Yolande put her hands in the small of her back, stretching away a sudden tension. “The Griffin-in-Gold is a hard company. I joined to kill soldiers, not noncombatants. But there’s enough guys here who just don’t care who they kill.”

A crescent of light ran all along both underlids of the boy’s eyes. A gathering of water. She watched him swallow, shake his head, and suppress all signs of tears.

“I won’t have the Lord-Father die. I won’t have my pigs eaten.”

“You may not be able to stop it.” Yolande tried to speak gently.

“I had another dream.”