The Sorcerer's Equal (The Telepath and the Sorcerer Book 3) Page 11

  “What could you have done?” Kessily said. “I know this is my own problem to deal with, in the end. But I’m never trying that again. Never ever.”

  Grau and Velsa did not disagree.

  The rhythms of town life were becoming familiar to Velsa. In the morning women swept their stoops as an excuse to look around and see who they might gossip with; just a little later the farmers would come to market with the day’s wares: fresh fruits, vegetables, and eggs. All of the town seemed to engage in a daily dance that followed the rhythms of agriculture, working from dawn to dusk, the same every day.

  Kessily found work at the transcriber’s office, the same people who had turned Velsa down. Although privately perturbed because Velsa suspected she had better handwriting than Kessily, it was a relief to have her working. Each morning they all walked to the end of the street together before Sorla and Kessily peeled off in one direction. Velsa and Grau always parted ways outside of Madam Blazar’s.

  “Can’t you ever come have lunch with me?” he asked.

  “They don’t give us lunch…”

  “What? You never told me that.”

  “Well, you know we’re all Fanarlem. Why would they give us lunch?”

  “Seems to me they’re taking advantage of you.”

  “Yes,” she said, finally letting some of her tension break the surface. “I’d say that’s what everyone does to us. But I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say that your husband insists.”

  “Oh, they already know I’m a concubine,” she said. “My husband insisting on anything? That will only add to it.”

  “But I do insist.” He scratched his chin. “Say you have to hurry home and let the dog out.”

  “What dog?”

  He shrugged. “That’s not their business.”

  She smiled faintly. “I’ll try to think of something.”

  He tipped up her chin to kiss her. “I’ll see you for lunch.”

  “Maybe,” she said, very doubtful.

  The other girls had seen them kiss as they approached the shop and all looked faintly envious when Velsa walked in, which she couldn’t help but feel privately pleased about. No one else at work was married, which she did find a little strange.

  Everyone at work was abuzz that morning with the latest news from the capital. Even Madam Peroneel, who started the day by gathering them all in the corner while she drank her tea. “I’m sure you’ve all heard the news by now that Prince Seldon himself will be here in Dor-Temerna for the Festival of Flowers. Orders will be pouring in, so be prepared for some late nights, and know it is all for the pride of our city.”

  Velsa groaned at the idea of even longer hours, but no one else seemed upset. They all started talking about Prince Seldon, especially the girls.

  “I’ve heard that he’s so kind, even to Fanarlem.”

  “I’d do anything to give him a flower…”

  “But I don’t suppose he’ll chase me,” said shy, eternally glum Alsamir.

  “You’d have to be in the chase in the first place,” Eldisa said.

  “Chase you?” Velsa asked.

  “I guess you don’t know.” Eldisa was the prissiest of the girls, and the one who was always quickest to give Velsa a nasty look. She was happy to inform her. “At the Festival of Flowers, men chase the maidens, who wear flowers in their hair. If they steal one of your flowers, they have to dance with you later.”

  “What if no one wants to steal your flowers?” Velsa asked, thinking this could be a very cruel holiday for anyone undesirable.

  “There is also a prize for the man who steals the most, so they have motivation to go after everyone.”

  “And the prince is going to join in?”

  “I bet he will,” Horun said. “He’s young and they say he likes to have a good time. It wouldn’t be the first time princes and princesses have joined in the festivals while touring the kingdom.”

  “Just to see him,” Eldisa said. “Imagine!”

  “What about the war?” Velsa asked. “Is this really the time for festivals and the royal family to be leaving the capital on a pleasure tour?”

  Everyone looked at her like she was dull-witted.

  “It’s not like the Daramons are marching down our streets,” Madam Peroneel said. “Why wouldn’t we have business as usual? It was one little battle and nothing’s happened since. The Daramons could never invade our land. Our telepaths would crush them in a moment. That only happened because we were on their land and our men were taken off guard.”

  “But…they have weapons—“

  Madam Peroneel scoffed. “Weapons which must be operated by vulnerable minds. We could turn their weapons on them in an instant. The Daramons had one victory, but they are afraid of us.”

  The door to the front rooms burst open just then, and Madam Blazar swept in, bringing all conversation to a breathless halt. All of Velsa’s coworkers straightened up like they were hoping to be noticed by her.

  Velsa had barely seen the shop’s illustrious owner in her weeks of work. Occasionally one of her assistants would come in with orders. Madam Blazar had a certain air of rarity, not to mention a glamour that was common in the Daramon lands, but unusual here. Her dress had an excessive number of layers; gauzy undertunic beneath, two skirts that formed tiers of light and dark blue, and an apron above which her cleavage heaved. Her sleeves were long and cut square so they had an unusual drape, and her collar was wide and covered her shoulders like a shawl, a very popular fashion in recent years. Her skirts cut off below the knee to show a length of purple stocking and little shoes with cloth bows. After all of this fussiness, her hair was very simply styled and had a few gray strands.

  “Hello, hello, my dear little dollies.” She walked around the table, kissing the girls on the cheek, lightly touching the curls of the men. Rumir shook her off slightly, pretending he had an itch. Most of them looked eager for her attention.

  Velsa wanted to shrink away unseen. It reminded her far too much of men touching her freely in the House of Perfumed Ribbons. Of course, Madam Blazar wasn’t lascivious—in fact, she had an air of vigorous generosity—but she also seemed oblivious to any discomfort her remarks might produce.

  Madam Blazar looked at Velsa. “You’re the new girl. I’m so sorry it’s taken me so long to properly introduce myself. I’ve been so busy and it’s not likely to get any better, but before the festival rush I’d like to take you up front.”

  “I don’t need new clothes,” Velsa said.

  “Don’t be silly. It’s my pleasure. Come with me.”

  Velsa followed her, with everyone else looking at her like they expected her to protest and thought it would make a good show.

  “In here, in here.” Madam Blazar showed her down a carpeted hall, into a carpeted room. Velsa had never seen rooms with rugs that spread wall to wall. Plush chairs and sleek, polished tables, brightly painted walls and baskets of flowers, all kept up the luxurious appearance of the waiting room.

  “Can you stand on this stool a moment so I can get a good look at you, dear?”

  “Miss Blazar—really, I don’t want to make a scene, but I’m happy in my own clothes. My husband bought them for me.”

  “Madam Peroneel says you only have the one outfit.”

  “That’s…true, but—“

  “That won’t do. Not for the festival, certainly! And you must let me dress you! It’s my pleasure. Especially you, my girl, you don’t need much of anything. I don’t think I shall even curl your hair. It’s already so thick. Step up.”

  Good. Because I wouldn’t let you curl my hair. Velsa climbed onto the small stool, ignoring Madam Blazar’s offered hand of support.

  “Your movements are so real…my goodness. Your face! I almost want to move you to the front of the shop. Not to mention the shape of your arms and legs. Much like with clothes, that’s where the expense is truly revealed, isn’t it? It’s the little things. You’re not just made of sticks. Look at these lines!” She
traced the shape of Velsa’s boots.

  “These boots were custom made for you, weren’t they? Your ankles are just a little too small. But it’s not too much. Just like your waist, I see. As if someone studied how to make the most perfect artifice of a young woman. I want to do something different with you, I think. Something to preserve these lines. A nipped waist with buttons and maybe a narrow skirt, cut to the knees…frills here…stand still.” She whipped out measuring tape.

  Miss Blazar is just being nice. Do you really have the luxury of refusing free clothing?

  Velsa caught the unwelcome sight of herself in a mirror along the wall. Her face—Pin’s face, she could never help but think—looked young and nervous and as always, the shape of her eyes and mouth always made her look like she secretly liked whatever was happening to her.

  But I don’t.

  Grau told her she ought to insist on having a lunch break and now that seemed the least of her worries. She didn’t want to be anyone’s dress up doll.

  “Is everything all right?” Madam Blazar noticed something in Velsa’s expression. “Such an exquisite little creature should have no reason to look sad. Is it true that you started life as a concubine? I suppose that explains how well made you are. Your husband must have been well off in Nalim Ima.” She took Velsa’s hands and turned them over, seeming to note how they were a tad dirty at the fingertips, and visibly pricked in a few spots. “Do let me know if you need anything replaced. I put in an order to the capital every month.”

  “Please…stop,” Velsa said. “Please.”

  “Stop…what?”

  “Stop—this—the clothes. I don’t want new clothes unless I get to choose them myself like any of your clients.”

  “But it’s my pleasure to dress you, my little moppet.”

  “I am not your moppet. Or your dolly. Or Madam Peroneel’s child or girl. None of us are.”

  “It’s a term of affection. I call all my clients endearing little names.”

  Velsa stepped down from the stool. “I don’t want an outfit, not even for free. I don’t like frills.”

  “I suppose I could tone down the frills. I am just so fond of them myself.”

  “I only want to be left alone to do my work.”

  “My goodness—well—if that’s how you feel. It is no trouble to me if you don’t want my generosity and you want to dress like a peasant for the Festival of Flowers.” Madam Blazar’s face abruptly grew steely.

  “I’m sorry,” Velsa said. “I see that you mean well. But I fought my way here so I could make my own choices.”

  “You take my kindness and throw it back at me. I’m not a Daramon bigot. But if that’s how you feel, I won’t argue.” Madam Blazar dashed her measuring tape onto the nearest sofa. “Back to work with you then.”

  Velsa left the room in a hurry, her innards twisting with cruel guilt, as if she had been too harsh. But at the same time, how dare Madam Blazar act as if she could decide to curl Velsa’s hair!

  She tried to look blasé as she took up her needle again, and the others stared at her.

  “That was quick,” Eldisa said.

  “Was it?” Velsa replied.

  “She isn’t going to make you an outfit?”

  “I don’t want an outfit.”

  “Must be nice to be so rich,” Eldisa muttered.

  “It is,” Velsa snapped. “It’s lovely to be rich.”

  Eldisa glanced at her sullenly, but she seemed to sense that Velsa actually knew what being rich was like, and even the former whiff of riches held some power.

  Am I a snob? Velsa wondered. But she was trying to defend her people. She felt trapped between knowing this treatment was wrong, and the fact that everyone else would rather have the free clothes.

  Velsa tried to work. Her mind kept wandering back to the tension of it, and she pricked her fingers more than once, which was unusual. The longer she thought about it, the more she was angry. She hated being angry, and it felt like she had to be. Fight or capitulate. Those seemed to be her choices. Both of them left her twisted inside for different reasons.

  The form of Madam Peroneel was suddenly looming over her, as if she had emerged from the fog of Velsa’s mind. “Girl, what’s wrong? Things are backing up here with you.”

  Velsa threw down her cloth and needle. “I’m not a girl.”

  “Aren’t you though? Your husband seems happy enough with whatever you are.” Madam Peroneel chuckled.

  “Aren’t you a Miralem?”

  “Yes, and so?”

  “I thought your goddess believed all souls are equal.”

  “She does, and that’s neither here nor there. I’m just supposed to make sure you get the work done. I don’t care what you are, people or dolls or trained bears.”

  “I don’t think that’s true. Rumir is forty years old. You would call a flesh and blood man of forty a child? And it’s definitely not true for Madam Blazar. She thinks of everyone here as her own dress up dolls. Neither of you speak to me like I am a real woman. When I was a concubine, some Miralem tried to ‘rescue’ me from my husband, and later I briefly wondered if I should have chosen the freedom they promised me. I’m glad I didn’t, now.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Because we defied the Wodrenarune.”

  “I don’t really care.” Madam Peroneel seemed annoyed. “I am only supposed to make sure you get that sewing done. I don’t know what you’re going on about.”

  “I want to be called by my name. Or even, ‘miss’. That’s all.”

  “She’s used to special treatment,” Eldisa said. “I suppose her husband was rich once, to buy her for a toy.”

  Velsa glanced down, humiliated, with everyone looking at her.

  “All right, Miss Velsa. I will call you the duchess if you can make that pile disappear. I just don’t want to hear anymore yapping.”

  When Velsa left work, of course night had fallen. Hours had passed, with Madam Peroneel settling on ‘Princess Velsa’ for a nickname and sticking to it with gleeful sarcasm, and Eldisa looking so smug about it.

  She was only working there at all because Grau was stuck repaying the debt to Dormongara. How she wanted to tell them that! But right now, it didn’t matter why. She needed the money. The cold, hard need for money, damn it all.

  Grau would have already gone home. Most people had, it seemed. The streets were lit by the crescent moon and the torches burning in front of buildings. She could see the outlines of families gathering around candles at tables behind curtains.

  One building was lit more than the rest; the shrine of the goddess Vallamir she passed on her way. She never paid much attention to it, except to appreciate the inviting gleam of two torches framed by mirrors, reflecting the light and providing a beacon to passersby. Today, she stopped, more angry at the shrine than anything. The goddess of the moon teased Fanarlem slaves with promises of equality and peace.

  The shrine was surrounded by a stone wall covered in vines. Seek solace in my garden, speak your troubles to my ear, read the inscription on a plaque mounted on the wall, just beside the open gates.

  Velsa peered in. The garden was empty.

  Maybe the goddess ought to hear about her troubles. Maybe, if she was real, she would put a curse on Madam Peroneel, and Blazar, and Eldisa too.

  Candles lit the path, leading to a statue of the goddess tucked among dark bushes and flowers with their blooms shut for sleep. One arm and one leg of the statue were lifted in a stiff, primitive dance. Her hair flowed over her shoulders. Her eyes were blank, her mouth smiling slightly. In each hand she held a star. The sculptor was no great talent compared to the grand statues Velsa had seen when Grau brought her through Atlantis, but the light cast a soft glow on her face and made her inviting.

  Velsa stood in front of her, a small frown tugging at her lips.

  “You’re no help,” she whispered. “Miralem aren’t any better than Daramons.”

  The back gate creaked open, and Velsa trie
d to leave, but the priestess had already seen her.

  It was Brin, judgmental Brin, although she did look a little softer tonight. Her hair hung loose across her shoulders, and the candlelight was gentle, highlighting her slightly rounded cheeks. “Velsa?” she called.

  “I’m sorry, I was leaving,” Velsa said.

  “Come back. I’ll give you an offering.”

  “Oh, no. I don’t have money and—I’m not a believer. It would be wasted.”

  Brin shook her head. “It doesn’t matter what you believe in. People only walk through that gate if they have troubles of some kind. And I can feel it, besides. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but…let me give you a light.” She handed Velsa a stubby candle, and lit it with a puff of her breath. A little fire magic, like Grau always did.

  Velsa stared at the flame.

  “I do apologize,” Brin said. “I wasn’t very welcoming to you, before. It had me worried, word of this war and the death of the dragons, and Daramons and Fanarlem slaves appearing straight from the battle. But I’m glad to see you tonight. I’ve been wanting to remedy that. I shouldn’t have implied that you would be a corrupting influence on the town just because you were once a concubine. All I really knew of it was stories.”

  “Thank you,” Velsa said. “I do appreciate that.” She sighed. “Maybe I’m the naive one, for believing in stories myself. Even as a little girl, I heard people say that the Miralem regarded all souls as equal. I wanted to believe this was a place where I would be accepted, but…deep down, I always knew it was too good to be true.”

  “It’s complicated,” Brin said. “We do believe all souls are equal. But…our beliefs as a people also revolve around the natural cycles of life. We celebrate the changes of seasons, the cycle of a woman’s blood. At times, we fast to honor our hunger and to celebrate the breaking of the fast, the satisfying of our human need. Your race is the only thing in this world that stands outside of that—except, perhaps, the undead, and we have a very uneasy peace with that concept as well. Many Miralem believe that all Fanarlem should ascend, so they can be reborn in proper flesh and blood bodies.”