Daughter of Witches: A Lyra Novel (5 page)

Unreasonably cheered by these reflections, Ranira grabbed a water bucket from its place beside the door and stepped out into the alley behind the inn. The first of the big water jars was nearly empty, and she frowned as she replaced the heavy lid. Though there were five jars standing against the back wall of the inn, Lykken paid the water carters to fill only three regularly. If the first was empty, the inn might well run short of water before the carters made their next rounds in the morning. With a shrug, Ranira dismissed the problem; if Lykken wanted to save coppers by shorting the water supply, he, not she, would have to deal with the angry patrons.

Picking up the bucket, she stepped toward the second jar and reached for the lid, wincing as she stretched recently beaten muscles. Just as she lifted the cover, she heard a whisper behind her.

“Psst! Renra!”

Ranira whirled and almost dropped the lid. “Shandy! Don’t sneak up on me like that. If I break one of these lids Lykken will have the cost added to my bond, and two more years is enough to be stuck here.”

A small, dirty figure materialized out of an impossibly tiny space between two walls. “Ah, Renra, I just wanted to be sure he wasn’t around. Get anything good on your free day?”

“I didn’t have one,” Ranira said with renewed bitterness as she reached for her water bucket. “Lykken sent me to the Temple with the week’s offering just before noon, and with the Festival crowd and everything, I didn’t get back until a little while ago.”

“He musta been in a real mood,” Shandy said, eyeing Ranira critically. “Another day or two, and you should have some real good bruises.”

“I wouldn’t call them good,” Ranira snapped. “And I haven’t got time to stand talking today; there are some foreigners that Lykken wants to settle in, and he’ll come looking for me if I’m not back soon.”

The urchin’s eyes widened. “Outsiders? But Festival starts tomorrow.”

“One got sick, and they wanted him to rest for a while. Lykken is going to take every copper he can wring out of them before they leave, too.”

Shandy still looked worried. “But, Renra, if they don’t leave and the Temple finds out, you know what will happen. You could get in real trouble!”

Ranira pressed her lips together tightly for a moment before she replied. “I know. But that’s Lykken’s problem, not mine. I’m only his bondwoman.”

“Yeah, but your parents got burned for witchcraft,” Shandy reminded her unnecessarily. “The Templemen are always meaner to people with witches around.”

“My parents weren’t witches!” Ranira said angrily. “And neither am I. The Templemen had no proof, only suspicion. You don’t have to remind me what they can do. Chaldon’s curse on the lot of them!”

“Renra!” Shandy looked around in horror, as if he expected a Watchman or an Eye of Chaldon to materialize and arrest her at once. “You can’t curse the Temple!”

Ranira laughed bitterly. “No, because it is cursed already.” She saw that Shandy was getting more upset, and she forced a smile. “Don’t worry. I don’t say such things to anyone except you.”

“When you get mad, you would,” Shandy insisted. “You be careful, Renra.”

The boy’s solemn advice was too much for Ranira; she broke out laughing, and the lingering traces of her black mood vanished. “I can take care of myself, Shandy. You just make sure that none of the Watchmen catch you sneaking food out of the farmers’ stalls, or you’ll be the one in trouble.”

“Ah, them!” Shandy said scornfully. “They’re too fat to catch me!”

“Well, I don’t think I’ll be able to bring you anything from the kitchen today,” she said, lifting the brimming bucket onto her hip. “When Lykken has special guests, he watches everything so closely that a fly couldn’t sneak off with anything. You’ll have to steal your own dinner today.” Shandy nodded, and as Ranira reached for the door, the urchin vanished again into his own mysterious byways.

L
YKKEN WAS ALREADY IN
the kitchen, shouting orders at the cook, when Ranira entered. The innkeeper paused for a moment in his tirade and jerked a thumb at her. “Upstairs! And don’t forget the cloths! And be sure the fire is well lit before you return!”

Ranira nodded and proceeded through the kitchen as rapidly as she could without spilling water from the bucket she carried. Near the far door she stopped and lowered her burden to the floor. Reaching up, she grasped one of the large pitchers that hung beside the door. She was just about to fill it when Lykken came hurrying over.

“No, no, not that one! It’s cracked; see, there! Find a good one, you lazy slattern, or you’ll get the beating you deserve!”

Once more Ranira fought down anger. There were no good pitchers; Lykken refused to purchase new ones so long as those he had could hold water. Silently, she replaced the offending crockery and after a short search, found one which was cracked near the handle, where it was less obvious. The innkeeper gave a cursory nod when Ranira offered him the jug to inspect, and then turned back to the cook.

She filled the pitcher as quickly as she could and left the kitchen with a sigh of relief. Once out of sight, Lykken might well forget about her for a while, and as long as she had some plausible excuse when he found her again, the innkeeper was unlikely to give her another beating. She climbed the stairs and paused in the short hallway above. A narrow chest at one side contained the cloths she needed. Ranira set the pitcher on the floor and knelt to open the chest.

As she started to lift the lid, she heard the muffled sound of voices coming from the far side of the wall. For a moment she hesitated; then she thought she heard the sound of her own name. Leaning forward, she strained to catch the words more clearly.

“… help everyone, Mist,” a man’s voice was saying. “Besides, if you do anything like that in Drinn, you’ll be arrested for witchcraft, foreigner or no.”

“I know, Jaren, but that poor child will have bruises for a week!” a female voice responded. “She is lucky not to have any bones broken, and by the look of things, it isn’t the first time, either. Why, the innkeeper boasts of it!”

“But is helping her worth the risk? Just being here is dangerous enough as it is.”

“I know, and I do not wish to add to your burden,” the woman replied. “But I think there may be some talent in her that would be criminal to waste.”

“You’d see genius in every mistreated puppy if you let yourself, Mist,” the man said. “I don’t like seeing a child in this situation either, but it is the custom here, and if we interfere now, what will we accomplish besides alienating the innkeeper?”

“There ought to be something we can do!”

“Not now, not without giving ourselves away entirely,” a third voice broke in. “Even if we managed to get her away somehow, it is much too late to find another place like this. A room close to the gates, on the second floor where we can remain unseen, is too good a piece of luck to throw away. And everything you’ve suggested so far would be sure to attract the attention of the Temple of Chaldon.”

“Arelnath’s right,” the man’s voice said. “If the Temple were to get wind of a healing, or even the disappearance of a drudge, they would be scouring the city for us in no time. You haven’t been in Drinn before; I have.”

“Enough, my friends,” the woman’s voice said. “I do not like it, but I can accept the necessity. We will talk of this again later, when we have done what we came for. As to the innkeeper…” Her voice faded into a blurred murmuring as she moved farther from the wall where Ranira crouched.

Judging that she was unlikely to overhear more, Ranira lifted a pile of cloths from the chest and slowly lowered the lid. She was intrigued by the implications of the conversation. Evidently, the strangers intended to remain in Drinn throughout the Midwinter Festival. Interesting. None of them sounded ill, either. Ranira sat back on her heels. What could they possibly want at the Inn of Nine Doors?

Well, at least they seemed to mean Ranira no harm, though she knew better than to expect more than kind words from any of them. They might be shocked at the way Lykken treated her, but their concern meant no more than the horrified comments of the noblewomen of Drinn who happened to pass through one of the poorer sections of the city.

Ranira rose to her feet and picked up the cloths and the water pitcher. A few steps brought her to the door of the corner room. She knocked firmly. The blond man opened it a moment later. “Yes?”

“Water and cloths, as the gentlefolk requested,” Ranira said. The man made no move, so she added, “I am also to light the fire.”

“Let her in, Jaren,” said a gentle voice from the interior of the room. The blond man stepped back, somewhat reluctantly and moved inside. She glanced around quickly. Jaren stood by the door watching her attentively. The boy was just a head and mound of blankets on the bed. Beside him sat the gray-eyed woman with black hair. “Go quietly, please,” she said softly as Ranira’s eyes reached her. “He sleeps.”

The woman’s gaze was full of sympathy. Ranira’s stomach knotted in a familiar blend of resentment and scorn. She fought down her irritation and with an effort, nodded politely as she stepped to the side of the bed.

For a moment she busied herself arranging the cloths and the pitcher, deliberately avoiding the other woman’s eyes by studying the supposed invalid. The youth was certainly a good actor, she thought; if she had not overheard that revealing conversation she would have assumed him to be deep in sleep. His head was turned away from her, showing only a shock of sandy brown hair and a smooth line of neck and cheek. The boy moaned and shifted, and Ranira started slightly. Looking up, she found Jaren’s eyes on her, intent and wary.

Now, why is he so worried?
Ranira puzzled as she dropped her gaze to the cloths. The boy’s act was certainly convincing enough. She glanced at the bed again with critical appraisal. There was something else, something besides the feigned sickness. Ranira couldn’t be quite sure what, but she was suddenly certain of it.

Then the boy shifted again. Ranira froze in shock. The person on the bed was a woman! Unveiled and posing as a man, she asked the fire, or worse, in Drinn. No wonder the blond man was wary.

Ranira forced her gaze downward. She picked up the firebox and moved over to the hearth. For a few minutes she concentrated on arranging the firewood to make a place for the tinder, giving her emotions time to subside.

When she was sure her voice would remain steady, she said, “Is there anything else the gentlefolk will require? Something for the sick boy, perhaps?”

“No, not now,” the black-haired woman said from the bedside. “Possibly later.”

Ranira nodded and bent to strike sparks from the flints. “It is well that this is a corner room,” she said impulsively. “Its closet will keep the conversation in the next room from disturbing your friend, and on the other side is only the stairway and the hall. During the Festival, sometimes a few of our patrons celebrate overmuch and you can hear them shouting all over the inn, the walls are so thin. But you will be gone by then, of course. Still, if you find the noise disturbing while you are here, you have only to mention it. I am sure Innkeeper Lykken can arrange things to suit you.”

A startled silence followed. Ranira smiled behind her veil. Let them wonder whether she had overheard or not! She leaned forward and fanned the flames with her hands. Slowly the wood caught. When she was certain the fire would not go out accidentally, Ranira turned back toward the center of the room.

Jaren was still watching her, a slight smile on his face. Ranira sketched a bow toward him and repeated her question. “Is there anything else I can do?”

“Not now,” Jaren said. “But we will think over your suggestions—carefully.”

Ranira bowed again and slipped from the room, her head whirling. As she descended the stairs, she found herself trying to puzzle out what could have brought the strangers to Drinn, and why they intended to stay through the Midwinter Festival. It occurred to her that her oblique warning might not have been such a good idea as it had seemed at the time. Thoughtfully, she headed away from the kitchen, keeping a sharp watch for Lykken as she went.

Lykken was in an excellent mood when Ranira finally decided to return to the kitchen. The dining hall was crowded, and as the Festival did not officially begin until the next morning, everyone was a paying customer. Nothing improved Lykken’s disposition like a large profit. The innkeeper didn’t even notice when Ranira slipped in, and by the time he looked in her direction she was busily scrubbing an enormous iron kettle, trying to look as if she had been occupied with that task for some time.

For several hours, Ranira was too busy to pay much attention to the innkeeper except when his voice shouted some new job for her to attend to. Being spared the task of serving the raucous crowd outside made her too grateful to object to the pace of the work in the kitchen. She hated waiting on drunken patrons, who were usually eager to snatch at her veil or try to unfasten the ties of her tunic. So far, Lykken had prevented any more than these small humiliations but Ranira was under no illusion as to his motives: A virgin’s bond was worth more than that of a woman who had been “used.”

As the hours passed into evening, Lykken’s temper began to worsen. Ranira watched in private amusement. The innkeeper’s frequent glances toward the stairs made it clear what was on his mind. The gates of Drinn would soon be closed for the night, and his unexpected guests must be gone by then. The strangers did not appear, however, and time continued to slip by. Ranira knew Lykken was trying to decide whether he should risk his fat fee by disturbing them, or whether he should wait a few minutes longer.

The innkeeper had been driven nearly to distraction by the time Jaren finally sauntered into the kitchen and motioned to him. Marveling at the exactness of Jaren’s timing, Ranira set down the tray she was holding and slipped behind a rack of pots near where the man stood. She was just in time; Lykken came hurrying up at once.

“Sir, it grieves me that you and your friends must leave so soon!” the innkeeper said in obvious relief. “I trust the boy has recovered?”