Misery's Child (The Cadian Chronicles) (4 page)

He grabbed her
hand hard enough to make her cry out as he spun around.

“Oh, it’s
you.”
 
His voice matched his looks,
bright and cruel. He released her hand and frowned absently. “Oman’s beard,
girl. Don’t you know better than to sneak up on a man down here? I might have
drawn my dagger on you.”

“You hurt me,” she
pouted, rubbing her bruised wrist. But she could tell he was in no mood for
gallant apologies. She changed her tactics quickly, tossing her head and
laughing. “As if a thief would walk up to you in broad daylight and cover your
eyes with soft, white hands!”

He was not as tall
as her father, but few men were. He was sturdy and broad chested with thickly
muscled arms from working on his father’s ships. Danaus was in no danger of
spoiling his seven sons. He put them to work at early ages learning the family
business. It was only in the last summer that Tomack had distinguished himself
enough to be trusted with overseeing the unloading of the cargo rather than
heaving it ashore along with the other hands.

But he was
handsome, this eldest son of Jennymeede’s wealthiest family, with bright blonde
hair cut short in the military fashion, like his father’s, and strong, wide
cheekbones, also like his father’s. From his mother came the heavy-lidded blue
eyes and the brooding, almost sultry lips that curled ever so slightly under
his short, thick beard, turning his smiles into something nearer a sneer.

He smiled then.
Marta pressed against him for a fraction of a second, letting her small breasts
rest against his arm. He reached for her but she danced out of his grasp.

“Bah,” he grunted,
turning his attention back to the cargo bill, “run on home, child, to your
mother and send your sister back in your place—”

She kicked him. He
bellowed as if in mortal pain.

“Ow! What’d ya go
and do that for, silly goose?”

“Because you’re a
dolt, that’s why!” She wanted to kick him again, but stomped her foot
impotently instead. He’d mentioned Lillitha just to rile her; surely, even
Tomack was smart enough to know that he’d never, ever get his hands on
her
, not if he lived to be two hundred
and twelve. No one in the village had even seen Lillitha in four summers, not
without a ton of robes and veils and Yannamarie two steps from her side.

It never occurred
to Marta that her future plans would have been hopeless had not her sister been
consecrated as an Offering to Oman. If Lillitha were still available as the
eldest marriageable daughter of House Kirrisian, Marta would be nothing more
than the second daughter, hardly worth the trouble of marrying for the meager
dowry she would bring, more likely a candidate for the cadia’s lesser legions.

“I was only
teasing,” he muttered, rubbing his shin. His blue eyes glinted maliciously.
“Which is no more and no less than what you’re doing now, is it?”

“Do you dare
accuse me of teasing you?” Marta put her hands on her hips, swaying invitingly.
She arranged her face into an expression of wounded innocence. “If anyone is
playing fast and loose with their affections, it’s you, Tomack.”

“Oh, no! You’ll
not be turning this around on me! I waited half the night for you by the olive
grove and you never came—”

Idiot
,
she thought contemptuously. Did he really believe she could just slip out of
her father’s house in the middle of the night like some village girl?

“Of course, I
didn’t come! I won’t have those lips against mine after they’ve touched such
riffraff as Annya Syfert’s!” She thrust her lower lip out as if to invite a
kiss and regarded him from under her lashes. “Even if they are such sweet
lips...”

She nearly laughed
at the surprise on his face. So he thought she didn’t know where he’d been
spending his nights, did he? Annya was a silly cow, bragging all over the
market that she’d snared Danaus’ heir in her web of giggles and airy chatter.
As if Danaus would ever allow his eldest son to wed a scatterbrained girl
already nineteen, pretty though she might be. A few too many buckets had been
dipped in Annya’s well. Perhaps Syfert’s dim wits had been passed down to his
son, Annya’s father, for the man should have married off his wayward daughter
long before.

“Tis not my fault
the wench can’t keep her legs together,” Tomack shrugged. “Least she’s old
enough to give a man what he wants.”

“Well,” she said
loftily, clasping her hands behind her back in a posture that accentuated her
ripening figure, “if you don’t mind wallowing in other men’s leavings...”

His head flew back
and laugher rang. “Oh, sweet calla Marta, your flesh may be only fourteen
summers, but you’ve a mouth much too old for such a child.”

“Stop calling me
that!”

“Calling you what?
But you are a child, aren’t you? Your mother still allows you out of the house
with your hair unbound, as loathe as I am to see it hidden under kerchiefs and
wimples—”

Her eyes flashed
up at him as she leaned close enough to whisper.

“If I am still a
child then why can you not keep your hands off me? Can a child kiss you the way
I do? Do a child’s lips taste as sweet as mine, dearest Tomack?”

“Oman’s beard, I
don’t know what you are!” he grunted, stepping away from her reluctantly. As
much as Tomack enjoyed the chase, he was too afraid of his father to play such
games where Danaus might come upon him.
And certainly not
with this one.
Danaus had an eye for the ladies himself, but not when it
interfered with business. “The devil’s own daughter, perhaps. Will I see you
tonight then?”

 
She confused him and Tomack was not a man
who liked to be confused. His mind whispered she was too young even as his
flesh was sorely tempted. The child could kiss as if her mouth had been
fashioned for just such sport.

“No, my sweet
dolt,” she sighed wistfully, “I fear you’ve missed your chance for now. My
father’s expected home this evening.”

He had hardly
noticed her until last summer when he’d seen her as if for the first time at
the Festival of the Tides. Like all the boys, he’d been straining for a look at
Lillitha, the
consecratia
, but she’d
been nothing more than downcast eyes behind a veil. The cadia who stood beside
her in severe black robes seemed to dare anyone to come within speaking
distance of her charge. But then a flash of red behind the
consecratia
had caught his eye, a cascade of incredible hair and
dancing eyes that looked right at him and smiled coyly. When he saw the thin
childish body, he dismissed her from his mind, only to spy her again later that
day, dancing the Shaka with the other children, as her body moved in ways that
made the childhood game seem obscene. Again she smiled at him. It was a woman’s
smile, one that hinted at all sorts of possibilities. He couldn’t help but
notice the hair, the graceful curve of her throat,
the
ripeness of those pink lips...

“Have you finished
the unloading then, that you’re standing around passing the time of day like
some lolling dandy?” Danaus stumped down the pier toward him, and Tomack’s
spine stiffened.

Recognition came
to his father’s face. The older man bowed stiffly to Marta with the bearing of
a man who did not easily or willingly bend a knee to anyone. “My lady, I beg
your pardon. I did not realize to whom my son was speaking.”

“No, I should beg
your pardon, sir.” Marta inclined her head slightly as her mother had taught
her to do in deference to her elders. “Your son was too gallant to inform me
that I was keeping him from his duties. But I do find the ships so fascinating!
And the cargo! So many things from such faraway places!”

Danaus was not too
old to be swayed by Marta’s smile or by her appeal to his enormous pride in his
ships. His face relaxed and he offered his arm.

“Allow me to give
you a tour, if it pleases you, my lady.” He gestured with a thick, jeweled
hand. “The Danaus Iberius, only two summers old and a sounder vessel does not
float in these waters...”

Tomack made as if
to follow them but Danaus turned and scowled.

“Get back to your
work, boy, before the rest of the crates rot in the hold.”

“Yes, father.”

He explained in
tedious detail how he’d designed the Iberius himself. Marta nodded pleasantly
though she wondered if one could be bored to death. She didn’t care how many
iron staves circled the ship’s belly or about the improved mixture of pitch
that sealed the hull. She wanted to see the cargo, even now being hoisted from
the hold.

Danaus ordered one
of the seamen to pry open a crate. Marta gasped as the lid was set aside,
revealing rolls of real silk. All the colors of creation were inside, some
woven with gold and silver threads, some bordered in brilliant needlework.
Danaus took no small satisfaction in her reaction, for he felt a similar thrill
every time he surveyed his own merchandise, a lust based more on his ownership
of it than its beauty.

“The Iberius
docked at Glisenheath in Modan and took on this cloth,” he explained. “The
Modanite weavers are second only to Oman’s cadia in the quality of their cloth.
Of course, cadian linen and silk is almost impossible to procure at any price,
so it’s hardly worth making a comparison...”

He opened a small
chest containing ropes of gold and copper, beaten metal bracelets studded with
ganymite, chains of silver and medallions of all shapes and sizes inset with
glistening stones.

“So beautiful,”
Marta breathed, her admiration sincere. “The gold chain is from Polania, isn’t
it? And the ganymite, it is mined in the Darban hills, is it not?”

“Very good,”
Danaus said, obviously pleased. So Rowle’s youngest daughter had a head on her
shoulders for something other than silly girlish games. That was very good
indeed. “You know something of the craftsmen in Correlia?”

Marta feigned
embarrassment, as any proper girl should for speaking so boldly.

“I’m afraid my father
says I soak up such things like a sponge and shouldn’t eavesdrop on the
merchants in the market,” she confessed, widening her eyes as she looked up at
him quickly, then dropped her gaze to the ground. “But it’s so interesting!
Everyone says the finest jewel craft comes from Correlia and the best wines,
too. Of course, I’ve never seen such things before up close, only behind the
glass cases in the village shops...”

He fell silent and
she was afraid she’d gambled and lost with such a bald invitation. So she
smiled brightly and began to move away. A gentle hand on her arm pulled her
back.

“Tis a pity that a
child with your eye for quality should have to gaze at such things behind a
jeweler’s glass. Allow me to make a small gift of some token. Is there a piece
here that catches your eye?”

“Oh, no, I
couldn’t!” She forced her gaze from the open chest that beckoned wickedly,
wildly praying that Danaus would not accept her token protest. “I am most
indebted for the offer but—”

“I insist. It
would be an honor if you’d accept something from this meager assortment.”

Danaus gritted his
teeth against belittling his own merchandise, but certain rules of gallantry
could not be ignored, even though he knew Marta spoke the truth when she said
such treasures were beyond her grasp. The House Kirrisian hadn’t seen such
luxuries in two generations. Her grandfather, may Oman have mercy on his
ale-sodden heart, had been a fool.
A lucky thing for Danaus’
own father.

Though giving away
even a copper trinket for nothing went against his grain, he was curious to see
just how good an eye the child really had. Granting small favors to the lord of
the province’s only marriageable daughter—and the sister of a possible
shallana
breda
—was a good investment in the
future.

Marta’s dimples
deepened as she bent timidly over the chest. Her eye was drawn immediately to
the heaviest gold chain with a nugget of ganymite imbedded in a large
medallion, but it would be bad manners to choose something so expensive.
Besides, she could never hide something so large and flashy from her mother, as
much as the enormous medallion appealed to her.

She knew Danaus
was watching her intently. He would think her foolish to chose anything as
common as the copper bracelets and armlets. So she pushed some of the chains
and ropes aside until she came upon a gold chain similar to the one she really
desired, but much daintier. She pulled it from the heap and admired the small
oval medallion that dangled from the chain, its stone catching the sunlight.

“A very good eye,
indeed,” the merchant sighed appreciatively. So, she was smart enough to pick
something of quality, but more importantly, clever enough not to appear greedy.
It was a fine piece, easily worth thirty placas. “That clear white stone, they
call that the Star of Belah. And the craftsmanship of the chain is quite fine.
A good choice.”

“Thank you most
sincerely,” Marta said, grinning widely at this stroke of good fortune as she
draped the chain around her neck. “I never dreamed of owning anything so
splendid.”

Impulsively, she
tiptoed to brush his cheek with her lips,
then
gave
him the little-girl smile she usually saved for her father. It was an innocent
smile that rendered her blameless for such a brazen show of affection to a man
outside her own family.