Siren Slave (2 page)

Access to such forbidden toys was one of the many benefits of wearing her peasant disguise. The only drawback to being Swan was that she loathed walking in crowds. It wasn’t as if she could ride her horse, Enbarr, into the market and still continue the disguise. But he was always nearby, never remaining in a stall or paddock. She was the only one he’d ever permitted to ride him. He was also the sire of the horses that the Romans so seemed to prize.

Freya, or rather
Swan
, handed Ulf five gold coins and took the box, concealing it in the hidden pocket in her cloak. She’d sewn that pocket herself, as was evidenced by the uneven stitching and bloodstains from the numerous accidents she’d had with the needle and her fingertips. The pocket was exactly the size for the box if she removed what else she had there. She slipped out the parchment, hiding it under her hand.

“Seems I underpaid.” She slid the parchment across to Ulf.

“I’ll send this through my usual channels,” he said. “But can’t promise you anything, given what I just told you.”

“Ulf, he’s
got
to come.” Her white fingers closed over his thick wrist. “The wedding is soon. Those are all the plans, everything, the entrances used for attendants, the flowers—”

“Still wondering how you get all this information, Swan.”

“I have my sources, too.” Hardly anyone knew the truth, except a small group of her father’s warriors. They knew she was the one who freed the alleged pirate’s supporters from the dungeons. Just to ensure her father’s warriors weren’t blamed, she’d written notes signed “Swan” with her left hand to disguise the penmanship.

“One more thing,” Ulf said. “It’s green.”

She now knew Siegfried’s favorite color, a bit of information she’d been having trouble uncovering. If there was something particular about him she wanted to know, to make the tales she wrote more realistic to her, she asked Ulf. He actually knew people who knew people who knew Siegfried.

Freya gave him a smile before turning back into the crowd, and her nose hit a wall of bronze breastplate. She craned her neck up to see the angry visage of the Roman shoulder. He shoved her aside, small body hurled backwards to land on her already-injured knee. Her elbow started to bleed. The Roman didn’t have to shove anyone else aside, because the others scrambled from his path, obscuring her view of Ulf.

She had no sooner levered herself to her feet, when she was shoved again—this time by a hooded youth, the curses of others who’d received the same treatment following in his wake, along with a strange click-clacking sound. Was that a knife in his hand? Could he be one of those who—

The youth turned to shout over his shoulder at the grumbling crowd. “Could you not get so close? You reek of rotten, crabby squid that’s been sitting on a beach for a fortnight. Gods, I loathe people. Now, where is that princess? Shouldn’t she be wearing a crown or at least some jewelry?”

The voice revealed the hooded speaker as a woman, not a youth. As much as Freya agreed with her sentiments about the crowd, the woman was quite possibly an assassin. The assassin, meeting an immovable wall of people trying to see whatever it was the Roman was doing—Freya could see the red, horse-tail helmet bobbling above the tops of their heads—now turned back toward Freya, not knowing the valuable skill of feigning an upset stomach.

Freya stuck out her foot, causing the woman to fly over the stones and land face first in a pile of goat dung. Before she could enjoy the sight, Freya was shoved out of the way—a third time—by what appeared to be a blur of cream gone bad. Very broad, boney cream, so quite a strange cream. However, it was not some poorly made food item out for revenge, but a woman. And not one of Freya’s favorites but Odilia, advisor to her parents and a very, very distant cousin of her mother’s. Of course, the bitch was here to see the Cimbri chieftain.

“Nasty harpy,” Freya swore, lowering the pitch of her voice. She enjoyed disguising herself as a commoner. It allowed her to use colorful language.

Odilia spun her about, knocking a few bystanders in the teeth with her elbows. Those sharp elbows had to hurt. Odilia had a wide frame, but not much meat on it, giving her a rather odd, angular appearance. “Peasant,” she spat.

Freya tugged the headscarf lower over her face, lest she be recognized. Why could she never stop herself from goading the other nobles, especially when she was wearing the rough garb of a peasant? It was almost like a magic cloak that made her invisible or let her be someone else. It definitely had its benefits.

Not the least of which is avoiding a knife in my back when I’m supposed to be safely inside the palace. What am I thinking? That woman Odilia is haggling with is hardly a threat. Just because she has a knife and a cloak doesn’t mean she’s one of those crazy assassins. She might have been looking for someone else wearing a crown, not me. Maybe lots of Romans wear crowns. It could be the new Roman fashion or something.

The possible assassin wobbled to her feet. Freya reassessed the woman and decided she was probably no more than a common cutpurse.

Besides, if I’m not safe from assassins in my own walled gardens, I can’t expect to be safe anywhere. May as well have some fun in the market, considering I’m as good as a condemned prisoner. If I don’t get knifed, I’ll be wed to Chieftain Etainen. Spending my days being beaten by a Roman lapdog. This makes the knife-fetish assassins seem almost sweet, like they’re trying to do me a favor.

She clenched her fists, unable to continue joking about her bleak future. If the pirate refused to answer her pleas, all would be lost.
No, Siegfried will come.

There was a loud bellow and that tightly-packed wall of people jostled and thrust each other aside to make way for the red-faced Roman. Freya froze as the Roman soldier plodded right for her, armor jangling. He was a tall man with streaks of gray along his temples, stark against the black of his hair. His thin lips were pursed and his jaw rigid as he grabbed someone very near Freya—the cutpurse. Her hood fell back, revealing a breathtakingly beautiful face, despite the goat dung from her unfortunate landing. The woman had full, pouting lips, long lashes, and brilliant sea-green eyes. Raven tresses spilled over her shoulders, down to her hips. Was the hair slightly askew? It appeared as if the woman’s part was diagonal, as if she were wearing a wig.

“I’ll teach you to steal,” the Roman said, waving his short sword.

“Like I’d steal any of this hideous trash, as if I—” The woman just stared at the Roman, her sea-green eyes glazing over. “I think I could teach you a few things.”

Without thinking, Freya leapt, throwing the woman away from the Roman. He started to follow them, but a loud neigh caught his attention. A streak of the purest white leapt over the heads of those nearby. Enbarr tossed his floor-length mane, hooves flashing as he pranced between the women and the Roman.

“Can’t the barbarian princess keep this beast under control?” the Roman demanded. Enbarr kicked over a vendor stall, sending fruit tumbling onto the rocks.

Freya and the other woman used the distraction to disappear into the throng. The loss of a hand seemed too harsh a punishment for theft. Besides, this woman was probably an assassin, not a thief.

“Freya,” a deep voice lowed through the crowd. Odilia.

Freya whirled about, seeing Odilia heading toward her. It was hard to miss that wide form clad in a silk toga with horizontal stripes. The possible assassin was nowhere in sight.

“I knew that was you. You need to be in the palace where it is safe. You need to be under guard.”

“Lady, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about? Are ya mad?” Freya stepped back, speaking again in a deep voice. “Look, lady, stop comin’ at me like some sort of mad cow. You’re scarin’ me.”

If Odilia were concerned about her safety, she wouldn’t be bellowing her name in a crowd of strangers. The woman might as well shout, “Assassins. Oh, unknown mysterious personages with knife fetishes trying to kill Freya. She’s right here. Ready your weapons.”

Freya ran again.

****

Siegfried sat, sipping on Trier wine. He unfolded the parchment that rested on his knee, a new missive from Swan, the one person from whom he was taking communication. His men were sharing some stale cheese, but he had no desire for food at the moment. He still had her first letter tucked into a pocket at his breast.

The letter, as they all were, was written in neat script, blurred only by liquid that had spilled. It smelled of vegetable soup and mead.

Hello, friend,

I hope this finds you well. Even more, I hope it finds you nearby and on your way to stop this wedding. I haven’t heard anything about you in a while, and I’m worried, even though I’m sure you’re too smart to be caught by Romans. Silly to worry, right?

I’m sitting alone as I write, wondering how Rome doesn’t seem to bother most people. Do they enjoy being searched and questioned? They’re even suspicious of us Remi, and we’re supposed to be their allies. I hate having to explain myself, especially considering the things I do completely defy explanation, or so I’ve been told. When I started freeing your supporters from prison, I thought there’d be more of them. I’d thought the ones who were in there for silly reasons might start supporting you after I freed them, but no. They’re content to distract themselves with new togas, the market, or their daily tasks. Until they do something “out of the ordinary” and end up in there again. A young man who talks to birds is there constantly; they think he’s talking to “pirates.”

Not everyone I see going into the dungeons is there when I go to let them out. I’m trying to find the documents—there are always documents for everything—that they’re being sold to Rome. But I don’t see them leaving in boats. Does that make sense to you? Is there some new torture device that makes people disappear?

Please be careful. For the last few months, since the new Gaul king, Vercingetorix, united most of the tribes in rebellion against Rome, the soldiers have been searching people’s quarters, ripping up mattresses, emptying chests, stealing nice things, etc. I was searched, too, about a sennight ago. They didn’t find anything of interest, but I later noticed I was missing a few undergarments. Where
were
their hands before they touched all that? Was it necessary for them to smell
those items?

Attached, you’ll find more information about the wedding. Again, as always, thank you for what you do. Your actions give me the strength and courage to do what I do. I really wish I could do more. Sometimes, I’m so afraid that I don’t think I can keep doing this, but then I think of you and what you’ve done. Please take care of yourself.

Your friend always,

Swan

Siegfried folded the parchment into eighths and tossed it into the fire. Swan. He was going to avoid her as best he could. It pervaded the letters a little more each time, the sense that Swan had some sort of infatuation with him. The fact that she worried about him told him she would be another Julia, attempting to tame him, to make him quit piracy. At the very least, he would worry about her.

Why was he even considering Swan in such a light?
Too long without a woman, Siegfried. Julia’s long been cold in her grave. Swan was the one who made you tell Julia no. Some woman you’ve never met told you what you meant to her, and you said no to marrying Julia. If what you did meant half as much to others as it does to Swan, we’d not have the Roman problem. But there’s still hope if there are people like her, isn’t there?

Stay away from her, Siegfried, so you can keep being there for people like her. She’ll support you, then try to tame you. You have a woman.

He sighed. His woman, the figurehead aboard his ship, the
River Queen,
was
a somber-faced mermaid with blank eyes. His first mate, Dirk, had it made, telling Siegfried, “There’s a lass as serious as you and can be with you at sea.”

Baldwin had been right. But soon, Siegfried would have to deal with a Rome-loving princess who would not be nearly as seaworthy as his
River Queen
.

****

Freya didn’t stop running from the soldier until she saw trees before her. She had reached the Dark Wood. There was not a soul nearby with a knife to embed between her shoulder blades.

Unless I can’t see him. For all I know, the assassins’ base could be in the wood. What better place to hide? They might be waiting, hiding in hollowed out trees, breathing through reeds in streams, lurking under the cover of leaves.

She could not return to the marketplace. Odilia would be there, looking for her, unless she was already back at the palace, reporting to Freya’s parents. But did it matter? Freya would be married soon, Chieftain Etainen’s new bride, and then she might as well be dead.

Stop thinking that way. Siegfried will stop it.

She parted the boughs of a squat pine and knelt down, concealing herself in a tent of foliage so she might gather her bearings. The tree was at the top of a gentle downward slope that gradually grew steeper. If she ran out of here, she would probably fall. Her thoughts still raced, despite the quiet of the Dark Wood, broken only by the cries of birds.

Siegfried, the one brave enough to stand up to Rome, robbing her ships, kidnapping senators for ransom, and all sorts of other delightful things that kept Freya awake at night, or at least kept her dreams and the tales she inked interesting.

Ulf’s report today was disturbing. Was it true that Siegfried ran? That he had burned Ostia? That was going a bit far. He’d always given what he stole from the Romans to the tribes—for free. He wouldn’t have burned Ostia after Pompey, the pirate-hating Roman general, had secured it. There were innocent people there, just like in the Cimbri lands. But if Siegfried hadn’t fled from the Romans, that could only mean one thing—he was dead or injured.

Tears pooled in her eyes. How could she so adore someone she’d never met? But she felt as if she knew him. Every hero she’d ever written about was based on him, standing up to Rome for the Germanic tribes for people who couldn’t do much besides talk and dream. Without Siegfried, what hope did she have? What hope did any of them have? She thought again of the old stories. Was this how those Beasts had felt? Restrained by their Marks, afraid? If she could kill now, if she had the ability to do it, wouldn’t she? Wouldn’t she do almost anything to live her life unhindered?