Song of Oestend (2 page)

“I’m just tired,” Aren said, which wasn’t exactly a lie. He’d been travelling for more than a month to reach this point—four weeks on the small, stinky ship from Lanstead to Francshire, Oestend’s eastern port, being seasick most of the way, followed by two nights SONG OF OESTEND

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straight on the noisy, rickety train from Francshire to Milton, the western-most point of what could loosely be termed ‘civilisation’ in Oestend. Although he’d managed to get a few hours of sleep at the hostel the night before, he still felt terribly out of sorts. “I feel I’ve barely slept in ages.”

The smile that spread across Deacon’s face this time wasn’t mocking. It was friendly, and a little bit mischievous. “Don’t worry. Pretty sure you’ll sleep good tonight.”

“Why is that?” Aren asked.

“Staying at the McAllen farm,” Deacon said. “Lots of maids and daughters there.” He

winked at Aren. “One of them’s bound to tuck you in.”

Aren hoped the sinking feeling those words caused wasn’t apparent on his face. He

fought to keep his voice steady. “I see.”

“We best get moving if we want to get there before the wraiths get us.”

“Of course,” Aren said, although at that moment, he would have preferred to take his

chances with the wraiths.

They made a few quick stops for supplies before heading out into the prairie. Aren

hadn’t seen much of Milton when he’d arrived. The hostel he’d stayed at was near the

outskirts of the east side. They had to drive west all the way through town before leaving.

Although the cities back in Lanstead had their slums too, the parts Aren had been

familiar with were filled with upscale shops and brightly-painted town homes. Stained glass windows had recently become a fad, and nearly every home sported at least one, usually as prominent and garish as it could be. Glancing around the dusty town of Milton, Aren saw nothing of the sort. The walkways fronting the businesses were bare wooden planks. The buildings he saw looked as if they’d never seen a single coat of paint. The few painted signs he saw were faded to the point of being practically useless.

“Some of these buildings don’t even have windows,” Aren said.

Deacon shrugged. “Glass is expensive. Plus, it’s damn hard to patch the hole in the wall if it breaks.”

Everywhere he looked, it seemed Aren saw no colour at all—only varying shades of

brown and grey. He found it a bit depressing.

In the town’s centre lay a large wooden platform. It almost looked like a stage. Aren might have thought it was for executions, except there was no sign of a gallows.

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“What’s that for?” he asked Deacon.

Deacon’s jaw clenched, as if the question angered him. He didn’t look at Aren. “That’s where they used to sell the slaves.”

“Slaves?” Aren asked, alarmed. “They still have slavery here?”

“Not anymore,” Deacon said, “but it lasted longer than you’d probably think.”

Once they’d passed the last building, Deacon drove onto a rutted trail that led into the long, golden-green grass of the Oestend prairie. They were headed due west, presumably towards the BarChi Ranch, where Aren had managed to secure a job as a bookkeeper. As the bustle of the town fell behind them, Aren found himself feeling simultaneously liberated and scared to death. In leaving Milton, he was abandoning all vestiges of the civilised society he’d grown up in. Ahead of him, Oestend held only ranches, mines, buffalo, and mile after mile of prairie. He was leaving behind the trappings of luxury. Back home in Lanstead, most homes had running water. A few even had electricity. He would find none of that here in Oestend.

Lanstead had first colonised Oestend a hundred and fifty years earlier, but shipping

goods back and forth had proved to be more trouble and more expense than it was worth.

Since that time, the empire had long since lost interest in the remote land, and the colonies had become more or less independent. The eastern seaboard was where the majority of the population resided, living off what the sea provided. Further inland, most of Oestend’s limited prosperity came from the many mines to the south and fur and fishing in the north.

Of course, everybody in Oestend, from miners and trappers to the inn-keepers and

blacksmiths, had to eat, and that was where the ranches came in. By accepting a position at one of them, Aren had committed himself to a life that was considered downright primitive by most of his colleagues.

Ex-colleagues
, he reminded himself. It was time he stopped thinking of himself as a bourgeois university student from the most cosmopolitan city on the continent. He was now a bookkeeper for an Oestend rancher.

“You work for Jeremiah?” Aren asked Deacon.

Deacon frowned at the question. “Guess so.”

“Are you his son?”

“Nope.”

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“Are you the foreman?”

Deacon tipped his head a bit to the side, squinting as if the question confused him.

“Guess I’m the closest thing we got.” He glanced over at Aren, looking him up and down in an appraising way—though not as if he were interested in Aren sexually. Aren thought it was probably closer to the way he might have examined a cow he was taking to market.

“You’re not married, are you?” Deacon asked.

It seemed like such a strange question, completely out of nowhere, and it surprised

Aren. “No,” he said. “Why?”

“Possible Fred McAllen’ll be throwing one of his daughters at you tonight.”

Aren found that alarming. It was bad enough he might have to face women who

wanted sex, but if his host was expecting it for some reason, things were going to be even more uncomfortable than he’d imagined. “You mean he encourages his daughters to ‘tuck in’

the guests?”

Deacon laughed. “Hell, no! He catches one of them doing that, he might take a shotgun to you.”

That was something of a relief. “Then what—?”

“I mean a bride.”

Any fleeting sense of relief Aren had felt disappeared. “A
what?
”

“The McAllens have a lot of daughters, and not many eligible sons around here to

marry them off to.”

“I’m not getting married!”

Deacon laughed. “No, not tonight you ain’t. I’m just saying, they’ll likely be sizing you up as a possible husband.”

“Holy Saints, that’s the last thing I need.”

“It’s possible they’ll hold off. Wait to see if you pan out before letting one of their girls marry you.”

“Is there anything I can do to discourage them?”

Deacon laughed, and somehow the look he turned on Aren seemed far more congenial

than it had been before. “Make yourself look like bad husband material, I guess.”

“How do I do that?”

“I don’t know. Never thought about it before. I suppose act stupid. Or mean.”

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Nobody in the world would believe Aren if he tried to act mean. Stupid, though?

Stupid he thought he could do.

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A couple of hours before sunset they rode over a ridge and the McAllen farm appeared

below them. There was a house, a barn, and a few small outbuildings. Lined up behind the barn were pen after pen of pigs. Rising high above it all, casting its long shadow over the house, was the biggest windmill Aren had ever seen. It was also the strangest. It obviously wasn’t part of any mill. Its base ended in a giant contraption that looked like an engine that had fallen off a passing train.

“What is that?” Aren asked.

Deacon laughed. “Ain’t you ever seen a windmill before?” he asked.

“Not one like that.”

“Runs the generators,” Deacon said. “That transformer at the bottom stores the energy so we still have juice even if the wind stops. Not that it does that too often out here.”

“There weren’t any windmills in town.”

“Generators run on different things. Most people in town use coal. These will burn coal too, if they need to, but hauling wagonloads of it out into the prairie ain’t exactly efficient.”

They were getting closer to the farm. Aren could hear the pigs now, and even worse, he could smell them. The stench was horrendous.

“Hog farm,” Deacon said when he saw Aren covering his nose with the sleeve of his

shirt. “Good news is, no hogs on the BarChi. Cows and horses shit too, but somehow, it don’t smell near as bad.”

“Thank the Saints for small favours,” Aren mumbled.

They were greeted outside the barn by six young women. Four of them wore rough—

spun trousers and blouses, and Aren noticed all four of them had opened the top few buttons of their shirts. Their necks were tanned, but the soft swells of flesh below their temptingly gaping necklines were pale and creamy, and the girls seemed completely unashamed as they jockeyed for the best position to display them to Deacon.

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The other two girls stood apart. They wore ankle-length dresses covered by long white aprons and had lace kerchiefs over their neatly-braided hair. And every single button was done up tightly. They ignored Deacon and came straight to Aren.

“Hello,” the taller one said to him, shaking his hand. “I’m Beth. This is my sister, Alissa.

We’re so pleased you’re here.”

Aren felt himself blushing. He could have sworn his throat was closing up, blocking off any words he might wish to speak. He’d spent most of his life in all-male boarding schools, and the rest of it at the all-male university. The only woman he’d ever known at all had been his nanny, but that had been twenty years before, when he was only a child. He’d avoided the society parties his father had thrown and had never gone to the red-light district with his classmates. Whether they were whores or maids or true ladies didn’t matter—Aren had no idea how to behave around women. He looked over at Deacon, hoping for some help, but Deacon was lost amongst giggling maids.

“You’ll join us at the house for dinner, I hope?” Beth asked. She had golden hair and blue eyes, and Aren supposed she was pretty.

“Ummm…” He looked to Deacon again but couldn’t even manage to meet his eyes.

Beth followed the direction of his gaze and seemed to think she understood his thoughts.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “The maids will make sure he gets dinner in the barn.”

Next to her, Alissa snorted. “Dinner—plus dessert, I’m sure.”

Beth glared at her. “Alissa, don’t be crude.”

Alissa blushed deep red and ducked her head. She was shorter than her sister and

skinnier, with none of her sister’s alluring curves. Her hair was darker than Beth’s, and she had freckles across her long nose. She glanced sideways at Beth, then glared with open hostility at the maids surrounding Deacon.

Poor Alissa
, Aren found himself thinking. Lost in her sister’s shadow when potential suitors arrived, held hostage by the rules of her class, not allowed to unhook her top button and try for Deacon’s attention either.

“Come on,” Beth said to him, turning towards the house, obviously expecting him to

follow. “I’ll show you to the guest room.”

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“What about Deacon?” Aren asked. He knew it was foolish, but he wasn’t about to let

himself be led like a lamb to slaughter by Beth and Alissa. “Shouldn’t you show him to his room, too?”

Beth seemed at a loss for words, but Alissa wasn’t. “He sleeps in the barn,” she said.

The rigidity of the social structure was starting to become clear. Back in Lanstead,

society was also stratified by position and income, but for some reason, he hadn’t expected to find the same type of issues here in Oestend.

“I’ll sleep with Deacon in the barn,” he said, then felt himself blush when he realised how that might sound.

“Don’t be silly,” Beth said. “We have a bed for you at the house.”

“W—well…” he stammered, unsure what to say. He was saved by Deacon, who walked

up behind him and clapped him on the back.

“Listen, ladies,” he said, and he seemed to include all six women in that statement,

“Aren and I have to get these horses unhitched and brushed and fed, and there’s not much daylight left. If you’ll just bring us a bite to eat, we’ll be happy enough.”

It was obvious the maids were thrilled and the daughters less so, but they all left, and Aren did his best to help Deacon unhook the team, although he felt he probably got in the way more than anything. Eventually, Deacon handed him a brush and pointed him towards one of the horses. The beast stared at him with black eyes, its ears back, and Aren could have sworn it was daring him to step within kicking range.

“I don’t know how,” he said to Deacon.

The big cowboy rolled his eyes. “You never used a brush before?”

“Not on a horse.”

“Not much to it,” Deacon said. “Just go in the direction of the hair.”

Aren wasn’t exactly reassured. He was afraid the big mare would suddenly decide she

didn’t want to be tended to after all, but he didn’t want to look too craven in front of Deacon, so he slowly approached the horse and started to brush. Deacon was in the next stall, brushing down the other horse. He’d taken his hat off, and one of the maids had obviously undone his queue while flirting with him, because his thick, black hair hung loose down his back.

“Can I ask a question without you laughing at me?” Aren asked.

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“Probably not.” But his tone was friendly, so Aren asked anyway.

“The wraiths are real?”

Deacon didn’t seem surprised by the question. “Yup. They’re real. You boys from the

continent never believe the stories, but you wander out after dark, you’ll find out they’re true right quick.”

“They only come when there’s no moon?”

Deacon laughed. “That’s another story you boys always have in your heads.” He shook