Passion Play Page 10

  The woman tilted her head. A smile sent creases spreading outward from her eyes. “Glad to hear that. Where are you going? Tiralien? Or one of the little towns betwixt here and there?”

  “Tiralien.”

  “Want a ride?”

  Ilse shook her head. “I’ve no money.”

  “Neither do I. I’m going to Tiralien to get some. Me and the family, that is. You can ride a ways in our wagon—we’ve room enough for one skinny girl. Besides, you look as though you walked clear from the westlands. My name’s Nela, if you want to know. Those are my cousins, Gregor and Maxi and Uwe. What’s yours?”

  “Ilse. They call me Ilse.”

  Nela nodded. “Pretty name. So, will you come along with us? We have some sandwiches and ale, if that makes a difference.”

  Kindness. Kindness and food. And a ride. Overcome by their generosity, she almost couldn’t speak at first. “I’d like that. Thank you.”

  Nela leaned down and held out a rough hand, to help her into the wagon. “Gregor, she’s starving. Give her your sandwich. You’ve already had four.”

  “I was hungry,” Gregor protested, but he handed her the sandwich with a wink and a smile.

  Ilse bit into the sandwich and nearly cried with delight. Smoked beef, soaked in oil and vinegar and smothered in cheese. It was the most she had eaten at one time in a month. While she ate, she listened to the drivers talking among themselves as they discussed where they might eat supper that night, if Becker’s tavern still served that special autumn wine, and if Maxi’s brother might join the business next year. The caravan was small, its two wagons packed with crates that smelled strongly of vinegar and straw.

  “We take the spoiled grapes from summer and turn them into vinegar,” Nela told her. “The fish markets like it for pickling.”

  To their questions, she explained that her parents had died, and her aunt was unable to keep her. She was looking for work. “Any kind,” she said. “I don’t like begging.”

  “What were you thinking of?” Nela asked. “Work, I mean.”

  “Chambermaid,” Ilse said. “Or helping in kitchens. Whatever I can find.”

  Nela gave her a long considering look, but said nothing. The others offered names of families she might apply to, though they had no guarantees. Business was off, they said, what with taxes and gossip about war with Károví.

  It was late afternoon before they reached the city gates. Tiralien was a big city—far larger than Melnek—spreading across both riverbanks and climbing some distance into the nearby hills. As they waited in the queue of wagons, Ilse listened to the drivers trading news. It was more of what she had heard in Melnek—ships practicing maneuvers along the coast, troops moving along Károví’s border in response, and the endless speculation of what next year might bring for crops and profits and trade.

  Once through the gates, Nela and her cousins guided the wagons across the main square to a fountain, where Ilse climbed down from her seat. “Thank you,” she said, hoisting her bundle over her shoulder.

  Nela shrugged. “You made the trip shorter. Are you sure you won’t stay with us? We’re here a few days at least.”

  Ilse shook her head. She’d heard how they were sleeping in the yard with their horses and wagons. There wouldn’t be room enough for another person, no matter how small. “You’ve done me favors enough. I can manage.”

  Gregor grinned. “I bet you can. Remember what I said about the fish markets. Talk to Uwe’s brother-in-law. He might want someone for this and that.”

  “Or the inn near Becker’s tavern,” Uwe said. “They always need chambermaids.”

  Ilse accepted one last gift of a sandwich, then made her way through the crowds toward a large avenue that branched from the square and led east. Just as Gregor told her, she came to a large plaza with a wide opening at the opposite end that marked the avenue’s continuation. Several smaller lanes and alleys branched away at various other points. Ilse took the third lane to her right. Here the crowds thinned out as the markets gave way to government offices and counting houses, most of which looked deserted.

  Across the square. Down a broad avenue. Left into a narrower lane. Ilse counted five cross streets to her next turning, only to discover the lane blocked by a gate. She took the next one, hoping to find a cross street, but that one took an unexpected detour in the opposite direction. Before she realized it, she had come to a small courtyard lined with taverns and wine shops. Several men and women leaned against the walls, drinking from bottles and playing dice. She paused, uncertain.

  “Hey, darling.” One man looked up from the game. “You’re new. Come with me and we’ll have a drink.”

  Ilse stepped back. “I’m not thirsty. Thank you.”

  “Oh, a fine-talking girl.” He tried to kiss her.

  Ilse pushed him away. “I said no.”

  “Leave her alone,” said a round-faced woman with hair loose about her shoulders. She slid between Ilse and the man, and slung an arm around Ilse’s neck. “Come with me, girl, and I’ll show you how it works on the streets.”

  “Watch out, girl. Etta’s got quick fingers.”

  Etta winked. “You’re just jealous.”

  Ilse twisted away from Etta. Etta grabbed for Ilse’s arm, but caught hold of her satchel. Before Ilse could wrestle it back, the man tried to snake his arm around her waist. He was laughing, Etta was shrieking, the rest of the crowd urged them to fight. Ilse wormed free of them both and pelted back down the lane, her satchel flapping against her legs. She heard shouts and laughter, Etta’s high-pitched squeals. A pot tumbled from the satchel, bouncing and rattling over the stones. Another. Ilse did not dare to stop. She veered into the next alley, which led south and east until it met a wooden fence. Dead end.

  She fell to her knees, breathing hard. They would have robbed her. Taken her worn-out blankets. Or worse.

  Gradually her breathing slowed. She had lost at least one pot, she remembered. With trembling hands, she checked through her possessions. Worse and worse. The blankets, tinderbox, and knife were gone, too. And Gregor’s sandwich. All she had left were a dented pan and a waterskin.

  She wiped tears of frustration from her eyes. Grit and soot streaked her hands. Now what could she do? She ought to find her way back to the main thoroughfare. If she hurried, she might find Becker’s tavern and the inns around it. But the skies were darkening, her clothes were filthy, and she didn’t think she could face an interview tonight.

  She found a drier patch of ground, where the fence tilted inward. The satchel helped only a little. Cold mud soaked into her skirt, and the heavy salt tang mixed with the reek of urine. Ilse curled into a tight ball and closed her eyes. “Ei rûf ane gôtter,” she whispered. A few more words came back to her. “Komen mir de strôm.

  The air thickened around her. A whiff of green, like the rich tang of pine, washed away the alleyway’s stinks, leaving only its own fresh scent, reminding her of the fresh cold winds of Melnek, blowing down from the mountains. For once, the memory of home did not hurt. Gradually her muscles unlocked, and the terror bled away. She felt as though a vast hand cupped her inside it, keeping her safe. Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow I will find work. And a home. I will make my own life.

  Overhead, a pigeon cooed. A dog whined, then fell silent. With the sky turning dark, and a breeze fingering her hair, she slept.

  * * *

  SHE WOKE TO the early-morning sunlight. Rain had fallen during the night, and gray clouds promised more that morning. Ilse stood and brushed the mud from her clothes. Working by feel, she untied her braid and worked out the tangles, then plaited it neatly. After some consideration, she decided to abandon her satchel and the few remaining items it contained. It would only make her look shabbier than she already did.

  Several streets over, she came upon a market square with a fountain. She dunked her head in the fountain and splashed more water over her face. Yesterday’s last meal with Nela and her cousins was only a memory, and she felt the first gr
owl of hunger. Perhaps a new employer would feed her before he set her to work.

  First she had to find the places Gregor and Nela named. The market square was nearly empty, but a few vendors were already at work setting up their stalls. One, an older man dressed in a worn jersey and stained trousers, eyed Ilse suspiciously as she approached. “Don’t want any,” he said gruffly, and turned away, dismissing her presence.

  Ilse paused, her cheeks going hot. “I’m not what you think.”

  The man shrugged and continued to arrange his stacks of baskets and cups and bowls. The baskets were woven from reeds; the cups and bowls were carved from a dark wood. Plain wares for plain folks.

  She took a deep breath. “Please. I’m looking for work. But I’m a stranger to the city, and I’ve lost my way. Could you help me?”

  The man stared at her, hands on hips. “Long way from home?”

  She nodded.

  “What about family?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “What kind of work?”

  His voice had lost its first hard edge. She met his gaze, which was neutral. “Kitchen work, scrubbing floors, anything,” she said. “I’ve some places to look, but no guarantees.”

  He regarded her silently. She read doubt in his expression, but all he finally said was, “You’re a pretty girl, even underneath that dirt. Maybe too pretty. And you come from money—I can tell by your speech.”

  “Why should that matter? I need the work.”

  “I believe you. But others might not. They might think what I did.”

  She made a helpless gesture. “It’s a chance I have to take.”

  In the end, he gave her a roll from his breakfast and directions to Becker’s tavern. He also told her where to find Tiralien’s better neighborhoods. “If you don’t have luck with the taverns, try the mansions near the governor’s palace. They always want new hands in the kitchen or stables.”

  Within the hour she found the place. She peeked inside, where two girls were sweeping the floors, supervised by a dull-faced older woman. No customers. No sign of Nela or her cousins. Disappointed, Ilse withdrew and continued to the inn Gregor had mentioned.

  She came inside the entryway, treading softly. A tall gray-haired man popped out from a side room. “Who are you? What do you want here?”

  “I was looking for work. I heard you wanted a chambermaid.”

  The man surveyed her clothes and face. He shook his head. “Sorry, but you won’t do.”

  She drew a sharp breath at his tone. “Why not?”

  “For any number of reasons, girl, but first because you aren’t a chambermaid—I can tell by the way you talk. Besides,” he pointed at her clothes, grimacing, “I run a clean inn, not a pigsty.”

  Ilse rubbed her hands over her skirt. “I’ll work hard.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. I can’t take the chance.”

  It was no different from any obstacle she had encountered in the wilderness, she told herself, after he shooed her out the door. Or those first days without food or warmth. She glanced around and saw the man watching her through the half-open shutters. He made a pointing gesture: go.

  More shops and inns lined the street. She tried them all. Each time, she met with a rebuff. Too young, said one. Too dirty, said a few others. “You’ve no experience and it shows,” said one grim-faced woman. “First thing I know, you’ll get tired of the work and flirt with the men. One of them will tumble you. I’ve seen it happen too many times. Makes a bad impression with some of the customers.”

  By late morning she had retraced her steps to Becker’s tavern. Drovers and sailors and a few guardsmen were drinking ale in the common room. Serving girls threaded between the tables, delivering platters of roasted meats, grilled fish steaks, and stewed vegetables. Ilse ventured inside until she came to one of the girls. “May I speak with your mistress?” she asked.

  The girl looked her up and down. “Back in the kitchen.”

  Ilse made her way into the kitchen where a red-faced woman was berating another woman and waving a wooden ladle to make her points. At Ilse’s approach, she broke off and rounded on Ilse. “No beggars. Out. Out of my kitchen.”

  “But I—”

  “Out.” She seized Ilse by the arm and dragged her through the kitchen to the back door, where she shoved her into the alley. “And stay away.”

  Ilse rubbed her hands over her face. Even here in the alleyway, she could smell cooked meat and spices and bread from the kitchen.

  I can be a scullion. I can scrub floors and tables. I can carry out trash.

  All the words she meant to say—meaningless if no one let her speak.

  She left the wharf district for the wealthy neighborhoods the vendor had suggested, but Tiralien’s various quarters were like a patchwork quilt—ordinary ones alternated with finer ones—and she spent the afternoon wandering through streets and knocking on back doors. A dozen times over, she began with her speech, “Please, I just came from the country, and I’m looking for work. Do you have anything—anything at all?”

  The rebuffs continued. Some were kind, but most were blunt. “You aren’t country-bred,” they said. “You’re lying already. Get out.”

  She changed her story, using as much of the truth as she dared. “I lost all my money. I need work. Please.”

  “Work?” said one chambermaid. “You don’t sound like you need work—not with that accent. We don’t need spoiled brats, even if you have learned to stink.”

  At the last house, the cook gave her bread and warm tea, though she refused to let her inside because she had just mopped the kitchen floor. “We’re not a big house,” she said. “We don’t have room for more help. Have you tried Sedlhouf quarter? It’s where the rich merchants live.”

  Ilse shook her head. “I don’t know. I tried. Everywhere, I thought.”

  The woman smiled briefly. “For how long?”

  “A day.”

  “Not so long, except when you’re hungry. There’s more houses in Tiralien, some of them very fine.” She paused and studied Ilse’s face. Her own was plump, a genial, comfortable face. “You’re from up north,” she said.

  “Melnek.”

  “Thought as much. And you ran away. How did you get this far?”

  Ilse swallowed with difficulty. Her throat hurt; her head felt heavy. “With a caravan part of the way. Walked the rest.”

  “Ah. Risky, coming all those miles alone. Why did you leave the caravan?”

  “They robbed me,” she whispered. “They took … everything. Or I gave it to them. Does it matter?”

  “I see,” said the cook. “You can’t go back, then. But I can’t give you a place here, not for pity nor praise. Master wouldn’t like it.”

  Ilse spent the second night behind a warehouse, huddled inside an empty barrel that smelled of hops. She slept fitfully. In the morning, she scrubbed her hands and face again in an ice-cold fountain. The wind blew hard, buffeting her as it whirled around the plaza. A passing tinker took pity on Ilse, and gave her a swallow from his wine jug and a bite from his bread loaf. “Lost?” he said.

  She nodded. The wine churned inside her empty stomach. “I’m looking for work. I can work hard.”

  He eyed her, his expression guarded. “Might be difficult.”

  A panicky laugh rose up in her throat. Ilse wanted to say she knew what difficult was, but she suppressed the laugh and the reply.

  Her only other food that day was a discarded apple core. She gnawed it to the bitter seeds, then licked her fingers clean, begrudging every drop of juice that escaped. She found no more kind cooks, willing to part with a square of bread. She stank, said the scullions. They didn’t need vagrants under the roof, said the housemaids. One stable boy tried to embrace her. Ilse slapped him and fled, while he shouted curses after her.

  Throughout the next week, she begged, she stole. She lived from hour to hour, taking shelter in alleys and doorways. More than once, she thought about leaving Tiralien and returning to the wildernes
s. But winter had arrived, and whatever provender she had lived on before would be gone. So she remained, drifting from quarter to quarter, searching out scraps of food by day and shelter for the night. She stopped asking for employment—planning beyond the next day had become too difficult.

  The tenth day found her wandering through a new quarter, on the northern side of Tiralien. The watch had rousted her a few hours before, and she had only escaped by clambering through a broken fence. Her flight had taken her into this new district, filled with shops selling fine silks, jewels, and porcelain figures—things of beauty she had once loved, but which could not feed her.

  Ilse stumbled and fell to her knees. Her head spun. Her vision blurred. She needed food or she would die soon. A day or two, no longer. All because she had panicked and fled her father’s house. Because she had trusted without reason. Because she was a foolish girl without any knowledge of the world.

  I could have stayed in Melnek. I could have pretended with Theodr Galt. I could have—

  She broke off those thoughts with a cry. Never. She could never have pretended with Theodr Galt. Even if she had tried, he would have guessed the truth. He would have punished her the way he must have punished Marina Bartos. Worse, because a wife could never escape, and if she were to try, Galt would hunt her down. Better to die now, free, than to have killed her soul outright. Ilse lurched to her feet and continued.

  The street ended in a large plaza. Near the center of the square stood a fountain, its waters gleaming blue and white beneath the full moon. Beyond it, everything was dark. She would find no shelter here. Ilse turned, uncertain where to go next, when she heard a muttered curse. A second voice, louder, said something about who would get the larger share. Peering into the shadows, she saw half a dozen figures beneath the lee of a large building. The breeze shifted, carrying a whiff of smoked beef to her.

  Her mouth watered. She took a step forward into the moonlit square. It was a gang of boys. She’d seen them around before, quarrelsome, laughing, rude. If they would just give her a mouthful. Just one. She would do anything, anything at all for a taste of that beef.