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apologize to a man for defeating him. No Mazonite would apologize to a man for anything.
So, after a moment of frozen indecision, she turned again, and headed for the street, with Faro following
along obediently. She took the shortest way home, in a kind of daze, hardly noticing where she went
until she found herself on her own shabby street, approaching the front gate to her house.
When they reached her little home, she felt another moment of shame. This was not a place she cared to
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bring even a slave-but she had no real choice in the matter. It was, after all, the only thing she owned.
They had to sleep somewhere.
She opened the gate in the wall and let him in, but instead of immediately following her inside, her new
acquisition stood in the tiny forecourt for a moment, fists on his hips, looking at the building. She
flushed, embarrassed. He must have been used to much, much better.
Again he spoke, startling her. "If I were in your place, honored lady, I would make a loan, and buy a
better house. I would sell this one, if I could, for earnest money, but it would be very important now that
many people knew my face-if I were you-to act upon that notoriety and present a prosperous front."
"I'm not sure I understand," she said, carefully. "Would you explain why I should do this?"
She thought she saw him smile slightly, and his mien definitely softened. He stopped looking beyond
her and looked directly into her eyes.
"It's not just for comfort," he told her. "Gracious lady, you are a woman now; you have the right to
engage in business and make contracts. Selling my services, for instance; I assure you that I have been
completely educated in everything a scribe should know. But no one with any money will come here.
You have to have a house in a decent part of town; you have to look prosperous. In order to make
money, you have to look as if you already have it and do not necessarily need it."
She nodded, slowly. That made sense, in an odd kind of way. And speaking of money-
She took the pouch of coins the attendant had given her, and counted out enough to buy both of them
food for a good evening meal. "Go to the market, and buy us bread, cheese-a little fruit, and some
vegetables," she said, then added, softly, "I'm sorry to use you this way, but-well, you can see-"
"You don't have any other slaves." He looked at her as if her half-apology surprised him, then slowly,
almost reluctantly, a faint smile really did appear. It softened his grim features. "That's quite all right,
little mistress," he said, and his voice was gentle. "Going to the market is not exactly a hardship.
Because I am a scribe I also know how to handle money, and no one will cheat you."
Then, before she could respond to that, he took the coins and headed out on his errand.
She wondered, fleetingly, if he could cook.
Faro awoke in the middle of the night, all his senses alert. Something was wrong.
When he had returned from the marketplace, with far more food than Xylina had expected (having
shamelessly used his size and forbidding aspect to frighten vendors into bargain prices), she had
astonished him by cooking for both of them. That was just as well, since that was not one of his skills,
and he had expected to eat everything raw. In his absence she had conjured a comfortable bed for him,
which surprised him yet again.
She was treating him with far more courtesy than he ever remembered being extended to a slave, and he
wondered why. He had not always been as suspicious as he was now-and there did not seem to be any
guile in this young woman. Perhaps-perhaps he could trust her.
To trust his mistress... that was something he had not expected. To be trusted by his mistress-that was
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something a slave could anticipate. It was the last step before being freed. A trusted slave was one who
received responsibility and one who could expect reward for handling it well. But to trust a woman
again, when the one who should have rewarded his diligence had betrayed him-no, that was so far from
his mind that the idea had never occurred to him until now.
Food had made him sleepy, and the poor district in which the house resided was a quiet one, at least.
They had both been exhausted by their mutual ordeal in the arena, and as soon as the sun had set, Xylina
had gone to sleep. After making certain that the gate to the street outside was locked, he did the same,
setting his bed across the doorway so that no one would be able to get by him. There was something
about this situation that felt wrong, and he was taking no chances that she might come to harm.
After all, no matter what his feelings in the matter were, if she died, he would be executed. That would
have been tolerable if he hated her; he could have been less than diligent in her defense, and in that
devious manner taken her with him. But it was not tolerable now, for a reason he was unable to quite
fathom.
He was not certain what had awakened him, until he glanced through the door into the other room, and
saw that Xylina's bed was empty. He almost went back to sleep then, assuming that she had left it for the
obvious reason, but his feeling of something wrong would not leave him. So, instead, he left his own
bed and walked softly into the back court, where the little pump and the outdoor kitchen were. He
moved quietly, with great care, not certain why, but somehow knowing he should make no noise. The [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]