‘Eat it,’ she said suddenly, and thrust her plate toward me.
I stared at it, unable to breathe. Was it a trick? But I had learned in Chalced to eat food whenever I had the chance, even face down in the street. I tried to remember my manners. She must think me a valuable asset to acquire, not a mannerless brat. I seated myself and carefully picked up the bread crust. I took a small bite and chewed carefully. She watched me. ‘You have self-control,’ she observed. ‘And your tale was not a bad one, even though I doubt every word of it. I haven’t noticed you about the ship before today. And you do smell as if you’ve been in hiding. So. If I take you as my property, will there be someone raising a storm and calling me a thief? Or a kidnapper?’
‘No, my lady.’ That was my hardest lie. I had no idea what Dwalia might do or say. I’d bitten her badly, and I hoped she would be holed up in her cabin, nursing that injury. Kerf would only demand my return if Vindeliar puppeteered him into doing so. I did not think that likely, but my best defence would be to keep myself out of their sight as much as possible. I finished the bread in two more slow bites. I longed to lick the plate and scoop up the porridge with my finger. Instead I carefully folded my hands in my lap and sat quietly.
She tipped the porridge pot in the centre of the table toward her and with a big wooden serving spoon scraped the hardened bits from the sides and bottom into her dish. They were edged with brown where they had scorched. She pushed her bowl toward me and handed me the spoon she had used.
‘Oh, thank you, my lady!’ I could barely breathe but I forced myself to take small bites and sit with my back straight.
‘I am not “your lady”. Nor am I Chalcedean by birth, though I’ve found I do my best trading there. I grew up near Bingtown, but not of Trader stock, and hence it was hard for me to establish myself there. And when they eliminated the slave trade, my business there became more difficult. I am not the slave trader you think me. I find valuable and rare goods. I buy them, and I sell them at a profit. I do not always take the fast profit; sometimes my game is to wait for the large profit. Sometimes the valuable item is a slave with undervalued talents. Such as the scribe you saw me placing. Seen as aged and infirm in one market, he is seen as experienced and widely learned in another. Stand up.’
I obeyed immediately. She ran her eyes over me as if I were a cow for sale. ‘Dirty. A bit battered. But you stand straight, you’ve some manners and a forthright way. In the Chalcedean market, they would beat that out of you. I will take you where that’s a valued trait in a servant. As I doubt you’ve paid passage, you’ll finish this voyage in my chambers. Make any sort of a mess in there, and I’ll turn you over to the captain. I’ll see that you are fed. When we reach Cottersbay, I will sell you as a child’s maid to a family I know there. That means you will have the care of their little boy. You will bathe him, dress him, help him with his meals, publicly defer to him, and privately teach him the same manners that you are showing me now. They are a well-to-do family and will probably treat you well.’
‘Yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady. I hope I will bring you a good price.’
‘You will, if I clean you up a bit. And you will prove your claims to me, about letters and drawing.’
‘Yes, my lady. I am eager to do so.’ Suddenly the prospect of being a small boy’s personal slave sounded as fine a thing as being the lost princess of Buckkeep. They might treat me well. I’d be fed and sleep indoors. I would be so good to their little boy. I’d be safe, even if I were no longer free.
‘I’m not your lady. I earned my way to what I am; I was not born into it. I am Trader Akriel. And your name is?’
‘Bee … uh!’ Should I tell her my real name?
‘Bea. Very well. Finish that porridge while I drink my tea.’
This I did, not rapidly but with my best manners. I felt I could have eaten three more bowls of it, but resolved to give no sign of that as I carefully set my spoon neatly beside her bowl. I looked around the cluttered, sticky table and tried to think what the servants at Withywoods would have done. ‘Do you wish me to clear the table and wipe it clean, Trader Akriel?’
She shook her head and gave me a bemused smile. ‘No. The ship’s cook-helpers can do that. Follow me.’
She rose and I followed her. Her legs were neatly trousered in blue wool and she wore a short jacket a shade lighter than her trousers. All of her was immaculately groomed from her gleaming black boots to her braided and coiled brown hair. Her success was plain in her dangling earrings, rings and the jewelled comb in her hair. She walked with utter confidence and as we descended into the hold and then passed through the swinging hammocks and haze of smoke in the sleeping quarters, she reminded me of a sassy barn cat walking through a pack of dogs. She did not avoid meeting the gaze of the lesser merchants quartered there nor did she appear to hear any of the muttered comments as she passed. Her cabin was further forward in the ship and we went up a short flight of steps to it. She took out a key on a heavy fob and opened the locked door. ‘In,’ she told me, and I was happy to comply.
I was astonished. This chamber had a tiny round window and the room was as big as the one I’d been sharing with my captors. Her trunk was open on the lower bunk and her garments were arranged as precisely as tools set out for a task. Having seen Shun’s wardrobe, this was astonishing to me. But it was also plain that she had planned for this voyage. There was a blue-and-white quilt with tasselled edges on the upper bunk, and a matching rug on the floor. The little oil lamp that swung from the rafter had a rosy tint to its cover. Several sachets of cedar and pine hung about the room, though they could not entirely banish the tarry smell of the ship. There was a small stand under the porthole, with a fenced top. A tin pitcher and washbasin were corralled there. A damp cloth was folded neatly beside it.
‘Touch nothing,’ she warned me as she closed the door. She stood for a moment, considering me. Then she pointed at the washbasin. ‘Strip. Wash. Can you sew?’
‘A bit,’ I admitted. It had never been my favourite task, but my mother had insisted that I at least know how to hem and make basic embroidery stitches.