If I Pay Thee Not in Gold Read online

“Fine,” she said shortly, almost as if she had not even noticed his nod.

  “Now listen up. This girl is nothing; she had no training to speak of. This probably looks like it’s going to be easy for you, and you’re right.”

  He concealed his surprise, but he finally met Xantippe’s eyes. She did not look as if she was trying to fool him in any way, and over the past several weeks, he thought he had learned to read her fairly well. There was none of the slyness that meant she was lying or trying to deceive him. “I don’t care how easy it is; I want you to work at this. You’re going to have to earn your freedom. The people coming here want a spectacle; the Queen wants a show. Draw it out, you hear me? Make it last, however easy it is, don’t let it look easy. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Once again, he nodded, this time with satisfaction. He would be only too happy to give them their “spectacle.” This was his one chance to take his revenge on the entire Mazonite culture, and the girl would not die an easy death.

  Perhaps he would break her back, first, then-

  Lost in his contemplation of a catalog of things he could do to her, he didn’t even notice when the slave-keeper left him alone. When he came out of his reverie, and saw that she was no longer standing before his cell, he left his own place before the bars and lay down on his pallet.

  Only then did he allow himself to realize that he almost wished that this particular girl hadn’t chosen him. She just didn’t seem like a typical Mazonite. Suppose sheweren’t a hustler? He would still have to kill her, because if he didn’t put on a good show, Xantippe would have him killed anyway. Freeing victors was custom, not law. Where would his vengeance be if he killed an innocent girl the Mazonites didn’t like anyway?

  Sleep would not come-nor did he particularly want it to. There were too many possibilities for the day ahead.

  And what difference could a little lost sleep make? He would have all the days of his free life to make up for it.

  Time and time again, he found himself coming back to the same question, a question that obscurely bothered him, although he could not have told why it did.

  Why had she chosenhim ?

  What had she seen in him that had driven her to pick him? Was she so incredibly self-confident that she could not conceive of her own defeat?

  At first, that was a very satisfying notion. Self-confidence to the point of arrogance would explain why her fellow Mazonites seemed set against her, why the slave-keeper clearly wanted her to fail her trial. That kind of attitude made enemies, not friends. And would make his own victory that much more gratifying.

  But he was a logical man, and something so very unlikely could not satisfy him for long. And besides, arrogance and self-confidence was not what he had read in those pale blue eyes. A kind of shock, blankness, carefully cloaked fear-he was not certain what hehad seen there, but it had not been self-confidence.

  Whatever it was-it had been as bleak and hopeless as he had felt the day that he learned he was to be turned into a beast at the whim of a stupid woman who could not even write her own name.

  Could it possibly be that she had deliberately chosen him, not out of self-confidence, but in the confidence that he represented her certain death?

  And what could have led her to do that?

  And what evil would he be forced to do, if that were really the way of it? Faro did not hate all women, just the arrogant mistresses. That distinction had not seemed significant, until now.

  He stared up at the stone ceiling, wakeful, until dawn.

  The Queen settled back in her seat, acknowledging the cheers of her subjects with a slight bow as she took her place in her private box along with her guests. It was somewhat unusual for the Queen to appear at a woman-trial, but so far as she was concerned, this was no ordinary trial.

  This girl’s mother, Elibet, had come near to challenging the Queen for her right to rule-and only that providential earthquake had prevented a trial-by-combat to determine which of them had that right.

  For years she had cherished her hatred of Elibet, but she had been unable to touch the woman’s child because of the constant vigilance of Elibet’s slave, Marcus. But when the girl turned thirteen, Adria had known that her vengeance would not be delayed much longer. Once Xylina came to take her trials, the Queen could arrange things so that only a miracle would enable her to win. The girl herself had given no indication that Elibet’s talent had been inherited.

  But that, after all, was what this trial was all about. Somewhat disappointingly, Xylina had shown no emotion, even though she must be sure that she had no chance-no shock, no dismay. A pity, in a way.

  Still, the important thing was what would happen here. The Queen only hoped that the spectacle to come would not be as disappointing as the girl’s lack of reaction. Xantippe had assured her that the slave the girl had chosen understood what he must do.

  A hush of anticipation suddenly settled over the crowd, and the Queen leaned forward, her attention riveted on the entrance to the arena below her.

  Xylina stepped forward, without fanfare, with no words. In accordance with the strictest rules of the trials, she was unclothed and there was nothing about her that could be used as a weapon. Not even a tie to hold back her long hair, which she had arranged to partially cover her breasts. From the flush spreading over the girl’s face and neck, she found her nude state profoundly shaming. To that extent her judgment was accurate; the arena seldom saw as uselessly curvaceous a creature as this.

  Queen Adria smiled. That flush was encouraging. It said that the girl would probably be foolish enough to first conjure clothing. A potentially fatal mistake.

  Across the sands of the arena, a second door opened, and the slave Faro strode through it. Oh yes, he was a fittingly savage specimen!

  Faro narrowed his eyes against the glare of sun-on-sand, and quickly scanned the arena, focusing immediately on the girl who was his target.

  It looked as if she were trying to hide behind her long, golden hair. The effect made her seem curiously vulnerable. He paused a moment, assessing her, and saw nothing to change his original ideas about her. She was helpless.

  She was his.

  He stifled an abortive feeling of pity, and strode out onto the sand. He gave her a moment to stare at him, make her own assessment, and contemplate the smile of hate on his face. He wanted her to be afraid.

  He glanced quickly around the arena, to make sure that there were no other threats. Then he charged. He knew better than to give her time to organize her power of conjuration, or to plan a defense. Even the weakest woman was dangerous, because of her magic. First he had to knock her down and out. Then pluck out her eyes. Then break her arms. Only then could he afford to start playing with her. To give the Queen her show.

  He closed on the prey. She stared at him, frightened. She gestured. And in a single instant, the ever-fickle fates turned the tables on him.

  Queen Adria leaned forward in her private box, smiling with anticipation, ignoring the guests on either side. She was waiting for the girl to make her first mistake. Xantippe leaned forward with her, but her other guest, the demon called “Ware,” leaned back, his saturnine face enigmatic.

  But the eager smile on her face was wiped out in an instant. Instead of making the fatal error of wasting time by conjuring something to cover her nakedness, Xylina fought back-in the best and cleverest way possible.

  She conjured lengths of metal, like rods or blunted spears, about as long as her own forearm. They appeared in her hands so quickly that the Queen literally could not see the process of conjuration; they leapt into her grip, and were thrown just as quickly. The girl began hurling them at her opponent before the man had taken more than two steps, somehow producing them and throwing them so rapidly that one was still in the air as another formed in her hands. Her physical expertise was surprising, considering her lack of muscle; she must have trained for this. She had, after all, come to fight. Of course it would take more than lightly thrown rods to save her. M
uch more. Still, this was not a good sign. The girl was starting to resemble her mother. But no; that had to be a fluke. Her one desperate effort, doomed to failure as the man discovered that it was all she had.

  The slave was not prepared for the rain of missiles. He was not even prepared for Xylina to fight. Several of her weapons actually struck his body with dull, meaty thuds, before he realized what was going on and protected his head and face with his arms. But he continued his charge, obviously well aware that the only way to end the potentially-deadly hailstorm was to reach the girl and get his hands on her.

  He never got the chance.

  Xylina changed her target the moment he protected his head, and began hurling her metal bars at the slave’s legs. One of them scored as he reached the middle of the arena, tripping him and sending him heavily to the ground. One of the bars made a lucky strike to his lowered head.

  He lay there for a moment, half stunned by the blow; moving, but not to any purpose.

  At that moment, the huge, dangerous man was completely at Xylina’s mercy.

  The Queen scowled, taken as much by surprise by the girl’s conjurations as her opponent was. She had been incredibly swift and precise, both in her choice of weaponry and in her ability to use it. There had been no warning of anything like this in Xylina’s past-

  -except that she was Elibet’s daughter.

  Then, as the slave shook his head and dragged himself to his feet, the girl abolished her conjurations. To the Queen’s amazement, she stood waiting for him, seemingly helpless. As if she were refusing to act on her momentary advantage.

  What could she be thinking of? Now the slave was angry. He would certainly kill Xylina. The girl had been terminally foolish, failing to finish it when she had her one lucky chance. Was it sheer idiocy-or lack of will? Either was enough to destroy her. This was after all no playground.

  Or was it foolish confidence? Well, the slave would quickly test it, and put her down brutally.

  If he could. Ifshe didn’t have something else planned. Adria was no longer willing to bet that the girl was as helpless as she looked.

  The Queen bit her lip in vexation. The prudent course would have been to kill the slave before he recovered. Surely the girl couldn’t possibly be planning to tame this brute, could she? Admittedly, he was a valuable commodity, and if she made him surrender, he could be worth a nice sum to the impoverished girl. But how could she dare even think of it?

  Events were proceeding faster than Adria’s thoughts. The slave did not waste any time, once he got to his feet. Again he charged, this time obliquely, and with an eye out for more metal projectiles.

  But Xylina did nothing either he or the Queen expected. Instead, she drew her hands through the air, where they filled swiftly with a kind of metal mesh. She cast this net of metallic fibers over him as he rushed her, stepping aside in the manner of a bull-dancer and throwing it at the last possible minute, as if wanting to be certain she hit her target.

  She did indeed; as the audience of mixed warriors and their attendant slaves roared with either approval or disbelief, Faro was completely entangled in the netting, staggering away, unbalanced. Xylina dashed in to gather up the edges and jerk the net, throwing her own weight fearlessly backwards as Faro’s feet flew out from underneath him. As he fell, she ran to the opposite side of the arena, as far away from him as she could get. And once again abolished her conjuration.

  The audience screamed, as at least half of the watchers leapt to their feet. The Queen watched in complete bewilderment, clutching the arms of her chair. What was the girl up to? Was she suicidally soft-hearted? Surely she knew that the man would kill her in a heartbeat now that she had shamed him twice before others. No one could afford this kind of bravado in the arena, not even an experienced fighter!

  For the second time, Faro rose, turned, and charged her.

  Xylina held out her hands. A torrent of thick, opaque mist rose from the sand. He blundered into it-and she stepped in too. Both of them vanished in the expanding fog. The cloud of conjured smoke filled the center of the arena, too thick to see into.

  The crowd fell silent, waiting.

  The Queen held her breath. Thatmust have been an act of desperation. Xylina’s powers must have been running out. She could not hide in there forever. Sooner or later Faro would find her and-

  Faro staggered out of the fog.

  With Xylina on his back.

  The crowd went insane.

  There was something in Xylina’s hands-something that kept the man from trying to claw her from his shoulders. After a moment, the Queen saw what it was-a loop of fine wire that Xylina had cast around his neck. If he made a single move that she did not like, Xylina could choke him to death in a breath, or even, if she got the right leverage, slice his throat. He was as helpless as if she had him bound hand and foot at her feet.

  He staggered to the center of the arena, and stopped there. Once again, the crowd fell silent-so quiet that Adria clearly heard the cries of birds above the arena, the barking of dogs in the streets outside.

  Then, slowly, Faro fell to his knees, bowed his head, and raised his arms in the posture of complete surrender.

  Xylina had won. She had tamed the brute man. He had acknowledged her as his mistress.

  But she was not yet finished. She dismounted carefully, abolished the wire, and faced the audience, her back to Faro.

  Once more, hope surged into Adria’s heart. There was no honor in the arena; the arena-slaves were the dregs of society. Faro could still kill her and earn his freedom.

  But he did nothing.

  Now Xylina conjured a simple drape of bright fabric and wrapped it gracefully around her nude body. As the girl looked up at the Queen, Adria was startled by her expression-totally blank, as if she were as astonished by this victory as Adria herself was.

  Then Xylina shook her hair forward to hide her face, and walked slowly to the victor’s exit, ignoring the screams of the crowd, the cowed slave, the flowers and coins that showered down onto the sand. She walked past Faro, into the darkness of the doorway.

  Faro swallowed experimentally, breathing heavily, and was a little surprised that there was so little soreness. Xylina had a delicate touch, it seemed. Her body had been marvelously light, almost childlike-no, light but definitely not childlike!-yet her touch on the wire about his neck had been persuasively sure. She certainly could have hurt him, had she chosen to.

  When she dismounted as if he were some strange breed of horse, and turned away from him, he was well aware that he could still attack and kill her. Surrender was not an absolute, and there was nothing that would say he had violated any code of honor if he struck her down.

  But he had his own honor, his own integrity-even if none of these women believed that a slave could have honor.

  Besides, he thought with a touch of irony, there was no guarantee that Xylina could not counter a fourth attempt to kill her. Or a fifth, sixth, seventh. She had spared his life- and he was suddenly aware how much he wanted to live, a revelation that had come in the brief moment when she had cut off his breathing and before he had stopped struggling.

  Yet she had not really hurt him in any way. She could readily have given him any number of injuries-nothing that would seriously impair his value, but which could have kept him in crippling pain for days or weeks. Just to make her point.

  There could be worse mistresses. In fact, he’d had one. This one at least knew the meaning of mercy. That might seem like a weakness, but now he realized that he could live with it. That hewanted to live with it.

  So when she passed him, silently, her face a blank mask, he acknowledged his indenture to her by rising and following her. He saw the arena keepers already coming out to clean up the ground for the next event. This particular show was over.

  As a former arena-slave, he was well aware that he was in a very special case. He was not eligible for freedom within this society, except by special dispensation of the Queen, and his life was tied to Xyl
ina’s. If she died, he would be executed. If he wished to live, he must now defend her as savagely as he had fought her.

  “Well.” Xantippe leaned back in her seat, and gave Adria a long and significant look. “That was certainly-impressive.”

  “There is no question as to her ability or her nerve,” the demon Ware observed, his heavy-lidded eyes betraying nothing. “I do not know when I last saw a more decisive woman-trial.” He lounged indolently in his seat, long and elegant fingers toying with the stem of a glass goblet of conjured wine.

  The Queen glanced sharply at him, but he did not seem to be exercising his formidable and sharp wit at her expense; he was simply making an observation. Without a doubt, he had seen any number of woman-trials during his life in the city.

  She wondered what he was thinking. Demons were tolerated in the city, and in the Mazonite culture as a whole, provided they qualified. They qualified only if they took binding oaths to do no harm, to do nothing to change the existing order, and to serve the Queen personally, bowing to whatever her whim might be. Many demons seemed to find these oaths humiliating, and so shunned Mazonia as a whole. But not Ware.

  The Queen found his wit and ironic sense of humor amusing, so long as they were not exercised against her, and he was often her guest. Some of her subjects found his presence unpleasant, even disturbing, but she was not one of them, and she had found his talents useful in the past. She was not certain how old he was-several hundred years, at least. And he was as ornamental as he was witty: graceful as a cat, pale-skinned, dark of hair, with a thin, sculptured face. Only his eyes gave him away for what he was; there was no mistaking the eyes of a demon for anything else. They were a peculiar color: an odd dark red, with golden flecks, like gold-dust floating in rich, unwatered wine-and the human looking into them suddenly felt the weight of every year of his many centuries.

  In fact, a human looking into them too long stood a chance of becoming mesmerized by them. That was one of the many powers that demons possessed, powers they were sworn not to use against the women of Mazonia, although they were perfectly free to exercise them at the expense of the freedmen. The demons who swore their oaths to the Queen had a great deal of commerce among the freedmen. They often acted as the Queen’s agents in trading outside the borders.