Chapter XVII - Grace

TWO YEARS, THREE MONTHS

Ruma’s marketplace was a colorful, boisterous place filled with people of various backgrounds and crafts who all proclaimed their work to be the finest in the city—in Elangsia—nay, in all the known world. Zoe felt bits of mirth rise in her as she walked among the hawkers who tried to out-shout their neighbor and the vendors who rushed into the street and scuttled along beside her, thrusting their wares into her face while chattering about the benefits of their particular merchandise. She always ignored them with regal indifference, hiding her amusement behind an impassive expression.

It was second week since their arrival to Ruma. The sky was heavy with rain clouds, but as of yet, no droplets had fallen from above. The warm breeze carried hints of the approaching refreshment throughout the crowded thoroughfare, and Zoe inhaled deeply of it, savoring it.

She and the two men had settled back into the small house with quick ease. Tancred—or Cormac, as he insisted they call him at all times—had decided to make contact with some of his customers and arranged to meet a Lord Ihcalam in wealthy section of the city. Zoe and Jaedon both wished to come as well, but Cormac had been reluctant. Jaedon eventually suggested that he take Zoe to the marketplace instead; they would meet back up with Cormac when his business with Ichalam was complete.

Jaedon obviously already knew what protocol he was expected to follow while they were in Ruma, but it was all new to Zoe. Last time they had been in the city together, she had been completely unaware of the great charade Cormac and Jaedon were carrying out.

This trip is much different than before. She smiled wryly at the understatement of her thought. Now, she was free from chains, and she understood to some extent what was playing out around her.

“A necklace? A necklace for the pretty lady?” A voice came from her right and Zoe turned her head to examine the necklace thrust at her by an aspiring merchant. It was a gaudy thing with a heavy golden chain and flashy gems. She shook her head decisively at the merchant and moved on. Last thing I need is jewelry bogging me down. Between that and this dress, I’d never be able to do anything!

The strong smell of roasting meat came to her nostrils, along with the exotic tint of perfume from a nearby stall. She eyed a juggler curiously, watching his mesmerizing show for a few minutes with interest. She had never seen anything like it before. She tried to learn how he tossed the torches, apples, and even small daggers and caught them again without getting them jumbled and dropping them, but she could not discover his trick. Every master is entitled to his own secrets, she finally decided with a shrug.

Turning away, she moved past a square that was completely deserted. Curious, she paused and glanced at it. A simple wooden platform stood a little ways off the ground. It was stained in various places with a dark substance. Everyone skirted the platform, keeping well away from it. Zoe stepped a little closer as somebody jostled her and noticed a simply carved sign that had been fastened to the base of the platform. She bent down, scrubbed away a stubborn layer of dirt and black grime, and then read the two words inscribed into it: Execution Square?

She instantly recoiled, wiping her dirtied hand on her skirt. The dark stains on the platform must be dried blood, then. The realization evoked an uncontrolled shudder and a random thought: had this been the place where Tancred’s father was murdered?

Shaking her head to clear it, she hurried away toward a stall draped with cloth of every hue and weave she could think of. A short woman and small brown-haired child stood in front of the stall with their backs to her. The woman was examining a length of dark blue material while the peddler watched keenly, quick to comment on the superiority of the weave and soft texture of the cloth. Zoe moved a little closer, interested in looking at all the different kinds of fabric. She stopped a dozen paces away from the stall; close enough to hear the merchant’s loud, singsong voice as he attempted to make a sale but far enough away that he would not think her a prospective buyer. It must be expensive to purchase woven cloth, she decided, since the poor always make their own clothes from fabric they twine themselves.

“I like the quality,” the woman said in a languid tone, “but I would rather it were dyed a more vivid blue. This is utterly drab.”

“Yes, Lady Ricald,” the merchant nodded eagerly. “I have several other choices for you to peruse, if you will wait but a moment….” He ducked to the side and came up a moment later with three other selections in hues of azure, cobalt, and midnight blue.

Lady Ricald swiftly picked up the cobalt with an exclamation of pleasure. “Ah, it is beautiful,” she said with satisfaction. The merchant beamed. “It will look glorious when made into a gown. How much?”

“Fifteen gold,” the merchant said quickly.

“Fifteen? I buy my slaves for less than that,” Lady Ricald said disdainfully. “Eight.”

Zoe clenched her fist at the mention of slaves and found that she immediately disliked Lady Ricald strongly and intensely. She shot a quick glance at the little girl who stood at the lady’s side. Zoe suddenly noticed the poor quality of the brown shift the child wore and after comparing it to the long, well-made garment Lady Ricald was attired in, she concluded that the little girl was a slave.

Rage as strong and unmanageable as a gale blew through Zoe and she stalked forward. She did not know what she was doing, nor did she care; the depth of the fury that had suddenly sparked to life stunned her but she did not slow to analyze it. She was a mere pace from Lady Ricald when the slave girl turned her head to look at a neighboring fruit stall. Zoe glimpsed the girl’s sad, delicate profile and froze with shock.

Grace?

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Cormac looked at Lord Ihcalam with a professional smile. “If you have a desire to look at my latest artifacts,” he said smoothly, “I shall always be at your service. I am based in the same house I have always conducted my business in.”

Lord Ihcalam, a thin nobleman with a pale complexion, nodded his head. The lord was young, perhaps in his early thirties, but had already become an advisor to King Brastus. Cormac made it his business to know the schedule of each of his customers when he was present in Ruma; thus, he had known today was Ihcalam’s day away from the palace. Ihcalam was without wife or family, so often spent his free hours in the vicinity of the White Swan, the tavern they sat in at the moment. Cormac had also discovered that Ihcalam’s weakness was ale in large quantities.

“Thank you, Alstair,” the lord responded formally to his invitation, his words surprisingly clear. He had already downed three large goblets of the strong tavern brew.

Cormac heard the quiet patter of rain on the rooftop for a few minutes now; he estimated he had been in the tavern with Ihcalam for the better part of an hour now. Patience is the key.

Ihcalam smoothed back his dark hair and continued, “I appreciate your honest dealings. I’ve been more than pleased with your services in times past. A trustworthy merchant is a rare find, is it not?” He slapped his knee and chuckled at his own supposed humor.

“It pleases me to hear that.” Cormac paused and eyed the man before saying casually, “I was detained for a short while upon entrance into the city. I confess that I was taken aback by the delay. I have never been stopped upon entrance to the city before. Odd, I thought.”

“Ever since the Wild Men arrived, there’ve been guards at all the gates, monitoring entrances,” Ihcalam explained slowly and quietly, studying his half empty goblet.

Cormac feigned surprise. “Wild Men? You mean those northern oafs?”

“Yes, them.” Ihcalam downed his goblets contents and looked up at Cormac moodily. “You have not heard? Just this last week the leaders of the Wild Men came to Ruma. They are meeting with King Brastus on matters of state. Their negotiations will take weeks, no doubt. They’ve not been away from the king’s side since they came. Nor have they stopped inquiring about Princess Brysa, either.”

Cormac sensed the lord’s dislike of the Wild Men and moved quickly to utilize it. “What could those northerners want with King Brastus or the princess? It seems strange,” he said with pretended mystification.

Ihcalam snorted and raised his hand to signal the barkeeper for more ale. “They’re here by King Brastus’s request. I do not doubt my king’s wisdom—” at these words, Cormac noticed Ihcalam’s lip curl slightly in an almost scornful manner. But before he could analyze the unexpected expression, Ihcalam had moved on—“I do not doubt his wisdom, but this has gone too far. They’re barbarians! Illiterate brawlers and men of base passions, the lot of them. The princess is wise to ignore their inquiries of her daily whereabouts. She stays in her chambers when they are near.”

What do they want with Brysa? Cormac had seen the princess before and knew her to be beautiful and allegedly intelligent. He voiced his thought: “What is their interest in Princess Brysa?”

“Their prince, Jaquin, would have her hand in marriage,” Ihcalam said darkly. “Already there is talk that King Brastus may agree to pledge his daughter’s future with the barbarians in order to secure their—” Ihcalam abruptly cut himself off, drumming the side of his goblet with his fingers and dropping his gaze to the knots in the wooden table they sat at. The sound of the rain outside increased in volume.

Cormac studied Ihcalam thoughtfully. In order to secure their…what? He was almost certain Brastus was planning to trade his daughter for the military aid of the Wild Men, but he wanted to hear it from Ihcalam before he jumped to conclusions. Ihcalam was obviously infatuated with Brysa and cared not for the proposed marriage between the foreign Prince Jaquin and the secreted princess. In fact, Ihcalam’s interest in the princess bordered on obsession. In addition to that, the young lord was not as devoted to King Brastus Alustate as he might wish to appear, Cormac noted keenly. Between his false dedication to Brastus and his fixation on Brysa, he might prove to be useful in later days.

Cormac phrased his next inquiry carefully, speaking slowly: “If King Brastus summoned the Wild Men, the real question is not what the Wild Men want with Brastus, then. Rather, it is: what does Brastus want with the Wild Men?”

“Aid,” Ihcalam stated roughly. “He wants aid. This blasted war with the blasted Aerilyans had gone on for too blasted long. The king is convinced—rightly so,” he assented reluctantly, “that we need more to tip the scales in our favor, if you understand my meaning.”

“I do,” Cormac said coolly, lifting his own goblet to take a small sip of wine. I understand far more than you imagine, Ihcalam. So then. King Trystellan has heard correctly; the Wild Men are here to help the Elangsians tip the balance. In trade they may secure Princess Brysa. Cormac felt cold as he and Ihcalam each mused on their own thoughts. He now would have to verify all the information he had gathered. And if I find it accurate, he thought grimly, I will return to Bryndor and report soon. Indeed…as soon as can be managed.

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Zoe checked herself mid-stride and settled back on her heels with shock as Grace turned her head back to look at the cloth vendor’s wares. Several cold drops of rain fell from the pregnant clouds, splashing on her cheeks, but she did not heed them. The glimpse she had gotten of the little girl’s profile was all she needed: this small-boned slave of this Lady Ricald was Grace, her Grace.

What to do…what can I do? Think, Zoe, think! she ordered herself savagely.

The cloth merchant had noticed her. “Need you something, mistress?” he asked, eyeing her simple dress and unadorned face with skepticism. She was an unlikely looking customer.

Before Lady Ricald or Grace could turn and see her, Zoe shook her head mutely and darted away. Her whole frame shook with pent-up emotions as she slipped through the crowd. Every fiber of her being rebelled against running. I must help her! I cannot abandon her as I was forced to before. But she knew, with deep despair, that she could not afford to let the little girl see her; not yet. If Grace had recognized her and cried out Zoe’s name or something equally revealing, the results would have been cataclysmic. Zoe halted abruptly, her thoughts churning. But I cannot let her go without at least seeing where she is residing, she decided. Otherwise I may never find her again in this large city, or if I could, it would take far too long.

She turned about and promptly tripped on the folds of her unfamiliar skirt as she hurried back through the crush of people. Growling with irritation, she lifted the hem a little higher and continued. By now the rain had grown heavier and she struggled to pull her cloak around her shoulders in protection against it while at the same time she continued running and tried to keep her skirt away from her feet.

Zoe had not made it far when someone grabbed her arm and swung her to a stop. Her fist shot out by instinct, but Jaedon calmly blocked it. She frowned up at him furiously and shook off his hold on her. “What are you thinking?” she hissed.

“Where are you going in such a hurry? You stick out like a mad priest, zigzagging from one side of the market to the other in such a rush.”

Resentful of his tone but realizing the truthfulness of what he said, Zoe tried to soften her glare. “I am all right,” she said with as much composure as she could muster. The rain pelted down, plastering her hair to her head in an uncomfortable fashion. “Truly.”

“You have not answered me,” Jaedon stated firmly, his brown eyes looking at her keenly. “What happened to upset you?”

How to answer that? A pox on all over-inquisitive men! Zoe exhaled heavily. “I saw Grace.”

“The slave-girl you are seeking?”

“Yes.”

Jaedon looked grave. “I am amazed you found her so quickly,” he said, “but that is beside the point. Where did you see her?”

“At the stall of a cloth vendor across the market.” She glanced around, located the correct vending stall through the rain, and pointed. Her heart and outstretched hand both dropped as she realized that Lady Ricald and Grace were gone. Her eyes searched the surrounding market desperately, but it was too late; they were gone from her sight. They probably had left soon after the downpour began. She whispered, “They are no longer there.”

“Was she alone?”

Zoe shook her head. “She was with a woman—her mistress.” She spat last two words out with distaste.

“We will speak with Cormac of this,” Jaedon said gruffly, obviously thinking through her words. “Now come. He will be finished with Ihcalam by the time we reach the wealthy section of Ruma from here.”

Numbly following Jaedon, Zoe was overwhelmed with a wave of failure, which was soon followed by self-incrimination. How shall I find Grace? How could I have run away when she was right there, within an arms reach of me? You are a fool, Zoe Romany, and a coward.

“Stop browbeating yourself,” Jaedon admonished sternly. “You did no wrong. You could hardly have stolen her away from beneath her mistress’s eye without being caught yourself. That would have been the worst choice for you to make.”

She knew he was right, but still…a Romany ought not run. What would Aiden say if he had been here? She cringed to think of that. Her conduct was a shame upon her. Her heart was heavy as she inquired, “How shall I find her again, Jaedon? Is there a way to find the home of the noblewoman she was with?”

Jaedon stopped abruptly and turned to her. His wet face shone in the grayish light. “How do you know she was with a noblewoman?”

Zoe thought his question odd and replied with surprise, “She had the title lady, so I assume she is a noblewoman. Do I assume incorrectly?”

“How do you know she is a lady?”

“The merchant called her Lady Ricald,” Zoe clarified, her eyebrows raised.

“You did not tell me that!” exclaimed Jaedon, his brow lowering ominously. “Ricald? You are certain that was her surname?”

Zoe stared at him, crossing her arms over her chest. “Yes. What is the matter, Jaedon?”

“Had you told me she was a noblewoman, I could have immediately told you it will be easy to locate her, for Cormac and I are highly skilled in discovering such information. Had you mentioned her name was Lady Ricald, I could have immediately told you I know where she lives.” Jaedon ran a hand through his wet hair, shaking droplets around, and said severely, “You must learn to keep nothing from me or Cormac while we are here. We cannot afford to make mistakes on account of incomplete or faulty information.”

“I didn’t purposely keep it from you, I merely did not know it was of such importance,” Zoe objected. She stared up at Jaedon, her chin lifted stubbornly. “But…you know where Lady Ricald lives? How?”

“She lives in the wealthy district of the city.” Jaedon turned and began striding swiftly away through the alleys that crisscrossed the whole city, splashing heedlessly through puddles. Zoe quickly followed. “The rest you must learn from Cormac. He knows as much as I do, or more, of the Ricald family.”

Something about the menacing tone in Jaedon’s voice as he uttered the name Ricald caused the hair on the back of Zoe’s neck to stand up. What can it all mean? And why does Tanc—Cormac have to explain everything? Jaedon apparently knows enough about this Lady Ricald to even know where she lives. She gnawed on the inside of her cheek as she strove to figure everything out. Casting a glance to the weeping sky, she whispered a bare, straightforward prayer: “Christus, if you care about little ones like Grace, show me the way to free her.”

Half and hour later, they had reached the edges of the wealthy quarter of the city. They rounded a corner and almost ran into an equally soaked Cormac. He joined them silently, matching their pace without pause. “What has happened?” he inquired in a low voice, scrutinizing their expressions.

“I found Grace,” Zoe explained tightly.

Jaedon shed light on the rest of the matter by adding quietly, “Grace is the slave to Lady Elmira Ricald, Cormac.”

Had lightning stuck the ground before them and rent a tear in the earth, Zoe did not think Cormac would have reacted with such rapidity. He stopped, swiveled, and pierced her with a relentless gaze as he demanded forcefully, “Ricald?”

Zoe was shocked by the raw emotion that blazed from the deep blue depths of his eyes. Hurriedly regaining her poise and determined to be undaunted by him, she narrowed her lashes and replied, “Lady Ricald is Grace’s mistress, yes. Jaedon reacted similarly at the mention of the name. Would either of you care to enlighten me of the importance of this woman?” Her voice rose a little at the end, making her question ring with exasperation.

Tancred’s jaw flexed, a muscle in his cheek bunching and loosening methodically. Their eyes did not part for a long moment. Rain pounded around them, raising a muted roar across the entire city that merely seemed to amplify around them. Zoe stood her ground firmly and waited for his response. Finally his lips parted and a tense voice that was foreign to her ears came from him:

“Lady Ricald is wife to the man who executed my father.”