Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

One man pointed angrily at a shattered crate, its load of salted fish strewn over the cobblestones. “You,” he growled. “You lost me a week’s pay.”

The other man swore. “That I never did. You’re the bastard who dropped his end. Dropped it like a limp prick.”

“Stop it, both of you.” A third man shoved his way between the two. “We’re late. What’s the dust-up?”

“Balz fucked himself up last night.”

“Fah! That’s a lie, Dag. He saw this chit—”

Dag shot an angry glance at Therez. She shrank into her doorway, but he only muttered a curse about whores in the streets. Still cursing his crew for their stupidity, he ordered them to clean up the mess and load the other crates.

Therez caught up her bag and slid around the corner into the alley. It was an accident. It wasn’t my fault.

Dodging the crowds, she circled around the square. Despite the early hour, teams were already at work, making ready for departure. Men and boys darted from one task to the next. Some carried torches and held them aloft for others who were loading crates and sacks into the wagons. Dogs and sheep milled about, adding to the noise and confusion.

She stopped by a fountain and washed her hands and face. An old worn column rose from the center, carved to show Lir in her three aspects. The maiden was hardly more than a suggestion of youth and grace, and only a trace of the mother showed—centuries had obscured her face. But for the crone, the artisan had caved strong deep lines. It was from her upraised hands that the water flowed. An old statue, carved in the style of those centuries before the empire absorbed Morauvín, before the Erythandran priests gave the name Toc to Lir’s unknown consort, with whom she disported during her season of love.

Therez drank a second handful of water and scanned the square. She would have to act soon. The gates would open before long. She knew from listening to her father and Ehren that caravan masters often sold seats in their wagons, when space allowed, and kept the money for themselves. Even if she couldn’t find a caravan bound directly for Duenne, she could take passage across the hills to the next trade city and wait for one that did.

Of the three or four caravans, she dismissed the two smallest. Those had only two or three wagons apiece, and no other passengers she could see. A third caravan had a dozen wagons, with several families gathered around. Therez circled a group of apprentices, chatting about their new posting in Kassel, and approached a woman nursing her baby. “Excuse me,” she said. “Can you help me?”

The woman looked up. She took in Therez’s rumpled clothing and her eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

“Could you tell me where this caravan’s bound?”

The woman’s expression remained wary. “You look fair young to be alone.”

Therez drew a shaky breath. “I’m fifteen, almost sixteen. Old enough to lose my parents.”

“Ah, well.” The woman’s mouth relaxed. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” Therez brushed a hand over her face. With hunger and weariness, it wasn’t hard to feign distress. “I’m going to my aunt in Duenne. I need to find passage today.”

“Well, this one’s bound for Strahlsende and then south to Klee. You’ll do better with that other caravan. The caravan master is just over there.” She pointed toward a heavily built man who leaned against a wagon, his arms folded, watching his crew at work and occasionally snapping out orders. The man’s face was a dark brown, tanned even darker by the sun. He looked as rough as Balz, but with a shrewd expression in his black eyes.

Therez hesitated.

“Go on,” said the woman. “He won’t bite.”

The man glanced in their direction. Seeing their interest, he smiled—a quick wolfish smile that showed yellow teeth against his dark face. He turned his head and said something that made the nearest man laugh.

Therez felt the blood rise to her face. She thanked the woman and started across the square, skirting the muck and puddles. The caravan master continued to watch, his mouth quirked in a faint smile, as though he enjoyed observing her fastidious progress.

“Are you the caravan master?” she asked, when she was close enough to make herself heard.

“I am.” He had a low, raspy voice. Close up, she could see that his trousers were stained and patched. He wore a coarse brown shirt, unbuttoned to show a thick muscled neck.

“Are you— Is your caravan going to Duenne, sir?”

“My name’s Alarik Brandt, not sir. And yes, it is.”

“I need a passage to the city,” she said as confidently as she dared. “How much do you charge?”

The caravan master flexed his hands and stared at Therez with a long, appraising look. Just when she thought she would have to repeat her question, he nodded. “Three denier for the passage. Gold ones.”

Three. That was far more than she expected. “What if I don’t have that much?”

The man shrugged. “Then you get no passage from me. At that price, it’s a favor I’m doing you.”