Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

“Neither do I. I’m going to Tiralien to get some. Me and the family, that is. You can ride a ways in our wagon—we’ve room enough for one skinny girl. Besides, you look as though you walked clear from the westlands. My name’s Nela, if you want to know. Those are my cousins, Gregor and Maxi and Uwe. What’s yours?”

“Ilse. They call me Ilse.”

Nela nodded. “Pretty name. So, will you come along with us? We have some sandwiches and ale, if that makes a difference.”

Kindness. Kindness and food. And a ride. Overcome by their generosity, she almost couldn’t speak at first. “I’d like that. Thank you.”

Nela leaned down and held out a rough hand, to help her into the wagon. “Gregor, she’s starving. Give her your sandwich. You’ve already had four.”

“I was hungry,” Gregor protested, but he handed her the sandwich with a wink and a smile.

Ilse bit into the sandwich and nearly cried with delight. Smoked beef, soaked in oil and vinegar and smothered in cheese. It was the most she had eaten at one time in a month. While she ate, she listened to the drivers talking among themselves as they discussed where they might eat supper that night, if Becker’s tavern still served that special autumn wine, and if Maxi’s brother might join the business next year. The caravan was small, its two wagons packed with crates that smelled strongly of vinegar and straw.

“We take the spoiled grapes from summer and turn them into vinegar,” Nela told her. “The fish markets like it for pickling.”

To their questions, she explained that her parents had died, and her aunt was unable to keep her. She was looking for work. “Any kind,” she said. “I don’t like begging.”

“What were you thinking of?” Nela asked. “Work, I mean.”

“Chambermaid,” Ilse said. “Or helping in kitchens. Whatever I can find.”

Nela gave her a long considering look, but said nothing. The others offered names of families she might apply to, though they had no guarantees. Business was off, they said, what with taxes and gossip about war with Károví.

It was late afternoon before they reached the city gates. Tiralien was a big city—far larger than Melnek—spreading across both riverbanks and climbing some distance into the nearby hills. As they waited in the queue of wagons, Ilse listened to the drivers trading news. It was more of what she had heard in Melnek—ships practicing maneuvers along the coast, troops moving along Károví’s border in response, and the endless speculation of what next year might bring for crops and profits and trade.

Once through the gates, Nela and her cousins guided the wagons across the main square to a fountain, where Ilse climbed down from her seat. “Thank you,” she said, hoisting her bundle over her shoulder.

Nela shrugged. “You made the trip shorter. Are you sure you won’t stay with us? We’re here a few days at least.”

Ilse shook her head. She’d heard how they were sleeping in the yard with their horses and wagons. There wouldn’t be room enough for another person, no matter how small. “You’ve done me favors enough. I can manage.”

Gregor grinned. “I bet you can. Remember what I said about the fish markets. Talk to Uwe’s brother-in-law. He might want someone for this and that.”

“Or the inn near Becker’s tavern,” Uwe said. “They always need chambermaids.”

Ilse accepted one last gift of a sandwich, then made her way through the crowds toward a large avenue that branched from the square and led east. Just as Gregor told her, she came to a large plaza with a wide opening at the opposite end that marked the avenue’s continuation. Several smaller lanes and alleys branched away at various other points. Ilse took the third lane to her right. Here the crowds thinned out as the markets gave way to government offices and counting houses, most of which looked deserted.

Across the square. Down a broad avenue. Left into a narrower lane. Ilse counted five cross streets to her next turning, only to discover the lane blocked by a gate. She took the next one, hoping to find a cross street, but that one took an unexpected detour in the opposite direction. Before she realized it, she had come to a small courtyard lined with taverns and wine shops. Several men and women leaned against the walls, drinking from bottles and playing dice. She paused, uncertain.

“Hey, darling.” One man looked up from the game. “You’re new. Come with me and we’ll have a drink.”

Ilse stepped back. “I’m not thirsty. Thank you.”

“Oh, a fine-talking girl.” He tried to kiss her.

Ilse pushed him away. “I said no.”

“Leave her alone,” said a round-faced woman with hair loose about her shoulders. She slid between Ilse and the man, and slung an arm around Ilse’s neck. “Come with me, girl, and I’ll show you how it works on the streets.”

“Watch out, girl. Etta’s got quick fingers.”

Etta winked. “You’re just jealous.”

Ilse twisted away from Etta. Etta grabbed for Ilse’s arm, but caught hold of her satchel. Before Ilse could wrestle it back, the man tried to snake his arm around her waist. He was laughing, Etta was shrieking, the rest of the crowd urged them to fight. Ilse wormed free of them both and pelted back down the lane, her satchel flapping against her legs. She heard shouts and laughter, Etta’s high-pitched squeals. A pot tumbled from the satchel, bouncing and rattling over the stones. Another. Ilse did not dare to stop. She veered into the next alley, which led south and east until it met a wooden fence. Dead end.

She fell to her knees, breathing hard. They would have robbed her. Taken her worn-out blankets. Or worse.

Gradually her breathing slowed. She had lost at least one pot, she remembered. With trembling hands, she checked through her possessions. Worse and worse. The blankets, tinderbox, and knife were gone, too. And Gregor’s sandwich. All she had left were a dented pan and a waterskin.