Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

“Maybe. Maybe not. I can’t take the chance.”

It was no different from any obstacle she had encountered in the wilderness, she told herself, after he shooed her out the door. Or those first days without food or warmth. She glanced around and saw the man watching her through the half-open shutters. He made a pointing gesture: go.

More shops and inns lined the street. She tried them all. Each time, she met with a rebuff. Too young, said one. Too dirty, said a few others. “You’ve no experience and it shows,” said one grim-faced woman. “First thing I know, you’ll get tired of the work and flirt with the men. One of them will tumble you. I’ve seen it happen too many times. Makes a bad impression with some of the customers.”

By late morning she had retraced her steps to Becker’s tavern. Drovers and sailors and a few guardsmen were drinking ale in the common room. Serving girls threaded between the tables, delivering platters of roasted meats, grilled fish steaks, and stewed vegetables. Ilse ventured inside until she came to one of the girls. “May I speak with your mistress?” she asked.

The girl looked her up and down. “Back in the kitchen.”

Ilse made her way into the kitchen where a red-faced woman was berating another woman and waving a wooden ladle to make her points. At Ilse’s approach, she broke off and rounded on Ilse. “No beggars. Out. Out of my kitchen.”

“But I—”

“Out.” She seized Ilse by the arm and dragged her through the kitchen to the back door, where she shoved her into the alley. “And stay away.”

Ilse rubbed her hands over her face. Even here in the alleyway, she could smell cooked meat and spices and bread from the kitchen.

I can be a scullion. I can scrub floors and tables. I can carry out trash.

All the words she meant to say—meaningless if no one let her speak.

She left the wharf district for the wealthy neighborhoods the vendor had suggested, but Tiralien’s various quarters were like a patchwork quilt—ordinary ones alternated with finer ones—and she spent the afternoon wandering through streets and knocking on back doors. A dozen times over, she began with her speech, “Please, I just came from the country, and I’m looking for work. Do you have anything—anything at all?”

The rebuffs continued. Some were kind, but most were blunt. “You aren’t country-bred,” they said. “You’re lying already. Get out.”

She changed her story, using as much of the truth as she dared. “I lost all my money. I need work. Please.”

“Work?” said one chambermaid. “You don’t sound like you need work—not with that accent. We don’t need spoiled brats, even if you have learned to stink.”

At the last house, the cook gave her bread and warm tea, though she refused to let her inside because she had just mopped the kitchen floor. “We’re not a big house,” she said. “We don’t have room for more help. Have you tried Sedlhouf quarter? It’s where the rich merchants live.”

Ilse shook her head. “I don’t know. I tried. Everywhere, I thought.”

The woman smiled briefly. “For how long?”

“A day.”

“Not so long, except when you’re hungry. There’s more houses in Tiralien, some of them very fine.” She paused and studied Ilse’s face. Her own was plump, a genial, comfortable face. “You’re from up north,” she said.

“Melnek.”

“Thought as much. And you ran away. How did you get this far?”

Ilse swallowed with difficulty. Her throat hurt; her head felt heavy. “With a caravan part of the way. Walked the rest.”

“Ah. Risky, coming all those miles alone. Why did you leave the caravan?”

“They robbed me,” she whispered. “They took … everything. Or I gave it to them. Does it matter?”

“I see,” said the cook. “You can’t go back, then. But I can’t give you a place here, not for pity nor praise. Master wouldn’t like it.”

Ilse spent the second night behind a warehouse, huddled inside an empty barrel that smelled of hops. She slept fitfully. In the morning, she scrubbed her hands and face again in an ice-cold fountain. The wind blew hard, buffeting her as it whirled around the plaza. A passing tinker took pity on Ilse, and gave her a swallow from his wine jug and a bite from his bread loaf. “Lost?” he said.

She nodded. The wine churned inside her empty stomach. “I’m looking for work. I can work hard.”

He eyed her, his expression guarded. “Might be difficult.”

A panicky laugh rose up in her throat. Ilse wanted to say she knew what difficult was, but she suppressed the laugh and the reply.