I’m about to suggest—probably unwisely—that we head downstairs or go for a walk or anything that will get me out of this tiny, stifling room, but the sounds of a scuffle filter through the door. Something bangs against the wall, followed by muffled protests.
My hand flies to the dagger at my waist. Storm launches to his feet as Mara grabs her bow from the floor.
A knock sounds. “It’s me,” calls Belén.
“Enter,” I say, but I unsheathe my dagger.
The door creaks open, and Belén thrusts the girl Mula ahead of him. She stumbles to her knees, then curls into a tiny ball on the floor, hands protecting her head. The bright blue slave marks on her heels are very clear now—thick circles, each with a dot in the middle. It’s like her feet have eyes, and I shudder.
“I found her snooping in the room across the hall.” He tosses a small leather bag onto the floor beside her. “That was in her hand.”
Belén’s jerky pouch. A harmless thing to steal. But I’m glad we thought to keep our real valuables always within reach.
“I didn’t mean to steal!” she says. “It was a black thought, and I tried to make it go away, but it smelled so—”
I reach down for the pouch, and she flinches so hard she knocks the side of her head onto the floorboards.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I say. “Sit up. Look at me.”
She does, but her eyes are as wide and her muscles as tense as a cornered cat’s. She scoots back against the cot and huddles there, knees to chest. Her arms and calves are stick thin, and shiny calluses encircle her wrists and ankles. Someone ties her up. Often. Maybe every night.
I reach into the pouch for a piece of jerky and toss it to her. She snatches it midair and shoves into her mouth.
“So I’m curious, Mula . . . is that your real name? Mula?”
She just shrugs, continuing to chew, and her gaze on me does not waver.
“It will do for now. Mula, if you weren’t in the room to steal, why were you there?”
Her mouth freezes. She looks to Belén, back to me.
“It’s an easy question,” I say.
She swallows the jerky and says, “Just curious. About what was in your packs. I wanted to know what marjoram smells like.”
“Did Orlín put you up to it?” Mara asks gently.
She hesitates a little too long before saying, “No. I did it my own self.” She glares at Mara, as if daring contradiction.
“God despises liars,” Storm says, and I shoot him a pained look.
I pace for a moment, worrying my thumbnail with my teeth. The innkeeper’s relentless curiosity is a problem. If he discovers what we carry, he might murder us in our sleep. I sigh. So much for a good night’s rest in actual beds. “All right, then. Everyone pack up. We’re leaving.”
“No!” cries the girl. “He’ll—”
Belén grabs her by the collar and hauls her to her feet.
“Gently!” Mara says. “She’s just a little girl.”
He scowls, but he relaxes his grip. “I’m not letting her go until we’re packed, with everything accounted for.”
We gather our things quickly. My pack feels light, and I remember that Mara and I each have a set of clothes with the laundress. But I’m not willing to wait.
We shoulder our packs and head downstairs. The common room is crowded now, thick with smoke and sour ale and unwashed bodies, noisy with laughter and music. Three men near the hearth strum vihuelas, and their enthusiasm almost makes up for the reed-thin sound of the poorly made instruments.
Orlín the innkeeper weaves through the crowd toward us, carrying two wooden mugs. He sets them on a table nearby, where they are instantly claimed by grubby, weathered hands. Orlín wipes his hands on his apron, shouting, “Some ale for you all? I also have a nice batch of dandelion wine in the cellar.”
“We’re leaving,” I say.
Before I can blink, he swings his huge arm and backhands Mula across the face, sending her crashing into a bench. “What did you do?” he bellows.
Mula clutches for the bench, misses, grabs at it again. She tries to pull herself to her feet, but she reels, her knees buckling.
Orlín takes a step toward the girl, but in a flash, Mara’s dagger is at his throat. “Leave her be,” she says with deadly calm.
The laughter in the room fades, the music stills. Stools scrape against the wood floor. Somewhere behind me, a sword is whisked from its scabbard. We are surrounded and outnumbered.
Mara, what have you done?
My hand twitches toward my own dagger, but I don’t pull it. Not yet. Neither do Storm or Belén, though they both survey the room, sizing up our options. Maybe the situation can still be salvaged.
The knob of Orlín’s throat bobs against the point of Mara’s dagger. “It’s the height of rudeness,” he says, his gaze on Mara’s fisted grip, “for a guest to draw in a man’s own home.”
“It’s worse,” she hisses, “to beat an innocent girl senseless.”
“The mule is mine. I can do whatever I wish with it. Do you tell the cook not to slice the turnips? Do you tell the scullery maid to be gentle with her rags?”
Mara’s face reddens. The daggers presses deeper. Blood wells at its tip, and a tiny rivulet slips downs the innkeeper’s neck and disappears under his collar. The common room is silent except for heavy breathing, the creak of a floorboard, embers popping in the hearth.
We must withdraw at once, but I’m not sure how. I could order Mara to stand down. But her dagger at the innkeeper’s throat might be the only thing holding back utter chaos.
Think, Elisa.
Mula whimpers from the floor, and I spare her a quick glance. Her eyes are glazed. Blood streams from a cut on her forehead.
“Mula!” I say. “How much did Orlín pay for you?”
She tries to focus in the direction of my voice, blinking rapidly. “Three . . . three silvers.”
So little! The entire worth of a person is little more than my laundress’s monthly allowance.
I say, “I’ll buy her from you.”
Orlín’s gaze turns calculating, but I hardly care, because Mara’s hand is wavering. I give her an encouraging nod, and slowly, reluctantly, she lowers the blade. But she does not sheath it.
The innkeeper takes a relieved breath. Keeping an eye on Mara, he says, “I bought it when it was young and weak and stupid. I’ve spent years training it, feeding it, making it strong. I won’t let it go for less than eight silvers.”
I pretend to consider. “That is more than I expected. I’ll have to do some trading to come up with that kind of coin.” Which is a lie. How ridiculous we were, to think that trading more than half our coin for spices would lighten our purse to an unremarkable amount. Now that I think about it, buying supplies has become less and less expensive as we’ve moved away from the populated coastal areas. We probably carry more than this man sees in a year. “But if you give me the night to come up with it, I’ll give you ten. Eight for the girl, and two more for the inconvenience of our misunderstanding this evening.”
His eyes widen. Then his face breaks into a huge grin. “Done!” He spits into his palm and holds it out to me.
Ugh.
But there is no help for it. I spit into my own and clasp his tight, smiling relentlessly in spite of the slickness between our palms.
Everyone relaxes so suddenly it’s like a bubble popping. People return to their seats. Mara sheaths her dagger. The din of chatter and music is gradually restored.
“You still plan to leave?” Orlín says, wiping his palm on his stained apron.
I hesitate. Maybe the danger is past, and we can sleep easy. But no, we have just made a very public display of wealth. Best to camp outside the village and eat nothing that hasn’t been prepared by our own hands.
“We’ll be back in the morning. I’ll give you three silvers now to board the girl tonight and ensure her safety, the rest tomorrow when we collect her unharmed.”
He nods agreement, and as Belén fishes some coins from a small purse, I look down at my new slave.
Mula is still on the floor, her skinny, bruised legs sprawled out. She clutches the leg of the bench as if her life depends on it, and her eerie, golden gaze is fixed on me. “You bought me,” she whispers. “You bought me.”
The protest dies on my lips before fully formed. I’ve no intention of making this girl slave for me, but it would be unwise to say so aloud. I’ll explain later, when we’re on the road. Oh, God, what am I going to do with a little girl?
I turn toward the door, gesturing for the others to follow. We’re nearly free of this stifling place, and I prepare to breathe deep of open air and safety when I hear Mula shout, “Did you see that? A lady bought me! I’m going to be the slave of a fine lady!”
We collect our horses from the ostler and lead them to the village outskirts. It’s dark and cool, the stars so bright that the sky seems like a tapestry woven of night bloomers. This high in the mountains, the trees are sparse and stunted, but we find a group of pines thriving in the shade of a granite cliff and make camp among them. I eye the cliff gratefully as we flip out our bedrolls. It’s one less approach to guard.
Belén tends to the horses, and Storm settles down to pray. No one speaks. Mara’s features are set stubbornly, as if she expects a scolding. She deserves one, and I have to give it to her. My stomach roils with the sudden understanding that I cannot be both queen and friend to her in this moment.
“Mara,” I say.
She is shifting through her pack for something, and she looks up at me, her eyes narrowed.
“I understand why you intervened on Mula’s behalf,” I tell her. “But—”
“No,” she whispers. “You really don’t.”
I have scars too, I want to say. And some are even carved into my flesh. But I hesitate. Because if Mara told me she knew exactly how I felt, I wouldn’t believe her either.
“Fine. I don’t understand. But if you endanger our purpose again by being rash and ridiculous, you will walk home to Brisadulce alone.”
“He was going to kill her!”
“I doubt it. She’s valuable property to him. Even so, it was a bad decision. She is not worth your life to me. Or Belén’s or Storm’s. She’s not worth my whole kingdom.” I cringe inwardly at my callousness, but it’s not the first time I’ve had to weigh lives against each other, and it won’t be the last.
Mara stretches out on her bedroll. She puts her hands behind her head and gazes up at the night sky. I wait a moment, thinking that she will surely apologize. Or at least thank me for buying the girl. But she says nothing.
Sighing, I sit down on my own bedroll and unlace my boots.
The morning dawns bright, clear, and cold. I spend a few moments breathing, watching with wonder as the air leaves my body and turns to fog.
Storm sniffs, and his face darkens.
“Storm?”
“Winter comes early,” he says, staring off in the direction of the white-capped peaks. “Even if we’re successful in retrieving the commander, we risk getting trapped in these mountains.”
We rush to pack up, and return to the inn to find Mula waiting at the door. When she sees us, her face breaks into a smile, displaying two huge, slightly crooked front teeth.
She is as n**ed as the day she was born but doesn’t bother to cover herself. Her bruised body seems made up entirely of knees and elbows. A welt juts out of her forehead like newly risen dough. Bright purple stretches down from it and hugs her right eye.
“Where are your clothes?” I demand.
Her smile falters. “You didn’t buy my clothes,” she says. “Just me.”
I take a deep, calming breath. I grab the reins to Belén’s horse and say to him, “Please go settle our account with Orlín.” If I walk in there myself, I’m liable to let Mara gut him after all.
As Belén enters the inn, Mara hands Jasmine’s reins to Storm and says, “I’ll fetch our laundry. Mula can wear my extra blouse for now.”
I nod, and she hurries off. Mula and Storm stare at each other in a mutual sizing-up that for some reason amuses me.
“Are you an animagus?” she says. “You look like an animagus. But your hair is ugly.”
His green eyes flare wide. “I am a pri—”
“Storm!”
His mouth slams closed. Then: “I am nobody,” he says instead, his eyes downcast. “Nobody important.”
I study him thoughtfully. “Storm is my very good friend,” I say. “And you must mind him while you are with us.”
“Oh, yes,” she says. “I will mind perfectly. You are going to be so glad you bought me.”
Not likely. I don’t dare take her to Invierne with us. I can’t be slowed down, and I can’t worry about yet another life. Maybe someone in the next village will agree to care for her in exchange for being well paid. I sigh loudly. It will mean flashing coin and drawing attention yet again.
Mula stares as if reading my thoughts. “I can cook,” she says. “And clean. I can keep your clothes washed. You don’t have to go to a laundress ever again.”
“How old are you?” At first glance, I thought her no more than eight years old. But something about the way she talks, and her piercing golden gaze, makes me wonder if she might be older.
She just shrugs.
“How long were you with Orlín?”
“Four years.”