Fairy Queens: Books 5-7 Read online

  “You have the most stake in her success, do you not?”

  Cinder’s heart sank as she stared at the girl. Barely more than a child, she seemed fragile somehow. Of all the slaves, Cinder thought, this one was the least likely to be chosen by Zura. The one least likely to earn enough bids to become a companion. Zura was counting on Cinder failing! But she wouldn’t.

  “I’m not the one wasting my money by buying her,” Cinder said sullenly.

  Zura slapped her again. This time, Cinder barely felt the sting. “You know so little about the lusts of men,” the older woman said. “But you’re about to learn.” She turned to Jatar. “Twenty attalics.”

  “I can get twenty-five from any of these lords,” he shot back.

  “Yes, but they’ll only buy from you once, maybe twice. I buy from you every year, so I get first pick and a better price.”

  Jatar made a growling sound low in his throat. “You forget who’s loaning you the money.”

  She waved his comment away. “You’ll get it back by week’s end, and you know it. Twenty two.”

  Zura’s conversation with Tya snapped into place in Cinder’s mind. Zura was in debt to Jatar, but the woman was somehow convinced she would have the money in a few days. Did Zura really think this little Luathan girl would fetch enough bids to get her out of debt? Cinder was ashamed to admit that the idea gave her a queasy sort of hope. Maybe she could make something of this girl after all.

  The door suddenly came open, sending a breeze through the room that set the lamps to flickering. Shadows danced across Zura’s and Jatar’s faces as if the light was afraid to touch them. Durux strolled in and stood beside the older man. “You’re needed.”

  Jatar growled in displeasure and turned back to Zura. “Twenty-two. Now get out.”

  Zura gave a curt nod. “Have her delivered to the mansion.” She turned on her heel and started for the door.

  Cinder made to follow and then looked back. Durux had the girl trapped between the wall and himself, though no part of him touched her. He breathed deeply, obviously savoring the smell of her as his nose moved down her neck and followed her collarbone. “We didn’t have a chance to play, little kitten.”

  “Leave her alone.” Cinder was shocked at the words whipping from her mouth like a lash.

  Durux’s dark eyes snapped up to catch Cinder. “Oh, but I have left her alone. He made me promise I would.” The backs of his fingers stroked the girl’s cheek.

  Cinder shot a look down the hall—at Zura’s retreating form, and Jatar ahead of her—and called loudly, “How will your patrons feel about your slaves being tainted?”

  “Durux!” Jatar shouted without turning back. “Do we have to have another conversation?”

  Durux slinked away from the slave, his gaze hot on Cinder as he stepped toward her. “Why didn’t you just say you wanted to play too?” He reached for her arm, but she jerked back.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  Farush and Farood appeared out of nowhere, and Cinder had never been so appreciative of their presence.

  Durux let out a long sigh. “I do so hate the rules of this game. But if I must play, I play to win.”

  He cast a mournful look at the slave girl and then slunk down the hall. Once he was out of sight, Cinder sagged, all the fight draining out of her.

  “I don’t like him,” Farush said.

  “Sick, twisted little beggar,” Farood agreed. Such disgust from one such as Farood was telling. He looked down at Cinder, his expression a fraction softer. “Come along, for the mother loses her patience.”

  Glancing back at the crying slave, Cinder suddenly felt glad the girl was coming to the House of Night. Ludicrous as it sounded, she would be safer in a companion house than with these slavers. Cinder grasped for the numbers. She was too rattled for doubles, so she settled on counting her steps—eighty-two of them from this horrible place and back to the chariot.

  The girl was crying, one shuddering breath for every three hiccupping sobs. Cinder concentrated on the numbers to keep herself from losing control. She kept reminding herself that she was fine—she wasn’t being locked up. No good reason existed for the panic reaching up from her stomach to choke her throat and make it difficult to breath. No reason to want to whirl and run for it.

  Zura slipped the skeleton key from around her neck and inserted it into the door. She waited for Farush and Farood to enter the cell and then followed. Cinder took firm hold of the tray and stepped into the dank room, which had been built into the cellar. The slave girl darted to her feet, her fists clenched around the gray sack she wore.

  Zura tucked the key into her robes. “You will work hard,” she told the girl. “You will improve. And if not, you will be punished. Am I clear?"

  The silence stretched out. “Yes,” the girl said finally, her voice grating as if she hadn't spoken in days.

  Zura’s hand snaked out and slapped her hard. “Yes, Mother,” Zura corrected.

  The girl staggered back, a welt in the shape of a hand print forming on her cheek. “Yes, Mother.” Cinder could hear more of an accent this time. The girl’s “th” almost sounded like “d.”

  Zura nodded. “Good. Your name is now Naiba. Eat and then Cinder will begin teaching you.”

  “Surely one of the companions would be more suitable,” Cinder said morosely. “One of the women from the Luathan section—they know their people’s dances and songs better than I do.”

  Zura whirled on her. “If this girl fails, so do you. You have seen the dances and heard the songs all your life. If you’re not clever enough to know them by now, you have no place in my household.” She pushed past Cinder, her feet making measured clipping sounds—one-two, one-two—that slowly faded as she started up the stairs that led out of sight.

  Cinder closed her eyes. I am not locked up, I am not locked up, I am not locked up. Zura is trying to make me fail. She wants me in the debtors’ mine. Cinder turned to face the girl, who stared silently back, tears streaming down her face. She would never do as a companion, even if she could sing.

  “My name is Cinder. I wasn’t sure how well they were feeding you before.” Cinder settled the tray by the blankets and hoped the girl didn’t notice her shaking hands. “So I brought something easy on the stomach—broth and bread.”

  Naiba stared hungrily at the tray. She resisted a moment then plopped down, picked up the bowl, and drank straight through. She tore off a chunk of bread and finished it in nine bites. “You have an Idaran mark?” she said, her tone almost accusatory.

  Cinder winced. She knew what the girl really meant. Cinder was clearly clannish, so why the Idaran tattoo? “I was born here,” she answered, “so I’m free. My mother is clannish. I don’t know my father.” He could be one of dozens of men, none of whom had ever laid claim to Cinder, but she wouldn’t tell Naiba that.

  “I wonder if my parents know what happened to me,” the girl said. “I was fishing when they stole me.”

  Cinder tried to harden herself to the words, knowing this would be easier if she didn’t get attached. Attachments in the House of Night usually led to pain.

  After she downed the last of her bread, the girl asked in a low voice, “What will happen to me?”

  Cinder hesitated before deciding she would rather know the truth if she were in Naiba’s place. “Your skills as a performer will be auctioned off—you will be hired out as an entertainer. After you’ve gained some notoriety, your virginity will be auctioned off as well. The highest bidders will have access to your bed, but I’m sure Zura won’t expect that from you until you’re older—probably around seventeen. The more money you earn, the more lavish and comfortable your life. The less you earn . . .” Cinder didn’t finish.

  The girls eyes slipped closed as a horrified shudder tore through her. She shot Cinder a disgusted look. “You’re free to do anything you want, and you chose this?”

  “I don’t have a choice.” Cinder picked up the tray and marched out the door, not caring if Naiba
followed. “How am I ever supposed to reach two hundred attalics in bids on a girl the men can’t even bed?” Cinder muttered to herself.

  Six steps to cross the cellar, filled with fruits grown in the Hansi Province, and half of a sheep carcass. Twelve simple wooden stairs and she stepped into the kitchen. The air was heavy with the smell of roast lamb and cinnamon. Cinder paused, counting to five for each breath, in and out, until her heart stopped racing.

  Storm, her grandmother, was busy preparing breakfast in the outdoor ovens. She had aged out and come to work as a cook. At forty-seven, Cinder’s mother wasn’t far off from being retired as a companion, though there were rumors that one of her patrons wanted to purchase her—something Cinder refused to think about.

  Scattered throughout the kitchen, six companion children peeled and sliced and kneaded in preparation for dinner. Their mothers were slaves, just like Cinder’s mother. They were all in debt, same as Cinder, though she was by far the oldest.

  Naiba cast a longing glance at the food. Cinder didn’t bother. Servants would eat whatever was left over. If there was anything. “This is where the servants and slaves prepare the food,” she explained. “After the companions and their patrons eat, it’s our turn.”

  Naiba glanced at the strong light trailing through the open door. “Isn’t it a little late for breakfast?”

  “The House of Night has late hours,” Cinder replied. She crossed the kitchen in sixteen steps and wound up twenty circular stairs to the second-floor attic. Inside were two rows of sixteen blankets where the servants slept. Nearest the far window was Cinder’s space—a couple of worn blankets and the few treasures she had managed to collect over the years. A comb with most of the teeth broken off, a shard of a mirror, a few interesting rocks, and some pretty scraps of material. There was also a dress form she had made herself, stuffing the worn linen with threadbare rags and mounting it to an old broom handle.

  She stopped before some clean bedding and an empty basket waiting to hold Naiba’s things, not that the slave girl had any. “You’ll stay here until you’ve earned your title as companion. It’s unbearably hot in the evenings and cold by morning, but you sort of get used to it.”

  Naiba looked it over and said softly, “I used to share my bed with my sisters—there are five of us. We didn’t have any brothers. My father always said he was cursed with girls, but he always smiled when he said it so we knew he didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Cinder had never known a father—never known a man’s love. All she knew from the House of Night was that men were never to be trusted, only subtly manipulated. Outright manipulation was only done by the men.

  Twelve steps later, Cinder stood before the narrow window and motioned for Naiba to look out. From their place atop the rise, they could see the city spread out before them. The lord’s palace rose up on their right. Each district in the city had its own pleasure house, though many of them were boarded up now.

  Below the window, the courtyard was covered in flowers. Cinder’s gaze lingered on one plant in particular. It wasn’t especially pretty, but its earthy, clean scent drifted up to the window at night, reminding Cinder of Holla, her aunt buried beneath it. Clanwomen were always buried, unlike Idarans, whose custom was to burn their dead.

  “The mansion is inside a walled compound near the lord’s palace,” Cinder told Naiba. “The gates are locked, and Zura will beat you if you try to escape.” Even as she said it, she fingered the lock-picking tools hidden beneath her breast wrap. It would be fairly easy to set the girl free. But even if Cinder did, where would Naiba go? No one in the city would help her. On the contrary, she’d be turned in to the city watch and returned, probably before morning. And then she and Cinder would be beaten so badly they wouldn’t be able to walk for a week.

  “Not to mention the guard,” Naiba commented.

  Startled, Cinder looked closer and saw a man sitting in the shadows of the trees near the gate. One guard, one cudgel . . . zero chance of making a run for it.

  “Come on, let’s get started.” Cinder pulled out her measuring tape and memorized the girl’s measurements. For a while, her mind was lost to the efficiency and order of the numbers. While she worked, she told Naiba the house rules, which basically boiled down to doing as they were told, always referring to Zura as “Mother,” and remembering that she had spies among the companions, slaves, and servants. It was best not to speculate on who those spies might be, as they tended to shift when Zura had something to blackmail one of them with.

  “Why does she want us to call her “Mother”?” Naiba asked.

  Cinder tapped her fingers in ascending order. One, two, three, four. Four, three, two, one. “Because that’s how she sees herself.”

  “It’s a lie.” Naiba turned angry eyes to Cinder. “A mother wants what’s best for her children. Not what’s best for herself.”

  “Don’t let anyone else hear you say that.”

  Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Cinder gave Naiba a pointed look before a breathless Marish appeared in the doorway and reported, “Storm says to get the serving done before you’re late.”

  Pursing her lips, Cinder hustled back downstairs. Naiba trailed behind her. At the table, the girls were already plating the flatbread. Lugging a pot of khash—sheep’s head, brains, hooves, garlic, lemon slices, and cinnamon cooked through the night—Storm pushed into the kitchen. She set the pot on the long table and used her shoulder to wipe the sweat from her face. Nearly in her seventies, she was a beautiful woman, with wavy silver hair that matched her silver eyes and gently seamed skin.

  “This is the little slip that Mother spent her money on?” Storm growled.

  Knowing Storm was frustrated that her granddaughter still hadn’t found a job, Cinder shrugged. “She can sing. Zura put me in charge of teaching her.”

  “You?” Storm exclaimed. “Why? You’re not one of her companions, and who’s going to do your serving?”

  Cinder gave another shrug. “The other girls will have to manage. I have a dress to make before the auction in three days.”

  “No. You will serve and clean, as you always do.” Cinder turned at the new voice, surprised to find Magian standing in the doorway.

  Cinder sputtered, “But how am I to prepare Naiba if I still have all my work to do?”

  Magian entered the room and gathered the breakfast tray. “You managed to traipse all over the city looking for a job and sew a dozen dresses. Compared to that, this shouldn’t be too hard. Now, move to it. Or I’ll be forced to tell my mother.” She turned on her heel and left.

  “Seven,” Cinder muttered under her breath. “It was seven dresses.” She balanced five trays, two on each arm and one on her head. “You might as well see the mansion,” she told Naiba. “Bring a tray with you.”

  The girl stuck to Cinder’s side as she hurried outdoors. The other children followed, carrying their own trays. Fifteen steps through a long colonnade that led to the main building. Thirty-eight thick stone columns decorated in beautiful tile mosaics made up the interior. Between columns was a pivot door that could be opened to let in the heat, or closed to keep it out. This time of year, the doors stood open to catch the morning breeze off the river that carved a fat brown path through the verdant valley. It wouldn’t be long before the monsoons came, flooding the river into a lake that would feed the rich fields. The building itself featured glittering marble floors, and ceilings resplendent with mosaics of circles within circles.

  The group broke apart, two girls each starting for one of four wings housing twelve companions each. Cinder headed to the clanswomen section. Here, the walls were made of what looked like stones rounded from the relentless rushing of a clean river, but were really just plaster. Murals featured high mountains capped in white and green forests and fields. A poor substitute for the real thing, Cinder’s grandmother always said.

  Not hearing Naiba’s steps behind her, Cinder carefully turned back to see the girl moving in a slow circle, her mouth hanging open.<
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  “Keep up,” Cinder said. With a start, the girl ran after her, porcelain ratting dangerously. “Be care—” Cinder began even as she backpedaled. But it was too late. The girl slipped on the smooth marble. Cinder watched as one teapot, one cup, one saucer, one bowl of khash, and one plate of flatbread came crashing down. Five things, shattered into dozens.

  “Stupid girl! Do you know how much that will cost me?” In her head, Cinder calculated the amount Zura would deduct from her pay.

  Naiba winced as if Cinder had slapped her. “I’m sorry.”

  How was Cinder ever going to make this child into a performer so awe-inspiring that men would pay handsomely for her presence at their meetings? Cinder closed her eyes, counting doubles: 132, 264, 528. Calmer now, she let out a long sigh. “I’m so far in debt at this point, what’s three more attalics. Gather everything onto the tray. Hurry back to the kitchen, fetch another tray and bring it to me. Then you’ll have to hurry back and clean this up. The men will start to filter down any moment, and we can’t allow them to see such a mess.”

  She hurried away without waiting to see if Naiba would obey. Cinder already risked another caning for being so behind schedule. She bypassed the great room with its center platform, banquet tables, and low tables surrounded with purple-and-gold velvet. At this time of day, the bedrooms, located on the building’s periphery, were closed tight, since most of the occupants still slept.

  Cinder went from one room’s antechamber to another. She settled the plates on the small table, rang a bell to wake the companions and their patrons in adjacent bedrooms, and left to go to the next room. Cinder always saved her mother’s for last—luckily Naiba had finally caught up with a tray when she reached it. As usual, Ash waited at her small table.

  Cinder quickly introduced Naiba to her mother and then sent the younger girl back to clean up her mess. After shutting the door behind her, Cinder settled the tray down and kissed her mother’s smooth cheek. Her golden hair and silver eyes still made her a favorite among the older patrons.