“You must let me out,” she said, deciding to go for bravado. “I’ve got a ship waiting for me.”
The guard barked a desultory laugh. “Oh, a ship? You a sailor, then? No, no, a captain? Wait, a merchant lord himself! One of the House of Seven.” She guffawed loudly.
Xiala flushed. It did sound ridiculous, but the truth was often ridiculous. “Captain,” Xiala said, trying to sound imperious, “and if I don’t show at port to sail, my lord will be vexed. And you’ll be sorry!”
“I guess I’ll just have to be sorry. Until then…” She tucked Xiala’s shoe under her arm and turned to go.
“Hey!” she shouted. “Give me my sandal!”
“You’ll get your shoe when the tupile comes,” the guard tossed over her shoulder as she walked away. “And keep it down, or I’ll have you beaten!”
Xiala watched her until she’d melted back into the shadows. She shuddered, noticing the chill for the first time. She hunched forward, seeking a little warmth. But there was no warmth here. She finally gave up and shuffled back through the maze of sleeping women on the floor, a now-shoeless foot the only thing to show for her troubles. She found an empty spot against a wall and slumped down, arms across her knees and head down, nothing to do but wait.
* * *
She didn’t wait long.
Within the hour, noise and movement outside the cell had her lifting her head to get a better look. A few of the women who had been asleep before were up, and they moved toward the barred door to see what was going on. Whatever they saw had them hurrying back to flop on the floor and feign sleep, no doubt to avoid whatever was coming. Xiala craned her neck, unafraid. The only thing she feared was not getting back to a ship.
A man came into view. He was middle-aged, thick and solid, his hair a black bowl around a heavily jowled face and hard eyes. He wore a sash that marked him as a tupile, the constable of the jail. Xiala’s stomach sank. He did not look like a man of mercy.
And then another man stepped into view. A handsome man, tall and well built, neither too thin like the toothless woman nor thick like the tupile. Elegant strands of silver twisted through his black hair, which he wore long and tied back in a nobleman’s high bun. He was dressed in white, a knee-length loincloth and one-shouldered cape that showed a muscular and well-tended physique. The cloth was rough and lacking in embroidery or adornment, a rejection of current trends. It spoke of modesty and devotion, but the conceit was belied by the collar of jade at his neck and the wealth of jewels in his ears and on his wrists. Even in this rotten jail, he glowed, exuding charm and confidence. And, above all, wealth.
A merchant lord for sure, a son of the noble class most likely, and one of the House of Seven if she had to guess.
Xiala hated his guts on principle.
As if sensing her regard, and likely her disgust, the lord looked up from his quiet conversation with the tupile. His gaze met hers, and he smiled. But it was a serpent’s smile, pleasing enough to one who doesn’t know fangs and venom lurk just out of sight.
“That’s her,” said the merchant lord with a slight nod in her direction.
Part of her wanted to shrink back from his notice, but more of her wanted out, and he looked like freedom. She stood tall, dusting the prison dirt from her clothes as best she could and doing her damnedest to look like she didn’t belong in jail.
The tupile frowned, gaze cutting to Xiala and then back to the man. “The charges are serious, Lord Balam,” he said in a low voice, thick with anxiety. “I cannot look the other way. We are, after all, a society of laws that apply equally to all, noble and common.”
“Of course we are,” Lord Balam replied, “and you are only doing your job. But perhaps I can smooth the way.” He pressed something into the tupile’s hand that Xiala could not see.
The heavier man clenched the object in his palm.
Balam turned the full weight of his dazzling gaze on the tupile. “I understand you are concerned,” he said, taking the man’s hands firmly between his own. “And I will see her punished. But if she is already in service to me, a sentence of slavery is not feasible.”
“Hers are not crimes that result in slavery, Lord,” the tupile sputtered. “These are capital offenses.”
Xiala choked. Mother waters. She wasn’t actually trying to kill Pech when she’d thrown him into the sea. It wasn’t her fault he couldn’t swim.
“Drunkenness,” the tupile continued, “public lewdness, entering the home of another without invitation. An accusation of adultery with a wom—”
Oh. Not Pech. Not Pech at all.
It started to come back to her now. Her memory of arriving at the rowdy cantina was true enough. There was even the remembrance of her first drink. And her second, the sting of anise against her tongue. And there was the woman, flowers in her long hair, her huipil baring her shoulders. They had laughed together and danced and… all seven hells. Now she remembered. They had gone to the woman’s house, and it was all going so well until the husband came home. Xiala vaguely recalled punching the man in the face, which explained her hand, but it was only because he was blocking the door and screaming at her. The rest was a blur. He must have had her arrested. And now here she was. Facing a death sentence.
She should have been scared of the tupile and his laws and his unjust justice, but she was not. She knew how Cuecola worked. A lord had taken interest in her, which meant she was as good as sprung. But sprung for what? A rich man didn’t notice someone like her unless he wanted something.
The two men concluded their transaction, and the guard was told to unlock the cell door and usher Xiala forward.
She started to speak, but Lord Balam, her unasked-for savior, cut his gaze to her. For a moment he stared, his eyes widening. She lifted her chin, a dare. His gaze fell to her feet.
“Where is her other shoe?” he asked.
The female guard shuffled forward and handed it over with a muttered explanation, and Xiala had to work to suppress a wild desire to gloat.
Soon enough, he was leading her out of the courtyard with its collection of prison cells, and she breathed a deep sigh of relief. She was free.
She thought about bolting immediately, but she had no idea where they were. The neighborhood was unfamiliar, if typical of the countryside. The scent of eggs and corn cakes cooking flavored the air, and she was sure she could still smell the citrus fruit vendors’ wares, although she hadn’t spotted one. Her stomach growled. She couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten, and she was ravenously hungry. But she shoved her hunger down. If she wanted to eat, she would have to ask this Balam for the funds to do it with, and she would not. Not until she knew what he wanted.
“Who—?” she started.
“You made me come to Kuharan,” Balam said, interrupting her. He had a pleasant melodic voice and he said the words lightly, as if teasing a friend. “I do not enjoy Kuharan.”
“Who are you? And what in all the hells is a Kuharan?”
He lifted a hand to gesture around him. “This is Kuharan. We’re just outside the city in a small farming community. Do you not remember coming here?” The look he gave her, knowing full well her answer was no, made her flush hot. “Be lucky you did,” he said. “I don’t know that I could have bribed a city official as easily as I did this country one.” His lips quirked up. “She must have been very beautiful.”