But there was no indication that any of these women were her mysterious enemy, or even if indeed such an enemy existed.
Both she and Faro were as tired at the end of the entertainment as if they had been putting in a day of heavy manual labor. Conjuration took a great deal out of a woman in terms of concentration, if nothing else. And Faro had been lifting huge weights until his bare torso, minimally decorated with "gold" chains, ran with sweat.
Her attention was not always on the conversation; when it drifted away from her, she found herself coming back to the mysterious enemy, and the threat she posed. At least the house was secured against intruders; it would take an entire crew of workers with a winch and levers to remove the conjured stone blocking the front gate, and another crew with metal-saws to cut through the conjured mesh she had created between the top of the outer walls and the house itself. The good thing about protecting her property with conjurations was that she could, quite literally, create something that had no entrance. Where there was no way to get in naturally, an intruder would have to create one at a huge cost in terms of time and effort.
Faro continued to amuse the women reclining on their couches around him with his audacious replies to their questions for more than an hour after their performance was over and the hostess had paid Xylina. But as the night lengthened and the party showed no signs of breaking up, she gave Faro the signal that they should take their leave, and whispered as much to the hostess.
"I'm certain you have things to discuss that you would rather outsiders did not hear, great ladies," Xylina said into a momentary lull in the conversation. "I am, after all, only a very young woman, and by no means could I have anything to contribute to your wise counsels. So with your permission, we will take our leave."
A few of the Mazonites looked as if they would rather have enjoyed Faro's rather caustic wit for a while longer, but as Xylina had expected, they did not object. No "party" was ever held strictly for entertainment; she recalled that quite clearly from her childhood. At some point in the evening, the slaves would be sent away and the women would get down to some serious discussions of politics and business. Often, they were one and the same, and when that was the case, the discussions continued until dawn.
So when she and Faro ventured out into the lamp-lit street outside Klyta Stylina's villa, she was not surprised to look up and see from the stars that it was well past midnight. She pulled her conjured "cloak" a little closer around her shoulders; the air was chill and rather damp, and she shivered as she covered a yawn. She hated to think about getting up at dawn to go down to the market to get the promised seedlings, and to post Faros services for hire, but one good fee did not make up for possible lost revenue. In fact, she would need every copper-bit of the added gratuity to help ease the financial burden those new seedlings were going to place on their resources.
Strange: here she was worrying about seedlings, gardens-but a short time ago she was ready to die. Sometimes the changes in her life made her feel as if she were astride a runaway horse, being carried on to some unknown destination, whatever her wishes in the matter might be.
There was no one in the street at this hour to see them, so Faro fell in beside her, rather than taking the proper position of a slave, three paces behind his mistress.
"You were excellent, Faro," Xylina told him, warmly and honestly, as they walked slowly to the cross-street that led most directly to their quarter of the city. "I don't know how you managed to keep your temper when some of them asked you about the arena and our fight."
The street was bordered by the walls surrounding the forecourts and front gardens of the expensive villas of this section of the city. Walls of limestone, of granite, of glazed tile and of semi-polished marble loomed high over their heads on either side of the wide, brick-paved street. Those walls were broken from time to time by massive doors, or iron or brass gates; on either side of these portals were lanterns or torches that would burn all night. The tops of the walls would be set with flint-shards, potsherds, broken glass or revolving spikes to ensure the privacy and security of the wealthy owners.
By day, those portals would stand open, allowing the passerby a brief glimpse of luxury, but at night they were closed firmly against those who haunted the night. Mostly those were simply the poor, who prowled the streets at night looking for usable discards. Xylina had done so herself, in the past, finding just enough to make it worth the shame of possibly being seen. But there were thieves, and vandals; there were also the gangs of slaves commanded by renegade women who would do anything for a price. More than one Mazonite had hired such gangs to work as much damage as possible to an enemy or rival. Xylina had seen one or two of those gangs on her own nocturnal expeditions, and had hidden herself in the shadows with her heart in her mouth, waiting for them to pass. She could have defended herself with conjurations, of course, but the shame of being discovered on the street at that time would have haunted her.
And in between such commissions, they took on other "work"; robbing anyone who happened to cross their path. Usually they only robbed any women they encountered, for the penalties for a man to harm a Mazonite in any way-even if he had been commanded to do so by his mistress-were far too high for any of them to take the risk of identification and reprisal. But male slaves, sent out on late errands, were beaten without mercy, and often killed.
The lanterns and torches made puddles of light between the huge stretches of shadow; shadows that could hide almost anything. From over the walls drifted sounds: laughter and talk from the party behind them, then soft music, then another flurry of women's voices in talk and song, then the melody only fountains and falling water could produce. Occasional scents wafted over the walls as welclass="underline" savory food, incense, the heady perfumes of night-blooming flowers.
The sounds and scents coming over the walls evoked an aura of calm, but the huge blots of shadow evoked the very opposite.
"It was-difficult to remain calm, little mistress," Faro said, long after Xylina had stopped expecting any kind of reply. "One of those women was my former owner."
Xylina noted that he did not say, "former mistress." She did not think that this distinction was an accident. Faro would acknowledge no Mazonite as his mistress except Xylina-that much she was certain of. To call a woman his mistress implied that she had a right to rule him; he would no longer give any Mazonite but her that right.
"I didn't know that," she said, after a long, awkward moment. "If I had, I do not think I would have asked you to perform that way."
To her surprise, he chuckled. "Oh, little mistress, believe me when I tell you that it was much better this way. I think I terrified her all over again. She heard my threats, when they took me away to the arena, of the things I would do to her. She expected me to lunge for her and make those threats good every moment that we were there. I suspect she will insist that all her slaves guard her every step on the way home, and will post more guards around her very bed tonight and every night for some time, certain that I will escape you and come for her." He chuckled again. "All things considered, this is a much better revenge than I could ever have hoped for."
She giggled a little. "Was that the scrawny woman in the gold-tissue, with too many earrings?"
"The same," Faro confirmed.
"She did look as if she expected you to leap on her like a tiger." Xylina had to smile. "I suppose she thought my control of you far from adequate. Because she was failing completely to assign any possibility of self-control to you."