She was halfway through the second when Bruka opened her eyes again and said, ‘What are you doing?’
‘Cutting you free.’
‘Did he send you? Is the sun down?’
Pryn shook her head and kept sawing.
‘You’re freeing me…!’ Bruka struggled to sit up.
Pryn grunted; the rope was jerked from her hand. She pulled it back and kept sawing.
‘The indignity…!’ Bruka whispered. ‘They wouldn’t do it out front, where people could see. No. They hid me away here in the back — pretending it wasn’t happening! Why do it, then? But they know, now: people won’t tolerate it — not the free ones! Then why do it, I said. Who’s it to be an example to, I asked. Not an old woman like me, an old slave…there won’t be any more slaves, soon. They won’t put up with it…You’re freeing me? You’re mad!’ The old woman narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re mad, you know. You know what they’ll do to you — a lot worse than this! It’s a crime what you’re doing — ’
Pryn stopped sawing. ‘Do you want me to leave you here?’
With her fingers on the bench edge, Bruka dragged herself up. ‘No…!’
Pryn grasped the rope and sawed at it some more.
‘But you’re mad — !’
‘Me and Queen Olin,’ Pryn said. ‘Since I got you into this mess with that useless astrolabe — it’s gone now, by the way, so don’t worry — this seems the least I can do.’ On least the rope parted. ‘Let me see your arms.’
Bruka thrust them forward.
Pryn pulled at the rope, but it was knotted at both ends of the lashing. Bruka’s fingers and hands were puffy.
‘Here…’ Pryn moved around beside her, so that she could get the bound arms under one of hers to steady them. ‘Hold still, or I might cut you…’ It was hard sawing; and Pryn still didn’t feel all that well. In the middle of picking and cutting at the knot, her forehead broke out in beaded water, and her sawing arm began to slip against her side. ‘What are you going to do when you get free?’ She cut more.
‘Oh, they think I don’t know, because I’m an old woman. But I do! There are ways for a slave to get north to Kolhari and not once step on the main road. There’re the little trails and paths the smugglers use. There’re the little roads. I know…’
‘You’re going to Kolhari?’ Pryn glanced back at her. ‘Me too. Perhaps I’ll see you there.’ She went back to her cutting.
‘They don’t have slaves in Kolhari,’ Bruka said. ‘Only free men and women.’
‘Mmm,’ Pryn said. She pushed away the image of an old woman alone in those crowded streets.
‘There’s a Court of Eagles,’ Bruka said. ‘Where everything is decided fairly. With real eagles, too. I talked to a man who went to Kolhari once, and he said he saw no eagles. But I said there must a real eagle there, someplace. Don’t you think?’
‘Oh, there is,’ Pryn said. ‘It’s huge. Its wingspan would block the sunlight away from this whole brewery. Its feathers are gold and iron. Its beak and claws are clotted with gems. And it guards the city and keeps its markets and businesses running quite smoothly, thank you. But they keep it hidden. You’ll be in Kolhari quite a while before you ever get a look at its glittering face. They’re vicious birds, you know — eagles. Mountain birds; and I come from the mountains. Dirty, too. Really, they’re just a kind of vulture — ’
‘You’re mad,’ Bruka said.
The rope came free. ‘There…’
Pryn put the knife up on the stone and unwrapped Bruka’s bound arms. The grain of the vine had printed itself on the yellow flesh — and of course there was another place, Pryn saw as she unwrapped more lashing, where the rope was again knotted about her forearm. But that only took a half-minute to untie.
‘It happened to my father, too,’ Bruka said. ‘The same way. I wish I’d known him, at least long enough for him to tell me — but it wouldn’t have done any good. They always said I was a headstrong girl.’ The last of the rope came away, and Bruka suddenly grinned. ‘Like you, eh?’
Pryn waited for the old woman to flex her swollen hands. But she only stretched her arms out; sitting up tall, she looked over the bench tops.
Pryn looked too.
There was still no one.
‘You’re sure you can get north to Kolhari…?’ Pryn asked.
The swollen hands on the marked and raddled forearms came back to Bruka’s neck. The old slave grimaced, slipping two fingers of each hand under the iron collar at each side. She pulled.
The lock separated, and the collar came open on its hinge. Pryn had an impression of incredible strength, a strength that, if it could tear open such a collar, could easily have broken the ropes!
Bruka looked at her, then frowned at what was certainly an odd expression on Pryn’s face. ‘But I never wear it locked,’ she explained. ‘In the day it’s all right, I guess. But at night it chokes me…someone got a key here, years ago. Old Rorkar never knew. But I think the lock’s broken by now, anyway. The hinge is tight, so it holds…’ She took the collar from her neck and put it on the bench. Once more she frowned at Pryn. ‘I’m not too old, you know. I’ve always wanted to go. I can. I know how. I’ve always known. Thank you for freeing me.’ Bruka reached forward, touched Pryn’s knee. ‘Thank you, my Lady…’Then she scrambled awkwardly to her wide feet, pulled her dress up over her dark-aureoled breasts, stuck her yellow arms through the ragged holes, turned and hurried toward the trees. Bent nearly double, she was among them; was within them; was gone.
Pryn stood.
She wiped her forehead with her fingers and shook them. Drops darkened the stone. She picked up the knife, lifted the blousing, stuck it in her sash, and let green cloth fall.
She picked up the collar, holding an iron semi-circle in each fist. The metal loop to attach the neck-chain separated the second and third fingers of her right hand. She brought its double tenon into the groove: a click.
She pulled.
Another click — it came open again, though the hinge was indeed firm enough to hold it at whatever position, opened or closed.
Pryn raised it to her neck.
The iron was a neutral temperature against her skin. Holding it with both fists, though, she couldn’t close it all the way; so she took it off again and stuck it around her sash, closed there, pulling enough cloth through to cover it.
Pryn walked back among the benches toward the building corner. She felt as though she’d been here an hour — though, really, it was probably no more than ten minutes. When she came around the hall, they were only just starting the wagon. Horses clomped forward. Then, at the wagon’s edge, Juni hollered at the driver to stop, stop, please, stop, just once more, and everybody groaned or laughed as though this had happened two or three times already.
‘Come on, come on!’ Juni waved at Pryn.
Because the wagon was going north on the road, Pryn went over to it. Juni and someone else helped her climb up over the side. (One of the things they’d apparently had to stop for already was for Juni to take off her apron and bring it back into the hall. She wasn’t wearing it now.) ‘All right, all right!’ Juni called to the driver when Pryn was still half over the rail. ‘We can go!’
The wagon started.
Everyone cheered.
As Pryn settled on the straw, Juni leaned close to her. ‘I hope you’re satisfied! I told you not to go back there — oh, don’t look so sullen and suspicious!’ She slapped Pryn’s knee playfully. ‘Try to remember that it’s a holiday. I want to hear all about what it’s like to dine at his Lordship’s. What did you eat? Was it marvelous…? I know it was, because I’ve heard rumors among the slaves — ’