The use of such a primitive method of collecting water puzzled me. Surprising, too, were the large spitting beetles lurking around the lip of the well, their wings shining iridescent purple, their spit drying in dirty yellow pools on the brickwork. Why hadn't Tyranian culture prevailed here, as it had in most conquered cities? Why hadn't the administration replaced the well with a public fountain or channelled water to the city along aqueducts? Why hadn't they rooted out the pathetic excuse for a tree, planted parks, eradicated the beetles? How did the Kardis manage to maintain their identity so easily?
I thought I already knew the answer, even as I framed the question. No Kardi ever cooperated on anything – and that made change difficult, especially when there was little labour other than what the Kardis cared to supply.
Even as I hesitated at the edge of the group waiting at the well, I heard the tail end of a conversation confirming my thoughts. A youth was saying,' -¦ and so when he wasn't looking, I dropped the bag of grit into the mill mechanism. Chewed everything up beyond repair in five minutes. You should have heard what he had to say! He was as wild as a whirlwind.' The lad laughed. 'But the barracks has had to buy its flour from old Warblen ever since and I don't think they'll try to mill their own again -'
I noticed the difference in being a Kardi among Kardis immediately. The speaker had not bothered to lower his voice at my approach, none of these people turned from me, there was no hate hanging in the air around them.
'New here?' a voice asked in my ear. I turned to find a girl of eighteen or so, with large brown eyes and a pert, inquisitive manner, smiling at me. She was
wearing an iron slave collar. 'I haven't seen you before,' she added.
I gave what I hoped was a shy smile.
'Put the jug down in the queue first,' she said, indicating my ewer. 'Someone will move it along for you. Come and sit on the wall with me.'
I did as she suggested. I glanced up the street as I settled down on the low wall bordering the steps to a house, to see Brand lounging beside a horse outside a shop, as though he were caring for the animal while waiting for his master.
'I'm Parvana,' the girl said. 'What's your name?'
'Derya.' It was a Kardi name, of course, one I had chosen for myself.
'Where are you from?'
'Sandmurram – once,' I said and added the story I hoped would explain any gaps in my knowledge, 'but my mistress took me to Tyr some years ago. We've only just come back to Kardiastan.' I stopped, afraid of saying something inappropriate.
Luckily Parvana was happy to do most of the talking and before long I'd learned her father was a street sweeper, her mother carded shleth wool for a spinner, while Parvana herself had sold twine for a string-maker. She was newly enslaved, bonded for deliberately untethering a military gorclak which had been tied to the gatepost of her house. Her term was only six months and she was working for one of the military officers and his family. As she told her story, I realised there was one aspect of the Kardi language, at least among people of her class, that Aemid had failed to teach me. Parvana used swearwords with a flair and variety that spoke of much practice; unfortunately I didn't know what most of them meant.
'The (curse) work's not (curse) hard,' she was saying, 'but those (curse) sods think we poor (curse) bints are only (curse) here to be (curse) screwed.' I blinked. It was an impressive string of expletives for one short sentence, and Parvana hadn't repeated herself once.
However, I didn't need to know the meaning of the words to realise she was far from philosophical about her position; the only decent part of her day was when she had to fetch the water; the rest was torment. The officer's wife fondled her whenever she could and Parvana was sure it was only a matter of time before she insisted on more. Then, because they lived in military quarters, it was a constant battle to dodge randy soldiers, many of whom did not have their wives or families with them and ached to relieve their frustrations on any available female. And slaves were considered available.
Sitting there listening to this recital, I had a sense of unreality. The girl was describing a life that seemed more fable than truth; did the Exaltarchy really make slaves of people for so little? What could it possibly be like to be someone's toy, to be fondled at will? Did legionnaires really hunt down slave women to use as they pleased without fear of disciplinary action? This was not Tyranian law. This was not the kind of civilisation the Exaltarchy was supposed to extend to the conquered peoples of its provinces.
I must have let some of my distress show on my face, because Parvana said, with numerous more unidentifiable words in between, 'Ah, don't look so upset, Derya. I've more or less decided how to wriggle my backside out of this one – if I can't escape, that is. I'm going to let the cat think she can bed me eventually.' She grinned. 'Maybe she'll get me a pretty
bronze necklace like yours, instead of this bloody big castration ring. And if I play it right, she'll at least keep the other pricks out of my trousers. What's the matter? You look as if you've got a beetle up your arse -'
I saw my opportunity. I made a show of looking around to make sure no one else was listening. 'I have a problem,' I whispered. 'I don't know what to do.'
As I had intended, my secretive, conspiratorial tone immediately had her interested. 'What is it?'
'Parvana, listen, my owner was sent here from Tyr by the Brotherhood. Have you heard of the Brotherhood?' ',
She shook her head, her eyes already wide with wonder. She wasn't quite as jaded as the rest of her conversation had suggested.
'It's a secret, um, cabal of men – well, mostly men, working directly for the Magister Officii. My owner was sent here by the Exaltarch himself to find a man the Tyranians know only as Mir Ager.'
I had worded the latter sentence carefully and was rewarded by her breathless, 'The Mirager!'
I nodded. 'Yes. Parvana, I've been in Tyr. I don't know what has been happening here. I heard the Mirager was burnt alive in Sandmurram…'
She snorted. 'You don't want to believe what Tyranian sods say! Of course he's still alive.'
I endeavoured to look relieved. Inside, I was perplexed. Could the man really have survived? I said, 'I have something of the Mirager's that must be returned to him. Something left behind at the slave auction in Sandmurram. And I have to warn him of danger from the Brotherhood. I must talk to him, but I don't know how to contact him. What can I do?'
Parvana's air of world-weary disenchantment vanished fast. 'Don't worry – I don't know any of
those cold-arsed Magor bastards, but we all know how to pass a message – one that will get right to the balls at the top if need be. Will you be sent for water tomorrow?'
I both heard and felt her breathless awe and guessed she wasn't as disparaging of the Mirager as her vocabulary suggested. 'Yes,' I said, 'I will.'.' 'Then be here. I shall tell you what to do then.' She jumped down from the wall. 'It's my turn to get the water. I'll see you tomorrow.' She gave a happy smile and went to pick up her ewer, now at the head of the line because an obliging slave had been moving it along in front of his own.