Serilla’s cheeks turned very pink. ‘So! I invite you into my home, out of pity for you, and you take the opportunity to spy on me!’
Ronica sighed. ‘Haven’t you heard a word I said? That information did not come from spying on you.’ Other information had, but there was no point in revealing that now. ‘Nor do I need your pity. I accept my current fortune. I’ve seen my situation change before, and I will see it change again. I don’t need you to change it.’ Ronica gave a small snort of amusement. ‘Life is not a race to restore a past situation. Nor does one have to hurry to meet the future. Seeing how things change are what makes life interesting.’
‘I see,’ Serilla commented disdainfully. ‘Seeing how things change. This is the hardy Bingtown spirit I have heard touted about so much, then? A passive patience to see what life will do to you. How inspiring. Then you have no interest in restoring Bingtown to all it was?’
‘I have no interest in impossible tasks,’ Ronica retorted. ‘If we focus on trying to go back to what Bingtown was, we are doomed to defeat. We must go forwards, create a new Bingtown. It will never be the same as it was. The Traders will never again wield as much power as we did. But we can still go on. That is the challenge, Companion. To take what has happened to you and learn from it, instead of being trapped by it. Nothing is quite so destructive as pity, especially self-pity. No event in life is so terrible that one cannot rise above it.’
The look Serilla gave her was so peculiar that Ronica felt a shiver down her spine. For an instant, it was as if a dead woman stared out of her eyes. When she spoke it was in a flat voice. ‘You are not as worldly as you think you are, Trader. If you had ever endured what I have faced, you would know that there are events that are insurmountable. Some experiences change you forever, past any cheery little wish to ignore them.’
Ronica met her gaze squarely. ‘That is only true if you have determined it is true. This terrible event – whatever it was – is over and done. Cling to it and let it shape you and you are doomed to live it forever. You are granting it power over you. Set it aside, and shape your future as you wish it to be, in spite of what happened to you. Then you have seized control of it.’
‘That’s easier said than done,’ Serilla snapped. ‘You cannot imagine how appallingly ignorant you sound, with your girlish optimism. I think I’ve had enough provincial philosophy for one day. Leave.’
‘My “girlish optimism” is the Bingtown spirit you have “heard touted about so much”,’ Ronica snapped back at her. ‘You fail to recognize that a belief in being able to conquer your own past is what made it possible for us to survive here. It is what you need to find in yourself, Companion, if you hope to be one of us. Now. Are you going to look at these entries, or not?’
Ronica could almost see the woman’s hackles rise. She wished she could approach Serilla as a friend and ally, but the Companion seemed to regard any woman as a rival or a spy. So she stood straight and cold while she waited for Serilla’s reaction. She watched her with a bargainer’s eyes and saw Serilla’s glance dart to the opened ledgers on the table, and then back to Ronica. The woman wanted to know what was in them, but she did not wish to appear to be giving in. Ronica gave her a bit more time, but when the Companion was still silent, she decided to risk it all.
‘Very well. I see you are uninterested. I had thought you would wish to see what I had discovered before I took it to the Bingtown Council. But if you will not listen to me, I am sure they will.’ With a resolute stride, she crossed to the ledger on the desk. Closing it, she tucked the heavy volume under her arm. She took her time leaving the room, hoping that Serilla would call her back. She walked slowly down the hall, still hoping, but all she heard was the firm shutting of Davad’s study door. It was no use. With a sigh, Ronica began to climb the stairs to Davad’s bedchamber. She halted at the sound of a knock on the great front door, then moved swiftly to stand near the banister and look down silently at the entry below.
A serving woman opened the door, and began a correct greeting, but the young Trader pushed past her. ‘I bear tidings for the Companion Serilla. Where is she?’ Roed Caern demanded.
‘I will let her know that you are –’ the servant began, but Roed shook his head impatiently.
‘This is urgent. A messenger bird has come from the Rain Wilds. Is she in the study? I know the way.’ Without allowing the servant time to reply, he pushed past her. His boots rang on the flagging and his cloak fluttered behind him as he strode arrogantly down the hall. The serving woman trotted at his heels, her protests unheeded. Ronica watched him go, and wondered if she had the courage to venture down to eavesdrop.
‘How dare you charge in like that!’ Serilla spoke as she rose from poking again at the fire. She let every bit of her anger and frustration at the Trader woman vent. Then, as she met the sparks in Roed Caern’s eyes, she took an inadvertent step back towards the hearth.
‘I beg pardon, Companion. I foolishly assumed that tidings from the Rain Wilds would merit your immediate attention.’ Between thumb and forefinger, he held a small brass cylinder of the type messenger birds carried. As she stared at it, he dared to bow stiffly. ‘I shall, of course, await your convenience.’ He turned back towards the door where the serving woman still gaped and spied.
‘Shut that door!’ Serilla snapped at her. Her heart thundered in her chest. The Satrap’s guardians had taken only five messenger birds from Davad’s cotes the night she had dispatched the Satrap to the Rain Wilds. They would not use them needlessly. This was the first message to come since she had heard the Satrap had arrived there and that the Rain Wild folk had consented to hold him in safekeeping. She had sensed then their ambivalence about her request. Had the Satrap swayed the Rain Wilders to his point of view? Was this to charge her with treason? What was in the cylinder and who else had read it? She tried to compose her face, but the cruel amusement on the tall dark man’s face made her fear the worst.
Best to soothe his ruffled fur, first. He reminded her of a savage watchdog, as like to turn on its master as protect her. She wished she did not have such need of him.
‘You are correct, of course, Trader Caern. Such tidings do need to be delivered immediately. In truth, I have been plagued with household affairs this morning. Servant after servant has disturbed my work. Please. Come in. Warm yourself.’ She even went so far as to accord him a gracious bow of her head, though, of course, her rank was far higher than his.
Roed bowed again, deeply, and she suspected, sarcastically. ‘Certainly, Companion. I understand how annoying that can be, especially when such weighty matters press upon your delicate shoulders.’
It was there, a note in his voice, a selection of a word.
‘The message?’ she prompted him.
He advanced, and bowed yet again as he presented the cylinder to her. The wax it had been dipped in appeared undisturbed. But nothing would have prevented him from reading the missive, and then re-dipping the container. Useless to worry. She flicked the wax away from the cylinder, unscrewed it, and coaxed the tiny roll of parchment into her fingers. With a calmness she did not feel, she seated herself at the desk and leaned close to the lamp as she unrolled the message.
The words were brief, and in their brevity, a torment. There had been a major earthquake. The Satrap and his Companion were lost, perhaps killed in the collapse. She read it again, and yet again, willing there to be more information there. Was there any hope he had survived? What did it mean to her ambitions if the Satrap were dead? On the heels of that, she wondered if this message were a deception, for reasons too intricate to unravel? She stared at the crawling letters.
‘Drink this. You look as if you need it.’
It was brandy in a small glass. She