His thoughts flew back to his youth in Varsipis and his desire for the young maiden Harenini. Did I love her then, he wondered? Or has time added colours to the otherwise grey days of youth?
The ship lifted on the swell as the vessel approached the harbour mouth and the surging tides beyond. Kabuchek glanced down at the girl; Collan had sold her cheaply. Five thousand pieces of silver for a talent such as hers? Ludicrous. He had been prepared for a charlatan, or a clever trickster. But she had taken his hand, looked into his eyes and said a single word: ‘Harenini’. Kabuchek had kept the shock from his face. He had not heard her name in twenty-five years, and certainly there was no way that the pirate Collan could have known of his juvenile infatuation. Though already convinced of her talents, Kabuchek asked many questions until finally he turned to Collan. ‘It appears she has a modicum of talent,’ he said. ‘What price are you asking?’
‘Five thousand.’
Kabuchek swung to his servant, the eunuch Pudri. ‘Pay him,’ he said, concealing the smile of triumph and contenting himself with the tormented look which appeared on Collan’s face. ‘I will take her to the ship myself.’
Now, judging by how close the axeman had come, he congratulated himself upon his shrewdness. He heard Pudri’s gentle voice speaking to the girl.
‘I pray your husband is not dead,’ said Pudri. Kabuchek glanced back at the dock and saw two Drenai warriors were kneeling beside the still figure of the axeman.
‘He will live,’ said Rowena, tears filling her eyes. ‘And he will follow me.’
If he does, thought Kabuchek, I will have him slain.
‘He has a great love for you, Pahtai,’ said Pudri soothingly. ‘So it should be between husband and wife. It rarely happens that way, however. I myself have had three wives – and none of them loved me. But then a eunuch is not the ideal mate.’
The girl watched the tiny figures on the dock until the ship had slipped out of the harbour and the lights of Mashrapur became distant twinkling candles. She sighed and sank down on the rail seat, her head bowed, tears spilling from her eyes.
Pudri sat beside her, his slender arm on her shoulders. ‘Yes,’ he whispered, ‘tears are good. Very good.’ Patting her back as if she were a small child, he sat beside her and whispered meaningless platitudes.
Kabuchek climbed down the deck steps and approached them. ‘Bring her to my cabin,’ he ordered Pudri.
Rowena glanced up at the harsh face of her new master. His nose was long and hooked, like the beak of an eagle, and his skin was darker than any she had seen, almost black. His eyes, however, were a bright blue beneath thick brows. Beside her Pudri stood, helping her to her feet, and together they followed the Ventrian merchant down the steps to the aft cabin. Lanterns were lit here, hanging on bronze hooks from low oak beams.
Kabuchek sat down behind a desk of polished mahogany. ‘Cast the runes for the voyage,’ he ordered Rowena.
‘I do not cast runes,’ she said. ‘I would not know how.’
He waved his hand dismissively. ‘Do whatever it is you do, woman. The sea is a treacherous mistress and I need to know how the voyage will be.’
Rowena sat opposite him. ‘Give me your hand,’ she said. Leaning forward, he struck her face with his open palm. It was not a heavy blow, but it stung the skin.
‘You will address me always as master,’ he said, without any display of anger. His bright blue eyes scrutinised her face for any sign of anger or defiance, but found himself gazing into calm hazel eyes which appeared to be appraising him. Curiously he felt like apologising for the blow, which was a ridiculous thought. It was not intended to hurt, being merely a swift method of establishing authority-ownership. He cleared his throat. ‘I expect you to learn swiftly the ways of Ventrian households. You will be well cared for and well fed; your quarters will be comfortable and warm in winter, cool in summer. But you are a slave: understand that. I own you. You are property. Do you understand this?’