I wince.
Kalliarkos’s handsome face turns to a blank mask, utterly still, so you can’t tell what he’s thinking. But by the bleak splinter of doubt in his eyes I see that his uncle has poked him with this knife before, calling his skill into question in front of others.
“Maybe Rings isn’t your strong point,” I mutter in a low voice, “but you can learn some tricks to help you see how the timing falls into place.”
“Kalliarkos, do not speak to the servants. Ottonor, why is that girl standing idly by? If you must employ Commoners to serve in your household, please be sure they wear a mask.”
Lord Ottonor’s flushed face betrays his embarrassment as he glances toward my mother. The moment he looks toward her, the women seated around her move away.
“She is the daughter of Captain Esladas.” Lord Ottonor’s tone is stretched so tight that it grates.
Lord Gargaron’s thin face sneers in condescension. “I have heard of your excellent tactical breakthrough at the battle of Maldine, Captain Esladas. I would think a man of your talents would have arranged a beneficial marriage with a woman of proper Saroese ancestry years ago. With adequate sponsorship and a suitable wife, you might go farther than a second-rate captaincy.”
The group under Lord Ottonor’s awning goes deadly quiet. The flush on Ottonor’s face drains to a pallor. He looks a little sick. He presses a handkerchief to his brow but makes no reply. What emotion smolders in the press of my father’s gaze I dare not guess, but Father does not move nor speak.
Gargaron eyes my mother with a pinch of hostility, then looks straight at me. “Regardless, I am surprised you parade the girl before her betters in this unseemly way. Surely you are not hanging her out in the hope of attracting a buyer.”
“Forgive me, Lord Gargaron,” says Father in a soft voice. “I brought my daughters with me today in the hope of giving them some polish. That they are allowed to mingle in company with their betters cannot but improve their characters.”
Kalliarkos stands with the fingers of one hand pressed to his forehead, gaze fixed on his sandaled feet. Most of the other men have the courtesy to look away but Denya’s father is smiling as if my father’s public humiliation is a long-hoped-for prize. To my surprise, Denya does not step away from Amaya but remains stubbornly at her side, holding her hand, even when her father gestures for her to come over to him.
Amaya looks at me. Tears sparkle unshed at the corners of her eyes. By the fixed intensity of her gaze I can tell she is furious. I stare at her, wordlessly promising that we will endure this. Words cannot humiliate us unless we let them. We have seen our mother accept much worse and smile graciously.
“Daughters?” Lord Gargaron professes innocence as he glances at Amaya. “Have you more than one? An expense that surprises me, given your humble origins. I believe you are a baker’s son, are you not? Come to Efea to make your fortune?”
“I have four daughters,” Father replies. “Amaya is my youngest, Jessamy a year older.”
“Where are the other two?” asks Lord Gargaron.
Father glances toward the tent as if he fears by some malicious mischief we have hidden Maraya inside with her shameful crippled foot. “They are not here, my lord.”
“Have you eight sons to match your four daughters, as the oracles tell us, ‘Let your sons be double in number so your wars will flourish’?”
“I have hope of sons, my lord,” says Father.
Every person under the awning, even the masked servants, looks at my mother’s pregnant belly.
“Merely a hope of sons! Meanwhile you suffer four living daughters to be ensconced in your household! You have gone native indeed, Captain Esladas. Everyone knows the Commoners spend themselves into penury for the vanity of their daughters. No wonder you are stuck at a captain’s rank despite your famous exploits. You will rise no farther if your feet are stuck in the mud.”
Kalliarkos actually gasps. He glances at me although surely he understands I cannot react.
Father takes in a long and slow breath, and he lets it out in a long and slow exhalation. Mother calmly chain-stitches white petals to fill out an embroidered rose. She does not look up nor does her hand falter. One might be forgiven for thinking her simpleminded, or deaf.
“Friend Gargaron, shall we not watch the trial?” says Ottonor feebly. “They are about to begin a new trial.”
“So they are,” says Lord Gargaron, settling back to observe. “Let the girl bring me something to eat.” Father beckons to me at the same time as Lord Gargaron adds, “The other girl, the pretty one.”
