Chapter 6- The Alba Rupes

“It could have ended very badly!”

“But stop complaining… it ended well, didn’t it? And you loved the fight.”

Damas replied to Abba, laughing, a glass of schelentia in one hand, a pipe of herbs in the other. He was nonchalantly facing the giant; next to him, also comfortably seated in a wide rattan armchair, Alterma was smiling broadly. Only Jawaad, listening slumped on a Roman-style seat with his back against the terrace wall, was not taking part in the discussion. He’d talked too much all day. He was enjoying a near-perfect cup of tea, acceptable from his point of view, prepared by Azur herself. Most of the slaves in his household – and there were a good dozen of them – knew how to make it, but they didn’t fight too hard to try it, as Jawaad was so difficult with this point, one of his worst habits. Alterma was jubilant, forgetting the slight bruise on her left cheek.

“It went so fast I didn’t even think!”

Abba was about to unleash a sermon, which would only be the twentieth since the troupe’s return to the Alba Rupes estate, but Damas beat him to it, bursting into laughter:

“Ho yes! I was about to get really nasty with those guards when the slap fell, but… you managed to surprise me. He must still be rubbing his ass and ribs in pain. What a glide! Almost worthy of a Jemmai!”

Alterma blushed, halfway between the effect of the overripe sweet wine she’d been sipping and that of the compliment from a authentic Jemmai warrior. Abba grumbled, also slumped heavily in a taut leather armchair that ached under his weight. His free hand was tenderly stroking the red hair of Joran, his tiny, adorable personal slave, settled like a delighted kitten on a cushion at his feet.

“What annoys me most, » he finally grumbled, « is that I’ve seen and understood nothing. One second I’m talking to Jawaad, and the next I see an Elegiatori sergeant flying around, helmet and weapons in tow. I pulled out my fists, I wasn’t going to stand by and watch either, but I usually like to know who started it and how before I slap someone!”

Alterma pouted sheepishly:

“Actually, that’s me.”

Damas replied:

“Oh no, it’s him!”

Abba sighed:

“So, what’s the story?”

And the story began. Joran opened her eyes wide as she listened to the story that would finally explain why and how her master had come back with a few bruises and damaged phalanges. A detail she wasn’t going to complain about; she’d been quick to seize the opportunity to heal his scratches and pamper the giant. The young woman settled herself against Abba’s knee, letting her mass of fire-colored hair tumble to the ground. Against him, the difference in size between the freckled, fair-skinned slave and the huge, ebony-colored living mountain that was the slaver was remarkably striking.

It was Alterma who began the story, proud and delighted to be able to recount her recent exploit:

“Well, so the sergeant had planted himself in front of us all, staring at both Jawaad and the synthaia flower on the ground. It was obvious that he had every intention of taking advantage of the event to be zealous to the city’s merchants and nobles. I think it was the look on Jawaad’s face that really angered him: it was as if he were staring, with all the contempt in the world, at some fat tosh who happened to be in his way, and I don’t think the sergeant appreciated it. That’s when… I made a little mistake.”

Abba intervened:

“At the time, I was asking Jawaad whether to knock or negotiate, wasn’t I?”

“I think so, yes! And it just so happened that I thought I might try a little diplomacy. Anyway, I walked up to this sergeant, all smiles, and offered to explain everything to him. He was really, really upset and really, really, eager to make himself look good; and usually in these cases, you become a bit of an idiot. It was then, just as I’d started talking, that he slapped me, rather hard.”

Damas pulled a smile from his furrowed brows:

“A mora raised among moras. Makes you wonder where the Elegio recruits. In a pigsty?”

“I didn’t have much time to think about it. I guess I was a bit dizzy from the slap; all I know is that my body knew exactly what to do, whereas I think if I’d been thinking straight, I might not have dared. I grabbed his arm and did again the key that Jawaad had taught me.”

“Ha, right! So that’s how it started, eh?” commented Abba.

“Exactly, » replied Damas. “You know now that you fought for the honor of our dedicated and beautiful accountant.”

“Yes, but because she fought back like a fury!”

Alterma swallowed a sip of wine, then replied, a little confused:

“I admit, I only thought about it afterwards; but he had no reason to slap me!”

Abba finally let loose a smile on her bestial face:

“I admit… he deserved it, but at the time I was a bit annoyed. Jawaad had just said that it would be better to settle this without getting into a fistfight, and lo and behold, this sergeant falls back to my feet like a sack and starts screaming like a tosh at his guards. He sounded like a little girl!”

Damas and Alterma burst out laughing together, followed by Joran, who was also giggling. Jawaad, still silent and sullen, stretched a slight smile. The accountant resumed the story, once she had regained her composure:

“The guards came to the rescue, of course. I stepped back as quickly as I could before taking a nasty blow as the hall was a bit of a rabble, with all the notables hesitating between backing away cautiously and watching the show. I think those who preferred to stand back must have regretted it, because it was incredible!”

Damascus smiled broadly:

“What’s that?”

“Why, you two! Not counting the non-commissioned officer, there were eleven of them, and the two of you sent them back to their barracks with as much ease as if you were bowling! I confess, I was scared to death; I’d never heard you utter a real scream of rage before, Abba.”

The giant had just let go of Joran’s hair to lean over and ask her to get something to nibble on. The young woman pouted; she didn’t want to miss the story. At her master’s insistence, she begged off for a moment:

“All you have to do is hurry!”

And so Abba took her time, sipping her drink, before continuing:

“It was a war cry, not a cry of rage. It frightens and disconcerts the enemy, and it worked quite well. The first two to fall to me ended up one head against the other and I could move on to the next. We were lucky, they had their spears, but they were really reluctant to hurt us.”

“No, » corrected Damas, who in passing had asked Joran to bring back something to feed everyone, « we weren’t lucky; we’re just very good, and they were very bad. They did try to point their spears, but it was no use. The first two went to join their sergeant, who was trying to get up, and the other nine were so astonished that you were already charging at them. That’s when I went around them, taking advantage of their stupor to do them.”

“I must say,” add Abba, “you’ll really have to talk to their training captain about that. Between that idiot sergeant who needs to hit a woman to show his authority and his men who don’t know how to defend themselves, it was a complete disgrace for the Elegio!”

Alterma let out a smile:

“You’re touching me, Abba, I thought you were much rougher.”

“What’s that? Because I yell and say that a woman shouldn’t fight? That’s a fact! But another fact is that only an imbecile without two cents’ worth of courage hits a woman! There’s a big difference between the corrections and punishments I inflict on slaves to train them, and hitting a woman so… stupidly. My slaves are warned; they know what awaits them and there’s a good reason for this treatment – it goes with my job! But by the High Lords, if I slap a woman, she really, really has to be out of line! And even then, I wouldn’t bring her back proudly. He should never have slapped you, that idiot. You shouldn’t have said anything back, either, and I’m not going to argue with that; but since I’d have smash his head for hitting you, in a way it didn’t change the result much.”

Alterma let out a rather proud and pleasant smile. Jawaad, still silent, his gaze on his tea which he was sipping slowly, gave another barely perceptible smile as he looked up at the young woman. He was no more surprised by Abba’s answers than by Alterma’s insistence on defending her point of view.

Jawaad took his time to know everything about the people who worked for him, and wasn’t particularly surprised by their character, which he could claim to know everything about. To tell the truth, no one had ever entered Jawaad’s estate without him having an unshakably solid lever to ensure their loyalty; and yet, many a notable and powerful person had tried to wrest an appointment from the Estate, sometimes almost to the point of laying siege to the door in vain, which had not improved the master trader’s reputation as an arrogant cuistre. He was even more demanding and difficult with those closest to him and his employees. They were his people and had his complete trust, which meant they had to earn it.

Whether it was Alterma, Abba, Damas, the House grooms or the dog handler, and of course the Estate guards, they all owed him a debt; usually a life debt, the kind of thing that can never be repaid in gold or Loss-metal. Pragmatically, Jawaad could claim to have bought their lives. Of course, he wouldn’t say that he owned these people – the absolute condition, in his eyes, for placing his trust in them – but he thought he did, and everyone knew it.

Joran returned, her arms laden with a tray of treats that she had, of course, prepared herself. The young woman was not only a skilled cook, she loved it. She was followed by Janisse, pregnant to the eyeballs, and her husband Darius, the groom, who had come to listen to the rest of the story and enjoy the cool evening air on the terrace after a scorching midsummer’s day. Behind the trio, having left Jawaad’s Slave Garden, followed three smiling young women who helped Joran carry more victuals, drinks and snacks. All that was missing was Shaatir, the dog handler, his eldest daughter and Azur and Airain, the master-merchant’s two personal slaves, for the entire estate to be assembled in front of the garden’s great basin.

It was a joyous, brief mess as everyone settled in, laughter as much as compliments over the food piling up on the low tables; everyone settling in, some on armchairs, some on cushions, to listen to the continuation of Damas, Abba and Alterma’s heroic tale. Joran, who felt a little at the moment at the head of the whole little troupe, was smiling with pride as he served his master, his eyes shining.

It had always amazed everyone that Abba, a merchant guild slaver notorious for the quality of his work and the wild beauty of the girls he traded in, should have as his personal slave a little redhead who barely reached his plexus and who, cute as she was, bore little relation to the magnificent creatures brimming with ravaging femininity he trained and sold. But the reason was simple: Joran loved her owner, with all her soul. She was loyal and attentive to him in a way that was motivated only by this feeling, and he reciprocated in kind. What’s more, there were no two like her to prepare the best food in the world for him.

Joran settled back on his cushion, while everyone dug into the dishes; even Jawaad did justice. Once snuggled up to Abba, the young woman listened to the rest of the story.

“So,” continued Alterma, “I had just brought down the Elegiatori sergeant after his slap; Abba had grabbed the heads of the two nearest guards and smashed them together with a loud crash. As I retreated to avoid being taken to task, I saw Damas appear, I don’t know how, at the rear of the troop and, with a kick and a punch, take down two others, so quickly that nobody had time to understand! The guards were well armed, but they didn’t have the presence of mind or the audacity, I can’t explain it, to use them against us. Abba had just let out a huge war cry and was already charging the rest of the troop, which was caught between the hammer – er, I hope you don’t mind me comparing you to a hammer, Abba? – and the anvil, which was Damascus neutralizing one Elegiatori after another! All around us, the entire crowd in the hall of the Councile of Peers watched in amazement. I confess that I myself could hardly believe what was happening. Those poor guards looked like mechanical toys encased in the clanging metal of their armor that had been shaken too hard!”

Laughter erupted from the small gathering listening to the storyteller and enjoying the food and wine around her. Alterma continued, all smiles:

“The guards tried to regroup…. ho, well, during ten seconds! But it was all in vain. Abba tore the spears from their hands, then threw them against each other like confetti. They inevitably retreated, but Damascus didn’t give them a chance, taking advantage of their confusion to knock them out with one or two blows each time, amid their muffled complaints and cries of pain. I don’t think the fight took more than half a minute; a dozen guards were on the ground, toiling in their armor, whimpering piteously, having just taken the most masterful of beatings. And these two stood proudly, barely out of breath, in the middle of the Elegiatorii heap. Still, there was silence in the hall for a brief moment.”

Abba swallowed a mouthful of garlic bread buttered with herbed marinated fish compote, before intervening amidst the laughter:

“You forgot to mention that we took a hits, too. They were no match for me, but they did try to rush on all four of me, just to see if I’d fall under the weight.”

Damas burst out laughing:

“You bet, you didn’t even hurt. How many chances did they have of immobilizing you, eh?”

“None. They could have, note; but they’d have had to work together or know how to stop a colossus from The Fringes. Apparently, they don’t know that back home, wrestling is practised even before you learn to walk.”

Alterma, who had taken the opportunity to refill his glass of wine under the almost inquisitive gaze of Jawaad, who remained silent, continued:

“On the other hand, wrestling or not, bringing you down is like trying to bring down a mountain. And they didn’t succeed. There was at least ten seconds, if not more, of silence when it was all over. No one dared make a sound, and I realized that even the street performers outside had approached the doors and were crowding around to watch the show. I can safely predict that many songs about the humiliation of twelve armed guards against two men with bare hands are likely to be written in the next few weeks. And it was from these people outside that the first applause came… because, yes, then they started clapping!”

“Not everyone, » corrected Damas. “We can’t really say that the correction we inflicted on the guards really pleased those pinched asses at the Council of Peers.”

“No, I admit, it’s clear that many of the aristocrats and merchants in the hall weren’t laughing too hard. It’s worth mentioning that many of them were really hoping to see Jawaad put in a complicated situation and forced to keep a low profile.”

Jawaad intervened at last, breaking out of his silence:

“And they didn’t get that chance, as they never will…”

Having also remained silent until then, despite her laughter punctuating Alterma’s exciting tale, Janisse stared at the accountant:

“But…. How did it all end?”

A dozen pairs of eyes fixed on Alterma. Everyone who had come to hear the story was eager to know the end. Almost theatrically, she took another sip of schelentia before continuing:

“I confess, at that moment, I was wondering the same thing. As for me, I stayed close to Jawaad. He hadn’t moved an inch. I don’t even know if he flinched! There was this strange atmosphere between the enthusiastic applause, mostly coming from the entrance, and the troubled murmurs of the crowd around us, when one of the Elegio officers came running from the offices in the hall, a little panicked. He and Jawaad chatted away. I remember that the officer stared, very displeased, at the sergeant I had sent to the ground, who, like his men, was trying to get up as best he could. The officer called to him in a sinister voice, and I’m not sure what happened next, but the guard fetched the flower from the ground and returned to his officer with the rest of his men, cautiously, while Jawaad came to join us, as calm as ever; but he was smiling, as if amused. We went out, greeted like folk heroes; I was almost embarrassed.”

Damas turned to Jawaad:

“Yes, that’s right, by the way, what did you tell that captain?”

The master merchant grinned, all heads turning towards him:

“That his sergeant had gratuitously slap a woman working for me and under my protection, and that everything else flowed from it; all for a harmless flower. That’s all he needed. I think his men will have a pretty bad time of it for days to come.”

 

***

The evening had stretched into the night, which Ortentia illuminated with a soft bluish glow. Jawaad and Alterma remained on the terrace; all the others had returned to their quarters as the evening wore on with stories, laughter and anecdotes. If mechanical clocks and watches were not unknown in Armanth, their price made them uncommon. Alterma had one in his office, but Jawaad never seemed, except at sea, to care much about measuring time.

Jawaad was on his third cup of tea, this one prepared by himself. He hadn’t said much since explaining the epilogue to the afternoon’s events. Alterma was preparing to go to her room, when Jawaad hailed her:

“By the end of the rainy season, I’ll be sailing. My new ship should be completed and equipped.”

The young woman turned to her boss:

“A trading trip?”

“Well, not exactly. I’m going to say hello to Duncan in Melisaren.”

“Oh? It’s true you haven’t been back there in over a year. Is he still your doctor, then?”

“Yes, the best there is. I’ll have him examine my symbiote; I’m counting on you.”

Alterma smiled. Jawaad regularly went out to sea, whenever he could seize the opportunity. And when he was away, his affairs were managed by the accountant, who made it a point of honor to carry out her task efficiently.

“As always, Jawaad. I don’t think I’ve disappointed you, have I?”

Jawaad stretched, staring for a moment at the fragrant flower-covered trellis of the pergola overlooking the terrace.

“Yes, you did, about eight hours ago, when you retaliated against that slap.”

“What? But, Jawaad!”

“I was there, with my two seconds-in-command, to defend you; you didn’t have to do it yourself. It wasn’t your place.”

Alterma put on an annoyed face:

“But… earlier, when we were telling the story, you were smiling. Why are you blaming me now?”

The master-merchant turned his head to stare at the young woman, expressionless, detailing her with his dark gaze. He didn’t say a word, and Alterma understood.

“Because everyone was there. So as not to embarrass me in front of the rest of the house. Is that it?”

Jawaad nodded lightly, returning to admire the flowers on the pergola, foraged by moths.

“It’s late now. Go to bed, and don’t ever do that again.”

The accountant stood up, lips pursed, suddenly feeling like a child caught at fault. She was heading for the villa when she stopped, without turning around, and asked, in a pale voice:

“But your smile, Jawaad… You… you were proud that I was able to apply what you taught me?”

Jawaad smiled, intent on his observation. He seemed in no hurry to speak, and Alterma was already walking away, convinced she’d never get an answer. She heard him, however, and he answered simply: “yes”.