Martin Hengst - The Last Swordmage

There was room enough for a small cot, a water jug and basin, and a desk. The desk could only be used by someone seated on the cot, so it served double-duty as a bed and a chair. There were two small shelves above the cot and a small bookcase with two nooks next to the desk. There was an oil lamp on the desk, along with an inkwell, a quill, and a sheaf of blank parchment. At the foot of the cot was a cedar chest with brass hardware. It was clearly the most well-maintained object in the entire room, the rest of it seemingly thrown together without as much as a thought.

Tiadaria traced her fingers across the surface of the desk, etching parallel lines in the dust that had settled there. It was clear that this room hadn't been occupied in quite some time. Still, the soldier had said that she could arrange it to her liking, so she set about trying to determine how to fit all the contents of the room into the space in such a way that it all made sense. It soothed her troubled mind to put things in order. Once the chaos had been tamed, she found that she had settled somewhat. She still did not trust this man or his intentions, but her cubicle was undoubtedly better than sleeping in the wagon or in a cell with one eye open.

Once the furniture was organized to her liking, she sought for and found a rag under the water basin, which she used to brush the dust from all the surfaces. She took the thin sheet and blanket from the bed and carried them outside through the miracle door, which the Captain had left standing open.

Outside, she had an insane moment of wanting to cast the bedclothes aside and run for her freedom as fast and far as her legs would carry her. Looking around, she noticed that the windows of the man's room looked out over the small yard. Perhaps the open door was a test. She dare not try to escape when he could be watching her at this very moment.

Besides, even if she did manage to escape, where would she go and what would she do? She was a collared slave. No business would employ her and no inn, halfway house, or work camp would give her lodging unless she presented the signed and sealed leave of her Master. The collar made a far more effective prison than the fancy door and the tiny gate. It was a prison that followed her wherever she went.

Tiadaria channeled her rage into a violent snapping of the sheets and blankets. The dust drifting off as if it sensed the anger coursing through her. Seeking the solace of more order, she shuffled back to her room. There she made up the tiny cot as neatly as she could.

Looking around, she nodded to herself. Her room was perfectly livable, even homely. If she was going to lull the Captain into a false sense of security, she would need to play the part well. She could start by bringing some order to the collected chaos of the tiny house. She left her room and listened in the hallway for a moment. She heard no sound. No snores, no footsteps, no indication that she was anything other than completely alone in the small cottage.

As much as she wanted to be angry, this was the first time she could remember that she wasn’t fighting with the other children over scraps of food, or being tormented by her brothers. She may be a slave, but being left alone to her own devices had an appeal that could grow on her very quickly.

The chain between her shackles grated loudly on the floor as she waddled down the hall and into the eating area. She was appalled at what she found. The utensils were clouded and dull, having not been given a good scrubbing in quite some time. The pots and deep skillet were crusted over and showed spots of rust here and there. It was obvious that for all the care and upkeep the man lavished on his weapons, none of it carried over into the tools used for making the daily meals.

Tia worked diligently, setting the eating area to order. First she scrubbed the utensils until the cloudiness was replaced by a shine that would rival the most fearsome weapons that were proudly displayed around the room. The heavy iron skillet took much more work, and her arms were aching by the time she had removed the worst of the grime and rust and had set it by the banked hearth fire to blacken. The pots she scrubbed with sand and rinsed with fresh water from the basin, hanging them from a chain rack on the wall.

When she went outside to dump the water, she was surprised to find the sun low in the western sky. Her machinations had taken the better part of the day and she still hadn't seen any sign of the man who had purchased her.

That thought brought back the sudden fury. It flared within her, flashpowder thrown on a bonfire. She was property to be used however her new Master wished it, but was that any worse than what she had been?

Tia bitterly thought of her former home, the long lodge in the snowy wastes where she had grown from a child to a young woman. Clan women were used for cooking, cleaning, and bearing more sons. Clan daughters were raised to understand that they were for cooking, cleaning, and bearing more sons. Nothing more. There was no promise in that sort of life. Slave or not, Tiadaria wanted better. More than that, she wanted revenge. She wanted her father, and Cerrin, to suffer for what they had done.

A rueful laugh passed her lips. At least now she wouldn't be expected to submit to any man who decided to pass her way. The clansmen shared women the way they shared a keg of ale. Tia may be forced to submit to the Captain, at least as long as he kept her shackled, but she wouldn't be expected to be on her back for any man that willed it. There was a certain amount of protection in being property, she supposed, no matter how disgusted the thought made her. She doubted that the Captain was known for his ability to share well with others. That thought was somewhat comforting.

Tia wouldn’t succumb so easily, but in the absence of her freedom, there was at least protection here. Protection, at least, was worth making herself useful. She would cook his meals and clean his tiny cottage and do whatever was demanded of her to the best of her ability.

She would earn his trust and when he finally believed that she had been broken and was actually his to do with as he pleased, that's when she would strike. He would never see it coming. It was a perfect plan, and she could wait. She had all the time in the world to wait for him to get nice and comfortable with her. The more she gave him, the more she'd be able to take away.

Royce had hoped that a good night’s rest would improve the girl’s mood, or at the very least, make her less openly combative. He was much abused of that notion the next morning when she was just as obstinate and aggressive as ever. She skulked around the cottage like a wounded animal, rattling her shackles and intentionally making enough noise to raise the dead. Normally a patient man by nature, Royce had to fight off the notion to grab and squeeze her by the throat until she passed out. At least then, he'd have a couple moments of peace and quiet.

“Enough!” He finally snapped. He had reached and gone beyond his breaking point. If his outburst gave her some small measure of pleasure, then at least maybe it would keep her from acting out for all of ten minutes. He took his keys from a pocket and found the one that would fit the shackles.

“Come here.”

The girl eyed him warily for a moment before she shuffled over to him. She offered him a leg and waited patiently as he knelt to unlock her restraints. Her knee came up in a flash and a slower man would probably have ended up with a broken nose. Shifting quickly to the side, he evaded the brunt of the blow meant to disable and instead took it in the side of the head. It rocked his skull and knocked his teeth together, but he had been hardened by far worse blows.