Rogue Sword by Poul Anderson Page B

and milk,” he barked. “Have you no pepper in you at all?”
    She stared at him. Her accent worsened. “I not understand, pray pardon.”
    “Oh, no matter, no matter,” he sighed. “I suppose you have found confinement to this house wearisome. But didn’t I say you could walk abroad in the city while the host was absent?”
    “Empty.” He saw the shudder go along her flesh. “So many houses empty, my lord. A few people ran away and hid when they saw me coming. In one house, no one had taken away the corpse. Her arm was cut off, I saw. Rats had eaten half of her.”
    “Be still!”
    “And walls. Everywhere walls! No trees, no children, only walls.”
    “Be still, you whimpering bitch!” He sprang from the bed. She went to her knees. The long hair fell past her cheeks, hiding her countenance.
    “There was much evil committed here,” he agreed, unwillingly, his words so blurred in his haste to be done with them that she most likely did not follow. “The Company had just gotten the news their chief was murdered. Their own allies had attacked without warning. A few of their comrades quartered outside the city fled here, telling how all the rest had been slaughtered. They’re fiery men. They avenged themselves on the nearest Greeks to hand. It’s done now. It will not be done again.”
    She huddled where she was.
    He spat an oath, went to the tub himself, sponged his body and dressed. By all foul devils, he thought, she took satisfaction in spoiling his victory for him!
    He walked stiff-legged from the chamber.
    Of course, he thought as he went down the hallway beyond, she had good reason to fear his death. Into whose hands would she pass? He should make some provision--Later, later. Why did these women never leave a man in peace? And why could she not have spoken her fear honestly, instead of pretending it was his life which mattered to her? He was nothing but a master more easy-going than she had expected. Too easy-going, no doubt. What else could he be?
    Why did it make any difference what she felt, a slave?
    He wished he had some work to occupy him, but the main body of the Company was still on the road with their plunder. The leading knights had exercised privilege of rank to ride ahead of the oxcarts, thus gaining an idle day or two in Gallipoli. Their immediate attendants had accompanied them.
    Djansha was right, Lucas admitted, about those graveyard streets. He himself had no wish to enter them. New inhabitants must be recruited, he thought. This could become a great port--crowded, busy, happy, given a wiser government than the Emperor’s. A hundred years hence, Gallipoli would be thankful the Catalans had taken her. Nonetheless, he did not want to leave the house.
    He came out on a portico and went down the steps. The house surrounded three sides of a garden, with an ivy-covered wall to close the fourth. The flowerbeds had been ruined by soldiers going in and out the gate; horses had been stabled in one wing, outside which the grooms squatted, dicing and speaking obscenely. But a row of willows blocked them from view. The weeds that had sprung up were a brave green under heaven. Though dry, the stone fountain in the center was graceful to look at. Lucas paused to soothe himself with the sculpture of the basin, young Perseus unchaining Andromeda.
    “Good morning, Maestre.”
    He wheeled about with a jerkiness that told him how on edge he still was. Na Violante de Lebia Tari smiled at him. He bowed. “Good morning, my lady. Your servant.”
    “Would that were true,” she said. “You would be an admirable servant: quick, clever, and amusing. But--” she cocked her head--”a better master, I think.”
    Bewildered, for this carried their flirtation well beyond the bounds proper to a lady addressing a man, he felt his skin go hot. He looked around. No one else was to be seen. “You are up early,” he said clumsily.
    “Like yourself. The rest are still snoring.” Her fan fluttered along the low