Sarah: Women of Genesis: 1 (Women of Genesis (Forge)) by Orson Scott Card

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    “Is my accent so bad you can’t understand me?”
     
    “I can understand you,” said Hagar—in heavily accented Egyptian.
     
    “So you’re not a native of Egypt,” said Sarai. “What language do you speak, then, from birth?” She tried Amorite first, and the girl seemed pleased enough.
     
    “If Mistress wishes to speak the tongue of the desert thieves, it’s all one to me,” said Hagar. Her tone was sweet, but the barb was obvious. Had the girl sized her up and decided Sarai wasn’t dangerous?
     
    In Hebrew, Sarai said, “Is this a good room or an ordinary one?”
     
    The girl paused a moment before she got what was said. “That is for Mistress to judge.”
     
    One more language to try. In the Arabic of spice traders from the south, Sarai said, “Is this your tongue?”
     
    Hagar’s eyes widened, and suddenly a torrent of words poured forth. Sarai was not fluent in Arabic, and though it was close to Hebrew and Amorite, there were enough differences that she only caught a few phrases—enough to know that Hagar was asking her if she had come only recently from Arabia and did she know anything of Hagar’s father. A boatmaker? A sailor?
     
    “You must talk Arabic more slowly for me,” said Sarai in a mix of Egyptian and Arabic. “I have never visited your homeland. I only know the few words I learned from spice merchants.”
     
    “The desert Bedu is no merchant, only a trader,” Hagar said scornfully. “My father is a real merchant, with three fine ships.” She looked away as if to hide emotion. “If they were not all seized when I was captured. That is the only reason I can think of that my family has not ransomed me. The pirates ruined their fortune, and with nothing to pay ransom, the pirates could only profit from me by selling me into slavery here in Egypt.”
     
    “How long have you been in bondage?”
     
    Hagar looked at her oddly for a moment, then replied. “Six years.”
     
    “Then you were a mere child when they took you!”
     
    “I was a child until that day, but on that day I became old. I have lived since then with one foot in the grave.”
     
    “Why? Is your health bad?”
     
    Hagar looked at her in amazement. “I was once the daughter of a rich house, and you ask why I feel myself to be dead?”
     
    “Rich or poor, orphan or daughter, you are still a daughter of God, still yourself.”
     
    Hagar laughed derisively. “Which God? A weak one, if he protects me no better than this.”
     
    “Ah. So you are the one mortal soul who should suffer nothing and lose nothing, while all the rest of us struggle on.”
     
    “What have you lost, king’s daughter?”
     
    “I am also a captive here,” said Sarai.
     
    “Then where are the scars of your beatings? Why are your cheeks plump while those of the other captives are gaunt?”
     
    “It pleases them to pretend that I am their guest. But I may not go when I wish, and my brother may or may not be killed by Pharaoh’s men. He may already be dead.”
     
    “I’ve already lost brothers, sisters, parents, myself,” said Hagar. “I hope you don’t mind if I fail to cry for you.”
     
    “I never asked you to cry for me. I merely tell you why I will not cry for you. ”
     
    “Good. I don’t want your tears.” Hagar looked away, angry.
     
    “Do you speak to all of Pharaoh’s guests this way?”
     
    “None but you ever tried to pry into my life, or to judge me.”
     
    “I meant only to encourage you,” said Sarai. “For God does look over you, and if you live by his will, he will turn all things to good.”
     
    “If you really believed that, you wouldn’t be afraid for your brother.”
     
    Her words stung Sarai. “God is perfect, even if my faith is not.”
     
    “You speak as if you expected me to believe in your God.”
     
    “I expect nothing,” said Sarai. “But since the God of Abram is the only god that actually exists, you might as well believe in him, for it is he and he