The Banished of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood, #1)(88)

Quickly, she descended the scaffolding. A small crowd of workers had gathered to the base. They wore scruffy clothes pale with stone dust. Many held hammers and chisels.

“Doch nasten iffen. Tuzza breeg. Stounzen,” said the man who had shouted at her as she reached the bottom. She did not understand Hautlander, but his scolding tone transcended language. She shoved past him and started walking in the direction of a bridge she had seen that would take her to the river.

“Bick nuffen!” the man sneered at her. “Ick nuffen dorr!”

Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment, but the feeling subsided after she had left the onlookers behind. A tower bell sounded, and suddenly it seemed as if the entire city had been summoned to the streets en masse. Doors opened and Maia watched as men and women dressed in gray skirts and white aprons emerged from homes and shops. The wardrobe was fairly uniform and she noticed the women wore padded round circlets and veils and wimples.

Maia soon realized that people were staring at her with as much interest as she was looking at them. She was not veiled, nor was anyone else wearing such a long cloak. The color of her gown was conspicuous when compared to the monotones the other women wore. All of the looks made her nervous, though it was nothing compared to the shame she had endured at Lady Deorwynn’s hands. It made her realize that she was being perceived as an outsider, someone who did not belong in Rostick. People pointed at her, making comments in their throaty language.

Her cheeks were burning once again, but though the streets were teeming with life, this was not a crowd she could vanish into. She pressed on, fighting down the terrible feeling of being mocked and jeered at. Some of the women scolded her roughly as she passed. She did not know why, but Maia could tell that this was how the people of Rostick treated a woman who refused to conform.

She found the bridge she sought and crossed it. She was surprised to see the water was not fetid or reeking of dead fish, given the cramped conditions of the city. The water was as immaculately clean as the cobblestone streets . . . but how was it all kept that way? After crossing the bridge, she began searching the ships for any markings of Dahomey or Comoros. She needed to find someone who could guide her.

“Bick nuffen,” someone said at her sleeve, tugging her. She whirled and saw four young men dressed in wharf garb with dark scarves around their necks. “Bick nuffen trollen?”

Most of them laughed. One of them began fishing in his purse for coins. “Septem? Goch, drillow!” One of the other young men butted his comrade in the belly with his elbow and leered at her.

Maia understood. They thought she was a girl who sold herself for money.

“No,” Maia said firmly, her eyes blazing with anger and loathing. Her mouth firmed into a frown and she shook her head and stormed away.

“Doch! Bick nuffen, doch!”

She heard them following her, so she marched faster, her eyes scanning the wharf for a sign. There were only men around her, and she realized, belatedly, that she was violating another tradition in Hautland.

The men continued to follow her. She glanced back once and discovered the group had grown from four to six. Onlookers continued to gaze at her with open contempt and murmur to one another. There were different expectations of women in this kingdom and she was clearly violating them on every level. She hugged herself as she walked, trying to ignore her pursuers in the hopes they would relent.

So many ships. Most were facing upriver and moored to the wharf, but some of them were being turned about by long poles and ropes, their bulks facing outward as they prepared to set sail. The amount of traffic and congestion was baffling, but there was a certain order and rhythm to it. Commands were barked and then promptly obeyed. Men worked in unison, in small crews. Again, there were no women anywhere.

“Bick nuffen!” Someone grabbed her arm from behind. She spun around and raised her hand, but the man caught her wrist and squeezed hard. It hurt, but she ignored the pain. A group of men had gathered around her and she could feel them crowding her away from the wharf and toward the wall. It was like an unstoppable tide. There were so many bodies pressing around her that when a hand reached down to squeeze her rump she did not know whose it was.

The man holding her wrist leered at her. “Cozzen, bick nuffen. Cozzen sprout.”

She spit in his face.

That shocked them. He released her in surprise to wipe the spittle from his cheek, and a look of murder filled his eyes. “Cozzen freegin!” he shouted at her and backhanded her sharply across the face. Her head rocked back, but she had been struck before and harder. She did not lose her balance or cry out in pain. Instead, she stared at him defiantly.

Again, she surprised them with her brazen resistance. Several more backed away nervously, leaving an open space around her.

“No,” she said, dreading what was to come. The kystrel’s power began to rise inside her. The dark part of her burned to life with the anger she felt. She could quench their lust and their anger and leave them lying in the gutter. She should not. She knew she should not.

“Ick dirk?” the man said contemptuously, gazing down at her blade. Then he drew a sword from his belt.

Someone fell down next to the man who threatened Maia. A bloom of blood stained the fallen man’s shoulder and he howled with pain. Then there was another cry of pain. The wall of men surrounding Maia parted, backing out of the way of a man wielding a bloodied sword.

“Mein bick nuffen,” the man said with a deadly voice. A voice she recognized. A voice that cut through the conflicting noise in her head.