The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 1: Slaves: Section III: Qwella

Qwella: Qemassen: The Palace Complex

Shut up, shut up, shut up! Qwella marched into the smaller of her home's two reception rooms, ahead of her sister Himalit.

Couldn't Hima be quiet for once?

"—and then, when he'd cleaned himself off and sent the slaves to mop up the oil, he had the audacity to ask me for a recommendation. After all that, after he spilled his stinking fucking fish guts all over my deck. It's incompetent is what it is. It's madness."

"It's terrible," Qwella agreed, even though she wasn't sure she did. "But I—"

"—and I could have lifted that amphora, if I'd wanted. I don't understand these Anata. They're scrawny, and useless, and they come here, to my fleet, bleating for favours when they've insulted me to my face, ignoring my station, making eyes at me with their fucking rat-faces and—"

Qwella hauled off the wool palla wrapped over shoulder and tossed it as hard as she could at the nearest table, where a perfume bottle toppled to the floor. A scattering of other objects followed—all the fine little presents her husband Sabé had procured for her: that odd, hard, Inda pillow; the votive of Adonen from Qelat; an ivory comb from Ajwata; a hundred tiny trinkets from Lorar and beyond. Qwella's Anata slave-girl, Iqara, hurried in her mistress's wake, collecting every one of them.

Qwella wished they wouldn't do that. Sometimes she wanted to be angry and wallow in it. Sometimes she wanted to make a mess. Slaves should clean at your convenience, shouldn't they?

She held her tongue all the same. She couldn't command Iqara to leave. Qwella had never been able to command anyone. Instead, she slouched into her favourite chair, and dug her fingers into the rim of the cedar table beside her.

Hima still yammered on, but Qwella wasn't listening. What did Qwella do with herself now? Life had changed drastically in a short time. Did she miss Sabé? She'd cried enough for him. To have cried so much must mean she'd loved him.

"Fetch some wine. The best." Hima's voice was a dagger piercing Qwella's thoughts.

She looked up. Hima was in front of her now, wiry and tall, arms crossed. She could be standing on the deck of one of her beloved boats, instead of in Qwella's chambers comforting her grieving sister. At least she'd stopped talking about her ships, now that wine had occurred to her. Qwella had just burned and buried her husband, but all Hima thought of was herself.

When Qwella didn't hear Iqara skittering away to retrieve the wine, she turned her attention to the slave.

The poor girl was darting nervous glances between the two sisters. "But Sese, those are Sabeq eq-Sabaal's wines. He doesn't like it when—"

Hima glowered at her. "Sabeq eq-Sabaal is dead, little girl. Fetch us some wine. The best."

Yes, dead. Sabeq eq-Sabaal was dead. "It's all right Iqara, do as she says. I'm master of this house now, at least for tonight." So why did Qwella keep thinking Sabé was about to walk into the room and scold her? She clasped her hands in her lap, turning one of her rings with her thumb.

Iqara left quickly, no doubt eager to escape Hima's scorn. Qwella smiled to herself.

As though sensing the meaning of the expression, Hima narrowed her eyes. "You're too kind to them. They don't know their place."

"She's just a child, Hima."

"She's a slave."

Qwella nodded—arguing with Hima was never worth the effort. And she did have a point. Hima's slaves were always so well-behaved. Sabé had reprimanded Qwella for mothering his slaves just a few days ago. She could still see his face—red as he'd yelled, fists trembling.