“Good morning,” she greeted them with a smile. “I was wondering if you might know where I could find some new straps for Nalyx’s armour?”
The two young women standing with the warriors tittered at Nalyx’s name. “I was wondering where he disappeared off to,” one of them said. “Lucky you.”
“Armoury’s over at the end of the courtyard,” one of the warriors said, more interested in staring at the young woman’s bosom than in paying attention to Gantalla. “The big wooden shed. Tell the guard what you’re looking for.”
“Thank you,” she said with a smile, then set off in that direction.
The guard let her in easily enough, once she’d explained what she wanted. Inside the long building, there were indeed plenty of supplies; leather straps, buckles, new swords, pieces of armour, along with bottles of oil and polish, and a wide selection of cloths and stiff brushes that were used for cleaning the armour.
And sure enough, along the back wall was a long row of boots, in a whole range of sizes. She chose a pair, holding them up against her own feet to check they should fit, then turned back to the door… and stopped in her tracks. There was a guard right outside who believed she’d come here to get straps for Nalyx’s breastplate. So she could hardly just walk off with a pair of boots and think he wasn’t going to notice.
Okay, think, Gantalla, she told herself. What to do next?
It wasn’t just the straps on the breastplate that needed attention. The metal was also filthy and would need a good polish and oil before it was fit for use again. So she grabbed a wooden crate and shoved the boots into the bottom, then she covered them with tools and oils, setting the new straps and the breastplate on top. Hopefully that would do.
She opened the door again and the guard raised his eyebrows at her collection. “What have you got there?”
“Cleaning supplies,” she said. “Nalyx was injured and he can’t use his hands, so I thought I’d help him clean his armour.”
“Yeah, I heard about that,” the guard said, sounding none too interested. “Poor bastard. Fair enough, then. Off you go.”
Not waiting around in case he changed his mind, Gantalla hurried off, disappearing between the rows of buildings to weave her way back to Nalyx’s room. Back inside, she swiftly changed her shoes for the boots, pleased to find they were a good fit. They were stiff, but they’d loosen up after a day or two. But just as she went to leave again, the pile of armour caught her attention. And she cursed her own sense of integrity as she felt guilt crawl up her spine again. She was no thief, and there was no way Nalyx would be able to clean the armour himself. Perhaps she should actually repair it for him. Not because she cared about the injuries of a human murderer, but because it would be fair payment for the boots.
Fine. It would only take an hour or so. And then she could be on her way. Nalyx was still out cold, and even if he woke, she could just tell him she was going to take a walk around the city when it was time for her to leave.
Out in the courtyard, the sun was up, and she found a comfortable spot by a low stone wall to work. It was a stunning contrast to Chalandros, where sitting in the sun would have caused her skin to blister in a matter of minutes. Here, it was just pleasantly warm, and she reminded herself how lucky she was to have escaped the infernal heat of her homeworld.
She started with the breastplate, removing the old straps and replacing them, then set about scrubbing the dirt off. After that, she moved onto the faulds, which protected Nalyx’s hips and thighs, then the vambraces for his arms and the greaves for his legs.
As the morning wore on, more people started filling the courtyard, and Gantalla saw that her suspicions had been correct; women emerged from the barracks, along with the warriors, and some of the rooms had contained not just one, but several women. And some of them, several men, as well. She chose not to think too deeply about what had been going on behind closed doors. The warriors here were in a class of their own, and it was none of her business what this culture deemed acceptable behaviour for them.
Instead, she focused on scrubbing the armour. It was etched with fine engravings, and it took concentration to scrape the dirt out of every crevice. Once the metal was clean, she polished and oiled it, then set each piece carefully aside, to begin on the next.
A loud shriek got her attention, and she turned to see that a group of women were working at a large fountain at one end of the courtyard. Ostensibly, they were washing some of the warriors’ clothes, but in reality, they seemed to be doing a better job of splashing water everywhere and giggling, rather than actually getting anything clean. The shriek had been caused by one of the warriors tipping a woman back into the fountain, and she spluttered as she pulled herself out. But the dampness of her clothes was now used as an excuse to remove some of them, much to the enjoyment of the men.
Was this honestly what the warriors expected of the women? Gantalla found it odd that sex seemed to be the only important commodity the women traded in. Surely the men would have equally appreciated a set of clothes that were actually clean?
Finishing up with the armour, she headed over to the fountain to wash her hands, keeping to the end of it to avoid the splashing. But a couple of shirts were already hung on a line to dry, and as Gantalla looked them over, she saw that all of them were still stained, and one had obvious dirt still embedded in the sleeves. Good grief, Gantalla had never washed a shirt in her life, but she was sure that even she could do a better job than this.
“Hey, sweetheart!” One of the women called, her arms wrapped around the neck of one of the warriors. “You’re never going to find a husband dressed like that! What are you, a prude?”
Another of the ladies giggled. “Anyone would think you’re one of those dour old women who clean up the dead bodies.”
Pretentious little upstarts. Well, fine. If they wanted to make a competition of it, she was willing to bite. But not in the way they expected. Let’s see what these men thought of arealwoman.
She returned to Nalyx’s room to collect the clothes that had been bundled up beneath the pile of armour. She went back to the fountain, finding a plentiful supply of soap, and set about washing them, ignoring the giggling and flirting from the rest of the women. As Fin had rightly pointed out the day before, the older serving women were mostly sensible, getting their jobs done while remaining friendly and welcoming to the warriors, but the younger ones were just silly, and she couldn’t help but pity any warrior who actually chose one of them as his wife.
Doing the laundry was hard work, Nalyx’s clothes filthy with all manner of dirt and dried fluids. Gantalla had been expecting to have to put some effort into it, even as she acknowledged her own lack of experience. But as she worked, she was surprised to find that she was actually enjoying it in a way. It proved that she was capable of more than sitting around in a fancy dress looking pretty – which, in hindsight, was all anyone had seemed to expect of her back in Chalandros. And it also proved that she had something of value to offer this world that didn’t involve a tight lace blouse.
She was just returning to Nalyx’s room with the wet clothes when the door was suddenly flung open and Nalyx burst out. His arm was still in a sling, and his clothes were rumpled and his dark hair was mussed after a long night. His chin looked a fraction darker than it had yesterday, with an extra night’s growth of stubble. He pulled up short as he saw her, and she thought he was going to ask where she’d been. But far from concern at her whereabouts, he had something else on his mind. “Where’s my armour?” he asked, not even bothering to say hello.
“I cleaned it for you,” Gantalla said. “It was filthy. And I washed your clothes as well.”
But rather than looking pleased about the favour, Nalyx’s scowl deepened. “Fucking hell. You donottouch my armour.” He spotted the pile of it, set out neatly beside the nearby wall, and marched over to it, snatching up one of the vambraces in his clumsy hands. “You have no idea what you’re doing, and this armour is…” He stopped, as he looked down at the arm guard. It gleamed in the morning sun, all traces of dirt gone. He turned it over in his hands, then looked back at Gantalla. She stood silently, waiting for him to finish his sentence. He looked down at the armour again, noting the shine of the breastplate and the newly repaired straps.
Given the activities of the rest of the women, it was no wonder he was shocked. Gantalla glanced pointedly over at the fountain, where the cluster of women were still giggling and splashing, most of them now half naked. “I realise I’m probably not showing nearly enough skin to get the job done properly,” she said drily, “but I figured a decent amount of soap might make up the difference.” She held up his shirt and let him have a good look. After long minutes of scrubbing, she’d managed to get the stains out, and it was now once again a light cream colour, rather than the dull brown it had been when she’d started.
“Great gods, you actually…?”
