As they finally drew near to the rented cottage and Reyn saw the darkened windows, he scowled to himself. If Malta had decided she was too weary for this and gone to bed, he’d be embarrassed to have dragged these two so far through the storm. But the scowl was more for the worry he felt. If Malta had given up on them and gone to sleep, it meant that she was far wearier than she had indicated when they’d left the concourse.
He pushed the flimsy door open and ventured into the darkened room. “Malta?” he said quietly into the darkness. “Malta, I’ve brought Captain Leftrin for you . . .”
His words tapered off as he felt the emptiness of the chambers. He could not have explained it to anyone. He simply knew that she was not there and had not been there since he had left. He stepped to the table and ran his fingertips lightly across a jidzin centerpiece there. The Elderling metal responded to his touch by bursting into life, giving off a ghost light, bluish but penetrating. He lifted it and it lit the room. Malta was not there. Cold flowed through him. He heard himself speak in a deceptively calm voice.
“Something’s wrong. She isn’t here, and it doesn’t look as if she’s been here.”
The hearth for the small chambers was not much more than a clay platter. He found a few embers still burning and coaxed them back to life and lit the lamp again. The stronger light only confirmed what he already knew. She had not come back from the meeting. Everything was exactly as they had left it when they hurried out of the door.
Leftrin and Skelly stood in the open door. He had no time to spend on courtesies. “I’m sorry. I have to go look for her. She was tired when I left her, but she promised she’d come straight back here. She . . . her back was hurting her. The baby . . . she is so heavy . . .”
The girl spoke. “We’ll go with you. Where did you last see her?”
“Right outside the Traders’ Concourse.”
“Then that is where we’ll begin.”
He’d brought her to his room. A labor pain had taken her just as they’d reached the threshold of the brothel. She’d doubled over at the door, wanting only to crouch down and be still until it passed. Instead, he had seized her by the arm and dragged her through a small empty sitting room and into a very untidy bedchamber. It smelled of male sweat and old food. A chair was buried under a burden of discarded clothing. The bedding on the narrow bed was rucked up on a stained mattress. There was a chipped platter on the floor near the door. Ants clustered on the crust of bread on it and explored the overturned flagon and sticky cutlery next to it. The only light came from a nearly extinct fire on a pottery hearth. Several baskets huddled near the door held his personal possessions. She caught sight of a boot and a sock stiffened with damp. Then he pushed her again.
Malta staggered, caught herself on the side of a low table, and sank down beside it. “Get a woman,” she told him fiercely. “Someone who knows about childbirth. NOW!”
He stared at her. Then, “You’ll be safe here. I’ll be right back,” he said and left.
When he shut the door, the room was plunged into dimness. Not far away, a woman laughed and a man gave a shout of drunken surprise.
Malta sank to the floor, panting. Just as she caught her breath, another cramp seized her. She curled around her clenched belly, and a low moan escaped her. “It will be all right.” She was not sure if she begged that of Sa or pleaded with the child inside her.
Two more contractions seized her and passed before she heard the door open. Every time one passed, she promised herself she would stagger out the door and look for help as soon as she caught her breath. Each time, a new wave of pain seized her before she could. She could not guess how much time had passed. The pains made everything an endless now. “Help me,” she gasped and looked up to see that the useless fool had brought another man with him. She stared up at him. “A midwife,” she hissed. “I need a midwife.”
They ignored her. The man who had brought her crossed the small room, stepping around her, almost over her. He took up a cheap yellow candle in its holder, lit it from the hearth, and used it to light several more around the room. Then he stood back and gestured at her, well pleased. “You see, Begasti? I am right, am I not?”
“It’s her,” the other man said. He stooped to peer at her, his breath thick with harsh spices. He was more richly dressed than the man who had dragged her here, and his words more heavily accented with Chalcedean. “But . . . what is wrong with her? Why have you brought her here? There will be trouble, Arich! Many of these Rain Wilders revere her.”