A Deal for Passage

Attention to all returning readers: I'm currently restructuring Chapters 1–6 into smaller parts to make the story easier to read. You'll see several updates of older content over the next few days. Actual new content will follow starting from Chapter 7 soon, after I uploaded all the older chapters!

Chapter 3: The Road Again (Part 2)

She clutched the ends of her scarf and pulled them together over her chest, trying to create some semblance of coverage before she was seen. The fabric bunched between her fingers, but her hands could only hold so much; the outer curves of her breasts remained visible, and the motion exposed her stomach and the torn front of her dress completely. She stepped off the road, making room for the caravan to pass. Maybe they would ignore her. Maybe they would simply roll by and leave her in their dust.

But the lead wagon slowed as it approached, and a voice called out: "Hold up there."

The wagon stopped. The others followed suit, the whole caravan grinding to a halt in a chorus of creaking wheels and jingling harnesses. Lyra stood frozen at the roadside, her heart pounding, her hands clutching the scarf ends together, as a figure descended from the lead wagon.

She was a woman---tall and angular, with sharp cheekbones and iron-grey hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her clothes were practical but well-made: a leather vest over a linen tunic, sturdy riding breeches, boots that reached her knees. A short sword hung at her hip, and her eyes---cold and calculating---swept over Lyra with the dispassionate assessment of a merchant evaluating damaged goods.

"Well," the woman said, her voice dry as autumn leaves. "You're a sorry sight."

Lyra swallowed. "I---yes. I've had a difficult few days."

"I can see that." The woman took a step closer, her gaze lingering on the torn dress, the useless scarf, the bleeding feet. "You look like you've been dragged through the nine hells backwards. What's your name, girl?"

"Lyra."

"Lyra." The woman tested the name, found it unremarkable. "I'm Mistress Voss. This is my caravan. We're bound for the city of Thornwall, six days east of here. Where are you headed?"

"Thornwall," Lyra said, seizing on the name. "I'm trying to get to the city. I need work, and---" She gestured helplessly at herself, the motion briefly releasing the scarf ends and letting them swing free again, exposing her breasts in a pale, sweat-sheened flash before she frantically grabbed them back. "Clothes. Proper clothes."

Voss's lips twitched in what might have been amusement. "I can see that too. Can you work?"

"Yes. Anything. I've done milling, cleaning, hauling---whatever you need."

"Hmph." Voss studied her for a long moment. The mercenaries had dismounted and were watching the exchange with open curiosity. A few of them were grinning, their eyes traveling over Lyra's body in a way that made her skin crawl. She clutched the scarf tighter, her knuckles white.

"Here's the deal," Voss said finally. "You work for your passage. Cooking, cleaning, mending, fetching water---whatever needs doing. You'll eat what we eat, sleep where we sleep, and keep up with the wagons. In exchange, you get a ride to Thornwall. No pay, but you'll arrive alive. Deal?"

It wasn't a generous offer. It was barely an offer at all. But Lyra had nothing and no other way to reach the city. Six days of work in exchange for survival.

"Deal," she said.

Voss nodded and turned away, already shouting orders to her crew. "Get her settled in the supply wagon. She can start by peeling potatoes for the evening meal."

Lyra followed her toward the wagons, acutely aware of the eyes on her back.

The supply wagon was a cramped, dusty space filled with barrels of salted meat, sacks of flour, and bundles of vegetables. A young boy---no more than twelve, with a shock of red hair and a permanently sullen expression---was already at work inside, sorting through a crate of onions. He glanced up as Lyra climbed in, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of her.

"You the new help?" he asked.

"I guess so."

He shrugged and handed her a knife and a sack of potatoes. "Start peeling. Voss doesn't like waiting."

Lyra settled onto a sack of flour, tucking her bare legs beneath her as best she could. The scarf swung forward as she leaned over the potatoes, the ends dangling perilously close to the knife. She had to keep pushing them back over her shoulders, but they wouldn't stay---the wool slid against her sweat-damp skin, always creeping forward again. After a few minutes, she gave up and let them hang, the coarse fabric brushing against the potatoes, the knife, her bare thighs. Her breasts were largely exposed now, the scarf ends falling to either side of them, leaving the central swell and the dark pink nipples completely uncovered. The boy---his name was Pip, she would learn---pretended not to notice, but she could feel his sidelong glances as she worked.

Peeling potatoes was simple, repetitive work, and for a while Lyra lost herself in the rhythm of it. The knife was dull, and the potatoes were misshapen and stubborn, but it was better than walking. Better than starving. The wagon rocked gently as it rolled along, and the canvas cover kept the worst of the sun at bay.