by Jenn Lyons
He knew (in a distracted it’s-somebody-else’s-problem kind of way) that he was injured, maybe mortally injured. Part of him wanted to sleep. Another part of him wanted to throw up. The rest of him though—the rest of him was filled with a kind of searing white-hot rage that Kihrin had only experienced once before in his life. The desire for vengeance was so strong it overrode all other instincts. That anger gave him the strength to stand and the strength to stagger back to the intersection where he had been attacked.
The soldier was still there, along with lots of guards and a newcomer: a man in a patchwork brown sallí cloak. He looked as out of place as a Shadowdancer thief at a Watchmen retirement party. Kihrin had no idea who the newcomer was, but since he wasn’t a demon and he wasn’t a guard, Kihrin decided to ignore him until he became important.
There was no sign of the demon besides the lingering traces of unnatural red light and the odor of filth.
“How did you make it here so quickly?” the large soldier with the sword asked the man with the patchwork cloak, as Kihrin staggered toward them. “I only just dispatched a man to find you.”
“Taja was smiling on us. One of my agents alerted me—dear Tya, are you all right, young man?” The newcomer turned toward Kihrin as he approached.
Kihrin ignored the question. It was a stupid question. He would never be all right again. He blinked at the fellow in the patchwork cloak. The newcomer was a plain-looking man in his twenties, although he had the chestnut skin and high cheekbones of a Marakori to provide a small amount of exotic flair. He had dark eyes and straight black hair that wanted to wander in every direction, kept in check by a plain brass circlet worn on his forehead. Kihrin wondered if he was with the Revelers Guild, and if he attracted much work with a cloak so threadbare. He seemed more like a farmer than a performer. Kihrin decided he was probably some kind of servant or valet of the soldier. “Is he dead?” Kihrin ground his teeth together to keep from listing.
“Qoran, catch him. He’ll fall,” said the smaller man.
The soldier reached for Kihrin, put a hand on his shoulder, and Kihrin jerked himself away, fighting the most awful flashbacks. “Don’t touch me!”
The soldier sheathed his sword and held up his hands in a way he no doubt meant to seem nonthreatening. “Son, you need to calm down—”
“Don’t call me son,” Kihrin hissed. “Is he dead?”
The two men blinked at him, surprised. The soldier glanced back at the gory mess that used to be one of the guards, the shattered remains of a double-strung harp wrapped around his upper torso. “Very.”
“Qoran, he means the demon,” the smaller man corrected. His gaze lingered, eyes still narrowed, on Kihrin, as if the young man reminded him of someone he couldn’t quite place. “Xaltorath isn’t dead, no. You did, however, help send him back to Hell for a while.”
The soldier stepped forward, although he didn’t make a move to touch Kihrin a second time. “We need to know what Xaltorath said to you, young man. Every detail, every word could be of vital importance. How much can you remember? What did he want from you? Why did he let you live?”
“He ruined my knife.” Kihrin saw it lying in the middle of the street, twisted and warped as if someone had returned it to the forge and left it there. Ruined my knife. Ruined my life. He laughed out loud at the rhyme, but then he quieted again. Stupidly, all he could think of was how upset Landril Attuleema would be when they didn’t show up for their scheduled performance.
The soldier was less amused. “Argas, take your knife! Do you have any idea how many will die if some fool summoner starts another Hellmarch? When demon princes get loose from Hell, they don’t just throw a party. They summon more demons! Answer my questions, boy.” The soldier reached out to grab him, but let his hand fall short at the last second.
Kihrin flinched back anyway, but his jaw clenched in a stubborn line. Something snapped inside him, some better sense that might have kept him from saying something stupid to a man who could have him thrown into a pit—just by snapping his fingers. Kihrin drew himself up without wobbling, without listing, without throwing up, even though the need to do all those things lurked in waiting ambush. “That monster destroyed my father’s harp. How are we supposed to make a living? How are we supposed to eat? That may mean nothing to you, but it means a lot to me.”*
“General, wait.” The man with the patchwork cloak held up a hand before he focused his attention on Kihrin. “That was your father’s harp? You’re Surdyeh’s son?”
Kihrin meant to keep yelling, but the soft question cut the strings of his anger. “How did you know…” He blinked. “You know my father?”
“Indeed.” Fond remembrance wrestled with old pain behind the man’s eyes. “We were friends, once.” He examined Kihrin, his expression unreadable.
“Wait, my father! Where is he? He was right here—” Kihrin hadn’t seen him since he pushed Surdyeh through the doorway. He hadn’t been injured, had he? Kihrin could imagine his father slumped up against some alcove, leaking his life away into a gutter while no one paid him the least attention. He turned back to the soldier—wait, general—who seemed like the one with the authority to help. “You have to find him. He’s blind. He probably didn’t get very far.”
The General stared at him, unfriendly and hard as drussian. Then he snapped his fingers and gestured to one soldier nearby. “Captain Jarith, have your men search the area. See if they can find a blind man, possibly hiding, named Surdyeh. Please escort him back with every courtesy. We must reunite him with his son.”
The young soldier saluted. “Yes, General. Right away.”
“Thank you,” Kihrin said. “Thank you.” He closed his eyes in relief.
Closing his eyes was a mistake, however. The anger that had been keeping him conscious retreated. His world tilted as darkness wrapped around him.
“Quickly—” he heard the General say.
Kihrin might have paid more attention to what happened next, but he was too busy fainting.
11: THE COMING STORM
(Kihrin’s story)
Eventually, I went up on deck. Staying in our room felt like being trapped in a wooden crate: the passenger cabin on board The Misery was smaller than a water closet. It fit four people, in theory.
I was in a mood to find whoever had come up with this “theory” and beat their head against the railing.
A bulky, Zheriaso-built ship, The Misery shuttled slaves bought in Kishna-Farriga and Zherias to Quur, where the good citizens of the Empire bought them for a variety of unsavory uses. The ship possessed the usual number of masts and sails, and a deck of slave-rowers in the bowels—to speed passage in poor wind or navigate tricky port dockings.
I am more familiar with the rowers’ galley on The Misery than I care to remember, even now.
The slave holds were further divided into levels, or ’tween decks, by thick iron gratings. These quarters housed the majority of the slaves with ceilings so low that a small woman wouldn’t have room to stand. The ’tween decks made our passenger cabin seems like the height of grand privilege.
The cargo deck had been emptied of all but trade goods (maridon tea, sugar, barrels of sasabim brandy, Eamithon pottery) when The Misery had brought me to Kishna-Farriga as a slave, but no longer. Captain Juval had stayed in port only for as much time as was necessary to drop off his cargo and pick up the next batch of victims. He probably planned to buy more in Zherias* before the trip across the Galla Sea to Quur. I wondered how many times he’d made the trip, how many lives he had bought and sold.
I took perverse pleasure in putting myself where the Captain could see me. Watching his eyes slide right past me without recognition helped smooth the occasional impulse to use a dagger to sever his spine. Juval was in a sour mood too, growling and snapping at every crew member who came near.
Perhaps he’d heard the news of my final sale price. He’d been in such a hurry to get rid of me that he’d taken a flat fee instead of staying in Kishna-Far
riga for a percentage. Juval didn’t realize he’d gotten the better end of the bargain.
Teraeth sat on one of the grates covering the slave holds, fingers laced around the iron bars as he stared down. The sailors gave him a wide berth.
I wasn’t surprised. He might look like a Quuros and sound like a Quuros, but the illusion wrapped around him couldn’t hide his menace.
Teraeth looked up and saw me watching.
We stared at each other for a few moments. He motioned me over.
I avoided looking into the hold.
“I’m sorry when I said you were nothing but a slaver. Khaemezra explained things, and—”
“Look.” He pointed through the grating.
I felt no compulsion to follow his orders, a reminder his mother carried my gaesh. “I know what slaves look like, thanks. I just wanted to say—”
“Look, damn you!” He reached up, grabbed the corner of my robe, and dragged me to his level. “This is what you are.”
I pulled at his fingers with my hands. “You don’t need to remind me I’m a slave.”
“You think I mean you’re a slave?” He scoffed with a whispery sharp voice. “They don’t care that you’re a slave. Look at them. Really look. Do you see them? Men, women, children. Some of them won’t live to see the end of this journey. Others will start their lives of concubinage early and rough. They come from a dozen nations, some from villages so small they didn’t know they had a ‘nation.’ Most of them don’t speak Guarem, or any language you know. They would gladly give their souls to be where you are, too valuable to be thrown in a cell like rotting meat. Instead they’ll die of starvation, or flux, or not have enough air to breathe during a storm. Look at them. There is no hope in their eyes. They don’t even have the strength to cry, or ask why this has been done to them. They can only whisper the question, the way a madman shouts the same phrase over and over, growing soft and quiet until there is only silence…”
I choked off a sob and tore his hand from me. “I don’t need—”
“You’re Quuros. This is your legacy. This is your gift to the world: ship after ship of pain, sailing the seas to sate your people’s lust and cruelty and your thirst to conquer everything. Don’t you dare look away from your birthright. This is what the wizard Grizzst created when he bound the demons. This is what your Emperor Simillion brought to the world when he claimed the Crown and Scepter. This is the way of life Atrin Kandor died to save.”
I sat down on the grating, numb.
“How many slaves have you known? How many have you taken for granted, dismissed as just another unchangeable facet of Quuros life?” Teraeth settled back on his heels, fingers pressed against the bars to balance himself. “You asked who we are, and I will tell you who we are not. We are not people who would ever do this.”
I didn’t answer for a long time.
Finally, I whispered, “That doesn’t make what you do right.”
“No, but for every life I take, I give others their lives back. When I meet Thaena in the Afterlife, my head is held high and my conscience is clean.”
“I can’t do anything to free these people.”
“That’s true if you believe it, but make no mistake—it is only true because you believe it.”
I stared out at the sea. Seagulls had followed us from Kishna-Farriga. They would stay with us for a few miles yet before they decided the scraps weren’t coming fast enough. The salt air filled my nose and the sound of rigging stretched and groaned against my ears. If I listened, I could just make out the muted sound of crying. The ship didn’t smell of anything but salted wood and tar. More awful smells would come later.
I thought long and hard on the irony of being lectured on freedom by the assassin who owned me.
“Juval used a cat-o’-nine-tails on you, didn’t he?” Teraeth asked after a long silence.
“He had questions. He got all cranky on me when I wouldn’t answer them.”
“Do you want me to kill him?”
I looked sideways at the vané. “Don’t you think that might delay our arrival in Zherias, just a little?”
“His first mate looks capable enough.”
The idea made me shudder. If I had nightmares anymore, first mate Delon would haunt them. “Delon’s worse than Juval. Much worse.”
Teraeth stared at me. The line of his jaw turned rigid and he looked away. “I’ll remember that.”
“Besides, Tyentso will take it personally if you start killing off her crew. Even you might have a problem with her.”
“Tyentso?”
“The ship’s sea witch. Remember how you wanted to know if the Captain keeps one? The answer’s yes. Tough as drussian. She’s the one who gaeshed me. I haven’t seen her yet, but she’s around here somewhere. She spends most of her time by herself. She’s like a hermit in a cave, except her cave is on a ship.”
Teraeth smiled in a way that reminded me of tigers scenting the air for prey. “If my mother can handle Relos Var, I don’t think a hedge witch will be much problem.” He flexed his fingers around the bars.
“Show me around the ship,” he said after a pause. “I want to be familiar with the deck plan when things go wrong.”
“Why? You think something’s going to happen?”
“I think Relos Var gave up on you too easily.” He turned to stare out at the water. “That’s not his reputation.”
“So, he’ll make another attempt?” I didn’t need to ask. In my heart, I knew Teraeth was right. Relos Var wasn’t finished with me yet.
He chewed on the end of a finger. “He’d have to know where we are. My mother shields us both against scrying, and you’ve always been hidden from magical attempts to locate you. No one is tracking you down using magic.”
I scowled. “It’s been done.”
“Not easily.”
“They had to summon a demon prince to do so, so yeah. We should be fine. Unless Var’s into that kind of thing.”
“He’s been known to dabble.” Teraeth looked nervous.
That made me nervous. If there was going to be trouble, the last place I wanted to be was trapped on a slave ship, a thousand miles out at sea.
As Taja would have it, that’s exactly where trouble found us.
12: BEHIND THE VEIL
(Talon’s story)
Morea poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher at her bedside, swished the water around in her mouth, spat it back out again. She repeated the process until the tang was gone.
The small room was barely furnished once one looked past the tapestries, lewd sculptures, labial mosaics of Caless, and the priapic offering dishes of her lovers. There was a bed, a sideboard, and an armoire. A pitcher, ceramic mugs, and a washbasin rested on the sideboard. The armoire held the few clothes Madam Ola had given her.
The bed held a drunken merchant named … Something. Hallith? She didn’t remember. He’d been too intoxicated to do much, and the smell of his boozy breath on her face had set her skin crawling. She’d cooed and stroked him and prayed he’d be content with suckling.
Fortunately, he was.
It wasn’t easy for Morea to come to a place like this. She knew her lot was better than many, but she still remembered a time when a room this size wouldn’t have been fit for her use as a water closet. Baron Mataris hadn’t been handsome, or charming, or even young, but he had been rich, and not so unkind to his slaves that she didn’t regard his memory with fondness. If she and her sister hadn’t been happy at least they had been pampered, and the men and women that Baron Mataris gave them to believed in daily baths.
Unlike some. Her eyes flickered over to the form of her customer, already snoring.
Madam Ola told her that on nights when Morea did not dance, she might expect to make two or three thrones in tips. The madam allowed her people to keep their tips, although she was under no obligation to do so. That meant, if Morea saved up every throne, every chance, every chalice, she might have enough to pay off her slave price in five year
s. Five years of this. Five years of taking all comers, of lying on the mat under the grunting, thrusting attention of drunken sailors, miners, merchants, and anyone else who paid Ola Nathera enough metal.
Morea had one consolation: the possibility there might be an end to this. Ola allowed for the potential of buying her freedom. Baron Mataris had never done so.
Ola herself was an enigma to Morea. The woman was a legend with a dozen stories about her origins, all of them probably lies. Ola didn’t use the veils so many Zheriaso wore outside the borders of their island home, so it was obvious to all that she had once been a wild beauty. Her skin was midnight, her eyes like the ocean depths, her soft curled hair tied in elegant knots. Yes, a great beauty—or she would have been if time and a fondness for sweets had not rounded out all the edges.
Morea had already heard a dozen stories during her brief stay at the Shattered Veil. How Ola Nathera had been a Zheriaso princess, and had run from an unwelcome marriage. That Ola was in fact an infamous witch, banished from her country for enchanting the king. Or, Morea’s favorite: that Ola had once been a slave girl herself, who’d earned her freedom and her fortune in a single night unwittingly spent with the Emperor. Her beauty so charmed the man that he’d bestowed a necklace upon her of impossibly rare star tear diamonds. With such treasure, she purchased her slave price, bought the Shattered Veil Club velvet house, and never slept with a man again.
Morea didn’t know about the necklace or the Emperor, but she was sure the last part was true. Ola looked at her the same way most men did. And Morea had spoken to the others enough to know that when Ola helped herself to her own slaves, it was not the boys she ordered into her bed.
Halith? Harith? Halis? Whatever-his-name snored, turned over, pushed his arm up over his head like a cat, and started to drool into his beard. He was her first customer of the afternoon, and she wondered if he had come in for sex or just to get out of the heat. Morea stared at him for a moment before deciding she needed fresh air in the worst possible way.
