by Sandell Wall
It was clear from the way the woman moved that something was wrong. She hurried into the room, gesturing for Sorrell to get out of bed. Sorrell pushed back the covers and sat up. The woman nodded. She offered a hand to help Sorrell onto her feet. Cursing her inability to ask what was happening, Sorrell took the woman’s hand and got out of bed.
The woman practically pulled Sorrell through the kitchen and into the main room of the suite. Sorrell stumbled, only keeping her balance because of her hold on the other woman’s arm. In the main room, the door to what had been Mazareem’s personal quarters was open. The woman leading Sorrell made straight for that open door.
Sorrell’s feet dragged like they were made of lead. She did not want to enter that room. She did not want to see what had this woman so bothered. But of course, her feelings did not matter, and she was dragged through the door a few seconds later.
Inside, the two tomb keepers from the street stood next to the luxurious bed. The younger slave girl stood up against the wall, and the woman guiding Sorrell indicated that they were to stand next to her. Only when her back was supported by the wall did Sorrell turn her attention to the occupant of the bed.
It was Mazareem, and he looked terrible. He had been stripped to the waist, his once flowing robes cut to shreds and hanging around his legs. His exposed chest and arms were pale and frail—his gaunt limbs trembled with every breath. Cloth bandages were wrapped around his entire torso, and they were soaked through with his black blood. He turned his bloodshot eyes on Sorrell. His lips quivered in an attempt at a weak grin.
One of the tomb keepers spoke, her commanding voice breaking the silence like a hammer on glass. In the brief pauses between her words, Mazareem translated for Sorrell’s benefit. His voice was weak, and Sorrell struggled to understand what he said.
“She says the three of you are responsible for keeping me alive,” Mazareem said. “If I die in your care, you’ll be publicly executed in my place in the rite of oblation.”
Sorrell did not believe her ears. After everything Mazareem had done, she was now responsible, under the threat of death, for keeping him alive? What had she done to deserve this obscene twist of fate?
The tomb keepers did not linger long. After speaking briefly with Mazareem, they returned to their post in the street. Sorrell watched them go. Hatred burned inside of her. She wanted to strike them down for what they were forcing her to do.
After the tomb keepers departed, the two servant women made to leave the room as well. When Sorrell did not follow, the older of the women came to stand in front of her. The woman looked Sorrell in the eye and nodded towards the door.
“Leave me alone with him,” Sorrell said, refusing to make eye contact, her gaze locked on Mazareem.
Though the woman could not understand the words, something in Sorrell’s tone must have given her pause, because she took a step back. She searched Sorrell’s face for intent, but Sorrell would not look at the woman.
Finally, the servant woman gave up and left the room without Sorrell. Her younger companion followed her out. Sorrell suspected they would not leave her alone with Mazareem for long. They probably worried that she would try to kill him for what he had done to her.
Sorrell’s feet overrode her dread and moved her to stand beside Mazareem’s bed. His eyes followed her the entire way. As she drew near, Sorrell realized that he was worse than she thought. He might die on his own, without her intervention.
“Now’s your chance,” Mazareem said. “Strike me down and take your revenge.”
Somehow, the needle he had stabbed her with was in Sorrell’s hand. She did not remember taking it out of her pocket. Mazareem tried to chuckle when he saw it. It came out as a pitiful cough. The movement caused him to wince in pain.
“A fitting instrument of my demise,” Mazareem said. “Go on, pierce my jugular. Not even I can survive without blood in my veins.”
Sorrell had dreamed about this moment for months. At first, her nights had been filled with nightmares where she found Stone’s dead body waiting for her. Through sheer force of will, she had banished those horrible night terrors and replaced them with fantasies of revenge. She had slain Mazareem a hundred different ways, but she had never seen this one.
She wanted nothing more than to sink the needle into his throat and feel his lifeblood pump out through her fingers. Her hands twitched with the need. But her life was no longer her own. Mazareem had taken Stone from the world; he would not take Stone’s child.
“Why do you hesitate?” Mazareem said.
His eyes narrowed. He glanced at her midsection and then back up at her face.
“You’re pregnant,” Mazareem said. “And it’s Stone’s.”
Sorrell physically recoiled from his words. How did he always know?
Mazareem sank back into his pillow. “Delivered from your hand by Stone’s unborn bastard. You couldn’t write this stuff.”
“My revenge may be delayed, but it won’t be denied,” Sorrell said, her voice shaking.
“Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re feeling very dramatic,” Mazareem said. “I won’t pretend that I cared for the late Mr. Stone, but his death was a matter of circumstance, nothing more. Make me your mortal enemy, if it helps. Just know that you’ll have to get in line. I warn you, it’s quite a long one.”
“You’re insane.”
“I prefer to think of myself as ‘enlightened.’ In the end, the difference between the two is only a matter of perspective. How did you keep the baby alive? Every slave that enters Orcassian service is given a concoction to kill any mist parasites they might be carrying. No different than deworming an animal. It would surely kill an unborn child.”
Sorrell’s hands moved of their own accord to her stomach. She felt a terrible need to protect her baby from Mazareem’s attention.
“Even in a place so horrid as this, there are still those who remember kindness,” Sorrell said.
Mazareem snorted and immediately grimaced in pain. He tried to raise a feeble hand to touch his chest, but the effort proved too much. His arm dropped back onto the bed.
“You may not have to wait long to celebrate my death,” Mazareem said. “I don’t think The Lady of Pain intends for me to survive her hospitality. I made a grave miscalculation in coming here. I thought I could—”
The other two servants re-entering the room cut Mazareem off. Sorrell stepped away from the bed as the women bustled up to Mazareem, their arms full of fresh bandages and bottles of ointment.
Sorrell watched in morbid fascination as they peeled the blood-soaked cloth away from Mazareem’s chest. He growled in pain, fists clenching in the sheets of the bed. Someone had carved a great ‘X’ on Mazareem’s torso. The jagged rents in his flesh were so deep that Sorrell swore she could see bone.
The women worked quickly, cleaning and redressing the wound. Mazareem relaxed at the first touch of the ointment.
“Ahhh, that feels nice,” Mazareem said.
Neither of the women spoke, and they avoided looking at Sorrell. Too late, she realized that staying in the room with Mazareem and conversing with him in her own language had probably alienated her from these women. Sorrell was clearly not just a normal slave.
This realization saddened Sorrell. She had enjoyed the warmth of the brief companionship they had shared.
“It’ll be your turn next time,” Mazareem said as the women finished working.
“I’ll never do it,” Sorrell said.
Sorrell shuddered at the thought of touching Mazareem’s hideous white skin. Her revulsion triggered a bout of nausea in the pit of her stomach, and she fled the room. The sound of Mazareem’s chuckles followed her out.
After several long minutes bent over the privy, Sorrell’s retching finally subsided. Most of the porridge she had eaten had gone down the hole. She sat back on her heels and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her fingers still held the needle—she threw it angrily against the wall.
Tears of hot rage spilled down
Sorrell’s cheeks. Every breath that filled Mazareem’s lungs was an insult to Stone’s memory, and now that Mazareem’s life lay in her hands, she was powerless to end it.
Sorrell rested her forehead against the privy bench and stared at the floor. How desperately she wished Kaiser was here to lend her his confidence. She hoped he was faring better than she was.
Chapter 35
LACRAEL’S HANDS ACHED. HER fingers were cramped from gripping a mortar and pestle. But she had ground up enough of the sun root to treat Tarathine for several days. The crushed plant had a faint fragrance that reminded Lacrael of a crisp sunny morning. She hoped it would cure the girl.
As an unknown slaver, Niad had only rated a single room. Lacrael was surprised they were given even that, but a strict code of honor governed slavers in the Palacostian Empire, and as long as Niad acted the part, she was free to exploit the benefits. Fortunately, the room offered them much-needed privacy.
Tarathine lay on the only bed, her tiny hands crossed over her chest. If Lacrael had not known better, she would have thought the girl a corpse. Niad and Gustavus were on the far side of the room, lost in quiet conversation. Gustavas was sitting with his back against the wall. He was physically spent from their recent excursion into the city.
“I’ve got enough to give her the first dose,” Lacrael said. She sat up and wiped her damp forehead with the back of her hand. On the floor next to her sat the wooden box that had contained the sun root. Now, it was filled with brown dust, the product of Lacrael’s labor with the mortar and pestle.
Niad patted Gustavus on the leg before standing up. She moved to the table and poured water from a battered metal pitcher into a tall wooden cup. Lacrael joined her at the table. Carefully, not wanting to lose a single speck, Lacrael dumped two spoonfuls of the crushed sun root into the cup. She stirred vigorously.
“It looks disgusting,” Niad said, nose crinkled in distaste.
“And it probably tastes worse,” Lacrael said. “Let’s hope it works.”
With Niad’s help, Lacrael propped Tarathine up in a sitting position. Niad supported the girl’s head, and Lacrael brought the cup to her mouth. It was a painstaking process. Niad opened Tarathine’s mouth, and Lacrael poured in a bit of liquid. Once Tarathine had a mouthful of the concoction, they tilted her head back so that it would not spill out and massaged her throat to encourage her to swallow.
Tarathine was so weak she almost did not respond, but the muscles of her throat finally shuddered, and she drank the first sip. Lacrael breathed a sigh of relief. After the first swallow, it got a bit easier. Lacrael might be wrong, but it seemed like Tarathine was hungry for the earthy potion. When the cup was empty, Niad lowered the girl to the bed. She and Lacrael stood over Tarathine, waiting to see if the recovery would be immediate and dramatic.
Nothing obvious happened.
Niad sighed. “I know it’s silly,” she said. “But I was hoping for something miraculous, like out of a child’s fable. One sip of the magic potion and she would return to her old self.”
“It’s a start,” Lacrael said. “All we can do from here on out is to keep her fed and hope this works.”
Lacrael set the empty cup on the table and massaged her aching right hand. Her first priority had been to give the medicine to Tarathine. Now, she had time to tell Niad what they had learned.
“We saw Elise at the mint,” Lacrael said. “She was with a squad of tomb keepers. She posted a notice that they’re looking for Hexia. That guard who watched the secret tunnel must have talked, because she knows we were the last ones seen with Hexia.”
“Damn, that was fast,” Niad said, shaking her head. “I knew there’d be an investigation, but I didn’t expect one so soon. And I thought we’d be safe.”
“What happens if they find us?”
“There won’t be a trial, if that’s what you’re asking. The only justice in Palacost is that which the great houses enforce, and when it’s one of their own who’s gone missing, the only thing they care about is vengeance. If they find us, they’ll execute us in the street.”
“Are you safe here? Elise didn’t recognize me or Gustavus, but I’m certain she would remember you or Tarathine. She knows you’re a slaver. It seems like this would be the first place she searched.”
“The slavers’ district in Orcassus is controlled by a rival of House Riggor. Elise can enter, but there’s no way they’ll allow her tomb keepers to search this place. She would have to get the seplica and the empress involved, and I doubt Hexia warrants that amount of concern. I could be wrong, but I think this is the safest place in the city.”
“Even if it is, you’re trapped here.”
“Where am I going to go?” Niad said, gesturing with one arm towards the city outside.
“We found a portal,” Lacrael said. Her heart quickened when she spoke those words.
Niad’s eyes narrowed. “Explain,” she said.
“It’s down in the underground market, carved into the wall for all to see,” Lacrael said. “Gustavus said it might be fake, but who would make a fake portal?”
“I’m sure it’s real. Orcassus is ancient. The city has been torn down and rebuilt a hundred times over. There’s no telling what secrets are hidden in the darkness of her deepest foundations. But an unknown portal here is more likely to lead to destruction, not deliverance.”
“There’s nowhere it could send us that’s worse than this place.”
“Did you forget the one that dropped me in the middle of an ocean?”
Lacrael turned away from Niad in frustration. She had thought the other woman would be excited. Instead, they were arguing about the portal. Niad’s fear was understandable, but now was not the time to give it rein. Lacrael forced her voice to stay calm.
“In case you haven’t noticed, we’re running out of time,” Lacrael said to the wall. “Our party is split, and now we’re being hunted by a squad of tomb keepers. The longer we stay here, the greater the chances that we never leave.”
“You sound like you have a plan,” Niad said.
Lacrael turned back to Niad. “I can move freely about the city without being questioned,” she said. “I’ll locate the others and tell them about the portal. We can use it to get out of here. The only thing that’s missing is a distraction to cover our escape.”
“That’s not a plan. That’s a gamble on impossible odds. You might as well throw dice with a demon.”
“You’d rather sit here and wait for Elise to come knocking?”
Niad opened her mouth to object, but the words did not come. She closed her mouth and pursed her lips. Lacrael waited patiently for the other woman to realize that unless she had a better plan, Lacrael’s was the best they were going to get.
“No, I don’t want to be trapped here any longer than you do,” Niad finally said. “How do you propose to find the others?”
“The official who purchased Sorrell said she’d go to the ‘risen one’,” Lacrael said. “And Kaiser and Brant were to be sent to the fighting pits. I thought you might know where to find them.”
“This ‘risen one’ is all anyone is talking about in the common area of the slavers’ hall. I know he’s being held in a suite in the royal district, right outside the castle, but that’s all I’ve heard. If you go looking for Sorrell, you’ll have to find the suite yourself. And the fighting pits are on the perimeter of the city, right up against the outer walls. They’re back towards the gate where we entered the city. You can try using your forsaken disguise to get into their camp, but I don’t know if it’ll work. They operate on a different set of rules than the rest of Orcassus.”
“It’s late. I’ll go find Sorrell first thing in the morning.”
“If you’re going to do this, it might be better if you go now. Twilight is when the streets will be full of slaves, emptying the privies and running the final few errands before nightfall. You’ll blend right in.”
Lacrael had not anticipated returning to the streets today, but s
he was not about to let an opportunity go to waste. She left Niad, Tarathine, and Gustavus behind and ventured back out into the city. Evening shadows stretched long, reaching for the night as the sun sank into the western horizon. It felt strange, walking alone. Lacrael had not realized how much she had appreciated Gustavus’s company.
Just as Niad had predicted, the cobblestone streets were bustling with slaves and forsaken. Outside every door, wooden pails waited to be collected. Lacrael did not have to look inside to know what these buckets contained. The stench alone identified the contents. As she made her way towards the center of the city, Lacrael walked alongside slaves who were hauling these pails to the dumping spot for refuse. Oddly enough, they all seemed to be going the same direction she was.
Niad’s directions were easy enough to follow. Lacrael made straight for the dark castle that towered over Orcassus. She did not know how she would find the correct suite once she got there, but she forced herself not to dwell on that difficulty until the time came to deal with it.
Lacrael turned a corner at an intersection and slowed her pace. Fifty paces ahead of her, four young women lounged in an arched doorway. As she drew near, Lacrael recognized what looked like tomb keeper armor, but these women appeared very young. She guessed the oldest to be no more than fifteen. The girls were entertaining themselves by harassing any slave that passed in front of them.
For a moment, Lacrael contemplated turning around and finding another route. She discarded the idea when she realized that none of the other slaves were doing so. They walked stolidly on, accepting the verbal abuse without flinching. Lacrael decided that she could do the same. It might go worse for her, if she tried to avoid the girls.
When the oldest girl spotted Lacrael, she raised an excited hand.
“Look, there’s another one!” the girl said.
