“Must I ask the obvious question?” I think about trying to reach out and pluck the answers from her mind, but I can’t bear the thought of accessing my power just now. I can still feel the hate, the unending torrent of red rage, the sickening feeling of a knife sliding into my own stomach from two perspectives… “Why are you here? Why are you defying the Minister to save me?”
“What has the Minister done for me? I’ve picked up horse shit from his baggage train for the past eight years. Literally, as an illustrious servant to the Minister of Finance, I serve exactly two purposes: picking up horse shit and occasionally being called to his chamber to ‘serve’ him. Leaving behind another servant, no matter how favored, just felt wrong to me. We look after our own,” she says, shrugging.
“But won’t they take your family? They’ll owe the debt for the twenty-two years of service that you haven’t completed…” I stop as she begins to shake her head.
“Those bastards? I’ve never known who my parents actually were. I was living in an alley in Sail when a young couple saw me. They had food. I was starving. They were clean. I was filthy. They took me back to their inn, bathed me, and fed me. I felt like a Minister. When I woke up, the slave mark was on my ankle and Cortola’s steward was informing me of my terms of service, its required length, and expected duties.”
It’s a common enough story. Most slaves in the Republic are people who go into the service willingly, or, at least, of their own free will. The terms of service are quite lucrative, especially for young, strong, or attractive individuals. Most choose the life in order to provide for their family, to guarantee a roof and warm meals to eat, or to escape from debt or enemies. It’s not unknown for some couples to literally farm children, popping out as many as possible in order to sell them to the highest bidder and live on the profits. Some are even less scrupulous, taking in urchins or orphans and giving them up in quasi-legal trades for a fraction of their normal cost. The dealers then ‘legitimize’ the child, bring their credentials up to date, fabricate a history for them, and sell them into expensive contracts. A thirty year contract for a young and beautiful girl could probably feed a family for nigh-on a decade.
“Why haven’t you run before now, if you hate the people who sold you?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Where would I go? This life is better than street life, most days. Cortola has dozens of slaves and professional concubines. The times when I’m called to his chamber are few and far between. Here I’m, well, I was fed. I had friends, after a fashion. A young girl with the slave mark of the Minister of Finance has a less than zero chance of escaping Coin, let alone making her way in the world.”
“Right.”
I sit back, staring at the dingy ceiling. So. Cortola has acted overtly against me. Again. I can’t blame him, but, certain as the sun, I’m going to make him pay. I start to categorize my resources, but I realize the list is remarkably short: a slave girl and my mind. The girl will be useful cover if we manage to procure respectable clothing and a bath. I also need to heal. With a grimace, I lift my head and peek under the bandage. The wounds appear clean enough, though the deepest, just to the left of my navel, is still an angry red.
“How am I alive?” I mutter. My knowledge of human anatomy is a little shaky, but I can picture how many internal organs the blade must have pierced. My stomach should be in tatters, my subsequent death inevitable, painful, and slow. Instead, I look to be swiftly on the mend.
“I may have, well, understated the nature of the doctor I took you to,” Lentana says. “His practice is as fancy as anything in the palace back in Coin, and his fees would probably beggar most merchant houses… We’re also in this level of shithole because he probably has anklebreakers out looking for us.”
“Right,” I say again, sighing. The problems just keep adding up.
***
I spend the next two days slurping broth, sipping water, and trying not to flex my stomach. All of my work will be undone if Cortola manages to get back and reestablish himself outside of my control. It’ll be extraordinarily difficult to regain influence over a mind so clearly ready to resist me. Though I can’t be sure, I imagine Cortola is beginning to get an inkling of just exactly how I’m controlling him. There being only one Shaper of Thought in the whole damn world, the logical jump isn’t exactly a taxing one.
On the third day, I’ve had enough. I can feel sores forming on my back from the extended stay in bed, and the itching from small and no-doubt infectious insects is driving me mad. I manage to sit up with Lentana’s help, her arm strong around my back. I’m weak, but I can move. She brings me a dirty rag and a bucket. Together we manage to at least wipe a modicum of the grime from my person.
“Lentana, in all seriousness, why are you doing this?”
“My friends call me Tana,” she responds, smiling. She has adorable dimples. I can use that. “When I saw you on that horse, I took a liking to you. You were pissed off and suffering, but you chose to be out with the rest of us. I know you could ride in the palanquins with the rest of the pampered, but you chose not to. I respect that. Honestly, though, I know what it’s like to have no one and nothing. When the Minister turned his back on you, I knew you would be totally alone. No one deserves that, Bastian.”
For the first time since my injury, I reach out with my mind. Tana’s words are earnest, her fierce protectiveness a burning beacon. She really did give up her life and force herself into the regrettable existence of a runaway slave for me. She’s certain to be branded if she’s ever caught. All because she refuses to let someone else live helpless as she does. Her memories run through a litany of kindnesses she’s paid to beggars in the street, saving her food, eating too little, risking punishment to steal a few crusts, ignoring the hunger to provide scraps for a small collection of urchins she gathered at the market.
The sentiment is powerful, I guess, but sickeningly noble. I can’t help but be thankful to the girl for her naiveté. Those children are a drain on society. They could just take the slave mark for a decade and leave service as respectable young adults with the skills to work in a household or provide for a family. Instead, they are choosing to waste precious Khalintari resources by dirtying up the streets.
Tana gasps. The bright silver mark of my power glows out from beneath my thin and ragged pants. I almost reach out and blank the image from her mind, as I’ve done so many countless times in the past, but the flavor of her thoughts is interesting. I sense a reverence, a near-religious respect. There’s also a familiarity I don’t expect. She’s seen the mark before. I dive into the memory.
I bunch the sheets around my fists and heave again. The muscles in my thighs are on fire. The weight of Bastian’s unconscious form slides along the dirty street a few more feet. The muck has already stained the white brown, but the high-quality sheets aren’t going to tear just because I’m dragging a body in them.
The flickering light cast by the torches of the closest patrol glow around the corner. I risk a glance back over my shoulder. The alley is another ten feet away. Grimacing, I growl and drive my feet into the ground. Bastian slides forward again, but my legs begin to collapse. After everything I’ve done, a routine fucking guard patrol is going to catch me because I’m too tired to go on. I moan and force myself to tug again. Bastian barely moves.
Getting him out of the doctor’s house was relatively easy. Normally in a city like Halfway, the death wagon is busy cleaning up alleyways. Bodies are always plentiful from a healthy combination of drunks, muggings, and starvations. Each night, on the off chance a patient expired under their care, the wagon makes a routine stop at each medical establishment. The bodies are then walked to the edge of the platform and tipped over into the sea far below. Halfway is a fantastic place to assassinate someone. Pick any direction and walk, and you’ll find yourself with an easy place to dispose of the evidence.
I waited until the death wagon was on its way, then came to ‘visit’ my friend. It was short work to wrap him in his she
ets like a shroud and drag him to the back door when they came knocking. The doctor was asleep, and his manservant knew to expect the wagon and waved the men off with a few perfunctory words. I sweated out a few desperate moments in the closet near the back door as the servant went off to his bed, then hurriedly pulled Bastian into the street and called out to the wagon to stop just as they were rounding the corner. Luckily, those kind of men don’t ask too many questions, especially at a doctor’s. It was a simple matter to shadow the cart until they headed towards the dingier parts of the city, then sneak his body off the cart and into the nearest alley.
But now, here I am. Stuck in the middle of a deserted street, dragging an unconscious man with three ugly stab wounds in his stomach on stolen sheets. Even if I could somehow make up an explanation for the Governor’s patrol, they’ll want to check out my story. I force myself back onto my feet, pulling with everything I have left. He doesn’t budge. That’s it. I’m done. I collapse next to Bastian’s inert form, trying unsuccessfully to force down the sobs erupting from my chest.
Great job, Tana. You set out to rescue somebody and don’t even make it an hour. The ancient street is smooth beneath my side. Bastian’s face has worked its way out of the sheets, his eyelids fluttering as if he’s dreaming. I glance over at the approaching light. The first patrolman rounds the corner, his immaculate tabard proudly displaying the sigil of the Governor of Halfway: a simple motif of a bolt of lightning splitting a circle in two. He notices me and his hand goes to his sword, approaching with caution as he calls out to the man behind him.
I look back at Bastian dully. His eyes flicker, and I lean in close to see if he is going to awaken. He doesn’t. On impulse, I give him a gentle kiss, his lips responding slightly to the soft contact.
“It would be really fantastic if we were invisible right now,” I mutter sarcastically into his ear. Six damn feet from the alley and a chance to hide.
“Hold it—“ a gruff voice begins, then cuts off. I glance up at the approaching men. The lead man, his sword out, freezes, his eyes darting back and forth rapidly. “What in the Eternal’s saggy tits…”
“What, Bolen?” a weasel-faced man whines behind him. His greasy hair is tied back in a knot at the base of his skull, but a few strands have escaped to dangle against his face. His eyes pass over us, moving on without the slightest pause. “See something?”
“I thought I did,” Bolen mutters, taking a ginger step forward and scrunching his eyebrows together in near-comical concentration. “There was just…”
Weasel-face steps up beside him, glancing around again and then looking askance at Bolen.
“There ain’t nothing here,” he says, slapping Bolen on the back of the head. “You been sucking barnacles again down by Solace?”
“You rat-faced bastard,” Bolen sputters, turning to glare. “I don’t suck barnacles! I saw your mother down there, and it warn’t her mouth the barnacles was slippin in, neither.”
“Ain’t the worst thing that’s been inside her,” Weasel-face laughs.
“I’m looking at the worst thing that’s been inside her,” Bolen says before turning back and staring at us. Through us. I swear our eyes meet, but no recognition shows in his dull gaze.
“Let’s go, shitstain. I’m not walking this whole damn night in the middle of Winter,” Weasel-face groans, grabbing Bolen by the neck and dragging him forward.
It’s impossible. That man saw us, stared at us, drew his sword to accost us, but then… I look over at Bastian, immediately squinting from the bright silver light glowing out from his form. His eyes remain closed, though fluttering rapidly. The light is shining from a symbol on his leg. The color is pure, a more enchanting silver than any I’ve ever seen. His features are angular and strong in the glow.
“Invisible?” I whisper.
Tana stares at me, her expression awed. She’s relived the memory with me, knowing I’m there behind her eyes. She doesn’t seem repulsed, as most do when another’s presence intrudes in the recesses of their mind. She seems almost grateful. Who is this girl? I resist the urge to reach out and continue to delve. The effort is exhausting what little reserves I’ve managed to build up over my rest.
“Shaper,” she quietly declares. As if the knowledge isn’t obvious at this point.
“Of Thought, neh?”
No one knows. That’s the trick to the level of my influence and the safety of my power. I haven’t shared the knowledge with a single soul… at least none who can tell the tale. For some reason, the thought of blanking this girl’s mind disquiets me, though. I don’t know if it’s because she saved my life or because of her reverence.
I almost do it. I almost destroy those memories, as I have with every person who's ever discovered my power. But it’s a relief. The secret of my Shaping has been with me for so long I guard it by instinct. The weight of it is extraordinary, now that I can feel it. Now that I’m being forced to acknowledge it. A secret is a powerful thing; the longer you hold on to it, the more difficult it becomes to share. The easier it seems to keep. The harder it is to reveal. I thought, long ago, that I had grown used to solitude. I was wrong.
Shit.
“Thought?” Tana asks, brow furrowing.
“Imagine my surprise the first time I read my mother’s mind, then got her to bring me the chocolate she was holding out of reach,” I say wryly, closing my eyes.
“How do we not know about you? Why are you keeping your power a secret? I mean, a scribe?”
“A convenient excuse to be around the most powerful men and women in Coin,” I say, the words coming easily despite my reluctance. Now that the spigot of information is open, the secrets just continue to flow. “I’m present at every negotiation, every meeting of the Khals, every foreign dignitary’s introduction…”
“Everyone has said that Coin is reaching unprecedented heights of growth,” Tana says, eyes widening. “All of our trade contracts are favorable. Every foreign negotiator leaves believing in the fairness of their deal, but they’re ruined in the process. You?”
“Quite informed, for a slave girl,” I say, smirking slightly.
“You hear things, spending time in the Minister’s chamber,” she retorts, gaze hardening. “I’ve ears as well.”
The flatness of her gaze makes me squirm. It isn’t because I’ve never been subjected to a disgruntled look. It’s that I didn’t even think about my comment before speaking. The lingering hurt I sense on the surface of her thoughts also plucks at a long-dormant portion of my mind. What the hell? I feel bad? The thought scares me.
“Tana, I’m sorry. I was actually impressed with your knowledge,” I start, but the words feel awkward. When was the last time I’ve apologized to anyone?
“It’s nothing,” she says. She stretches her foot out and jangles the heavy metal anklet marking her as the Minister’s property. “I am a slave. I shouldn’t be offended at this point.”
I consider saying more, but I can tell she doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. With a titanic effort, I manage to roll out of the bed. I land on one knee and wince at the new pain that shoots through my leg. At least it isn’t the damn stab wounds. They are just a dull ache in the back of my mind, easily ignored. I push off of my knee, forcing myself on my feet. Tana reaches for my arm, but I irritably slap her hands away. I’ll damn well stand on my own. Tottering around the hovel, the few steps from one side to the other exhaust me.
“Good enough,” I mutter, lowering myself slowly into a crouch with my back against the wall.
“Good enough for what?”
“To get out of this Creator-forsaken shithole.”
***
Tana supports me as we creep out into the streets, gingerly stepping through the filth and human detritus that litters the path. Halfway is a fantastically wealthy city due to its convenience, but it is also the home of unbelievable overpopulation. The dregs of the two great societies joined by the Way leave their desperate lives behind and make their staggering, unruly
way to Halfway, the city of wonder and opportunity far over the waves. The dream is real, for a few. A very few. Most quickly find themselves swindled, destitute, and tipped off the side of the Bridge by the very corpse wagons that saved my hide.
A ragged hood pulled low over my head, I don’t bother to hide my limp, holding my stomach close. Our grime and general malaise provide fantastic cover in the slums. No one bothers to rob the destitute. I see a few uninterested gleams coming from alleys we pass, but nothing to even suggest any danger. The thoughts surrounding us echo of depression and lethargy, a glaze of hardened apathy that can’t be cracked by so bedraggled a couple as we.
We pass swiftly out of the worst of the slums. The area is not very large simply because of the limited space of Halfway. The poor and the wealthy are crammed in street by street. Walk a few steps in Halfway and you can leave behind a man starving to death and enter a restaurant serving swordfish from the Isles a thousand miles away. I head for the long ramp down to the water, dutifully avoiding locking eyes with anyone, keeping my head down and my thoughts close about me. I’m still too weak to monitor the thoughts of all passersby, so I have to trust anonymity to protect us. The thought sets my palms to sweating. Every person who brushes past us could be a threat.
We reach the top of the ramp heading down to the docks, though the word seems inadequate for the miles-long stone piers that stretch out into a calm bay. Titanic stone walls curve around to either side and create the peaceful water so suited to commerce: the Bay of Solace. Far in the distance, houses and hovels have been built up even on the curtain walls. The Governor routinely tries to clear out the walls of Solace so that his men can get to the gigantic towers guarding the entrance to the bay, but it’s a never-ending endeavor. Made child’s toys by distance and perspective, dozens of ships rest quietly in their berths. Solace offers the only safe anchorage within a thousand miles. The massive waves of the Maelstrom grow smaller north of the Way, but they’re still large enough to eradicate any structure not blessed by the power of Shaping.
The Crux of Eternity: Eternal Dream, Book 1 (The Eternal Dream Saga) Page 18
