“Do you have any hope for this?” Tamaryl asked, and the question came out more urgent than he’d intended. “I’m sorry, I meant to say, I expect you have ideas to help mitigate the suffering here.”
Edeiya sat up, looking somber. “I wish I did. We can expand attempts to magically infuse the fields to help speed growth before the blight strikes, but that’s been only minimally successful so far and I’m not sure we can rely on it. To be honest, I believe there will be more riots and protests, and I don’t think we can survive without the raids to bring supplies.” She turned toward him, hair swinging. “But you have been too long in the human world, and this bothers you.”
“If we do not raid, we will indenture more nim, and we will turn on each other for ever-diminishing resources, and we will starve. And if we do raid, we will fight and perhaps kill people I love.”
She bent toward him, elbows on her knees, shifting her wings away from the fountain’s splash. “A leader should choose the greatest efficacy with the least harm. But when there is no perfect solution, and there rarely is, something will have to be sacrificed.”
Tamaryl closed his eyes. “I know. I thought before that it could be me, that I could sacrifice myself, stay away and not contribute to the harm. But that isn’t so.”
She tipped her head again, regarding him. “So you came home. You chose.”
He took a breath. “I chose.”
CHAPTER SIX
LUCA FOLDED HIS CHAINED wrists to his chest and rested his forehead on his knees. It was cold in the slave stable, making the warmth of his breath valuable, and burying his face let him hide the tears from the silent slaves around him.
Shianan had sold him away. It did not matter that it was to Luca’s own brother—he had not even asked Luca whether he wanted to go. That was his right as a slave’s master, but it was not what Luca had expected. It was not what he had believed.
Jarrick had not come to the caravan staging ground where Luca waited with the other slaves. Luca had sat in such a stable before, weeping and praying his father or brothers might come for him, but they had not. They had left him, then as now, chained, helpless, alone.
He heard himself whimper and tried to disguise it with a shiver. It was no worse than before, he told himself. At least now he was free of that despicable Furmelle collar, no longer marked a dangerous rebel. Perhaps he could be fortunate enough to find a reasonable place again.
Or, if Jarrick came, Luca could go home with him. He could live upon the Wakari Coast, watch the ships again, maybe return to his father’s accounting—
His stomach writhed like a provoked serpent. Would they welcome him? Would—would he be glad to return to them?
Jarrick had searched for him, he’d said. He had at least searched.
Luca shivered, a real shiver this time. His cloak had been left in Shianan’s office, and he could see his breath when he lifted his head. Thin moonlight through high windows showed the dark forms of other slaves, huddled together or curled tightly as they slept. There was a clink of metal as someone shifted in the straw.
Someone began arguing outside. “Let me...!” snapped a voice before it dropped again. Luca glanced toward the door. Jarrick? He wasn’t sure. There was a sharp exchange of voices, indistinguishable, and then silence.
Luca dropped his forehead to his knees again. If Jarrick did not come, then he would be a nameless and helpless slave once more. If Jarrick came, he would have to face the family that had abandoned him. If he had stayed with Shianan, he would have remained a slave forever, while if he went home to the Wakari Coast, his family could free him...
He sighed. He did not even know what he would choose—but he did not have the power to choose. Shianan should never have remade him into a thinking, feeling entity once again. It had been cruelty to enslave and brutalize Luca the first time, but it was beyond cruelty to offer him friendship and then return him to what he had been.
But no, Luca would not think of Shianan. Not now. He would not think on the friend who had betrayed him at his most vulnerable.
He would sit here, passive and silent, and wait for what would come.
LUCA WOKE, STIFF WITH cold, as the stable door opened. He picked his way to a corner to relieve himself, glad they had not chained his wrists behind his back.
The overseers moved through the stable, addressing their various tasks. A boy of eight or ten started down the aisle with a bucket of mush and a shoulder bag of wooden cups, dipping each cup efficiently and dispensing them among the slaves. Luca accepted one with his bound hands and gulped at it, though it was cooled and thick. He knew enough of caravans to take breakfast when offered, and quickly.
Indeed, a moment later an overseer went to the stall beside Luca’s, jangling keys and chains. “Up, now! On your feet. Move it.” There was a general shuffle as the slaves were directed toward the wagons.
Luca sucked the last of the viscous mush and rose with a few other slaves as another overseer came to their stall. The overseer muttered and toed a body still curled in the straw. Luca’s stomach tightened; this was all too familiar. He shoved his hands before him and waited, eyes on his wrists.
The overseer reached him and hesitated. “You’re a tack-on, right?”
Luca hesitated. “I’m sorry?”
“You’re not ours, you belong to a passenger. Who’s your master?”
Was Jarrick coming after all? “I served Commander Becknam until yesterday, when—” His voice broke as he discovered a slave could learn yet new humiliation.
The overseer didn’t seem to notice. “Don’t know your new master yet? You’ll go in the line.” He nodded toward one of the wagons being pulled into the yard.
Luca glanced hopefully at his wrists. The overseer scowled. “No one walks free in the line. Go.”
Luca obediently moved toward the indicated wagon, where another overseer linked his wrists to a long chain which stretched from the rear of the wagon. The weight pulled lightly at his arms.
Luca recognized the slave chained opposite him but did not speak until the overseer had moved on. “Andrew?”
The slave glanced at him. “Oh, you. The commander’s servant.”
Not anymore. “Luca. What happened?”
Andrew shrugged. “They didn’t need as many hands in the kitchen, I suppose. Lent me to the warehouses for a day, then another, and then decided they could do without me.”
Andrew had only one wrist chained; Luca had not done well to struggle in Shianan’s office. “Will you sell as kitchen help or labor?”
“I don’t know. I think they—”
“Move up!” came the order. “Into line, now, let’s go!”
The wagons were shifted into formation, the slaves evenly distributed. The boy was coming down the lines now with a heavy bucket of water, offering the ladle to each slave. A movement caught Luca’s eye, and Jarrick hurried into the yard. Luca’s throat closed.
Jarrick addressed the nearest overseer while scanning the closest line of slaves. The overseer pointed toward Trader Matteo and Jarrick hurried toward him, followed by a slave bearing a roped chest on his back.
Luca watched as Trader Matteo pointed Jarrick’s slave—other slave—toward a wagon to stow the cargo and nodded for an overseer to take charge of him. Few slaves traveled loose with a caravan since Furmelle.
Jarrick asked the trader a further question, but the trader shook his head impatiently, busy with the final organization of the caravan. He gestured at the wagons, and Jarrick started for the far end of the line. Jarrick’s name formed in Luca’s throat, but he knew better than to call.
Knew better than to let Jarrick ignore his call.
An overseer directed two more figures alongside Luca’s line. Trader Matteo signaled and they paused as he drew near. He studied them for a moment, appraising them with an expert eye. One was a thin, dark-haired man, the other broader with fair hair, both with their hands shackled behind them. Troublemakers.
Trader Matteo looked at
the thin, dark one. “You’re not strong enough for a single, I hear. But you had a good price. We’ll fatten you a little and see if you can’t be motivated for a multi-hitch. Put him behind number three.” He turned to the broader man. “And you’re the overseer who didn’t work out.”
The man licked his lips. “I did as told, master.”
“Orcan says you embarrassed him in front of his patron and a dozen others. Says you make a better draft than overseer, from his trial.” Matteo frowned. “Bend over.”
The slave hesitated. “Master...”
“Bend over.”
The slave eased forward gingerly, his face tight. Matteo sighed. “Orcan’s sharp about that, anyway. You’ll go in the line for a day or two, give your back a chance to close, and then we’ll move you to draft. Number three.”
The two slaves were fastened behind Luca and Andrew. Neither spoke, and the thin one seemed to lean away from the other, stretching at the end of his single wrist chain. The demoted big slave was pushed into line and chained by both wrists. Luca turned his eyes away from the overseer.
And then Jarrick was running toward them. “Luca! Trader, that’s my slave. I want him released.”
“Released?” repeated Matteo from the next wagon. “Why?”
“He doesn’t need to be in the line. I want him with me.”
The boy with the water reached Luca’s line. Andrew took the ladle.
Matteo shook his head. “You can manage for a week. I’ve got a reputation of never having lost a one, and I mean to keep it. If you need him for some chore, let me know, but he’ll walk with the others.”
Luca shook his head as the water boy came to him, intent on the conversation at the edge of his hearing. The boy regarded him curiously and then offered the ladle to the dark-haired slave.
“But—but he’s my...”
What excuse would he give the trader?
“He’s my brother. I’m taking him home. Let me have him, please.”
The broad slave fumbled the ladle in his bound hands, spilling. The boy glanced nervously at him and dipped another.
Matteo stared at Jarrick. “Your brother, eh?” He shook his head. “You say that, but to me, he’s responsibility. He’s a slave, and a slave until we cross the border. If I free him before then, I break the law.”
“But just to unchain him, to let him ride with me—”
“Hey!” An overseer came from the other side, a switch in his hand. “What are you about there?”
The water boy jumped and snatched the ladle back from the big slave, retreating.
“One ladle each, runt. Don’t waste time.” He scowled at the demoted slave. “And you—think you’re something special?” The line of slaves ducked and flinched away in unison, but the switch landed solidly on the slave’s broad shoulders. “You’re common labor, now, and you’ll act like it.”
Luca cringed, afraid the switch would descend again, but the overseer moved on. He looked back toward Matteo and Jarrick, who were walking away together, still in conversation. Jarrick glanced back over the trader’s shoulder and their eyes met.
Luca, Jarrick mouthed. Hold on.
Luca’s stomach clenched. It was no different. Endure, Luca.
The final checks were completed, the cargo of feed and supplies confirmed, and the orders came to move. Luca shuffled forward with the others, chains ringing and pulling at his wrists.
Endure, Luca.
CHAPTER SEVEN
TAMARYL CONSCIOUSLY flattened his wings, worried their restless tension would betray him, and looked down the line. Mostly nim, one or two che per group. It should be enough. He hoped it was enough.
He hoped this was the right choice.
To his right, Edeiya’rika landed gracefully and walked to stand beside him, her eyes on the gathered nim. “You came to watch them?”
He nodded. His chest was too tight to speak.
“I know what this must cost you,” she said softly, her eyes just darting to him and then moving quickly back to the others.
He wasn’t sure that was true, but he appreciated her effort. He clasped his hands behind his back, attempting a more open posture. “I heard about the raid last night.”
“A Hentu attack on our westernmost repository. They came in force, but we were able to drive them away. They suffered significant casualties; I hope they will not return soon.”
“Thank you for your service.”
She nodded once. “Two days ago the Lian made a probe to leap the between-worlds, testing the shield, but of course that was unsuccessful. We did not even bother to shoo them away, letting them carry back word that it would be futile to try again.”
Tamaryl nodded. “And the storehouse protest this morning?”
Her face was somber, her eyes directly ahead. She’d known he was working toward the question. “I handled that myself. It was unpleasant for all. But we distributed enough to calm the panic and buy time.”
Tamaryl drew a slow breath, exhaled it, unclasped his aching fingers. “I hope it is enough.”
SOREN YAWNED AND SHIFTED beneath the heavy blankets, already sensing the tingle of cold outside the bed. He heard the subtle creak of his door and the soft sound of someone crossing to the fire, stirring and fueling it. Soren said nothing; he did not want to admit to being awake yet. The ball had finally dissipated sometime around dawn, and he had only then made his way back to his rooms, dropping his formal clothes to the floor and falling into bed. If he remained still, he might slip back into sleep...
How did Ethan do it? He’d dismissed the slave sometime before dawn, but surely Ethan had seen to other duties before going to his own bed.
A hand caught the edge of the hanging curtains and drew them back. Soren squinted against the light and turned his face into the downy pillow. “Not yet,” he mumbled into it. “Go away.”
“I’m sorry,” answered Ethan, “but you’re called.”
Soren groaned. “I specifically told the commander not to come early.”
“No, master. It’s His Majesty.”
Soren twisted, cool air shocking his bare chest as the blankets fell away. “Find me something to wear.”
He stumbled out of his room with his doublet over one shoulder, Ethan doing up the sleeve lacing while Soren ran fingers through his uncombed hair. By the time he reached the private sitting room, the doublet was over both shoulders, fashionably unlaced at the collar, and his leggings were tucked securely into his boots. He glanced to Ethan, who nodded to confirm no escaping shirttail betrayed him, and then he raised a hand to signal the page beside the door.
King Jerome was seated at a table set for a meal, but without any food. He had a sheaf of papers before him, several in one hand, others scattered about the place settings. “Soren, good morning, come in,” he said, barely looking up. “I thought you could join us for brunch.”
“Us?”
“Your mother and brother will be coming shortly. We can take care of some state business before they arrive.”
“Certainly.” Soren waited for his father’s gesture and then took a seat.
Jerome raised a handful of paper. “I see the embargo situation has not been dealt with. How is that?”
“My lord, you know I’ve been bending on that task for—”
“Too long, far too long. We are losing revenue, the merchants are losing trade, and I am losing patience.”
Soren took a breath. “Sire, the route in question has been in dispute for over thirty years. I cannot arbitrarily order a resolution, and I must be seen giving consideration to—”
“Are you fretting about your image?” demanded the king. “Worried what the courtiers might think of you?” He shook his head and deposited the papers in another stack before rising from the table to pace. “You have two lords locked in disagreement, and you cannot let them wallow in their past contentions. Speak with them, understand them, and then do what must be done.”
Soren stood as well. “I will review our work
with an eye toward more immediate resolution.”
The king paused, and something changed subtly in his expression. “Bailaha dedicated himself entirely to retrieving the Shard.”
Soren was cut. “As I am working toward this end.”
“Our trade routes are critical to our thriving despite Ryuven predation. See that it’s resolved.”
Soren bowed, stung. “Yes, sire.”
“Good morning,” said Queen Azalie as she entered. She eyed their respective positions on opposite sides of the table. “Let’s sit down together, shall we?”
The king and queen took seats sharing a corner, a little distance apart but facing one another amiably. Azalie lifted her cheek for Soren. “It’s not too early for you, is it?”
Soren grinned. “I stayed with the last of the guests, I’m afraid.” He moved toward her and kissed the cheek she offered.
“What did I interrupt?”
“Nothing much,” the king said. “We were talking about Shianan Becknam. I had not expected him last night. I am sorry.”
“It wasn’t so bad as that,” Azalie answered. “I had not seen him since he was a small child. But I was surprised he appeared so boldly at an event to celebrate that which he was accused of destroying.”
“He was acquitted,” Soren said quickly.
His mother smiled, a personal smile of acknowledgment; he had revealed something to her in those few words. She did not play him like his father, but she could always ferret out what he hadn’t meant to say aloud.
But he had no time to think on it before the king continued, “I won’t have him inserting himself. The queen has long troubled herself to be rid of him, and then he, without invitation, took our royal hospitality while the touch of the High Star was still on him. His wings must be clipped.”
Soren’s heart quickened. “Father, I said last night it was good he’d come, that it demonstrated your faith in him after the trial and acquittal. I complimented you on his inclusion. Don’t you remember—"
“We did not invite him!” snapped Jerome. “And when I find who did, there will be dire consequences, even if it is Alasdair who did it.” He frowned and looked at Azalie. “You don’t suppose it was Alasdair, do you?”
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