“I won’t make a habit of this, I promise. But I’ve known Andrew—he won’t go to a good place, Jarrick. Look at him, he’s not going to make anyone a handsome servitor or litter bearer. The only place he’ll go in Ivat is to the mines or to someone who couldn’t afford proper labor, and they’ll kill him in months.” He paused to breathe. He hadn’t realized this meant so much to him. “Jarrick, that could have been me. That was me. I’ve been there, after Furmelle. Please, not to someone I know.”
Jarrick swore. “Take the money, Luca. As if I could—go get him. But what are you going to do with him?”
Luca was already moving back toward Matteo, who received the payment amiably and motioned for Andrew to be released. The slave nearly ran to Luca, relief plain in his features. “Thank you, Luca, I mean, my lord, thank you...”
“That would be your master,” Matteo corrected easily. “Get on, then. Luca Roald, I am not quite certain, but I think it has been a pleasure. I hope I never have to negotiate with you from equal ground, but if we meet again, remember I took no unfair advantage of you.”
Luca gave him a small bow. “Thank you for your consideration.” He turned toward Jarrick, with Andrew following.
Jarrick was ready with a plan. “There’s a good chance we’ll find Isen at his office here. He splits his time between Ivat and Abbar. We’ll go to a local smith and then try his office. Han and Cole, and your new one, will wait for us at the Red Sail— they have a room for servants—until we’ve finished and can go up to Isen’s place. That’s where you’ll stay.” Luca thought Jarrick’s voice changed subtly. “You can stay as long as you want. But I’m sure they’ll be glad to have you home again when you—”
“Where is the nearest trader?” Luca interrupted. His stomach had clenched at Jarrick’s first mention of home.
Jarrick seemed taken aback. “Up the street, if you remember. What’s wrong?”
“I’m just nervous about the cuffs,” Luca muttered. “I want to have it done.”
“Then let’s go.”
The Red Sail was a nicer tavern than many in a coastal village, a few streets away from the docks and aimed more at merchants than their hired men. There was an additional space behind the public room, where several slaves loitered while their masters drank or made deals in the front. Jarrick directed their slaves there, bought drinks for himself and Luca, and checked the wallet at his waist. Luca stared at the ale, remembering another tavern, another drink...
“Luca?”
He jumped. “Sorry.” He pushed away the ale.
“Not to your liking?”
“Have it yourself,” Luca replied quietly.
Jarrick watched him for a moment and then finished his own. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“Let’s go.”
The slaver’s was not far, and after Jarrick spoke with the smith, Luca bent over the fitting table for the fifth time. Must be something of a record, he thought wildly as he turned his eyes from the workman’s hammer.
The cuffs came free without much trouble and Jarrick paid the slaver as Luca stood, rubbing his naked wrists. He was truly free now. Truly free.
Jarrick clapped him across the back. “Welcome home, Luca.” He grinned over Luca’s faintly bewildered relief. “Let’s go find Isen, shall we?”
Falten Isen was a merchant and a good friend of Jarrick’s. Jarrick was certain he would welcome Luca.
“Does he—know me?” Luca asked. “Does he know who I am?”
Jarrick hesitated. “He knows I had another brother, yes,” he answered obliquely. “I don’t know that he would know you.”
“Could we not tell him?”
Jarrick looked at him. “Don’t you think he might wonder why I need to hide someone?”
“You’re not hiding anyone! We’re just using the house as he would, for a respite. I don’t want word getting back first...”
“How would word get back before I did?” asked Jarrick. “Or didn’t you... I thought I would tell them right away. How could I not tell them?”
Luca had no answer for that. How could Jarrick not tell the family that Luca had been found?
How could Luca return to the family which had sold him?
“I’ll tell them tonight, all right?” Jarrick sounded as if he were trying to convince a child. “And Trader Matteo knows, anyway. Word might spread regardless.”
Luca could not argue.
“Don’t you want to come with me? Shouldn’t you be there when they first hear?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged and looked down at himself, muddy, weary, marked, in filthy and crumpled clothing. “Not like this, anyway.”
“I see,” Jarrick agreed. “What would you like?”
During the first year or so of Luca’s enslavement, he had comforted himself in the night with visions of his return home. Sometimes he had earned his freedom, either by a great heroic deed—saving one of the tutored children was a common device, from a falling crate or from bandits—or, less often, by finding additional work and saving to redeem himself. Then he would appear unannounced at home and his family would fall upon him, sobbing and begging his forgiveness.
Sometimes, in his hopeful dreams, he earned his freedom and set out to further earn a fortune, secretly buying his father’s debts. Then, when the house was on verge of collapse, Luca returned triumphantly, restoring his family and receiving their gratitude and pleas for forgiveness.
Sometimes he secretly purchased the house’s debts and then revealed himself, but he did not save them—instead, he savored their screamed apologies and craven begging as they were dragged away in chains as debtors, while he resumed his old place.
Never had he imagined himself brought back by one of his brothers, facing them almost as the slave he’d left.
Jarrick led the way to a clothing market and gestured for Luca to look over the wares. The fashions were somewhat different here, and Luca spent a few minutes staring at the array of options, almost paralyzed. He had chosen nothing for himself, made no decisions for himself for so long...
“I think this blue is nice,” offered Jarrick. Luca glanced at him, wondering if his brother had seen through his hesitation, but Jarrick seemed to be merely browsing and chatting. “Your coloring would be served well.”
Luca found his voice. “Do they all have these ridiculous shortened sleeves?” He held up a tunic with sleeves that ended midway between elbow and wrist.
“That’s the style. Alham will have it next year, you’ll see.”
The shortened sleeves would betray the mismatched coloring and scrapes of Luca’s newly unshackled wrists. Jarrick seemed to follow his thoughts. “You could wear a longer shirt beneath it. There are a few who choose a layered effect. Could you find such a shirt, please?” he directed the vendor.
The shirt sleeves were not as long as Luca would have liked, but it seemed the best he would find. He slipped self-consciously between two hangings to change, keeping his back to a wall lest someone catch a glimpse. Then, dressed in fresh leggings, braies, shirt, tunic, a new cloak, and unscuffed boots, he looked at Jarrick anxiously for approval.
Jarrick nodded. “Splendid. We probably should have visited the bathhouse first, but you look wholly different. Better.”
Luca felt a whisper of encouragement. “Then I suppose you’d better pay for these.”
But he caught the merchant eying his wrists as they paid, and he flushed with shame. The clothes did not make him different.
“The ragpickers will be glad of these,” commented a shop assistant, and he tossed the discarded clothing into the street. Luca hesitated, an unvoiced protest on his lips. The shirt had been Shianan’s, and it felt wrong to cast it away. But bitterly fighting children set on the clothes almost as they landed and they were gone in seconds.
Jarrick had not noticed Luca’s dismay. “And now, to Isen.”
“One more, please,” Luca said quickly. He pointed to a sash of the same pale linen as his shirt. “I’d like that, please.”
&
nbsp; Jarrick gave him a curious look but nodded, and the shopkeeper handed it wordlessly to Luca.
“I’ll go find Isen,” Jarrick offered, replacing his wallet. “Shall we meet at the Red Sail?”
Luca returned to the tavern and sat in a corner, only a few paces from the door to the slaves’ area. Alone in the shadow, conscious of Cole’s and Andrew’s eyes, he methodically tore the sash into strips. Then he wound the strips about his palms and up his wrists, tying them awkwardly. They slid and slipped about his fingers.
“I can help, master,” offered Cole. He was bare-chested, working a repair in his whip-torn shirt with a fishbone needle and thread teased from an edge.
Luca turned toward him. “Please do.”
Cole twisted the strips and bound them securely, so that the signs of the cuffs were completely hidden. Luca braced his elbows on his knees and looked at the result. He looked something like a street entertainer, wrestling for a few coins, but less like a slave, he thought.
He glanced up and saw a man across the public room staring directly at him. He quickly averted his eyes. What had he seen? Did he think Luca looked familiar? Had he known him when younger, or did he know his brothers? Luca bit at his lip and then slowly pulled his hood over his hair.
And then Jarrick was coming toward them with another man. Cole retreated to the rear room and Luca slid to make room at the table. “This is my friend Falten Isen,” Jarrick introduced. “Isen, my friend Dom Nerrin. He needs a place to relax for a few days.”
Luca felt a quick rush of gratitude. Jarrick had not called him by name after all. Luca did not yet need to face the pitying, assaying stares of those who knew he was returning to the family who had rejected him.
“Relax?” repeated Isen with a grin. “He looks as if he needs a place to hide.”
Luca’s heart froze, and then he realized the man was only joking about his garb. He slid the hood back from his head. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “Habit. From the sun.”
“You’ve been in the east, then?” Isen nodded knowledgeably. “After much of that sun, you’d need more than my humble house to recuperate. Well, if Jarrick vouches for you, you’re welcome there. Someone ought to keep an eye on the silver.”
“He’ll be there intermittently,” Jarrick put in. “He’ll come with me at times.”
“I hope you won’t need too much in the way of hospitality,” Isen said. “I’ve left just one servant there, to keep away the dust.”
“I need very little,” Luca said. “An empty house would suit me.” Belatedly he realized he had servants of his own.
“Well, it’s near enough.” Isen slapped the table. “Let’s go up, then. The gate will never open to you alone. She’s too cautious for that.”
Luca nodded, thinking of Marta, the plump mistress who did the accounts for Fhure. She was level-headed and certainly would open no doors without good cause. He rubbed at his eyebrow.
The afternoon sun was bright as they ascended the hill road, and to maintain his thin story Luca drew his hood up again. It actually felt good, in some way, to hide anonymously within his hood. He was a turtle, secure within his mobile shelter.
Isen had a faint limp, but it did not slow him noticeably. The three slaves followed them, silently taking turns with Jarrick’s chest. Luca was glad of that, as it demonstrated to Jarrick the servants he’d brought weren’t useless. They left the road and took a narrower track to a walled garden, set against the steep rise of the mountain which lay behind Ivat and Abbar. Isen pulled a cord and a bell sounded pleasantly within.
A moment later a door slid back in the gate, showing dark eyes behind a lattice. “Welcome, master.”
She was younger than Luca had imagined, less like plump Marta and more like what Sara must be like now, if he let himself think of her. He pushed his sister from his mind and looked about the garden as they entered.
A fountain played before them, with hardy autumn flowers wilting about it, the last of the Wakari’s late season. The rest of the walled area was filled with flowering vines, fruit trees, and vegetable plots, but most were withering with the onset of winter. In the center stood an upright white house, two levels and a flat roof. Somewhere behind the house, a goat bleated.
“I never meant to entertain here,” Isen said, “so there isn’t much for hospitality. Please use my room, of course, and help yourself to whatever has been laid in for winter. Except, of course, for Marla.” He laughed in a good-natured way, but there was warning beneath.
Luca nodded, caught off-guard.
“What about the slaves?” Isen turned. “Which are yours?”
“Two, but I will have little need of them here. I thought to send—”
“I will take the smaller one for a time,” Jarrick interrupted, “but I think you should keep Cole. We haven’t the work for him, and you said you’d rather not send him to the docks. He can work the garden here or help the girl with any lifting in the house.” He dropped his voice. “If he doesn’t kill you in your sleep.”
Isen nodded. “There’s a hut in the rear for a gardener, or he could stay in the back room downstairs.” He looked at Marla. “As you’ve guessed, this man will be staying here for a time. Please render him your appropriate service. Nerrin, is there anything else you need?”
“No, my lord,” Luca answered before he could think. He licked his lips, hoping no one would notice the slip. “No, I think I will be very comfortable here. It has the privacy I seek, and I don’t require much else. Thank you very much for your generosity.”
Isen nodded. “My pleasure, for a friend of a friend. I’m sure you can find your way inside, and Jarrick and I should be on our way if we are to keep the light down the mountain.”
Andrew took a quick step forward. “I will go with my lord’s—friend, then?” His voice was worried.
Luca nodded. “Go with Jarrick, Andrew. He’ll find a place for you.” He looked at his brother. “He’ll do well in a kitchen, if you can put him there. Thank you for taking care of him for me.”
Jarrick nodded. Andrew bowed again. “Thank you, my lord.”
“I’ll come by later,” Jarrick promised solemnly. “Until then, Lu—Dom Nerrin.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SNOW HAD BEGUN TO FALL, clinging to Shianan’s cloak as he crossed the courtyard, but Shianan had no eyes for it. He tore open his office door and stalked inside, casting a dark glance at the soldier leaning against the edge of his desk. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.
The soldier jerked to attention. “Sir! I had reports, sir, and I—”
“And you saw fit to wait in my office?”
He faltered. “I’m sorry, sir, I thought you wouldn’t mind... It’s snowing...”
“So I see.” Shianan shook the flakes from his hair and ripped his cloak from his shoulders. “I seem to have survived it, myself.”
The soldier straightened. “I am also to tell you, sir, that Sergeant Parr would like a word with you before our next assembly, regarding the upcoming review.”
“Can’t he organize a handful of turnip-headed—” Shianan stopped himself and took a slow, shuddering breath, raking his hand through his damp hair. “Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Then get out.”
“Yes, sir.”
Shianan slammed the door behind him and snapped the bolt into place. He would see no one else that afternoon. He went into his sleeping quarters, locking that door too behind him.
He dropped heavily into a chair and let his head fall backward, eyes closed. His stomach clenched into a sick, wretched knot.
Useless. All of it, useless.
She committed treason for the unconscious Ryuven—she risked her life for him. All that Shianan had done for her, she did for the Ryuven—and not just a Ryuven, but for Pairvyn ni’Ai, the nemesis of legend, their enemy above enemies. She sheltered him, protected him, risked her life for him.
He groaned miserably. She committed treason, betraye
d all that he had done for her, and he knew he would never speak a word against her. Jealousy would not make him overturn his effort to save her. And that hurt nearly as much as the betrayal.
He did not try to conceal his conflict. There was no one to see it. His quarters were empty, chilly with an untended brazier. No one would see.
No, it had not been quite useless... At the least, she had survived and come home to their world, safe from the Ryuven. Hadn’t he told himself that he would be satisfied with that? Wasn’t it enough to know she was not dead, or the helpless prisoner of some depraved Ryuven?
He set his elbows on his knees and buried his face. And he could take some small vindictive pleasure, if he tried. Ariana could no more openly claim her choice of lover than Shianan could have done. He had always known his desire was a fantasy, that the bastard would never be permitted a Mage of the Circle. And a Mage of the Circle could never wed the Ryuven champion. He choked a bitter, contemptuous laugh.
He wanted to go and find the strongest drink money could buy, to gulp it until his throat burned and his stomach scorched and he could not recall even his name, much less the details of his unhappy existence. He missed Luca keenly. He had not guessed how stark his quarters would be without the slave. Before Luca’s coming, Shianan had not known what he lacked. And he missed the White Mage, whom he’d barely known but had grown to like during their brief conspiracy. It was too awkward to speak with him now.
He rubbed savagely at his eyes. He could not afford to drink, not now. The last incident had scathed a warning deep into him, and while he had little pride left to preserve, he’d rather not sacrifice the rest before the court. Given his luck, the moment he picked up a bottle, the king himself would walk through the door. Even Prince Soren couldn’t save him then.
He sagged another inch. The prince might well ask him how the apology had gone, and Shianan had no reasonable lie. He would have to answer that the Black Mage preferred someone else to him. He sighed. At least he could be spared explaining that his rival was such in every sense of the word.
MARLA EYED THE STRANGER warily. He was swathed in a cloak, which he kept pulled close about him as if cold, and when she caught a glimpse of his hands, hidden within his cloak despite the moderate temperature, the wrists were wrapped to the arms. What was this man? Had her master brought a leper?
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