Blood & Bond

by Laura VanArendonk Baugh

  Two men seized Parrin and pressed him onto his knees, taking a handful of hair to bend him over a stained and jagged block of wood.

  “Don’t!” Tam shoved hard against someone in his path and the priceless grimoires tumbled to the ground. He seized spectators’ clothing and tore himself through. “Don’t do it! You can’t!”

  The axeman heaved his weapon overhead.

  “No!”

  The axe fell, and the mob screamed and cheered. Tam shrieked. Ewan made a desperate lunge and snatched the boy’s tunic as the axe rose again. The guards holding the Ryuven turned their heads to avoid the spatter of blood. Ewan dragged Tam back, thrashing, and crushed him in his arms. The axe rose a third time and thudded dully into the wood.

  “No,” gasped Tam raggedly, beating his clenched fist into Ewan’s chest. “No, no! This wasn’t—he was supposed to be safe! You promised he would be safe!”

  “I didn’t know anything of this,” Ewan tried, but he knew his explanation couldn’t be heard, not now.

  “Why didn’t you stop them?” Tam bowed his head and struck Ewan again. “You’re a mage! You’re a mage! Why didn’t you...”

  Ewan held the boy among the scattered books, while around them the crowd called and cheered. Slaves carried the dead Ryuven away separately, a grey mage filled glass vials with blood, someone tripped over a book and cursed. Tam, partially concealed within the white sleeves, alternately pushed at Ewan and clung to him, and Ewan held him with the apology he could not say.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  IT FELT STRANGE TO stand beside the road while other slaves worked at the wagons. Cole glanced at his master, a few paces away and preoccupied. Cole seemed to be left to himself for the moment, which suited him.

  He lowered himself to the dead grass, his back to the road, and laced his fingers through the dry thatch. A few stalks of dried garlic flowers lay across the grass, no doubt dropped from a passing wagon. Remio’s caravan included spices as well as furniture, foodstuffs, cloth, and more. Cole breathed deep, grateful he was not in the line behind him.

  A part of him thought he should have served as labor in the caravan. If his master had meant to pay for his passage, perhaps he could have kept the difference as his first funds toward redeeming himself. Another part, though, relished his reprieve. He would work hard enough in their new home to support his master and his own precious savings.

  For the dozenth time, he reviewed potential positions and what he might negotiate in hire. With his master’s generous offer, he might achieve his freedom while young. He wouldn’t be one of the broken and toothless old men sold for mere coppers, scraping seeds or other minor work until their eyesight failed and they were herded panicking into battle to slow the charge of an opposing army.

  They had been traveling two days, and the hills were far less steep than when Cole had struggled with a heavy wagon. Only a few days more until he returned to the life of a draft slave, but the respite was welcome.

  The wind carried a snatch of voice toward him, and he glanced to where his master stood in conversation with Marla. Cole didn’t understand Luca’s strange behavior toward the slave woman. Even if he did not savor rough love, it would not take much to convince her that she wanted it. It would be simple enough to avoid Isen’s gaze; the man slept hard. But they had not, so far as he could tell, closed the distance. Cole shrugged. Perhaps his master waited for the privacy of their new quarters.

  Wait—what was this? Cole grinned. Luca and Marla were walking as they talked, moving along the road further from the forming camp. Perhaps they would choose the relative shelter of the woods. “Good fishing, master,” Cole wished him under his breath. Lucky dog.

  But they stopped, and Luca turned to face Marla, putting distance between them as he did so. Cole realized he did not mean to take her this time, either. “Pike, what a waste,” he muttered. He shifted uncomfortably. He certainly wouldn’t turn down any friendly accommodation.

  He glanced in the other direction, still faintly nervous about sitting idle. A few dozen paces away, two of the caravan guards were in close discussion. They paused and looked toward him, and Cole averted his eyes. He was shirking nothing, he had done nothing wrong...

  “You, slave.” One of them approached and gestured. “Over here, near the line.”

  Cole hesitated, torn between avoidance and obedience. “But I am not a part of the line.”

  The guard’s tone sharpened. “On your feet, brute, and in your place. I don’t care that you haven’t been in the line, you’re in it now.”

  Cole got to his feet. Didn’t they recognize him as Luca’s servant? “My master is—‍”

  The guard drew his sword and grinned. “Your master is Garl Asher now. Get in the line.”

  Cole stared, stunned and confused, as men began streaming from the woods, shouting and brandishing weapons. Other caravan guards cried with surprise and anger and ran to meet them as the slaves bunched together behind the wagons. Asher seized Cole’s arm, shoving him toward the wagons. Then he impartially slashed the hamstring of a passing guard. “Esar! In the rear!”

  Falten Isen stood against two attackers, holding them at bay with a scavenged polearm, and they could not seem to summon the courage to penetrate his defense. But a third bandit circled and struck him from behind, driving a sword up through his back. Isen gasped, fell, convulsed. Cole saw him die.

  The second guard pointed. “Look there.”

  Cole followed the pointing finger and saw Luca and Marla running for the woods. Asher swore. “I thought everyone was in camp!”

  Luca and Marla were beyond the ring of bandits and defending guards, trying for the sheltering trees. But Asher was far more swift. They were passing the first wagon when Luca pushed Marla forward with a shout and whirled, seizing the trader’s staff which stood ready in every caravan wagon. He crouched to meet Asher.

  Even at this distance, Cole could read his master’s uncertainty. He would never stand against the charging guard—

  But then Luca whipped the staff overhead and ran hard at Asher, forcing him to pause in his chase after Marla and defend himself. He blocked the first strike with his short sword and drove directly into Luca, who retreated with his staff flashing. Cole could not tell which of them had the advantage. But then Asher stepped inside the blurring hemisphere of Luca’s staff and smashed his pommel against Luca’s temple.

  Luca dropped as if struck by lightning, his staff bouncing away. Asher stepped over him and followed in the direction Marla had run.

  Steel jabbed at Cole’s ribs and he jumped. “Move,” snapped a bandit, safe at the end of a polearm. “In the line and on your knees.”

  Cole raised his hands. He could not see his master’s body from the center of the camp. The point raked his ribs and he flinched away, kneeling as his pulse pounded hard through his ears. For a moment he thought of surging upward and choking the man, but there was the length of a polearm between them, and what difference did it make to a slave who led the caravan?

  Around him caravan guards fell to bandits or the traitors. The draft slaves pressed close together, huddling beneath a wagon to avoid the fighting. Travelers who had bought caravan passage for comfort and safety shrieked and bunched close, clutching small valuables or makeshift weapons. When the bandits finished with the guards and converged on the group, most threw down their weapons in terrified surrender. A few charged desperately, and as Cole watched they were efficiently suppressed.

  The attackers did not kill, though, if they could simply disarm or disable. In moments the fighting ended, and bandits began prodding together the slaves and freemen alike. “Give up your riches,” came the call. “Coins and jewels!”

  “You!” Cole jumped and looked at the guard Asher, stalking toward him. “On your feet, I have work for you. You, too, over there. I want those wagons gathered close. Esar! We need to sort the most valuable cargo into two or three wagons. I don’t think we can afford to move more than that.”

  “Bu
t Asher, we’ve got all these to use.”

  “Too slow,” Asher snapped. “Get to work. You slaves, with me.”

  Cole and another slave obediently got into the shafts of the outlying wagons and dragged them together, panting with the effort of moving a four-man wagon with only two, but it was a short distance and Cole thought Asher would brook no protest. He scanned the road’s shoulder but saw no sign of Luca or Marla.

  Asher caught him looking as he finished with a wagon of bales of cloth. “Wondering what happened to him?” He jerked his chin for Cole to follow and went to the next wagon. Cole stood a few paces back, glancing worriedly as Esar came to stand beside him. The second traitor guard looked impassively at Cole and then announced, “That’s everyone.”

  “Except that girl,” Asher growled. “Pity, she would have sold well.” He reached into the wagon and seized a handful of cloth, rolling an unresisting body over the rear. Luca hit the ground hard, his limbs twisting under him or sprawling to the side. Blood marred one side of his head. Cole stared. Was he dead?

  No, not dead. Luca moaned and stirred. Asher grinned. “Doesn’t look so important now, does he?” He drew a knife and bent over Luca.

  “No!” Cole gasped.

  Asher laughed. “Nah. He’s no profit dead.” He slit the laces of the shirt and reached inside. “This, though, this is profit.” He withdrew the flat wallet, cutting the cord which held it to Luca’s belt. “What have we here? Some coins, nothing much, and what’s this?”

  Asher withdrew the parchment from the wallet, making Cole tense. That was Luca’s...

  “Inheritance?” Asher squinted at the paper, frowning at the more difficult words. “Flames, we’ve got a rich prize here.” He grinned.

  Luca’s free arm moved weakly to his chest, as if feeling for the wallet. Asher glanced down. “You looking for this?” He kicked Luca, making him grunt.

  Cole stood immobile. This was no different than observing a beating as an overseer, he told himself. No different.

  Asher looked at Cole. “This one was your master, right?” He grinned. “You’ve probably dreamed of doing that yourself.” He kicked Luca again, who moaned and curled to protect himself. “Want to try it?”

  Cole made himself speak. “What will you do with us, my lord?”

  Asher liked the honorific. “Profit off you, of course. Auction you away. Not much change for you, just a change of scenery. Benefit, really.” He sneered at Luca. “Too bad for him, though. Must chafe to wake up and find yourself a slave.”

  Cole would be sold again, as draft labor most likely, away from his new master and his chance at freedom. There was little chance of salvation.

  Asher tipped his head to regard Cole. “He’s a big enough beast,” he said to Esar. “Our contacts in Salfield would like to see him.”

  Cole’s chest tightened. “I am a trained overseer. I’d bring a better price for that.”

  “Oh? You’re right, that’s considerably more profit. And of course you’d rather hold the whip than sweat under it.” He grinned. “An overseer, though? Or you just trying to avoid the salt flats?”

  “I have been an overseer ten years under three masters, my lord,” Cole answered quickly, “in caravans and in site labor.”

  “I see. Good.” Asher nodded toward Luca’s huddled form. “Then get this out of my way and into the line. We’ll cuff him tonight, and I want him sold tomorrow.” He turned and moved away to the next wagon.

  For one insane moment, Cole considered flight, but the armed men around him dissuaded him. He walked stiffly to Luca and crouched beside him. “Master? Can you hear me?”

  Luca groaned. “Far...”

  Cole didn’t know what he meant, but at least he was partly conscious. He looked over Luca with an overseer’s efficient eye: no broken limbs, only the bruising from the kicks and the head wound. Assuming his brain was intact and the kicks hadn’t ruptured anything, he would recover.

  “Cole...”

  Cole grasped his master beneath the armpits and heaved. Luca cried—had Cole missed a broken bone?—and choked as he righted. Cole swore as he swayed, unable to keep his feet. “Master! Do this!” He looked toward the growing line of captives. “This way.”

  He more than half-carried Luca and deposited him on the edge of the group. Eyes followed them, wide with apprehension. The overseer in Cole noted they would be easy to intimidate into obedience.

  Luca groaned. “I want to be sick,” he breathed, collapsing as Cole lowered him. He bent so that his forehead rested on the trampled grass. “My head.”

  “Give it time,” Cole advised, but he knew almost nothing of healing. What if the blow to the head had damaged Luca permanently?

  “New overseer!” barked a voice. Cole turned and saw Asher waving to him.

  He rose and went to the bandit. “My lord?”

  “Prove yourself and keep out of the salt harnesses. I want these new slaves tied and orderly. We’ll reach a friendly forge tonight and cuff whatever’s not done already. I want to make the noon auction at Cascais.” He dismissed Cole with a jerk of his head. “Move.”

  Cole hesitated. “The injured won’t make good time tonight. If they’re put into wagons—‍”

  “Did you bother your previous masters with petty details?” Asher snapped. “Get them in cuffs and to Cascais, and I want them on the block. This isn’t your typical trade stable and I have no interest in keeping anyone back for a higher price later. I need to change evidence into hard coin, and quick. You can move them, or you can be one of them. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Then go.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  “YOUR LORDSHIP,” EWAN Hazelrig greeted with mild surprise. “Becknam. Do come in. I heard about the demonstration fights—there’s nothing more wrong, I hope?”

  “No, it’s fine. In fact, that’s part of why I’ve come.” Shianan looked at Ariana, who’d come to the entry passage with a welcoming smile. “These are for you.” He unwrapped the flowers—the hothouse workers had done a better job of it than he had—and held them up for viewing.

  “Oh, they’re beautiful! Wherever did you find them?”

  “They’re not from me,” he said, almost regretting his honesty after her pleasure. “They came from the royal hothouses, along with these.” He lifted a little box of fresh fruits. “They’re a gift, in gratitude for your actions this afternoon, interrupting the fight and entertaining the spectators.” He grinned sheepishly. “Apparently I was difficult to distract.”

  She laughed. “You had other things on your mind, yes. But are you all right? I was worried when they marched you all away.”

  “That was General Septime trying to sort it out. I’m fine, thank you.”

  She gathered the flowers. “I’ll find water for these. And you may have some credit for carrying them.” She went into the kitchen.

  Hazelrig cleared his throat. “There’s a rumor the king hired mercenaries to challenge you. Is there anything to that?”

  Shianan shook his head. “No, it wasn’t the king.” He dropped his voice. “It’s nothing about—that. The Shard.”

  Hazelrig nodded. “Good.”

  Shianan shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t see—Tamaryl, and the other one.”

  Hazelrig’s expression faltered. “The last Ryuven prisoner was executed today. Tamaryl didn’t take it well.” He looked toward the kitchen. “Ariana was distressed by the news as well, but she’s putting on a brave face at the moment.”

  Shianan’s stomach clenched. His errand was difficult enough without the burden of an execution.

  Ariana returned with a vase overflowing with bright flowers. “Let’s put them here, I think. Won’t you sit down?”

  “Actually...” Shianan’s muscles tightened. This was not the day, not after the match and the reprimands, but if the king had liked the review, then Shianan had to act quickly to take advantage of his good favor. He would defeat the Ryuven, he would defend the kingdom,
he would save the Shard. He would act on his own happiness.

  He looked toward Hazelrig. “Actually, I’d hoped to speak with Ariana privately.”

  Hazelrig raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” One corner of his mouth twitched. “I suppose I have enough work in my study to keep me occupied for a time.” He nodded to them. “Good evening.”

  Ariana looked after him and then back at Shianan, her eyes widening. “Do you want to sit down?”

  He shifted his weight awkwardly. “I think I couldn’t,” he confessed. His palms were sweating. Dear Holy One, what would he say?

  She licked her lips. “I think I’d better.” She perched on the edge of the nearest seat, where Shianan had sat the first time he came to their house to speak of Tam.

  He could not afford distraction now. He had to risk it, had to speak with her. “My lady mage,” he began, his voice odd in his ears, “I must—I must be utterly frank with you. May we speak plainly?”

  She nodded.

  “My lady mage, I—‍”

  “Ariana.”

  He blinked at her.

  “Ariana. I’m Ariana, and you’re Shianan. You cannot keep an honorific between us at this late stage. You said you would speak plainly.”

  “Ariana.” He gulped. “Ariana, I said before... I must know—what is between you and the Ryuven.”

  That wasn’t at all what he’d meant to say, and he nearly cursed aloud. Yes, of course, he was anxious to know why she helped Tamaryl, whether she favored the Ryuven or Shianan or indeed either of them, but that was not what he meant to ask, and not at all how he would have asked had he meant to.

  Ariana was visibly taken aback. “What do you mean? I was there for only... Or do you mean Tamaryl?”

  Shianan pushed at his hair. “Yes, Tamaryl. What is he to you, that you’d risk yourself and your father for him?”

  Ariana straightened. “He is the friend who risked himself for my father and me—and for his own friend, trapped here within the shield.” Her tone grew suspicious, defensive, indignant. “What exactly do you mean?”