North & South

by K T Munson

  Ashira tilted her head back and studied her husband’s face. She felt her mouth drop opened as she realized that her enemy was a good man. More importantly, her husband was a good man and would likely make a worthy partner for her. For the first time Ashira felt true relief; she had feared he would not keep his promise. The temple she could wait on, but she was not yet prepared to consummate the marriage. She had feared he would change his mind once she arrived and there would be nowhere to run. Yet, as she stared into the depths of his eyes, she felt her heart tighten.

  “My queen,” she heard someone say that drew her from her thoughts. She turned and faced Missari.

  “What is it?” Ashira said gently, suddenly feeling breathless.

  “We thought you might be hungry,” Missari said, but her eyes were on Ashira and they were not pleasant.

  “I shall leave you to your meal,” King Highlander said but took her hand and kissed her knuckles before leaving.

  When he was gone she pushed the veil from her face and stared after him. Missari came to stand next to her as he left. Ashira was partially upset that she had rejected him so completely on their wedding night. Her hostility towards him as been almost cruel and to discover he was a good man made her feel even guiltier.

  “What is wrong my Queen?” Missari asked in a formal tone, “Did he say something that upset you?”

  “No,” Ashira said softly before turning to face her little friend. “I have been blind in thinking we are alone here and that no one wants us.”

  “What do you mean?” Missari asked clearly confused.

  “King Highlander wants us here,” Ashira explained. “He is trying very hard to make me happy. Missari is Lancel still in the room?”

  “No but a group of handmaiden’s from Vargos are,” Missari said making a face of disgust.

  Ashira laughed from the expression on her face as she slipped her arm into the girl’s. “You don’t like them?”

  “They are overly polite,” Missari responded with a scowl.

  Ashira pulled her veil back over her face, perhaps she would try going without it another day. “We must try to be friendly, they are a window into what is proper in Vargos. Will you try to be friendly? For me?”

  “Only for you,” Missari said with a little pout.

  When they stepped from the temple, Lancel was there waiting for them. He stood in the same clothes he had been wearing earlier and the same sour expression. Ashira wanted very much to make him laugh, for no other reason than to prove it could happen. Just as her husband was, Lancel seemed cut from the same cloth. He was a man of integrity and albeit serious, he, too, could be called a good man.

  “Lancel,” Ashira said and then thought better of it, “Is it proper to address you by your first name?”

  “As Queen you may call me whatever you wish,” he responded.

  “Do not tempt me,” Ashira said coyly and then remembered herself as a group of women descended upon them.

  “My Queen,” they all said and curtsied nearly as one.

  “Yes?” Ashira said observing each of their faces.

  “We were afraid you might have gotten lost among these great halls,” one of the old women said.

  “Only delayed,” Ashira answered and tried to sound friendly. “I have a question to ask of Lancel and then I shall join you.”

  “As the Queen commands,” they said, curtsying again before they started to leave.

  “Shall we walk towards my destination?” Ashira asked as the last of the handmaiden’s disappeared around a corner.

  “This way, my Queen,” Lancel said and gestured towards the same door.

  “I might inquire, what is an appropriate gift to give ones husband in Vargos?” Ashira began only to add, “A gift that demonstrates my gratitude.”

  Lancel’s eyebrows rose but he said only, “Men wear clothes sewn by their wives with pride.”

  “I do not understand, King Highlander has many clothes why would he want something else I had made,” Ashira asked, clearly confused.

  “No,” Lancel said as he stopped outside a double door. “Women in Vargos pass the time by doing needlework. They sew their clothes by hand, and give them to their husbands and children. Unlike Roanoak that has lots of cloth and places that make clothes, there are very few here in Vargos.”

  “Oh,” Ashira said and bit the inside of her lip for a moment before admitting, “I do not know how to sew.”

  “I didn’t realize,” Lancel said clearly trying hard to cover up his surprise and slight embarrassment, “What is a normal gift for a new bride to give to her husband in Roanoak?”

  Ashira licked her lips before saying, “A horse.”

  “Oh,” Lancel said just as she had and pressed his lips together to clearly keep from laughing.

  Ashira gave him a look and they both laughed together; apparently it was easier to make Lancel laugh then she had first anticipated. In Vargos they didn’t ride horses for transportation, but used them only as pulling animals for carriages and in the fields. They used the Eagles for transportation, flying from place to place. Though they were very prominent in the north, Roanoak had stayed with the horses. Horses could continue for miles and miles, Eagles were harder to maintain and could not travel for long distances. They also couldn’t carry much more than the weight of a man.

  Yet a pair of eggs had been smuggled through the Maiden’s gate into Vargos. From there they had set up an infrastructure to accommodate them. From what Ashira had seen, they were very effective travel all across Vargos. She had heard tales of their use but never had she seen it for herself.

  “Perhaps I will learn to sew,” Ashira said when she was able to stop laughing, “Or think of something better.”

  “I am sure whatever gift you give, the King will be pleased,” Lancel said gently.

  “You are very kind to say so,” Ashira said as she put a hand on the door to open it, “but I want to express my gratitude properly. I will contact you if your assistance is needed in this matter.”

  “As the Queen commands.” Lancel said with a bow, as she walked into the room.

  The women quieted down quickly and most turned their entire attention to her. Ashira looked between them and saw that on one side of the room were her handmaidens and on the other were the ones from Vargos. She tried not to sigh, because of the clear division between them.

  “I want lunch to be served at a single table,” Ashira said loudly and there were glances exchanged immediately.

  Finally, after a moment the same woman from before said, “As the Queen commands.”

  “Wonderful,” Ashira said as she picked up a glass of wine and asked, “Now who can teach me to sew?”

  Chapter 26

  Hadrian

  Most thought night provided the best cover for infiltrating a city. Hadrian knew that no one knew what he looked like and he was safer walking through the front gate in the middle of the day than trying to sneak in the back in the dead of night. He had removed his new clothes, and donned on his old. He appeared to be nothing more than a monk from Lorian in need of a good shave.

  As he strolled up to the gate, his hood down and a pack on his back, he thought of Vica. He wondered if the girl had made it back home. He also wondered if she ever thought of him. It was hard not to wonder about the woman who had given him a purpose. He was an old man and she a young budding girl and yet she had taught him.

  When he arrived at the gate the guard, a slave, stepped forward and asked, “What is your business in Ostapor?”

  Unlike many of the other slaves, those owned by the city were considered the highest ranked slaves. The guards were slaves, but they were well fed and had decent housing. Many were allowed to mate in order to breed more slaves; some even were able to marry. Being an agent of the city had certain perks and the little power they had made them arrogant.

  “My clothes are old and worn. Ostapor brings cotton from Nymeria,” Hadrian answered as though he didn’t really care what the man thought,
“and my horse went lame on the road. I will require a new one.”

  They man eyed him a bit before asking, “Should slaves be free?”

  “In Lorian there are no slaves,” Hadrian answered with a shrug, “Slaves are the way of Ostapor. I have no quarrel with Ostapor.”

  “On your way then,” the man said and simple as that he was in.

  “Blessed be,” Hadrian said dutifully with a nod of his head before entering.

  It was a good thing that Hadrian the Hero was a ghost, whose face none knew but the Sixty-Six Saviors. Though their number had started in the two digits, it did not take long for them to swell to nearly two hundred. In addition there were those that were fleeing their Masters and looking for them to join his ‘Saviors.’

  He wandered around the city, mostly staying on the Rentas side. He was getting the layout and searching for the largest pleasure houses and those with the largest guards. The idea of a being a slave had never bothered him in the past. It was a horrible thing that everyone just ignored. The Ostapori had their slaves, as did Eswan, while the rest of the world turned the other cheek. Even when Eswan and Ostapor grew bolder on how they acquired the slaves, the world simply ignored the ill-fated.

  That thinking would come to an end. Hadrian would see that Ostapor was a place for freemen without the bonds of slavery threatened from the north. Ostapor was first and then he would need an army to take Eswan. The warrior state was ruled by a tyrant, The Commander, and it was impossible to know what the man was capable of. Some of the slaves had been those who could not fight and were sold. The stories they told kept Hadrian awake at night.

  As the sun started to set, he took his stolen gold coins, purchased himself clothes and a horse. He went back out through the same gate. No one asked where he was going or stopped him. They were more worried about those that were coming into the city than those who were leaving it. The departed seemed to leave without any delay and Hadrian saw that the merchants had even less of a time trying to convince the guards to let them pass; interesting.

  The sun was but color on the horizon as Hadrian returned to their hidden camp. They were spread out into two areas. The first was the Master’s houses that they had killed efficiently. They continued to work the field as though the Master was still there. The rest were set up in a camp further north, especially his men that no longer looked like slaves. When he rode into the stable there were men waiting for him; it was clear many had not thought he would return.

  “Gather the men in the dining area,” Hadrian commanded before he walked into the house.

  The dining area was the largest room in the house and it had been repurposed as the meeting area. He first went into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of something strong, to steady his nerves. A few women had agreed to stay to keep the act going and tend to other matters. Javis and his sister had stayed as well; a pregnant woman was safest in the house among women who could watch her. When Hadrian and many of his freed men went south to Ostapor he would leave enough here to take the women to Lorian.

  Once Ostapor was his, Hadrian knew war would follow with Eswan. It would be their test, their greatest means to endure. Ostapor would need to hold until he could secure his army. Eswan would be a formidable opponent and The Commander would hound them relentlessly. He did not know what Sylon would do, or its queen, but he knew Lorian would leave well enough alone.

  “Master Hadrian,” one of the women said.

  “Nobody is your master now,” Hadrian said as he swallowed a gulp of lemonade.

  “Of course,” she said sheepishly. “Everyone is gathered in the dining area.”

  Hadrian downed the last of the drink before biting from a slice of bread that smelled like butter and heaven before saying, “Right behind you.”

  The girl turned and they walked in a single file down the short hall that opened up into the large dining room area. There were men and women standing around waiting for him. Many others were sitting in the variety of seats they had gathered from around the house and deposited in the great dining room. When he strolled in, all the talking stopped and all eyes turned to him.

  He cleared his throat and marched towards the front before he started, “Ostapor has guards posted at the gates. In four days the celebration of The Knife will leave the city vulnerable. Although the guards will not be drinking, the Masters will. We are going to divide up into groups and infiltrate the city over the next four days. On the night of the festival we will kill the Masters and free Ostapor. For those of you who do not wish to partake in the liberation of Ostapor, you can remain behind.”

  Silence greeted his words, though his plan was sound, there would still be risk. If the guards didn’t throw down their weapons or worse, if they continued to fight for their Masters, there was a chance his Sixty-Six Saviors would fail. Hadrian had made his choice, now he needed to let them make theirs. Even those who were only there to sell would get caught up in the bloodshed.

  “I will leave you to make the decision amongst yourselves. For those who wish to liberate your brothers and sisters elect a leader to a group of five and report to me in the morning, and I will give you your day and assignment.” Hadrian said before leaving the room, through the kitchen and out towards the stables.

  Old man Kal was brushing the horses down with an expression of utter content. He had a fondness for horses but his Master had not let him near. Instead his Master had kept him to the house and put him in charge of the maids. Hadrian stopped at the door and watched the older man’s strong sure strokes.

  “Did the messenger come?” Hadrian finally asked.

  Kal glanced around as though coming out of a daze, “I put him up in the house.”

  “Why weren’t you gathered at the house?” Hadrian asked.

  “I don’t need to hear your plan or what you found,” Kal said looking him dead in the eye, “I would follow you into certain death if you asked it of me.”

  Hadrian nodded his head, humbled by the man’s loyalty, and said, “Come in the morning to the dining room and I will tell you what I need.”

  “In the morning then,” he said before he turned back to brushing the horse.

  Hadrian nodded and left the stable before making his way into the house. He went to the guest wing and found only one door closed firmly. He rapped his knuckles on the wood of the door and waited. He heard rustling a moment before the door opened. He was a tall man, a little taller than Hadrian, and he smelled of campfire and singed hairs. His hair was graying and his skin was like wrinkled old leather, but he was a few years younger than Hadrian. His name was Ling and his face wrote the story of a hard life.

  “Fell asleep too close to the fire again?” Hadrian asked with a grin on his face.

  “Aye,” Ling responded offering his hand with a chuckle behind his words, “I always do.”

  Hadrian clasped his hand and shook it, as he asked, “What is the word from the camp?”

  “Half are moving south tonight and the other half will tomorrow,” Ling said releasing his hand.

  “Good,” Hadrian said pleased with their progress. “I have a plan to take Ostapor and I do not know how many will join us from the new liberation. Get your rest; we will discuss it in the morning.”

  “For freedom,” Ling said with a curt nod of his head before he closed the door.

  Hadrian stood at the closed door a moment as his thoughts swirled and he whispered to himself, “For freedom.”

  Chapter 27

  Otto Deckard

  Deckard’s hands worked as fast as they could. They were covered in charcoal and yet he hardly noticed. He was focused only on the drawings in front of him. He finished and blew across the top of the paper before holding it up in front of him. A single propeller spun at the top and lifted the oval shaped bottom into the air.

  The problem that followed had been the power source. He had tried a few different methods but the most effective had been the design used in the ships. The ferry system used a steam powered compression
system that powered a massive propeller. The Knife would run north in the morning, slowdown in the afternoon and early evening it would run south. The steam powered system allowed the ferries to move against the fast flowing current.

  He had to talk to a few individuals to understand the steam compression system. It was rather ingenious and would allow the Flying Machine to go long distances. There were pistons inside that forced the steam down and made the engine work. One gallon of water allowed for takeoff and suspended flight for a short time. That was the theory anyway.

  The machine would generate enough power to hold another gallon of water for the return trip and two people. If he made it large enough it might even be able to hold three or four depending on their weight. Deckard stared at his final design and determined it was nearly complete. When he set it down he squinted around and realized that night had fallen. It was fortunate that the Festival meant that he didn’t have to lecture and Evanora didn’t have to go to the university. He had remained blissfully lost in his work.

  He stood and ambled to his room on stiff knees. His walk was almost a waddle because he had been in one position far too long. The light flickered as he made his way down the hall, casting shadows. He came to his room shortly, put down the lamp, and fell into the bed. He sighed heavily and let his mind wander.

  Sleep must have slipped in because the next thing he knew there were birds chirping and the sun was penetrating his bedroom. Stiffly, he rolled over and lay looking at his ceiling. Although he should have been exhausted, the excitement of starting on this invention today had him up and moving. He put a hand to his heart and took a few careful breathes.

  He needed to be more careful, his heart was as old as he was. He had always suffered from a bad heart and could not strain himself physically. He had more than compensated with his pursuit of knowledge. Yet the older he got the more of a toll it took. His hair was already nearly gray, and he was worn thin like an old man of fifty or sixty, not a man in his mid-forties.