Obsidian

by Lindsey Scholl

  “Did you see anything else while you were in the windy place?”

  “No, Darkness…I mean, sir. Bedge saw nothing but Bedge felt so scared. The bad fennels made her feel empty. So empty.” Her voice drifted off, as if she was remembering the feeling.

  “Have you told Koeb about this? Does he know you’re telling me?”

  “Bedge told pridehead everything. Pridehead laughed at Bedge, told Bedge to stop being a silly kit. Said Bedge must stay at home. But Lord Amarian,” her voice brightened, “Lord Amarian has come to see us at home. Bedge must tell Lord Amarian; he came to Bedge’s home.”

  Amarian did not follow the logic. “You did a good thing, Bedge. But now it is time for you to go home again. And stay home until the bad fennels are gone.”

  At this command, Bedge crept out of the bushes to walk by Amarian’s side. Her head barely came up to his knee. He could see that brown and tan fur covered her in swirling patterns that culminated in thick shocks of fur around her whiskers. Her feet and ears were unnaturally large and her tail just a little bit crooked. In short, she lacked anything resembling the dignity of a fennel. No wonder Koeb did not take her seriously. Once again, she focused her big green eyes on him.

  “Bedge can’t go home. Bedge is lost.”

  Amarian frowned and pointed back down the path he had been following. “Just follow the path back to the pride. I’m sure your mother will find you.”

  Still the green eyes. “Bedge has no mother. Bedge can’t go home. Bedge is lost.”

  “Look, you can’t possibly be lost. All you have to do is follow the path back and…” A sudden, horrible idea occurred to him. “You can’t go with me.”

  The little fennel flicked her tail, preparing to argue the point. “Bedge will serve Darkness…sir. Bedge would rather serve Sir than stay with other fennels. They are do-nothings. Bedge wants to do something.”

  He stared at her and scratched his head. What would he do with a fennel kit? “Did you say you didn’t have a mother?”

  Bedge shook her head aggressively. “Bedge’s mother was killed by Darkness.” She gave him a pointed look, not bothering to apologize for the title this time.

  He had to ask, though he was not sure he wanted the answer. “How?”

  “Bedge’s mother was hungry. She went hunting in the trees that were only for the hunting of Darkness’ dragon-beast. Dragon-beast found her and killed her. Darkness approved, said death of Bedge’s mother a good example to other fennels.”

  Amarian did not remember the episode, but he did not doubt it had happened. His dragon Ovna had been rapacious and he had easily valued her more than the fennels.

  “If Ovna killed your mother, why are you helping me now?”

  Bedge looked up at the blue sky through the trees; the clouds had finally dispersed. “Bedge has heard new things about Sir. She heard he is different in many ways. He is good now, like Bedge’s mother.”

  “I will never be good like your mother, or like any other creature of Rhyvelad. But it’s true that I have changed. I am a follower of Kynell now, of the Prysm.”

  The fennel nodded, appearing much wiser than her cycles. “Bedge knows. She wants to see the change herself. And Bedge has known about the darkness for a long time. She is ready to learn about the light-god.”

  It was a reasoning that struck home for Amarian. Still, he found his own response surprising. “You can stay with me. I may not be able to tell you much about the god of the Prysm, but I bet my brother can.”

  At his words, the soulful, ancient eyes disappeared, replaced by the buoyancy of a kit. “Truly? Truly, truly? Bedge is very happy to go with Sir! Bedge will take good care of Sir!” She stopped to shake herself. “Can Bedge walk in the path now? Bedge’s fur is wet from the green plants.”

  Amarian glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching them. “All right then. But we’ll have to move quickly and quietly. Amarian doesn’t want you to get caught.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The changes that had taken place in Lascombe were more sinister than those perched on top of the thick city walls could ever have suspected. Vancien, bound as he was to the streets, could scarcely believe it. He had known it was no paradise when he had stayed there a cycle before, but now it appeared that its wounds were growing even deeper. It had been little less than ten fortnights since King Relgaré had died, reportedly at the hands of the Cylini during the border wars, although Vancien was certain that Amarian had somehow orchestrated the death. When news of the king’s demise had reached the capital city, the streets had erupted with rioters. Relgaré’s border wars with the Cylini had never been popular and the people hoped that his death would signify an end to the conflict. They endeavored to convey that desire by mobbing in the streets, shouting slogans such as “Let the Cylini be!” “Bring our boys home!” “The House of Anisllyr is Anis-where?” or, more ominously, “The king can have his marsh; we’ll have the city!” Their cries echoed over the rooftops, through the lofty windows of the palace, and past the ears of the young king.

  Relgaren had heard their cries, as well as listened to the representatives of the Square. In a rare display of solidarity, all five hundred and one of them had called for a withdrawal from the marshes after Relgaré’s death. It was an easy thing to concede. With the dubious help of Commander Hull, the Cylini had been driven far into their swamplands, where they would be licking their wounds for some time to come. Relgaren had then called the Keroulian forces back home, though at the request of his new advisor, he did not disband the army. Instead, he insisted that they be quartered in Lascombe.

  The city’s barracks could in no way accommodate such a mass of soldiers. The citizens were consequently ordered to open up their homes and provide the troops food and shelter. It was an unpopular measure by any standard. Even the Square representatives were horrified, especially since their comfortable lodgings were first pick for the officer corps. The situation was made even more repugnant by the fact that not all of Relgaren’s army was human. Sentries were now wearing Keroulian blue, thanks to the earlier infusion of forces from the Eastern Lands, which meant that many unlucky families were forced to house what they considered a walking nightmare. The result was a level of hostility and suspicion unknown to the city for the last five hundred cycles. Soldiers roamed the streets, ready for a brawl, while the citizens had to work grueling hours in order to feed their new house-guests.

  Vancien had no doubt that the girl he had met in the alleyway had suffered greatly from the decisions of both Relgaré and his son, although he did not know how. The thought of her out in the cold weighed heavy on his heart, and he wished he had not told her that it would be four days before he could help her.

  “Your compassionate heart is going to get you into trouble one of these days, Vance.” Chiyo said after listening to his report the following night. His long, lean limbs were stretched out beside the booth they occupied and he picked at his nails as if he had nothing better to do. His gently slanted eyes, covered by a deep hood, were the only thing that conveyed the his usual intensity. “I suggest you let the girl alone; maybe she did forget her water bucket, as she said.”

  “I’m going to help her if I can,” Vancien replied, ignoring his response. He, too, was trying to look casual, though with less success than Chiyo. “There are so many people we can’t help…”

  He leaned back, picking at his food and gazing at his dingy surroundings. Wallow’s Wake and Emporium was not an upscale establishment. The roof leaked, the tables wobbled, and the food was mediocre. The inn was so named for a man called Wallow who had left all of his belongings, including a rickety building and some brewing equipment, toward the establishment of an inn and drinking house. The Emporium part was a sad collection of all Wallow’s earthly belongings, replenished over the cycles with junk donated by generous patrons who did not want to throw their own garbage away. Thus, empty bottles crowded the shelves, boots without partners littered the corners, and an assembly of leather g
oods, all of them worn and torn, filled too many empty kegs to count. The whole place was a testament to laziness and filth. Still, it possessed the charm of being a long way away from the palace. Nor was it a drinking house frequented by Relgaren’s soldiers. It was therefore the perfect place for Vancien and Chiyo to conduct their operation.

  Chiyo decided to change the subject. Despite the fact that few soldiers came into the place, he still kept his hood on and his voice low: only a cycle ago he had been one of the most famous figures in the city. It wouldn’t do for him to be recognized now.

  “Let’s forget about the girl. Tell me what you’ve seen these past few days.”

  Vancien shrugged. “A lot of soldiers. I came across a pack of them yesterday and was almost recognized. I ran like a scared rabbit.”

  “Which is what you should have done. Did they follow you?”

  “Only one of them saw me. I had seen him briefly during my time here before. We made eye contact but by the time he looked twice, I was gone.”

  Chiyo took a long pull of Lascombe Pure. “We’ll have to keep our heads lower than ever. Kynell forbid that Corfe and the king start thinking of us as Obsidian spies!”

  “Apparently the king doesn’t show his face very often. And most people are grumbling about Corfe. You know he has become the king’s main advisor—it was he who insisted that the army be quartered in Lascombe. But he doesn’t come out much either, except early in the morning, accompanied by that fellow named Gair.” He paused and sipped his own Pure, not bothering to hide a grimace at the taste. “What about you?”

  Chiyo adjusted his hood and looked around again to make sure no one was listening. “My contacts in the army tell me that the dissent continues and not just between the Sentries and the Keroulians. Amarian’s few battalions of humans from the Eastern Lands cause a lot of trouble all by themselves; they seem particularly put out if a Sentry and citizen manage to make peace—which can happen. If these troops don’t have something to do before too long, they’re going to make Lascombe into a war zone.”

  “What do you think we should do about it?” Vancien was eager to do something – anything.

  “Don’t think there’s much we can do. We’re not about to put our friend forward just to solve Corfe’s problems.”

  “Our friend” was of course Amarian, but they had both agreed that to reveal knowledge of Amarian’s whereabouts would be fatal. Corfe would surely hunt him out and their small band had no chance of defeating Keroul’s army. Nor would they want to, Vancien mused. Most of the soldiers were straight-forward, Prysm-fearing men. It was unthinkable to waste their lives over a dispute between himself, Amarian, and Corfe. Despite his impatience, it was better to let things rest and hope that Corfe would forget about the Obsidian Advocate, if such a thing were possible.

  “So tomorrow we go to—”

  A sharp look from Chiyo cut him off. Three soldiers had come in, all of them wearing Keroulian blue, although they abused the barman in a way that most Keroulian soldiers would never have done.

  Chiyo and Vancien looked meaningfully at each other. These were some of Amarian’s old men. What were they doing on the far end of town? Then Vancien noticed that there was a child among them: a boy, with manacles on his wrists and a bruise under his left eye. He must have been about twelve cycles, though he did not look as terrified as a normal twelve-cycle old might in his situation. Vancien nudged Chiyo, who expressed no interest. Neither one of them said anything as they watched the soldiers propel the boy toward a stool far away from the door.

  “Stay there, you little runt!” one of them commanded. “An’ don’t be thinking about trying to escape!” He then returned to his comrades, who were already joking about thieves and slave markets.

  To Vancien’s surprise, Chiyo drained the last of his drink and stood up.

  “What are you doing?” he whispered.

  “Come on, my friend.” Chiyo responded in an even voice. “It’s late and we have to make an early start tomorrow.”

  But Vancien did not move. “Are you joking?” he whispered fiercely. “We can’t leave this child in the hands of those…those men.”

  Chiyo sat down again, looking as determined as Vancien had ever seen him. “Didn’t you hear the soldiers? The boy’s a thief.”

  “But they’re taking him to the slave market!”

  Chiyo clinched his fists and lowered his voice. “I know. But I have a plan. We just have to get out of here quietly and—”

  He was interrupted by a drunken voice, so near that he could smell it as well as hear it. “Hey, you two! What’re you whispering about?”

  Chiyo looked up to see one of the soldiers standing next to their table. He was clutching a mug and glaring at them. His lips were already wet with dark ale, which dripped down his chin into his gnarled beard. He was a big man, with a gut so substantial that it was barely contained by his belt. Chiyo did his best to appear intimidated.

  “Sorry, sir! We didn’t mean to trouble you.”

  “Well, you have. Now I suggest you get your hides out of here before I give you trouble.”

  Chiyo nodded and made to leave. Vancien followed, trusting in whatever his friend had planned, but not without glancing again at the boy on the stool. His curiosity did not escape the soldier’s notice.

  “What’re you looking at?” the big man growled as he grabbed Vancien by the collar. His breath stunk of ale and fish.

  “Er, nothing, sir. I just couldn’t help but notice how young your prisoner was.” From the corner of his vision, he could see Chiyo roll his eyes.

  “Oh yeah? Well, a thief’s a thief and we caught this runt climbing out of somebody’s window. He’s not the youngest brat to become a slave, you know.”

  Vancien adopted a whine. “Oh, I know, I know. He deserves it, I’m sure.” He glanced again at the boy, who was looking at him with open disdain. “Yes, uh, we’re grateful to soldiers like you who keep order in our city.”

  Pleased with the answer, the soldier let him go. “Aye, you should be. It’s our job to keep parasites like this off the street.” He raised a gloved hand to lay a blow on his prisoner, but found himself unable to complete the movement. Chiyo had caught his wrist.

  “Pray, sir,” Chiyo said, still looking submissive. “Do not strike the boy any more. It will lower his price at the market.”

  “Yeah? Powder covers up bruises well enough. What’s it got to do with you anyway?”

  Chiyo jingled his money purse. “I’ve come into town for the purpose of purchasing a slave. This boy here looks exactly like the type my wife wants to help around the farm. If I buy him off of you now, you’ll get the money instead of some slaver.”

  The soldier looked at his companions, who only shrugged. Why argue with such an offer?

  “Yeah, okay. What’s it worth to you?”

  “Twenty athas.”

  The soldier smirked as his companions rumbled. “Twenty athas?! A wee babe’s worth more than twenty athas!”

  “But if you turn him in to your captain, you won’t get any money at all, will you? Just a slap on the back, which won’t buy anything to drink.”

  Again, the logic was difficult to oppose. The soldier looked again at his taciturn comrades before accepting the offer. The money was exchanged and the boy was un-manacled, hauled off the stool, and pushed over to Vancien, who took hold of his arm. Without another word the three escaped into the street.

  Chiyo maintained his silence and Vancien followed suit as they hurried away from the tavern. The boy, meanwhile, watched his new captors with a mixture of relief and fear. When they were several blocks away, Vancien let go of him.

  “All right, you’re free. Be sure to stay away from those soldiers. If you’re a thief like they say, I suggest you consider finding another line of work.”

  Chiyo nodded his curt agreement, but the boy only rubbed his arm and looked at them. “You’re not taking me with you?” His head was uncovered in the cold night air and Vancien could not
help but notice how ragged his hair was; it looked as if it had been hacked unevenly by a dull knife. But the child had round, expressive eyes that were looking at him reproachfully.

  Vancien was taken aback by the question. “Of course not. What do we need with a slave? We just thought we’d get you out of the hands of those brutes.”

  But the boy glared at them. “Then you should’ve left me with them,” he declared. “‘Least if I went to the slave market, I might be bought up by someone.”

  “You want that?”

  Before the boy could respond, Chiyo interrupted. “We’ve heard a lot about this slave market, boy. Last time I was in Lascombe, it was against the law to own slaves.”

  The boy shrugged and pushed his hacked and dirty hair out of his face. “They just started doin’ it this breach. Some country folk come in, said they had goods to sell. Turns out it was their own families! Guess they was so poor they didn’t have no choice.”

  “But what about the law?”

  The boy ignored the fact that Vancien had asked the question and kept on addressing Chiyo. “After they ran out of poor families, some narfats took to sellin’ prisoners o’ war—them Cylini folk. Now they have a market ‘bout once every fortnight. The king doesn’t seem to care. Some say it’s good for the conom—econ—connem—”

  “Economy.” Chiyo finished for him, wrapping his cloak tighter around himself. “But these slaves can’t have good ends. Why would you want to become one?”

  The boy held up his tattered sleeve. “I’m already a slave—leastwise I feel like one. I only steal for food, mister. An’ Gorvy takes most of that, anyways.”