Though the first Kingpriests had frowned upon slavery, it remained legal until Giusecchio, called by historians Biso Povi—the Doomed Fool—banned it with an imperial bull in the year 823. It had not been a popular decision, particularly among the wealthy. Angry slave-lords, robbed of their trade by Giusecchio’s writ, had conspired to have him assassinated. After several attempts, they finally succeeded, poisoning the water with which Giusecchio mixed his wine. Following his murder, Istar had nearly fallen into civil war; it was only the intercession of Quenndorus the Conciliator, who had the most powerful of the rebellious slavers burned at the stake, that kept the empire from collapse. A pious man and a disciple of Giusecchio’s teachings, Quenndorus let his predecessor’s bull stand, and when he died six years later, the wickedness of the old days, when lives could be traded for a bag of gold falcons, was over.
So it had remained … until fifteen summers ago, when Beldinas appeared within the Hall of Audience one Godsday to announce that by the end of the year, slavery would again be legal.
The stir the declaration caused, both within the court and about the empire, had been loud and vocal. Many opposed the idea, calling it repugnant. Goblins kept slaves. It was a fell thing, and not fit for those who worshipped the gods of light.
“That is so,” the Kingpriest had replied, smiling within his aura. “But goblins eat olives, as well. Does that mean we should not, simply because we share the habit with those who walk in darkness?”
The analogy was lost on many, and more than a few clerics gave up eating olives in the days to follow, but as Beldinas explained his aims, sympathy began to grow within the hierarchy. The war against the god’s enemies, he reasoned, had changed in recent years. Those whose souls were truly lost had been all but vanquished, their bodies given to purging flame; those the Divine Hammer and the church’s inquisitors captured these days were not true creatures of darkness but could be redeemed, brought back to Paladine’s glory through labor and toil.
“Should we burn them, then, for their heresies?” he’d argued. “Is that not a waste? Let us be merciful in our punishment, and let them live, in the hope that they may find true penitence in the empire’s service.”
Some, including Emissary Quarath, debated this notion long and loud. The very idea of slavery was alien, something to be feared. Faced with Beldinas’s logic, however, even Quarath began to doubt his own beliefs. Finally, the majority of the hierarchs accepted the new bull, placing their signets upon the waxen tablet affixed to the document. Thus, Giusecchio’s age of universal freedom came to an end, and a new era of clemency toward heathens began.
The Istarans had embraced the change with startling speed. After only a decade and a half, the realm’s mines and quarries now ran from the toil of bought men, and most noble households boasted a small army of unpaid laborers. The city of Aldhaven became a trading center for those who sold flesh, and when the fights returned to the empire’s Arenas—though only as shows, not the bloody melees of old—the gladiators were all slaves. The last few nay-sayers fell silent when Beldinas outlined the laws the slavers must observe: gone were the days of lash and yoke; those who mistreated slaves would be punished with enslavement themselves. And slaves could gain their freedom by joining the church, vowing eternal servitude to the gods. Only a handful chose that end, but it was enough make those who opposed slavery relent.
These days, it was almost as if Istar had never known any other way. Every city had its market, every merchant caravan contained at least a short line of chained heretics. And the Istarans who were free grew fat and rich off the toil of those who were not.
*****
Cathan leaned back against the wall of the tunnel, putting a hand over his eyes. His head hurt. The world felt like it had been knocked loose around him. The others watched him, curious, expectant.
“So the imperial decree is that slavery is … good?” he asked.
“In this case,” said Wentha.
“For the redeemable,” noted Rath.
“Until they repent,” Tancred added.
He had no words, could only stand there, shaking his head in disbelief. It was all he could do to keep from crying out in fury. The worst part of it, by far, was that the whole thing made a sickening kind of sense. Wasn’t it better to spare the lives of those not beyond deliverance, and to give them another chance? Wasn’t this way more humane, as long as the slaves weren’t maltreated?
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Idar. His face was grim, dark, his voice soft and low. “I can see it in your eyes. And yes, being a slave is better than death … but not by much. I know—I was one, for a while. I surrendered, after the rest of my family resisted and died on the Hammer’s blades. They took me prisoner, sold me … I worked three years mining salt at Attrika. Three years without seeing the sun, toiling every day before I escaped. They didn’t whip me, they kept me fed, but the humiliation …” He stopped, his face twitching. “There were times I prayed for death. Some did the deed themselves, or for others. A good swing of a pick, or a sharp stone to the temple, and it was all over. But I didn’t have the courage. I’m glad to be alive, but if I had the choice again, I’d pick sword over shackles.”
“It gets worse,” Wentha added. “With a punishment people see as merciful, the church has fewer problems with expanding its definitions of heresy.”
“Even those who worship the gods of light, but not in the prescribed ways, are suspect,” Tancred noted. “When we get back to the Temple, go to the Solio Febalas, the Hall of Sacrilege, and ask the Kingpriest to show you Fan-ka-tso.”
“All it takes these days,” said Rath, his words dripping with venom, “is one dark thought in the wrong place, and the Araifas have you arrested and sold before the day is out.”
“Wait,” Cathan said. “The who?”
“Six years ago,” Wentha said. “There was a scandal at court. One of the hierarchs, it turned out, was the thrall of a coven of Sargonnites. They were using him to get close to the Kingpriest. There was even an assassination attempt in the offing, but the hierarch was caught before he could do anything. The Hammer hunted down the Sargonnites, but Beldinas wasn’t satisfied.”
“Evil thoughts are as evil deeds,” said Rath, his voice a singsong mockery of the Lightbringer’s. “Only the thoughts stay hidden.”
“So he created the Araifas, the Thought-Readers,” finished Wentha. “They are Majereans, skilled at reading the thoughts of others. They move in secret, among clergy and laity alike. No one knows their real identities.”
“And when they catch you harboring thoughts against the church …” Tancred’s voice trailed off.
Cathan swayed a moment, then sat down as a wave of dizziness overtook him. He looked up at the others. “You’re lying,” he said, without conviction. “You must be lying. This has to be a trick, a mistake.”
“No,” said Idar. “It isn’t. If you’d ever felt the Araifas rooting through your mind, you’d believe what your sister tells you. That’s why we stay here, Twice-Born. That’s why your kin help us … because the only thing that frightens us more than what the Kingpriest has already done is what he might do yet.”
He stopped, his eyes flicking toward Wentha and her sons. In the corner of his vision, Cathan saw his sister’s head dip once. Idar leaned closer, his face as grave death. Cathan knew at once what the man would say, but held his breath anyway, not wanting to believe it.
“And that,” said Idar, in a voice barely more than a breath, “is why we must bring him down.”
Chapter 10
I should never have come back, Cathan thought. I should never have left the cave.
It had been safe there. His life had been quiet and free of confusion. Now everything he thought he knew was wrong. If only the damned scholar hadn’t come … if only he hadn’t listened to Fistandantilus … if only he’d insisted on remaining behind. If only he’d been content, long ago, to follow the Kingpriest’s orders and never question him, like most of the empire di
d.
But he had listened, he had left, he had questioned, and it had led him here, to this dark, close tunnel far beneath a place where men bought and sold other men, and did so in the name of the gods. Here, to where the sister he’d always adored was plotting against the man who once had been his best friend, his lord in body and spirit. Here, to where nothing made any sense any more.
Wentha’s brow was furrowed, her eyes intense. Tancred and Rath looked at the floor, but she met Cathan’s gaze easily, a hint of challenge there. Idar and Gabbro and the other rebels barely existed for him.
Cathan—” she began, but he cut her off.
“When were you planning to tell me about this?”
There was more anger in his voice than he’d expected, a lash he didn’t know was there. She flinched beneath his words, and Rath looked up, wary and protective. Tancred looked like he would have been happiest if the floor split open and swallowed him.
“When we got to the Lordcity,” Wentha replied. She reached out to touch his arm, stopped when he pulled back. “We only came out here to meet with Idar, for a few moments. We would have been back in the palace now, if you hadn’t followed us.”
“I’m taking an awful risk here, Twice-Born,” said Idar. “I’m trusting you not to tell His Holiness about us, about this place, because your sister insists you’re a good man.”
“You’re also hoping I’ll help you,” Cathan snarled.
The ruffian nodded. “Yes.”
“We mean to abduct him,” said Wentha. “To show him the pain he’s caused, without his sycophants and advisors there to pour poison in his ear and call it honey. We want to make him reconsider and repent, not to harm him.”
Cathan glanced at the others, saw the way they looked at one another, and knew they didn’t all share that sentiment. Many of Idar’s men would be more than happy to see Beldinas dead—on their own swords, if possible. Gabbro’s eyes burned at the prospect.
“And if he doesn’t repent?” he asked. “What then?”
Wentha shook her head. “We’ll… we’ll deal with that if it happens.”
“This is a war, Twice-Born,” Idar cut in. “There might not be any armies on the field, but that doesn’t change things. The Lightbringer is the enemy.”
Cathan shook his head stubbornly. “None of you will ever get close enough to take him,” he said. “He won’t get close enough to any of you, to—oh, Palado Calib.” He stopped, staring at them, understanding dawning in his mind.
“No,” said Idar, a wicked smile curling his lips. “We won’t.”
Wentha turned away, the pain on his face too much for her to bear. He wanted to grab her and shake her, to shove her aside and leave them all behind and go somewhere far away. But he knew Idar’s men wouldn’t let him. He’d get three paces, and they’d riddle him with crossbow bolts. They might do it anyway, if he showed reluctance to go along with their plans.
Cathan couldn’t remember feeling so weary. He’d spent half his life trying to stop fanatical men like this. “I won’t answer you now,” he said. “I need time.” The ruffians grumbled, looking at one another.
“It doesn’t work that way,” Idar said. His hand moved to the hilt of his sword, resting there easily. “I can’t let you go back to the Lightbringer if there’s a chance you won’t help us.”
Cathan shrugged. “There is a chance I won’t help you. Would you rather I lied and told you otherwise?”
Gabbro growled, his ugly face twisting. Idar rested his free hand on the dwarfs shoulder, a grin curling his lips, “Well put, Twice-Born,” he said. “Right, then… you’ll have your time to think it over. But know this—if you give us away, and the Hammer comes after us, they’ll take some of us alive, for questioning. And they’ll find out about your beloved Blossom, here. She’ll go down with the rest of us, and get sold in a market like the one up there.”
Rath’s face darkened, and he growled low, his saber sliding two inches out of its sheath before Tancred caught his arm, shaking his head. He shoved back, and the two brothers struggled with each other until Wentha glared at them.
“Stop it, both of you.” She looked back at Cathan, then at Idar. “You needn’t make threats like that. I knew the danger when I first started working with your fellows in Lattakay. I tell you, my brother won’t betray you.”
“He must do better than that,” Gabbro grumbled. “If he doesn’t help us—”
The sound of running feet cut him off. The ruffians turned toward the source of the noise, echoing down the hall. Crossbows came up, blades came out. Idar drew his own sword and waited; so did Rath. Cathan grabbed his sister and pushed her behind him, jerking his head to tell Tancred to follow her.
The footsteps grew steadily louder, making a frantic cadence, now joined by the sound of labored breathing. All at once a young lad—he couldn’t have been more than thirteen summers old, and pale enough that he mightn’t have seen the sun in all that time—came pelting around the corner, then slid to a stop with a cry at the sight of so much steel pointed at him. He made a strangled noise.
“Branchala’s balls, Larl!” Idar swore. “You just about got about a half-dozen new holes in you!”
The boy, Larl, was panting hard, and couldn’t answer at first. He stared at Cathan, the familiar look of shock and recognition on his face. The boy had grown up on tales of the Twice-Born, a figure who had vanished from the world well before he was born. When Cathan turned his unmistakable eyes on him, though, he was forced to quickly look away.
“What is it, damn you?” Idar insisted.
Larl shrank back. “It’s them,” he said. “The Hammer. They’re out in the streets, looking… and they got something with ‘em.”
Idar’s mouth became a tense line. “What kind of something?”
“Hound of some sort,” said the boy, who had to be a lookout. “But no kind of dog I ever seen before. It’s big and silver, and looks like someone made it out of… water, or something.” Idar let out a scoffing laugh. “Let them use as many dogs as they want,” he said. “We’re safe down here. The Hammer haven’t found these holes yet, and they’re not going to now.”
“Don’t be so sure,” said Tancred. His face was white.
Cathan had to agree. “That creature with them is probably something of Beldinas’s. Who’s to say what it can’t do?”
Gabbro spat something in Dwarvish. It was, evidently, a fine language for cursing. Idar thought quickly, signaling to his men to disperse. “Alert the others,” he said. “Those knights come down here, we’ll give ‘em an Abyssal fight.”
“It’s us they’re looking for,” Wentha said, as the ruffians hurried to obey. “We’ve been missed. Get us back to the surface quickly, and they don’t need to find out about you.”
Idar didn’t like it—he gave Cathan a long, uncertain look— but he managed a nod. “You’re right,” he said, sighing.
“We’ll need a story,” Rath said. “They’ll want to know why we’re out in the city at this hour.”
“I’ve already thought of that,” Cathan said. He turned to Idar. “Do you have any wineskins down here?”
*****
The baying of the yethu hurt Tithian’s ears. The sound it made was like no animal he’d ever heard before, though when he shut his eyes he could nearly imagine it as some sort of cross between an eagle and one of the great whales the mad captains of Seldjuk hunted for oil. There was something else about it, too—something that sounded like the lowest string on the world’s largest dulcimer, hammered by someone with an ogre’s strength. Every whooping shriek loosened his bowels and shook the bones within his flesh. He hoped the beast would find the MarSevrins soon, if only to end the racket.
It loped on ahead of him and the other knights, its paws leaving glistening puddle-prints on the cobbles. Its hide—or surface, or whatever one called it—rippled and eddied as it moved fast, stopping to wait for its two-legged companions whenever it got more than a few blocks ahead, and then letting out another o
ne of its ear-shredding cries. Its eyes glowed like lanterns as it turned to stare at the knights, waiting impatiently for them to catch up.
They’d crossed half the city already, the yethu making an ungodly clamor the whole way. The windows of the buildings they passed glowed with light as men and women, roused from sleep, looked out to see what in the Abyss was going on; the curses on their lips evaporated … they withdrew, wide-eyed, when they saw the men of the Hammer running down the street, following the strange hound. Stray dogs fled before them, and feral cats yowled and sprang for shelter. Still there was no sign of Cathan or his kin. If the animal was following their spoor, it was something it alone could sense. After a while Tithian had to admit he was well and thoroughly lost. If the yethu left him too far behind, he would have more than a little trouble finding his way back to Dejal’s palace.
“Where’s this thing leading us?” asked Sir Xenos. He was breathing hard, his jowly face slick with sweat—a man who had spent too much time in the feast-hall and not enough in the sparring yard. “I thought it was supposed to be a good tracker.”
Tithian shot him a glare, but said nothing. He’d been wondering the same thing, only a moment before, but he would never admit it. The Grand Marshal didn’t question the Kingpriest’s wisdom—at least, not in front of his men.
The yethu bounded around a corner, then stopped, another skirl ringing off the surrounding buildings. When Tithian and the others joined the creature, they found it had stopped at a portcullis of snow-wood, inlaid with twining veins of silver. The church’s triangular symbol hung upon it, above a pair of manacles. Tithian skidded to a halt, staring at the gate, the cages visible through its bars.
A grimace creased his face. He had never approved of slavery, though he’d agreed at the time that the Kingpriest’s arguments in its favor made sense. He’d tried to keep away from the markets, wherever possible. He went to the arena at the Lordcity only when protocol demanded it, which was mercifully seldom. He’d forbidden anyone in the knighthood from owning another man. And yet the Divine Hammer still took a part in the sad business: They arrested hundreds of new blasphemers, idolaters, and heretics every month, at the behest of the Araifas. Most of these ended up on the block, to become gladiators or servants or laborers. Some would repent, and join the church, as the law provided, but most remained slaves the rest of their lives.
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