by Carol Berg
I gave him the letter. “The one who sends me cannot stress enough the importance and the secret nature of this message, sir.”
“You need have no concern. Is there anything I may do for you? I was instructed that if ever such a messenger came ...”
“Thank you, but no. My only need is a safe exit from the city before the gates are closed for the night.”
“Alas, I cannot help you there,” he said. “It is well-known that the House of Marag owns no slaves. For me to provide safe passage for you would attract more attention than you want, I think.”
I had expected as much. “Then, I’ll be on my way.”
“So the letter is all?”
“Tell the recipient ‘he ages well.’”
He smiled kindly. “I will deliver the report. May the hand of Athos defend you, good messenger.”
I bowed and hurried away, back the way I’d come, staying in the shadows while not appearing to hide, holding the path to the gates in my head. I had a close call when a brawl spilled out of a backstreet tavern just as I passed. Five large hairy fellows, stinking of sour ale, burst through a broken door and fell on top of me and two other passersby. There were too many flailing fists and flying knife blades for my comfort, and a crowd of onlookers was gathering like ants to spilled wine. I hoped the brawlers were too drunk to notice that the hand that disarmed three of them and broke quite a number of their fingers belonged to a slave. I poked fingers in two bloodshot eyes, squeezed out from under the noisy pile, and ducked into an alley.
I thought I’d got out of it very well as I retraced my steps through the warehouse district and slipped around behind the stables into the shadows of the gate towers. But then I had to wait. No one was going out of the gates, only in. Six guards arrived to take the next watch. They would close the gates at the change of the guard.
A large party of Chastouain came crowding through the arched gateway at the last minute. Chastouain were wandering tribal herdsmen who bought and sold the desert beasts—from whom they claimed direct descent—to caravan owners. Everywhere they went, Chastouain dragged their wives (three or four apiece) and children, their grandparents and cousins, their tents and wagons, and of course, their herds. They considered solid roofs as profane, and thus pitched their tents in city marketplaces when they came for a fair or a sale.
The confusion of their arrival looked to be the best chance I was going to get. I darted from my hiding place right into the middle of the milling crowd of bleating chastou, whip-toting herdsmen, and uncountable women and children carrying heavy baskets of their household belongings on their backs. Chastouain considered it unworthy to burden their beasts with their possessions—after all, they were relatives. They only sold the animals to other men who were perhaps not relatives and would do as they wished with the beasts. I pushed against the flow, doing my best to avoid being noticed, trampled, or carried back into the city by the sheer force of their movement.
I was under the massive granite arch of the gates, ready to take an easy breath, when my good fortune came to an end. A loop of rope was dropped over my head and yanked tight enough to pull me backward through the crowd. I fought to keep my balance and loosen the rope, even while bumping into cursing, hard-faced women and spitting chastou, and bruising my shoulder on the corner of a cart. But I soon lost my footing and was dragged, choking, between the feet of the chastou herd and the wheels of the Chastouain wagons. I threw my arms over my head and drew up into a ball.
The noose only came loose when I bumped to a stop on the edge of the crowd in the yellow, hissing light of a torch. “I do believe I’ve found me a runaway,” said a weedy voice from above my head. “Watched him sneaking through the alleys for an hour, waiting for his chance. There’s new rewards out for runaway slaves.”
I gasped for breath. There was no time to weigh the consequences of resistance. I could not be taken. Absolutely could not. As the first boot landed in my side, knocking the newly regained breath out again, I whispered a spell of breaking for the rope about my neck. A second boot landed in the small of my back. I wiped a handful of sticky muck on the right side of my face to cover the royal mark. By the time the boot intended to roll me onto my back landed in my ribs, the rope snapped apart, stinging my neck. I leaped to my feet, taking the boot with me and upending its owner.
There were three guardsmen still standing, and a grinning, unshaven man, who was not a soldier, looking on. All were heavily armed. Two I could take easily. Three most likely. The fourth would be harder, and if the fifth got up again ... I swung my foot and disarmed the unshaven man, who was crouched low and waving a knife at me. From the sound of it I broke his hand. I was glad, for he was the one who had caught me with the rope.
It was wrong to be thinking. I needed to move, to use my instincts that were so much faster than thought. So I did. While dodging swords and daggers, and inflicting what damage I could with hands and feet, I tried to call up spells. The only ones that came without thought were the simplest ones I had recited for Catrin, but I managed to set one man to vomiting and had another convinced that a snake was sharing his breeches. If three more soldiers had not come running to aid their fellows or if I’d been able to get my hands on one of the weapons that kept flying inconveniently out of reach, things would have turned out differently. But inevitably I ended up facedown in the muck with chains fastened to my wrist and ankle bands, and the angry feet and fists of twelve guardsmen convincing me that a demon was far more pleasant than a soldier who has just been made to look a fool in front of his comrades.
There was always a jail built next to the city gates. Smugglers, thieves who preyed on travelers, escaping felons, or wealthy foreigners who appeared to be ripe to supply hefty bribes could be locked away until the proper authorities could be summoned. Runaway slaves were so rare that the guardsmen weren’t sure of what to do with me, but they knew it wasn’t to be anything pleasant. So they hooked chains to my wristbands and hung me from the roof beams of their little stone hut, so that my toes just barely touched the floor, and they spent the rest of the night venting their displeasure at my audacity in fighting them. I tried to retreat into sleep, but the calling of the hours by the gate watch seemed to remind them that I was there. They took great glee in speculating as to which of my feet was to be cut off when the magistrate came in the morning, and they made sure to set the dark-stained wooden block and the broad ax where I could see them—as well as I could see anything through the blood and mud caking my battered face.
Once, early on in the evening when the guards were all out, I curled up my feet and tried to kick a hole in the roof, but the old oak boards were thick and hard. After the soldiers had come back and reminded me of their unhappiness with the broken bones I’d left them, I was incapable of such an effort again. I needed to be gone from there. I could not melt chains, not without expending so much power that I would have nothing left with which to fight my way out of the city. Melydda was an extension of the laws of nature, not a replacement for them. I could change the way a fire burned, grow it or quench it, but I could not easily make fire where there was none, especially not for something like iron, which has no nature to burn. And any noticeable sorcery would bring out the Magician’s Guild, and then I would be truly done for. Even losing a foot would be better than losing my mind in Balthar’s coffin. It was an endless night.
By the end of second watch, thick, soupy grayness came in the jail door with my guards. The magistrate would arrive within the hour. I would have perhaps half a minute from the time they unhooked my hands until they had me pinned to the table, where he would exact the mandatory punishment for slaves who ran. Half a minute was time enough to surprise them. But when the heavy-jowled magistrate, annoyed at being roused so early, pronounced my sentence, a ham-handed guardsman with bruises on his face laid such a blow to my gut that I never knew when it was they unhooked my hands and bound me to the table.
“You’ll not run again, slave,” said the burly guardsman, smiling a
nd scraping the ax blade against the soles of my feet. “Nor use these to insult your betters. Which one shall it be?”
“Get on with it,” said the magistrate. “I’ve not had my breakfast.”
My feeble struggles to get loose got me nothing but another fist. I could not summon the wit to break the ropes, to make an illusion, to create a distraction, to do anything but lie there like a pig at the slaughterhouse. I was only vaguely aware of the ax being raised ... and vaguely aware of it being lowered ... but without the terrible consequences some remote center of my mind kept trying to warn me of. People were yelling, but I couldn’t move my head to see, or work up the passion to care.
“Where is the vermin? No one punishes my slaves but me.”
Somewhere in my throbbing head I held tight to the arrogant voice.
“Druya’s horns, if you’ve ruined my property, I’ll have your balls for it. I’ll take his foot ... both feet ... and his tongue for the lies he told that got him this far. But I’ll do it at my own pleasure.”
What was so reassuring about the cursing fury of the newcomer who burst through the jail doorway like sunlight through a storm cloud?
“Get him up on his feet while he still has them. I want him leashed to my horse within five minutes, or I’ll have you all strung out behind him.”
“What was your name again, my lord?” asked the magistrate. “I need it for my report.”
“Vanye of the House of Mezzrah. And you can write it that I take it most ill when mindless bureaucrats presume to interfere in my affairs.”
“Our most sincere apologies, my lord. Most sincere.”
Vanye. That wasn’t right. As I was yanked off the table, shoved out the door, and a rope stretched from my bound wrists to the saddle of a very large horse ... somewhere in the painful glare of the morning sun, I caught a glimpse of red hair. Wouldn’t do to smile where anyone could see. I wasn’t sure I could do it anyway. Drool kept rolling out of my mouth.
“Out of my way.” Several of the guards stumbled aside, jostled into me by the tall man mounting the horse.
“Where is it you’re taking him, Lord ... Vanye, is it?” The magistrate and the unshaven hunter had come up just beside me, and though the blood was pounding very much too loud in my ears, I was able to hear something new in his voice.
“Go, go, go,” I mumbled under my breath.
“None of your business. Just get your minions out of my way.”
I let out a groan when the magistrate grabbed what he could of my shorn hair and twisted my neck, scraping with a fingernail at the mud and blood crusted on my cheek. “What mark is this on his face, my lord? Your mark? We’ve had reports of an escaped slave ...”
No, no. This was not going to do at all. We could not afford delays. The magistrate let go of my head, and I worked hard to clear it. A rumbling ahead of me told me that the man on the horse was getting very upset.
“What’s going on here, Livan?” A woman’s voice broke through my muddled panic. “Why is this man tied to a horse?”
“My lady! You should not be in a wicked place such as this. This is nothing but a runaway slave.”
A horse walked up beside us bearing a woman in dark green, riding astride as some bold Derzhi women did. I looked up, and somewhere in the blurry field of my vision swam the face of the Lady Lydia. Her glance was like the bracing freshness of a winter morning after being too long huddled by a smoky fire. For a moment I could think again.
“We were going to punish him according to the law, but Lord Vanye has come to claim him as his property and says he will exact his own punishment. But now I see this mark on the slave, and we’ve had reports—”
“Vanye?!” The lady was astounded.
“You remember me, Lady,” said Aleksander—of course it was he—bowing from his horse. “We met in Zhagad, I believe.”
Lydia stared at Aleksander, and the sun hung suspended in its course until she spoke. “Of course, I remember you, Lord Vanye. I should have known I would find someone like you involved in these despicable activities. I heard that a slave was taken last night, and I thought perhaps to buy him before he was harmed.”
“But you own no slaves, Lady.”
“Exactly,” she said.
“Well, this one will be of more use to me than to you, then, so I will bid you good day and be on my way.”
Lydia nudged her mount past me, until it stood shoulder to shoulder with Aleksander’s Musa. With a sudden move that left everyone in the courtyard silent, she raised her hand and slapped Aleksander. “Indeed, my lord. We all have duties of importance to undertake this morning. I must be about mine. Do not bring your vile practices into Avenkhar again.”
“My lady. I look ... forward to our next meeting. Perhaps under happier circumstances.”
Lydia pulled her horse around and came back to the magistrate. “I want them out of here immediately,” she said. “My father despises Lord Vanye and will not tolerate him in our city.”
“Of course, my lady. As you say.”
Aleksander touched Musa’s side and rode through the gates and down the road. I stumbled after him, wishing he would either go a little slower or speed up so I could just give it up and be dragged along. Passing travelers laughed or spit or threw things at me—sometimes very nasty things. A few turned away in shame or disgust. Unfortunately, there were no trees for half a league along the flat road, and no turnings or hills that would take us out of sight of the city walls. When Musa at last came to a halt beside a spring in a grove of willows, I walked into his backside and promptly crumpled into a heap.
“Seyonne, come get up.” I was wishing very much that I could crawl away from the horse’s hooves and its hind end, so it was a considerable relief when I felt the chains and ropes detached from my wrist bands and a strong arm lift me to my feet. “Come on. There’s water over here.”
He helped me lie down, and I came near draining the little pool. It was sad when I promptly lost half of it again. At least I managed to crawl away so I didn’t foul the spring.
“You drank it too fast. You need to take smaller sips.” He pulled off the shredded bloody remnant of my slave tunic, dipped water from the spring with his hand, and wet it down. A proper Ezzarian way to treat the spring. Then he dabbed at the blood and filth on my face. “They did as good a job on you as I did.”
“Twelve,” I murmured drowsily. “Twelve of them.”
“Well, that’s good. I wouldn’t want to be outdone in the matter of random beatings by any mere six or eight.” He yanked at my lolling chin. “No. You will not be allowed to go to sleep just yet. We want to make sure your head’s still serviceable after all this.” He brought my clothes and a cup from his saddle pack, and proceeded to give me sips of water while checking my injuries and getting some clothes on me.
“You were a fool to go,” he said, dabbing at my bruised belly so ferociously I almost lost the rest of the water I’d drunk. “I was a fool to let you. When you didn’t come back, I knew ... I knew ... exactly what had happened and what they were going to do to you. Gods, what a wretched world.”
He stopped for a moment and turned away, his breathing tight and painful. I could not see how his curse was manifesting itself. After a few minutes, he turned back again, his cold, shaking fingers tugging awkwardly at my breeches, trying to get them on over my feet. “Wouldn’t want to scandalize your fine Ezzarian lady or her gentleman friend.” The thought of young ladies kept his mind away from me for a minute, for which my bruises were grateful. “Am I right that you got the message to Lydia? Was that what she was saying to me?”
I nodded. “Did.”
“She was magnificent, was she not?”
I nodded again.
“Never thought of her playing intrigue. I think it suits her. Her face was so ... Damn, what spirit! You must have made a great impression on her for her to do all this.” I grinned at him, which he took to mean I was in pain, so he became uncomfortably solicitous again.
�
�Thank you, my lord. I’ll be all right.” I managed to get the words out without slurring them, so maybe he would leave me be. “And what of you?”
“The beast still keeps its share of me,” he said, leaning back against a tree and sipping from a wine flask. “I try—with occasional success—but it will have me in the end. My likai never taught me how to fight such a thing.”
“We’ll take care—”
“No. No more of that. Catrin told me how unlikely it is that you can do anything for me, and that if you allow yourself to get distracted and try some magic working, you might not be ready to face this demon.”
“She had no right to say that to you.”
“She had every right. And I had every right to hear it.”
“My lord—”
“Listen to me, Seyonne, and don’t interrupt.” He leaned forward and wore such passion in his demeanor as would force any man to heed him. “I want your word ... your word as an Ezzarian Warden ... that you will not allow me to destroy the Empire. For everything wretched in it, there is good, too. You’ve not been allowed to see it, I know, but there are thousands who live in peace because of what we’ve built. Thousands more who would starve in one bad season did we not make it safe to trade and travel. It encompasses honor and traditions that are good and worthy and could be a great deal more. If Dmitri lived, he could tell you, as he tried to tell me for fifteen years. I cannot, will not, destroy it. If I am taken by these demons or if the day comes when I cannot control the beast, I want you to kill me. And when you’ve fought your battles and run the demons from my realm, I want you to tell my father the story of it.”
“My lord—”
“Swear it, Seyonne. Swear that I will die by a warrior’s hand and not trapped inside a beast ... or become one.” Even as he said it, I watched him fight off the savage shengar yet again. I could not imagine the strength it took to do such a thing.
“As you wish, my lord.”
Perhaps it was a holy spring where we drank. Perhaps it was some blow to my head that jarred the words into place. Perhaps it was that Aleksander and I had each lifted the other from the abyss of pain and despair, and I could see clearly what I had known for a long time. For once I spoke what was in my mind. “If we could but combine your strength and my power, there is no demon could stand against us.” I slowly slumped down into the long grass as my hurts were eased, and the long night weighed on my eyelids and made my tongue thick. “Unfortunately, the only way for you to be there is for Kastavan’s demon to take up residence in you instead of him.”
