by Don McQuinn
Tate couldn’t pretend dispassion any longer. “I’m ignorant about a lot of things, not about slavery. I’d die first. Take as many with me as I could.”
The Chair smiled. “No one’s going to enslave you here. You have my word. Anyhow, slaves only work. You’re clearly a fighter, even though you’re just as clearly a woman. Our women don’t fight, and our warmen aren’t slaves. You see, we wouldn’t know what to do with you. Whatever you did in Kos, you’d be free, I assure you. And very wealthy.”
Tate was shocked by the clumsiness of the approach. Then she reconsidered. There was nothing haphazard about this man. He’d been direct with Nalatan because he was sure Nalatan would react best to that. The Chair was well aware that she and Conway placed friendship above wealth. Nevertheless, she was almost certain he’d made an offer. She decided to press. “We go where Sylah leads. Even if we could live where slavery’s tolerated, there’s nothing for us here.”
“Still, it may happen that we can collaborate in some way.”
Nalatan said, “My brotherhood forbids.” He sent a surly glance at Tate.
The Chair said, “The brotherhoods provide dispensation for necessary acts that benefit the brotherhood and Church.”
Shocked, Nalatan gaped. “You know our rules?”
“Kos has existed longer than the three brotherhoods. We’re familiar with you.” The Chair faced Tate again. “We’ll talk again some time.”
He walked away. Nalatan broke the heavy silence left behind. “It almost sounded like you were interested in his promises of wealth, Donnacee.”
“I wondered what he’d offer, what he wanted. He’s crafty. You see what he did? Dangled the bait, got me to bite at it, then left me to wonder about it. That’s a bad man.”
Nalatan continued to sulk. “He’s a Kossiar.”
Conway said, “Why do you hate him so intensely? It’s almost a personal thing.”
Uncomfortable, Nalatan tried to wave the question away. Conway and Tate refused to let him. Finally, he said, “Everything I’ve heard is rumors. Escaped slaves aren’t likely to speak kindly of their owners.”
“Say something,” Tate demanded. “No more hints.”
“Sacrifices. Battle sacrifices. Sacrifices to the sea. They kill slaves.”
Conway said, “How can that be? Sylah said they supported Church, and Church doesn’t allow that.”
“It’s custom. Old religion. That’s what I’ve been told.”
Tate heard them, but as from a distance. She looked around her. The hearty plants, the glowing flowers, all had seemed so lovely only moments before. Now they were repellent. A sense of decadence oozed through the carefully tended lushness. Impressive stone walls had become confining, oppressive. Even the spray of the fountain was changed, from the sound of laughter to the rattle of drear, chilling rain. A world that had smelled of danger, of exotic intrigue, was now a loathsome prison.
Sylah’s voice broke her concentration. Tate hadn’t heard her approach. “Bos says the Chair wants all of us to attend a ceremony. At the Gate.”
“Why?” Tate’s question was a snarl, left over from her earlier depression. Taken aback, Sylah could only stare.
Lanta, standing beside Sylah, answered in her stead. “Bos said it would help us understand Kos. That’s all we know. What’s wrong?”
Conway nudged Nalatan, and he repeated the tale of human sacrifice. Sylah shook her head vigorously. “You said it was all rumors. We’ll ask the Chair; if it’s true, he’ll admit it.”
Tate said, “We know they keep slaves. The field workers we saw on our way here weren’t happy. The kids they assigned to us were scared witless. I believe Nalatan.”
Sylah took Tate’s hands. “No one feels more strongly about slavery than I do. Confronting the Chair won’t help. Are we strong enough to overthrow him?” Reactions ranged from Conway’s open amusement to Lanta’s blank rejection of the question. Sylah continued, “Then we do as Church has always done. We work for betterment. We work quietly, constantly, with the weapon of truth. Agreed?”
Assent was grudging, but unanimous. They walked to their quarters, where Dodoy waited impatiently. The dogs greeted Tate and Conway joyously, eager to be out and moving.
At the nearby stable, the war-horses were almost as demonstrative as the dogs, kicking up their heels, tossing their heads. It was an impressive group that trotted out the door of the castle. Conway and Tate, weapons gleaming in the sun, flanked Sylah. The shining horses knew they were on display. They stepped high, snorting pride and power. The dogs, more purposeful, padded along outboard of their masters. Nalatan rode directly behind Sylah. Lanta trailed a bit behind and to the right, with Dodoy. Bos and a squad of warmen met them at the landward berm, trotting ahead to lead the way.
Passing through town, Tate was intrigued by the inhabitants. Many poured out of the buildings, obviously curious, but there was no animation in them. They stood silent, heads swiveling like mechanical things as the riders passed.
On the road leading west from the town, Bos bent inland at a fork. They followed a circuitous route to a slope overlooking the concrete fragment called the Gate. Due south of the viewpoint, huge sand dunes rose over what had once been the western limits of San Francisco. The sun, having passed its highest point, painted the western faces of the mounds a soft gold that accentuated the dark shadows on the inland sides.
They were much closer to the Gate itself now, only a hundred yards away. Details were clearer. Tate drew Conway aside. She pointed surreptitiously. “The landform’s changed. There was a span, a small bridge over a draw, leading to the bridge pier. Now it’s all filled in level with where the old highway used to be. Could these people do that?”
“Earthquake’s my guess. They may have smoothed things out a bit, but they didn’t build it. As you say, there’s no sign of the old approach road, but the one that runs from the pier back into the brush and woods is impressive.”
“Slave labor.” Tate spat the words.
People crowded onto a ridge east of the Chair, clambering up onto the flattened promontory in quiet order. Their viewpoint was slightly lower than the top of the Gate, about fifty yards away; a narrow, deep gully separated them from it. Looking down at their arrival, Tate was reminded of herded livestock.
A man appeared from within the wooded area penetrated by the road that ended at the Gate. From face-shielding silver helmet to boots, he dazzled with mirror-polished metal plates sewn to blood-red skintight clothing. He proceeded to the very edge of the concrete, looking out over the narrow seaway. Opening a small bag in his left hand, he took out a silver chain, perhaps six feet long. There was a rectangular golden object at one end. Slowly, the man swung the chain and its attachment in a circle.
Lanta was the first to comment. “What’s that noise? I don’t like it.” She hunched forward on her horse.
Conway said, “A bull-roarer. The wind makes the end piece vibrate. Simple.”
Sylah glared fury at Bos. “A god-call. Shame! Church forbids. The Apocalypse Testament commands: ‘That which pretends to speak to gods other than the One in All shall be destroyed. So also shall be destroyed those who commune with idols, false gods, false prophets, and all blasphemy.’ That man can be cast out.”
Bos was pointedly unconcerned. “The Chair exercises the voice of our fathers. The people like the old beliefs. Church has forgiven the Chair for generations, because the Chair unfailingly supports Church.”
The hollow boom of the god-call swelled louder now, rising and falling.
Sylah’s knuckles were bone white where she gripped the reins.
Tate, intent on Sylah and the near-hypnotic howl of the god-call, failed to notice the massive object approaching from the Chair’s rear until it was almost in place. She was so startled she spoke without thinking. “A catapult!”
Bos corrected her, his expression suddenly shrewd. “Wallkiller. When Skipper’s people were uniting the land, they used wallkillers. Now we tolerate no walls in Kos, an
d so there is only this one. What name did you call it?”
Trapped by her outburst, Tate looked to Conway for help. He made his question a demand. “What’s a weapon doing here? You said this was a religious ceremony.”
After a lingering suspicious look for Tate, Bos turned to Conway. “All will be clear. Watch.” He indicated people filing through the brush that had hidden the Chair and the wallkiller. They followed the machine, which was propelled by men leaning into a long pole projecting from the rear of its carriage. The whole issue rolled on wheels as tall as a man.
The Chair continued to whirl the god-call. The squeal and groan of the wallkiller’s progress joined with it to create eerie, discordant song.
The small crowd following the wallkiller crew was as gaudy as butterflies. Color leapt from rich, flowing robes and cloaks. Nevertheless, there was a subdued, hesitant manner in their progression. They made their way around the now-halted machine, forming into a loose knot between it and the bright circle of the god-call.
Bos chose that moment to indicate that Sylah’s group should move down the slope, closing the distance between themselves and the Chair. They stopped about twenty-five yards away.
Conway pressed close to Tate. “What’s going on?”
“Trebuchet, I think.”
Conway goggled, mute, and Tate realized how confusing her answer must have been. She smiled apology. “Trebuchet. If I remember right, that’s what they called the catapult that worked with weight on the end of the throwing arm. Simple stuff. What I can’t figure out is why it’s cocked. See that guy in the rear, with the maul? All he has to do is knock out that pin on the trigger and whoosh. The big rock up front drops, the long arm goes up, and there goes your missile. Only we don’t have one.”
The roar of the god-call subsided. The blur of the chain slowed. Tate looked away, out toward the bay. While they’d been preoccupied, a veritable fleet of boats had materialized. Most were balancebars. There were several variant designs, including some large trimarans. Single hulls added to the mix. One of the latter was the largest vessel by far. It featured a double bank of oars. All gave it plenty of sea room. A long, narrow pennant of blue, bisected lengthwise by a serpentine yellow line, snapped from a staff at the stern.
The Chair put the god-call back in its carrying bag. Holding it in both hands, he extended it toward a member of the crowd who stepped forward to receive it.
Sylah’s exclamation incorporated pain, disbelief, shame. One hand jerked to cover the round “O” of her mouth. The other pointed in accusation.
The Harvester took the small bag. She blended back into the group, her black figure overwhelmed in the surround of bright colors.
A second group approached the wallkiller’s rear. Eight warmen—four in front, four in back—carried a box slung from two long poles on their shoulders.
Conway said, “An offering of some kind, I’ll bet.”
Tate nodded. “These people just now following the warmen must be the ones who donated it. They look like poor farmers; it’s probably their crops that’ll zoom out to sea.”
The fancifully dressed gathering took a position to the right of the wallkiller. The eight carriers put down their load.
The newcomers Tate thought were farmers cowered. There were women as well as men, and children ranging from babes in arms to youngsters nearly grown. Males stood with heads bowed so they looked out at the world through their eyebrows. Hands were clasped, fingers up interlocked, tucked against the stomach.
At the approach of the Chair, the shabbier group shrank in on itself.
Tate glanced away, down to the water. There were dozens of boats now. Slicing back and forth, they scarred the surface with white, curling wakes. The warming sun embraced the taut, multicolored sails. Even the dark waters seemed caught up in the excitement of the boats, rebounding sunbeams skyward in a myriad diamond lights.
The Chair’s rolling voice reached up the hillside to the group, bringing Tate back to the more immediate scene. Distance and wind made the words indistinguishable. The tone was so formalized there was no suggestion of emotion. Nevertheless, the scruffy audience behind the wallkiller cringed as if whipped.
Bos spurred his horse into a full circle, so he faced Sylah’s group. The squad of warmen circled behind him. They, too, turned their backs on the ceremony. The development made Tate edgy. She checked the sling of the wipe. From the corner of her eye she caught Conway doing the same thing. Faint metallic scraping behind her suggested Nalatan might be loosening his sword.
Clearing his throat, Bos said, “Today you voiced disapproval of slavery, and the Chair assured you that we are fair and just. These slaves at the wallkiller all belonged to one man. One of them killed the owner and his entire family, as well as two house slaves who threatened to reveal their plot. The Chair, in his mercy, is sparing their lives. Children will remain with their mothers.”
“And fathers?” Sylah inquired softly.
“To be sold away. Such men are bad examples. Other fathers will be found.”
The implications stunned Tate. Conway gripped her bicep, hard. “Hang on,” he said, keeping his eyes on Bos. “I have a feeling this is going to get a lot worse, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Nothing.”
Activity below drew their attention. The carriers took the lid from the box. Reaching inside. They lifted out something roughly round, covered in bright red cloth. It was a clumsy load. The carriers had trouble placing it in the wallkiller’s netted missile basket. Their task done, all but one retreated to join the other warmen.
The man with the maul stepped up to the trigger device.
The Chair gestured at the warman still beside the basket, who responded by tugging at the red cloth. He whipped it away and flourished it like a banner.
The thing in the basket was a man, trussed so compactly the only thing that moved was his head. A gag of coarse rope split his face in a manic grin. Wild, terrified eyes spoke more truth. He tried to speak. The gag turned his terrified words to mad gabble.
“The poisoner,” Bos said.
The sound of horns and shouting rose from the milling boats. Shark fins, dozens of them, ripped the water.
The Chair raised a hand, held it poised.
Tate said, “Don’t do this. Don’t. Don’t.”
Conway squeezed her arm.
The Chair dropped his hand. The prisoner wailed. The warman with the maul swung once. The trigger released. The massive boulder plummeted, flinging up the long arm. The weight struck its stops with a horrendous crash. The arm hurled its burden.
A terrible silence fell across the watchers. The wind, unnoticed before, sighed through the grasses and shrubs of the hillside.
Then, keen as a knife, the scream slid back down the arc described by the hurtling man. The wind played with it.
The bundle soared out over the tossing waters. And fell. And fell.
A great noise of distant celebration greeted the strike and pluming splash of the body.
Past clenched teeth, Tate told Conway, “You can let go of my arm. I won’t do anything. But I’ll see him dead. I’ll spit on his body, if it’s the last thing I do.”
Sylah turned to her. The normally beautiful countenance was fearsome in its flinty control. “Patience. And memory. Never forget, never hurry.”
Sylah looked back at the Chair. He was walking back from the lip of the site. Stopping, he removed the silver helmet, the armor. Next he stripped off the boots and leggings, to stand dressed entirely in scarlet. His face was painted to match. Behind her, Sylah heard Tate’s sharp intake of breath, her hoarse, awed comment. “Flayed. Like he was skinned alive.”
Nalatan sneered. “Just another Kossiar lie. Red’s their mourning color.”
As if he’d heard, the Chair turned to look upward. His eyes found Sylah’s. Blinking away that attempt at connection, she couldn’t avoid his expression. It pulled her across the distance. Try as she might, she saw no hatred in him, no faintest sign of triumph. If i
t was a ruined face, it was a ruined nobility. If it was a cold face, it was frozen by inescapable fate. Whatever he’d been required to do, humanity stirred behind his fixed features.
But was she seeing warning? Pain? Plea?
Sylah heeled Copper, spun him roughly away from the haunting, demanding features. Her hands juggled the reins. Fear washed through her, wave after wave, crashing against her reason.
Not fear of the office of the Chair, nor of the man who held that office.
She feared the woman who could look at that man and see what might have been.
Chapter 9
The blue green bay glowed in the sun of a soft afternoon. The flashing waters bore their burden of sleek sailboats with sparkling amusement. The scene contradicted the dour attitude of Sylah’s group.
Bos and his warmen forged a clear path for them through the returning spectators. Leaning close to Sylah, Lanta said, “Remember how the crowds cheered when Altanar’s protectors whipped someone in Ola? I expected the same bloodthirsty, mindless excitement here. These people cheered at the execution, but there’s something like worry among them, and yet the executed man just murdered a whole family. I don’t understand.”
Sylah raised her chin. “I’m going to have some answers.” Copper leapt ahead at her urging, quickly overtaking a family walking beside the road. “Hello!” she said to the surprised people. “May I ask a question?”
Leaping as if stung, the father clutched his wife to him with one arm. With the other hand he reached to pull a small boy against him. Simultaneously, both parents yelled at the other three children. Like obedient chicks, two girls and another boy sprinted to get behind the parents. Wide eyes stared up at Sylah.
Before Sylah could speak again, Bos and the squad were around her and the family. The father babbled at the warmen. “No one spoke to her. We called the children. No one said a word to her. Not one.” The melodic Kossiar speech made his protest a whine of fear.
Bos let the family watch his hand lovingly progress up the scabbard of his sword to rest on the hilt. He said, “I know what was said. And what wasn’t. Be glad I was close.” A movement of his head sent the family hurrying away. A boy in a green blouse lagged, filling his eyes with Sylah. The mother reached back for his collar and yanked him along.
