by Jeff Grubb
The servants left the newlyweds there, closing the doors behind them as they departed.
Kayla took a deep breath and reached out to her new husband. Urza slowly took her hand, and the princess realized that the slender young man was trembling slightly and almost flinched at the touch. She wondered if he even knew he was shouting his nervousness to her.
Instead she said, “You have strong hands.”
“Working with artifacts,” he said, his voice rasping a bit, “you need strong fingers.”
“And a strong mind as well,” she said, and drew herself closer to him. His body felt as tight as the spring in her music box.
“Kayla,” Urza spoke into her hair, “there’s something I need to tell you.”
Kayla froze, but only for a moment. Levelly, she said, “You can tell me anything.”
“I—” said Urza, then backed away from her and looked into her eyes. “I’ve been told I talk in my sleep.”
She smiled and pressed two fingers against her husband’s lips. “It’s all right,” she said in a throaty whisper. “I’m a very good listener.” And she kissed him.
Afterward, Kayla’s breathing was long and deep, She slept on her side, nestled against Urza’s lanky frame. He touched her brow, softly. She squirmed in bed, rolled over, and fell in still-deeper slumber.
Quietly, Urza rose from his wedding bed. The sky was still an hour from lightening, and the city of Yotia was quiet beneath his window. Beyond his sight, a city exhausted by its own celebration lay wreathed in sleep, and only a few lights still shone between the castle and the Mardun River.
Slowly, Urza crossed the room. He extinguished each of the guttering candles in the room, save one. This he took to the accumulated dowry. He looked over the pile of treasure, then carefully knelt down and extricated a heavy book, marked with Thran glyphs on the spine. The Tome of Jalum.
Urza took the book to the writing desk on the far side of the bedroom. He set the candle in its holder and looked at his new wife, lying in the darkness, for a long time. Then he opened the ancient book and began to read.
“Up, slave!” snarled the taskmaster, prodding Mishra’s side with his goad. The stocky young man groaned and tried to turn over, earning another sharp prod. In Fallaji the taskmaster repeated the order. “Rakiq! Qayim!”
Mishra coughed through a dust-filled throat that he was awake, and he hauled himself to his elbows to prove it. The taskmaster moved on to the next slave as Mishra blinked the dust from his eyes.
His dreams had been wrapped in darkness, utter and black. He was alone, all alone, without Tocasia, Urza, or any of the others. They had abandoned him. And in that darkness of his dream there was singing. Lovely singing, that issued from his green stone. But he had lost the stone as surely as he had lost the rest of his life.
Mishra blinked back the last of the darkness and knew that his waking world was little better than that of his dreams. He was in the camp of the Suwwardi. He had been captured and claimed by them. He was property now. He was a slave. He was rakiq.
After Tocasia’s death he had fled northward, toward the cavern at Koilos. He didn’t mean to at first, he had just fled. But his feet found their way into the desert and along the long shelf of the mountains, inevitably leading toward the lost canyon. The scrubby, succulent plants that etched out their lives along the desert’s borders provided him with life-giving water during the trek. Still, he was thin and weak when the Suwwardi outriders found him.
At first Mishra thought they were rescuers, friends from among the Fallaji diggers who had come looking for him, sent by Ahmahl or Hajar. But the riders who found him were tougher and crueler men than the diggers at camp, hard men with wind-carved faces and no patience for outlanders found in their desert. They wore broad-brimmed, flat helmets that marked them as Suwwardi, each bronze helmet inscribed along the brim with the vows of courage in battle.
The warriors dragged him back to their camp, but only because it was nearby. Otherwise they would have simply killed him and stripped his body. They took his glittering stone as treasure as well, but they did not treat it as anything more than an attractive bauble. Mishra had the strength to let out a weak shout as they pulled the bag containing the gem from his neck. That earned him an elbow to the face, a cuff intended both to silence and to train.
The Suwwardi set Mishra to work with the other slaves. Most were Fallaji, captured from other tribes and held until proper ransom was established or proper loyalties to the Suwwardi were ensured. These captives were treated fairly well, as slaves go. There were a few other outlanders as well—hardscrabble survivors of caravans that did not pay the demanded tolls for traversing Suwwardi land. These slaves the tribe worked to death. Of the seven other outlanders who had been among the slaves when he was first brought there three months earlier, Mishra was the sole survivor. There were a few later additions, but they had died quickly.
There had been no additional outlander slaves since then. The Suwwardi had apparently stopped taking them.
So Mishra worked as a slave. He built. He dug. He dragged heavy things. He did not ask questions. Another outlander had asked questions and his teeth were removed with a chisel. Mishra slept when he was allowed. He ate what he was given, which was less than the qadir’s hounds received.
And he dreamed. He dreamed of the darkness and the fractured power crystal singing to him. He tried to look for it but found he was too exhausted to move, held captive in the prison of his own flesh.
During the day, when he laid stone upon stone, or dug a new cooking pit, midden, or grave, he thought of the dreams. This day he was digging a trench, for some unknown reason. Occasionally his spade struck a bit of old metal from the age of the Thran, and he tossed it on the pile of churned earth with the other garbage.
As he dug and thought, Mishra did not hear his name being called, not the first time, or the second. Only when a hand was laid on his shoulder did the stocky man react. Mishra started and raised an arm to protect himself. No one touched an outlander with good intent in the Suwwardi camp.
“Master Mishra, it is you!” cried Hajar.
Mishra looked up at the one addressing him and saw the young, lean-faced digger from Tocasia’s camp. The one who had accompanied him the night that everything fell apart. But this Hajar was wearing a Suwwardi helmet, a pair of swords mounted on a harness across his back. And he was smiling.
“Are you all right?” asked Hajar, in Fallaji.
Mishra waited a moment, then nodded. He had no use for words for the past few months, and few spoke to him beyond simple orders.
A shadow appeared on Mishra’s right. It was the taskmaster, who had fewer slaves to deal with over time and kept his hold on his remaining treasures that much tighter.
“Do not speak with the rakiq,” said the taskmaster sharply.
Hajar laughed, and Mishra realized that the former digger was taller than the one who ordered him about. “Do you know who you have digging holes for you?”
Mishra wanted to say that he enjoyed digging the holes, and Hajar should not take that one pleasure away from him. But the words were lost on the way to his mouth.
“This man is a great scholar,” continued Hajar. “He knows things no one other man knows. He has discovered secrets of the Old Ones. And you have him digging ditches!” Hajar laughed again.
“Scholar!” the taskmaster spat into the dust. “That explains why he digs ditches so poorly. Now go away.”
Hajar shook his head. “He should not be digging ditches at all!”
“You’re right,” the taskmaster exploded. “I expected him to die months ago. He is an outlander and a slave. He works for me, Maurik the Taskmaster, for the moment. You want him to work for you, go to the qadir!”
Hajar paused for a moment, then said, “I shall. Try not to kill him before I return.” And Hajar was gone, head held high, heading for the center of camp.
Mishra dug energetically, but the taskmaster was displeased with his work. A sharp j
ab in the side with the butt-end of the goad reminded the former scholar that he should not have talkative friends. Mishra groaned under the blow and slowed only slightly as the ache spread through his body. He let the pain pass through him, and resumed his digging.
* * *
—
At the end of the day, the Suwwardi held their communal dinner. The qadir’s tent was fed first, then the warriors, then the women and children, then the qadir’s dogs, and finally the slaves. And the Fallaji slaves were fed before the outlanders, for there was a reason to keep the Fallaji alive.
Mishra was chewing a piece of stale, mold-spotted bread when they came for him; men in direct service to the qadir, with their broad helmets and ornate necklaces of heavy gold. Ceremonial guards, the young man realized. The qadir of the Suwwardi must be doing very well, to thus equip his warriors.
The guards spoke a few words, unheard by Mishra, to Maurik the Taskmaster, and the brawny master of slaves retired, grumbling, to his own quarters. Then the guards half-marched, half-dragged Mishra to the qadir’s tent, a broad, wax-colored pavilion lit from within. The soldiers stopped outside only long enough to remove the heavy hobbles that bound Mishra’s feet. Then they pushed him inside.
The tent was soft and smoky. Braziers were lit around the perimeter, and Mishra caught the scent of sandalwood and desert cedar wafting up from them, mixed with other pungent spices. The scent hurt his nose and made his eyes water, but it succeeded in dampening the stench of the Suwwardi themselves in these close quarters.
The ground was covered with thick rugs woven from the wool of mountain sheep, and stained with food and, in some places, blood. Great reclining pillows were scattered about. To either side of the room were the immediate relations of the qadir, the hangers-on, the courtiers, and the ambassadors from the other tribes. At the center of the tent was a platform, raised and covered with slightly cleaner carpets. This was the qadir’s place.
The qadir was a massive man, thick-shouldered, thick-necked, and thick-headed. He was beginning to give in to the results of his own success—his belly spilled slightly over the belt holding his robes shut. As Mishra entered the tent the qadir was helping himself to a great bowl of shelled nuts. At one side of the Fallaji leader was seated a similarly built, similarly dressed younger version of the qadir. On the other side, standing, was Hajar.
Mishra dropped to both knees, in the Fallaji custom, and waited for whatever would come next.
The qadir snorted down a handful of nuts. “This slave-dog of the desert is the one you speak of, Hajar?” he asked, in Fallaji. His voice poured out the words like thick coffee.
“That he is, most eminent one,” replied Hajar in the same language.
“And he is a scholar, you say?” said the qadir.
“A most respected one,” said Hajar, and Mishra noticed that the young version of the qadir was not smiling. In fact, he looked bored.
The qadir leaned forward and stared at Mishra. “Doesn’t look like much of anything. Even for an outlander.” Laughter rippled among the courtiers, relations, and ambassadors.
“Do you judge your horses by their bridles,” asked Mishra, “or by how hard they serve?”
He said it in a low voice, barely more than a whisper. It was a desert saying he had learned from Ahmahl, and the young man said it in perfect Fallaji. He did not look up as he said it. He did not say it proudly, or angrily. But he did say it.
The room grew quiet immediately. The qadir shot Hajar a venomous look that seemed to melt the young man in place. “And the rakiq speaks our language as well,” the qadir observed.
Hajar bowed nervously. “I said he was most learned in a number of fields.” When the thin Fallaji looked up, the qadir no longer looked at him. Instead he regarded the outlander through heavy-lidded eyes.
“You know the legends?” asked the qadir. “Of the Old Ones?”
“I know of the Thran,” replied Mishra. “An ancient race they were, which predated all other living races in the land of Terisiare. They left no bones of themselves, but they left the bones of their machines across the deserts.”
“Bones you outlanders pick at like vultures!” snapped the qadir.
Hajar saw Mishra hesitate for a moment. When he spoke, the scholar chose his words carefully. “Those nations of the eastern coast seek to understand that which has come before, the better to understand what is to be.”
The qadir made a grumbling noise that sounded like an unsettled stomach. “There are some things that are best not known. The Old Ones may discover you picking through their garbage and punish you for your effrontery. And punish us for not stopping you.”
Another silence from Mishra, then the Argivian said, “As you say, most eminent one.” He did not look down now, and his face was an impassive mask. Hajar could detect not a trace of sarcasm.
Neither could the qadir. He leaned back on his pillows and snatched a huge metal wine cup from its tray. “So. You are a scholar?” he inquired.
“I am but a student,” returned Mishra. “But I have much knowledge.”
“You know your Fallaji well,” said the chieftain.
Mishra shrugged. “I had good teachers. It was one more tool in learning the past.”
The qadir rumbled again. Hajar had already surmised that the leader of the Suwwardi had little time for, or interest in, the past. “You know the outlander languages? Argive, Korlis, and Yotian?” He spat the last name like a curse.
“They are one and the same language,” said Mishra calmly, “though there are differences in dialect and accent. The dialects diverged over centuries due to—”
The qadir held up a hand, and the young man was immediately silenced. “You know your calculations?”
“I do.”
“I have nine patrols of eight men each. How many men do I have?” asked the qadir.
“Seventy-two,” replied Mishra immediately.
“Four of those patrols are mounted on horseback. How many legs are there?” said the qadir with a harsh smile.
“Two hundred and seventy-two,” returned the Argivian smoothly, apparently without thinking.
The qadir’s face darkened again, and he looked at Hajar. The younger Fallaji thought for a long moment, his fingers twitching as he sorted mounted and unmounted troops, and number of legs of each. Then he nodded.
The qadir regarded the stocky slave with stony eyes. “You will do.” To the guards he said, “Take him out and bathe him.” To Mishra he said, “Rakiq, you will be my son’s tutor. Teach him to speak your language and master his calculations. Do this, and you will be treated well. Fail me, and you will be killed.”
Mishra rose and bowed deeply. “As your will is merciful, Eminent One.” The two guards flanked Mishra again. One of them still carried the hobbles. The other put a hand on Mishra’s shoulder. The stocky Argivian turned and left without saying a word.
Hajar noted that throughout the entire conversation, the young qadir, the smaller version of his father, had said nothing and seemed no more interested in his new tutor than in anything else in the tent.
* * *
—
Hajar had left the Argivians’ camp when the last of the outlander students had fled back to their coastal lowlands and the bits of metal they had excavated had been carefully shipped away on ox-drawn carts. He wanted Ahmahl to come with him, but the old digger chose to remain in the area.
Hajar joined one band of nomads, and then another, finally finding his way to the qadir’s camp. A distant relation on each one’s mother’s side gave him tentative entrance, and his hard work and bravery in a raid against a merchant caravan cemented the young Fallaji’s position within the camp hierarchy.
But now he had taken a risk, recommending one of Tocasia’s students as the young qadir’s tutor. His own fortunes would be tied to those of the the Argivian now, and Mishra’s failure would be considered his own.
Hajar visited Mishra’s new quarters, a small open-sided tarp near the cook’s, when
ever he could. When Mishra was not teaching he was expected to aid in the preparation of meals—simple, lumpish tasks such as fetching wood, tending the fire, and butchering meat for smoking.
At first things did not seem to go well. At ten years old the young qadir had no more interest in language and calculations than did his father. Worse, he seemed utterly repelled by the idea of being taught by anyone, particularly an outlander.
Mishra, for his part, was desolate. “I will be back digging ditches within a fortnight,” he said one evening to Hajar, as he hobbled to gather more brush to tuck into the fire pit.
Hajar knew better. To fail the qadir did not result in demotion, but in death. Neither he nor Mishra had asked if there had been previous tutors, but the implication was that there had been; there were Argivian books in the young qadir’s quarters, as well as an abacus. Both books and abacus had been apparently untouched by the chieftain’s son’s hands.
“He does not want to learn,” said Mishra firmly, “and I will not spend my days speaking to a wall.” The Argivian let out a deep sigh. “All he cares about is battle and the great things his father has done and what he will do when he becomes qadir.”
“Perhaps I could speak with the qadir,” said Hajar, then shook his head at the foolishness of his own idea. The father cared even less about knowledge than his son, except he demanded that his son know what he did not. It was a demand with the steel edge of a sword master’s blade.
“At best, he fidgets,” resumed Mishra. “At worst, he sleeps. I once prodded him awake, and he had his guards beat me.” The stocky scholar rubbed his shoulder. “It is not something I want to do again.”
“I am sorry it is not working out the way I had hoped,” said Hajar.
“I as well,” returned the scholar. “And it just seems so…hopeless. I feel empty inside. Empty, and useless.” Indeed the Argivian looked as if he had not slept for some time. It could not be the work, thought Hajar, for his life was slightly easier in that regard. It had to be something else. Perhaps his own sense of failure gnawed at him.
