Eregard sat in the Hthras physician’s parlor, waiting, while Thia and Talis conferred together. With its dull red carpet and heavy, woven draperies, it was a very human room that gave no indications that the proprietor was Hthras. Eregard had seen Hthras before, when a delegation of them came to court when he was a lad. He could remember seeing some of their art in presents they’d made to Agivir, but there wasn’t a hint of anything like that in this room, which was so neat and spare it looked like a stage setting in a playhouse. Only the fireplace, swept and empty, showed any sign that it had ever been used.
Eregard strained his ears. He could hear most of what Talis and Thia were saying as they divided up the task of sitting with Jezzil. He was angry. Talis had not included him as one of the watchers.
He’s my friend, too, he thought resentfully. I helped to bring him here.
He thought of the afternoon he would face, going back out
into the wasteland to retrieve Clo’s body so she could be buried by her guild-fellows. I am trusted to deal with the dead, but not to watch the living.
He dropped his gaze, so Talis would not see the resentment in his eyes. You fool. You keep forgetting you’re a slave, and thinking you’re a man. Anger rose up in him, and he forced it back. Slaves could not afford to be angry. Anger led to actions like the ones that had brought him here to Q’Kal.
Now the two women were whispering, and Eregard could no longer hear what they were saying. He saw Thia’s expression change, and she glanced sideways at him, plainly upset.
Eregard tensed. Oh, no.
Talis said something else, urgently, and Thia finally nodded, her shoulders drooping. She gave Eregard a quick, distressed glance, then looked away.
A footfall from the doorway made them all look up to see the Hthras physician standing there. “Your friend has been moved to the infirmary and is resting comfortably. Miss Thia, will you go relieve Beldor, please? I will have my housekeeper bring you something to eat.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Thia said, and followed the doctor out of the room.
Eregard glanced over at Talis, to find her watching him with a thoughtful expression that made his mouth go dry. He forced himself to stay silent as he rose to face her. The slave waits for the master to speak.
Talis came over and stood looking at him. “I’m sorry,” she said finally.
“Sorry about what, mistress?”
She reached up to touch the place on his collar that was file-scored. “You need some salve on those raw places. I’ll ask the doctor for some.”
Eregard’s hand went up, reflexively, to cover the place where he’d begun filing through his collar. “I … I didn’t realize you’d noticed,” he said, realizing how inane it sounded.
“Of course I did,” she said. “And because of that, you’ll have to be shackled at night from now on. I hoped it wouldn’t have to come to that, but now I have no choice.”
“Come to what?” Eregard asked, his heart thudding so hard he felt dizzy with fear.
“Thia is upset. She begged me not to do this. I had decided against it, but now that Bayberry’s gone, I don’t have anything else of value. You must understand, Eregard.”
Talis’s green eyes were sad but determined. “Someone is going to have to pay for Jezzil’s treatment. Thia can’t, and I have little money left.”
Eregard stared at her but said nothing. Talis reached up to touch the collar again. “And I see that I can’t trust you not to run away, so I’ll accompany you to bring back Clo’s body.”
Eregard flushed angrily. It never occurred to me to try and run this afternoon! I liked Clo! Goddess! Leave me some honor, Talis! But he remained silent. Slaves dared not address their owners in that manner.
She took a deep breath. “We’ve missed the auction for today, so we’ll have to wait a week. But next Market Day, I’m going to have to sell you.”
Eregard tried to keep his face blank, but something in his eyes must have betrayed him. Thia shook her head grimly.
“I wish it could be otherwise. You’ve served me well, and you deserve better, Eregard.” She sighed. “I’ll try to see that you go to a good home. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing else I can do.”
Lessons
Jezzil dreamt that he was dead. Over and over, always the same dream, and always he ended up dead.
In the dream he fought, swinging his sword, moving, dodging, trying to connect with that horror that had once been human. The monster, still recognizable as something that had once been a man, swung back at him, and he felt its talons tear his belly, filling it with fiery pain. The pain was so bad that he could not breathe, could not move, could only lie there, aware only of the pain in his gut. His insides screamed that they had been sundered, violated, ripped …
Blackness waited for him, all-consuming, and each time he fought it as hard as he had in real life. Fought it … and lost.
Even as he cycled through the dream, time after endless time, something else kept trying to surface in his mind. The pain was so bad that he could not remember, could not focus, could not think. But each time, he tried. He knew there was something he cared about as much as he cared about the pain, but the pain would not let him think, or remember, or feel anything but the agony of his violated belly.
And then the pain lessened and gradually ebbed. It was still there, still a throbbing ache, but it no longer filled his mind, his body; it was no longer the entirety of his world. He realized he was lying on a soft surface and that there was light, instead of darkness, touching his eyelids.
He could think again, and remember.
Thia—what happened to Thia?
Jezzil struggled to open his eyes, feeling the grip of the pain, the blackness, loosen further. He willed himself to awaken.
He managed to blink, then open his eyes. As he’d guessed, daylight surrounded him. After so long in the pain-filled darkness, the brightness was dazzling. His lips moved.
“Thia?” His voice was so weak that he couldn’t tell if he’d actually made any sound at all.
Jezzil realized he was inside a building. That was a ceiling overhead, not the sky. The ceiling was painted white, and there were beams running across it.
He tried to turn his head, but a stab of pain accompanied the motion. Jezzil clenched his teeth to suppress a groan, but the person sitting next to him heard the sound, slight as it was.
“You are awake!” a voice exclaimed in excellent Pelanese, and someone bent over him.
Jezzil blinked and could not repress a start.
What is that?
The being’s face was lightly furred, with huge eyes and round, upstanding ears. The fur was light brown on its face, though the eyes were ringed with a darker, almost sable-colored growth. The nose was flat, the mouth small and narrow-lipped. The creature wore a robe that concealed its body.
The being spoke again. “Have no fear, Jezzil. I am Khith, your physician. Your friends brought you to me so I could heal you from the wounds you suffered during the battle.”
Jezzil tried to speak, but his mouth was so dry that only a croak emerged. The physician—Khith? Had that been the name?—seemed to realize his problem, and immediately produced a cup. Supporting his head expertly, the doctor gave him water, allowing him only small sips.
Jezzil felt the fur of the creature’s arm against his cheek, accompanied by an odor he’d never smelled before. Slightly musky, faintly sweet, it was not unpleasant.
Before his thirst was satisfied, Khith took the cup from his lips. “Enough for now. More in a few minutes. You had a question?”
He tried again, and this time managed sound. “Thia?”
“She is safe. As are your companions Talis and Eregard.”
Jezzil started to ask about Clo, but before he could manage it, he realized that the effort of speaking, listening, and simply drinking the water had tired him more than a full day’s foot-march.
His eyes closed and he slept. This time there were no dreams.
; When next he awoke, he felt much better. Stronger, and the pain in his head had subsided to a dull ache. He opened his eyes and managed to turn his head.
“Jezzil!”
He knew that voice. She was sitting beside him, and, while she appeared tired, worn, she was obviously uninjured.
“Thia,” he whispered. “You’re safe.”
She slid her hand over his, holding it tightly. “Thanks to you,” she said. “Thanks to you and Talis and Clo and Eregard. You all risked your lives to save me. I never had friends before.” She looked down, and he saw a tear slide down her cheek. “I’m so grateful.”
“Is everyone all right?” It was an effort to speak, but he had to know.
She glanced up at him, then her eyes fell again. Jezzil felt a sudden chill. He’d seen that look on the faces of battle comrades before. “What happened?” he demanded, his voice stronger now, rough and fierce.
She swallowed. “The god … He took over Master Varn.
You fought Him, all of you did. You were hurt: broken leg, a crack on the head, and injuries inside. Dr. Khith saved you.
But …” Her voice wavered. “Clo, Clo is … was …”
His fingers tightened on her hand. She was crying now, softly, sounding very young. Jezzil sighed, feeling a stab of grief. “She was a brave fighter,” he said, translating the Chonao ritual words into the language of Kata. “She had courage and she kept her weapons clean.”
She wiped away the tears on her sleeve, snuffling, then nodded. “I miss her. We all do.”
“Where are Talis and Eregard?”
“Talis has been meeting with Castio and some of his con-federates. She goes out at night to the taverns where the royal troops go. She’s never said, but I suspect she’s gathering information for Castio.”
Jezzil nodded. “Figures,” he said. “She’s devoted to his Cause.”
“She takes Eregard with her everywhere she goes,” Thia said, staring down at her hands. “She’s going to sell him, she says. Next Market Day.”
Jezzil closed his eyes. “My father always kept slaves,” he whispered. “I never thought about them. They were just there. Like the horses, or the stable cats. It wasn’t until I met Eregard that I realized …” He trailed off, not sure what he was trying to say.
“Realized they were really people?”
Jezzil nodded. “Something like that.”
“I don’t think Talis wants to do it, but we need the money.”
“I have a few coins put by,” Jezzil said. “Hidden behind the loose floorboard under my bedroll.”
“I got them,” Thia said. “I used them to make the first payment to the doctor. I gave up the lodgings. I’m staying with Talis and Eregard now, in their room. It’s cheaper that way.”
“Oh …” Jezzil was tired, but he had one more question he had to ask. “What was—who was—that doctor? I never saw anything like it—him …”
“It,” she corrected. “Healer Khith saved you. You were injured so seriously, and they told us the Hthras doctor was the best physician in the city. We brought you here, and it saved you. Used magic to heal the tears inside you.”
Jezzil’s eyes widened. “Magic?”
“Yes. The Hthras have magic that is greater than any I
ever saw before,” Thia said. “They look very strange, but Healer Khith is an excellent doctor. We’ve been talking.
When I’m not here with you.”
“Talking …” Jezzil managed. “About what?”
Thia glanced over her shoulder, and then her lips shaped a word so softly he could barely hear her. “Boq’urak,” she breathed. “Khith knows of Him. Khith told me that—”
She broke off as footsteps approached the room. A young man came through the doorway, carrying a small glass filled with a dark liquid. “Time for your medicine,” he said.
Jezzil grimaced. He had dim memories of how the stuff tasted. He swallowed it dutifully, though. He wanted to ask Thia what the healer had said about Boq’urak, but the draught made him even sleepier.
When he awoke, hours later, he was able to sit up, propped on pillows, and eat some broth and a bit of bread.
Khith came in to examine his wound, and pronounced that it was healing well.
That evening Talis and Eregard came in to sit with Thia, and the four talked in hushed voices about their battle.
“On Pela, we used to hear about the God of the North,”
Eregard said. “I never thought it was real, though. I never saw anything like that.”
“He was not fully Incarnate,” Thia murmured. “Be glad.”
“The creature we fought was powerful,” Jezzil said, “but it could be fought. Its magic was formidable, though.” He shook his head, thinking of the force that had picked him up and flung him as though he were nothing more than a stick figure of a warrior.
“And that … that thing tracked Thia all the way from Amaran,” Talis said slowly. “Or caused Master Varn to track her. My question is: we drove it away, for now. But what’s to keep it from returning?”
The companions sat in silence as the implications of Talis’s question sank in.
Eregard glanced over at Thia. “You must not go out alone from now on. He waited until you were alone before. Jezzil is right, he’s not all-powerful, or he’d just have whisked you away by magical means. Instead he used a man, and that man drove a wagon into the desert.”
Thia nodded. “It takes time and preparation for the Incarnation.” Her hands twisted in the folds of her skirt as she sat beside Jezzil’s narrow infirmary bed. “But, my friends, this is not your fight. You have already done too much for me.
More than anyone has a right to expect. Clo is dead.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t know what would be better. To try and go off farther, perhaps travel down to the Sarsithe, or go back to Amaran, give myself up to the priests. At least if I did that, I would be given to the Dawn, to make sure the Sun rises. A clean death …”
“No.” Three voices spoke as one.
“But—”
Jezzil struggled up on one elbow. “Thia, stop it,” he ordered. “And if you try to run away from us, as you did from Shekk Marzet, I will find you. We are comrades. I will never abandon a comrade again.”
Thia opened her mouth as though she were going to ask what he meant, but after studying his face, evidently changed her mind.
Jezzil looked at her. “Promise us. Promise,” he said. He was tired from sitting up, but he refused to lie down again until she spoke.
“Jezzil,” she began, “you have to understand. Boq’urak …
is not to be crossed. He’s a god.”
“Promise,” Jezzil insisted. “Thia, you must promise.”
“If I give myself up, He may not bother with you,” she said.
Talis grimaced. “I stuck a sword in him, and Jezzil kicked him in his ugly mouth. He’ll remember us. If you’re doomed, we’re just as doomed. But let’s not make it easy on him, Thia. Promise us.”
Eregard reached over and took Thia’s hand, holding it tightly. Jezzil felt a stir of resentment as he watched color rise in her pale cheeks. “Thia, they’re right,” the slave said.
“Promise.”
She looked from one to the other, then sighed. “I can’t fight all of you. Very well, I promise.”
What little strength Jezzil had abruptly vanished. Stifling a groan, he let himself slide back down against the pillows.
His eyes were so heavy he could not even summon the strength to wish his friends good night.
Eregard was heartily sick of smoky back rooms and whispered conversations. Talis always took him with her when she went on her missions, but he was not, of course, included in the actual conversations or planning sessions. Instead, Talis would hobble him as she would have a horse, using a locked leg anklet and a chain.
When she did her “tavern wench” act, he wasn’t chained, but instead set to work in the kitchens, under the close supervision of the cook or tavernmaster. Talis
wasn’t forgetting his half-scored collar, and she took no chances.
His hands, already callused and weathered from work in the fields, grew scratched and chapped from washing cutlery in steaming water, using the harsh soap that was necessary to scour away the cooking grease.
It was in the kitchens that he was able to actually carry out the mission his father had set him. The cook gossiped, and so did the other scullions. Eregard had only to scrub pots and keep his ears open to hear all sorts of interesting tidbits.
“Two soldiers in here last night, and they were talkin’
about their pay had been cut, and how any man that protested was likely to be flogged for insubordination. Said there were more floggings every day. Their captain had new orders, from overseas. Untidy uniform, five lashes. Sleeping on guard duty, twenty lashes.”
Eregard winced.
“A new troopship docked yesterday. Fresh troops. Even the Governor’s personal guard has suffered desertions.”
“They say Castio’s gaining recruits every day. Every time Prince Salesin dumps another shipload of convicts here on Katan soil and they go to rapin’ and killin’ and stealin’, Castio gains troops. Folk don’t like workin’, only to have some brigands come along and walk away with it all.”
And the next day: “Didja hear the Regent has raised the property tax?”
“Again? That’s twice since last harvest!”
“The wife and me are thinkin’ of moving out to the frontier. Those royal tax collectors don’t get out there so often, and a lot of ’em, they say, don’t make it back.”
“Got room in your wagon?”
“Sure, I can always use another outrider. Can you shoot straight?”
“I can learn!”
“They say the savages are thick as flies on the frontier.”
The shorter of the two scullions leaned toward his friend and lowered his voice. “Did you hear?”
Eregard strained to hear him, resisting the urge to turn his head. But he scoured softly and gently, careful not to clang the pots.
“Hear what?”
“They say that now Castio’s got militia drillin’ in every good-sized town on the coast, he’s movin’ west. There’s talk he has this new kind of musket ball, same as the royalists have. It gets you twice the range, and ’tis far more accurate.
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