by L M R Clarke
Charo grabbed Emmy’s filthy arm and twisted her by the shoulder. “Emmy, look!” she cried.
She pointed to something a little way off. A cart bumped along, carrying bodies on stretchers. It was pulled by a stout and shaggy vaemar, much less impressive than Sharptooth.
“It’s Zecha! Zecha!”
Their friend lay entirely still. Charo’s elation faltered. “Is he...?”
The question hung unfinished. Emmy shook her head. “No, he’s alive,” she said, her heart quickening. “Look at who’s leading the vaemar. That’s one of the Althemerians from the boat!”
It was the healer who’d tended Zecha on the boat, in her black tunic with the red heart-in-eye symbol. Bags and satchels still hung from her belt like ripened fruit, heavy with what must have been medicine.
“She wouldn’t be with him if he was dead,” Emmy said, her grin blooming. “They must be able to help him.”
A voice cracked through her happiness. “Move along!”
The mounted soldier atop Sharptooth glowered at them, digging her heels into the beast’s sides. The infamous teeth were immediately bared. Immediately, Charo and Emmy fell in step with the other Metakalans again, their hearts racing.
“Not that I wish they did things differently,” Charo said, “but I don’t understand. Why are they tending the wounded?”
Emmy shrugged as they kept walking. “Perhaps they don’t want to be like the Masvams, or the Valtat,” she said. “If they make a habit of looking after their slaves, even if they don’t need to, they look more compassionate.”
Charo shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. “A slave is a slave, no matter how you say it,” she said. She lifted her arms, baring her scars. “It doesn’t matter if they say they’re kind. They’re not.”
Emmy’s head was filled with memories of Krodge, now dead.
She shook off the thought as the healer slapped the vaemar’s rump. It growled, but picked up its pace. Soon the cart and Zecha were out of sight. The procession of Metakalans was left behind, weaving through unwelcome streets.
The walls of stone were less oppressive than the walls of jeers. They passed through gate after city gate, winding through different parts of the city. They passed through a wide square filled with market stalls, surrounded by grand buildings. The Althemerians who entered and exited through the grand carved doors were dressed in luxurious clothing. The males, curiously, were veiled, and wore decorative chains around their waists. It seemed the richer the male, the heavier the chain.
Eventually they passed through the final archway into a wide expanse of green. As they tracked the coast, the Althemerian countryside swept outward. To their left, smooth hills gave way to forests of the tallest trees Emmy had seen. To their right, the sea stretched out blue and silver. Some of Emmy’s tension uncoiled. Freed from taunts, the quiet of the land outside the city was sweet. She gulped in the scenery, curiosity overwhelming fear for a blissful moment. Emmy’s trained eyes roamed over the flora and fauna. Arraplant, valkern, twistwart, skella, she thought.
They walked south for half the day and, as the sun rose high into the clear sky, many of the captives wilted. Regardless, they were forced to march on. It wasn’t until dusk began to encroach that they arrived at their destination.
Tendrils of smoke curled against the starlight, rising from somewhere in a dip. Hidden by the swell of a yellow hill, not far from the sea, a strange settlement appeared, its boundaries marked by wooden walls lit with bright torches. Emmy glanced around, trying to take in every detail. The ground was of packed earth, and the structures within the walls looked cobbled together from whatever could be found. It was like a miniature city, complete with a smithy and row upon row of barracks. Its population was made of folk of many colors. They weren’t all Althemerians, but they all wore the blue, with the twin serpents on their chests.
The Metakalans were shepherded to the middle of the wooden city. Emmy and Charo were jolted and pushed, finally coming to rest in the middle of the crowd. There was a smell of greenery from the forest that stood to the side of the camp. There was another smell, too: a danker, more insidious stench. Fear, Emmy thought. It’s fear.
In front of the crowd, three figures stood on a large podium. A female and a male stood at military attention, flanking a second female who had her arms crossed. She had dark skin and armor, and her blue eyes shone with unveiled contempt. The evening breeze wasn’t strong enough to pluck the red braids that licked her back like flames.
“Pathetic,” she said. “You are all pathetic.”
There was no sound from the captives. Emmy’s mouth was dry. The female was dressed in the same blue tunic, but wore a padded leather surcoat over it. She showed her rank by the silver bars at her neck, and the thick buckle at her waist. Many bracelets shimmered on her arms, more on the right than the left. Her braids swung as she spoke.
“I am Commander Pama, and this is the Hutukeshu Encampment. You have been liberated by the Hand of the Queen.” Her voice carried across the flatness of the camp. “Consider yourselves lucky that you weren’t killed alongside our other enemies. You have been saved from certain death under the boots of the Masvams, who would no doubt have subjected you to torture, maiming, and even death.”
Her words fell on Emmy like lead.
“This favor comes with a price,” the female continued. “Each of you now owes Queen Valentia a debt. You will stay in her service for a cycle. Once your debt has been paid, you will be free to stay here or return to your own country, or what remains of it, for your service makes you non-blood citizens of Althemer.”
“We won’t stand for this!” someone shouted.
Emmy couldn’t place the voice without the face. She turned, squinting through the crowd.
The female on the podium clicked her claws. Two soldiers rushed in and seized the speaker, dragging her to the front. It was one of the butcher’s apprentices from Bellim, a female renowned for having a loose tongue and an empty head. Shoved to her knees in the dust, the glint of a knife appeared at her throat.
“Your words mean nothing here,” braided Commander Pama said. “What is decreed by the Queen is law, and you must obey that law, or die.” She laughed and leaned forward. “Tell me, what is your name?”
“Drenna Haldra,” the female said, “of Bellim.”
“And what is your profession?”
Drenna’s throat pulsed under the threat of the knife. Even so, she tried to answer with confidence. “I am a butcher.”
“A butcher, providing food and doing dirty work that most seek to avoid,” the commander said. “Well, Drenna Haldra of Bellim, you will now butcher only Masvam meat.”
She straightened and signaled for Drenna’s release. The butcher clutched at her grazed throat and stumbled back into the crowd. Lips curling, Commander Pama continued.
“In this camp, you belong to the queen, but you answer to me. Each of you will be asked your name and your profession, just like your companion Drenna. If you have a purpose that we deem useful, you may well retain it. If you serve us faithfully outside combat for a cycle, your debt will be repaid. Most of you, however,” she continued, “will join our military might.” She narrowed her eyes and dropped her voice. “Be warned. You should be honest when asked your profession, for liars will be sent to the front lines of our armies.”
A shiver rattled from the tip of Emmy’s tail to her neck. She glanced at Charo, who shook her head and mouthed, What am I going to say? Emmy said nothing, but planted a comforting hand on Charo’s shoulder.
Commander Pama went on.
“Even if you have a profession, you may choose to fight, for it is the quicker path to freedom. We require only five cycles of loyal service in our army.” She chuckled, but the sound was cold. “However, it is also the quicker path to death. You will train to fight in the Queen’s Army and if we require you for battle, you will go. If you die, then you will go to your goddess as heroes. If you live and serve your five cycles, you
r debt will be repaid and you will be free.” Pama drew herself upward, her last words spoken with an air of finality. “Remember: your debt must be repaid. Those without honor, who try to escape, will be killed.”
With that, she strode from the platform, disappearing in a whirl of blue tunic and red braids.
She left a bustle of activity in her wake. Althemerians brought tables and chairs onto the podium. The air trembled.
“I’m going to be sent to the front,” Charo said, looking up to Emmy. “What profession do I have?”
Emmy squeezed the hand on Charo’s shoulder.
“You’ve got a lot of skill, Charo,” she said, “whether it’s a profession or not. Tell them about your past, and they might assign you to someone as a maid.” Charo pulled a sour face at that. “Or,” Emmy offered, “you could say you’re my apprentice. That way we might go somewhere together.”
“And what happens when they find out I lied?” Charo asked. She gave a rueful smile. “I only know how to sweep the floors.”
Emmy shook her head. “You know more than that,” she said.
Charo didn’t reply.
Around them the crowd began to move again, urged on by Althemerian soldiers. Emmy slid her hand from Charo’s shoulder to her talons, grasping them firmly. “We should try and stick together, Charo.”
Charo interlocked her claws with Emmy’s and stared through the crowd. “What about Zecha?” she asked. “What will happen to him?”
Emmy’s words died in her throat. She shook her head. There was only one place for Zecha if he lived. The army. It was his only choice.
The crowd was herded forward, this time to the platform. Althemerians peered down, armed with scrolls, quills, and ink, poised to rewrite the course of the Metakalans’ lives.
Charo grunted as she was shoved up the stairway, stumbling onto the plinth. Emmy followed, pressed on from behind. For a moment, everything stilled. There was no wind. The flames didn’t flicker. Faces didn’t move. Bodies were frozen. Emmy watched, taking it all in. How had it come to this? In the noiseless camp, there was no response.
Charo was beckoned forward first, too far from Emmy for her words to be heard. Emmy gnawed her bottom lip. Don’t send her to the army, she thought. Let her be safe.
“Next.”
That single word pulled Emmy forward. She stopped in front of the male—a Linvarran, with green and yellow colors like Charo—who glanced up from his parchment. He regarded her with indifferent orange eyes for a moment. Then, as realization unfolded and he saw that Emmy wasn’t a usual Metakalan, he leaned forward, quill poised. “You’re not like the others.”
Emmy suppressed a grunt. Even here, being processed by the Althemerians, she was still an outsider, a stranger. “I’m Metakalan,” she said. “I just look different.”
One of the other scribes leaned into the first and whispered, his eyes focused on Emmy. The first scribe nodded and returned his attention to his charge. “Name?”
“Emmy.”
She watched as he scratched her name on the parchment, never taking his eyes from her. “Profession?”
“Apothecary.”
The scribe raised an eyeridge as he scratched the word into the column beside her name. “I see,” he said. “Very interesting.”
Emmy, not caring whether the scribe thought she was interesting or not, looked up the length of the podium. Charo was already being led away. She glanced over her shoulder, catching Emmy’s eyes for a moment, before she disappeared down the wooden stairs. Emmy cast her eyes upward, mouthing a prayer. Please let Charo be safe. It was a vain attempt to pray to the Lady of Light, a deity in whom Emmy didn’t really believe.
The scribe set down his quill and stood. Emmy, her attention back on him, blinked and furrowed her brow. None of the other scribes had risen.
“You’ll have to come with me,” he said.
“Why?” Emmy asked.
The scribe showed a flash of irritation as he stepped from behind his table. He was a short male, with close-cropped brown fronds and an officious demeanor. “Just do as you’re told,” he said, “and follow me.”
Sweat began to seep from Emmy’s palms as the scribe led her across the plinth and down the same stairs Charo had descended. Dust whirled from the parched ground with every step they took. She glanced around, seeking any glimpse of her friend. She paused, her feet heavy with fear.
Darkness fell on Emmy’s shoulders. Charo was nowhere to be seen.
The scribe looked over his shoulder and tutted at her slow pace.
“Come along,” he said. “You need to report to your new post.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Emmy
They crossed the flat compound, dodging small clumps of other processed Metakalans, until they reached a low wooden structure. It had a wide door, on which the heart-in-eye symbol was drawn in red paint.
The scribe pushed the door and held it open for Emmy. The small gesture struck her as strangely respectful, a feeling she’d rarely felt before.
Inside were row upon row of beds. Emmy brought a hand up to her nostrils and mouth. There was sickness here, and she knew the smell well. Those in the beds were ill, not injured. The air was filled with the sound of their moans. Emmy glanced around and dropped her hand, puzzled. There were scant few folks in black tunics to tend the sick. Emmy could only see two, both female.
As they entered, one of the female healers glanced up at them, away from the female she tended. Her green armor and pinkish skin painted her as Belfoni, not Althemerian, and her chest was emblazoned with the red heart-in-eye. However, she was no ordinary healer. Her authority spoke through the bars at her neck—like Commander Pama’s, but wooden rather than silver.
The scribe ushered Emmy towards her, and Emmy’s throat grew tight.
“I have something for you, medicine-rel,” he said. “This is Emmy. She...says she’s an apothecary, so I’ve brought her, as you asked.”
The Belfoni healer rose from her place at the sick Althemerian’s bedside. She was a striking creature. Unusually tall, a similar height to Emmy, she wore many bracelets on her arms—again, more on the right than on the left. She had an easy smile.
“Thank you, Nila,” she said, walking towards them and wiping her hands on a scrap of cloth. “We need more tsimi, and an apothecary is a good place to start.”
Tsimi? Emmy’s eyes narrowed at the word. She’d never heard it before.
“I must return to my post,” Nila said.
There was something in the way his eyes darted from the Belfoni healer to the rows of the sick that Emmy had seen before. It was the same look that neighbors cast at houses struck by pestilence.
“Of course, Nila,” the medicine-rel said. “Thank you.”
The scribe gave a shallow bow, then turned tail and left as quickly as he could.
The medicine-rel planted a hand on Emmy’s shoulder, and Emmy glanced up. The healer’s grip was firm but, strangely, there was a flash of coldness at her touch. For a moment, Emmy’s mind jumped back to the boat.
“How did you escape the attack?” the medicine-rel asked. “I didn’t,” she said. “I was taken prisoner, just like all the other Metakalans.”
Emmy pulled away from the healer’s touch, her brow furrowing.
The Belfoni’s face was impassive. “Not that attack. The attack on the Uloni.”
Uloni? Emmy had never heard that word before. She shook her head, gritting her teeth in sudden fear. What did this mean?
The medicine-rel tilted her head to the side. Her eyes were green and piercing. “You don’t remember, do you?”
Fear rising, Emmy balled her claws into fists. “I have no idea what you mean,” she said. “I don’t know what ‘Uloni’ is.”
Something passed across the healer’s face at that. “No matter,” she said, but her tone belied the words. It sounded like it did matter. “Forgive me.”
Emmy wanted to reach out, to ask, what do you mean? What does Uloni mean? But fear kep
t her hands and tongue in check. She didn’t know this female. She could be cruel, or perhaps just mad. Emmy gritted her teeth so hard now her jaw ached.
The medicine-rel turned and gestured to the beds that surrounded them, the subject of an attack and Uloni now firmly closed.
“We don’t have enough skilled healers to tend the sick,” she said. “We’ve been struck by shengi for the third time in three months. Your job will be to help me.”
“Shengi?” Emmy asked. Her brow furrowed. This creature spoke with many words she didn’t know.
The medicine-rel waved a hand and seemed to prod the back of her mind for the correct word. “The Althemerians call it Lurking Death.”
Emmy went still, and pressed her lips into a thin line. “Oh.”
The Lurking Death. A sickness marked by vomiting, fever, shaking fits, and, if untreated, a slow and painful death. There was no true treatment, but those who received care were less likely to perish.
“It’s not an easy thing to deal with,” the medicine-rel said. “All we can do is give what aid we can and hope the ill recover. We’ve lost countless lives since shengi struck, partly because we have so few tsimi to attend them. That is why I need you.”
Emmy ventured a nod, but her attention was on the folk stretched out on the beds.
The sick were from all parts, likely others for whom the Althemerians had decided they owed a life-debt. There were Selamans, Linvarrans, and Belfoni, all suffering from the Lurking Death in the same way. There were a handful of Metakalans as well, sick and exhausted from their long journey on the slavers’ boat. Death is color-blind, Emmy thought. It takes us all the same.
She scanned the beds, looking at each Metakalan face. She recognized them, but she couldn’t see the one face she wanted. Her chest grew tight and she balled her claws into fists. Never mind the talk of Uloni, whatever that was. There was a more important matter to attend to. Where was Zecha? Why wasn’t he here?
“My friend,” Emmy said, “he was injured on the boat and taken away on a cart by a healer. I need to find him. I need to know if he’s all right.”
