The market had only a few carts and no other customers. All but one of the vendors were off to the side in a circle playing a card game. Whym stopped to watch the game as Kutan headed toward the working vendor’s cart. The players knelt on one knee with a cad, the smallest unit of currency, placed between their knee and the ground. Each player would then place three cards face up on the ground. Then they’d take turns flipping over cards from a deck in the center. Depending on which card was flipped—Whym had yet to grasp the rules—one or more of the players would try to switch knees before the other players could grab their cad. He watched a few rounds—several smashed fingers and many hurled insults—but only one cad exchanged hands.
He looked up to locate Kutan. He was speaking with the vendor holding two loaves of bread and an armful of vegetables. Impressed to find such a selection late in the growing season, Whym left the game to join him. “One and a quarter,” the vendor said—too cheap to be cads, outrageous if silvers.
Kutan didn’t dicker. He handed the man two silver coins. “How many days walk to Colodor?” he asked while the vendor counted change.
“Around half a moon.” The vendor held out the change then pulled it back. “You know, I’ve got fresh eggs I’ll sell you cheap. Six apiece, and I’ll keep these.” He again displayed the cads in his hand, but just out of Kutan’s reach.
When it looked as if Kutan was going to refuse the man’s offer, Whym repeated his words from the day before, “A nice fried egg with some cracked black pepper and a slice of toast to soak up the yolk.”
Kutan glanced back toward the slaves and the man they’d passed and grimaced. “Fine.”
The vendor pocketed the coins. “Eggs is back here.” He pulled open a moth-eaten curtain covering the doorway behind his cart. The shop looked long-abandoned, but chickens pecked around the doorway. “Ya’ll pick them you want.”
With a last glance back to the square, Kutan entered the room. Whym stepped in after. A wooden cage with two rows of roosts stood in the corner. It wasn’t the traditional coop, but the eggs were in plain sight in straw nests. Kutan picked up the first six he saw and stepped out, but Whym ventured farther back to pick the best looking eggs.
“In and out,” Kutan reminded him, standing just beyond the entrance to the coop.
“Just hold—” Whym was reaching for his last egg when a thump and grunt in rapid succession stopped him. He turned to see Kutan crashing to the straw floor of the coop, the vendor standing behind him, a bloody rock in his upraised hand.
Whym froze—hands filled with eggs, sword and dagger sheathed at his hip—the many moons of combat training forgotten in his time of need. With Ansel, Whym had been able to plan. He was the hunter setting the trap. This time, he was the one caught. When the bearded man from the square, sword in hand, stepped past the curtain with the greasy-haired slaver at his back. Whym realized it was too late to act. He’d not frozen long—a moment only—but Stern had warned him, “a moment is the difference between life and death.”
“Egg thieves, huh?” The bearded man’s lips peeled back into a cruel smile. “What kinda boys prefer eggs to ladies?”
“Don’t tolerate thieving in these parts,” the slaver added. “Ain’t that right, Murck?” A lightning-quick flip of his wrist sent the whip through the slats of the coop. It cracked close enough to Whym’s face that he could feel the air of the pop against his cheek.
Whym tightened, leaving egg dripping from his hands and broken shells smashed between his fingers. “We…we’re…we’re no thieves,” he stuttered.
“Laid ‘em yourself, huh?” Murck licked his lips. “Hey, Ard, we caught us a mother hen.”
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“There y’are, Mother Hen.” Ard clinked the shackle shut around Whym’s neck and bent to tighten those on his ankles. When they were tightened to his satisfaction, he smacked Whym’s naked butt hard, leaving a pink four-fingered impression of his hand. “Hey Murck, think he got any more eggs up there?” Ard fondled Whym’s testicles, rolling them between his fingers.
“Them ain’t eggs,” Murck growled. “See to them packs ‘fore Damin’s back.” Ard tensed for a moment, his glare trained on Murck, but then shuffled to the packs and emptied their contents on the ground.
Murck rattled the key in the shackle intended for Kutan. “Dern thing’s stuck again.” When it clicked open, he slammed the sides together, ripping off a chunk of skin and sending blood streaming down the side of Kutan’s neck.
The bearded man ran his finger under the wound then licked off the blood. “Reckon I might enjoy learnin’ you some manners.” A warped thrill lit his eyes as he leaned forward to press his tongue against Kutan’s neck, curling it with a single lap of fresh blood.
Whaaaapa! The sound ripped through the air near Whym’s ear, and he reflexively turned to see what it was. Ard had returned and was stroking the handle of his whip with a malevolent grin. “Lookin’ at me boy?” Spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke. He started toward Whym, whip arm raised.
“Look down,” the man chained to Whym’s left whispered. Whym, terrified, did as instructed, focusing on his bare feet as he tightened his body to receive the blow. Ard sent the whip to snap against Whym’s side, just below his ribs. Whym cringed but kept his eyes lowered. Apparently satisfied with his performance, Ard ambled back to the packs.
“He’s the gentle one,” the man beside Whym—the one who’d warned him—said under his breath when Ard reached the packs. “Murck’s mean like a willow viper, but the boss, Damin, he’s the one to fear. The day they chained me, he cut a man’s foot clean off for complaining about an infected sore on his ankle where the shackles rubbed. They made him hobble along on that stump until he stopped moving and hung there. Damin forced us to drag the corpse until he couldn’t stand the stench.”
Whym sought out their captors from the corner of his eye. If Ard’s the prize of the group, what kind of monster is Damin?
“I’m Tedel.” The man kept his gaze forward, his voice low.
“I’m Whym. That’s Kutan.” Whym nodded toward Kutan, who maintained a stoic expression despite his blood-matted hair and the fresh gash on his neck.
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For the rest of the morning, Ald and Murck alternated keeping guard. From what Whym overheard of their conversation, Damin had business in town and wasn’t expected back until the afternoon. He’d left the captives in their care until he returned. The two men’s styles couldn’t have been more different. Murck forced the slaves to stand erect as he paced among them, amusing himself by taunting them—Kutan his new favorite. When Ard’s shift arrived, they were allowed to sit against the wall of the building and out of the sun while Ard relaxed against the building opposite, disinterested and with a hat pulled low to cover his eyes.
When Murck took the stolen bags to the market, Whym worked his way close enough to whisper to Kutan. “There’s only one now. We should escape before the others return.”
Tedel cleared his throat. “Sorry, hard not to overhear—” he lifted the shackle around his neck as explanation—“but you shouldn’t count on the others helping. They’re more likely to restrain you. Men wear chains long enough, they start to need them.”
“Why is it you’re different?” Kutan seemed skeptical.
“I’m like you two. They grabbed me a moon before to replace a man that died—thirty-four miserable days to be precise. The others are from the Fringe. They’ve been with Damin long enough to look forward to the mines.”
Kutan looked across the square to where Murck was negotiating the sale of their belongings. Whym could guess what he was thinking. With Murck across the square, all we’d need to do is overpower Ard and get the key.
“Better wait until we’re well out of town,” Kutan said with a shake of his head and a pointed look at the men chained to them. “Then we can escape into the forest wher
e there aren’t townsfolk who might aid our captors.”
Tedel’s face fell. “From how they speak, Colodor’s not far. Once the mine swallows you, that’s it.” He snapped his fingers to emphasize the last point, drawing Ard’s attention.
“I hear ya again, this whole town’ll hear yer whelps!” Ard held up his whip for emphasis. “Goes for all yens.”
Several of the bound men glared at Tedel, who hung his head. “When you do it,” he said in a voice so low it was hard for Whym to hear despite being locked next to him, “please include me. I’ll do whatever you ask.” Then he looked up again and Whym, for the first time, saw the other side of Tedel’s face—a lattice of raised pink scars as if his cheek had burst open.
“Up!” a voice barked moments later, and Whym was literally pulled to his feet by his neck as the men scrambled to stand and arrange themselves into straight lines. Damin was nothing like Whym had imagined from Tedel’s description. He walked purposefully, shoulders back, goateed chin held high. His hair was parted in the middle and slicked down like he’d just bathed. He wore a tunic of finely woven cloth trimmed with braid, close-fitting trousers, and an emerald green cape that billowed behind.
Ard sprang to his feet and rushed to greet his boss. He pointed toward Whym and Kutan. “Filled up them gaps, we did! So long as you don’t go cutting off any more feet, we’ll have a full delivery.”
Damin moved straightaway to inspect his new property. “They’ll do,” was his unenthusiastic assessment. “Go get Murck. I’m ready to be finished with this lot.” Ard tore off toward the market like the rocks were burning his feet through his boots.
Damin doesn’t look that bad. Whym questioned Tedel’s motivation for his exaggerated description. Maybe we can bargain for our freedom.
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Kutan didn’t let Damin’s dapper appearance influence him. Instead, he watched the other captives, how they flinched at the sound of his voice and tensed to the point of shaking when he drew near. Tedel’s right. I don’t know what Damin’s done, but these men are broken. We could never count on them in an escape.
Riverbend, Chapter 28
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Thou shalt not take that which is not given. No subsequent payment may absolve the initial crime.
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—Truth (Laws 3:11)
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Riverbend
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Vernis Thrump’s eyes tracked the leaf as it tumbled, flipping and twisting, toward her nasturtiums. At the last moment, as if the flowers themselves shooed away the unwanted intruder, it sliced forward to settle on the grass. “That’s right!” She kneaded the dough with a sneer. “Best know your place.” Autumn had arrived too soon. She resented the chill that sneaked in each evening—an uninvited guest. Despite her attempts to hold them back, tears welled in her eyes.
She was neither blind nor stupid, despite what passed for gossip among the servants. Sometimes, though, problems of the sort she faced would just slip away. All summer she’d prayed for that outcome, that she’d wake up to find that the storms of the building tragedy had passed, and her life had returned to the familiar doldrums of bored disappointment. But despite her unwavering faith and the zealous persistence of her pleas, her prayers went unanswered. Continuing to wait and pray and hope had become untenable.
As a tear dropped into a puff of flour, Vernis’ thoughts drifted to the past. With a too-square jaw, a too-broad face, and a wide, flat nose that looked as though she’d mashed it down until it stuck, she’d never been a beauty. But what she lacked in looks, she compensated for with vivacity, an adventurous spirit—and the surname Arbane. When she’d reached marrying age, the matchmaker had produced a long list of suitors—a long list of indolent brats, with airs of entitlement and without ambition. Not one of the suitors had resembled a man in her eyes. She’d dismissed them all. Having exhausted the list and the matchmaker’s patience, she’d set about finding a match on her own.
To her chagrin, the type of man she’d desired would never have passed muster with her parents. And since the value of the Arbane surname declined without the considerable dowry they’d promised, she’d sought a compromise—Arlis Thrump. His parents had been well-placed enough—though just barely—and he’d secured an apprenticeship with the best tailor in Riverbend.
Vernis had overlooked his frail physique and tendency to speak in whispers to obscure a lisp, and focused instead on his potential. She’d scripted, then presented, a plan—first to Arlis, then her parents—that paired his undeniable skill as a tailor with her family’s contacts. They’d married soon after.
At first, things had progressed smoothly. The business had boomed, and Arlis had developed a confidence she hadn’t anticipated. Only one aspect of the plan failed to come to fruition—every moon, without exception, her blood had flowed. It was not for lack of trying. To her surprise, her frail husband had proven not only enthusiastic, but, after she’d provided clear instructions, also a skilled lover. With the frequency and tenacity of their love-making not yielding the desired results, she’d dragged an embarrassed Arlis to a doctor to find a fix for their problem. When that doctor and many other doctors failed to find a solution, Vernis had turned to alternative remedies.
With the fervor of a hunting dog on a scent, she’d pursued every conceivable lead—from back-alley medicine men selling tonics with snakes, scorpions, and all manner of nasty ingredients, to a witch doctor from the Fringe who claimed to possess real magic. Not one had staunched the flow that prevented her belly from growing full with child.
After turns of trying and failing, she’d been shamed by her inability to give Arlis an heir. She’d bitten her tongue as his gentle demeanor turned acerbic and had said nothing about the nights he returned home late reeking of perfume and alcohol. “Just a distraction,” she’d buoyed herself, certain he knew her contacts were what fueled their business. She’d even remained silent when Arlis had leered at the little tramp from RatsNest that lived ungraciously under their own roof. But the tramp had swelled to the point where clothing could no longer conceal her husband’s indiscretion.
“Madam,” cried one of the maids.
Vernis looked down. The dough was streaked with red, and her knuckles were bleeding from where she’d kneaded them raw against the countertop. She grabbed the dough and slung it across the room with a primal scream, covering herself and the kitchen with flour. The servants stood aghast, stupefied by the uncharacteristic outburst. She stormed from the room as the cloud of flour was still settling. “It’s time the butcher and I have a chat.”
She might have lost herself in her quest to bear a child, but she was lost no longer. I’m an Arbane. I made Arlis Thrump, and I’ll make it my mission to punish him every breath of the rest of his miserable life.
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Kira’s hands ached from the fine stitches, and her eyes strained in the dim light. Her eyesight had worsened. She ached all day every day, and now her legs were swelling along with her stomach. When she’d first suspected what was now evident, she’d snuck off to the Maze and consumed a foul-tasting brew to rectify the problem. It had proven useless. Her belly had continued to expand. Now it was too late. The healer warned, at this stage, the baby’s death would also be her own.
The very first time the tailor touched her, before he pulled her into the supply room to find the wetness between her legs—well before he’d worked up the courage to force them apart—she should’ve quit the apprenticeship and returned home. But Kira believed this apprenticeship was her only hope to escape RatsNest. Her father’d made clear it was the last of his support, so she’d clung to the hope everything would work out in the end.
Each time the tailor had begged for forgiveness. Each time he’d sworn it wouldn’t
happen again. Each time she’d chosen to believe him. But it continued, again and again, until it was too late to stop believing. She’d told herself things could be worse, that most girls who escaped RatsNest did so by opening their legs. “The master’s seal will be worth it,” she’d repeated, until she almost started to believe the lie.
Kira’s faith in the promise of the apprenticeship, though, appeared as misplaced as her faith in the potions from the Maze. Still, she’d done everything she could think of to save it. In a panicked last-ditch effort, she’d taken Whym inside of her and held him between her trembling legs. She’d intended for her grandmother to raise the baby until their apprenticeships were finished. The plan would’ve provided both her and Arlis Thrump a way out of their predicament.
But the guilt of that night grew as fast as her belly. If only I’d been honest with Whym, he might have found another way. But she’d been afraid—afraid he’d reject her, afraid he’d see her as she saw herself. If only he’d not come home to say goodbye. She’d cried during the act, after, and every night following until she’d stopped one day in a burst of clarity. No matter the cost to me or my reputation, I won’t lay this burden on Whym.
To her relief, when she’d confronted Master Thrump, he’d agreed to send her to the countryside under the ruse of recovering from illness. There she could birth the child while he made arrangements for adoption. When she returned in the spring, the apprenticeship and her future would be waiting.
Despite conceiving the plan, Arlis had dragged his feet on sending her. He’d even started hinting—between bouts of anxiety where he worried his wife would destroy his business and his prospects—about the possibility of a future with Kira. The child would be the heir his wife had failed to produce. The idea appalled Kira, but since she needed his help, she’d held her tongue, hoping each day would be the day she’d leave for the country.
Birthrights_Revisions to the Truth Page 18
