by Don McQuinn
Watching them stumble out under the blows of the guards, Domel permitted himself a pecking nod of approval. That was how things were done. Decisive. Unhesitating. Prudence and caution were major factors, but one didn’t let them interfere with getting work done.
Following in trace of the departed slaves, the faintest of smiles touched Domel’s features. Tears of Jade admired his wisdom, did she? Well she might. And well she might have remembered that her dupe, Domel, was Slavetaker, once. Far too old and slow now to confront Lorso in combat. Still, no man aged among the Skan without a certain cunning.
The timberworkers already squatted in front of the smith’s workshed, except for one. He stood with his right foot raised onto a stump. Raising his heavy hammer, the smith brought it thudding down to flatten the rivet that would secure the anklet and chain to the slave until his death. The man groaned. One of those waiting turned away, weeping.
Tears from a man offended Domel. “Get that weakling out of the timber stock. He’d never last. He’ll get another slave injured. Exchange him for one of the sea-slaves.”
Not looking back, knowing he’d be obeyed, Domel led the way to the sea-slave barracks. On arrival, the accompanying guard shoved the weeping slave to the ground in front of his new group, simultaneously yanking a replacement from among the others. Domel walked to stand over the cowering man, saying, “This is where you belong. You’ll fish for us, work here on the boats and on the docks. You won’t be troubled by frightening sights.”
The guard with the exchanged prisoner snickered aloud. The eyes of every slave darted to him, then returned to Domel. At that moment, however, another distraction appeared. A burly man leading two younger men, equally bulky, came around the corner of the sea-slave barracks. The leader greeted Domel, then added, “I came as soon as I heard. These eight are for me?”
“They look to be a fairly healthy bunch. The fair one there looks strong. He ought to be able to lift shrimp traps all day.”
“They all will.” The burly man laughed hugely. His assistants, still behind him, pitched in.
Domel aimed a careless kick at the slave lying at his feet. “Be careful of this one. He’s sensitive. The sight of one of his friends being chained made him cry.”
The burly man’s amusement vanished. “I’ll see he works, Domel. Don’t worry.”
“I’m sure of it.” Domel looked down at the man. “We chain timberworkers so they can’t run away. You won’t be chained. The weight would take you straight to Sosolassa if you fall over the side, you see, and we mean to keep you. We have a better way to stop your running away.” He jerked his head in the direction of the waiting trio. “A man can haul traps, catch fish, repair nets—all manner of things—without any need to look at his work. And a blind slave never knows which way to run to get away.”
With a purely visceral movement, the slaves packed together against each other. A confused, indistinct sound of horrified disbelief rose from them. Beyond Domel, the two assistants moved forward. They carried leather bindings. The burly man drew a short, ugly little knife. Jutting from his thick, gnarled fingers, it glimmered.
* * *
The celebration of Lorso’s return was lavish. The site was a longhouse, set on a knoll not far from the Skan port. Despite being hidden in a grove of ancient cedars, it afforded views of the sea and Sosolassa’s sinister hook-beaked mountain.
Barrel-roofed, the first impression of the place was of a half tube, its apex twice the height of the tallest man. Long horizontal planking ranged its length, suggesting a ship hull. There were no windows. The long axis was north-south, with doors at each end. Midway along the length were two additional east and west doors. All doorjambs and lintels were elaborately carved and painted with totemic and magical symbols. The thick planks of the eastern entrance featured the finest carvings, highlighted with inset stonework of polished jade, garnet, onyx, and the intriguing pink-and-black sostone. Representation of Sosolassa’s mass and fury dared entry. There was a plaque on the right side of the path a few paces from the door as tall as a man, and as wide, it was rather like a signboard. Well greased, it resisted the steady drizzle. There was something about it that suggested dim antiquity. Oddly, and completely out of context with any other visible aspect of Skan culture, its sole display appeared to be a deformed mushroom. The stem was elongated, the crown irregularly bulbous. The color was a sickly gray, save for the bright red base.
Lorso and Domel approached the eastern door on foot, beside Tears of Jade in her sedan chair. Some distance away, the bearers stopped. They remained behind as the two Skan continued, supporting the old woman. Just before reaching the strange painting, Lorso and Domel released her. Right hands raised to the right side of the face, bent to the left, all three literally slunk past the decorated board. Safely beyond it, Tears of Jade took their arms again, swept inside with them.
Skan warriors were crowded inside. Grandly carved and painted ceremonial bowls, each representing a clan, rested on a line of trestles down the middle of the building. All held aromatic, steaming soup or stew.
Long tables burdened with the finest seafood, fresh and smoked, flanked the bowls. There were few vegetable dishes, but a large variety of baked dried fruit concoctions. Vats of beer loomed along the curved walls. Slave women rushed through the west entrance of the longhouse, still distributing food. Some carried cedar-root baskets filled with smoking hot rocks, leaving a trail of pungent, peppery scent. The rocks were lowered into the carved bowls, replacing those which had cooled.
Domel managed to make himself heard over the general hubbub, shouted flattering remarks about Lorso from the east side of the longhouse. When Domel called for a cheer to celebrate the alliance with Windband and the River People, the response was as brief, if enthusiastic. The gathered warriors clearly respected Lorso. They equally clearly wanted to get on with the festivities. Domel stepped aside. Tears of Jade took his place. Silence moved through the gathering the way spreading oil damps waves. Loud, raucous voices broke off. Laughter sputtered, choked.
Tears of Jade spoke. The dry, peculiarly carrying voice insinuated itself into every cranny. “I thank the warriors of the Skan for allowing a woman to speak at a warrior banquet. We have greater reason to celebrate this new alliance than any of you can know. The Skan are on the crest of the wave that brings us to domination. Sosolassa has shown me Church, broken and defiled. The god has shown me Gan Moondark wrapped in the god’s dark tentacle. The witch Sylah will be a toy for the men of the Skan. I saw the Mother River choked with the dead of Windband and the River People. There will be killing as the Skan have never seen before, slaves enough to fill the hold of every sharker.”
Bellowed approval surprised Tears of Jade. For the briefest instant, it showed in her drawn lips, stiffly raised chin. “Sosolassa demands the Skan act as one. Trust all, trust none else. Treat our new allies as brothers. On Sosolassa’s order, strike them all.” She paused, spread palsied arms. The material of her extended cloak trembled in the fitful light, giving her the look of a tiny, eager wasp. “I, Tears of Jade, trusted an outsider. Learn from the folly of an old woman. All know of Jaleeta. Learn, men of the Skan. She was not of us, and she betrayed us, used magic to trick these weary eyes. I will be avenged. As Sosolassa commands that all Skan always be avenged.”
The assent from the crowd was different this time, a low, feral growl.
Surveying the entire room, Tears of Jade finished, “Eat. Drink. Enjoy. Make your life here as it will be when Sosolassa calls you to your final honor. Live as Skan, that you may properly die as Skan.”
A step back took her to the east exit. She passed through it with astonishing quickness. For many of the rapt warriors, their view impeded by the crowd, she literally disappeared. A thick, uncertain quiet enveloped the room. Only the crackle of the fire and the dancing flames lived in that moment. Then Lorso’s voice rang out. “Eat! Let’s hear singing! Otter Clan; do you have voices?”
Activity exploded. The rhythmic Otter war
chant, a boast of deeds set to the beat of racing sharker oars, hammered across the rising laughter and shouting.
Before Domel could finish the food on his wooden platter, the first trouble started. Munching a doughy confection of dried apples, raspberries, and honey, he merely glanced up when a serving slave raced past, screaming. Crunching sounds, the unmistakable crackle of breaking cartilage, demanded closer attention, however. Domel turned to see an irate Sea Lion Clan warrior glaring down at a seated Otter. The latter’s eyes lacked focus. His nose was seriously rearranged, bent left. Copious blood emphasized the recent completion of that novel alteration. The Sea Lion man said, “You know that’s forbidden in here. Anyhow, if you want a woman, use your own slaves. That one’s our property.”
A second Otter’s fist expressed exception to that hypothesis. It dropped the property-proud Sea Lion in a snot-bubbling heap. Howling merrymakers from other clans flailed at their closest neighbor. The serving slave slipped away.
As did Domel. Bent over a brimming container of beer, he nimbly dodged revelers until he was against a wall. Enjoying his brew, he watched the ebb and flow of the melee.
Since weapons were forbidden at a Skan banquet, there was little chance of serious damage. True, there were those occasions when someone was brained with a wildcow thighbone, or had an eye gouged with a spoon, but Skan law decreed that no injury sustained inside during a Skan longhouse banquet could be pursued further in any way. Skan social cohesion needed forgetfulness.
By the time Domel finished his third—or fourth—tankard, former combatants sprawled on the tables and the floor in all directions. Among the conscious, arms draped over shoulders. Heads lolled together. Clan intertwined with clan. The low hum and hiccup of mumbled war stories soothed the ear.
Domel was mildly surprised at how swiftly the evening had scampered past. He leaned back against the wall, luxuriating in the sensuous weight of eyelids that shuttered slowly, slowly downward. The fire’s failing flames cast a soft, roseate glow across the dreamlike expanse of abandoned food, discarded utensils, and twitching bodies. Domel admired it all proudly.
He’d been a fool to worry about Tears of Jade. Not that she wasn’t a formidable woman. Her spirit powers were undeniable. A little frightening. That word again. Frightening. Ridiculous. War. Conquest. Skan life, that was. Kill the allies when they were no longer useful. Clever. Perhaps a bit more beer was in order. He forced amazingly heavy eyelids open the merest slit.
Lorso stood two body-lengths away. Watching.
Domel held himself still, like a newborn fawn smelling wolf. Like the animal, Domel knew his life depended on being something he was not. He pretended sleep. Even through the hazed vision of near closed eyes, beer, and smoke, Domel saw vengeance.
Lorso left.
Domel’s breath came in gulps. His skin tingled. Rising, kicking the beer container aside, he picked a way through the litter. He was amazed by his swift return to sobriety.
Chapter 16
Pressed against the sodden cabin wall, Domel blamed his bone-rattling shaking on the weather. His heart knew it was more than cold. If Tears of Jade or Lorso ever suspected he spied on them, death would be a kindness.
The young Domel was a braver man. A better man. The one huddling in the darkness like a crippled dog sniffing for scraps was a fool.
Domel thought back to other uncomfortable vigils. The blood ran hot, then. Those nights he welcomed misery because it sapped the strength of his prey. That Domel feared only failure and dishonor.
This Domel dabbled at greater power, allowed himself to be tricked. Tool of a woman. A spirit woman, but a female, nevertheless.
For a moment, Domel thought he saw a way out of his dilemma. If he stormed into the cabin and told Lorso exactly what happened, he could at least die quickly. After the explanations, the sword stroke would be swift and clean.
Shaking his head, Domel acknowledged the futility of that effort. Tears of Jade would deny everything, and be believed. Domel remembered the expression on Lorso’s face in the longhouse. That face would kill slowly. Appreciatively.
Domel crept farther along the wall, daring Lorso’s predator’s senses, getting closer to the window.
“He didn’t see me, didn’t know I was there.” The words were muffled; Lorso, defensive.
Tears of Jade’s words were clear, like a knife blade slipped between the cabin logs. “You tell me you stood over him, looked down at him, and he didn’t see you?” Domel recoiled. Bile burned his throat, almost choked him.
“He was drunk. I watched him. Eating, drinking. Alone. He has no friends.”
“People like Domel and me need no friends. We have knowledge. I pray the god grants you some. Someday. Every important Skan alive owes Domel for something. He’s woven a net of debts. That’s why you will not kill him until I say it’s time.”
“How long must I wait?”
Domel’s stomach rolled at the yearning in Lorso’s plea.
Tears of Jade soothed. “Soon, my son. And control yourself. Such a frightening glare. Remember, I’m the offended one, not you. You didn’t care for the girl. I did. I had hopes for her. You certainly didn’t.”
When next Tears of Jade spoke, demanding Lorso give her time to think, her voice was thoughtful. It puzzled Domel that despite its softer quality, it sounded even clearer; then he realized she’d changed her position. In his mind’s eye he saw her, away from the fire, seated in the chair by the window. With the black curtain drawn, she’d be almost invisible, a small, dark interruption against a larger blackness. Chin resting on a twiggy hand, as if crouched. If the fire burned brightly enough, it caught in her eyes, glittered. Sometimes she sat like that for so long one wondered if she still lived.
Domel chewed on a knuckle. If Tears of Jade called on the god to punish him, death was only a passage from this world to eternal suffering. If he could be free of her, however, he’d be free of Sosolassa. The god wouldn’t strike at him without her encouragement.
Musing speech interrupted his thoughts. Tears of Jade spoke. “Perhaps it would be best to eliminate him as quickly as possible.”
“Tonight.” Lorso’s urgency conjured a shark scenting blood, bending back on itself in its eagerness.
The spirit woman continued, unheeding. “I’m not sure I can make him reveal all the people under obligation to him. Torture would probably work, but it could take a long time. I can’t trust you not to do something foolish. Nor will you be able to concentrate on your duties while he lives; I see that now. Once I tell everyone the old fool wanted Jaleeta since she came here, that he intended to escape with her, the Navigators will send him to Sosolassa immediately.”
“I send him.” Lorso made it a demand. “He hurt me. You, I mean. It must be me.”
Tears of Jade was considerate. “He must drown, go direct to the god. You shall be in charge.”
“I want to feel him die on my sword.”
“That’s exactly what we cannot have. You, with your eyes full of killing, your face shining with hate. Who knows what tales he’ll tell to spare himself?”
Sighing, Domel accepted the last as the final blow. Now Lorso would expect denial. He’d hear the truth of his mother’s treachery as the squealing of a coward.
Lorso spoke again. “If I’m as obvious as you say, maybe he’ll run away. Or maybe he actually will start telling lies about Jaleeta.”
In the whispering rainfall, Domel waited along with Lorso for an answer. None was forthcoming, and when Lorso continued, he was defensive.
“He’ll try to make her running away look like your fault, tell everyone you were cruel to her. Some will believe him. Jealous people.”
Tears of Jade simpered. “Some envy you, as well, son. You’re too modest. Yes, some will believe Domel’s raving. The sooner we’re rid of him, the better.”
“Now?” A chair’s scrape signaled Lorso’s eager rise.
“In the morning.”
Domel pushed off the rain-slick logs of the wall
. Partially erect, he paused. Someone was speaking again. He dared not leave without hearing what was being said, yet to stand there, a hands-breadth from Tears of Jade and all her malevolent power, was devastating.
Tears of Jade said, “Again, you’re right. Take him tonight. Bring him to me. I’ve suspected him of witchwork for a long time. By morning, I’ll have him ready to confess his sins to the tribe.”
Lorso sounded frantic, the blood-fury forgotten. “Witchwork? You’ve known? Why didn’t you do something long ago? What if he’s done something with… with the girl?”
“I told you she’s in Ola, with Moondark. Sometimes I get the feeling you’re more concerned about her absence than all my injury.”
“Never, Mother.”
“Well, then. Now, eat something. I don’t want you out in this weather on an empty stomach. I have a few things to prepare. When I’m done, you can fetch him to me. No, don’t argue. Eat, then work.”
Delicately, carefully, Domel straightened. A ligament caught in his knee. To straighten it meant to make it crack; to walk on it as it was meant excruciating pain. Domel limped until he was safely out of earshot. The pinched ligament came free with a brittle pop. He sighed relief and struck out for his cabin at a careful trot.
Suddenly, he was aware of a presence behind him. Stopping abruptly, he whirled, drawing his sword as he did. Years not withstanding, the old techniques still worked. The bared blade hissed through the drenched night, a swift, deadly arc.
The leader of the feral dog pack scrambled backward, upending followers. Several set on each other, growling and snapping horribly. The leader sidled to Domel’s left, away from the sword. Low to the ground, snarling in a nervous, high tone, it looked for an opening. The rest of the pack, its slender discipline shattered, milled about in disarray. Domel backed away. His heel caught on something, almost tripping him. It was a large rock. Squatting, keeping the sword pointed alternately at the leader and the pack, Domel picked it up.
Instantly, the dog ran, tail between his legs. Domel flung the rock with no hope of doing damage. Resuming his trot, he muttered, “Time to get another hunt together. They get bolder every night. We’ll lose another child soon.”
