by J. C. Staudt
Lethari studied his captains. The only one absent was Sigrede Balbaressi. These were men of great talent and repute, whom he had chosen by hand to lead his warriors. They had done nothing wrong, it was true. What they were about to do was their privilege, and Lethari Prokin would never punish a man for acting upon his given right. “What do you call that one, there?” he asked, pointing to a slender woman with an unkempt tangle of blonde hair.
“She is mine, my Lord Lethari,” said Cean Eldreni. “She is called Maraine.”
“Have her brought to my tent.” Before he turned away, Lethari saw Dyovan and Cean share a look. It was playful, but there was a measure of jealousy in it, too. “See that the watch is set. I will not return tonight.”
“It will be done, my master.”
Lethari did not hurry back to his tent. By the time he returned, two of Cean’s warriors had brought the girl inside and chained her to the center pole. Thick manacles girded her neck and ankles. The guards stood flanking her; Lethari could see the red marks on their arms and chests where she’d struggled against them.
“Leave us,” Lethari said. “Tell Koiras and Frathair they may retire for the night.”
The warriors handed him the keys to the woman’s manacles, then sent away the guards outside Lethari’s door before taking their leave.
“Sit down,” Lethari told the woman.
“I can’t,” she said. “My feet are chained to the post. I can only stand or lie down.”
“Lie down, then.”
The woman did not move.
“Maraine is your name. Is that right?”
She nodded.
“I am not going to bring you harm, so long as you do as I ask.”
A brief suspicion passed over her face, but she obeyed, sinking to her knees, then crawling forward onto her belly, grimacing at the pinch of the manacles. She was thin and underfed, her flesh a blaze of light-burned brown everywhere except at the edges of her ragged cloth. Her hair was coarse and stringy, a pale shade of yellow that reminded him of sweet corn at the start of the long year. “I feel silly, lying this way,” she said.
“This will only take a moment,” Lethari said, using the key to unlock the string of chain holding her to the post. When she was free, he put a hand on her back. “You may rise. But if you try to run, I will return you to the cages. My captains will not be as kind to you.”
When he took his hand away, she climbed to her hands and knees, then sat up on her haunches, chains jangling down her back. She did not look up at him, though he felt her wanting to. “Why did you choose me?” she asked.
Lethari gave her a long look. “The first woman I ever had was a pale-skin, like you. I had just come of age, and the older warriors of the feiach thought it was time they opened my eyes. They watched while I bent her over, laughing and joking as I blundered through it. I did not know back then what to do; I was half a boy. They embarrassed me—shamed me. And so, to prove myself, I took many more women as I grew older. But you—you remind me of the first.”
“So that’s it. I look like her.”
“No. That is not it. You will be a slave in one of the great households, or perhaps traded to another man, or loaned away for hard labor, or shipped across the Underground Sea to serve in some other place. I would not put you with child for all the master-king’s wealth, nor would I have my bloodline spoiled by breeding with a mongrel dog. The time for such things has passed. I have a wife, who will bear my son in the short year. My sons and daughters will be as pure as the sands. I would sooner bear no offspring at all than fill the lands from here to the Northern Barrens with half-bred children.”
The woman considered this. “There aren’t many of us left who can make children, you know.”
“And so I long for the day when the world rids itself of the plague of your kind. I will not risk putting that day further ahead than it lies already.”
Maraine smirked. “Your men don’t seem to feel the same as you.”
“They are the young ones, the carefree, the unmindful. They treat the slave women like toys, thinking only of the now. They have not yet come to realize the responsibility they carry.”
“If you’re so concerned with the well-being of the women, why don’t you command your men to treat them better?”
“I have no concern for pale-skin women, least of all you. I have concern for the future of the calgoarethi. The more these young fools breed, the thinner our blood runs. What one man owns, another man must not come between. I could not keep every one of you from my captains’ beds. I dare not, or my warriors would raise a complaint with the king. I have the right to choose one, for a night, and so I chose you. That was the only choice within my power to make.”
“For the leader of an army, you don’t have much control over your men.”
“What would you know of control? The caravan you traveled with was like a flock of pigeons in the scrub. Your kind has neither honor nor fealty beyond the point of a spear. I do not fault you for being a stranger to our ways, given the simplicity of yours. Your fault is your lack of conviction, and the filth in your veins you call blood.”
“You’re a touchy dway, ain’t you? I think it’s been too long since you got laid. I think you’d like to touch me.”
Lethari was beginning to regret his decision. Cean Eldreni was the wildest and most impulsive of his captains; he would not have spared Maraine his passions, as Lethari was sure he would not spare any of the other slave women warming his bed tonight. Perhaps it would’ve been better to leave the woman victim than to give her false hope. “If your aim is to provoke me to violence or lust, your energies are better spent elsewhere,” said Lethari, crossing the room toward his bed.
She moved to block his path, craning her neck to look up at him. “You didn’t bring me here to keep your captains from me. You picked me because I remind you of her. You want me for yourself, don’t you? Isn’t this what you want?” She lay her hands against his stomach, letting them slide from his navel to the waistline of his trousers.
Lethari swept them away. He could see the tips of her small breasts jutting from beneath her frayed tunic. When she tried to press her body against his, he took her by the shoulders and moved her aside.
She followed him.
“I did not ask for this,” he said.
“I’m giving it to you,” she whispered, pushing him toward the bed.
“Lie down,” he told her, pointing.
She flung herself onto the soft cushion and rolled onto her back. “These cuffs are uncomfortable,” she said. “Take them off and let me open my legs for you…”
Lethari knelt, producing the key and grabbing hold of the length of chain between her ankles.
“Take them off,” she repeated, writhing. “Take them off. I’ll spread my legs and let you have me.”
Lethari stopped, scrutinizing her.
She was breathing hard, her face flushed and her eyes locked on his, waiting.
Lethari gripped the chain tight. “I like them where they are.”
He dragged her off the mat and across the sandy floor. She began to scream and claw at the ground for traction, but he was far too strong. When he reached the center pole, Lethari lashed the chain through her manacles and fastened the lock.
He ducked aside as she leapt for him, raking the air with fingers like claws. The chains went taut, throwing her face first into the sand. She spat and raged, then spent several minutes trying to free herself, yanking at her chains, leaning against the pole, rocking back and forth to wrench it free of the sand. It was no use.
After a time, she calmed down. She tried to seduce him again. She even went so far as to expose herself, telling him how much she wanted him, how much she knew he wanted her. Lethari knew better. When it came time for the changing of the guards, he summoned four men to return her to the cages—two fresh from sleep and two just ending their watch.
“This slave belongs to Cean Eldreni,” he told his men. “Tell him I am giving her back
. Tell him… she did not please me.”
CHAPTER 13
Burdens and Benefits
“Perhaps I wasn’t clear the last time we spoke, kind Sister. You now hold what is literally the most important position in the Order.”
Then why don’t I also hold the highest rank in the Order, as Brother Soleil did? Bastille might’ve said. Oh, yes… because instead of giving it to me, you gave it to a dead man. “The thing you must understand,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “is that my father taught me how to dismantle a carcass when I was still half a child. By the time I came to the Order, I’d slaughtered hundreds of animals. That is why I took so quickly to my work under Brother Soleil. Anyone can cut up a body if they have the stomach for it. But the sacrificial rites and the Enhancements both require years of study to get the hang of. What took me a few short months will not be so simple for my new students. Be prepared for that. Give me time. I will not fail you.”
“We know you won’t,” said Dominique. “However, kind Brother Liero has the right of it; the future of our Order rests squarely on your shoulders. Reynard is no surgeon, yet he possesses the knowledge of the physical and the psychological… could he not be trained in your ways?”
Bastille thought for a moment. Her head had been hammering ponderously for the last fifteen minutes, and the high priests’ grilling hadn’t helped. The meeting hall was stifling, though it was far past twilight. “He could be trained. He does have that nervous condition, though. Shaky hands and an arrhythmic heart. A surgeon needs a steady hand and nerves of iron. Brother Reynard’s strength is in his bedside manner; in his ability to sense his patients’ needs and tend to them accordingly.”
“As you say, kind Sister. I admit we were somewhat… surprised in your choice of student. There are several standouts among the new acolytes—Sister Marchand, for example. Brother Travers and Sister Severin did not appear at first blush to be the most suitable candidates.”
No, they certainly didn’t, Bastille agreed. “If you doubt my choices or my judgment, perhaps you ought to have chosen my students for me. I shall cease my lessons at once and abandon the progress we’ve made, if that is the desired remedy. Whatever the Most High demands, I endeavor always to fulfill.”
“No need, kind Sister. All we wanted was an explanation. What is it you see in these two?”
“Severin is wild and willful. But she’s also capable. She has an unbridled sort of determination. Once I’ve reined her in and found a focus for her tenacity, I’m certain she’ll surprise us all.”
“And Brother Travers?”
“He’s a unique fellow, I’ll give him that. Slow, but meticulous. Good with his eyes, better with his hands. He may seem a dullard at times, but he has the pedigree to make an excellent surgeon.” Much as Bastille hated to admit it, there was more truth to that assessment than she’d known when she chose him.
Brother Liero stroked his clean-shaven chin and blinked his froggy eyes. “I believe you’ve captivated us all by your insight, Sister Bastille. If these observations of yours prove true, we’ll all be basking in your triumph in half a year’s time.”
“My thanks, kind Brother. Any word yet on Brother Froderic’s return?”
Sister Gallica squirmed in her chair. “Any day now, I’m certain. Was there anything else you wished to discuss while we have you here, Sister Bastille?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Then I think we’re done for today. Don’t let us keep you from your work any longer.”
The high priests stood and left the chamber through a side door. Bastille exited onto the basilica’s main hallway, a wide stone passage which ran from the conservatory to the dormitories. When she passed the corner across from the athenaeum, a rough hand grabbed her by the arm and spun her around.
Sister Gallica’s face loomed close. “I warn you, kind Sister—and I’ll only do it once. Your Esteem does not grant you license to meddle in the affairs of the Most High.”
Bastille offered her a plastic smile. Nor does yours give you grounds to believe you’ll get the better of me. She forced herself not to cringe away from the river of boils flowing down the she-mutant’s face, some of which had burst and were glistening with fluid. “My sincerest apologies, kind Sister, if I’ve said anything to upset you.”
Someone was coming. Gallica released her grip and smoothed the sleeve of Bastille’s robe. “Keep your feigned apologies to yourself. Ask the wrong questions, and you’ll reap the consequences.” With that, Gallica turned and shuffled off down the hallway.
Bastille watched her go. She saw her give Brother Chaimon a friendly wave as they rounded the corner in opposite directions. When he noticed Sister Bastille, Chaimon quickened his pace and came over.
“Kind Sister Bastille, how wonderful it is to see you on this glorious day,” said Chaimon, clasping her hand in his own.
“Brother Chaimon,” she said with a nod. This day is no more glorious than my countenance is wonderful.
“You’re just the person I came to see, as it happens.”
Bastille’s suspicions rose instantly, along with her displeasure. How unfortunate. “It’s a brief matter, I hope. The Most High have emphasized the urgency with which I am to train my new charges. I’m afraid they’ve commissioned extra classes for me to teach in the evenings. I was just on my way down to—”
“I’ve brought you these, fresh from the spinnery.” Brother Chaimon produced a flat bundle tied with string and handed it to her.
“Well… this is unexpected.” Bastille stood holding the bundle, dumbfounded.
“Aren’t you going to open it? Please, kind Sister.” Chaimon nudged the bundle toward her as if it might help.
Bastille pulled the string and undid the knot, then spread the folds of wrapping paper. It was a robe, gray and hooded; just like her usual prosaics, but softer to the touch. She studied it for a moment. When she looked up, Brother Chaimon’s fat face was lit in gleeful expectancy.
“Well? What do you think? We made it special for you. We found your measurements in one of the old logbooks from when you first arrived at the basilica. The inseam and sleeve length are fitted perfectly… or, as perfectly as we could manage while keeping it a surprise. I know how you’re always getting stains on your robes. We saved the flock’s softest wool and loomed it with our finest machine.”
Bastille resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She was not always getting stains on her robes. She removed them while working in her preparation rooms so she wouldn’t stain them. Apparently the mishap during the latest initiation rites had earned her a new and unjust reputation.
Chaimon’s expression darkened to match Bastille’s. “You don’t like them. I’m… so sorry. You must be perfectly satisfied with your current prosaics. They do get a worn-in feel to them after a time. Of course. I’ll take this out of your sight at once.” He made a grab for it, but Bastille held on and wouldn’t let go.
“Brother Chaimon,” she said firmly, finding her voice.
He let up.
“If I might ask… what is the occasion? What is this… for?”
“Why… no occasion at all, kind Sister. You’ve worked hard to get the basilica back on its feet again. We in the spinnery simply thought you deserved something nice for your efforts. You’ve served the Mouth to the best of your abilities and beyond. Anyone with a set of eyes can see that.”
If Bastille had possessed a higher capacity for affection, she might’ve shed a tear. The best she could seem to muster was a rigid smile and a polite half-bow. “I will wear it often.”
“I’m so pleased to hear it, kind Sister. I—”
Bastille was off down the hall so quickly she heard nothing more of Brother Chaimon’s words. She locked herself in her bedchamber and laid the robe across her bed so she could examine it more closely. It truly was a masterpiece, if one could use such a word to describe a blob of gray wool. I will wear it often? The Mouth… when did I abandon my social graces for such inarticulate bumbling
? I should’ve thanked him. No, that wouldn’t have done, either. It wasn’t as if she’d asked for the robe in the first place. No sense blushing and gushing over it like a schoolgirl.
Still, the robe was beautiful. The thinner, softer fabric would prove more comfortable in the heat, she supposed. It was meaningful, too, in a sense. A sign of gratitude. A show of appreciation. Proof they had been… watching her.
This last thought came unexpectedly, and it troubled her. Not that a person given to paranoia, as she was, might find herself suddenly paranoid; rather, that she’d been the object of covert attention. She was one of the Esteemed now. She was also the Order’s only member who knew the NewNexus installation procedure. Admirers were bound to appear from the woodwork, believing they stood to gain something by offering her gifts and special favors. Surely they must know it isn’t up to me to determine who receives the Enhancements. That decision lay with the Most High. But if the Order’s lower echelons believed Bastille had a say in the process of inheritance, there would be no end to their courtesies. This is a boon I am fully prepared to profit from, she decided.
Bastille left the new robe in her bedchamber and went downstairs to prepare for the evening’s classes. Sister Severin was waiting in the preparation rooms, studying the texts Bastille had assigned her. That’s a good little pupil, Bastille observed as she cleansed her hands in the washbasin.
“Have you seen Brother Travers this evening?” Bastille asked, drying her hands and crossing the room to her workstation.
“He was at supper,” said Severin. “Not since then.”
Bastille opened a jar and lifted a smooth white object from the aqueous solution within. She picked up a stiff brush from among her instruments and began to scrub, loosening grime from the object’s folds and crevices.
Sister Severin watched. “What’s that?”
“It’s a NewPancreas. Not the most glamorous of vital organs, certainly—but vital nonetheless.”
