by Angus Wells
Tomas Var accepted the glass the servant proffered, waiting in dutiful silence as the governor ostentatiously tamped his pipe. They sat in what Wyme described as his “sanctum”—for sake of privacy, Var assumed. Captain Bennan waited in an outer room, entertained by the governor’s lady, Celinda, and Major Spelt concluded his duties in the town. Wyme had expressed a desire to hear a summary of Var’s report before they ate, so now Var sat in an overstuffed chair facing a massive desk, both items—like every other piece of furniture in the mansion—imported from Evander. He could not help but wonder at the cost of shipment, and think that it should surely have been easier to obtain pieces made locally. But that was not, he thought, Wyme’s style.
He had met Andru Wyme only once before, and not much liked the man then, nor, as yet, found reason to change his mind. He supposed he was at fault in that, for Wyme was well regarded by the Autarchy. His appointment here was evidence of that, for only the most trusted of the Autarchy’s officers were granted such position, effectively rulers of this western continent—but still he could not help thinking the man pompous. He thought now that Wyme made him wait deliberately, looking to emphasize his elevation over a mere captain of marines. And the way he dressed his servants—all brocaded waistcoats and silver-buckled shoes that seemed an odd contrast to the brands upon their cheeks—seemed to Var an affectation. While Wyme might love his duty, Var thought, he loved his comfort more. He smiled as an errant thought crossed his mind—Arcole Blayke would feel quite at home here.
“Something amuses you?”
Wyme touched a lucifer to his pipe and inhaled deeply as Var said, “I thought of an exile, a most remarkable man.” He gestured at the room. “One I suspect is more accustomed to such quarters than the hold of a transport ship. I’d discuss him with you, by your leave.”
“Later.” Wyme shook the lucifer, the smell of sulphur a moment pungent, and tossed the spent match away. The waiting servant stooped to retrieve the stick. “First, your report.”
Var nodded obediently: Arcole Blayke must, inevitably, play a large part in that.
When he was done speaking, Wyme grunted, thick brows arching over heavy-lidded eyes. “He impressed you, eh?” His tone was noncommittal.
“He saved the ship,” Var said. “Were it not for his wits and courage, why, I believe the serpent must have sunk us. Surely far more lives would have been lost.”
Wyme motioned for the servant to fill their glasses before he spoke again. “And yet he killed a man and damaged two others—all property of the Autarchy. That cannot be forgotten.”
“He fought in defense of others,” Var replied carefully, “who are also property of the Autarchy. And he was punished for that.”
“Twelve lashes?” Wyme turned his glass between thick fingers, savoring the bouquet. “Hardly fitting for what he did.”
“I deemed it adequate. I felt he acted honorably.”
“Honorably?” Wyme’s brows rose high at that, and he chuckled scornfully. “My dear Var, the man’s an exile. Do you suggest these people possess notions of honor now?”
His tone, his expression, denied such a notion was acceptable. Not taking his eyes from the governor’s face, Var watched the servant. The man’s features remained immobile, his ears deaf to the insult.
“I’d say Blayke does. Certainly he’s no common criminal. I understand that in the Levan he was regarded as a gentleman, even moved in aristocratic circles.”
“In the Levan, perhaps.” Wyme’s hand described a dismissive arc. “But this is Salvation, and this fellow—Blayke, you name him?—comes here with the brand on his face like any other. Ergo, he is a criminal.”
“Even so.” Var hesitated, torn between fulfilling his promise to Arcole and fear of angering Wyme by pressing too hard. “That he saved the ship must count in his favor, no?”
“Perhaps,” Wyme allowed. “But it would not do to give these people airs. God knows, they’re the sweepings of humanity.” He snorted disdainfully, oblivious of the branded man standing at his elbow. “You say he’s some gentlemanly qualities?”
Var said, “Indeed, he has.”
“Then I’ll consider him for a manservant.” Wyme raised his glass. “What think you of this wine?”
“Excellent.” Var accepted the change of subject: he had fulfilled his promise and could do no more. “The vineyards flourish?”
“Largely.” Wyme scowled, thick lips pursing. “We’ll speak of them and other matters at dinner. Now, however, do you apprise me of events at home?”
Var wondered what occasioned the shadow he saw darken the governor’s fleshy face. He began to speak of Evander and its subject lands, and by the time he was done, a gong belled, announcing the evening meal.
The governor’s dining room was opulent, graced with crystal chandeliers and lace curtains, silverware on the long table and plates of fine imported china. Servants waited attentive behind each chair. Var found himself seated beside Celinda; Alyx Spelt and Captain Bennan faced him across the damask cloth, and Wyme took the head.
Their conversation was at first a disappointment to the marine. There was, he sensed, a topic that went undiscussed as they exchanged news, Celinda demanding he and Bennan tell her of Evander’s latest fashions and what gossip circulated—both subjects of little interest to the two visitors. Spelt and Wyme made contribution, but all the while Var remembered the expression on the governor’s face and wondered when it should be explained.
His curiosity remained unsatisfied until Celinda withdrew, leaving the men to their pipes and the port shipped over on the Pride of the Lord. The table was cleared of all but the decanter and the servants were dismissed before Wyme spoke, and even then softly, as if he feared eavesdroppers.
“We’ve alarming news,” he declared. “It would seem we are not the only inhabitants of Salvation.”
Across the table Bennan gulped in surprise, choking on port. Var gasped, setting down his pipe. “But I thought …” He gathered his wits, scattered by this unexpected announcement. “It’s surely common knowledge none others lay claim to this land.”
“That’s surely the common belief.” Spelt’s voice was dry, and even though he spoke no louder than Wyme, it seemed his words rattled loud as musket fire. “But it would appear incorrect. We’ve evidence of others.”
“Bloody evidence,” Wyme said. “We share this land with savages.”
24 Indenture
Like cattle herded to market, the exiles were driven through the streets to an open enclosure, where they were penned under the watchful gaze of Militiamen. The sun was hot and there was no shade. Folk gathered along the fence, studying the newcomers with calculating eyes, and to one side a pavilion afforded shadow to those Arcole assumed to be the aristocracy of Salvation. He saw Tomas Var there, with the major and the man he thought must be the governor; several others, as many women as men. All save the officers, whose uniforms were unchanging, were dressed in outmoded fashion. He wondered if Var had made good his promise, and what good it might do him. At his side, Davyd looked nervously about; Flysse fidgeted with her shawl, her eyes downcast. Almost, Arcole took her hand, for she looked so forlorn.
For those outside the fence—the free folk—this seemed a festive occasion. Their voices were loud as they discussed the likely merits of the exiles. Arcole was reminded of horse auctions he had attended, save now he was in the position of the beast. He liked the feeling not at all. Then the governor raised a hand and silence fell. He spoke a moment with Spelt, and the major barked an order that brought soldiers forward, urging the exiles to a circumnavigation of the pen. Like shuffling animals they were paraded before the onlookers: Arcole must curb his resentment, struggling to assume a docile expression.
As he passed the pavilion he saw Var lean toward the governor and the man nod, waving an indolent hand in his direction. A Militiaman tapped his shoulder, indicating he quit the circle. He heard Davyd’s sudden intake of breath and the small cry Flysse gave. He found it difficult to
meet their eyes as he followed the soldier to the side of the pen.
“You’re in luck,” the Militiaman murmured. “Governor’s chosen you, an’ that’s an easy life.”
Arcole said nothing in reply, only stood silent as the fates of his fellow exiles were decided.
It appeared the governor and his companions took first pick of the newcomers, for as the circle continued its round, soldiers removed several more to stand with Arcole. He was surprised to find himself so pleased that Flysse was selected, and when she came to his side he could not help returning her smile. Neither when Davyd joined them: he wondered if destiny kept them together.
Then it was the turn of Salvation’s lesser citizens, who must bid for their servants.
Gradually the circle thinned, until finally all were accounted for and the ritual of indenture ended. The newcome exiles followed their masters into the streets. Arcole wondered if the governor had selected Flysse and Davyd too.
But then a tall, thin man emerged from the pavilion to beckon Davyd away.
The boy hesitated, taking Flysse and Arcole both by the hand. “I’ll see you again,” he said.
It was as much a question as a statement, and Arcole nodded, forcing a smile. “No doubt. This seems not so large a place, eh?”
Flysse said, “Take care, Davyd,” in a tremulous voice.
“Well, lad?” The thin man beckoned again, though he seemed not overly impatient. “Do you say your farewells and follow me.”
“Go on,” Arcole urged. “Best not anger your new … employer.” He could not bring himself to say “owner.”
Davyd nodded and swallowed, then released their hands and turned toward the thin man, who said, “I am Rupyrt Gahame. You will address me as ‘Master’ or ‘Sieur Gahame.’ Your name?”
“Davyd Furth,” came the answer, “ ’sieur Gahame.”
Gahame nodded as if satisfied, and walked away. He did not look back, as if he assumed Davyd must follow like, Arcole thought, a trained hound. The boy cast a last, lingering glance back, then squared his shoulders and trotted after the man. Arcole watched him go, quite unaware that Flysse now held his hand. It seemed curiously natural that she should.
He turned to survey the pavilion. The governor still sat in conversation with Spelt and Var, a red-haired woman in a gown fashionable some years past at his side. It was she waved a man forward, clearly issuing instructions, for the fellow bowed and came immediately to the pen.
His cheek marked him as indentured, his outfit as a servant of some kind. Over a shirt of coarse cotton he wore a garish red waistcoat, all brocade and frogging; his breeches ended at the calf, fastened over white stockings that descended to pewter-buckled shoes: Arcole surveyed the uniform with distaste.
“You’re to come with me.” He halted before Arcole and Flysse. “I’m Nathanial. How’re you called?”
Arcole said, “I am Arcole Blayke, and this is Mistress Flysse Cobal.”
Nathanial chuckled. “Not here you’re not, my friend. You’re plain Arcole and she’s plain Flysse. For all she’s not”—he studied Flysse with a lewd eye—“what you call plain.”
He saw Arcole’s face darken and his smile disappeared. “No offense, friend Arcole—if she’s with you, so be it. But folk like us don’t own second names. Just those the masters allow us. Now, come on, before madame sees you dawdling. No good to upsetting her your first day.”
He led the way out of the enclosure and they fell into step beside him, down streets lined with wooden houses, none more than two stories tall. Grostheim was, Arcole thought, a decidedly rustic place. “The governor chose us?” he asked.
“He picked you. You come recommended by that marine captain. Said you saved the ship, he did. Like to hear about that later, I would.” Nathanial glanced speculatively at Arcole, then turned to wink at Flysse. “Flysse here, madame took a fancy to. Reckons she’s got the makings of a maid, she does.”
So Var had kept his promise: Arcole decided the man was honorable, for all he was an Evanderan. “What am I to be?” he asked.
Nathanial shrugged. “I don’t rightly know yet. Most likely a manservant, unless Wyme sets you to working the stables or some such.”
“Wyme?” Arcole said.
“Governor Andru Wyme,” Nathanial replied. “By God’s grace, leader of this colony. That and a little help from his friends—he’s a brother who’s some sort of high-ranking officer in the Autarchy. Still, it’s an easier life in his mansion than many another place. Save you upset him or madame, that is.”
“Do you know a man called Rupyrt Gahame?”
Flysse’s question surprised Arcole: he was for the moment more interested in discovering what he might of Wyme and his household.
“He’s a trader,” Nathanial said. “Got the licence to supply weapons and such to the inland settlers. Why?”
Flysse said, “He took a friend.”
“That carrot-topped lad?” Nathanial nodded. “Then he’s lucky. There’re worse masters than ’sieur Gahame.”
Arcole frowned. Flysse’s concern prompted a small pang of guilt that he had not thought more of the boy. “Gahame’s an enterprise here?”
“Got a warehouse and an office in Grostheim,” Nathanial agreed, “but he travels a good deal inland.”
Arcole nodded, hiding his disappointment. It occurred to him that if Gahame took his indentured servants with him when he traveled inland, there might well be opportunity to escape—it might well have served him better had Gahame selected him rather than Davyd. “What lies inland?” he asked.
“Farms and vineyards, some mills. Then the wilderness.”
“And what’s there?” Arcole made the question deliberately casual.
“What’s there?” Nathanial scratched a mop of dark brown hair. “I’d not rightly know. Forest, mostly, so I hear; wild beasts, folks claim. I’ve never seen it, nor want to. Only been past the walls once.”
Arcole glanced up. The walls were clearly visible above the buildings, and on them the red coats of the God’s Militia. They seemed suddenly the walls of a prison. “You don’t go beyond the walls?” he asked.
“What for?” Nathanial favored him with a puzzled look. “I’d not want to work on a farm nor tend the grapes. No, not me. Born in Avanache, I was, and no wish to see the countryside.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Close on eight years.”
“And only once stepped past the walls?” Arcole was horrified.
“Not counting the jaunt to the dock, yes.” Nathanial nodded cheerfully. “I’m happy enough here; I know when I’m well off. You’ll learn that in time, my friend. You’ll learn to make the best of it.”
Arcole thought no; at least, not in the way Nathanial meant. The fellow appeared to have accepted indenture without thought of rebellion. He would not—by God, he would not! He smiled grimly and turned to Nathanial again.
“I saw the hexes on the walls. Are they to keep us in?”
“No point to that,” Nathanial said. “No one escapes.”
“None try?”
“No point,” came the answer again. “There’s nowhere to go, save the wilderness. And only a crazy man’d go there. Get eaten by the wild animals, likely, or starve. There’ve been a few, but Major Spelt and his redcoats brought them back and they were flogged, then set to hard labor.”
“Then why hex the walls?” Arcole demanded.
“Habit, I suppose.” Nathanial shrugged. “When they built Grostheim, they didn’t know Salvation was empty, so they put the magic marks up there in case. But now, why, there’s not even an Inquisitor here to renew the hexes. They’ve never been tested. For all I know, they don’t even work.”
“How do you know the wilderness is empty?” Arcole asked.
“Stands to reason, no?” said Nathanial. “They’ve been cutting back the forest since Grost’s time, and there’s been no sign of anyone else. The farmers and the wine growers never seen anyone; there’s hunters go after game back
in there, and they’ve never seen anyone. No, there’s nothing out there save trees and wild beasts.”
“No one explores?”
Arcole feared he perhaps plied Nathanial with too many questions, that the man should become suspicious, but he appeared not to notice, or not to mind. Perhaps, Arcole thought, he assumed the newcomers afraid and looked to comfort them, or such questions were usual from those just arrived.
“What for?” Nathanial gave him back. “The land already cleared provides us with all we need, so there’s no reason. Leastways, not until more settlers come out.” He chuckled with careless cynicism and touched the brand on his cheek. “Or Evander sends more of us folk to clear the forests.”
Arcole laughed in response, unamused but seeking to encourage Nathanial. “And the farms and such?” he asked. “They employ indentured folk?”
“Who else’d do the work?” Nathanial favored Arcole with a pitying glance. “Like I say—you’ve landed easy.”
“Don’t they ever attempt escape?” Arcole wondered.
Nathanial laughed again. “Don’t you listen, friend? There’s nowhere to go. God, even if a man did flee—even if the redcoats didn’t catch him, and he got away—there’s nothing but God-knows-how-many leagues of wilderness beyond the farms. And then there’re Wyme’s hexes.”
Sharp, Arcole said, “Wyme’s hexes.”
“Aye, Wyme’s hexes,” Nathanial confirmed. “The governor’s got the hexing gift. Not like an Inquisitor, mind you, but enough he can spell a man, or”—with a sidelong glance at Flysse—“a woman. Any of us go past the walls, the governor sets a hex on them. Then the major can hunt them down real easy.”
Arcole felt Flysse’s hand clench tight on his, and blessed her for asking the question that sprang to his lips: “Shall Davyd be hexed, then?”
“Does ’sieur Gahame choose to take him out, yes,” Nathanial answered, mistaking her tone for selfish fear. “But you needn’t worry—it’s only them who go beyond the walls that Wyme hexes. It tires him, I suppose.”
