“It is you who are ignorant in the ways of fighting men.”
“Inexperienced perhaps, but far from ignorant. You see, I know that your slave’s name is Isaiah Mondy, a fourth-generation Thuumian warrior.”
It was Driscoll’s turn to smile. “Then you know how formidable he is.”
Auberon nodded. “I do. I also know that prior to his great grandsire becoming a fighting man, his family was a bunch of potters and brickmakers. Their hands, for a thousand years before picking up the sword, were designed to sculpt mud.”
“You lie. How would you know this?”
“If you were as great a soldier as you proclaim, then you would understand that knowing an enemy’s friends and weapons is as important as knowing the enemy himself. A slave is an asset, a tool, or in this case, a weapon. You should know its capability before committing yourself. Do you even know my man’s name?”
Driscoll scowled, irritated by his brother’s arrogance. “Jeanine or some such thing. It hardly matters.”
“You still do not understand. It is Jareen, Jareen Velarius.”
Driscoll’s face went slack.
“Ah, so you at least recognize the name. Yes, your slave is the descendant of potters. My man’s ancestor was a king who built this very city more than a thousand years ago with little more than his sword arm and raw determination. Jareen is educated, his mind as sharp as anyone’s I know, including that of the highborn who claim to be his superior in every way. I am the one who created the situation in the kitchen to delay his coming to prepare me for the morning, thus giving me a valid reason to be late. I knew you would not miss an opportunity to make me look a fool in front of Mother just as I knew it would be easy for me to goad you into an argument that would inevitably result in you challenging me. Failing that attempt, you would then strike at something important to me, like Jareen. You see, dear Brother, your ship belonged to me before I even got out of bed this morning, but you were simply too stupid to know it.”
Driscoll turned his gaze back to the fighters, his face red and his fists clenched at his sides, fighting the urge to strike his petulant brother. “Clever words, Auberon, but words do not win sword fights. Your slave could have the blood of a horned devil running through his veins and it would not matter.”
“We shall see.”
Jareen studied his opponent as he went through a few warm-up exercises. Isaiah’s lean, muscular, and compact body marked him as a Thuumian. His choice of weaponry and the wild tribal design emblazoned on his slave mask removed any trace of doubt as to his origins. He spun his weapon before him and executed several leaping mock assaults, twisting his body in midair with the grace of a gymnast in an exhibition meant to intimidate his foe before the duel even started.
Jareen responded by shuffling his feet in a lively jig popular amongst the city’s lowborn populace. This goaded Isaiah to launch into an even more elaborate display of perfectly executed sword routines. Despite the slight sheen of sweat now covering the Thuumian’s bare torso, his breathing stayed at a steady, controlled rate, giving testament to his extraordinary athleticism.
Driscoll, already agitated and growing impatient, shouted, “Are we going to see a fight or are you two just going to dance?”
“Likely it will be a bit of both,” Auberon replied.
The corner of Driscoll’s mouth twitched as the duelists edged toward each other. Isaiah leapt forward when they closed within ten feet of each other and launched into a vigorous assault. Jareen had expected such an explosive tactic from the Thuumian, but even being prepared for it, the attack was so swift and perfectly timed that it nearly spelled a swift end to the duel.
Jareen’s rapier flicked up just fast enough to deflect the incoming blade a fraction of an inch as he ducked and rushed past his foe. He heard and felt the sword clip the edge of his mask, but the accoutrement was as formfitting as a second skin and stayed in place. Jareen hated fighting with the mask on. It limited his peripheral vision and such exertion caused an annoying amount of sweat to build up between the mask’s soft lining and his face. Being in the company of highborn, he was not allowed to remove it.
Fortunately, his opponent was beholden to the same restrictive law. Masks were stylized not only to identify the individual wearing them but their station as well. Given Jareen’s position as the overlord’s son’s personal manservant, his mask was made of the highest quality and designed to be aesthetically pleasing. It was glossy white with a tasteful amount of elaborate, swirling gold filigree decorating its surface.
Isaiah’s mask was that of a warrior. As Driscoll’s favorite slave, his mask was also of exceptional construction, but that was where any similarity ended. The soldier’s mask was covered in red and black enamel with sharp and angular designs. Oversized demonic eyes and fangs created a frightful visage meant to intimidate and strike fear in his enemy. Jareen found it somewhat successful, particularly when coupled with such fighting skill.
He narrowly avoided the Thuumian’s lightning-fast backswing as he darted behind him. Isaiah spun to face him and continued to press his attack. While Isaiah’s assault did not relent, the battle did fall into a more rhythmic and stylized routine.
The two sons of the city’s overlord watched the contest with rapt attention. Auberon’s face did not betray a hint of emotion while Driscoll became more agitated as the conflict continued unresolved. His slave should have dispatched his brother’s servant with ease. Isaiah was his best fighting man while Auberon’s was but a glorified butler, a valet in silk finery whose sole purpose was to indulge his master’s lazy, pampered lifestyle.
“What game is he playing?” Driscoll snapped, no longer able to hold back his mounting impatience. “Is your man going to fight or simply dance around for the rest of the damn morning?”
Auberon cracked a smile, recognizing his brother’s exasperation as a sign of concern and the realization that he might actually lose their wager. The fight had passed the quarter-hour mark and Jareen had yet to make a single offensive move. Such patience and planning was something Driscoll, nor his violently exuberant slave, could fathom.
At the twenty-minute mark, Jareen could tell that his foe was tiring. His attacks had not slowed appreciably, but they were beginning to lack force and his accuracy and perfection of execution were diminishing. Ten minutes later, Isaiah made the first mistake in their duel and last one of his life.
The Thuumian thrust his curved sword at what he thought was an opening in Jareen’s guard, but the move was slightly off point and sluggish. Jareen’s left arm flashed up and deflected the blade away from his body, earning him a deep cut across the top of his forearm. His rapier snaked forward faster than eyes could track and plunged in and out of Isaiah’s chest like a stitching machine’s awl.
Isaiah’s eyes flicked toward his chest, and he knew he was a dead man. Desperate not to die alone, he raised his sword and charged, hoping to take his executioner with him to the grave. Jareen sidestepped from his path and gave him a swift kick in the hip. Isaiah took several staggering steps before crumpling to the ground, gasping, and watched the pool of crimson expand around him as his heart pumped the last bit of blood out of his severed aorta.
Jareen wiped his blade clean with an available rag before returning the weapon to the rack. He retrieved his jacket, brushed a bit of accumulated dust from it, and draped it over his sword arm to avoid the blood now soaking and staining his left sleeve.
“I expect you will honor the terms of our agreement?” Auberon said, not letting his glee at the results of the duel inflect his speech.
“You sonofabitch!”
Auberon cocked his head and smiled. “What a foolish choice of insults, considering that we are brothers. Although I must say it does keep in line with your usual level of reasoning and forethought.”
Driscoll trembled with rage. Not only had he lost his favorite slave, his flagship now belonged to his brother. It was all he could do to resist drawing his sword and striking down his arrogant si
bling, but not only would that infuriate his mother, he knew Auberon must have sensed that his anger had reached murderous levels and was subtly drawing arcane power. Auberon was a much more accomplished sorcerer than Driscoll was, and he knew his sword would not clear its sheath before his brother reduced him to ash with his magic.
Driscoll let out a long breath and forced a smile onto his face. “It will be in the shipyard waiting for you by the end of the day. I do hope you can find a crew able to fly her since our bet was for the ship only.”
“Crew? I was thinking of simply burning it in its cradle.”
“You would not dare!”
Auberon shrugged. “Perhaps, perhaps not. We shall see what my mood is come tomorrow morning. Maybe besting you and your pet will be satisfaction enough for me and I will not feel the need. I suppose your continued attitude toward me could play some small part in its future.”
He watched his elder brother storm away before turning to his slave who was standing at attention waiting for his instructions. “Wonderful job, Jareen. You performed almost as well as I expected. Do go get cleaned up. I cannot be seen with you in such a condition, and we mustn’t have you bleeding all over my experiments.”
Jareen ducked his head. “Yes, sah.”
“Jareen,” Auberon called to him as he left to replace his shirt and bandage his arm.
He turned back. “Sah?”
“Do you recall the slave who served my tea at breakfast?”
“Yes, sah. I believe she is newly elevated from the kitchens.”
“On your way to repair, I need you to find her and break two fingers on her serving hand. Perhaps that will teach her to take her time and pour properly.”
Jareen bowed once more. “Yes, sah.”
***
Jareen tore the cuff off his shirt and pressed it to the wound on his arm as he made his way to the kitchens. He found the serving girl there helping with the morning meal’s dishes. She wiped her hands dry with her apron and stood rigid at Jareen’s approach.
The kitchen staff did not wear masks while working, but each had a silk face wrap looped around their necks in case a highborn should pay a visit. The serving girl did have a ceramic mask on, but it currently dangled from a strap on her hip.
“Do you know why I am here?”
The maid visibly trembled and swallowed the lump in her throat before speaking. “I spilled some of the master’s tea.”
Jareen ducked his head once. “That is correct.”
“W-what is to be done with me?”
“I am to break two fingers on your right hand.”
The young slave pressed one quavering hand on her stomach and another to her mouth to stifle a gasped cry.
Jareen pulled an arrow straightener from his pocket, giving testament to how frequently Auberon ordered such corrective action. The device was a simple wooden slat the length of a man’s hand and two fingers in width. A hole was bored through each end, the larger one to best accommodate the digits of a man, the smaller for most women—or a child—as the case may be. It was the most effective and humane way Jareen had found to complete the gruesome task.
He held out his palm, gripped the fearful woman’s shaking hand when she laid it in his, and threaded her finger into the apparatus. Jareen caught the woman’s attention and held her gaze with his eyes.
“What is your name?” he asked.
Her frightened countenance broke into a wan smile and she released a nervous giggle. “Grace. Grace Parkin, and I must be going mad to be laughing now.”
Jareen smiled at her, an effect lost behind his mask. “Sometimes the irony in such an absurd situation is so great that, when all other emotion has been exhausted, there is simply nothing more fitting left to do. It is something I have experienced many times, and I do not yet consider myself mad.”
Jareen flexed his wrist and snapped the first bone in her little finger between the joints. Grace’s eyes flashed wide as she cried out. Her knees buckled but she managed to stay upright with the help of Jareen’s supporting hands.
He leaned close and whispered in her ear as he looped the arrow straightener onto her ring finger. “I am going to bend the finger with the knuckle. I need you to act out just as you did a moment ago. Auberon has spies throughout the palace and he rewards those who report violations of his will. Do you understand?”
Grace swallowed and nodded.
Using his body to block Grace’s hand from the prying eyes of the other servants, he rotated it ninety degrees and mimicked the fracturing motion, but this time, allowing the finger to move naturally with the joint.
Grace wailed a bit louder and dropped even heavier than before, her performance not entirely an act as every movement shot pain through her broken finger. Jareen kept her from falling and helped her stand back up.
“Masterfully done.” He tore several strips from a towel and began bandaging Grace’s two fingers together, using the arrow straightener as a splint. “Never forget that both fingers are broken and act accordingly.”
Grace bobbed her head. “I will. Thank you, sah.”
“I am not a sah. I am a slave just as you are.” Tying off the wrapping, he held up his injured arm. “You can begin practicing by bandaging my wound.”
Grace washed out the cut and wrapped it in the remaining strips of linen Jareen had torn. She was grateful for his making extra as she was unsure if she could have managed on her own. She tied off the bandage and stroked his hand before releasing his arm. Jareen was a married man, but he was not immune to the sensual touch of such a young and attractive woman.
“Do your best to stay out of Sah Auberon’s sight. He has likely already forgotten about you, but it is best to avoid his attention whenever possible.”
“Thank you again for your kindness.”
Jareen chuckled. “What a world we live in where breaking just a single bone is considered a kindness.”
CHAPTER 2
Jareen returned to his home located just outside of the palace walls, one amongst dozens of slave quarters. Being highly placed, his residence was one of the better housing units, second only to Overlord Alexis’ personal attendant and significantly finer than any other lowborn’s residence.
He opened the door and was about to call out to his wife Claire when he heard a man’s voice issuing from the dining room. Tamping down his anger, Jareen tore off his mask, strode across the house, and burst through the dining room door.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Claire leapt to her feet, nearly toppling her chair. “Jareen, what are you doing home?”
Jareen ignored his wife and glared at the man still sitting and grinning at him through his thick, bushy, black beard. “What are you doing in my house?”
“If it’s become a crime for a man to come by and have a cup of coffee with his own sister, then this city has truly fallen to new lows. Besides, it ain’t your house any more than a kennel belongs to a dog. Ain’t that about the truth of it?”
“You are a rabble-rouser, Aiden, and you being here puts my entire family at risk! Was it your people who set that fire?”
Aiden touched his hand to his chest and feigned innocence. “Me and the boys are just regular blokes who like to sit around in taverns and complain about our betters. It’s practically the empire’s favorite pastime. Why, we’d never dare bite the hand that tosses us our scraps and whips our backs. Such an act would be uncivilized.”
“What would the likes of you know about civility?”
Aiden frowned and stared down at his cup as if chagrined. “You’re right. I don’t have the fine training of your august self, what with me being a lowly ironworker and you being groomed like a prized bitch ready for show.”
“Get out of my house!”
“But I ain’t finished my coffee. A dirt poor freeman like me doesn’t get to taste such fine things very often. Seems a selfish thing to deny a man this rare luxury when you yourself are provided such an abundance of it.”
&
nbsp; Jareen’s face twisted in anger, but Claire darted to his side and took him by the hand before he could unleash another tirade.
“You’re bleeding! What happened to your arm?”
Jareen’s eyes flicked from his injury to his wife. “An accident.”
“An accident, he says!” Aiden chortled. “What happened, you slice yourself while cutting up Auberon’s rammox steak? Tell me, does he make you chew it a bit first too?”
“That is Sah Auberon to you!”
“Oh, I beg your pardon. Truly I do.”
“Be still, Aiden!” Claire snapped before turning her attention back to her husband. “Let me wash that out and redress it.”
She led Jareen to the sink in the kitchen and worked the pump handle until water gushed forth and filled a small basin. She removed the blood-soaked wrapping, scrubbed away the dried crimson crust, and bandaged it with fresh linen strips.
“How did this happen?” Claire asked again.
“As I said, it was an accident. How is Tyler doing?”
Claire turned and looked toward her son’s bedroom. “I fear the fever continues to grow worse. If it gets any higher or continues unabated, then I think he does not have much time left.”
Jareen laid his hand on his wife’s arm. “Everything will be fine. I finally received the medicinals I had been searching for. I will brew a concoction this evening that I think will break the fever.”
“If you already got ’em, what the hell are you waiting for?” Aiden asked from the doorway.
“Because it is a complicated process, and I need to use Sah Auberon’s laboratory to make it,” Jareen replied, his voice strained.
“I’m just saying, why not use it now? What’s the matter, your master tying up the equipment crafting a potion to make his farts smell like roses? Seems to me like you got your priorities screwed up. If it were my son on his deathbed, I wouldn’t be waiting in line for a cure asking ‘please, sah, may I?’”
Jareen grabbed a carving knife from the wooden block on the counter and pointed it at his brother-in-law with a shaking hand. “Get out of my house, or you will be the second man I kill today!”
Highlords of Phaer (Empire of Masks Book 1) Page 2
