by Joseph Lallo
"We can certainly try it," Desmeres said. "In fact, come with me."
The door to one of the huts was opened. The inside was little more than a room with a simple bed against one wall. The man and woman inside jumped to their feet when the well dressed strangers entered. The two workers gave a sullen nod of acknowledgment as Desmeres ladled a share of stew into the pot over the meager fire and placed a coarse loaf of bread beside it. A single copper coin was handed over in exchange.
"Attention, slaves. If you desire your freedom it will be provided in exchange for a favor and a single drop of blood," Desmeres announced.
Confusion came to the faces of the slaves.
"That . . . that won't be necessary. The ration is plenty. Paying us for these two days without work is generosity enough," said the man.
"He . . . he's offered you your freedom," Myranda said, momentarily breaking out of character.
"Yes, and a kind offer it is. But the ration is more than enough," the woman replied nervously.
"And if I force you do accept your freedom?" Myranda asked.
"No, please! You are the new owner, are you not? Miss, er, Mistress Tesselor, yes? Please, we will work. We will work gladly. We do not even require the ration for the day!" the woman blurted.
"Yes," agreed the man. "Yes, we did not work for it, we do not deserve it."
Myranda tried twice more to coax them into taking their freedom, but all she succeeded in doing was prompting more vigorous assertions of loyalty. The next three huts resulted in much the same reaction, to varying degrees.
"I . . . I don't understand. They live in squalor. They have no freedom. They barely have enough to survive. Why wouldn't they leap at the chance for freedom, at any price?" Myranda asked quietly.
"Because of where the freedom is coming from. The owners, old or new, would never offer it. To the slaves this is a test. You are baiting them, trying to goad them into saying something that will let you make an example of them. They wouldn't have trusted their former master. They certainly won't trust a strange new one," Desmeres explained.
"Then how will we find one that will help us?" Myranda asked.
"We don't. We find one who doesn't care. We will know him when we find him," Desmeres replied.
Hut after hut of downtrodden workers attempted to quickly and enthusiastically assure their new master of their happiness and dedication. Finally they came to a door that did not open immediately. Desmeres raised an eyebrow. This, it appeared, was a good sign.
"Open your door at once!" he barked.
There was a tap of footsteps, and finally the door opened. There was the flash of recognition in the stooping figure's eyes.
"Oh. It is you," he muttered, trudging back to his bed.
"You are the one who carried the chest of gold for me," Myranda recalled.
"And you are the one who made me smash a table with it. Come to dock my wages? Help yourself. Fat lot of difference it makes," the bitter man quipped.
Desmeres smiled. When the food and bread were ladled out, Desmeres had the other workers leave the hut, closing the door behind them.
"And what is this about? Punishment? If you are looking for someone to whip me, Hallern, the fellow two doors down, will be darn willing to lend a hand. Certainly hope you don't intend to use this fop. Let him do the whipping and I'm liable to forget he's even doing it," the man grumbled.
"What is your name, slave?" Desmeres asked.
"Slave, is it? Are we using the proper term now? I suppose you'll be wanting the coppers back then," he replied.
"Name!" he ordered.
"Udo," he said.
"Udo, are you happy here?" Desmeres asked.
"Happy as I can be," he remarked in a tone that made it abundantly clear how he truly felt.
"Would you like to get out?" Desmeres asked.
"Why? You offering?" he asked, assuming a mock enthusiasm. "Golly, yes, master. I truly would love to escape. Thank you so much for asking."
"Right. Have a look around, Udo. How many guards to do you see? How many other owners? How many folks besides slaves like yourself?" Desmeres asked.
"None," Udo said.
"And what does that mean to you?" Desmeres prodded.
"It means either you are stupid or you are poor," Udo said.
"If you know there are no guards to stop you, why don't you just run away?"
"Getting hunted down by whatever bloodthirsty bounty hunters you're bound to hire for running out on that little pit of debt the fellow before you put us in doesn't strike me as an improvement."
"My employer here owns the debts now."
"Well she'd be the one doing the hiring then. Look, as much as I enjoy the conversation, I assume you'll be wanting me to work tomorrow, and if it is the same to you, I'd like some rest."
"Right, then. He's the one. Udo is it?" Desmeres decided.
Carefully leafing through a stack of pages he'd been carrying in a bag, he selected one.
"Udo, can you read?" he asked.
"Not as such," he said.
"Can you recognize your name?" Desmeres continued.
"Yeah," he replied.
"There, on that page, is your name. It says you owe seven silver coins," Desmeres explained.
"Lovely. I'll have it for you in a few years, assuming I don't need to eat or sleep till then," he sneered.
Desmeres tore the page up.
"What . . . what's that about?" Udo asked.
"You no longer have a debt. You have nothing to tie you here," he said.
"There's . . . there's other papers like that, yeah? This is a trick, yeah?" Udo said, emotion showing for the first time in is voice.
"Not that you'd believe me, but no, that is the only record of your debt," Desmeres explained. "Listen, my employer here is, well, not the generous sort, but the sort who has more unique tastes in labor. A lifetime of servitude is all well and good, but a single, legitimate favor at just the right time, that's something else. Never far from a friend, understand?"
"Oh, I understand, she's off her head," Udo said, glancing at her. "No offense. A nice sort of off her head."
"As though I honestly cared what you think," Myranda quipped quickly, not certain that she was supposed to leave character yet.
"The wealthy use the word eccentric," Desmeres corrected. "Regardless. What it boils down to is this. We will be leaving within the week. At the end of that time we expect to hear from every last one of you. There will be no work until then. Your options are simple. Come to us and agree to do my employer here a single favor, with a drop of blood in lieu of a signature on a contract, and you shall have your choice of either a share of this mine to continue your life here, or enough gold to start your life elsewhere."
With that, Desmeres opened the door and led Myranda out.
"You can do the rest of the rationing alone, workers. The Mistress has grown weary of the tour," Desmeres instructed.
Myranda and Desmeres marched off toward the manor. When the others had returned to the task, she turned to him.
"Now what?" she asked.
"Now we wait. It doesn't usually take more than three days," Desmeres said.
"Just like that? He'll convince the rest?" she asked.
"Just like that," he replied.
The next few days were the very definition of tedium. Aside from a delivery of supplies and a supply caravan that had to be turned away due to the lack of recent work, the time was utterly filled with Desmeres tracing out two hundred names on the pages of a book. On the fourth day, there was a knock on the door. Desmeres answered it.
"I think . . . I think we've all decided," Udo said uncertainly.
Outside there were barely a dozen other slaves, likely the only others that shared Udo's apathy about life in general. Desmeres found their names, pricked their fingers, and rattled off a well practiced speech.
"There will come a time when you will hear a voice, but not see a face. The voice will remind you of this day, the day w
hen you were given your freedom in exchange for a favor. On that day, whether it comes today or in a generation, you will repay the debt if it is within your power. You will make your sons and daughters aware of the debt, and instruct them to do the same, for when you pass on, the debt passes to them. Understood?" Desmeres said.
This would invariably result in a wide eyed nod. Those who wished to stay were given a slip of paper entitling them to a portion of the mine. Those wishing to leave were given a handful of coins. Gold coins. Then each was given the paper signifying their debt. In roughly the time it took for a pair of tired people to sprint to the huts, a second small group came to collect. The groups grew and compounded in size and enthusiasm as the promise of freedom and the spark of greed overcame their better judgment. Strangely, a handful of the freed slaves lingered just outside the door, faces white as ghosts, dutifully putting to rest anything that seemed to be the beginnings of a riot. Before the sun had set on that fourth day, all of the slaves were accounted for. As night descended, the distant sounds of celebration took the place of the silence and howling of winds that had marked each night before.
"Why were those slaves keeping the peace of their own accord?" Myranda asked, still mystified by how smoothly the mad enterprise had gone.
"Lain called for the debt to be repaid immediately," Desmeres explained.
"But . . . how? I didn't see him," Myranda asked.
"He's an assassin. If he doesn't want to be seen, he won't be. And when you hear a ghost whisper an order in your ear and inform you that your life debt needs to be repaid, you tend to find yourself more eager to please than to find out what the penalty for failure is," he said.
A few days passed and, now working for themselves, a fair amount of the workers returned to the mines. Desmeres traced out a few official looking documents that would ward off the authorities that might doubt the highly dubious story the freed men and women would tell. Myranda was left mainly with boredom and the soul searing images of suffering she'd seen in her brief time among the enslaved to pass the time. She tried to imagine Lain in a similar situation, with the added stigma of being hated by his fellow slaves. A large part of who he was fell into place. It was not until a full week had passed that the monotony was broken.
"We need to move, NOW!" Desmeres said, bursting into the dining room.
"What? Why?" Myranda asked, but Desmeres only rushed out the door.
The sun was just dropping below the horizon as Myranda rushed to the wagon her friend had run to. Desmeres had unhooked two of the horses, and one of them was saddled and ready.
"We have problems. An old friend of mine is about to pay us a visit," he said.
"Who?" she asked.
"Arden. He calls himself a bounty hunter, but head hunter is more appropriate. That tends to be the only part he brings back. He is one of those 'other agents' I told you about, the ones who want you as badly as we do and are not so picky about the state you are in when they receive you. What is worse, he has an escort. Soldiers. That means he is sanctioned by the military and will have all of the authority he needs to search this whole place. We cannot let him see you. More importantly, we cannot let them see me, because even if I wasn't on the 'kill on sight' list he would put a knife in my back," he said, trying to fit a saddle onto the second.
"Why?" she asked.
"I have a contact at his place of business that feeds me the higher profile jobs he gets. If they are worth it, I put Lain on the trail and claim the reward out from under him. He knows I’m behind it. I cannot allow him to get his revenge on the verge of my greatest success," he said.
"Why would he come here?" she asked.
"How should I know? The man is a fool. He can barely form a sentence. He gets all of his information by finding someone he suspects knows something and clubbing them until they tell him. Probably the blasted supply wagons we turned away. I knew I should have delayed this whole madness until directly following a filled order," he answered, struggling with an uncooperative buckle. "The escort has got me worried. They think they are going to find someone important here. But who? Not that it matters, the fact is if we don't get out of here now, they are going to find quite a few very important . . . "
Desmeres' eyes were locked on a faint gray dust cloud being kicked up by what must have been a half dozen horses as they approached along the road. The only road.
"No. Damn it! We are in the mountains, no cover for miles! If we run now they will certainly follow, and there is no way we will outrun chargers on draft horses. We have no options. Myranda, I hope you have learned your role well, because when they come here, you are going to have to be very convincing," he said rushing to the house.
"But . . . " she said.
"No buts! Confidence and arrogance. I will be in the basement . . . no, they will look there first . . . the pantry. Do not let them look in the pantry. Good luck, for both of our sakes. If you fail, Lain will have quite a job ahead of him," Desmeres called before slipping inside.
Myranda readied herself and entered the house. She had managed to fool everyone thus far. Besides, this Arden fellow was a fool. There was no cause for concern. She simply had to prepare for any questions that they might have. There were no house servants. That would need to be explained. The slaves were at rest. That would surely draw curiosity. So long as she had the answers, this would be simple. At least, that is what Myranda repeated in her head until the very moment that a harsh knock at the door came. She rushed to the door, but stopped. No. Alexia would never open the door herself. She hurried instead to the chair at the head of the table in the dining room. A second knock came, more insistent than the last. She ignored it. A third came, shaking the door on its hinges.
"I am not to be disturbed!" she shouted in a scolding tone.
"Official Alliance Army business," barked a voice.
"I am not taking visitors today," she dismissed.
"You! Open this door!" came an order.
"I most certainly will-" Myranda began to object.
It would appear that the order was not directed at her, as a massive blow forced the door open. A huge, heavily armored man stepped aside to reveal the man who had issued the command. He was not familiar, but his armor was. He was Elite, and thus one of the few people who might know her on sight. She wondered for a moment whether this was a good thing or a bad. He could take her to Trigorah and help her to begin her task in earnest, or he could identify her for Arden to behead. For now she would play the character, at least until she was sure she would be safe. As he stepped inside, Myranda pushed any fear she had aside and sprang to her feet.
"How dare you? With whom do you suppose you are dealing?" Myranda raged.
The Elite drew his sword and directed it at her. Myranda stopped short of the blade and conjured what she hoped was convincing look of anger and disbelief.
"You! You draw your weapon before me? Alexia Adrianna Tesselor?" she fumed.
The Elite's expression changed from one of anger to one of regret as he quickly sheathed his weapon.
"A thousand pardons, Madam-" he began.
"Mistress!" she corrected.
"Mistress Tesselor. I -" he began again.
"There is no use trying to explain yourself. There can be no excuse for what you have done. And an Elite, no less. If you are the best that our army can offer then I weep for the future. Your sorry hide cheapens my uncle's superbly crafted armor. Leave this place," Myranda commanded.
"I can't, Mistress. I am under orders from General Teloran herself. I am to-" he stated hurriedly, unsuccessfully attempting to avoid interruption.
"Trigorah? My dear boy, I know Trigorah, and she knows better than to do something as foolish as this," Myranda said, suddenly getting a thought. "Is she about?"
"No, Mistress, she-" he half answered.
"Then do not speak to me of her orders. Do you actually expect me to take your word for truth? Show me a writ! Show me a signed and sealed order for you to force yourself upon my recentl
y purchased dwelling and physically accost me!" she screamed with mounting anger.
The Elite scurried off like a struck hound, grumbling an order to the brute who had forced the door to close it. Myranda took a deep breath. Her heart was racing. She briefly marveled at the fact that a simple name was all that was needed to give her the power to intimidate an Elite, a man who was treated as a god normally. She turned back to the door when a commotion was heard outside. The Elite was having a very spirited discussion with a man who was somehow even larger and stronger looking than the one standing at attention just outside the doorway. He carried a thin-handled black halberd with a large bluish crystal set in the blade. The weapon didn't suit him. It was elegant while everything else about him seemed to bring new meaning to the word barbaric. The armor he wore was, to say the least, excessive. There was an incomplete and rather ill fitting suit of plate mail layered atop a rancid looking leather under-fitting. As he moved, a chain mail shirt against his skin revealed that he was at least as foolish as he was war minded. He turned to the house and began to storm toward her. This had to be Arden. Myranda prepared herself to deliver another tirade. The powerful man pushed inside.
"I've already told your idiot partner that I will not allow so much as a question without a writ," Myranda said.
The man reached into his bag and pulled out a scroll of high quality paper sealed with the official crest of the king pressed into wax. Myranda reluctantly took the paper and broke the seal. Unrolling it revealed line after line of very official language detailing all that the holder of the document was permitted to do. Disturbingly high on the list of permissions was the right to kill any person or persons who prevented the execution of duty. She placed the scroll back into the ham-sized hand extended before her. It was crumpled and stuffed unceremoniously back into the bag. She made the mistake of looking him in the face. It would not have been out of place on a bear. Facial hair had grown wild into a matted beard with a fair accumulation of his last meal in it. His eyebrows were dense bushy things, connected in the middle. Peering out from beneath them were a pair of undersized, enraged eyes.
