The Huntsman's Amulet (Society of the Sword Volume 2)

by Hamilton, Duncan M.

Soren had packed his sea-going slops in the bag and wore his shore-going clothes when he left the Typhon. If he set foot on a ship again, he sincerely hoped it would be as a passenger and not a member of the crew — but preferably not at all.

  Galat appeared similar to Kirek. It was made up of white, flat roofed buildings that were rarely taller than two stories, intermingled with blue constructions.

  He walked through the town, which had the same fascinatingly exotic feel that he had found so appealing in Kirek: bright colours, strange sounds, interesting smells. While he would like to be finished with his business as quickly as possible, he had already learned the consequences of insufficient planning the hard way and had no desire to repeat the experience. An ill-conceived flight across the plains east of Ostia was unpleasant, but he reckoned that it would be a veritable pleasure by comparison to a similar flight across a desert. Freeing Alessandra only to lead her to her death in the arid sea of sand between the Galat and Kirek rivers would be counterproductive.

  Nonetheless, the thought that she might still be in that city was intoxicating, and his heart began to race every time he allowed himself to dwell on it.

  He began to look out for an inn, or the Shandahari equivalent. He spent some time wandering around, his difficulty all too evident. It was the first time he had ever been alone somewhere that he didn’t speak the language. It was hot and he was tired, not to mention hungry, and his frustration grew as each minute passed.

  Happily one thing that seemed common in Shandahar was the prevalence of food vendors on the street. Soren wandered past several, trying to see what was on offer without drawing the attention of the proprietors. Eventually he was overcome by the smell of the food and stopped at one of the stands. At first he simply pointed to food that he wanted, some type of heavily marinated meat that set his mouth watering each time he drew in a breath, but the vendor was quick to pick up on his ethnicity.

  ‘Imperial? Yes?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Soren said. He pointed to the source of his temptation. ‘How much for a portion of that?’

  ‘Honey and spice marinated beef,’ the vendor said, with a smile that revealed a remarkably good set of teeth as he scooped a ladle full from the pot. ‘Two grossi, or about four Imperial pennies.’

  ‘So, less than four pennies then,’ Soren said.

  The vendor smiled. ‘Yes, but there is of course a premium for the service of exchanging a foreign currency.’

  It was an outright lie. Imperial currency had been in use for such a long time, and used for trade over such a vast area that it was used interchangeably here as it was in most places that had contact with the Empire. Esqivel had said as much. This vendor was relishing the prospect of being able to inflate his profit, even if it was only by a small amount, probably for no more reason than the chance to do it. Soren almost felt bad to spoil it for him.

  He handed over one of the gold tremissi that came from his share of the bounty. ‘You have change for a tremiss?’

  The smile dropped from the man’s face, but he took the coin and rummaged about in a leather waist pouch, taking grossi out one at a time. He placed each coin down with a sullenness that made Soren smile. It had been a small battle, but he was victorious.

  The vendor handed over the coins and the thin wooden bowl he had filled with the marinated beef, along with a flat wooden spatula, both of which were designed to be disposable.

  ‘You’re a mercenary, yes?’ the vendor said.

  Soren nodded. He was always guarded with information, especially so when in strange places. There was no point in correcting the man’s mistake.

  ‘Lots of mercenaries around these days. Are you stationed up at the palace or have you just arrived?’ he said.

  ‘Just arrived,’ Soren said. ‘Where’s the nearest inn?’

  ‘Ah, I know of a—’

  ‘The nearest inn,’ Soren said firmly, not interested in whatever establishment his brother, uncle or best friend might be running on the other side of the city.

  ‘Of course,’ the vendor said, clearly offended by Soren’s brusqueness. ‘The nearest is only a short walk from here, but the directions will cost you two more grossi.’ He smiled condescendingly.

  Soren felt a flash of anger, not at the vendor, but at himself for inviting this. He handed over another two grossi.

  The vendor smiled at having evened the score. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is the nearest inn.’ He pointed to a building no more than a dozen paces away.

  Soren nodded in a belated display of manners, which might have saved him two grossi had he employed them earlier, before turning and walking toward the inn, eating as he went. The food was surprisingly good, the meat tender and the flavour rich and sweet.

  From the price he paid to the innkeeper for a room for three nights, it seemed that the people of Galat had become used to northern mercenaries being in the city and having money, and had adopted a policy to fleece them as best they could. The room was small but looked as though it had been cleaned since its previous occupant had left, which was something at least.

  He had no expectation that anything he left would still be there when he came back, so he only left those things that were of no value to him; the sailing slops that he hoped never to have to wear again, and one or two odds and ends that he could not conceive of being of value to anyone else.

  With finding somewhere to sleep taken care of, he could begin his search. He would start with the docks. Hopefully someone there would remember the Tear having arrived with its notable cargo and be able to give him some information that he could use. The food vendor had mentioned foreign mercenaries being employed up at the palace. It occurred to Soren that it was worth investigating. A position there might carry with it enough authority to make his search easier, not to mention it would get him into the palace without drawing suspicion, allowing him to find where the Rala was being held.

  After the docks, he would check the slave markets, although a young, attractive and foreign woman would not remain unsold for long. He had no expectation of finding her there; he simply hoped that someone would remember her, and remember to whom she had been sold.

  Each time he thought of the task ahead of him, despair threatened to take hold of him. All he could think about was how impossible it would be, how unlikely it was that she would be remembered. The only thing that counted in his favour was that she was a foreigner and she was beautiful, two qualities likely to make her stand out in the mind of a slave trader.

  Chapter 48

  The Interpreter

  Soren returned to the docks and spent a few minutes getting a sense of how things operated. There was no sophisticated harbour system here, as there had been in Kirek; it was smaller and less prosperous. He looked around for a harbour master’s office, or anyone who looked as though they had any authority.

  He spotted a small, square hut made of panels of sun-bleached wood that had a window overlooking the harbour. It was no more than a box, but contained a single man. Soren made his way over and knocked against the open door frame.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Do you speak Imperial?’

  The man looked at Soren with a puzzled expression on his face.

  ‘Imperial?’ Soren said, hoping there might be a result.

  The expression on the man’s face didn’t change. He returned his gaze back out over the harbour, disregarding Soren.

  Soren sighed. The language was going to cause him problems. He’d hoped that in a port city, with so many ships coming in from what the locals still called the Empire, most people would have a working knowledge of the language as the street vendor had. He realised now that he couldn’t rely on finding people who would be able to understand him and would have to address the issue. How he’d do so was another question.

  There was only one other person in the city that he knew for certain could speak Imperial. Soren was reluctant to have to speak with the street vendor again, and certainly didn’t trust him enough to ask him to interpret, bu
t perhaps he could point Soren to a library or university where he would be able to find someone that would be worth employing.

  He went back to where he had bought the admittedly delicious meal. The vendor smiled broadly when he saw Soren coming.

  ‘Back for more?’ he said.

  ‘Perhaps later,’ Soren said. ‘I need to know where I can find people who can speak Imperial. A university or a library perhaps.’

  The vendor said nothing, but continued to smile. Soren reached into his pocket, took out two grossi and placed them down on the counter of the vendor’s stall.

  ‘There is a library off the city’s main square,’ he said, pointing. ‘Near to the palace.’

  Soren didn’t bother thanking him; the two grossi were thanks enough and he disliked being seen as an easy touch. He liked someone who took advantage of other people’s situation even less. It would be unfortunate if he needed anything else from the vendor, but he doubted the man would turn down the potential to earn a few coins no matter how impolite Soren was.

  He set off in the direction the vendor had pointed, wondering if the man might have sent him off in a random direction. Eventually he reached an open area, bordered on two sides by small rivers running through brick lined channels.

  The palace was the first feature that caught his eye on the square. It was more austere than the one in Kirek, tucked away behind plain walls, although similar in that it was built from white stone and bore a number of features covered in the glazed blue tiles and relief work. There were no elaborate fountains or lush gardens however, again suggesting less wealth. To the left there was a two-story building with a colonnaded façade, the only one on the square that even remotely resembled a library.

  The inside was dark and cool, a marked contrast to outside. A number of men in dark purple robes made their way around row after row of shelves. Unlike the libraries that Soren had studied in, the shelves were not flat surfaces holding bound books. Instead they were like slices of honeycomb, with tier after tier of small boxes containing rolled parchments.

  A man approached Soren and spoke. It was unintelligible to Soren, but he didn’t want to appear rude by interrupting.

  He waited until the man finished and shrugged. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand. Do you speak Imperial?’

  The man smiled and nodded. ‘Yes. Can I help you?’ He spoke carefully and slowly, like someone with a good knowledge but little practice.

  ‘I hope so,’ Soren said. ‘I have some business to conduct in Galat, but I don’t speak any Shandahari. I want to hire an interpreter, and thought I might find someone here. I’ll pay well.’

  ‘One of the junior scholars here might be interested in the work. I will ask around. When will you need them?’

  ‘As soon as possible.’

  ‘Very well. Come back in the morning.’

  Soren returned to the library the next morning as instructed. The man he had spoken to was sitting at a desk near the door. When he saw Soren he stood and walked over.

  ‘Good morning. If you would wait here a moment, please.’ He turned and headed down between the rows of shelves toward the back of the library, returning a few moments later with a second man, who was also dressed in purple robes but was younger.

  ‘This is Half-Scholar Erezaf. He is fluent in Imperial and also Shandahari, of course. He will require payment of one tremiss a day and will work from dawn until sunset.’

  ‘Does he speak?’ Soren said. From the way that the man was presenting Erezaf, he could well have been a mute.

  ‘Only when commanded to, or questioned directly. At least until he becomes a Full-Scholar.’

  Soren nodded. ‘Fine, one tremiss a day is acceptable.’

  They walked down to the docks in silence, with Soren leading the way to the office of the dock official he’d visited the previous day.

  ‘Please tell him that I need some information on a ship that stopped here several weeks ago.’

  Erezaf nodded and translated. The man in the hut listened and then spoke.

  ‘He asks what ship,’ Erezaf said.

  ‘Her name was the Bayda’s Tear. I believe she unloaded a cargo and a number of slaves.’

  Erezaf translated once again. The man’s face showed no signs of recognition. He spoke, but did not say much.

  ‘He says he doesn’t remember her.’

  ‘Tell him she was the ship that brought the Rala of Serash to Galat.’

  Erezaf nodded and spoke to the man again. They conversed back and forth for a moment before Erezaf turned back to Soren.

  ‘He remembers the ship. There were a number of slaves, but he does not know what was done with them after they were brought ashore.’

  It was a dead end, but confirmation that the Tear had been there, and that it had unloaded slaves.

  Chapter 49

  The Slave Market

  Erezaf took Soren to the slave market, but reluctantly. He was glad that he had employed the young man, who was only a year or two younger than him. He would have struggled to find his way around alone — not taking into account his translation service, which was invaluable.

  The slave market was in a separate annex off the main market square of the city, a short distance away from the square in front of the palace and library. A lane led off to a smaller courtyard in the centre of a cluster of buildings that was lined with holding cells. The smell was the first thing to hit him: of dense human occupation and less than sanitary conditions. Erezaf was visibly taken aback and had obviously never been anywhere near a slave market before. Soren hadn’t either, but he had seen battle and death and the gore and filth that went with it. This wasn’t so far removed from that.

  Even with that experience, it was all that he could do to hold the contents of his stomach down at the thought that Alessandra had been there, treated like an animal to be sold on like a chattel. He could only hope that her appearance would have made her more valuable and worthy of better treatment.

  There were groups of customers clustered at various spots along the arcades lining the courtyard, variously inspecting their potential purchases under the supervision of one of the slave traders or haggling over the price after having found someone that met their requirements.

  There was slavery in Ostia, but it was less visible than it seemed to be in Shandahar. He had passed by the slave market in Ostenheim many times and it was always busy, so the industry was certainly thriving. However, those slaves that were kept in the city were difficult to distinguish from free citizens and most were purchased for physical labouring outside on estates and in mines in the countryside. It was the uncomfortable subject that nobody in polite society spoke about. While people might ape their distaste at the idea, there were many nobles who derived some or much of their income from the work of slaves.

  Soren had moved his coin purse to a prominent position as he walked into the slave market. He wanted them to see that he had plenty of money, and hoped this might make them a little more amenable to his questions, or at least lessen their suspicion until he found out what he needed.

  Soren would not permit Alessandra to be subjected to that life if he could possibly prevent it, and he would not stop trying as long as there was breath left in his body. The question once again was how far he was willing to go to get the information he needed. His thoughts drifted to Blasco, and how close he had come to doing something he would have regretted.

  He went unnoticed at first; there were more than enough customers to keep the slavers occupied. However, being avaricious businessmen, they were not likely to let a customer pass by without trying to tempt them to a purchase, particularly not a northerner, a group who had a reputation of having money and the desire to spend it. It was not long before one of them approached him, showing respectful deference.

  ‘Imperial?’ Soren said.

  ‘A little,’ the slave trader said. ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘A girl,’ Soren said.

  Soren could feel Erezaf squirmin
g behind him. He should have explained what was going on before they got there, but it was too late now.

  ‘We have many girls here,’ the slave trader said, gesturing to the cells that lined the courtyard, on two levels as Soren now noticed.

  ‘I’m looking for something in particular,’ Soren said. ‘A northerner. An Imperial girl.’

  ‘Ah,’ the slave trader said. ‘We are starting to get many requests for northern girls from the northern soldiers in the city. Something to remind them of home I think. Sadly we do not have any here at the moment, and it is unusual for us to get them. It does happen for time to time, but it has been a year at least. With growing demand, that might change. If you would care to check back? For now, I can recommend a Shandahari woman, or perhaps a Jaharan if you seek something a little more exotic.’

  ‘A year?’

  ‘At least. Perhaps longer. As you see, it might be a very long time before we have any. But there are plenty of others. I am sure we can find one that interests you.’

  ‘Thank you, but no,’ Soren said. ‘I’m looking for someone specific. An Ostian, tall, slender, dark hair. I think she was brought here several weeks ago.’

  The slave trader’s demeanour changed instantly. ‘If you are not here to buy, perhaps you should leave.’

  Soren could feel Erezaf’s tension from two paces away. The young man was deeply uncomfortable, and Soren regretted bringing him. He was getting more education that day than he was accustomed to, or would have wanted.

  Soren nodded. There was no reason to believe the slaver was lying when he said they hadn’t had any northerners there for over a year, even if he had reacted aggressively. Perhaps Alessandra had never been there, a thought that left him relieved. But if that was the case, where had she gone?

  ‘Let’s go,’ Soren said, keeping his eyes locked on the slaver’s, hoping to convey that he was not in any way intimidated by the slaver’s aggressive stance.