by Anthony Ryan
“No. He wasn’t lying and Draker shouldn’t have done that.”
“Yet your queen let you live and sent you here.”
“My actions were not my own. The woman’s magics bound me, compelled me to do terrible things.”
She straightened and he felt her eyes roaming his face. Although he couldn’t see her expression the intensity of her scrutiny was unnerving. He was about to tell her to leave again when she said, “So we are not so different, you and I.”
She uncoiled, lying down on the bed. “May I sleep here? Just tonight. I have dreams too.” She breathed a soft laugh at his evident hesitation. “I promise I’ll offer no … enticements.”
I should make her go, he knew. There can be no good outcome to this. But he didn’t, finding the cruelty beyond him. So he lay next to her, trying to force the tenseness from his limbs, knowing sleep would be a stranger tonight. After a few moments she shuffled closer, resting her head against his shoulder, her hand finding his, their fingers entwining.
“There will be no victory for us, will there?” she asked in a whisper.
“Don’t say that. My queen sails to these shores with a great army. If we hold to our cause…”
“I was a slave, but never a fool. This empire is vast beyond imagining and we have killed but a fraction of the force they will bring against us. They will kill us, all of us, for we are slaves and we cannot be allowed even the barest hope of freedom. Without us, they have no empire.”
The matter must be settled. “If you believe our cause so hopeless, why join us?”
She came closer still, wrapping her free arm around his, clasping his hand tighter, her breath warm on his skin. “Because you offered something I had forgotten could be offered, a choice. And I choose to die free.”
Their numbers doubled over the next few weeks as Ivelda and Lekran continued to bring in recruits by the dozen and ever more runaways arrived at the villa. Soon there were so many that feeding them all became a problem, Frentis finding himself compelled to order some into the fields to harvest more crops. A few were resentful of the order though he managed to ameliorate any discontent by promising that all would take a turn at the same chore, himself included. Conahl, the Realm-born blacksmith, had performed prodigious feats in producing large numbers of weapons but still it wasn’t enough; only a third of the army could be described as adequately armed and at least as many were still equipped with various farm implements.
“Plenty of weapons in New Kethia,” Lekran pointed out at the evening council.
“We still lack the strength to take it,” Frentis replied. Thirty-Four was well acquainted with New Kethia and had ample intelligence on the strength of its walls. Plus they had to assume the Empress had sent them some reinforcement by now, or perhaps even come herself. He resisted the urge to allow himself to dream again, resuming the nightly dose of Brother Kehlan’s sleeping draught, despite the headaches. The campaign was moving towards its crucial phase and he was unwilling to risk any chance she might divine his plans when their minds touched. He was also aware she would be raging at the sudden absence of contact, and perhaps even prone to misjudgement as a consequence.
“If we wait much longer, this region will be denuded of slaves,” Thirty-Four said. “Those that haven’t joined us will have been killed or marched off by their owners. If we were to go south, I’ve little doubt this army could be made mighty within a few months.”
“We do not have a few months,” Frentis said. “The queen’s fleet will already have sailed and marching south will not provide the diversion she needs.”
“Over half of our people are not from the Realm and know nothing of the queen. They came because we promised freedom, not to exchange one master for another.”
“If we can secure the queen’s victory, then every slave in this empire will be free. Her cause is their cause. Make sure they know that.”
He returned his gaze to the map. We have to strike somewhere. “What is this place?” he asked, pointing to a town on the northern coast, about fifty miles east of New Kethia.
“Viratesk,” Thirty-Four said. “A minor port serving the trade routes north.”
“Defences?”
“A wall, of sorts. It’s a poor place, home to only a few black-clads with scant funds to waste on a wall that hasn’t been needed for centuries.” Thirty-Four paused, lips pursed in consideration. “They do have a lively slave market as I recall. The market in New Kethia is often full to overflowing so many slavers look to alternatives to shift their stock.”
A town so close to the provincial capital put to the torch and they’ll be forced to come out from behind their walls. Frentis straightened from the map. “We wait one more week to gather numbers and train, then we march to Viratesk.”
He had Thirty-Four draw a map of the town and sent Master Rensial to scout the approaches, cautioning him against being seen. The remaining days were spent training the recruits, making an effort to exchange a few words with as many as possible, gratified that most seemed to be enlivened by the prospect of action. However, he didn’t have to look too deeply to see the fear that lingered in many, mostly those born into bondage or veterans of prolonged enslavement; they had risked all to join this rebellion and had no illusions as to the consequences should they fail.
“I nearly ran once before,” Tekrav told Frentis one morning as they went over the inventory of supplies. The former bookkeeper had proved himself enthusiastic but unskilled in training, but his facility for numbers remained as sharp as ever. “Not long after my creditors’ petition saw me chained. Myself and another newly enslaved hatched a plan during the caravan ride to the master’s villa. My co?conspirator was a great, strong fellow, but overfond of drink and poppy essence as I was overfond of dice. Our intention was for him to strangle the guard when he came close to our cage and take his keys.”
“Did it work?”
“He managed to get a hand around the guard’s throat all right, but then one of the slave-hounds bit it off at the wrist. They had little use for him after that, except as an example. It took them all day to impart the lesson, by which time he was begging for death. After that I found myself all too grateful for a slave’s lot.”
“Then why did you join us?”
Tekrav gave a small shrug. “Even now I’m not entirely sure. The master was good to me, only two floggings in all the years I served him. But he was not so kind to the others, and as One, they looked to me for protection. I had subtle ways of diverting his temper, business matters or a new wine vintage to distract him from whatever torment his mean little mind could conceive. But when the war started and the new slaves came…” Tekrav trailed off and forced a smile. “Well, he had so many new toys to play with. And I couldn’t protect them all.”
“Lemera and the others. You joined us because they did.”
“A man should stay with his family, don’t you think?”
“Yes, he should.” Frentis gave his inventory a final glance before handing it back. “This is all well in order. My thanks for your diligence. I would be grateful if you would oversee the baggage-train during the march.”
“I will, brother. I was wondering, perhaps I could have a title.”
Frentis paused, raising an eyebrow. “I assume you have something in mind.”
“Nothing too extravagant. But perhaps … Lord Quartermaster?”
“Chief Quartermaster. Any ennoblements will be for Queen Lyrna to decide.”
“Of course. I trust you’ll assure her of my worth in due course?”
Free for a few months and already he plots his rise. He’ll probably end his days as Minister of Works, should he live so long. “It will be my pleasure, sir.”
Master Rensial returned the next day to report the way to Viratesk clear of Volarian patrols. In fact, he had failed to glimpse another soul during the entire mission.
“Not like them to be incautious,” Lekran observed. “Usually a day on the road won’t pass without seeing at least one troo
p of cavalry.”
“The empire is always keen to police its people,” Thirty-Four agreed.
“So we scared them off,” Ivelda said. “Just like my people did to the Othra when they came to take the bronze hills.”
“We did take them,” Lekran replied with a surprisingly polite grin. “But found them worthless so gave them back.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “Your father told you many lies, sister-fucker.”
“I made Redbrother a promise, so I’ll wait till this is over before I claim your head.”
“I look forward to being amused by your attempt…”
“Shut up!” Frentis stated, very precisely. He stared at them both in turn until they lowered their gaze. “All of you, prepare your companies to march at dawn.”
They left the villa intact this time. Some of the older slaves had petitioned him to be allowed to stay, hoping to make the place their own. Frentis saw little point in attempting to compel their participation, especially since Illian advised they would be little use in a battle. He scouted ahead with Master Rensial’s troop, confirming the country as empty for miles around. The fields grew increasingly unkempt as they marched north, devoid of slaves, save a few corpses they took to be runaways from the villas they passed, all also uniformly free of occupation and some already burned by their owners.
“Told you,” Ivelda taunted Lekran with a laugh. “Pissed themselves and ran off. When we get to the town they’ll do the same.”
Viratesk came into sight after a five-day march, a square mile of brick buildings nestled in the bowl of a natural harbour. Frentis’s spyglass revealed the walls as poorly maintained, featuring several gaps and the surrounding ditch long since filled in. Also, he could find no sign of any guards on the walls or smoke rising from a single chimney.
“There’s nothing here.” He sighed, lowering the spyglass.
They found the town gates open and unguarded, the streets beyond vacant and littered with detritus that told of a hasty flight. “Some of them might have had the decency to stay and fight,” Lekran grumbled. “Just for a little while.”
“Take your company and sweep right, make for the harbour,” Frentis told him. “Draker, go left. Myself and Master Rensial will take the centre.”
It took only a short time to reach the harbour, passing by rows of vacant houses, the town’s only living occupants a few dogs busily feasting on the carcasses of slaughtered horses and goats left to rot in the streets. They found the wharf free of vessels save a single scuttled fishing boat, its mast jutting from the water at what Frentis felt to be an insulting angle.
“No bugger home, brother,” Draker reported, expression grim as he strode along the wharf. “Did find a pile of bodies in a warehouse though. All slaves, mostly older folk.”
“Culled the less valuable stock before they left.” Frentis cast a glance around the town, fighting a sense that the empty windows were all staring back in accusation. They would have lived if you had not come here. “Search every building,” he said. “Gather anything of value, especially weapons. We need anything with a sharp edge, even the smallest butcher’s knife. Lekran, your people will man the walls. You’ll be relieved at nightfall.”
He had their Chief Quartermaster oversee the disposal of the bodies, though he made a point of helping to carry them to the carts. There were about fifty in all, men and women of middling years, stripped naked as their clothes were deemed of greater value than their lives, old whip-strokes visible on most of the rapidly greying flesh. They were carted outside the walls where Tekrav had organised the construction of a huge pyre from the furniture left behind by the fleeing townsfolk. Once the bodies had all been laid upon the oil-soaked wood Frentis turned to address the gathered fighters.
“Amongst my people,” he said, “it is customary, regardless of belief, to say words over the dead. Many, if not most of these people lived knowing only a slave’s life, destined for a slave’s death. To be cast away like a lamed horse, unmarked, unnoticed, unworthy of thought or word. But now we are here to mark their passing, with words and with steel. Hard days lie ahead of us, days when our cause will seem hopeless and your heart tempted by despair. When those days come I ask that you remember what you saw here today, for if we fail, this will be our fate and no voice will be raised to bear witness that we were ever alive.”
He went to the walls to watch the pyre burn, the flames rising high in the gathering dark. “Quite the signal fire, Redbrother,” Lekran observed.
“They knew we were coming,” he replied. “And they know we’re here now. With any luck, they’ll send their forces against us.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then we’ll see what they’ll make of a march towards New Kethia itself. The time for stealth has gone, it’s time we brought our enemies to battle.”
She has always found it odd that the spectacles never held any attraction for her. If anything, she finds them repugnant, thousands of voices aroused to bloodlust by the sight of combat that few, if any, would have the stomach to experience firsthand. For her, the joy of the fight, and the kill, has only ever come from direct participation.
But they do love this so, beloved, she tells him, feeling his disapproval. We took away their gods, but kept the rituals, for the gods were always so fond of blood.
It is the Festival of Winter’s End, though once it had been named for a long-forgotten god who demanded the sacrifice of brave souls to bless the fields and bring forth a good harvest. The arena had originally been built in honour of the old gods but all divine trappings were long since stripped away, marble statues replaced with bronze effigies of generals and Council-men, divine motifs substituted for the Imperial crest. But, however much the stage changed, the spectacles remained the same.
Revealing herself to the multitudes is a necessary chore; she couldn’t remain hidden forever, and today there are many eyes to see the Empress Elverah in all her glory. She chose the name herself. Of the many titles she has earned over the centuries, only this one gives her any satisfaction, and not a little amusement. Let them bow before a witch.
There has been trouble, of course. The sudden switch from Council rule was bound to disrupt a society wedded to the notion of stability achieved through unchanging order. Her spies, a long-established network crafted over decades, unknown to the Council’s own intelligence machinery, bring word of discontent and rebellious conspiracy from all corners of the empire. Most are quickly crushed, the plotters subjected to a protracted method of public execution, immediate and secondary family condemned to slavery and all property seized by the Empress. But, though several thousand have now suffered this fate, each day brings reports of more plots and, were she susceptible to such things, the constant threat of assassination would provoke a lesser soul to paranoia. The previous week a slave girl had contrived to poison the Empress’s breakfast of gruel, revenge for a well-loved master subjected to the Three Deaths the week before. It was a brave but clumsy attempt, easily discerned even without the song’s warning. The poison had been mixed in too great a concentration, giving off a familiar odour, and the girl must have known she was earning herself a painful end.
“Were you One in his stable?” she had asked the girl, forced to her knees with an Arisai’s blade poised to strike the nape of her neck. “He must have fucked you very sweetly to arouse such loyalty.”
The girl wept, hard convulsive sobs, but still found enough voice to answer. “He … never … touched me.”
“Then why?”
“He … raised me … taught me to read … gave me a name.”
“Really? What is it?”
“L?Lieza.”
“Naming a slave is a capital offence in itself, and your former owner was guilty of much more besides.” She waved the Arisai away and gestured for the girl to remove the breakfast. “Bring me fresh gruel, Lieza. Then you can read me the morning’s correspondence.”
Lieza stands at her side now, ready to pour wine into the Imper
ial cup. She is pale of face but manages not to tremble. Every morning since her failed assassination she brings breakfast and reads the Imperial correspondence whilst the Empress eats. Afterwards she sits and writes as the Empress dictates a list of names for execution. Her calligraphy is quite excellent.
I don’t know why I spared her, she replies, feeling bafflement mixing amongst his disgust. I think she reminds me of someone, but can’t quite recall who. Perhaps I’ll kill her tomorrow. Give her to the spectacles, the dagger-teeth are always hungry.
But today there are no dagger-teeth. Today it is the Sword Races. She recalls her father once telling her the origins of this, the most popular event in any spectacle. In primitive times one of the more enlightened gods, or one of his more enlightened priests, decreed that there should be no more warfare between the tribes that paid him homage. Instead, every year they would send their best warriors to compete in the Sword Races where all disputes would be settled. The rules have been refined over the succeeding centuries but the essence of the contest remains the same: a single sword is thrust into the centre of the arena and the two contesting teams stand at opposite ends, an equal distance away. At a given signal they race for the sword, combat beginning when one team member takes hold of the hilt, the winner being the team with the most men standing at the turn of a ten-minute glass. Logic would suppose that the team to claim the sword would enjoy an advantage, but expert players are still capable of turning the tide, usually by sacrificing a less-skilled team member in order to seize the sword from their opponents.
Today it is the Greens and the Blues, two of the six teams representing the six provinces of the empire. The Blues tend to attract the most favourable odds but the Greens have the most experienced players, evidenced by their tactic of forming a tight defensive bunch around their sword-bearer, forcing the Blues to mount a series of costly assaults. Within minutes ten men, four Blues and six Greens, lie dead or crippled on the sands. Sword Racers rarely have long careers though the substantial rewards afforded those who survive to retirement ensure there is never a lack of willing recruits, for these are not slaves but free men. Poor and desperate enough to risk death in front of a baying mob, but still free.
