“I will return later with a tray of food for you, Father,” she said. “Sleep well.”
“Thank you, my dear,” Wigg murmured without opening his eyes.
Entering the hallway, the group closed the door behind them, leaving the lead wizard alone. It was only then that his aquamarine eyes opened. He was lost in thought.
Had Krassus harmed Abbey? Wigg could count on one hand the number of days she had not entered his mind over the last three centuries. If Abbey lived, and was somehow a part of all this, how could he ever hope to explain her to the others? What in the name of the Afterlife was going on?
Out of sheer fatigue, Wigg closed his eyes again. Blessedly, sleep began to separate him from his thoughts.
CHAPTER
Six
Raise oars!”
The grotesque pacemaster finally stopped beating out the incessant rhythm and placed his twin mallets on the floor. Number Twenty-Nine thanked the Afterlife that he had survived the horrific pace, and, along with the other slaves in his row, pushed down on the heavy oars, lifting the paddles from the Sea of Whispers. Blood was dripping from his palms; every muscle in his body felt as if it might literally crack in two.
“Ship oars!” the pacemaster shouted.
Using whatever remaining energy they could muster, the slaves who could still move drew their long oars into the frigate and laid them in neat rows down the length of the aisle. Many of the oarsmen had collapsed during the final, brutal day. Some had simply died of heat and exhaustion where they sat. Those had been unchained and thrown overboard, to be replaced by another Talis from the decks below. The deck was bathed in vomit, urine, and blood.
As usual, the Harlequin and the pacemaster seemed to take it all in stride. For much of the day the Harlequin had sat in his upholstered chair, watching the slaves labor as he sipped what seemed to be a bottomless glass of red wine.
Oars finally secured in the gangway, Twenty-Nine collapsed on the filthy, bloody deck. After what seemed only moments, the bleeders came around again, using their tridents to prod the helpless slaves upright. Coughing, Twenty-Nine managed to regain his seat and used the opportunity to peer out the oar slit in the side of the hull. His gaze fell upon a sheer face of gray, slick rock, and he realized they had struck land.
Smiling, the Harlequin stood up, arms akimbo. “Unchain them,” he ordered.
The white-skinned bleeders in the strange skullcaps immediately began to unchain the slaves from one another, but left wrist manacles and foot shackles in place, drastically limiting movement.
“Where are they taking us?” the slave next to Twenty-Nine whispered, trembling with fear.
Twenty-Nine glared at him angrily.
“Do not talk, you fool!” he muttered furiously. “This is no time to invite attention! And as you go by the Harlequin, lower your face!”
The bleeders then began prodding them to their feet. It took many painful attempts to get cramped and atrophied legs to stand, but eventually, after a smiling, almost kindly gesture from the Harlequin, they all began shuffling toward the bow, their manacles clanking as they went.
Twenty-Nine reached the stairway and followed his comrades up onto the deck above. The first thing he saw were hundreds of slaves of both sexes standing before him, waiting to disembark. They had been divided by gender. The women, dressed in simple, one-piece frocks, had apparently fared little better than the men. Most looked ill; many were coughing.
Trying to adjust his vision to the relative darkness, Twenty-Nine rubbed his stinging, bloodshot eyes. Blinking, he finally saw where he was.
Their ship seemed to be docked in some kind of subterranean stone harbor. The flat, rough-hewn wharf had apparently been carved directly from the walls. A great deal of activity was taking place. The noise of the clanking manacles and the shouting of frightened slaves echoed hauntingly back and forth between the cavern walls and ceiling. Wide enough to easily anchor several ships like the Defiant, the saltwater bay was open to the ocean at only one end. The tunnel-shaped portal was easily wide enough and high enough to allow the passage of the great ships in and out.
Looking more closely, Twenty-Nine saw the sunlight beyond the cavern’s outer edges come streaming down from the sky. Dappling the surface of the sea beyond, it tantalizingly reminded him of the freedom from which he had been so unbelievably, inexplicably taken. In the distance, his eyes could just make out the white, graceful sails of two more ships.
The stone pier before them was huge, easily large enough to allow several hundred persons to stand upon it. Numerous gangplanks had been lowered from the Defiant to the pier, and slaves were already filing down them. Dozens of bleeders stood there waiting.
As he looked closer, he could see beyond the crowd of disembarked slaves several dozen men sitting at long tables. They wore dark blue robes. As the slaves approached them, the men wrote with quills and ink in large, leather-bound journals.
Turning around, Twenty-Nine could see that the seawater here looked murky and cold as it gently lapped up against the rock walls and the sides of the ships. Numerous stalactites snaked down from the ceiling, covered with and surrounded by moss and mildew. The chamber smelled of a strange combination of mustiness and sea salt.
The only light, aside from the sunshine streaming in at the curved entrance to the harbor, came from various wall sconces and larger, standing lanterns dotting the edge of the stone pier. Their combined glow cast spectral shadows across the slickness of the walls. The air was full of the sounds of snapping bullwhips, crying, and still greater confusion.
Twenty-Nine looked down the pier and saw that two other ships were also docked quietly along its length. They floated there gently, their graceful lines and somehow comfortingly creaking hulls belying their horrific, inhuman purpose. Their waterlines rode high in the sea, revealing that their human cargoes had already been ordered ashore.
Twenty-Nine lowered his head in shame. Averting his eyes from his soiled loincloth, he regarded his tortured, shackled hands. Once beautiful, they had easily commanded the highest of compensation for his chosen trade of weapon making. Now they were bloodied and broken, and he doubted they could ever demand such sums again, even if somehow given the chance. Painfully, he tried to straighten out his fingers, but they stubbornly refused to obey, as if they had become appendages belonging to someone else. As they defiantly clung to the shape of the oar handle, he suddenly realized that even though he no longer held the oar, its mastery of him might remain a part of his being forever. Raising his face back up to the strange subterranean harbor and the wailing of his fellow innocents, he felt tears come to his eyes.
It was while standing there, waiting his turn to walk down the gangplank, that Twenty-Nine first noticed the slave directly to his right.
The man was very tall, and unlike most of the other slaves, he somehow stood defiantly erect. Broad-shouldered and stocky, the man was heavily muscled, making it clear that he was quite used to manual labor. The level, intelligent-looking eyes were hazel. Smooth, sandy-colored hair was tied behind his neck with a short strip of leather and fell long down his back. A dark mole lay at the left-hand corner of the man’s mouth. Although not what many would call classically handsome, the slave carried with him a great sense of strength and personal fortitude. He looked to be approximately thirty-five Seasons of New Life.
On the man’s shoulder Twenty-Nine could easily see the still angry, partially healed brand R’talis.
All the captives grouped with this man had been branded with the same word, Twenty-Nine noticed. He also quickly realized that this particular group of men and women was noticeably smaller than the others, almost as if they had been singled out for some reason.
Just then the cat-o’-nine-tails came whistling out of nowhere.
The knotted strands of leather lashed into Twenty-Nine’s naked back. He screamed, falling to the pier. For the briefest of moments he looked up, fire in his eyes, his anger tempting him to lash out at his attacker. Taking a br
eath, he wisely relented.
The bleeder responsible grabbed him by his dark hair and wrestled him to his feet. Twenty-Nine suddenly realized why he had been whipped. In his examination of the slave standing next to him, he hadn’t kept up with the moving line.
The bleeder struck him in the back, forcing him to close ranks. As if understanding, the slave he had been regarding turned his face to him and gave him a nod. Through his pain, Twenty-Nine tried to manage a little smile back.
Reaching the Defiant’s gunwales, they began marching down the gangplanks and onto the stone pier. After what seemed an eternity, he finally took his turn at the tables where the men in the hooded blue robes sat waiting. He could now see that the robed ones were seated in dozens of pairs, one pair before each line of disembarking slaves. Twenty-Nine faced the pair in front of him, and they looked up at him disinterestedly.
“Turn to the right,” one of them said. Twenty-Nine did so.
“Talis,” the other one said, looking at the brand on his shoulder. “Your number?”
“Twenty-Nine.”
Refilling his quill with ink, the man scribbled something in his ledger.
“And your given name and house?” the man asked. As Twenty-Nine told him, he again wrote in the book.
“Hold out your right hand,” the other one said flatly. Looking around, Twenty-Nine tentatively did so.
One of the seated men narrowed his eyes, and a strange blue glow began to surround Twenty-Nine’s tortured hand. Startled, he tried to pull it away. But then the bleeder assigned to these two robed men grabbed his wrist, forcing it back into position over the tabletop. A small, almost painless incision somehow formed in his fingertip. Then a single, controlled drop of his red blood obediently plopped down onto a sheet of parchment lying on the table. As the glow around his hand dissipated, the bleeder let Twenty-Nine’s wrist go.
Then one of the men picked up a small vial and poured a single drop of what looked to be red water from it. The drop of water also landed upon the parchment, a short distance away from Twenty-Nine’s blood. Leaning over, the two men at the table watched closely as Twenty-Nine’s blood drop on the parchment began to dry up. He looked back up at them.
“Lack of blood activity confirmed,” one of them said perfunctorily, again writing in his ledger. “Talis. No blood assay or Forestallment map required.”
The man next to him reached over to a large pile of books. Selecting one, he rifled through its pages.
“Talis section,” he said, looking up at the bleeder. A notation was made in this book, as well.
Ready to escort him away, the bleeder took Twenty-Nine by the arms.
But before the bleeder could push him into motion, a loud hubbub started to come from the line to Twenty-Nine’s right. The man he had been studying earlier was standing before another pair of robed men. They seemed very excited, and their voices were rising in volume. Even the bleeder holding Twenty-Nine and the robed ones seated at the desk before him stopped their duties to listen.
“Say your name again!” one of the agitated blue-robes shouted at the slave. “And your house!” It was clear he was extremely eager to have his answer.
The man looked at them with defiance. “I already told you,” he said. “I am Wulfgar, of the House of Merrick; son of Jason and Selene. What do you want of me?”
One of the robed men before him looked up to the bleeder stationed by his side. “Take his wrist,” he ordered. The bleeder obeyed.
The robed one seated on the right looked back up into the man’s eyes. “This will not hurt,” he said softly. Twenty-Nine was surprised by his sudden change in tone.
Almost immediately an azure glow formed around the slave’s hand. An incision similar to the one created in Twenty-Nine’s finger opened. A single drop of his blood fell softly onto the blank parchment lying on the table.
Then the two robed men did something curious.
From a leather case, one of them produced a strange-looking object—actually two objects, housed side by side in some kind of open frame, Twenty-Nine soon realized. One of them appeared to be a clear beaker, the other an hourglass. Both were small in size.
The beaker contained a small quantity of thick, red fluid that seemed to move about inside it in little waves, as if it had a life of its own. At the bottom of the beaker was a small spigot.
The hourglass was the smallest Twenty-Nine had ever seen. Its lower, teardrop-shaped globe contained what looked to be no more than a dozen small black spheres. Looking closer, he couldn’t possibly imagine why one would need to measure the extremely limited period of time such a small amount of sand would allow.
The beaker and the hourglass were fastened upright, side by side, in a simple frame of wood without front or back panels.
One of the blue-robes very carefully moved the device into place on the blank sheet of parchment. By now everyone in the immediate vicinity—slaves, bleeders, and hooded ones alike—had become very still, wondering what would happen next.
Slowly, carefully, the man slid the odd device across the parchment, bringing it to rest near the blood drop. The beaker was nearest the blood, the hourglass positioned on the opposite side.
From his bag he then produced a piece of string marked in bright red near either end. Stretching the length of string out on the parchment, he very carefully adjusted the position of the device until one of the string’s red marks lay exactly across from the blood drop, the other directly beneath the beaker spigot. Finally satisfied, he replaced the string in his bag.
“Are you ready?” he asked, turning to the robed one beside him.
“I am,” the other replied seriously, grasping the hourglass.
“You realize they must be exactly timed,” the first man said, holding the release handle of the beaker spigot.
“Of course,” the other said eagerly. “Begin the count.”
“On my mark,” the first man said. “Five, four, three, two, one, now!”
Simultaneously, the two men moved, one turning over the hourglass, one hand hovering above it, the other releasing a single drop of the strange red fluid from the beaker down onto the parchment.
Almost immediately, the two drops of fluid flowed toward each other across the parchment and joined in a single, larger drop of red. The man holding the hourglass waved his hand. A blue glow formed around the device, and the black spheres stopped falling—one of them in midair. Twenty-Nine gasped. Then, wide-eyed, he turned his eyes back to the red drop to see that it had begun to trace a design onto the surface of the parchment. After it finished forming its design, the fluid began to retrace its path over and over again atop its original lines.
Amazed, Twenty-Nine looked over at the man whose blood had accomplished this marvel. The man looked stunned.
The robed one on the right then produced a single piece of parchment from his case. He spent what seemed to be a great deal of time nervously looking from one sheet to the other, and back again. Finally, he raised his eyes to his associate.
“They match!” he shouted. “It is he! We have found him!”
His partner turned to him. “How many spheres?” he asked eagerly.
The other narrowed his eyes, and stared intently at the glass. His mouth fell open.
“Only one and one half!” he whispered in awe, barely able to croak out the words. “The second sphere didn’t even reach the bottom! I have never seen such blood assay quality!”
Barely able to contain his joy, his colleague again reached into his case. This time he produced a thick magnifying lens mounted on a tripod. Unfolding the tripod’s three legs, he carefully placed it over the strange red design. Standing, he closed one eye, using the other to peer down through the lens. He remained that way for some time.
“A left-leaning signature!” he announced. “And the angle is the most severe I have ever encountered!”
“And there are no Forestallments to map!” the other said. “His blood is unadulterated, just as Krassus predicted! We co
uld not have asked for more!”
Stunned, the two men sat back in their chairs. The one on the right looked up in awe at the confused slave. Then he nodded to a nearby bleeder.
“Take him,” he ordered. The bleeder immediately stepped behind the man and grasped him by both arms. “Should any harm befall him, you forfeit your life!”
“I understand, my lord,” the bleeder answered obediently.
The man behind the table then turned to another bleeder. “Go and fetch Janus,” he said. “Tell him we have good news. And for the moment, none of the other slaves are to go anywhere.”
“Yes, my lord,” the monster answered. In a flash he was gone, easily wending his bulky form through the crowd.
Twenty-Nine looked back down at the tabletop, and to the design on the parchment, and the weird devices the two men had used in their examination of the slave’s blood. He shook his head, understanding none of what had just transpired.
The man named Wulfgar was faring no better. Confusion and hate filled his eyes as he stood there gripped from behind, waiting for the one called Janus.
Finally, the crowds of slaves began to part. Turning, Twenty-Nine looked to see who it was.
It was the Harlequin.
Ignoring everyone but the men seated at the table, he strode forward to face them. “What is it?” he asked.
“We have finally found him, Janus,” one of them said proudly, as if having just obediently returned with a bone thrown by his master. “The blood signature is conclusive.”
Janus picked up the two parchments. He gazed back and forth between them for some time. Finally he returned his red-masked eyes to the ones behind the table.
“You are sure?” he asked sternly. Turning, he looked briefly at Wulfgar. “Trust me when I say that Krassus will not be amused should he again return to this forsaken place, only to find this to be yet another false alarm.”
He turned back to the robed ones. “What did the blood assay reveal?” he asked.
The Scrolls of the Ancients Page 6
