“You’ve hardened up nicely, though.” Micum lifted the little kettle of tea off the coals and poured Thero a cup, then took out his pipe for a smoke. Settling with his back to a tree trunk, he took a few puffs. “It’s been a while for me, too. Feels damn good to be sleeping rough again.”
The following morning found the forest thick with fog. Thero would have been hopelessly lost, but Micum, who seemed to have an infallible sense of direction, soon found a narrow cart track leading in the right direction.
Micum kept up the horses at good pace through the morning as the mist burned off under the rising sun. By the time they dismounted by a roadside spring to eat, Thero noticed that his limp was more pronounced.
“I think I can help you with that,” Thero offered. “Nysander taught me a bit of healing, and I learned more from Mydri in Bôkthersa.”
Micum sighed. “I can’t say no to that, I suppose. What should I do?”
“Just sit on that rock there. I’ll have to put my hands on you.”
“Go on, then.” Micum sat down and stuck out his bad leg.
Thero knelt beside him and carefully pressed a hand to the front and back of Micum’s thigh. He’d never laid hands on a man before, and felt a little awkward, but Micum just watched with interest and showed no sign of discomfort.
Thero hadn’t seen Micum’s wound since it had healed, but he could easily trace the long, uneven ridges of scar tissue through the thin leather of Micum’s breeches. They ran from behind his knee to just below his buttock. Closing his eyes, Thero whispered the healing charm Magyana had taught him to take away pain. The tense muscles under his hands relaxed a bit and he heard Micum’s grateful sigh.
“That’s a bit better.”
“Wait a little.” This time, Thero summoned the deeper healing Seregil’s sister had taught him—one he’d used often to help Klia through the long, painful days of healing, when her remaining fingers threatened to curl permanently into withered claws. As the spell took hold, he could feel the rush of blood through muscle and the tension of tendon along bone. He imagined warm sunlight and sent the heat of it deep into the flesh.
“By the Light!” Micum murmured.
Thero held on until he felt the thick, hardened skin loosen under his fingers, then sat back and opened his eyes. “I can do more later. Do you think you can ride some more?”
Micum stood and tried the leg. “Hell, I think I can run! Now, is our friend Notis still there?”
Thero took the tooth from a pouch at his belt and pressed it between his palms. “Yes, and he’s ashore, too. I think I can find him now that we’re closer.”
They reached the outskirts of Virésse that afternoon. The sprawling white city embraced a deep, broad port, and was protected at its back by mountains. Pausing on a hill overlooking the harbor, Micum sat on a stone fai’thast marker and counted well over a hundred ships of all sizes moored there, and not a few of them carrying the striped sails of Plenimar.
“It’s no secret that the eastern clans trade with them,” Thero observed. “Still, it’s a bit daunting, seeing so many of them here.”
“I see a good many Skalan vessels there, too. We should be able to pass unnoticed if we don’t call attention to ourselves.”
Thero took out the tooth again and cast the seeking spell and a wizard’s eye at the same time. The result was a quick, dizzying mental flight to a tavern inn at the waterfront. The signboard in front bore no words, but showed a dragon wrestling with a sea serpent.
“That shouldn’t be too hard to spot,” said Micum, rubbing absently at his game leg. “Let’s hope their food and ale are good. How’s your Plenimaran, by the way?”
“I can make myself understood, though I’m sure to be known for a Skalan as soon as I open my mouth.”
Micum nodded. “I’ve still got my northland accent. Better let me do most of the talking until we get our man cornered. It’ll draw less attention.”
CHAPTER 35
The Good Slave
ILAR’S VISITS WERE becoming more frequent, and more varied. There were still whippings now and then—sometimes when Seregil let his careful mask slip, sometimes at Ilar’s own strange whim—but only at Ilar’s own hands now, and those Seregil could easily bear.
Ilar came earlier in the day and stayed longer, too. Seregil played his role with increasing ease. As long as he kept Alec in his heart, he could feign obedience to Ilar with ease, pour wine for him without spitting in it when Ilar wasn’t looking, and even manage to converse with the man, listening again and again to Ilar’s version of the days they’d spent together. He learned of the man’s family and, when Ilar had had more wine than usual, his regrets at the shame he’d brought on his kin and clan. Seregil even shared a little of his own past, when pressed, and took a certain degree of dark pleasure in recounting his exploits in Skala, for the pain and envy it kindled in Ilar’s eyes.
As the days passed and they grew more accustomed to each other’s company, Seregil sensed that, despite Ilar’s cool façade, he was increasingly troubled. Seregil guessed it had something to do with the fact that there had been no more mention of Ilar’s freedom. Intrigued, he bided his time and chose his moment carefully.
One evening, when Ilar seemed especially tense, Seregil poured the wine and brought it to him. Standing respectfully beside his chair, he reached out, and then pulled his hand back as if reconsidering the action.
“What is it?” Ilar demanded irritably.
“You seem out of sorts, Master.” Ilar relished hearing that word from his lips, and Seregil used it as often as possible, playing the obedient slave.
“And what if I am?”
Seregil slipped his hand under Ilar’s long hair to stroke the nape of his neck. “Yes, you’re very tense. If I may, Master?”
Ilar glanced up warily. “Stay where I can see you.”
Ilar was no fool, and still had a healthy distrust of Seregil, but it had also become obvious that he was starved for touch in this house. If approached carefully, Ilar was particularly susceptible to the slightest show of kindness. So Seregil chanced it now, kneading the back of Ilar’s smooth neck with expert fingers.
The man was slow to relax. He sat stiffly, still drinking, one eye on Seregil.
“It would be easier if I stood behind the chair, Master,” Seregil suggested, sliding his fingers down the neck of Ilar’s robe to massage between his shoulder blades.
“Easier to what? Throttle me? I prefer you where you are.”
“Then how about this?” Seregil boldly straddled Ilar’s legs, settling on his knees to bring both hands into play. It brought their faces close together and Seregil kept his eyes lowered for a time, then looked up through his lashes. Even a eunuch could be seduced if you knew what he liked; Ilar liked to be touched.
“What is it you want?” Ilar muttered.
“To take that frown from my master’s face.”
“‘Coy’ doesn’t suit you, Haba,” Ilar sneered, but Seregil could already feel the tension easing from the muscles under his fingers.
“What do I want, then?” Seregil worked his fingers up and down the back of Ilar’s neck. “My freedom, certainly. And Alec, of course.”
Ilar chuckled at his honesty. “What else?”
“Something’s wrong, isn’t it? Master Yhakobin hasn’t released you as he promised.”
“He will.”
“When?”
Ilar locked eyes with him. “What’s that to you?”
“I am yours, Master. My fate lies with yours, hand in glove. I can’t help being curious.”
“Well, if you must know, your half-breed may not be bleeding the right sort of blood.”
Seregil kept up his gentle work as he took this in. He couldn’t ask about the rhekaro without tipping his hand. Fortunately, Ilar was in a talkative mood.
“Mmmmm, yes, Haba. Right there.” He sighed as Seregil began kneading the stiff muscles at the base of his skull. “Since you are so agreeable today, I’ll answer your
question. The master seeks to make a particular kind of creature, one that has great power. It can only be made with the blood of an Hâzadriëlfaie.”
A monster made from ’faie blood, just like the dra’gorgos! “That’s why he wanted Alec?”
“Yes. As soon as word came from Aurënen that one had appeared, Master Yhakobin was determined to be the one to capture him.”
“Who sent word?”
“Spies, I suppose. It doesn’t matter.”
It does to me, Seregil thought darkly. Assuming that Ilar was telling the truth, this seemed to point to someone other than Phoria. Seregil was a little disappointed.
“Fortunately, I was able to assist him, since I knew that the young man’s talimenios was you. So when word arrived that you were both returning to Aurënen—Well, you know the rest.”
“Were you there?” Seregil kept his voice calm and his fingers working.
“Of course not! But I knew your name and face, and that was enough for the slavers. You certainly made no secret of your movements.”
“Why didn’t they come after us in Skala?”
“They don’t raid that far north, do they?”
“I suppose not.”
“And Rhíminee is not such an easy place for spies, since Mardus’s failed attack on the city.”
“I’m glad to hear it. So, Alec is well, Master?”
“You’ve seen him.”
“And he doesn’t suspect you being anything other than a fellow slave?”
“Apparently not.”
Seregil very much hoped Ilar was wrong about that.
“Oh, by the way. It seems your blood is as useless as his. Master Yhakobin attempted to use that which he took from you that day. It doesn’t transmute properly at all.”
“Do give him my regrets, won’t you?” Seregil said without thinking.
Strong hands clamped over his wrists, pinning them together in front of his face. “Are you missing the whip, Haba?”
“No, Master! Please, forgive me.”
“Then watch that tongue of yours, or I’ll cut it out. Now prove to me that you are sorry.”
Seregil leaned in to kiss him, only to be shoved off Ilar’s lap. With an inward sigh, he prostrated himself and kissed the toe of his slipper. Ilar pulled his foot away and used it to shove his face into the carpet. “Don’t forget your place, Haba. And don’t forget your bargain.”
“I won’t, Master.” The thick pile of the carpet got into his mouth and he coughed.
Ilar gave him a last light kick in the head and swept out, slamming the door after him.
“Ingrate,” Seregil muttered, wiping his mouth. In spite of the indignity, it had been a good evening’s work. It didn’t sound like Ilar would be leaving the house anytime soon.
CHAPTER 36
Nightrunning
RHANIA CAME TO Seregil’s door again that night.
“Have you thought more about what we spoke of?” he asked, cheek pressed to the door.
“Yes. Do you really think it possible?”
“Get me out of this room and I’ll prove it to you.”
“And you would take me with you?”
“Yes.”
“You give your word?”
“By the honor of Bôkthersa, I swear it. But we’ll need a few things. Weapons, clothing, food. Can you put your hands on those?”
“Yes!”
“Don’t do it all at once. Someone might notice. Just a bit at a time, and hide them somewhere you can get to quickly at night.”
“I understand.”
“Now, how are you going to get me out of this room?”
There was a long silence. “Let me think on that. I will find a way.”
Once again, he heard no sound of her leaving. That might be a good sign. She was brave and quiet, and must have a steady nerve to come to him like this. He might actually be able to keep his promise to her.
Rhania stole to his door almost every night, whispering to him about what supplies she’d been able to cache, and telling him of any glimpse she’d had of Alec. It seemed he was still being kept in the outbuilding and was sometimes allowed to walk in the garden with Ilar. As far as she could tell, they’d become friends.
That news was like a knife in Seregil’s gut.
Ilar visited Seregil every day, and his visits grew longer. It was clear he delighted in having Seregil under his sway and making him do all sorts of menial tasks.
Seregil played the perfect body servant, letting Ilar believe that he was becoming resigned to his fate. Day by day Ilar grew a little more at ease with him, a bit more open.
Today, after some subtle prompting while massaging Ilar’s feet, Seregil had gotten him to talk about some of his former masters and what he’d suffered at their hands. As Seregil listened, he found himself caught between pity and disgust. His expression must have betrayed him, though; Ilar had suddenly kicked him away and stormed out without a word.
Seregil sat up and staunched his bloody nose with the bottom of his robe. For once, he didn’t hold it against Ilar, when his own collection of wounds had been gotten as a free man, doing his chosen work. Not that it made him hate Ilar any less, of course.
That would be weakness.
Lying in bed that night, though, he spent a long time trying to chase away the images Ilar had summoned in his mind. But they followed him into his dreams, and he was glad to be woken sometime later by the familiar sound of soft, persistent scratching on his door.
He walked over and pressed his ear to the wood. “Yes?” He was always careful not to use her name, or sound as if he were expecting anyone, in case it did turn out to be someone less friendly.
Tonight his answer was the sound of a key in the lock. A cloaked figure slipped inside, armed with a large carving knife. Seregil jumped back quickly, braced for an attack. Rhania pushed back her hood and removed her veil.
She wasn’t young but was quite beautiful under the tracery of Khatme clan markings. Seregil read them quickly: she was a person of middle standing, without magic. There were large holes in her ears where the clan jewelry had been stripped from her. One earlobe had been torn and healed badly.
“Here, take these!” She reached under her cloak and handed him a wadded tunic. Inside he found a belt, some ragged trousers, his worn old poniard, and Alec’s boot dagger with the black-and-silver handle.
“Where did you get these?”
“Ilban Yhakobin had them displayed in the library downstairs, as trophies. The slavers include belongings in the price of the sale.”
“That’s all there was? No swords, or a bow?”
“There was nothing else.”
“Damn.” Seregil’s uncle had made his sword for him. Alec’s—together with the Black Radly bow—had been gifts from Seregil. “I wasn’t expecting you to act so soon. Has something happened?”
“The master visited my bed tonight.” Rhania raised her chin proudly, daring him to judge her as she held up a large key. “I took it while he slept and came here at once. We must leave before he knows it’s missing. He’s sure to know I took it.”
“Bravely done.”
“Come on, then. Kill Khenir with your knife and flee with me!”
But Seregil wasn’t ready to let go of all caution just yet; somehow, it felt too easy. “It’s a good tale, my lady, and believe me, nothing would please me more. But why should I trust you any more than I do him? How do I know it’s not Khenir putting you up to all this, just to get me in trouble?” That would probably suit Ilar very well, watching him lose a foot on the block.
She fell to her knees and clasped her hands. “I give you my pledge: ‘Though you thrust your dagger at my eyes, I will not flinch!’”
“Are you sure?” asked Seregil, grasping the tip of the knife she was still holding and moving it away from his crotch. The oath was more than mere poetry among the ’faie. He drew the poniard and leveled it at her face. Even when he made a quick feint at her left eye, she remained absolutely steady
, her gaze locked with his.
“Please. Don’t doubt me now,” she whispered.
He pulled her to her feet. “Will you show me to where my friend is being held?”
“Yes, but it’s dangerous.”
He grinned as he changed his slave robe for the clothing she’d brought him. “At this point, what isn’t? I’m not going without him.”
“I know. But we must go quickly!” She pulled back her cloak to show him a satchel she had over one shoulder. “See? I have food, water, a flint, and the rest you asked for.”
She took him by the hand and led him down a narrow stair and through several turns of a narrow passageway. He smelled dust and mice—a back passage, one that let servants move through the house without offending the eyes of the master and his household.
They came out in a shadowy room full of bulky furnishings. At the far end a set of double doors stood open. Seregil stole up to the edge of the doorway. It was a crisp, overcast night, with no moonlight to betray them. Intentionally or not, the Khatme had chosen her moment well.
Peering cautiously outside, he froze as he made out a line of figures outside. As his eyes adjusted to the light, however, he realized that they were only statues, lined up along the sides of a long fountain pool.
I’ve been here! He recognized the black-and-white mosaic paving. It was all he did remember, having been drugged to the gills the only other time he’d been here.
Overhead, there was a second-floor gallery, with doorways and lots of darkened windows.
“There, the watchman,” Rhania whispered, pointing out a dark figure slumped on a stool near an archway to their left. An overturned cup lay at his feet.
“Drunk?” asked Seregil.
“Dead, I hope. He helped himself to me once too often, so I gifted him with a bit of one of the master’s special elixirs in his wine tonight.”
“You were planning this long before I ever showed up.”
“Yes. Aura sent you, and I am ready.”
“Take what the Lightbearer sends and be thankful, eh?” Seregil shook his head, wondering how a woman like her had ended up a slave in the first place.