The door opened just wide enough for a young boy to slip through, then shut behind him, and Alec heard the bar slam down again. His visitor, barefoot, and dressed in a long, belted shirt, was carrying a large wooden bowl. He eyed Alec for a moment, then quickly set the bowl down on the floor just within reach and scuttled back and banged on the door.
“Wait! Tell me where my friend is,” Alec begged, or tried to. The words came out hopelessly mangled around the mouth plate.
The boy called out loudly in his own language to whoever was waiting outside. Alec didn’t speak Zengati, but it was clear that he was scared of Alec, and none too pleased with his duty. As soon as the door opened, the boy dashed out.
Alec leaned over the edge of the bunk to inspect the bowl, which held some sort of bland, grey broth. He left it alone, drank more water, then settled cross-legged, back to the wall, watching the door and window. He pulled at the branks, but only managed to hurt his mouth. The wristbands were no better, smooth and seamless, sealed with magic.
Plenimaran magic, on a Zengati slaver’s ship. He couldn’t think of a worse combination.
Time crawled by and the light began to fade. Judging by the way the shadows moved across the floor, he guessed they were sailing north. North from Gedre lay Skala or Plenimar. Alec had no illusions about where they were headed.
Darkness fell and no one came, not even the boy. Huddled in his blankets, Alec kept watch on the door, sick with worry for Seregil.
He must have dozed off, for he was completely unprepared when the door suddenly banged open and the cabin filled with people. Dark, bearded faces loomed over him and hard, hurtful hands held him down. Someone held a lantern aloft. Someone else grabbed the bar between his hands and wrenched it out sideways, so that his right hand was over the edge of the bed. An order was barked and some of the men fell back, giving place to a heavyset man wielding a small branding iron. Hands tightened on Alec’s chest and legs and shoulders as the bastard grabbed Alec’s wrist and pressed the iron to the inside of his forearm.
Alec screamed and swore and struggled as the smell of burnt flesh filled his nostrils, but to no avail. Flipping him over, they branded him on the back of the left calf, too.
It was over quickly, and they left him alone again, but that was little consolation. The pain of the burns was agony, and with his hands shackled like this, it was impossible to find a way to lie that didn’t cause more pain.
He cringed as he heard the bar being lifted again. A tall, veiled figure slipped in carrying a basket and a small lantern. At first Alec thought it was a woman, but the legs and bare feet that showed below the short robe were a man’s. His hair was hidden under something like a crude sen’gai, and a scrap of plain muslin hid his face below a pair of sad grey eyes.
Aurënfaie eyes, Alec thought, even before the man unpinned the veil and let Alec see his face, and the thick iron collar around his neck.
He was ’faie, without any doubt, perhaps a bit younger than Seregil. He remained by the door as he held up his right arm, showing Alec the faded brand on his forearm. It was a symbol or letter of some sort, but nothing Alec could make sense of.
“Each slaver ship captain has his own mark,” the stranger said in Aurënfaie, and the sound of that familiar language quieted Alec’s fears a little.
“You’re a ’lave?” Alec slurred around the branks.
The man gave him a dispirited shrug. “What else would a ’faie be, in such company? I’ve come to dress your burns. Will you let me?”
Alec nodded, trying unsuccessfully to cover himself.
The man set his basket down on the edge of the bed and pulled the blanket over Alec’s lap and legs. “I know you’re frightened, and in pain, but there’s no need for fear. They like their ’faie slaves unblemished at the Riga markets, and that’s where we’re headed.”
He took Alec’s arm in gentle hands and applied a salve with a light, careful touch. Alec guessed he’d done this often. The salve smelled good, and soothed the burns considerably. Alec studied his helper closely as the man took strips of clean linen from the basket and bandaged Alec’s arm. His tunic had short sleeves, and as he leaned over his task, Alec could see the telltale scars left by a lash peeking out across the back of one shoulder. “’ey ’ip you.”
“I was stubborn, and proud,” the ’faie replied without looking up. “They beat that out of me, eventually. It doesn’t have to be so difficult for you, little brother. In the end, you’ll find it’s best to submit.”
“’ubmit? ’oo what?”
“That all depends on who buys you. If you’re lucky, being a half-blood, someone might only want you as a laborer, or an ornamental house slave. Turn on your side so I can dress your leg.”
Alec rolled over to face the wall. “An’ if I no’ ’ucky?”
“Well, some would say your mixed blood has a pretty effect, and with that fair hair? You might end up in some rich merchant’s bed.”
“’ever!”
“Or perhaps with a woman. The wealthier courtesans often keep boys as pets.”
Alec shook his head furiously, heedless of the way the branks plate cut at the corner of his mouth, then let out a grunt of alarm as the man seized him by the shoulder and pulled him around to face him.
“I’m trying to do you a favor, little brother.” Turning away, the slave grasped the hem of his robe and pulled the back up to his neck, showing Alec the netting of faded scars that ridged his skin from neck to knees. Then he turned and held up his penis in one hand, showing him the puckered scar where his balls should have been. “They’re likely to take those anyway, unless they want to breed you. I’m lucky that master left as much as he did.”
Yanking his tunic back down, he fixed Alec with a sorrowful look. “I was proud like you, little brother. But in the end I did all they wanted. You can spare yourself the suffering. Some masters can be quite kind if you’re meek and tractable.”
Alec squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face to the wall. Meek and tractable? He’d die first!
“Suit yourself, then.”
“Wait!” Alec called after him. It was so hard to talk with this thing in his mouth! Choosing his words carefully, he asked, “’as there a ’an with ’e?”
“A man with you? A friend captured with you, you mean?”
Alec nodded. “Auren.”
“I don’t know. You’re the only ’faie I’ve seen. Try to rest. It’s two more days to Riga, and the sailors won’t trouble you. The captain would have their skins for it.”
He went out, taking the lantern and leaving Alec in the dark, and in despair. If Seregil was dead, then he had even less reason to be meek or tractable for anyone. He’d be more than happy to die.
CHAPTER 10
Rough Passage
SEREGIL WAS FAR too sick to gauge the passage of time, or to fight back when they came to brand him. He was barely conscious when dark figures held him down and burned his arm and leg, and only vaguely aware when someone came to tend the wounds. His physical misery was unrelenting.
Every so often the hatch overhead would open, and he roused a bit when they came down to sluice him off with icy seawater, washing away the vomit and shit. Then someone would hold his head up, using the branks for a handle, and force fresh water or broth between his teeth until he choked and swallowed. He usually just brought it up again, but somehow enough stayed in him to keep life in his wasting body. Sometimes in the night, they would come to stare at him, faces hidden behind the blinding glare of a lantern. Or maybe that was just a fever dream? He was too sick to tell the difference, or care.
The rough planking rubbed the skin from his body, and the branks were a continuous torment. His brands felt hot, and he knew they were infected. The only other constant during those miserable days was the hope that Alec was alive somewhere.
As he grew weaker, he slept more, but his dreams offered no escape. Long-dead enemies came to gloat over him. Delirious, Seregil woke once convinced that Mardus and his nec
romancer, Vargûl Ashnazai, were standing over him, laughing at his condition. In other dreams, he was at the Cockerel, with the headless corpses of Thryis and her family, or back at that sea temple again, looking down at Nysander’s sorrowful, upturned face.
That was the only dream that made him weep, and for the first time in many years, he prayed in earnest.
Aura, Lightbearer, if Alec is alive, then help me. If not, then let me die.
He had little faith in answered prayers, but all the same, he lived, even as he sank ever deeper into darkness.
CHAPTER 11
No Good Place for a ’Faie
ALEC HOPED IN vain to see the veiled Aurënfaie again. He hadn’t even asked his name. But no one except the boy came, bringing him food and water and taking away the slop pail. Alec tried to befriend him, but the boy kept his eyes averted and never lingered.
On the morning of the fourth day the breeze through the little window changed, carrying the scent of land. Standing up on the bed again, he caught a glimpse of white stone cliffs, bright in the distance. There was no sign of green—no forest or fields—and as he took more sightings through the day, his impression remained the same. Seregil had told him that Plenimar was barren in places, especially here in the south; that was why the Plenimarans tried so often to take the land of others. At least that was the Skalan view.
And they kept slaves. Alec looked down at the scabbed brand on his arm, trying to imagine what lay ahead.
They made port late in the afternoon, and Alec began to feel sick. He told himself that it was just the rolling of the ship at anchor, but his heart knew better.
He’d eaten to keep his strength up. He’d watch for his chance and break for freedom at the first opportunity. He had no idea how he was going to get out of his shackles, but he could worry about that if he actually managed to get away.
That proved a vain hope. Three sturdy Zengati sailors came for him. They bound his legs together with rope and carried him out of the cabin on their shoulders like a rolled carpet.
The ship was a large one, long and lean, and there were dozens of sailors and armed men milling around. No one spared him a glance as he was carried past. Beyond the rail, he could see a waterfront teeming with people.
There was some sort of holdup at the head of the gangway, and he looked around wildly, realizing how futile his hope of escape had been.
At first glance, Riga was no different than any seaport city. The shadows were growing long, and there were lanterns lit along the streets. Tall warehouses lined the shore, and between them he got a glimpse of a large city that spread as far as he could see. Beyond that, in the distance, were white, rolling hills dotted with bits of dark green. It reminded him of Gedre.
On deck, a hatch had been thrown back and filthy, naked people were being led up. The smell was so bad that he retched around the mouth plate of the branks.
The miserable slaves were staggering in chains and, as Alec watched, two sailors came up carrying a limp body by the arms and legs. The man was filthier than all the others—emaciated and bloody, too—but Alec still recognized him.
“’eregil!” he shouted, thrashing in his captors’ grip and cursing the branks that gagged him. “’eregil! ’eregil!”
He was terrified at first that Seregil was dead. The man was deathly pale under the filth, and his eyes were sunk deeply in dark, bruised-looking sockets. But as soon as the sailors stretched him on the deck, Alec saw him make a feeble effort to curl into a ball. The heavy metal bars fastened between his hands and feet were too much for him. As Alec watched, he went limp, only the whites of his eyes showing under half-open lids. Alec had never seen his talimenios so weak.
But he’s alive and he’s here!
Before he could tell anything more of Seregil’s condition, Alec’s handlers hoisted him higher and carried him down the gangway. Helpless he might be, but he was no longer without hope.
The last thing he saw before the deck rose out of view was the nameless Aurënfaie slave kneeling beside Seregil.
Help him, please! Alec silently begged, as he was carried ashore.
Alec?
Seregil was only dimly aware that the motion around him had changed. Then he was in sunlight, too painfully bright even through his eyelids. A fresh, cold wind cut through the stink he’d thought endless. Had he been asleep? Had he dreamed Alec’s voice, calling to him?
It hurt too much to stay here, though, and he let himself sink back into the welcoming blackness.
Consciousness flirted with him, and he wasn’t sure if he was awake or dreaming the sound of voices, coming to him faintly, as if from a great distance.
“I told you to hold him, not kill him!”
Seregil knew that voice from somewhere.
“We didn’t know…”
He was too far gone to register what language was being spoken; he only knew that he understood it.
“Useless! He’s dying!”
Who’s dying? Not me, friend! Not until…
Alec’s captors carried him down a long stone quay and into a market square. If he’d had any doubts about slavery here, they were put to rest now. There were iron cages full of naked men, women, and children, and beyond that, a raised platform where more people stood chained to posts in front of a crowd.
“Maker, save me,” Alec whispered.
The sailors tightened their grip on him and bore him down a paved street between the warehouses.
The chill air was dry and full of dust. The street was crowded even at this hour and, for the first time in days, he was painfully aware of his nakedness. Old women and young girls laughed and pointed, calling out in their own language. Alec’s command of Plenimaran was far from perfect, but their jeering tone was enough. Still possessed of a deep-bred northern modesty despite all his time with Seregil, he burned with shame.
And he guessed there was worse to come. They were in sight of more auction blocks now, then among them. On one platform a fair-haired young woman was on display, with her hands tied behind her to keep her from covering any part of herself. Their eyes met in a moment of shared anguish. On the next block, two little boys stood weeping and clinging to each other as the auctioneer harangued the crowd. A blind fiddler stood on a street corner, playing a bright jig.
A sudden turn in the street spared Alec any more such sights, but it had been enough. Angry tears blurred his vision as he screamed and struggled, helpless to stop, as his captors hurried him into a long, low building.
It was like a barn inside, and lined with stall-like cages. They put him in one of these, laying him down carefully on a thick bed of straw and slamming the iron door shut behind them.
The place was brightly lit. Alec pushed himself up on his hands and looked around. The walls of his little cell were made of heavy boards, so he could only see out the front. Across the room, most of the cages held one or more captives.
Still hampered by the iron bar between his hands and the ropes cutting into his legs, he crawled to the back corner of his cage and covered himself in the straw as best he could. His heart was pounding, the sound of his own blood loud in his ears as he fought a renewed rush of panic. He had no tools, and there were people everywhere, talking or haggling loudly in languages he could not understand. He wished now he’d let Seregil teach him Plenimaran. After his last experience, he’d wanted nothing to do with this country, not even its language. Now he kicked himself for his stubbornness.
How long until someone dragged him back out to the blocks and put him on display? How would he know what was going on?
It was a busy place, this slave barn, not unlike a horse dealer’s market. People of all sorts strolled up and down the line of cages, laughing and chatting together as they inspected the merchandise. Many stopped to look at Alec, but none came in after him. There were a number of Zengati about in their salt-stained boots and striped tunics. Most, however, had the look of nobles or merchants, and dressed more in the Skalan fashion. Alec studied them all carefully. A
side from Duke Mardus and his necromancer, the only Plenimarans he’d had any experience with were their marines, and they were a cruel, hard-bitten lot. By comparison, these people looked like any ordinary market crowd, except for the goods in which they were trading.
An elegantly dressed young woman paused to stare at him, attended by several servants and friends. Her bodice was more modestly cut than that favored by Skalan women of fashion, but she had brilliant feathers and jewels in her upswept hair. Her face was covered in some sort of white powder and her lips were painted dark red. The unnatural cast of it, and the appraising look in her hard, dark eyes, made Alec nervous. She gestured at him, then moved on, casting back some remark that set her companions laughing and pointing.
Alec guessed she must be one of the courtesans the veiled man had mentioned. What little he’d ever heard about proper Plenimaran women was that they were kept at home and closely guarded.
I’ll be damned if I end up the toy of some whore!
He tried to ignore the crowd after that, until a few ruffians crowded up to the bars and threw pebbles at him until he looked up. They were dressed like butchers, in leather aprons streaked with dried blood, and had curved knives and oddly made pincers dangling from their wide leather belts. One of them caught Alec staring and cupped his groin through his apron, making an unmistakable slicing motion with his other hand.
A distinguished-looking Plenimaran man spoke sharply to them and shooed them off. He was past his prime, but not old. He wore a black velvet surcoat with silver chains and wide cuffs of lace, a number of gold rings and a jeweled chain.
“Calm yourself, boy,” he said to Alec in perfect Skalan. “If you are what I’ve been led to believe, then you are in no danger of the gelding knife.”
The stranger was accompanied by a smaller man in a deeply hooded cloak that obscured his face, and a small entourage of manservants, all of them dark-skinned, with close-cropped hair and beards. These looked more like the Plenimaran marines Alec had known, and he wedged himself more tightly into his back corner, even though he’d already guessed it wouldn’t do any good.