by B. K. Boes
She mouthed, “What?”
He put a finger to his lips and shook his head.
He wants me to be quiet.
“What was that, Or-lin?” She spoke loudly, drawing out his name as he did when they first met. It was something she knew got under his skin.
“Shush,” the Roshleth said, a disapproving look on her face.
But Orlin got a thump on his head from the Patriarch and a sharp word from him as well. Maybe he would leave her alone for the rest of the night.
Yado and Ednah were settling on their rugs, each of them watching Kaela carefully. Ednah with concern. Yado with something like curiosity.
“Let us begin,” Roshleth Vyad said, more upbeat than usual. “The Adikeans have offered—”
“Before we get into the details of the trade deal,” Ednah interrupted, “Yado and I have some concerns about the morality of aligning ourselves with the Adikeans.”
The Elder’s interruption left a room full of open mouths and wide eyes. It wasn’t that she didn’t have the right — she did — but it was a symbol of no confidence in their leaders. Kaela closed her eyes. Her hands were balled into sweaty fists, her stomach was roiling, and her heartbeat felt as though it might break her ribs.
She pictured adding a second layer to her inner walls. Fortify. Keep them out.
Of course, Yado had expected Ednah’s interruption and used the awkward silence to continue their plan. “We think perhaps Vyad’s story, the one that led her to this path, was told to her in error.”
“That’s impossible,” Roshleth Vyad said. “We Roshleths are always careful to tell each other our stories word for word, keeping the integrity of every legend and every piece of history.”
“We have heard another version of the story,” Ednah said. “From a Roshleth we met at Ogche.”
Kaela’s breath caught. She lied to protect me.
“Oh?” Roshleth Vyad licked her lips and tried to begin speaking several times, only to cut herself off. Finally, she sighed in frustration. “It must have been a different story altogether,” she said. “Only Roshleths are trusted to keep these things in order. It’s easy to become confused.”
“Yes,” the Patriarch said, “you must be confused.”
“We don’t think so,” Yado said. He looked right at Kaela. Their eyes met. Kaela barely heard his next words as the pounding of her heart and the ringing in her ears got louder. “We do have another in our midst who could possibly confirm or deny this variation,” he said.
All eyes turned to Kaela. She looked from one person to the other, her throat dry enough to hurt when she swallowed. Ednah and Yado looked at her with hope and encouragement. The other three Elders and the Patriarch with confusion. Orlin with contempt. And the Roshleth with something between anger and fear.
But Kaela had blocked all of that.
“I…” Kaela began, but the words wouldn’t come. She turned inward, to the silence there, to think.
It’s my calling, my duty. I must…
Suddenly Kaela pictured her mother dead, pictured her father learning how to live without her. She thought of the baby, too. And then her heart burst. How could her family survive such a loss? How could she go on without her mother?
I must make sure Momma lives.
“I’m sorry,” Kaela said, and she meant it more than she ever had as she met Yado and Ednah’s gazes. “I don’t know another version.” The lie pierced her heart as it left her lips. But she couldn’t take it back.
Ednah began to say something, but a coughing fit took over. Hand to her chest, the Elder covered her mouth with a handkerchief she’d begun carrying with her. When she quieted, she shook her head and remained silent.
“Well, then,” the Patriarch said. “You two must have heard a different story altogether, as Vyad said. It’s easy to get these things confused. There are so many stories.”
Kaela’s whole body felt heavy, and her chest hurt as though it had been cracked open. She wanted Yado and Ednah to understand. “What I do know,” she said, speaking out of turn, “is that the money the Adikeans offer is much more than we’ve ever had. We could purchase things we need, such as medicine to help my mother survive. Her labor was hard, and Healer Raz had to cut the baby out and sew my mother back up. She needs special medicine to keep the rot away. Many of us could benefit from a greater stock of medicines.”
The two elders seemed to shrink in size as they deflated. Yado rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers, and Ednah sighed in resignation.
“Our young Roshleth in training speaks words of wisdom,” Roshleth Vyad said, smiling at Kaela, perhaps for the first time. It made Kaela feel even worse.
The meeting went on, the majority of Elders approving the trade deal when they heard how much the Adikeans were offering. As soon as it was over, Kaela wanted nothing more than to be alone. She was exhausted and tears had begun to blur her vision. The moment it ended, she leapt to her feet and ran. She didn’t want to face Yado or Ednah. She didn’t want to see the Roshleth’s satisfaction or Orlin’s approval.
Never had she felt less qualified to be a Roshleth. Never had she felt so right and so ashamed at the same time. In the end, there had been only one decision. To Kaela, her mother’s life was worth waking the dragon.
Chapter Forty-One
Imrah
The City of Sydor, Adikea
8th Cycle of Chenack
989 Post Schism
Paper was precious, an expensive commodity here in Adikea. Imrah had grown up in the mountains of Ergon, where even the poorest villages had at least urakma pulp paper, though it was used sparingly. Here, in the Desert of Eidolon, the southern nations of Leyumin had fewer resources. And so, the mere presence of paper in the Dakkan Household was a sign of favor, a sign of wealth.
But that also meant it was counted. Imrah brought home five sheets of fine stationery for her master’s use every half-span. Seven days would go by, and she’d go out for more. And so a problem was presented to Imrah.
How am I going to find the paper to copy the information Prestis wants?
She believed the censuses were in the box, the one with the key hidden behind the mounted dagger. But, to take one of five pieces of paper was too big of a risk. Dramede Dakkan would notice. He may have been drunk half the time, but he wasn’t stupid.
Imrah thought as she dusted the statues of the Dakkan ancestors, each one a carved piece of marble set inside an alcove in the halls. Her master hadn’t said anything yet about their encounter in his study, besides giving her the lashes she’d earned, of course. He had gone on as if it were all normal, which made Imrah believe he didn’t suspect her.
Of course, why would he? She’d been a servant in his household for many years. Compared to most slave-wives in the city, she had a good life. Her master gave her good food to eat. She had a room of her own, and a few slave-daughters to help her in her duties. That made it possible for her to have a little bit of time for herself. The Dakkan Household was near Sydor’s beautiful gardens, and this part of the city was well kept, clean, and the stench of city life was much more bearable here.
But, she was still a slave-wife.
And she still remembered what it was like to be free.
Imrah finished polishing the feet of a statue of a Dakkan ancestor posing with bow and arrow. She sat back on her heels, wincing a bit as her skin pulled at the long, thin scabs on her back. There were only three, and Dramede had used the smaller whip. It was painful, but manageable. Sighing, she looked down at the off-white rag in her hand.
Of course. A smile spread as an idea sprouted in her mind. I can use a polishing rag. Ink should show up well, and no one will notice one going missing. I can easily make another, and cheaply. It would be a much smaller purchase from household funds than a piece of paper, and much less conspicuous.
Imrah stood and gathered her polishing supplies to move on to the next statue. Now, all she had to do was figure out when to gather the information without being
caught. It would bring too much suspicion to be caught in her master’s study late at night again. She had to be careful; if Dramede ever questioned her loyalty, she wouldn’t be the only one affected. Everything she’d worked for could come crashing down around her.
Only three days remained before Prestis needed her to meet him in the warehouse at Bazz Harbor with the census information. Finally, Imrah saw her opportunity. Dramede would be gone the entire day; he’d boasted about his meeting with the Emperor’s own brother for days. While her master was inside the Emperor’s Hold, speaking with important people, being entertained by Adikea’s best, and dining on delicacies only the royal family could provide, Imrah would be committing treason.
And she’d do it gladly.
When lunch was served and finished, Imrah helped Unna and Resa cart the leftover food and dishes back to the kitchen. The sisters walked behind her down the hall from the dining room to the kitchen. It was a lonely hall with no doors, meant only to provide a more direct route for servants coming and going from the kitchen.
Sometimes Imrah wondered what Unna and Resa would think about the rebellion. Neither would ever have need of saving a son; Dramede would keep them as servants in his house for as long as he could justify it. They were a reminder that her master-husband had some trace of humanity. Because Dramede had loved his first slave-wife in some capacity, he tried to honor her by looking out for her daughters. Lady Vega was forbidden to beat them, even when they made mistakes. And they seemed generally happy with their lives.
That made them dangerous.
Imrah had no idea how they would react to what she did in secret. Her position as first slave-wife gave her authority over them, which meant she was protected in some sense. She didn’t have to explain herself to them. She was going to take advantage of that now.
As she rolled the cart into the kitchen, its large iron-spoked wheels squeaking, she spoke over her shoulder. “I’ve got some deep cleaning to do in Master Dakkan’s study,” she said. “You two finish cleaning up the dining room and the kitchen, and then go on to laundry.”
“Do you want one of us to help you?” Resa asked.
“No,” Imrah said. “I’ll deep clean the study on my own. Laundry is backed up, and I want to make sure the family has clean blankets tomorrow. There’s a large pile of mending, as well.” She didn’t mention she intentionally left the blankets until last minute or that she undid a few seams to make mending take a little longer than usual.
“We’ll meet you back in the kitchen later this afternoon, then?” Unna asked.
“Yes.” Imrah nodded and wiped her hands clean on her apron before untying it and hanging it on a hook. “Please do not disturb me. I’ve got quite a bit of work to do, and interruptions will not be welcomed.”
Both women bowed their heads in acceptance of her order, and Imrah left them behind in the kitchen, turning down the main hall toward the study. A closet along the way held all the materials she would need to clean, including the polishing rags. Imrah gathered everything together on a smaller version of the kitchen cart.
When she arrived, she quickly slipped through the door and closed it behind her. Candlelight from above dappled the room unevenly, the sun shining in through the slit-like window providing a bit more stability. Dramede preferred to only use the glow orbs at night, when he wouldn’t be responsible for extinguishing candles.
Though the glow orbs were convenient, their blue light left many to headaches after too much exposure. Imrah had heard of glow orbs that emitted a white light or a green light, but she’d never seen one. The strange orbs were products of the Lone Mountains; no one knew why they chose to only sell their blue orbs.
She leaned against the door and took a deep breath. Just one moment to collect herself, and then she strode toward the mounted dagger, took it from the wall and turned it over. The key was there. It was a small iron piece, held in place by a band of fabric glued to either side of the opening.
Imrah grabbed the key and turned toward Dramede’s desk, but then hesitated. She looked at the door, remembering how her master had come in unexpectedly.
Better move something in front of the door to be safe.
A long, thin table next to the door bore Dramede’s crystal set of drinking glasses and a full tumbler of ambrosia. Imrah put the key in the hidden pocket of her skirt and carefully set aside the crystal on the floor. She lifted and pulled the table over the long, thin rug it sat on. It was small, but made of marble, and so she had to brace herself just to move it a few inches. But that was enough.
If someone tries to enter, I’ll have to move the table. I can say I’d moved it to clean the baseboards behind and clean the rug.
Nodding in satisfaction, Imrah headed for the bookshelf behind the desk. She dropped to her knees and pulled the key from the little pocket in the folds of her skirts. As she pulled the box off the shelf and onto the floor, her hands began to tremble. There was the possibility the censuses weren’t even in the box, that her master kept them in his room or that Prestis’ intelligence wasn’t quite right about what sort of information her master was privy to.
Only one way to find out.
The key slid into the keyhole and made a satisfying click as Imrah turned it. Her breath caught in her throat as she opened the lid. Leather portfolios lay inside. She picked up the first one and opened it.
A sigh of relief relaxed her for a moment as she viewed the list in front of her. It was a census of every Adikean household in Sydor with slave-wives. Under the name of each household and their matching family emblem was a list of women. Imrah frowned at the names of slave-wives. Each one had stars next to their names, anywhere from one to four stars. Some of the four-starred names had a line added at the end.
What do these stars mean?
She flipped through the pages until she found the Dakkan emblem. Unna and Resa’s mother, Isa, was the first entry under the Dakkan Household. Her name was underlined in red ink.
A red line must indicate the woman is dead.
She had two stars next to her name, while Imrah’s name had only one. A new heading proclaimed Unna and Resa as slave-daughters chosen as permanent servants. Their names had three stars each.
Isa was a second-generation slave-wife… perhaps the stars indicate whether or not a slave-wife is a Generational. One star means they’ve been brought in from somewhere else.
That would be the kind of information the rebellion could use. Imrah rushed over to the cart and retrieved a larger polishing rag, about the length of her forearm. She carefully moved the inkwell to the floor next to the box, along with the ink bottle and quill. She popped the cork out of the bottle and poured a bit of ink into the well. After smoothing out the rag, she dipped the quill and started meticulously copying all the names which bore only one star along with their household names.
There were dozens, and it took Imrah too long to copy. She used every square inch of the rag, having to write larger than normal to account for the ink bleeding into the fabric, making each stroke a little too wide. She could only fit the Central Sector slave-wives onto the rag, and that was the smallest group. She would have to use several rags just to copy down the slave-wives in the Middle Sector who weren’t Generationals. Still, what she could copy was valuable.
She looked over the list as it dried. They hadn’t touched the Central Sector because most of the slave-wives were Generationals. Here was a list of two dozen first-generation slaves.
These women… all of them could be interested in helping us. And, being in the Central Sector, their master-husbands are more likely to have information the rebellion might need. She bit her lower lip, a bit of uncertainty surfacing. Though these women would be the most trustworthy of slave-wives in the Central Sector, that wasn’t saying much. There were no guarantees.
She glanced at the lists of the other sectors, and then at the pile of portfolios still left in the box. Prestis asked for information on the slave-sons. I can come back for these other slave-w
ife names later.
Imrah set the rag aside, closed that portfolio, and went on to the next. This one seemed to be a list of slave-sons sent into the canyons. Though the Eikonians knew how many boys they had saved, they didn’t know how large the Adikean Army was. They needed to know how big of a difference their efforts were making.
The top paper was a census of how many boys had been sent each year. Imrah scanned the numbers. They were about the same, give or take fifty boys from the year 976 Post Schism through to 986. Her eyes lingered on that year, the year she’d sent Anakai to the canyons. She swallowed the lump in her throat and continued down the list.
In the last three years, the numbers had gone down only a little. In 986 Post Schism, three hundred and ten eight-year-old boys were sent to the canyons from Sydor. In 987, three hundred and two. In 988, two hundred and ninety-five. And this past year, two hundred and ninety. The drop was still within range of normalcy.
It was the next page of the census that interested Imrah. It showed a projection, based on how many boys would be sent in the coming eight years from the count of boys in infancy through eight-year-olds. Only two-hundred and eighty boys were to be sent next year, in 990. Two-hundred and sixty-nine in 991. Two-hundred and fifty for 992. The numbers continued going down. The count for 996 was two-hundred and eleven.
A combination of saving the boys and giving their mothers marro to make them barren. Fewer women are having children, and we’ve already saved dozens of boys every year for three years.
It made sense to Imrah. Most of the boys they saved were infants. Not many were near the eight-year mark, which accounted for the more drastic drop in potential boys still counted alive to send eight years from now.
Imrah wrote down their projections on a new rag. She viewed the numbers as a challenge. Perhaps they could make those numbers go down even further. It made her nervous every time a new hub was formed somewhere in the city, but right now, the risk seemed worth it.