But Thelana reached down and ripped open what was left of Kareen’s smock, exposing her bare back. She took the crop and brought it down with all her strength. Kareen shrieked.
“No! Stop! Please stop! Thelena, no!”
Thelena hit her again.
“Please! I never beat you, Thelena! Never! Not once! Please, Thelena, I never beat you!”
It was true: Kareen had never beaten her. Others had, but never her. Right now that made no difference at all. The crop came down again and again and again.
* * * * *
Atark was just about to enter the tent when he heard the shouts and the screams of the new slave woman. He stopped, waited, and then slowly walked away, nodding his head. Good, very good. Thelena had said a few things to him about the slave and he had been worried. Apparently this woman had owned Thelena in the fort and had been unusually kind to his daughter. While he might feel some gratitude, he had been worried that Thelena might be too grateful, show too much kindness. She was going to be under enough suspicion because of his breaking the law for her, and to have her pampering a Berssian slave would have just been too much. But from the sound of things, he had nothing to worry about. Very good. A darker part of him hoped his daughter would leave the woman so badly scarred that she would no longer be a temptation to him. There was no reason, either ethical or practical, why he shouldn’t make full use of the beautiful slave, but he simply could not. She was the enemy and he would not lie with her.
He took a deep breath. Well, one problem solved. His next immediate challenge was to decide where to go now. He had been on his way to the tent to get something to eat, but he had no intention of interrupting his daughter while she was disciplining the slave. After hesitating for a moment, he turned and walked up the hill overlooking the camp.
It was a much bigger camp now. All of the tribes’ herds had caught up to the warriors along with the women and boys who had been looking after them. This had meant many a reunion, but it also meant that the little valley was filled. So far, only one new tribe had heeded the ka-noyen’s summons, but there was word that more would follow. The grazing lands would soon be exhausted here. They could not stay here much longer. They had to move.
Prudence might suggest moving back into the plains for a few leagues. There was plenty of grass there, and they could wait as long as necessary for the other tribes. But Atark’s heart spoke against that plan, against any backward step. They had come this far and they needed to keep going. Onward! Eastward!
The noyens were wary. They still had less than eight score of scores of warriors. If they were caught in the open lands beyond the mountains by a much larger force, then even Atark’s magic might not be enough to save them. And they would have their herds and families with them, too, which limited their mobility. The news the scouts brought back said there were no threats within many days’ ride, but it was still a risk. Zarruk would do as Atark suggested, he knew that. But he did not want to force the ka into actions he would not normally take. He had to work with Zarruk, not ride roughshod over him.
Atark found a spot to sit down. He was tired. His new role as shaman and advisor to the ka took far more time and energy than he had expected. Someone always wanted to talk to him, always wanted his opinion on some issue or his blessing on a course of action. He worried that before long, no one would dare breathe without his say-so, and he would wake one morning to find the entire army suffocated.
It was growing dark and the stars were coming out. Surely Thelena was done beating the slave by now. He stood up to return to his tent. As he did so, a streak of light went across the indigo sky. A shooting star. He had often seen them out on the plains. Some said they were messages from the gods. This one had been going from the west to the east.
To the east.
He found that his doubts were entirely gone. He knew what had to be done. Instead of walking to his own tent, he went to the tent of Ka-Noyen Zarruk.
* * * * *
“This isn’t exactly the kind of greeting I had been hoping for,” growled Sergeant Chenik. It was about the tenth time he had said it, and Matt was getting ready to belt him. Instead, he turned and grabbed the bars on the door of the cramped jail cell and yelled out.
“I demand to see the magistrate! I am an officer in the Berssian Army! Gods damn it, someone come and talk to me!”
“Shut your mouth before I stick my musket butt in it!” snarled back a voice. “I got no love for deserters, so be warned!”
“We are not deserters! For the dozenth time, Fort Pollentia has fallen and the Kaifeng are through the pass! If you idiots don’t warn the capital, they’ll be here cutting your damn throats any day now!”
“Right, and I’m the Archduke of Gira!” came a different voice. “Now shut up if you expect to get anything to eat tonight.”
Matt was about to continue yelling when he caught sight of the anxious faces of his men. The threat about not feeding them was a serious one. They had been stuck in this hole for three days, and they had only had four meals during the entire time. Well, he and Chenik had been stuck here for three days, the others had been here longer. They were all men from his regiment. Different companies, of course, but all Tapestry Dragoons. Twelve of them, not including himself. The sole survivors.
Each one had a heartbreaking tale to tell of the death of the regiment. They had been part of the squadron sent to guard the walls protecting the town. When the fort had been destroyed, their gunpowder had all gone up, too; but fortunately there had been no magazines to blow holes in the town’s walls, and they had had the chance to make a run for it. Twenty or thirty of them had gotten clear. A dozen had made it to Havverdor. The Kaifeng scouts had caught some. No one knew where the rest were. They had drifted into town in ones and twos—and been arrested.
Matt told himself that he should not be all that surprised. His regiment did have a lot of deserters. Men who wanted to get back to Navaria or who just could not stand their lonely fort any longer. The local authorities were always on the lookout for fleeing Whitecoats. One or two a month were returned to the fort for their forty lashes and then returned to the ranks.
But damn it, they weren’t deserters!
“I should have kept my coat,” muttered Matt, slumping to the floor.
“If you had, you never would have made it here to be arrested, sir,” said Chenik.
“What are we going to do, sir?” asked one of the troopers. “Nobody wants to believe us about the damn fireflies!”
“And if somebody don’t do something, there’s going to be the nine hells to pay!” added another.
Matt looked from one man to the next. He was the only officer here, and they looked to him for leadership. Sadly, none of his little leadership tricks were designed to work from inside a jail cell.
“Well, they’re going to find it a might difficult to send us back to the fort to be flogged,” said Chenik.
“Always looking at the bright side of things, aren’t you, Sergeant?”
“I try, sir. We’re still a damn sight better off than we were a week ago.”
“Only until the Kaifeng come trotting into this town. We’d have a harder time getting away this time.”
“True.”
Conversation came to a halt and each of them sank into gloom. Eventually a meal was served and the thirteen of them spent another very uncomfortable night in a cell designed for four.
The next morning there was no breakfast, but shortly before noon, a squad of the police came and unlocked their cell and prodded them outside the jail. They were surprised to see an enclosed wagon waiting for them.
“What is this?” demanded Matt.
“You are being sent to Berssenburg,” replied the chief. “For trial.”
“Trial!” exclaimed Matt and several others.
“Yes, your mass desertion has made some important people in the capital angry. I believe they wish to make an example of you.”
The prisoners all looked around in consternatio
n. Matt saw one of their guards grinning hugely. He put one hand up to his throat and stuck out his tongue and rolled his eyes. Then he laughed. The chief pointed to the wagon.
“Put them in and make sure they are secure.”
Chapter Seven
“I’m going to miss you, Jarren. I’ve enjoyed your stay here immensely,” boomed Oto Weibelan. “I wish you all luck on your voyage.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Jarren. “You’ve been extremely kind, and I hope to return here in a few months to share my findings with you. If I find anything to share, of course.”
“Oh, I’m sure you will find something. Maybe not what you expect, but something for sure.”
Jarren smiled, nodded, and then grabbed the side of the carriage as it lurched over some bump in the road. Then they turned the corner onto Dock Street, the wide avenue that bordered Zamerdan’s great harbor. It was even busier than normal with the summer drawing to a close. The autumn storms would start in a few months, and the merchants were eager to get one last voyage in before they did. Wagons filled the street and the side alleys; longshoremen passed seemingly endless numbers of crates and bags and bales onto the ships. The masts of hundreds of vessels made a floating forest of timber. Jarren could see a half dozen under sail being warped out of the harbor.
Their carriage maneuvered through the mass of wagons and people that filled the quays. Jarren was grateful for the ride Weibelan was providing. It was a long walk from the university, and Jarren had quite a bit more baggage now than when he had started his journey. Weibelan’s wife had supplemented his rather paltry wardrobe with numerous pieces of additional clothing. Jarren was grateful since he had brought little warm clothing, and it might be quite cold where he was going. Oto had given him some books and a wonderful portable desk with places for paper and ink. Weibelan appeared to be quite wealthy. Jarren now owned a small trunk to go with his valise and cello case.
He looked out again at the ships. He would soon be aboard one of them. The long hours he had spent in the archives had finally paid off. The university’s archives had led to the merchant who sold them the magical pump. The merchant’s records led to the trading house he had gotten it from, and the trading house’s records had led to the ship that brought it into Zamerdan. They had been lucky that it was one of the independent houses rather than one of the princes’ or they never would have gotten access to the records.
The princes of the city tended to be a touchy and jealous lot. Jarren looked out the side of the carriage and saw they were passing one of the fortified naval arsenals that studded the harbor. A half-dozen warships floated at anchor there. Only one had all the spars and sails and things that it needed to move about. The others only had stumpy masts with no sails, and Jarren suspected they were not ready for sea. Each of the other princes had their own arsenals, too. Weibelan had tried to explain the complex and convoluted political system of the city, but it had eluded Jarren. There was some sort of strange balance of power between the five princely houses, the guilds, the churches, and even the university. He could not see how it could work, but apparently it did. Zamerdan had managed to remain a free city for half a millennium, although Jarren suspected the wide bands of marshes that surrounded the city on the landward side had more to do with that than the city’s leadership.
Once they discovered which ship had brought the pump to Zamerdan, they had been lucky enough to find her captain, now living in retirement in the city. Some friendly persuasion (and, Jarren suspected, a sizeable bribe by Weibelan) had gotten the old man to reveal where he had acquired the pump: a town on an island in the Northern Sea. More research had revealed that a small but steady trickle of magical objects seemed to be imported from that unlikely source. The university archives gave hints that there once had been a wizards’ school in the far north. The inevitable conclusion was that there might be a hidden enclave of magic users still there or nearby.
So now Jarren was going there to see for himself.
The carriage slowed to a halt opposite a medium-sized merchant ship, which was tied to the stone quay. A net-full of cargo was being swayed down into its hold by a gang of sailors and longshoremen. The guilds were incredibly strict about who could do what in the city. While the cargo was on the dock, no sailor dared touch it. But once on the ship, it was just the opposite. Jarren wasn’t sure who—if anyone—was allowed to touch the net itself. He got out of the carriage and helped Weibelan down. Then he started unloading his bags, expecting at every moment to have someone tell him he was violating guild policy by doing so.
“Carry your bags, Mister?” said a familiar voice. Jarren turned to see the same young urchin he had met on his first day in the city.
“Well, Master Gez, you do seem to get around.”
“Huh? Oh! It’s you again! What are you doin’ here?” The boy seemed as surprised as Jarren, so apparently he was just another random customer rather than a deliberate target. Jarren frowned when he took a closer look. The boy’s face was a mass of old bruises, turned yellow with time. And his two front teeth were missing.
“It would seem that Vak finally caught up with you.”
“Oh yeah. He was madder’n I thought. Brought a couple of friends and beat the livin’ crap outta me.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“It happens. But he didn’t get the money,” said Gez with a broad grin. “Can I carry your bags again, Mister?”
“Well, I am going aboard that ship, there, so I don’t really need them carried far, I’m afraid.” Gez goggled at the ship Jarren had pointed at.
“You’re goin’ on the Unicorn? Wow! I’d give my eye-teeth to go somewhere on her!”
“It looks as though you already have,” said Weibelan gesturing to Gez’s missing teeth. “But perhaps something can be arranged.”
“What d’ya mean, mister?” asked Gez.
“Uh, yes, what do you mean, sir?” asked Jarren.
“Just that you really could do with a servant on this journey, Jarren. I’ve been aboard a few of these ships, and they do precious little to make their passengers comfortable. And there’s no telling what sort of accommodations you’ll have at your destination. Having someone who can fetch your meals and wash your clothes would let you concentrate on your studies. What do you say, Gez? Would you like to go on a trip with Master Jarren?”
“Would I? Yes! Yes! Yes! And I can cook n’ clean and all that. And I’ll only charge…uh…three coppers a day.”
“One copper,” said Weibelan firmly. He twitched his bushy eyebrows at the lad and he relented. “Good.” He pulled out a gold dollar and passed it to Jarren. “Here, this will pay his wages for the whole trip.”
“Thank you, sir—I think.”
“Oh don’t worry, he’ll pull his weight, I’m sure.”
“Actually, I was a bit concerned about what his family might make of his sudden …disappearance.”
“Eh? Well, that is a point.” He looked at Gez. “You have a family, boy?”
“Just my gramma. And she won’t care if I go.”
“We should at least let her know,” said Jarren. “Can we send a message?”
“Yes, we can certainly do that,” said Weibelan. “Where do you live, boy?” Gez told him and he wrote it down. “There! That’s settled. Now I suppose you ought to be getting aboard. I understand sailors are very particular about tides and wind and such.”
“All right, Gez, will you get my valise? I’ll take the trunk, and if you could get my cello, sir, we can do it all in one trip.”
They trundled over to the gangway leading onto the ship. There was a harried-looking man at the bottom of it with a sheaf of papers. He looked at them suspiciously as they came up to him. They explained who they were and the man flipped through the papers until he found the one he wanted. His frown deepened.
“You bought passage for only one person,” he growled, looking down at Gez.
“Master Carabello is only one person,” said Weibelan. “That,” he nodded
at Gez, “is a servant.”
The man shrugged, and then he grunted and waved them aboard. Jarren made his way up the precarious gangplank and sighed in relief when he reached the main deck. It was cluttered with ropes and casks and all manner of objects whose function he could only guess at. The boat he had taken across the narrow and calm Sea of Doran had only been a third this size and far simpler in construction. He looked about in uncertainty as to where he belonged in all this.
“I believe the passengers are usually kept in the stern castle,” said Weibelan, pointing toward the rear. This part of the vessel reared up like a small house. A pair of steep ladders led up to a railed balcony with a door that Jarren guessed would lead to the captain’s cabin, but the lower story, the one on the level with where they stood, might be what Weibelan meant. They tried the doors and soon found a tiny room—cabin—with a bed and a small window. Inquiries with a passing sailor confirmed that this was where he belonged. Apparently he was the only passenger. They stowed Jarren’s belongings and then he let Gez go out to explore the ship.
“Well, you will soon be off,” said Weibelan, “and I must leave before I become an accidental passenger.”
“Thank you once again, sir. You and your wife have been so kind.”
“Glad to do it. Oh! I nearly forgot. Here’s a little gift from Madame Weibelan. She says it might make your voyage a little less tedious.” The elderly professor produced a large envelope from the folds of his robes. Jarren took it and opened it. It was sheet music.
“Flaretti’s latest cello concerto,” explained Weilbelan. “Perhaps you’ll have a chance to practice it while you are gone and you can give us a private performance when you return.”
“Thank you, sir!” exclaimed Jarren, who was deeply touched. He had a modest collection of music, but it was all older works. “Please give your wife my thanks as well.”
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