Lies of Descent

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Lies of Descent Page 41

by Troy Carrol Bucher


  Master Silva stepped in front of the barrel and scratched at his head. He glanced to the wagon and back.

  “What’s wrong?” Pekol asked.

  Riam took two steps backward, getting as much of a head start as he could without it being obvious. He could still retrieve his new clothing and get to the island. Pekol would never think to look for him near the docks. He took a third step back.

  “I think you should bring the cart closer. The barrel is full of olives. It’s still going to be heavy.”

  “Olives?” Both Riam and Pekol said at the same time.

  “Whole barrel went bad.”

  Pekol rubbed at his chin. “Olives, you say . . .”

  It couldn’t be luck. Jami must have tricked Master Silva.

  “It happens. Sometimes they sour and you don’t know it till it’s opened. Can’t sell ’em. Can’t eat ’em,” Master Silva said.

  Pekol frowned. “Why not?”

  “Because they’re rotten, you fool. They’d make you shit your guts out. Can’t even give ’em to the piggeries. It’d poison the whole lot.”

  Pekol frowned. “I’ll have to go straight to the pit because of the weight. Means I’ll have to make two runs today.” He obviously didn’t want to take the olives if he could get nothing for them in the square, and he certainly didn’t want to make two trips with a cart already difficult to pull. He muttered curses to himself as he moved the cart closer.

  Master Silva looked right at Riam. “It’s also inconvenient for me. I’m out twenty dregs’ worth of olives.”

  The two men strained and grunted with the barrel, and they almost dropped it when Pekol stumbled, but they managed to get it into the cart.

  “Come on, boy,” Pekol said. “You’re going to have to help me, and no cryin’ about your arm or your side. I know it doesn’t hurt as much as you’re letting on.”

  Riam took his place behind the cart.

  “Ready?” Pekol said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pekol lifted and they both strained against the weight. The cart creaked forward.

  “I’ll have something for you if you return this afternoon,” Master Silva said.

  Pekol took the words to be directed at him, but this time, there was no doubt in Riam’s mind. Master Silva had been looking right at him when he spoke. He’d said “if” not “when.” Jami must have told him what he planned.

  Master Silva gave Riam a curt nod when he passed.

  * * *

  —

  It was hot, and Riam was sweating profusely by the time they made it to the pit. The smell of the piggeries was as overpowering as the first day he’d come here—maybe worse since Pekol didn’t give him a scarf to cover his nose and mouth. A slight breeze hit him, making the stench worse. There was no getting used to it, no matter how many times he came here. Fortunately, for better or worse, this would be his last trip.

  Two children, dressed in little more than rags, ran toward them, their baskets swinging wildly in their eagerness to collect food for the pigs.

  Riam always hated to see the children who scavenged the rakers’ carts and wagons. The oldest he’d seen couldn’t be more than six or seven, and these two were no different. One was a boy and the other a girl, although even this was difficult to tell with all the dirt and muck that clung to them and matted their hair.

  “Git!” Pekol waved them away. “Nothing in this load for ya.”

  The children slid to a stop, kicking dust into the air. They eyed the cart, trying to puzzle out if they were being lied to or if they would get into trouble for not checking the cart themselves.

  “I said, git!” Pekol picked up a rock.

  The taller of the two children, the boy, stood protectively in front of the girl while she backed away. She had open sores on her arms and legs that oozed clear fluid.

  Pekol threw the rock. It smacked the boy on the shin, and he jumped and squealed before running off after the girl.

  “They’re like dogs,” Pekol said. “Don’t understand anything but food and pain.”

  No, they’re like me. Orphans forced to work as slaves. They simply had no family to care for them.

  Watching them climb through a wooden fence, Riam’s old life didn’t seem nearly so bad. A few beatings are a small price to pay for food and shelter.

  No . . . that was wrong. That was his fear talking.

  His grandfather murdered others and deserved his fate—same as Pekol. The fear subsided, replaced by anger. It filled him, pushing aside all other emotions. One way or another, Riam’s life as a churp was coming to an end.

  No other rakers were here, and now that the children were gone, there was no one else in sight. All he had to do was catch Pekol off guard for a moment.

  Pekol pulled the wagon to the usual spot. It seemed to take forever to cross the yard.

  “Tie the cart off,” Pekol said.

  He watched as Riam measured the length of rope and cinched it to the stake, but he didn’t watch when Riam climbed underneath.

  Riam pushed the hook between the axle and the underside of the cart, making sure it wouldn’t catch if the cart started rolling back into the pit. When Pekol was unloading the barrel, he’d give the cart a push, and it would take Pekol with it over the edge—an accident if anyone asked. He slid out from under the cart.

  “Done, sir,” Riam said.

  Pekol glanced underneath the cart, but there was no way for him to spot what Riam had done without getting down on all fours—which he never did.

  “Let down the gate on the back of the cart. I can’t lift the barrel by myself, so we’ll turn it on its side and tie it off, then dump the contents with the rest of the refuse by tilting the cart back.”

  Curse the Fallen! He needed Pekol in the cart.

  Riam slid sideways along the narrow space of ground between the back of the cart and the ledge. He leaned out enough to look down. It was a long way to the bottom. The world suddenly felt wobbly, trying to throw him over the edge. He shivered and turned away. He fumbled the latches on the gate, and it fell open with a thud.

  “Now sit on the cart handles so that it doesn’t tip back while I work on it.”

  His plan might still work. All he had to do was wait for the man to get near the back end and let the cart flip back. Riam’s heart pounded and his hands were sweaty.

  Pekol climbed into the cart and walked the barrel halfway back.

  A little farther. Just a little more.

  But Pekol stopped. He dumped the barrel over, and a flood of olives tumbled out. He used his knee to pin the barrel against a sidewall and tested the balance of the cart, making sure it would not tip back. “Hand me one of the other ropes so I can secure it.”

  Riam grabbed a rope from another tie-off stake, dragging its metal hook along the ground, and gave it to Pekol.

  The raker snatched it from his hand and wrapped two loops around the barrel before tying it to the side rail with a square knot. He jumped out of the cart and wrapped the long end of the rope around one of the cart handles to secure it. He fumbled with the excess rope that held the hook and settled with leaving it piled on the ground.

  Riam’s only other option rested in the knife he carried. Now was his best chance for that if he was going to do it—while Pekol bent over the cart handle. He slid the knife out of the bandage and into his hand. He stepped up behind the raker. All he had to do was strike, just as Bortha had told him, and it would be over. No one else would ever be hurt. He grabbed at the power that had served him before. Nothing came. The world didn’t slow. The orange glow didn’t fill his vision. He tried another approach. He felt for his link to the sword, trying to pull some spark of energy that would serve him. Nothing. He would have to do this on his own. He raised the knife, ready to plunge it into Pekol’s back.

  He tightened his grip till his hand s
hook, but he couldn’t get himself to bring the knife down. He wanted to, but all the reasoning that had brought him to this moment fell apart. No matter how terrible the man was, Riam couldn’t bring himself to stab a person in the back. Even Gairen had faced his grandfather when he killed him.

  “Are you going to try and stick me, or just stand there holding the knife in the air?” Pekol said.

  Riam jumped backward, his heart thumping so hard he could feel it in his ears. How had Pekol known? The man hadn’t even looked back. He remained hunched over, putting a last cinch in the knot.

  “I figured you’d try and use Bortha’s knife today.” He stood and turned toward Riam. “I’ve spent my life on the city streets. I’m smart enough to notice when someone is carrying a blade, boy.”

  Riam glanced at the sling, now dangling empty.

  “It’s not where you carry it, it’s how you carry it. Folks that carry a weapon act a little different—more mindful of certain movements and more protective of the location—especially if they are new to carrying it. Plus, they act more confident, as if having a slim piece of sharpened steel will protect them. More often than not, it only gets them into trouble.”

  He stepped forward, faster than Riam could react, and batted the knife from Riam’s hand. It tumbled through the air and bounced off a rock with a dull clank.

  Riam tried to run, but Pekol snatched him by the hair and slung him in a wide arc that spun him around and slammed him against the cart.

  “Did Bortha put you up to this, sending a boy do his dirty work?”

  “No. I took the knife. Bortha doesn’t even know I have it,” Riam blurted out.

  Pekol backhanded him across the mouth. “You’re lying. That’s one of Bortha’s throwing knives. He keeps them strapped to his forearm under his shirt. Knew I couldn’t trust him. Should have done away with him a long time ago. Well, I’ll settle with him before the sun sets.”

  “No!” Riam said. “He gave me the knife to protect myself. That’s all. He didn’t say anything about using it against you.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Bortha had never said Pekol’s name when he gave it to him.

  Pekol rubbed his bottom teeth against his upper lip, deciding what he was going to do next.

  I should have used the knife in the city when I had the chance. Pekol would kill him for sure now.

  “Where were you last night when Hearst came for you?”

  “Hearst?” Riam asked, confused by the change of subject.

  “The district warden. The one who added time to your sentence. He was suddenly curious about you yesterday—enough to have him pounding on my door in the rain. I told him right where you were. He should have found you. You’ve been sneaking off at night, haven’t you? After all I’ve done for ya.”

  “I was there. I saw him,” Riam said.

  “Don’t lie to me, boy.” Pekol tried to catch him with another swing. Riam dodged. He didn’t escape the blow completely, but it struck him with far less force than the first.

  “I’m telling the truth,” Riam said in protest. “I slept on the other side of the street among the crates at the mercantile to get out of the rain. He didn’t see me.”

  “He would have known you were there.”

  “It’s the truth.” He wasn’t about to tell Pekol about his powers or how they’d hidden him from the Draegoran.

  Pekol glanced behind him again. “Well, he’ll be along soon. We can sort it all out when he arrives.”

  “He’s on his way here?”

  “Oh, yes.” Pekol pulled out the knife he kept in his belt. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fun first. Told me to keep you alive, but that leaves me a lot of leeway.” Pekol let out a cackle that turned into one of his coughing fits.

  Riam scrambled over the front of the cart faster than Pekol could recover. When he crawled to the back of the cart, his weight sent the back down and the front end teetering upward. The contents of the cart slid toward the back, adding more weight. The back of the cart slammed to the ground, dumping refuse out the back and over the edge of the cliff.

  Riam nearly went with it, grabbing the edge of the cart just in time to keep from going over the back. The bitter tang of olives filled his nostrils as they poured over and past him. When enough weight emptied, the front of the cart crashed back to the ground.

  Pekol came around the side toward him, and Riam dove over the opposite side and crawled underneath the cart. They played chase like this for a time, Pekol circling back and forth with Riam moving to the opposite side underneath to stay away. Finally, Pekol stopped.

  “Come out, boy. I promise. I won’t touch you.”

  “Like you promised Doby he would go free?” Riam said. Pekol would never keep his word, and even if he did, it wouldn’t do Riam any good—Hearst was on his way here. He had to find a way to escape.

  “That boy got what was coming to him.”

  “Right. And the woman you killed? She deserved it, too, right?”

  “Shut your mouth—”

  “Or what, you’ll kill me? A little late for that threat.”

  Pekol knelt beside the cart, slashing the knife back and forth at Riam.

  Riam stayed well out of reach. He looked at the fence to the piggery. He might be able to make it if he could get Pekol to crawl underneath the cart. “Let’s not forget Stick while we’re talking about what everyone deserves. Of course, it’s only women and boys you touch. When it comes to men like the guard, you have someone else do your killing.”

  “You’ll beg for death when I catch you, you little shit,” Pekol howled and scrambled around the cart.

  “Oh, no. The great killer of whores and children is going to beat me again.”

  Pekol made a strangled noise and yanked the front of the cart up by the handles, tilting it high into the air.

  Riam scrambled back, getting tangled in the ropes used to tie the cart off.

  Holding the cart tilted up and the knife out in front of him, Pekol moved hand over hand toward Riam. He snarled, spittle dripping from the corners of his mouth and his upper lip curled back to expose his teeth like a dog. He jabbed the knife at Riam.

  If not for Pekol’s awkward position, Riam would have been skewered. Riam tore at the rope wound around his leg and his hand closed on the metal hook. He dodged a wild slash from the knife.

  In desperation, Riam pulled at the power within himself and swung the hook with all his strength.

  A rush of energy flowed through his body, powering his swing as if Sollus himself was behind it. The hook sank deep into Pekol’s thigh.

  Pekol let out a howl and fell backward, dropping the cart. One of the handles smashed down on his face.

  Riam dove for the hook on the second rope before Pekol could recover and aimed a blow at the man’s head.

  Pekol got an arm up to protect himself, and the hook drove through his forearm. He struck back with the knife, slicing Riam’s arm.

  Riam rolled away and leaped to his feet. He didn’t feel the wound—the slash had found his numb limb, but it still bled profusely.

  “You’re going to pay for this,” Pekol said. He dropped the knife and took hold of the hook in his forearm, trying to work it free.

  Riam had to do something. He searched frantically for the knife Bortha had given him but didn’t see it, so he did the only thing he could think of. He rammed the cart with his shoulder and pushed with everything he had. The wheels didn’t want to turn at first, but when the cart started rolling, there was no stopping it. It went over the edge of the pit.

  Pekol didn’t get the hook out in time. The rope jerked him violently by the arm toward the cliff. He slid toward the edge until the anchor line hooked to his leg snapped taut. A loud pop was followed by a tormented scream.

  Neither hook tore free. Pekol lay stretched on the ground, the weight of the cart pulling him
by the arm toward the cliff and the anchor stake holding him by the leg. His arm twisted and stretched. Blood leaked from both wounds.

  Pekol’s scream tapered off. He sucked in a breath. “For Fallen’s sake, boy, help me,” Pekol said. His bottom jaw shook. Spittle ran from the corner of his mouth.

  “Why should I?” Riam said.

  “Take my purse. Take anything you want. Just help me . . . fuck, it hurts.” He fumbled for his purse with his free hand and tore it from his waist. He tossed it limply in Riam’s direction.

  The rope shuddered and Pekol’s arm stretched even more. He didn’t scream again, but he bit his upper lip hard enough that his teeth went all the way through and his eyes bulged.

  Riam turned away.

  “Help me, please,” Pekol whimpered.

  Riam couldn’t take it. He searched the ground around him until he found Bortha’s knife.

  He paused. “Tell me where Stick is first,” Riam said.

  Pekol let out a delirious cackle. His head lolled to the side.

  “Tell me, and I’ll cut you free.” Riam held the knife up in front of Pekol’s face to get his attention. “Did you kill Stick?”

  “No,” Pekol said. “I gave that useless shit to Hearst. He’ll get exactly what he deserves.” He giggled and jerked.

  “You’re a monster,” Riam said.

  “No one with a glyph gets away. Not Stick. Not you. Not anyone. Wolves won’t allow it.”

  Riam pulled the bandages off his arm and held it out for Pekol to see. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing I don’t have a glyph anymore.”

  The stake holding Pekol and the cart began to tilt forward with the weight, threatening to pull free of the ground.

  “Hurry! I’ve answered your questions.”

  “Yes, you have.” Riam moved to the anchor stake and worked at the rope with the knife.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Cutting you free. Good-bye, Pekol.”

  Chapter 39

  Riam didn’t take the main road back. He made his way through the fence and the piggery, and across the sprawling farms and rolling hills that lay outside the city instead. If anyone paid attention to him, no one said anything. It took longer than he wanted, but he couldn’t take the chance of running into Hearst on the road.

 

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