by Spurrier, Jo
The solution seemed a simple one. After every raid, once the reality of their situation had descended upon the captives, Delphine took one of her books through the slave tents with their miserable, chained occupants, searching for anyone who could read the text and speak enough Akharian or Mesentreian to serve as a translator.
So far she’d had no success. There was no doubt that she’d found folk who could read Ricalani but none of them spoke more than a smattering of Mesentreian and couldn’t read any at all. She had found slaves who could speak and read Mesentreian, mostly merchants who had ventured here from the south, but none of them knew more than a few words of Ricalani. Perhaps in the south they would have more success, but reaching it and subduing the coastal towns would take months, and the treasure they sought wasn’t down on the coast, but here in the northern foothills. It could take years.
It had grown dark by the time Delphine gave up the search and returned to the Collegium quarter. The next day they would be on the march again and the slaves would be shuffled around in their camps, so she had made an effort to question all of them today. They had taken a temple this time and she had hopes for the priests, but once again her search had been fruitless. Delphine was thinking only of her warm tent and a bowl of tea when a tall figure loomed in front of her. ‘Delphine! Where in the hells have you been? I’ve been looking for you for hours!’
He had his hood pulled forward far enough to hide his face but Delphine recognised the voice. ‘I’ve been in the slave camps, Torren. Didn’t my girls tell you?’ Her two students had offered to help but they were too young to be subjected to the suffering of the new captives.
Torren swept his hood back to glare at her. ‘I don’t like the idea of you traipsing around among the barbarians on your own, Delphi.’
‘Oh really, Torren, I’m still a mage — I can deal with chained and terrified barbarians. If I took a guard along with me I doubt they’d speak to me at all.’
‘Find anything useful?’ Torren asked.
Delphine frowned. Torren didn’t usually ask after her work. In fact, ever since her divorce he treated everything she did as a mortal embarrassment. ‘No,’ she said, abruptly. ‘Even the priests don’t speak more than a smattering of Mesentreian. Why?’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Is this about that slave I picked out? Are you finally going to let me talk to him?’
‘Well …’ Torren said, and fumbled around in his sash. ‘As a matter of fact something did turn up …’ He pulled out a little slip of parchment and handed it to her.
It was a ragged little offcut, the sort left over after the hides have been trimmed into pages. In the gloom all Delphine could see on it was a dark smear of ink until she held it up to her lantern; she bit her lip.
‘That’s Ricalani script, isn’t it?’ Torren said.
‘Torren, you son of a bitch! How long have you had this?’
‘Delphi!’ he snapped, shocked. ‘Watch your language! I only found it a few hours ago, I swear —’
‘A few hours!’
‘The slave was carrying it in his clothes. I didn’t even notice it at the time. One of the clerks recording the interrogation found it and showed it to me and I’ve been looking for you ever since!’
‘So are you finally going to let me question him?’ Delphine said.
‘Well … there’s been something of a problem.’
She followed Torren to the Battle-Mages’ quarter. The military mages were far too important to do their own cooking and laundry, or even heat their own water. There were servants scattered through the quarter, supplied with tents where they did the work and stored their goods. The tents were kept warm to dry the laundry: it was in one of these, isolated behind a stack of boxes and crates, that the prisoner was being kept.
Delphine could feel him long before she saw him. ‘What in the hells has been going on here, Torren?’ The slave ached all over. She could feel it like pins and needles tingling right through her limbs.
‘He tried to kill himself,’ Torren admitted. ‘Damn near succeeded, too. What’s cursed odd is how we found out about it. Someone flooded him with power. We all sensed it and came running just in time to stop him.’
‘Someone? Who in the hells could … Oh.’
‘Right,’ Torren said. ‘It wasn’t anyone around here. It had to be one of the Blood-Mages.’
Delphine peered around the edge of the crates, raising her lantern to lift the shadows.
The prisoner was slumped with his back against the crates and his arms bound outstretched to either side of him. A rough bandage had been tied around his throat and he hung limply in his bonds with his head bowed and his chin on his chest.
‘So why have you brought me here?’ Delphine said. ‘Blood-Mages are your department, Torren, not mine. I’m just a scholar.’
‘He won’t eat,’ Torren said. ‘He won’t drink. We tried holding his nose and forcing him but he just spits it out again. The physician says he’s got a fever. He’s willing himself to die, Delphi, and … well, I thought of your father and I thought that if anyone had an idea of how to stop it, you would.’
Delphine just stared at him. ‘You want me to play nursemaid to a barbarian slave? You, Torren? You’re the one always going on about propriety and fit behaviour for a lady of my station.’
‘Delphi, please! I need your help! Presarius assigned the slave to me and you know what he’s like. If the slave dies I’ll take the blame and I can kiss any chance of a promotion goodbye. I know Ballenar lost the will to live after his friend was killed. You nursed him right up till the end, Delphi, and all the Gods know you’ve got a knack for getting people to do what you want.’
Delphine sighed. He just had to bring her father into this.
Her mother, Jasenia, and Torren’s father had been siblings. Jasenia had run away from her noble home rather than enter an arranged marriage and had chosen a hiding place so infamous it ensured her family would never force her to return to them. She’d hidden in the Sympath’s Palace as a pleasure-girl, where she’d met Delphine’s father Ballenar and fallen pregnant by him.
Delphine had always regretted that she’d never had a chance to know her mother. Jasenia sounded like the sort of woman she would have liked to meet, but she had died in childbirth and her family had never acknowledged their grandchild. Ballenar had been her only kin for most of her life, until Torren became head of the family and made contact with her again. Bringing her back into the family had been his idea, but the results had proved contrary to both their expectations. Delphine had been raised as a Collegium brat and her ideas and attitudes were vastly different from those of the noble family her mother had fled.
Delphine peered around the crates again. The prisoner hadn’t moved. She wasn’t sure if he was even aware of their presence. Curse you, Torren, she thought. Now that he had mentioned it, she did see something of her father in him. It was no physical resemblance. Ballenar, dark-skinned and merry, had run to fat in his later life, as did so many Sympaths — he had been worlds away from this gaunt and broken warrior. What reminded her of him was the hopelessness, the utter dejection and the sense of wilful withdrawal from this world, to actively seek out the next.
In his younger years Ballenar had taken myriad lovers but as he grew older he’d settled down with just one — a man, much to the consternation of the staid Collegium governors. One day while out in the city Galwin had been knocked down by a runaway wagon and seriously injured. It had taken him days to die and Ballenar had been unable to see him even long enough to say a brief goodbye. While Sympaths shared the pleasure of those around them, they were also sensitive to the suffering of those nearby. Instead of deriving power from it, the suffering of others aroused a sympathetic agony that could, over time, cripple their powers and turn a Sympath into a twisted, dangerous creature, as vicious as any Blood-Mage. Even if the Collegium governors had allowed him to risk himself in Galwin’s presence in those final days, Ballenar wouldn’t have been able to physically stand it.
> After Galwin’s death Ballenar had lost his will to live and entered a steady decline. Years of indulgence had eroded his health and, despite Delphine’s efforts to coax him out of his overwhelming grief, he had wasted away over a matter of weeks.
Studying the chained prisoner, Delphine doubted this one would take anything like as long to die.
‘Look, Delphi, will you just try?’
Delphine pulled out the slip of parchment again. She’d spent months looking for a prisoner who could read Ricalani. Of course she had hoped to find an ageing priest, someone long past any thoughts of resistance or escape, someone she wouldn’t have to watch around her girls the way she’d watch a dog rumoured to be vicious. But he was all she had. ‘Alright. I can’t promise anything but I’ll try.’ She turned to Torren with a frown. ‘But only if you guarantee I’ll get access to him as a translator.’
‘I can’t promise anything,’ he said, ‘but I’ll try.’
‘Oh, very funny,’ she said with a roll of her eyes. ‘Do you have transcripts of the interrogation? I’ll need to see them.’
A delicious scent tickled his nose on a waft of steam. Isidro lifted his head with a groan. Even while his mind had been too muddled to think clearly, that scent had gone straight to the most visceral part of him and made his mouth water.
A rustle of paper made him look up. His eyes were blurred and with his arms still chained outstretched he couldn’t wipe his face on his shoulder or his sleeve. All he could do was try to blink them clear.
A woman was sitting across from him, perched on one of the crates with her legs crossed and her head bent over a sheaf of papers. One of those small, flameless lanterns hung from the ridge-pole near her head.
The wound on his neck stung and the muscles of his back and shoulders protested at being forced to hold this unnatural posture. Isidro tried to shift his position but between his weakness and the chains he could barely move an inch.
The woman glanced up from her papers. ‘Ah! The sleeper awakes.’ She had nut-brown skin and dark, wavy hair pulled back into a braid, though small strands had escaped to frame her face in a frizzy haze. Her features reminded him of Rhia’s, although her colouring was quite different.
That delicious scent was still teasing him. Isidro twisted around until he found the source. A bowl, wooden this time, was resting on the crate to which he was bound. It would have been within arm’s reach had he been free to reach for it. From the scent it was a good meat broth, plain and wholesome, the sort that wouldn’t upset a starved and empty stomach.
‘I’ve been reading about you,’ the woman said, waving the papers at him. ‘It seems you’ve been through the wars. Captured by Blood-Mages, tortured and rescued only to be taken by Slavers. After what you’ve been through, despair would seem the only reasonable option.’ She turned back to the page, holding it up to the light to read through to the end. Isidro guessed she was a little older than him, but it was hard to tell. The skin of her face and hands was fine and unlined, not roughened by the weather. The only thing that gave her age away were the strands of silver in her dark curls. Some of them gleamed red, dyed with henna, but nearer the scalp they were untouched. She was definitely a mage. He could sense the power in her and when she lifted a hand to brush back a strand of hair he saw a blotch of ink staining her sleeve. Perhaps a scholar as well.
‘What I don’t understand,’ she said, ‘is why on earth this Blood-Mage is trying to keep you alive. He must know we can use you against him. Did you know that? You had a slight touch of talent before they got to you, a Sensitive, I’d say, but by blasting through you the way they did, they’ve expanded your capacity significantly. Fascinating really, to know that you can turn a weak mage into a more powerful one just by raping and torturing him, but somehow I doubt it’ll catch on. Of course it’s a bit late for you to learn how to use it, but we can still teach you to spy on them and perhaps use you to weaken them enough to bring them down. So I can understand why a Blood-Mage would want you dead. What I can’t understand is, if you are so determined to kill yourself that you’d rip your own throat out with a bit of broken pot, why in the hells would he try to stop you?’
She paused for a moment, giving him a chance to speak, but Isidro held his tongue and she continued with a shrug. ‘I have to say,’ she said, leafing through the papers again, ‘this fellow Rasten seems a fascinating case.’
Isidro cursed himself silently. He couldn’t remember what he had or hadn’t told the men who’d interrogated him. At first he’d tried to hold back some of the details but they’d gone over his tale again and again and his mind had been too overwhelmed with pain and shock to remember what he’d admitted from one recital to the next. The one thing he was certain of was that he’d left Sierra out of it.
‘You said his master took him as an apprentice when Rasten was just a boy. Can you imagine what it would have been like for the poor lad? In a way,’ she said, leaning forward, ‘it’s a little like what has happened to you, only worse. He saw his family slaughtered, then he was taken prisoner and made the plaything of a vile old man who brutalised him until he relented to brutalise others to spare his own hide. You said he has been with his master for ten years. Ten years! Can you imagine it? You’ve been here only a few days and already you’re fighting like a wild beast caught in a snare. Ten years and he’s still alive. By the Good Goddess, imagine how much he hates his master. What do you think he would do if he happened to be here in your place? Do you think he’d try to kill himself, or would he see this as an opportunity to take revenge on the one who tortured him? It looks to me as if he’s stronger than you are. What else would you think when one man survives a decade of torture and another is prepared to kill himself after just a day?’
Something shifted within his mind. Isidro knew that sensation by now and squeezed his eyes shut, wishing to the Black Sun he had some way of repelling that touch. He hadn’t felt Rasten’s awareness settle over him, so Rasten must have been there, silent, since before Isidro woke.
You know, the Blood-Mage whispered into his mind, the Akharian bitch has a point.
‘Rasten’s a monster,’ Isidro rasped in Akharian. ‘He has no conscience. He’ll turn on anyone his master tells him to.’
That’s … only partially true, came Rasten’s measured response.
‘That’s right,’ the woman said, unfolding herself from her perch. She slipped off the crate and crouched down beside him. ‘But you’re not like that. You’re an honourable man. I can see that from what you went through to protect your brother. Why should Rasten thrive and a man like you starve himself to death in chains? Especially when you can help us destroy him and his master and make sure they can’t do this to anyone else?’
Why did you save my life? Isidro asked Rasten.
I’ll tell you later. Once she’s gone, Rasten replied.
The woman stepped delicately over his long, sprawled legs and loosened the end of the cord binding his broken arm. As it dropped from the horizontal the rush of blood back into the limb was painful enough that he thumped his head back against the crate, fighting not to cry out. The sound of it and the sudden movement startled the woman. He felt her power pulse and for a brief moment there was a violet flicker of light between them as she cast a shield over herself. It vanished again when she realised there was no threat, but she watched him carefully as she went to the end of the chain attached to his good arm and loosened that as well. ‘The broth is good,’ she told him. ‘I had a bowl of it myself. Drink it, leave it, or tip it through the twigs. No one but you will ever know.’ She gathered up her papers and unhooked the lantern from the ridge-pole. ‘I’ll be back to speak to you again in the morning. Try to get some rest.’
When she left Isidro was still pressing his back against the crate, gritting his teeth as he waited for the pain to subside.
The tickle in his head came again. Leave me alone! he snarled at Rasten.
Issey? It wasn’t Rasten’s voice he heard, but Sierra’s. The voi
ce was faint and distant but it was undoubtedly her.
Sirri? He sounded as querulous as a child and hated himself for it.
Yes, it’s me. I’m talking through Rasten. I’m sorry, Issey, but it’s the only way. He says if I reach for you directly the Akharian mages might sense it.
She doesn’t have enough control, Rasten broke in. She might spill over. They already know about me, but I don’t want them finding out about her.
Well that was one thing they could agree on, even if the thought of sharing anything with Rasten repulsed him.
Issey, I swear by the Black Sun we’ll get you back. We’ll find a way …
No! This place is crawling with mages. They can do things we’ve never dreamed of.
I don’t care! We’ll find a way, even if I have to come to Akhara to find you!
If you die she’ll want revenge, Rasten interrupted. She’s not ready for this yet. She might be able to handle a few of them, but if the Akharian mages corner her they’ll kill her. Is that what you want?
Isidro swallowed hard. He didn’t want to admit this in front of Rasten but pride was a luxury he could no longer afford. Sirri, I don’t know if I can take this.
I … I understand.
What? Rasten demanded. I went to all the trouble of saving his worthless life and now you’re giving him permission to kill himself?
Shut up, Rasten! It’s not a matter of permission! It’s a matter of forgiveness. I can’t ask him to do something I’m not prepared to do myself … If you have to do it then I understand, but please try to survive. For Cam’s sake, if not for mine.
Isidro was braced for Rasten’s scorn but to his surprise Rasten remained silent. This peculiar connection shared more than just a person’s words — it gave the same sense of mood and demeanour as talking to someone in person would. He was expecting contempt from Rasten, but what he sensed instead was puzzlement, and perhaps a little envy. Of course — there was no one Rasten cared about and no one who cared about him, except perhaps Sierra. If he was willing to endanger himself to protect her, then he must have some degree of care for her.