by Guy Antibes
“I suppose that is the greatest disadvantage of living in a tower this small. Bitrium’s towers were much larger.”
Asem nodded his head. “I didn’t get the closed in feeling with them and there are no lift shafts here. It’s rather tiring." Asem had never used such a term before. Was he purposely making himself seem like he didn’t care? Maybe. He walked around the room and adjusted draperies and walked behind one. Valanna heard a latch close. “There. No one can hear us. We will talk quickly, until we hear the sound of someone entering.”
“You should see him inspect our bedroom every night just before we retire,” Kulara said. “It wouldn’t do to be interrupted at night, would it?” She raised her hand towards Asem, who took her hand and kissed it.
“No. Now you read the papers?”
Valanna nodded. “I have, and I fear for the entire continent.”
“As well you should. We need to know friend from enemy and that will be your task in Pestledown, if you are willing.”
They all stopped talking as the meal was served. When the servants left the room, Valanna answered Asem, “I am willing. One thing I realized is that poor information abounds. I read the Toryan reports, and they are virtually useless.”
“And that is the best information we have other than one report that listed names and ranks of certain Toryans. That is in the King’s personal library,” Asem said. “I need to know the truth in Pestledown. That will help me discover the extent of the rebellion in Balbaam. We will need to move as quickly as we can.”
“I can leave tomorrow, if you wish.”
“In a week’s time. You will need to meet with the King between now and then.”
~
Valanna had never actually met face-to-face with King Marom before. She had been to court a few times, but she had clung to the walls, out of sight, afraid of the fierce Ferezan princes, including Asem. Now Asem seemed like a friendly uncle and not the frightening, mysterious man who had spirited her away from Prince Nez.
King Marom assumed, as always, the role of a man to fear. He was a vigorous man in his fifties, not much older than Asem, but he looked every bit the ferocious King of the desert tribes. His gaze burned across the study at her as Asem led her into his presence.
“Check away,” King Marom said waving his hand, while Asem examined every spy hole that he knew in the room.
“No one is about,” he said.
The King turned to Valanna. “You understand your mission in Pestle?”
“I do,” Valanna said. Asem had spent some time verbally briefing her on her tasks.
“Do you have any questions for your King?” He stared at her with the hint of a challenge in his eyes.
Valanna cleared her throat and clapped her hands together once, very silently, and then folded them in her lap. “I don’t want to be jailed or executed because I have magical talent. Asem, uh, Prince Asem said I would get a clearance from you.”
The King glanced at Asem, and then back to Valanna. “I will issue such a document. You must not flaunt your abilities, but feel free to use your power to escape. This flying thing that you know how to do can get you out of most situations?”
Valanna nodded. “If I am caught in the open, yes, but if I am tied up or in a closed room, there is little I can do.”
“Are you arguing with your King?” the King said.
She felt her face heat up. “No argument, Your Majesty, just a concern to be voiced. I am yours to command.” She bowed her head as Asem had taught and remained silent. Valanna felt she had pushed the King as far as she could, but still didn’t receive any assurance she wouldn’t be executed as soon as she showed her face in Pestledown.
The King pushed a document across his desk. “Pick it up.”
Valanna did so and read the document and then read the signature. King Harl Crustwillow, Ruler of Pestle had signed the guarantee. “Is this real?”
“It is, but I caution you, I only have a few of these, so understand that my need for you to succeed on this mission is vital to my rule.”
Valanna nodded. She could not speak.
“Succeed,” the King commanded by thrusting his finger at her, and then left the room while Asem and Valanna stared at each other.
She brought the document to Asem. “This is genuine?”
“It is Crustwillow’s signature as I know it. I’ve seen it enough times. You don’t get better assurance than this, but bear in mind, anything can happen in Pestle. It’s not a lawless place yet, but Pestledown isn’t as safe as when you were there with Trak, and I can’t say that I trust King Harl, document or not.”
Valanna understood. “But you do have trust in me.” She said it as a statement.
“It is not misplaced. There is nothing you have to prove. You have developed into a smart, motivated woman who can reason well in difficult environments. Dalistro schooled you as well as he did Trak, and you responded as well as he purportedly did. You have Misson’s recommendation, too, by the way.”
Recommendation. She hadn’t expected such respect, and it made her feel warm that she had actually accomplished much since she had first made contact with Trak. Valanna didn’t want to be a spy, but if that would release Kulara and Asem from their house arrest, she would willingly give spying a try.
~~~
Chapter Five
~
TEMBUL, SIRUL, AND TRAK WERE SHUFFLED INTO A COURT of some kind inside a three-story building in Peskoa. Reddish wood panels covered the floor, ceiling, and walls. The large windows weren’t of glass, but of a translucent material, perhaps waxed paper, Trak thought.
The guards made them stand in the middle of the room. Their shoes had been removed, but their bindings remained. Four men and a woman filed into the room and sat behind a long low table. Large candles burned on tall candlesticks at either end. Guards pushed them down and forced them to bow to the judges.
“These are the magicians?” one of the men said.
A uniformed man dressed in a tunic emblazoned with a stylized flower in the center nodded his head. “They are.”
The speaker in the center of the table looked down at a parchment filled with Benninese characters. Trak lifted his chin up to look at the writing but couldn’t make out the Benninese words.
“You are magicians?” the woman asked.
“I healed a woman with magic, yes. She would have died otherwise,” Trak said.
The judge or whatever he was, there were no introductions, looked up at the officer. “Did he?”
“It is rumored that he did, yes.”
“Why a rumor?” the woman said. “If it is just a rumor, then why are these men in front of us?”
An undercurrent of anger seemed to permeate the room, yet Trak knew so little about Bennin administrative procedures that this could all be an act, and he was in no position take advantage of the anger of one party against the other.
“No rumor,” the officer said with anger in his voice. “He healed the woman. She is in the next room, should you wish an interview.”
Another man stood up. “Then bring her in. Why are the Emperor’s Guards acting so foolishly? You waste the Bureaucracy’s time.”
The officer turned red with anger of his own and left. He returned, pushing Mori into the room.
“This is the woman?” the man in the center said.
“I am.” Mori looked defiantly into the man’s eyes. “What does the Peskoan Central Committee want with me? I have paid my taxes in full in Beniko.”
The woman committee member squinted at Mori. “Did the youth over there save your life?”
Mori glanced back at Trak and gave him a mournful look. “He did.”
“He used magic?”
Mori shook her head. “I can’t tell you that. I was in no condition to determine who did what to me. It’s like that when your stomach is cut wide open.”
“And how does it look now?”
Mori untied the cords on her robe and showed her stomach. Trak couldn’t see t
he wound, but the sight impressed the committee members.
“Magic,” the woman on the committee said. “Undoubtedly magic if this occurred a few days ago.”
“But I saved her life!” Trak said.
“And for that we will imprison you and your two Toryan friends for the rest of your lives. Agreed?” the man in the center said.
They all nodded “Agreed.” “Agreed.”
Mori pursed her lips. “Not quite the reaction I expected,” she said half to herself. “This is the reward you give for a good deed? You should all be ashamed to be Benninese.” She turned around so quickly, her long ponytail whipped into her face, as walked out of the room.
“Your papers?” the man in the center said.
“We have no idea where our bags are,” Tembul said.
The man in the center shrugged. “Does it matter at this point? The State now owns you.” He looked at the officer and jerked his head. “Now, they are yours.” The committee members rose from their cushions and left the room by the same door they entered in the back of the room.
“Come along with me,” the officer said. “Your carriage awaits outside." He laughed as he walked out.
Guards roughly helped them to their feet. Trak, Tembul, and Sirul had no choice but to hop along behind. The carriage turned out to look just like one of the wagons they had been traveling in, but there were rings in the sides of the wagon bed. Soldiers untied them and threaded ropes into the rings and bound them up again.
Mori approached the wagon after the soldiers were done. “I am sorry for what happened. For what it is worth, I will do what I can to help you.”
“How can you do that?” Tembul asked.
“We shall see. Exercise patience, and we shall see.” She gave them all half a smile before she walked down the street and turned a corner.
Trak wouldn’t set eyes on the woman again. Without much effort he had become a slave in Bennin, facing a life of captivity. His visions of a heroic journey to save the princess had too quickly ended in failure. The soldiers had shown the ability to truss a magician up sufficiently to prohibit assuming a pose. The ‘worry’ spell wouldn’t be his salvation this time. The last time he spoke another spell without a pose, he had put everyone in the cabin in a deep sleep. He only lived today because Valanna noticed the word worry written on his wrist.
“So shall we begin to teach you how to properly read Toryan?” Tembul said as the wagon jerked into motion.
Sirul moaned in dismay, but Trak managed a smile. “Why not? I think we will be experts at removing rocks before long, and I would like to think of something other than the sharp end of a pick while I work.”
“Admirable,” Tembul said. “I can also teach you everything I know about woodcraft.” He turned to Sirul. “That would be useful, even to you, wouldn’t it Sirul?”
Sirul nodded with a frown and looked away.
“Where should I begin?”
~
Trak and Tembul made a game out of being teacher and pupil. Sirul finally came around, and the leagues of travel seemed to glide by quickly.
The trip wasn’t as bad as Trak had feared. They even stayed in a few Benninese inns along the way. The style of architecture was quite different than Pestle, and it changed little as they headed east into the mountains. Tile roofs extended to make porches and verandahs around the mostly single-story inns. Low chairs or sitting mats were placed around tables underneath the overhangs where people ate out in the open.
They must have missed a rainy season, since the sky was mostly clear during their trip. The wide roofs would certainly shed any rain. He could have enjoyed their trip south under other circumstances. Even so, the only real problem with the trip was the dreaded end. Trak didn’t look forward to mining with one arm tied to his body.
Every journey has an ending, and theirs came on the fourth day. The wagon rolled underneath a wide gate and entered into a packed dirt courtyard. The architecture had lost some of its charm in the way the government had designed these buildings. The entire place seemed subdued, as if covered by a burial shroud. He heard no laughter and no banter. Probably no one wanted to be there.
“Out,” a soldier said. “You have just arrived at your new home, Magician Incarceration Facility Number Three.”
“It doesn’t look very new to me,” Sirul said under his breath, but still loud enough to earn a blow with a long stick the guard carried. Trak looked around. Sirul didn’t have a very discerning eye. Trak looked at the wood, the tiles and the little bit of landscaping around the place. He doubted if the camp had been built more than a decade ago, which meant the restriction on magic might have occurred long after it had in Pestle.
“No back talk.” The guard looked defiantly at Tembul and Trak.
“I understand,” Tembul said, but Trak could see a twinkle in the Toryan’s eye. If Tembul could make their trip to the work camp fun, he could lighten his life in the mines as well.
A short portly man, with a shaven head and the makings of a beard walked off the steps of one of the buildings and approached them. He carried a long rod, painted dark red, and waved it menacingly at the three of them.
“I am Chief Guard Naroki, and you are my children. I am a harsh parent and will punish you for bad behavior. Do you know why my little stick is painted dark red?" He paused for effect, but Trak had a good idea what he would say. “So I won’t have to wash off your blood.” He laughed to be menacing, but it made the man more pathetic in Trak’s eyes. “You three will be assigned to different shifts. I won’t have you plotting together to escape or anything. We don’t trust foreigners in Bennin, especially foreign magicians. We have enough trouble with our own.” Naroki used his stick, which was not covered in dried blood, Trak noticed, to give orders. They were led in different directions to their quarters.
Trak followed once the guard retied Trak’s bond on his ankles to permit him to walk. His new home proved to be a two-storied barracks building. The guard led him to the second floor and pointed to a rumpled bed, which was a platform only a hand’s width high from the floor.
“The previous owner died last week. Take the bedding and wash it. There is a trough of water and soap behind the building. Spread the bedding on the clothesline outside and sit on the porch until the shift is over. If you wish to try to run away bear in mind that we break bones when we catch you, and prisoners are always caught.” The guard turned on his heel and left Trak alone in the barracks.
He had nothing else to do until the end of the shift when he could talk to his fellow prisoners, so he decided that washing his bedding was a good idea. He gathered two comforters along with a tiny pillow and dragged them outside. The trough was dry so he had to grab a bucket and fill the trough up with water from a stone-lined waterway that ran behind the buildings. The channel was barely wider than the bucket, but with little else to do, Trak soon filled the trough up, found the soap and a contraption with slats that seemed to be used to clean things.
The mindless work reminded Trak of all the sheets, towels, and clothes he had washed when he helped Able run The Blunted Sword so long ago in Greenbrook. Trak didn’t really miss those peaceful days, since he had always looked forward to the future when he could leave the drudgery of Greenbrook behind, and he did. Now he would live the rest of his life far from Greenbrook, far from Valanna and the rest of the world, working in a remote mine in Bennin.
When he finished, he struggled to get the bedclothes over the clothesline with one good hand and finally succeeded. He retreated under the roof to sit on the porch with his back to the wall.
His mind wandered, and he woke up after a sharp rap against his shins.
“Up. Your laundry is dry, and I won’t have you idling around my domain,” a skinny woman said. She wore a guard’s uniform that was too big for her and carried around the ubiquitous stick. She had painted hers a light blue.
“What can I do?” Trak said.
“Get those bedclothes off the line and onto your pallet. Then
report to me in my office on the first floor.” She walked around the corner of the building without saying another word.
Trak retrieved his washing. It wasn’t quite dry, but he didn’t want any broken bones, so he struggled to keep them from falling in the dirt of the compound and lugged them to his pallet, laying them out as best as he could. He looked around at the other beds and arranged his to look much like the rest, and then he hobbled down the stairs and sought out the building’s guard.
He stood at the archway leading to the guard’s low desk. Since there wasn’t a door, he rapped his knuckles on the frame. “Trak Bluntwithe, reporting.”
“Sit,” she motioned to the floor. Trak noticed that she sat on a cushion.
He struggled to sit, bound as he was, and looked up.
“Don’t look me in the eye, child.” She used the same nomenclature that Naroki, the camp commander, had used. “Your name is no longer what you said. You are prisoner two-eight-two. Don’t forget it.”
“I won’t.”
“Call me Mother. I am the Mother of the Second Shift.”
“I won’t, Mother.”
She smiled. “Good. You will be assigned to work with another prisoner.” She lifted a list, written in the Benninese alphabet, which made it unreadable to Trak. “One-four-seven can use a new partner. Don’t drag him down. He has been diligent in making his quota.”
Mother looked at a contraption that dripped water from one container into another. It must have been some kind of water-based clock, he thought. “The shift is over. You may return to the verandah and wait for your partner. His number is scrawled on his shirt. If you don’t know how to write in Benninese, have him write your number on your shirt and learn how it is done. Take care of your clothes, you won’t get another set until the new year.”
Trak rose to his feet and left Mother examining her paperwork, and then went back to his place in the back of the building. He had noticed paths leading away from camp and waited. He didn’t sit for long when he heard voices coming from the thick vegetation. A line of men and women exited out of the forest and lined up in front of the verandah.