The Third Soul Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

Corthain glanced back at her. “The slave market? It’s hardly pleasant.”

  “I mean this city,” said Rachaelis. “Araspan. The Ring. The Conclave. All of it, I hate it all.” The emotion rose up within her in a sudden spike of fury. She knew she should not be talking about this, especially not in front of Corthain, but it came rushing out of her. “This miserable slave market. The entire city runs on slaves. Everything we eat is grown by slaves, everything we wear is made by slaves. I don’t want anything to do with it. Talvin’s right. The Conclave is corrupt and brutal and venal. The wise masters of the High Art, the mighty defenders of the mortal realm…and they spend all their time lounging about, waited on hand and foot by their slaves. I didn’t want to become an Adept. They made me become an Adept. They would have killed me otherwise. They want me to become like them, hard and cold and supported by slaves. I don’t want to do it. I hate Araspan, and I hate the Conclave.”

  They stood in silence for a moment, the slave auctions continuing around them.

  “I do understand that,” said Corthain at last.

  “How?” said Rachaelis. “You’re not an Adept.”

  “No, much to my father’s consternation,” said Corthain. “But I grew up surrounded by slaves. At first I thought nothing of it. Then I started listening men like your father, and I turned against it. And after that, I was banished from Araspan.” He smiled a bit. “At the time, it seemed like a catastrophe. But leaving Araspan was a blessing, really. Araspan is the only city, the only nation, in the West that allows slavery. At first I thought it hard to believe. But even the poorest serf in Rhomaria has a better life than an Araspani field slave.”

  “So you’re saying I should leave Araspan?” said Rachaelis. Her father was here. How could she leave him?

  “Yes,” said Corthain. “This city is not a good place. And there is more to the world than Araspan, and more to life than the Conclave of Adepts.” His eyes glinted, cold and green. “And the fact that you feel that way…I would not have expected it, not from an Araspani noblewoman and an Adept. It speaks well of you.”

  Rachaelis blinked in surprise.

  “Begging your pardon, my lord,” said Luthair, his voice hard, “but perhaps your lordship and her ladyship should be having this discussion elsewhere? Somewhere other than the slave market? I, for one, would not prefer to end my days as inventory.”

  “You’re right,” said Corthain. “Let’s go.”

  Rachaelis followed, thinking. To leave Araspan? Her father was here, true, but she could take him with her, could she not? To leave Araspan, to leave this city of slaves and cold-hearted Adepts…

  She looked back the stage and the naked girl and shuddered.

  Perhaps leaving was not such a bad idea after all.

  Corthain stopped before a three-storey warehouse built of brick and roofed with clay tiles. It looked better maintained than the other warehouses in the docks, with narrow doors and high windows covered in iron bars. Two guards in mail stood by the door, swords at their belts.

  “Move along,” said one the guards, hand dropping to his sword hilt.

  “I’ve just come from Khauldun,” said Corthain. “I’ve got a letter for Master Harrow.”

  “A letter, huh?” said the guard. “From who?”

  “Fellow called the Hammer,” said Corthain. He shrugged. “I don’t know what it means. The man who gave me the letter said to say it came from ‘the Hammer’. He said that Harrow would know what it meant.”

  The guard grunted. “Wait here.”

  He opened the warehouse door and vanished inside. The other guard kept his eyes on them, hand on his sword hilt. Rachaelis shifted under his gaze, uneasy. At last the door opened, and the first guard returned.

  “Master Harrow will see you now,” said the guard. “Make trouble and no one will ever find your bodies, you hear?”

  “A pleasant afternoon to you, too,” said Corthain, and the guard ushered them inside.

  The interior looked more like a palace than a warehouse. Alternating black and white tiles covered the floor, and statues stood on marble pedestals. Spelllamps lit the interior, and a pair of fountains gurgled. More guards stood against the walls, their eyes watchful. Slaves moved to and fro, eyes downcast. Always female, always beautiful, and always wearing nothing more than a short orange kilt.

  Rachaelis began to see why Corthain called Harrow a villain.

  The fattest man Rachaelis had ever seen lounged on a couch, a glass of wine in his hand. Besides him knelt one of his slave women, a silver tray of cherries in her hands. The fat man wore a white linen robe that strained against his bulk, and his brow and double chin glistened with sweat. Yet the pale eyes were sharp and cunning, and they focused upon Corthain with an unnerving intensity.

  “Master Harrow,” said Corthain.

  “So, you have a letter for me?” said Harrow, his voice a deep rumble. “I…”

  His eyes narrowed, and recognition flashed over his broad face.

  “Leave us,” he snapped. “All of you. Now!”

  The guards and the half-naked slaves fled, vanishing through doors in the far wall. Harrow swished the wine in his glass, took a sip, and scowled.

  “Corthain Kalarien,” he said. “Of all the men I ever expected to see come through my door…you were certainly not one of them.” His grin exposed yellowing teeth. “Wise of you not to come alone. I would have added you to inventory otherwise. It would amuse me for you to spend the rest of your days pulling an oar. Or gelded and standing guard over some Khauldish emir’s harem.”

  “You haven’t changed, I see,” said Corthain. “Yet despite that, you’ve come to some prosperity.”

  Harrow snickered. “And why not? This city has an insatiable appetite for slaves, Kalarien. Even more so than Khauldun itself. You know, the peasants hold that the Adepts use the slaves for experiments, transforming them into demon-possessed beasts.” He took another sip of wine. “The truth is far more profitable. Slaves are needed to work the fields, the foundries, the mines. And I provide them. At a reasonable price, of course.”

  “I imagine the slaves themselves think the price is rather less than reasonable,” said Corthain.

  Harrow shrugged. “You’re not a fool, Kalarien, even if you’d like to be. You know the way of the world. The strong take what they wish, and the weak submit and suffer. If they were strong enough to be free, they would be. But they’re not, and so they are slaves.”

  Luthair chuckled. “Strong words from a man who works up a sweat holding a glass of wine.”

  Harrow’s eyes narrowed, and then he smirked. “Oh, yes. I remember you. Kalarien’s pet scoundrel. Still running errands for your master like a good dog, eh?” His keen eyes shifted to Rachaelis. “And who’s this? A small fellow for a mercenary…no…” A delighted smile spread over his face. “A woman! Kalarien, have you come to sell her to me? Have her strip. I cannot properly assess her value beneath all those clothes.”

  Rachaelis felt a quiver of fear. Then her lip curled in disgust. She had not survived the Testing, not survived attacks by ghouls and worse, to quail before this contemptible man. She met his gaze, the same way she had met Arthain's gaze during the Testing.

  Harrow didn’t flinch, but a muscle near his eye trembled for just a moment.

  “A fiery one,” he said. “Take my word for it, Kalarien. The fiery ones are more enjoyable after you break them.”

  “As enjoyable as this reunion is,” said Corthain, “I have business to discuss.”

  “Very well,” said Harrow. “You’ve come into some prosperity yourself, haven’t you? The Domn of Moiria. Fine wine country, no?” He swished his glass. “Good money in wine, as decent wine is a rarity here in Araspan. Or…perhaps you want to go into business with me, yes? If you have excess freeholders, I can pay you most handsomely for them.”

  “I think not,” said Corthain. “You still import Jurgurs into the city?”

  “Of course. Even the Hammer of Dark River couldn’t kill the
entire horde.” Harrow laughed. “The surviving Jurgur tribes are scattered all over the West and the South, and they are unwelcome wherever they go. People are more than eager to get of them. So they contact my men, and I take the Jurgurs off their hands.” He laughed again. “You killed most of the men at Dark River. The survivors are the women and children. Very easy to capture.”

  Rachaelis looked at Corthain. His face remained a closed mask, but there was something in his eyes for just a moment. Pain? Regret, perhaps?

  “The men are harder,” said Harrow. “The survivors of the warrior caste have become bandits, or thugs dwelling in slums. Difficult to enslave. But they draw a high price as gladiators. After all, the ones you didn't kill are the toughest fighters.”

  “How about the blood shamans?” said Corthain. “Did any of them survive Dark River? I imagine they would be quite difficult to enslave.”

  Harrow’s face went perfectly still.

  “Well?” said Corthain.

  “No,” said Harrow.

  “No what?” said Corthain.

  “No, I’m not talking to you,” said Harrow. “You’re after something, aren’t you? Maybe a blood shaman that survived Dark River? Or some plot of the Callian King to interfere with the Conclave? I’m not putting myself at risk to satisfy your sense of nobility. I have a fine arrangement with the Conclave. And you did try to have me hanged, Kalarien. I’m not risking myself for you.”

  “Perhaps you’re already at risk,” said Corthain.

  Harrow scoffed. “What do you mean?”

  “We know there is at least one full blood shaman in the city,” said Corthain, “and he’s already attacked an Adept at least three times.”

  Harrow’s glass froze halfway to his thick lips. “What?”

  “Oh, you’re interested now?” said Corthain. “There’s a curious thing about these attacks, Harrow. They’ve all come from Jurgur slaves or freemen. And you know how calmly the Conclave responds to attacks upon Adepts. If word gets out that you knew something about this, anything about this…you’ll find yourself on trial before my father. Magister Arthain, Lord of House Kalarien, and Lord Governor of the city? You’ve heard of him, perhaps? He’s known for many things, but mercy is not one of them.”

  Harrow said nothing, fingers tight around his wineglass.

  “Or maybe the blood shaman will find you first,” said Corthain. “You were at Dark River. You remember the horrors a blood shaman can conjure up. How do you think a Jurgur blood shaman will deal with a man who enslaved his people?”

  “You’re lying,” said Harrow. “None of the blood shamans survived Dark River.”

  “You’re certain?” said Corthain. “You seem to have a lot of guards, even for a slaver. And an Urthaag has already attacked an Adept.”

  “Now I know you’re lying,” said Harrow. “No one lives through an Urthaag attack.”

  “An Adept could,” said Corthain. “And now the Adepts know there is a blood shaman in the city. So. You can either talk to me now…or you can talk to Magister Arthain. In chains.”

  Harrow stared at Corthain for a long moment, then drank the rest of his wine.

  “Fine,” hissed Harrow. “Damn you, Kalarien. Fine. Yes, the Jurgurs have been acting strangely of late. The slaves and the freemen both. Lately, there have been…stirrings.”

  “What kind of stirrings?” said Corthain.

  “Prophecies, portents, that sort of nonsense,” said Harrow. “They say a great demon will arise to reunite their people and destroy their enemies.”

  An Urmaaghsk, perhaps? Rachaelis shuddered at the thought, but Harrow didn’t seem to notice.

  “I’ve heard talk of a…prophet,” said Harrow. “One moving among the Jurgurs of Araspan. He gives speeches, says that the hour of deliverance is at hand.” He leaned forward. “And I know where he’s going to hold his next meeting.”

  “How?” said Corthain.

  “I have contacts among the free Jurgurs,” said Harrow. “They sell their kinsfolk into slavery, and we both turn a profit. And neither of us wishes to see our business disrupted.”

  “So you are playing both sides,” said Corthain. “Keeping away from blood shaman’s notice, while planning to betray him at the first opportunity.”

  Harrow smiled. “You may not be a fool, Kalarien…but neither am I.”

  “This next meeting,” said Corthain. “Where shall it be held?”

  “In the ruins beneath the city,” said Harrow. “A dangerous place. Ghouls like to hide down there, along with criminals and escaped slaves.”

  “Wait,” said Rachaelis. “You mean the sewers?”

  “In part,” said Harrow. “But there are ruins beneath the city streets. Araspan has been sacked before, and the city rebuilt on top of the ruins. So there is an extensive maze beneath our feet. Quite useful, when smuggling things in and out of the city.”

  “But Araspan has never fallen,” said Rachaelis.

  “The Ring has never fallen,” said Corthain. “Araspan itself has been sacked and burned five times, and each time rebuilt over the ruins. And even before the Conclave came to the Isle of Aras, there was a city here. The Old Empire destroyed it, and Araspan was built over its remnants.”

  “Quite true,” said Harrow. “This prophet, my contacts tell me, likes to hold his meetings down there, away from prying eyes. The next meeting is tonight, at sundown, in the Sunken Court. You know of it?”

  “I do,” said Corthain. “Do you know anything else about this blood shaman?”

  “No,” said Harrow. “As I said, I’m not a fool, and I prefer to keep breathing.”

  “Very well,” said Corthain. “We will trouble you no further. Thank you for your assistance.”

  Harrow smirked. “It was my most sincere pleasure, Kalarien. My most sincere pleasure. Though I would be careful poking about the ruins, if I were you.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Corthain, and turned towards the door, Luthair at his heels.

  Rachaelis followed them, casting one last glance at Harrow. The slave trader’s face was…blank, his eyes cold. Calculating. Like a spider contemplating prey approaching its web.

  She shuddered and hurried after Corthain.

  Chapter 3 - The Trap

  Corthain took a deep breath as they left the slave market. The air somehow felt cleaner with Harrow behind them.

  “An odious man,” muttered Rachaelis.

  “He is,” said Corthain. “Some of the other slave traders are even worse.”

  “The Conclave should expel him from Araspan,” said Rachaelis. “Him and all the others.”

  “Oh, they should,” said Luthair, “but they won’t. Cheap slaves are so hard to come by, after all, and one can hardly see the Adepts scrubbing their own floors.”

  “How can the Magisters allow this?” said Rachaelis.

  Corthain sighed. “My father. You know him, I take it?”

  Rachaelis nodded.

  “He would say that the work of the Conclave is important enough to justify the use of slaves,” said Corthain. “That the slaves should be honored for the opportunity to serve, that their lives here working for the Conclave are far more important than anything they would have done in their homes.”

  “That does sound like Magister Arthain,” said Rachaelis. “What do you think of that?”

  “I think,” said Corthain, “that my father is a hard and cruel man.”

  Rachaelis blinked, and she smiled. “It’s hard to believe that you’re truly his son.”

  Luthair snorted. “I think she just called you a bastard, my lord.”

  Corthain, to his very great surprise, laughed. “And it is hard to believe that you are truly an Adept. The Jurgurs have tried to kill you, blood sorcery is loose in the city, and you’re concerned about the slaves.”

  Rachaelis’s smile faded. “I’ve only been an Adept for a short time. Perhaps in a few years they’ll have changed me.”

  “Or not,” said Corthain. “I thought the
y would have changed Thalia, as well, but they did not. She is a member of the College Liberia, is she not?”

  Rachaelis blinked. “I thought that no one outside the Conclave knew about the Colleges.”

  Luthair burst out laughing.

  Corthain grinned. “My father and brother were both Adepts. And everyone knows that the Adepts have factions, even if they put on a show of unity in public. The College Liberia is the smallest and the least popular of the Colleges, since they’re so adamantly anti-slavery. And they go about and make trouble for slavers, which embarrasses the Council of Magisters.”

  “Trouble?” said Rachaelis. “Like what?”

  “Convincing neighboring nations to hang slavers, for one,” said Corthain. “Or freeing slaves. Or disrupting slavers’ accounts and holdings. And, in some cases, out and out killing them. Never in Araspan, but sometimes in mainland ports.”

  “Really,” said Rachaelis. “Do they, indeed. Magister Nazim keeps trying to talk me out of joining the College Liberia, but…”

  “But I don’t think he’s going to be successful,” said Corthain.

  Rachaelis grinned back at him. “No, he’s not.”

  Corthain regarded her for a moment. Those few Adepts that he had truly respected, like Aramane Morulan, had all been members of the College Liberia. He had only remained in Araspan as a favor to Thalia, and not for Rachaelis's sake. The thought that he might want to save Rachaelis, that he might come to respect her, had never occurred to him.

  “Come,” said Corthain. “You cannot join the College Liberia if we do not keep you alive.”

  “True,” said Rachaelis. “This Sunken Court. What is it?”

  “An underground hall,” said Corthain. “A remnant of one of the old basilicas that was destroyed during one of the sacks of Araspan. It’s one of the easier landmarks to find in the tunnels below the city.”

  “And you know how to find it?” said Rachaelis.

  “Aye,” said Corthain. “The Swords used to do sweeps below the city, hunting for ghouls and escaped slaves. I know my way around.”

  He led Rachaelis and Luthair away from the slave markets, towards the harbor wall that separated the docks and piers from the city’s markets. A hundred feet of scarred stone, the harbor wall looked ancient. It had been raised by the builders of the Old Empire, or so Corthain’s tutors had claimed, when the Ring had first been built. A broad, zigzagging stone ramp descended to the docks, and winches pulled up heavier loads of cargo, but narrow flights of stairs also wove their way back and forth along the wall.