Chapter Eleven:
The days following Marie’s visit to the Deiämoniquen Household were some of the happiest she spent in Maretzia. Though his duties often called him away, Rheidan visited her whenever he could. When Rheidan wasn’t there, however, Terrah was. Terrah had started to accompany Rheidan to the palace, and eventually she came on her own. Marie and Terrah whiled away the mornings in the gardens, in the library, or in Marie’s bedroom, Marie showing Terrah some of the books she’d been reading and Terrah explaining to her the Maretzian equivalents.
“We have the story of Herodina and Eliathus,” Terrah said, her fingers trailing over the cover of Mallory’s Le Morte D’Arthur. “My father mentioned it while you were over. Great love story. Tragic ending. Poor Herodina.” She sighed, looking wistful. “I think her story is even worse than this Guinevere’s, though. Her husband wasn’t nearly as great as your Arthur.”
“Well, that’s what makes the story so tragic,” Marie pointed out. “The fact that Arthur was so great.”
“Hmm. Maybe.”
Max entered the room, bearing a tray of food, and Terrah bounded off the bed. “Ah, good. Lunch! Let’s eat—I didn’t have much breakfast.”
Marie’s afternoon lessons with Master Karash started to feel less tedious, especially as her Maretzian improved. Soon she had mastered the alphabet, and Karash assigned her texts to read, most of which were historical or philosophical in nature, but one or two that were simply for leisure. Marie enjoyed reading all of them.
The fact that she could read the scrolls in the library endeared her to Barnabas and the Holbech siblings, and her evenings after dinners were soon spent explaining Maretzian literature to them. Those sessions were the lows of her days, especially when trying to explain complicated texts.
For instance, by the time Marie had finished explaining the Magnevroir, a philosophical treatise on the power of the nobility, Darius looked ready to spontaneously combust. He had turned dark purple, and a vein on his forehead throbbed ominously.
“That doesn’t make any sense!” he spluttered. “Their reasoning is…ridiculous!”
“No, it’s not,” said Marie in exasperation. “In Maretzian culture, it makes perfect sense!”
“But—!”
“Darius!” Barnabas glared. Darius’ mouth snapped shut. Barnabas turned to Marie. “Please, explain.”
Marie clasped her hands in front of her. “Well,” she said slowly, trying to order her thoughts, “Maretzian culture and politics are obviously very different from Earth’s. In democracies, power is supposed to come from the people. In monarchies, the power of kings stemmed from God. Or in other, less centralized societies, power came from the nobility. In Maretzia, however, power stems from the emperor. No one is viewed as giving him this power—not the people, not the nobles, not the gods. No one questions how the emperor attains power. All simply know and accept that he has it.”
Barnabas looked thoughtful. Darius looked disbelieving. Marie felt a surge of desperation. How could she explain this so they would understand? Her mind flicked to all the scrolls she had read and all her conversations with Master Karash.
“Power is like…” she started haltingly. She tried to think of an apt description. “Power is like a trait here, not an idea.”
Darius arched an eyebrow.
She tried again. “On Earth, power is an intangible thing—like freedom. Here power is seen as a trait some people just naturally have, like blue eyes or blond hair. Some people have it. Some people don’t. The emperor has the ‘power gene.’ Everyone else does not. Whatever power the nobles have, they only have it because the emperor allows them to have it.”
“Like a god.”
“No, not like a god. The people know the emperor is not a god. But he is considered a very special and unusual person.”
Barnabas and Darius shot each other disbelieving looks, and Marie gave up.
Other concepts were less complicated.
“Names hold great importance in Maretzian culture,” Marie told Barnabas one night. “And the Maretzians have two important books concerning names—the Book of Glory and the Book of Shame. The names in both books may be uttered, but may never again be bestowed. The name ‘Sidriel,’ for example, is in the Book of Glory. No one else in Maretzia may take that name. The name of the previous emperor, Tizar, is in the Book of Shame. No one would want that name.”
Darius arched an eyebrow. “Emperors can make it into the Book of Shame?”
Marie smirked. “If Sidriel puts them there.”
Ever since Marie’s trip to the Deiamoniquen Household, Master Karash had become much more lenient about when she had to show up for lessons. Some days she didn’t even have to show up at all. On such days, he would send her a letter that would, for example, inform her that if she could successfully read the letter, she wouldn’t have to come to lessons that day. On those days she went into the city. Normally Rheidan accompanied her, but when he had some duty to attend to, Marie cajoled Hannon into taking her. She never went alone. She didn’t trust herself not to get lost, mugged, or somehow taken advantage of.
She didn’t technically have any money of her own to spend, since neither she nor anyone else on the expedition had a job, but Hannon had told her to purchase anything she wanted and have the vendor charge it to Sidriel. Marie always felt uncomfortable doing so. She didn’t like feeling indebted to the emperor. She bought goods sparingly and only when she couldn’t help herself—a beautiful pendant here, a decorated dagger there… They were probably still expensive purchases, but she tried not to go over the top, as she knew Hannah did. But she didn’t always have to pay. Sometimes vendors would just give her some of their wares when they found out who she was, at least the ones who could afford to do so. A baker in the main market gave her a free sweet roll every time he saw her, and they were so good that Marie rather wished he could have been in charge of the expedition’s food instead of Bernard.
But Marie had an ulterior motive for going into the city. With her interest piqued by Bello’s story, Marie had begun to ask everyone she could about Emperor Sidriel.
“Oh, he’s wonderful,” the hat-maker assured her. “The greatest emperor Maretzia has ever had. His fame brings Maretzia glory even in the far reaches of the world.”
“Because of His Excellency,” said the fish vendor, “Maretzia has never been so well-off. Or so safe.”
“Seven years ago,” gabbled the cloak seller, “Some pirates decided to raid the Southern Coast. His Excellency destroyed them.”
“Don’t you mean His Excellency’s soldiers?”
“No. His Excellency himself. Now, dear, I have a beautiful cloak that will match your eyes perfectly…”
But clouding Marie’s days was the looming shadow of the amphitheatre, whose walls she could see from a few places in the garden and whose tales she heard all around. When Marie entered the city and heard the shouts emanating from the place—was there always a match going on?—she couldn’t help but shudder. To enjoy herself in the market she had to block out the sound. How could she contemplate a pair of earrings when not far away, men were dying as other men watched?
“You will get used to the sound,” Hannon assured her one day, after a particularly loud cheer diverted her attention from a selection of flowers. “You will not even notice it unless you choose to.”
But do I want to be so apathetic? Marie wondered, her eyes flickering to the amphitheatre’s pristine walls. The owner of the flower stall gazed at her expectantly, waiting for her to make a selection.
“Becoming an artatrushi is not the worst fate a slave could have,” Hannon told Marie gently. “Better to fight and die in glory than live in ignominy and misery.” His face darkened, and he muttered, as if to himself, “Some masters are brutal.”
Marie turned to consider him. His tone was strange, as if he was thinking of someone in particular.
“What are you talking about?”
Hannon sighed, aggravated. “Oh, I
shouldn’t be telling you this, but the Council of Ten is concerned about a merchant named Riljin Marsus. He works his slaves without mercy. They labor in some of the worst locations in Maretzia. But that wouldn’t be so troublesome if he allowed them more rest. You’ve never seen such emaciated, pitiful slaves as the ones that work for Marsus. The Council fears he could incite a slave rebellion.”
Marie considered him, but said nothing. Instead she selected a small bouquet of blue flowers and allowed him to take her back to the palace.
The rest of the week found Marie in the grip of an incredibly bad mood, and it didn’t improve when she overheard Barnabas snarling at someone about the communication device, which apparently was acting up again. With her still stewing about Maretzian slavery, the last thing she needed to hear about was the possibility of not returning home.
But such depression was only the beginning. Two events in the following weeks would bring Marie’s mood down from bad to worse.
The moment Barnabas slammed shut the door to their suite, Marie knew something was wrong. She couldn’t remember Barnabas ever slamming the door. Glancing quickly at Max, who stood in the corner, she set down her copy of Moby Dick and tiptoed out of the room. She could hear Barnabas snapping at Darius from all the way down the hallway.
“…As if none of it matters! Do you know how difficult it was to arrange that?” Something crashed. “Don’t give me that look! Do you realize how hard we’ve had to work to come this far?”
Darius mumbled something Marie couldn’t hear, and she took a few steps closer.
“…it’s not the end of the world, Barnabas. We’ll recover…” His voice lowered even more.
Barnabas screamed. “Don’t you think I know that? Now they’re suspicious of us! It will take—!”
A door a few feet down the hall slammed open abruptly, and Barnabas stopped short from inside the adjoining room. Marie glanced around to see Hannah, dressed in a long pink nightgown, glaring at her from the middle of her doorframe. “What are you doing?” she snapped. “Go back to your room!”
Marie felt as though she had been slapped. It was the final straw. “Excuse me?” Her eyes narrowed. “Why would I go back to my room? I have every right to be walking down this hallway!”
Hannah’s eyes hardened. “I said go back to your room!” she hissed. “This is not America, sweetheart. There are rules that must be followed and leaders that must be obeyed. Any orders we issue are issued for your safety.”
Marie laughed. “Do you think I was born yesterday? Buzz off.”
Hannah gaped. Marie threw her a nasty look and continued down the hallway.
“Pamela will hear about this!” Hannah called after her.
“Pamela can deal!”
Marie reached the door to the main sitting area, held up her fist to knock, and it swung open in front of her.
“Ah,” said Barnabas uncomfortably. “Marie.” He looked like he had just finished running a marathon. His hair was in disarray, and his face was red. He didn’t look pleased to see her. “How was your day?”
“Probably better than yours,” she said blandly.
Barnabas scratched his head awkwardly. “Yes…well, negotiations didn’t go so well today. We had a disagreement over immigration. We’ll come to a compromise, I’m sure…” He made a face. “I sometimes wish the emperor was here to conduct negotiations instead. Anyone would be better than Parvenin.”
“What a pity.”
“Yes, yes,” he said distractedly, “I think we’ll have to do something to regain good relations. I’ve been told opposing parties sometimes go on ‘outings’ together to put them on good terms again. I’ll have to think of something…”
As it turned out, Barnabas didn’t need to think of something. Parvenin arranged an outing himself. The next day, during negotiations, he presented Barnabas with twenty passes to a death match.
Marie felt sick just looking at hers.
“We’re seriously going?” she squeaked after dinner that evening. “We’re actually going to go and watch people kill other people?” She was horrified. Her stomach churned at the very thought.
“We’re going,” he said firmly. Seeing her face, his tone gentled. “It’s not ideal, but we have to go if we don’t want to offend them.”
Marie had no problem offending them. “But,” she protested, “The death matches are cruel!” She glanced down at her ticket again and felt another wave of nausea.
“It doesn’t matter, Marie.” He met her gaze evenly. “Sometimes you have to do uncomfortable things for the sake of peace.”
“Oh?” said Marie, arching an eyebrow. She felt anger rising within her, a burning sensation that started in her stomach and spread to all her limbs. “So if I don’t go to this game, then all of our negotiations will just fall apart and everything will be for naught?” Her voice was laden with sarcasm.
Barnabas narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps,” he said coldly. “But it’s not as if your presence or absence will make any difference to the game’s outcome. Someone will die, whether you go or not, so be useful and go.”
She gritted her teeth. “I—can’t—go!”
“Yes, you will. As your leader, I am commanding you to. I will harbor no disobedience from you or anyone else on this matter. You’re going to go if I have to drag you to the arena myself.”
Marie glowered at him. Inwardly, however, she felt the stirrings of panic. Could she actually go to the games, watch people kill each other? Hear the crowd cheer as a death blow was delivered? She couldn’t watch someone die like that. She didn’t know how to. But how could she explain her feelings to Barnabas? How could she describe how the amphitheatre haunted her? How every time she heard the cries emanating from it, her stomach twisted? How every time she tried to ignore the amphitheatre, some part of her faded away? She wasn’t just afraid of seeing someone die. She was afraid of losing herself in the process. She was afraid of becoming part of the crowd.
She stared down at her ticket. Her heart raced. “Please, Barnabas,” she whispered, desperate tears pricking the corners of her eyes. “Don’t make me do this.”
“Sorry,” said Barnabas blandly, his eyes already on his notes for the next day. “You’re going, and that’s final.”
Marie avoided Barnabas the next few days. She was so angry with him she wasn’t sure she would be able to see him without shouting, or worse, bursting into tears. She felt nauseated every time she thought of the games, bile rising in her throat.
“The games aren’t all bad,” Terrah told her. “Okay, sometimes some of the artatrushi get rather vicious. But you can always turn your face away.”
“You’ve been to one?” Marie asked, aghast.
“Once,” Terrah murmured. Her eyes fell to the ticket in her hands. “About a year ago. I don’t care for them.” She shrugged. “Women normally don’t go anyway.” She fingered the ticket and glanced at Marie out of the corner of her eye. “No wonder these tickets were bought so far in advance. These are prime seats. Quite impressive. Normally the games don’t sell out, and you can get decent seats up until a day beforehand, but for the really good seats, you have to book three or so weeks in advance.” She tapped the ticket. “Like Parvenin obviously did.”
Marie grunted, unmoved.
Terrah rolled her eyes. “Oh, please cheer up. The world’s not perfect, and you can’t let every little wrong depress you!”
Rheidan was slightly more sympathetic. Well, sympathetic probably wasn’t the right word, since he went to the games himself, but he understood her concerns. He had seen her distress when she had first learned of the games, so he knew better than to tell her to ‘cheer up.’ He listened in silence as she stressed about it, and for that Marie was grateful.
But there were times when Marie was just in such a foul mood that she didn’t want to talk to anyone, so she wondered off on her own, exploring more of the palace. It was on one of these mini-explorations that Marie came across a part of the palace she had never
seen before: the slaves’ quarters.
They were nestled in the basement of the palace, room after tiny room. Each room held rows of hammocks, and the hammocks hung on top of each other like bunk beds; three managed to fit in the space between the floor and ceiling. Marie stared at them for a minute, trying to figure out how the person sleeping in the top hammock got into it, and concluded the only way to manage it was by stepping into the bottom hammock, then into the middle hammock, and so on. She grimaced. It was a far cry from her bedroom.
She had imagined the slave quarters being a bit grimier than they actually were, but they were actually very clean, which was impressive, considering how many people lived in the space. Nevertheless, it was definitely the worst area of the palace she had seen. She tried to imagine Max down here, faithfully carrying her tray to her room each morning, and her heart ached a little.
The slaves, though they couldn’t see or hear her, must have sensed someone else among them, for several of them turned confusedly on the spot as she passed by. She tried to be more careful as she tiptoed down the hallway, but it wasn’t long before she was detected. A large woman wearing the laewin uniform but without a blindfold stared at her as she made her way down the hallway, then bowed abruptly. The woman stared at her questioningly and held out her hand for instructions. Marie shook her head, smiled kindly, and swept past her.
She meandered down the hallways, with no clear idea of where she was going, till at last she stumbled upon the largest kitchen she had ever seen. Four or five normal houses could have easily fit inside it. It had rows and rows of tables on which laewins were busy slicing and chopping and mixing and measuring. On its far wall, teams of laewins attended a slew of fires, over which hung frothing pots and sizzling pans.
All the laewins inside were without blindfolds, and they stared at Marie curiously as she walked in, but offered nothing. Marie stood to the side, watching the proceedings and inhaling the spicy scents. The kitchen was incredibly loud, with pots and pans banging against each other and fires crackling and sauces sizzling and pots steaming, but there was no conversation: no laughter, no grumbling, no ordered instructions. The silence of the workers was both disorienting and creepy.
Marie’s gaze wondered to the side of the room, and she blinked in surprise. A long line of slave children sat on a long wooden bench, devouring rejected food. Or, more specifically, Marie decided on closer inspection, leftover food. As she watched, an older man bearing a tray with a half-eaten cake on it appeared from a side door and handed the cake to one of the children sitting there, who downed it eagerly. Marie thought of the food she had shoveled into her mouth that morning and felt like a glutton.
She backed out of the slave quarters. She had seen enough.
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