“Alborz had best get here soon,” Iyshan grumbled as he sank onto his haunches. “Or we’ll have some real charges leveled when I finally lose my temper.”
“Save your strength,” the merchant said without looking up. “Even if we are rescued soon we’ll have considerable work ahead of us.”
The man responded with a low growl but fell silent and glowered across the pit at any who dared to meet his eye.
“More?” Siava asked and almost made both his companions jump. It was the first time he’d spoken since they’d been dragged to the Tin Quarter barracks.
“What?” Vahrem asked as he tried to process the question with a bemused expression stamped on his bruised and bloodied face. “No, not for you, Siava. You’ve earned a rest and a visit from the best healer-surgeon I can find.”
“Those are mutually exclusive,” Iyshan muttered. “Cursed needle-witches wi—”
The caravan master’s immolating glare silenced his manservant, who studied the young man carefully. At the pitiful sight, his flinty expression cracked and he shuffled close enough to bump against the downcast young man’s arm.
“The master will get you patched up,” he said softly. “And a few days rest will see you playing your harp as sweet as honey and making all the girls smile, eh?”
Siava didn’t respond at first and stared at his maimed and ripped hand before he shook his head slowly. The other two men exchanged a concerned look over the young man’s bowed head but neither spoke for a time.
“Maybe we should speak to the Shepherd,” Vahrem suggested, his voice as gentle as when he spoke to a frightened horse. “Set our minds on truth and light in this dark place.”
Iyshan nodded readily and clasped his hands in front of him.
The merchant attempted to draw Siava closer but the young man pulled away with sudden violence. With a lurching shuffle, he rose to his feet and spun to glare at the caravan master.
“Maybe you should stop bleeding us dry for some pagan harlot,” he snapped and his watering eyes shined with furious defiance.
“Easy boy,” Iyshan said as his posture stiffened. His clasped hands trembled with indignation as his knuckles whitened.
“He’s being a fool and we are all paying the price,” Siava shouted before he swung to glare at Vahrem. “How much more for your heathen whore?”
The manservant was on his feet in an instant.
“Hold your—”
“It is all right, Iyshan,” the merchant said in a firm but steady voice and stood from where he crouched with a heavy sigh. “Go ahead, lad. Say your piece.”
The carrion-sniffer across the pit watched the drama unfolding with rapt interest, although no one had the first clue what exactly the new residents were discussing.
“My piece?” Siava sneered and ended it with a cutting, shrill laugh. “Where do I start? What about the fact that we shouldn’t still be here or that every minute we stay here costs the caravan and damages our standing with the stables in Carnyxia?”
Vahrem nodded but did not argue, which seemed to only enrage the young man more.
“Or what about this?” he howled and shoved his bleeding hand almost into the older man’s face before he moved his tearful, snarling face inches away. “What about the fact that Asa may be crippled for life or that Heydr is…he’s…he…”
“Heydr is dead,” the caravan master said softly.
Words seemed to fail Siava and he gaped at him. Then, with a fierce scream, he lunged. His undamaged fist landed hard on Vahrem’s cheek, but the stout caravan master only rocked slightly with the blow while his battered face darkened with a fresh bruise. Iyshan started to surge forward, his hands outstretched, but his master seized an arm and drew him back.
The young man stood mute, his eyes swimming with a heady cocktail of horror at what he’d done and utter despair that dared him to care. Everything within the pit seemed to hang on the brittle tension which existed between the three men.
“Is there anything else?” Vahrem asked. His gaze hadn’t flinched from Siava’s the entire time.
A cold hatred settled on the young man’s face and he darted forward with both hands extended to grasp the merchant’s throat. A heavy-handed slap stung his face before his fingers and stumps could clutch their intended target and he fell before he realized that Vahrem had struck. The fall was arrested when the merchant caught him under the arms, although he tried drunkenly to shake him off.
“You bastard!” Siava groaned and shoved blindly with his damaged hand despite the pain while he drew his good hand back for another swing.
He never knew exactly what happened but before he could make the attempt, the caravan master had spun him and sat him firmly on the ground. The young man had no time to appreciate the sudden change in his position before Vahrem’s thick arms and legs snaked around his to both trap and cradle him. In a blind rage, he tried to thrust his head back into the man’s face but it was pressed behind his shoulder and so thwarted him again.
“Damn you!” he screamed as he writhed in that iron grip.
“Shelter me, my Shepherd, my firm ground in deceiving sand,” the merchant intoned, the words low and soft. “You alone teach me where my feet can stand.”
The sound of the prayer seemed to stoke the young man to greater violence and his muscles strained as he fought to slam his head back.
“I hate you!” he shrieked. His teeth gnashed as his whole body contorted but he still could not break free.
“Your crook is never far and I know your rod guards me at rest,” Vahrem continued, his breath coming heavier as he held fast. “Teach me to trust when I doubt your way is best.”
“It’s your fault!” Siava cried and his roar became a failing sob. “Heydr’s dead and it's all your fault.”
“Remind me, my Shepherd, for I turn aside and foolishly go my own way.” The wagon master panted yet neither his voice nor his grasp faltered. “Your sheep needs your Word and your hand by night and by day.”
“All…your…fault…” the young man muttered as the tension slipped from his trembling limbs and his head sank limply upon the other man’s shoulder. “Your…fault.”
Little by little, Vahrem let him slide to one side and placed him as gently as could be managed on the rough, grimy floor of the pit.
“All…for…her…” Siava sighed as his eyes fluttered shut. “Her…”
The caravan master rose to one knee and stretched to check the young man’s hand. There was a second when he grunted in protest but his eyes didn’t open, and Vahrem examined the mangled, blood-soaked bandages. With a muttered curse, he shucked off what was left of his tunic and began to rip off more strips.
From across the pit, one of the vultures gave a long, lilting whistle.
“Like I say, not long at all.”
“Vahrem Kal’Stru!” The rough call came a second before a cudgel rattled the grate overhead. “Vahrem Kal’Stru, on your feet.”
The merchant, seated beside the young man with one hand holding his rebandaged hand on his chest and off the floor, didn’t rise. His eyes were half-lidded and his lips moved with half-formed prayers.
“Vahrem Kal’Stru!” The guard above snarled as he struck the grate hard enough to send a shower of rust cascading into the pit. “On your feet.”
“Vahrem,” Iyshan said quietly as he placed a hand on his master’s shoulder.
His eyes snapped open and he looked around sharply.
“Vahrem whoreson Kal’Stru!” the guard shouted with another crash of his club.
“I’ve got him,” Iyshan promised as he pushed the caravan master gently to his feet. “Don’t worry.”
He looked up and squinted against the lantern light shining over the pit.
“I’m here.”
“I can see that,” the guard responded irritably and Vahrem had to shuffle back to avoid being struck by descending spittle. “Move to the center and stand still.”
With his limbs still stiff from sitting so long on
the hard earth, he was forced to undertake an undignified waddle to the center of the pit. Directly overhead, a hinged door had been worked into the grate and once he was in position, the guard drew out the bolt that held it shut and opened the portal with a squeal of protesting hinges.
“Secure this around your waist and clamp the shackles around your wrists,” the man instructed in a bored yet irritated voice. “And you’d best make sure it's secure or the winch is liable to pull you apart.”
A second later, an arrangement of stout chain and hard-edged manacles descended with one trailing tail rising to a pulley rigged to the ceiling. The feel of cold metal against his skin shook off the last vestiges of the not-sleep and with minimal rattling and grunting, the caravan master secured the chain as instructed and looked up for further instruction.
The guard gave a short whistle and rotated his arm at the elbow in a slow circle.
With a rumble, the winch, turned by two guards, was put to work and Vahrem rose out of the pit.
“Are we being released?” he asked as he cleared the portal and earned a painful backhand across his mouth.
“When I want your dung-mouthed breath fouling my air, I’ll tell you,” the guard snapped with his bluegum enhanced halitosis. “Now hold still and shut up.”
His cheek stung and his hands clenched until his knuckles popped but he let himself be uncoupled from the thick winch chain. The shackles remained around his wrists and in short order, the guard ran a leather lead through the loops and yanked abruptly enough to make him wince when the metal cuffs clanked together.
“Up we go,” the man said as he stepped to one side and pushed the prisoner toward the stairs with the end of his club.
Vahrem walked without protest, the cudgel never very far from digging at his shoulder blade as he was herded up the stairs. He tried to stop himself from hoping that Alborz had come to free them but when he emerged on the barrack’s ground floor, he couldn’t help looking around in vain for signs of the Argbed’s men.
“Quit gawking and move,” the guard ordered and jabbed the cudgel into his back.
They took another set of stairs that wound ever higher through the fortification until he began to wonder at his destination.
Would he be taken to the top of the barracks and given an ultimatum to either confess or be thrown to the street below in an “attempted escape?”
No, they had no issue with fabricating charges so why bother trying to extract a confession? He then wondered if they might be taking him to hang from the walls of the barracks, a crude but potent warning to the quarter. Not even a caravan master had the right or authority to question how the guards conducted their affairs.
Vahrem, despite his faith and convictions, had always struggled with the mystery of death but as he climbed yet more steps, he found he could not bring himself to be overly concerned with his possible end. There was sadness and even regret but when he searched himself, he discovered that it seemed centered solely on the fate of Ax-Wed, the mysterious, melancholy, and beautiful creature who had changed the trajectory of his life in one evening.
“Beautiful?” he muttered, past caring what the guard said or did. “Why is it that I can admit that only now?”
The guard’s hand cuffed him across the back of the head and the club shoved him off the stairs to what must have been the topmost floor of the barracks. Vahrem had an instant to see a guard standing before a stout wooden door before he was pushed against a wall.
“Shut up and kiss the wall,” his escort growled and shoved the club into his shoulder even as his cheek pressed flat against the stone.
The merchant heard the man at the door knock twice before he cleared his throat.
“The prisoner’s here, sir.”
Vahrem couldn’t make out the muffled answer over the grinding of his teeth as the guard continued to push the club into his back.
“All right, give ʼim here,” the guard at the door said, his tone officious. “You can head down to the dungeon again.”
“He’s all yours.” The escort grunted and tried too hard to not sound irritated at the other guard’s superior tone.
To the merchant’s relief, the club vanished from where it had bored into him but the hand that clamped around his neck like he was a mischievous pet was none too gentle either.
“One wrong move and I throw you down the stairs,” the door guard rumbled in his ear. “I don’t care who's come to see you.”
Hope bright and brilliant filled Vahrem's heavy chest and it took everything in him to not burst into a broad smile.
Alborz must have come and instantly, he felt ashamed for ever having doubted him.
His wounds and aches melted away and the caravan master practically floated as he was led to the open door by the scruff of his neck.
When he entered, he saw the Gondbed of the Tin Quarter, a squarely built man with a curled mustache who stood at the desk and looked both very grim and very nervous. Seated at the desk was someone who was most certainly not Argbed Alborz.
Although it had been some time since he’d seen the man face to face, the caravan master was not likely to have forgotten the face of Prince Tarkhind of Jehadim.
He suddenly felt very hollow and very frail and the weight of everything seemed to crash over him as elation fled like a bird through the window that stood open behind the prince.
A breeze, not cool but gentle, rolled through the aperture, and he wondered if he would feel the grace of the wind ever again. He tried to focus on enjoying it although his knees threatened to buckle.
“You may leave us,” the prince instructed.
The guard’s hand left Vahrem’s neck and he staggered forward a step. The Gondbed’s hand reached for the metal-wrapped staff that leaned against the desk but a raised eyebrow from Tarkhind stopped him.
“You may leave us as well, Gondbed,” the ruler of Jehadim said icily.
The guard captain stiffened but said nothing as he walked woodenly toward the door. As he passed, Vahrem was certain he could hear the man’s teeth grinding behind his elaborate mustache.
“Please, have a seat,” the prince said and inclined his head toward a chair before the desk after the door thudded shut. “You look very tired.”
“Thank you.” The merchant sighed as stepped forward and settled gingerly into the chair. “I am very tired.”
The royal watched him with a gaze whose intensity might shame an eagle. Nothing seemed to escape his notice and he wondered at the machinations behind those watchful eyes. As he mused about this and returned the stare, the caravan master couldn’t help but notice the dull chords of gray beginning to streak his lustrous black hair and the shrunken aspect about his cheeks and eye sockets.
His dress was immaculate and his posture impeccable, but there was no hiding the fact that the young ruler was wearing thin under some incredible strain.
“You and your men will be released,” the prince said and his scrutinizing gaze never faltered. “The two with you are being brought up from the dungeon and will be tended to, given water to wash with, fresh clothes, and a meal.”
Vahrem shook his head, certain that he hadn’t heard correctly.
“I understand one of them is injured. I’ve already had my apothecary prepare a selection of restoratives that will be offered to him. I understand that you are followers of the Flock so I’m not certain what is permissible for your faith, but I would not have the man suffer if I can help it.”
A dark laugh threatened to bubble from inside the merchant and he wanted to ask if the apothecary had anything for Heydr, but he choked it back along with the bitter question as he cleared his throat.
“Eh…no, our confession does not prohibit the use of healing potions,” he said and because he couldn’t seem to help himself, added, “Nor do any of the orthodox confessions I’ve ever heard of.”
The royal’s eyebrow raised and Vahrem cursed himself silently for fatigue and fatalism loosening his tongue.
“Thank you,
Prince,” the caravan master said with a deep bow and his bruised forehead touched the manacles. “That is very generous of you.”
For the first time, the royal’s gaze turned away with a twist of his head as his aquiline nose sniffed sharply.
“No, I don’t think so,” Tarkhind said evenly despite his dark, piercing gaze that seemed to sweep suspiciously across the corner of the room. “You see, once you and your men are tended to, you will return to your caravan. You will have a day to deal with whatever business affairs remain but when Jehadim’s gates close tomorrow night, you will be out of the city. I will give instruction that you will not be required to pay taxes on your business here to ensure your swift departure.”
Vahrem felt like he’d known the knife that had gutted him when he’d first left the room was still lodged in him, but he’d forgotten until these words gave it a fresh twist.
“Am I forbidden to return?” he asked and tried to keep his voice steady but the quaver seemed inescapable.
Jehadim was the gate to the East. Banishment would make certain that this would be his last season in the East and would mean that he would have to start over somewhere else. That was assuming the rest of those sworn to him came with him. Whatever they might owe him, it was no small thing to ask families to leave everything they knew to start over with routes and markets their leader had never encountered.
“That depends,” the ruler said and his stare returned to him like the burning sun from behind a merciful cloud. “If you leave promptly and without further worry concerning the fate of certain persons…well, I don’t see any reason why you cannot return to Jehadim next year to conduct your business. My seneschal informs me that you have always done good trade in my city and never contested or evaded your dues, even after Hasriim.”
“The Shepherd bids us be innocent of men, king or peasant,” Vahrem said, his mouth dry and full of an acrid taste despite the holy words of his faith. “Pay what is owed yet learn with every exchange so as to not be made a fool and bring yourself to ruin.”
The merchant knew it was a transparent attempt to buy himself time to process the offer, but to his surprise, the prince broke into a broad grin.
Circle In The Deep (The Outcast Royal Book 1) Page 23