by J. C. Staudt
“The world is too big,” Lizneth said, still feeling faint.
“Too big for what?” Zhigdain said. He’d taken a seat to have a sip of water while he waited.
“Tanley was small. I knew there was more, but not this much. I used to dream that one day I would see all there was to see. Now I think I could spend the rest of my life looking and never have time to see it all.”
“Here come the slaves,” Fane said, returning from the crag where he’d been keeping an eye out.
“Best we get moving, cuzhe,” Bresh said.
Lizneth closed her eyes and removed the goggles, holding them out toward Zhigdain. The buck refused them. “Keep them for me,” he said. “I won’t need them for a while.”
She slid the strap over her head and let the goggles hang around her like a necklace, then followed Zhigdain through the narrow fissure and down into the dark, where the rock softened to sludge beneath her feet. The smell of the sea built up to a palette of moldering greens and decaying browns, washed with the perpetual rhythm of the surf. The sound of the breakers drenched the passage depths, and almost at once Lizneth’s eyes were adept and competent again; the clumsy blindness she’d felt in the daylight was gone.
It was a long way to the village from ridge level; the grade was so steep and slippery in places that Lizneth and her companions had to pick their way down on all fours, and for a time they could see only bare stone and muddy sand ahead. The air was cool through her fur, a refreshing surge that livened her scenting and vision toward thresholds that reminded her who she was. It was as if the blind-world had made her senses forget what they were capable of.
The group descended to where the mud slope leveled off and was swallowed by cold sand. Gris-Mirahz appeared in soft contour, with pale glimmers of wave stirring behind it. The village was built across the expanse of a wide cave beach, all huts of mud and thatch and the odd placement of driftwood logs or wooden planks that had been swept ashore with the refuse from old shipwrecks. The buildings bore domed annexes like the cells of a hornet’s nest, and the occasional multi-level structure towered above the others. Light flickered through round windows, giving the place a warm halo in the fog that smelled of sea air tinged with cooked fish. The sight of the village taking form gave Lizneth the sensation that it was rising from the darkness as they approached.
“Zhegho gha invehr?” came a voice from the shadows.
“Veh chevehr ssepikheh,” Zhigdain replied.
A pair of ikzhehn materialized, accompanied by more than half a dozen eh-calaihn armed with cudgels and fish spears. They were bone-thin and dressed in ragged cloth, with the odd iron manacle and a link or two of loose chain hanging from a wrist or ankle.
“What’s your purpose here?” said one of the eh-calaihn, looming over them. He was as slender as the rest, but taller, with deep vermilion hair that fell to his shoulders in brittle shag. His teeth were fringed in brown rot, his skin stretched over his skull and riddled with hundreds of tiny brown flecks.
“We seek safety, and that alone,” Zhigdain said. “But perhaps also, if we could have a word with someone who can strike off these chains…”
“Every newcomer speaks with Artolo the Nuck. We wait here.” The tall light-skin tilted his chin toward one of the ikzhehn, who darted off into the darkness.
“May we rest while we wait?” Bresh asked.
The tall one shrugged, planting his fish spear in the sand like a soldier standing guard. Bresh, Fane and Dozhie sat down. Zhigdain paced, and Lizneth propped herself against the wall of the cave.
Presently the ikzhe returned and whispered, “Ke zheratheh, philectivh.”
“He hunts the waters,” said another ikzhe.
“We wait,” said the eh-calai, counting Lizneth and her companions on his fingers.
It seemed like hours before anyone came. The tall light-skin and his eh-calaihn had soon plopped down in the sand, arranging themselves in a protective semi-circle between the newcomers and the village. Lizneth used the time to rest and observe her surroundings. The more she examined the huts on the near side of the beach, the more signs of disrepair she noticed; walls that were pitted, crumbling or half caved-in, thatch that was old and rotting from the sea air’s moisture, and some structures that were no more than piles of mud and sand and straw, left to be taken by the wind.
Across the water, she could see the torches and lanterns shining from the ships and harbor houses of Sai Calgoar’s port, reflecting in shimmering yellow strokes over the Omnekh. The smoke from the Halcyon’s burning was still thick against the pulse of daylight at the cave mouth beyond. The black gulls called their distant cries, floating like specks of ash caught in an updraft.
Artolo the Nuck arrived with an entourage, meeting them where they sat like an ambassador greeting visitors from a foreign land. His identity was certain from the start. He was an ikzhe, to Lizneth’s surprise; skinny like the rest, but somehow lean and imposing despite his lack of bulk, and the way the others flocked around him lent credence to his standing. He wore a loincloth, with shackles on his ankles and a thin necklace of beads and braided rope tight about his neck. His haick was clean despite the damp of the seawater on him; his scent was familiar too, somehow, and he had a sharp, easygoing look, as if he lived his life like the blade of a dagger that’s become accustomed to cutting only soft things. Lizneth liked his eyes, the way they glittered like deep red rubies against matted black fur that shone wetly in the light of their driftwood torches.
“Tell me your stories, newcomers,” said Artolo the Nuck, spreading his hands.
“We’re fugitives from Sai Calgoar,” Zhigdain said. “All of us.”
Artolo gave him a tolerant look. “I like long stories.”
“We were rowers aboard a slave galley. The ship caught fire at port, and we ran. We came here because we’ve heard Gris-Mirahz is a safe place.”
The ikzhehn in Artolo’s entourage chittered. The eh-calaihn laughed.
“Good story. Still shorter than I like, but good. I’m Artolo. And you are…?”
Zhigdain gave Artolo each of their names in turn.
“Your albino is a wonder to look at,” Artolo said, eyeing Lizneth. She wasn’t sure what he meant, but if he was talking about her, he seemed to be pleased. “That coat is magnificent, even dirtied up. I’ve always liked albinos.”
“The scearib is only a cuzhe,” said Zhigdain. “And a feisty one, at that. You’d do well to stay away from her. Now, as for this place—we’ve gained our freedom, and we want to keep it. Can Gris-Mirahz grant us that much?”
Artolo waggled his head from side to side, as if to contemplate the question. “Many would say life in Gris-Mirahz is better than life as a slave, certainly. But it’s no freedom. We have no masters to look after us, and the food isn’t free. We work hard, and we scrape by. That’s as good as it gets around here. Gris-Mirahz is the barnacle that feeds on Sai Calgoar’s waste. As for safety… if you’re sure to keep no belongings but the hide on your bones, you’ll be safe as anyone in the Aionach. If you’re looking for a place to hoard your wealth, this is not such a place. Everyone contributes. Everyone sacrifices for the well-being of us all. Your safety goes only so far as your readiness to coexist. You work hard, or you starve. You do your share, or you leave.”
“And who sees to that?” Zhigdain wanted to know.
“The residents see to it,” Artolo said, gesturing. “There are humans and murrhods alike here who will open your belly to steal a bite of food you’ve already eaten. Most learn quickly that even a half-full stomach is better than one that’s been opened.”
Zhigdain was appalled. “This isn’t a haven for outcasts. It’s a colony of delinquents and escaped slaves.”
Artolo held out his hands. “You’ll fit right in. Which is a good thing, since it’s the only way to get by around here.”
“I’m no slave,” said Zhigdain. “I was taken from my home and pressed into service against my will.”
Artolo cracked a
smile. “How do you think everyone else got here?”
“The eh-calaihn are born slaves,” Zhigdain insisted.
“You should get your facts straight, big-ears. Humans are made into slaves the same way you were. They’re stolen. The nomads—the calaihn, as we call them—bring their eh-calai slaves to Sai Calgoar for trade. The light-skinned humans are from other parts of the Aionach, but they’re no lesser men.”
“And I’m no less an ikzhe than the bluefurs I escaped from, either,” Zhigdain said.
“You may believe that, but what do the slavers think?”
“Dyagth what they thought. I put an end to that. I paid the price for my freedom, and they’ll never have it back.”
“You put an end to it, did you? Yet here you are, tucked away with us, safe as nestlings under a blanket,” said Artolo, his voice singsong. “I know the ship you speak of. I saw the fires from my fishing hole this morning. You can still see the smoke.” He waved a lazy hand toward the port, where the distant haze still lingered. “Others from your vessel arrived here earlier today. The ship didn’t catch fire on its own. It was you who set those fires, wasn’t it?”
Zhigdain scrunched up one side of his mouth, but he seemed to see no need to respond.
“It’s treacherous ground you’re walking on, big-ears. The scent of the above-world may be foreign to you, but for a slaver who’s been there before, finding your haick will be no different than tracking you underground. I hope for your sake that the end you gave your slavers was good and final.”
Zhigdain cleared his throat and averted his eyes, his truculence curbed. Lizneth couldn’t help but think of Qeddiker. He was still alive, and she had no doubt that there were more of the slavers who’d survived the fire. Her haick would lead them here, she knew.
“Lizneth,” Artolo said, trying out her name for the first time. “That’s it, isn’t it?” He smiled at her. Even in the eerie glow of the torchlight, something about his look was warm; the way his eyes glimmered made her feel like she was the only thing he saw.
“Yes,” she said, and shuffled forward a step.
He hesitated, looking unsure of himself for the first time. “First things first. Let’s get those chains off you, shall we? All of you, right this way.”
“More coming, Nuck,” said the tall eh-calai who had met them when they arrived.
Artolo strode forward and crouched at the mouth of the passage, looking toward the light. They heard the sound of chains scraping over rock, and Lizneth could see the line of captives making their way down the slope, struggling to find their footing as the rock became increasingly buried in muddy sand. Zhigdain is heartless, she thought. We shouldn’t have left them like that. That was easy to say now; she was cool and relatively safe, and she could see and scent. The Aionach wouldn’t be such a cruel place if zhehn did more to help one another.
“It’s the send-offs from last night,” Artolo said, astonished. “Somehow they’ve come back. Jeigan, be on your guard. This could be one of the slavers’ tricks.”
“It isn’t,” Lizneth said. Zhigdain glared at her, but she spoke up anyway. “We bumped into them on our way here and—”
“I didn’t trust them,” Zhigdain burst in. “We slew their masters, and I worried for the safety of our lezhehn. So I let them live, but I didn’t unchain them.”
Artolo stood and studied Zhigdain for a moment. He nodded in understanding. “You’ve got better sense than I pinned you for, big-ears. This lot are not to be trusted.”
Artolo sent a few eh-calaihn up the slope to guide the captives to the bottom. When they caught sight of Artolo the Nuck waiting for them, they seemed to grow nervous.
“You’ve seen a fortunate turn of events,” Artolo told the new arrivals. “Don’t let it be your last.”
Artolo and his hangers-on led them through the village. The captives spent the entire trip giving Zhigdain scornful looks, until they arrived at one of the more modest huts close to the shore, where a spotted old eh-calai knocked the hinge pins from their shackles with a hammer and an iron punch. Artolo dismissed the bulk of his entourage when the deed was done.
“If he can take them off, why are you still wearing yours?” Lizneth asked, calling attention to the manacles around Artolo’s ankles.
“I want to remember where I’ve been,” he said, casting a pensive look at his feet. “I think one’s past has a great deal to do with who he’ll become.”
Lizneth considered this. His sincerity was plain, but she didn’t see the value in remembering the unfortunate circumstances of her life. “Have it your way,” she said, rubbing her wrists as if to wipe away the memory of the iron’s cold grasp. “I’d rather forget. I wouldn’t wear those stupid things a second longer than I had to.”
“Most people would say the same,” Artolo said.
Lizneth wrinkled her snout. “What’s people?”
“Sorry—zhehn. I’ve gotten so used to speaking the Aion-speech, I mix up my words sometimes. Most zhehn would say the same. It’s hard to forget about things that have caused us pain, but it gets easier with practice. I’m just sentimental about pain, I guess.”
“I’m not,” Lizneth said, examining the end of her tail. It would be a long time before it healed, but she was fortunate not to have suffered any permanent losses to its length. The spotted old blacksmith went back to hammering some implement he’d left in his coals while he was removing their shackles. She watched the sparks fly and bounce into the sand, remembering home.
“I think that makes you pretty normal,” Artolo said.
“I’d give anything for my life to go back to normal,” Lizneth said. She hung her head, thinking of her brothers and sisters, of little Raial and poor brave Deequol and her aging parents. She wondered how they’d bring in the harvest without her, and whether Sniverlik would drive them out—or worse.
“I won’t pretend living in Gris-Mirahz is easy or comfortable,” Artolo said, sitting beside her. “It could be much worse, though.”
“I’m sure it’s nice being in charge of a whole vilck, but… don’t you ever wish you had your old life back?”
Artolo laughed. “In charge? I’m not in charge. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. I just understand people. Ehi kibrech zhehn. They bring me out to speak to newcomers. I’m the only one in the vilck who’s fluent in the Aion-speech, Ikzhethii, and Calgoàric. I speak a little Bireyish and Maoux, too.”
Lizneth was impressed. “You learned all those different ethiihn in your old life?”
“Most of them,” he said. “I’ve always been a student of tongues. I grew up learning a little of everything. It’s interesting; anywhere you find ikzhehn in the Aionach, Ikzhethii is spoken more fluently among the poor. You’ll find the opposite to be true among the humans—sorry, the calaihn. Calgoàric is a hallowed language, learned and practiced most by the warriors and the masters. So their revered and wealthy know more of the old tongue than their poor do. The Aion-speech is where everyone meets. Where trade happens. Although not everyone speaks it well.”
“I speak bits and pieces of Ikzhethii because of my parents,” Lizneth admitted. “Their Aion-speech is good, but they taught us all to speak some of the old tongue too.”
“You come from a big family,” Artolo said, half-asking.
“Bigger than average,” Lizneth said. “My poor old Mama has borne five litters for Papa. Many of my brood-brothers and sisters didn’t survive past infancy. Others were conscripted as younglings to be raised as soldiers in Sniverlik’s horde. I’m the only one of my litter still at home. Although I guess I’m… not at home anymore.”
“Sniverlik,” Artolo said, scratching his chin. “This is a name I’ve heard before. Can’t remember where.”
“Everyone knows him where I’m from. It doesn’t surprise me that his name has spread.”
“So he conscripts nestlings for soldiers,” Artolo said. “How many of your brothers and sisters has he taken?”
“Eight. Some are dead, some ar
e servants instead of soldiers. Others are too young still. I’ve heard he raises others’ nestlings alongside his own if he thinks they have promise. Mama and Papa weep every time the Marauders come. They won’t do it in front of us, but I can hear them in the night. We try to yield a good crop every year. If it’s good enough, they don’t come, sometimes. When I left, twenty of my brothers and sisters were still at home. Life is hard with so many mouths to feed… but we always have fun.”
“I’m sorry,” Artolo said, his face somber. “I hope you’ll learn to like it here. We have a good time, when we can.” He gave her another one of his warm smiles.
“I don’t want to stay here. I can’t. The harvest will come soon.”
“I won’t force you to stay,” said the black-furred buck. “However, I will warn you that there’s no other place that’s safe for our kind for horizons in every direction.”
“I’ll take the next ship I can get passage on. I’ll find one bound for Bolck-Azock.”
“Bolck-Azock doesn’t have much need for man-things, so there aren’t many ships going that way,” Artolo said. “Slavers are the only ones who sail there with any regularity. From here, most ships make stops along the coast before they make their way around to Bolck-Azock. It’d be months before you made it home aboard any ship but your own.”
“I’ll buy one, then.”
Artolo laughed aloud, then stifled himself when he saw the hurt look on her face. “What do you have to trade for a ship?”
Lizneth shriveled inside. Her whole chest wanted to cave in on itself as the despair set in anew. She felt as trapped here in Gris-Mirahz as she had on Curznack’s galley. She owned nothing but the dagger and the clothes on her back, which were long past soiled and falling apart. Even her cloak was gone, the one kind Nathak had traded her for a fistful of mulligraws and a favor. She hoped he hadn’t intended to redeem that favor; she didn’t think she’d ever see Bolck-Azock again. It was hard to imagine how she would ever secure passage over the Omnekh now.
“This dagger is all I have,” she managed to say, half-drawing it from its scabbard.