by Anthony Ryan
The woman was waiting as he climbed from the pit. There were no guards; she didn’t need them. Her fine robes of the previous day had been exchanged for the more modest gown of a mid-status freewoman, dyed grey. His knowledge of this land and its customs was meagre, confined to what he had learned during his journey here after being taken in Untesh, plus whatever scraps of information he had been able to glean from overheard conversations between master and overseer. The colour grey, he knew, signified a person of property, usually slaves but also land and livestock. If a free Volarian acquired sufficient property, one thousand slaves or assets of equivalent value, they were permitted to wear black. Only the richest Volarians wore red, like the master.
“I hope you got some sleep,” she said. “We have a long way to go.”
The binding was still there, but restrained now, a faint tingle to his scars, enough to prevent him tying his new belt about her neck and strangling her, but with sufficient freedom to allow a survey of the environs. The pits surrounded them on every side, a hundred or more, each thirty feet in diameter and ten feet deep, carved into a broad plateau of bare rock, honeycombed with tunnels and dwellings. From some came the sound of combat, from others torture, screams rising into the morning air, overseers directing the various torments as they strolled the rim of the pits. This was a place of punishment as well as training.
“Sorry to be leaving?” the woman asked.
She had left him enough freedom to speak but he said nothing.
Her gaze darkened and he knew she was considering another punishing burn to his scars. He stared back, still refusing to speak, or beg.
To his surprise she laughed again. “So long since I had something truly interesting to play with. Come along, pretty one.” She turned and began walking to the edge of the plateau. It rose from the Vakesh Desert like an island in a sea of sand; when the midday sun ascended to its full height the temperature on the surface was enough to make even the overseers desist from their labours. Caravan routes ran from the north and west. He had memorised all this when they brought him here, back when he still indulged in the dream that he might one day contrive an escape.
She led him to the winding set of steps carved into the western face of the plateau, where it took them the best part of an hour to descend to the desert floor. A slave was waiting with four horses, two saddled for riding, two more bearing packs. She took the reins from the slave and dismissed him with a wave.
“I am a widowed landowner from the province of Eskethia,” she informed him. “I have business in Mirtesk. You are my journeyman escort, contracted to see me there safely without injury to body or reputation.”
She gave him the care of the packhorses and hauled herself into the saddle of the tallest riding horse, a grey mare which seemed to know her from the way it snorted in pleasure as she patted its neck. Her gown had slits to accommodate riding full saddle and her bare thighs were bronze in the morning sun. He looked away and saw to the pack animals.
Their loads consisted mainly of food and water, sufficient, he assumed, for their journey to Mirtesk. They were well cared for with no signs of infirmity that might lay them low in the desert, hooves shod with broad but thin iron shoes suitable for trekking across the sands. He remembered how the Alpiran desert had taxed his scout troop’s mounts to the limit until they copied the smithing tricks used by the Emperor’s cavalry. Memories of the Alpiran war came to him constantly and, despite all the blood spilled in their doomed attempt to fulfil the King’s mad vision, the months spent with the Wolfrunners, with his brothers, with Vaelin, had been the best days of his life.
His scars gave a short burn as the woman shifted impatiently in her saddle. He tightened the straps on the packs and mounted his own horse, a youthful black stallion. The mount was somewhat feisty, rearing and snorting as he settled onto the saddle. He leaned forward to cup the stallion’s ear, whispering softly. Instantly the animal calmed, trotting forward without demur as Frentis nudged his heels to its flanks, the packhorses trailing behind.
“Impressive,” the woman said, spurring her own mount into motion. “Only seen it done a few times. Who taught you?”
There was a command to her tone and the binding tightened a little. “A madman,” he said, recalling Master Rensial’s conspiratorial smirk as he imparted the secret of the whisper, something, Frentis knew, he had never taught any of the other novice brothers. Looks like the Dark, doesn’t it? he said with one of his high-pitched giggles. If only they knew. The fools.
He said no more and the woman let the binding recede to the now-standard tingle. “There will come a time,” she said, as they rode towards the west, “when you’ll tell me every secret in your heart, and do so willingly.”
Frentis’s hands clenched on his reins and inside he howled, raging at his prison of scars, for he knew now it was the scars that bound him, the means by which each overseer and master bent him to their will. One Eye’s final gift, his ultimate revenge.
◆ ◆ ◆
They journeyed until noon, resting under small awnings as the sun baked the desert, moving on when the shadows grew long and the heat abated. They stopped at a small oasis, already crowded with caravans setting up camp for the night. Frentis watered the horses and established their camp on the fringes of the temporary community. The caravan folk seemed a cheerful lot, all free citizens, exchanging news with old friends or entertaining each other with songs or stories. Most wore blue, but here and there was a grey-clad veteran with a long beard and a longer string of horses. A few approached them with wares to sell or requests for news from the wider empire. The woman was all charm and affability in refusing the wares and offering minor gossip about the Council’s doings or the recent results of the Sword Races, which seemed to be a major preoccupation.
“The Blues lost again?” one older grey-clad said, shaking his head in disappointed wonder. “Followed them all my life, I have. Lost two fortunes in bets.”
The woman laughed and popped a date into her mouth. “Should switch to the Greens, grandfather.”
He glowered a little. “Man can’t change his team any more than he can change his skin.”
After a while they were left in peace. Frentis completed the remaining chores then sat by the fire watching the night sky. Master Hutril had taught him to read the stars during his first year in the Order, and he knew that the hilt of the Sword pointed to the north-east. But for the binding he would be following it back to the Realm now, however many miles it took.
“In the Alpiran Empire,” the woman said, reclining on a blanket, elbow propped on a silk cushion, “there are men who grow rich telling gullible fools lies about the portents foretold by the stars. Your Faith does not allow such nonsense, I believe.”
“The stars are distant suns,” he said. “So the Third Order has it anyway. A sun so far away can’t have any power here.”
“Tell me, why did you kill the overseer and not the master?”
“He was closer, and it was a difficult throw.” He turned his gaze on her. “And I knew you could deflect the blade.”
She gave a small nod of acknowledgment, lying back onto her pillow and closing her eyes. “There is a man camped next to the water. He’s dressed as a journeyman, grey hair and a silver ring in his ear. When the moon’s fully risen, go and kill him. There’s poison in the packs, the green bottle. Don’t leave any marks on the body. Take any letters you find.”
She hadn’t stopped his speech but he didn’t ask for a reason. There was no point.
◆ ◆ ◆
The Volarians, like the Faithful, gave their dead to the fire. The caravan folk wrapped the grey-haired man in canvas, doused it in lamp oil and set it aflame with a torch. No words were said and there was no display of grief from the onlookers as none seemed to know the man who had died in his sleep, only his name taken from his citizen’s tablet: Verkal, common and nondescript. His belongings were being
auctioned off as Frentis and the woman continued on their way.
“He was sent to spy on us,” the woman said eventually. “In case you were wondering. One of Arklev’s, I expect. Seems the Council-man’s enthusiasm for our grand project has waned somewhat.” This wasn’t for his benefit, he knew. Sometimes she liked to voice her thoughts, converse with herself. Something else she had in common with Master Rensial.
Five days’ travel brought them in sight of the Jarven Sea, the largest body of inland water in the empire according to the woman. They made for a small ferry port situated in a shallow bay, the terminus of the caravan route, busy with travellers and animals. The sea was broad and dark beneath the cloudless sky, tall mountains visible in the haze beyond the western shore. The ferry passage cost five squares each plus five circles for the horses. “You are a robber,” the woman informed the ferryman as she handed over the coin.
“You’re welcome to swim, citizen,” he replied with a mocking bow.
She laughed shortly. “I should have my man here kill you, but we’re in a hurry.” She laughed again and they led the horses aboard.
“When I first took this tub it was one square per man and one circle per horse,” she said later, as the slaves worked the oars under the whip of an overseer and the ferry ploughed its way across the sea. “That was over two centuries ago, mind you.”
This made him frown. Centuries? She can’t have more than thirty years.
She grinned at his confusion but said no more.
The crossing took most of the day, the city of Mirtesk coming into view in early evening. Frentis had thought Untesh the largest city he was ever likely to see but Mirtesk made it a village in comparison. It sprawled in a great bowl-like coomb ascending from the shore, countless houses of grey granite stretching away on either side, tall towers rising from the mass, the steady hum of thousands of voices growing to a roar as they reached the dock. A slave was waiting on the quay as they guided the animals ashore. “Mistress,” he greeted the woman with a deep bow.
“This is Horvek,” she told Frentis. “Ugly, isn’t he?”
Horvek’s nose looked as if it had been broken and reset several times, most of his left ear was missing and scars covered the muscular flesh of his arms. But it was his bearing that Frentis noticed, the set of his shoulders and the width of his stance. He had seen it many times in the pit. This man was Kuritai, a killer, like him.
“The Messenger is here?” she asked Horvek.
“He arrived two days ago.”
“Has he been behaving himself?”
“There have been no reported incidents in the city, Mistress.”
“That won’t last if he lingers.”
Horvek took the packhorses and forced a passage through the dockside throng as they followed, turning down myriad unknowable cobbled streets until they came to a square, rows of three-storey houses forming the four sides. In the centre of the square a large statue of a man on a horse stood in a patch of neatly trimmed grass. The woman dismounted and went to the statue, gazing up at the face of the rider. The figure was dressed in armour Frentis judged as somewhat archaic, the bronze from which he was fashioned liberally streaked with green. He couldn’t read Volarian but from the extensive list adorning the plaque on the base of the statue, this had been a man of no small achievement.
“There’s gull shit on his head again,” the woman observed.
“I’ll have the slaves whipped, Mistress,” Horvek assured her.
She turned away, walking towards a three-storey house situated directly opposite the statue. The door opened as she mounted the steps, a female slave of middle years bowing deeply. The interior was a picture of elegant marble and gleaming ornamentation, tall canvases on most walls, each depicting a battle of some kind, some showing a figure whose features resembled those of the bronze man outside.
“Do you like my home?” the woman asked Frentis.
Again the binding was loose enough to permit speech, but again he refused to do so. He heard the slave stifle a gasp but the woman just laughed. “Draw a bath,” she told the slave, turning to ascend the ornate staircase rising from the marble floor. Her will tugged Frentis along as she climbed the stairs and entered a large room where a man sat at a long table, a grey-clad somewhere past his fiftieth year. He was eating a plate of cured meat, a crystal wineglass at his side, and seemed to recognise Frentis instantly.
“You’ve put on some muscle, I see,” he said in Realm Tongue before taking a long drink from the wineglass.
Frentis searched his face, finding nothing familiar, but there was something in the man’s voice. Not the tone, the cadence. Plus he spoke Realm Tongue with no trace of a Volarian accent.
“Our young friend spent five years in the pits,” the woman said, keeping to Volarian. She perched herself on the tabletop, pulling off the calf-length boots she had worn in the desert to massage her feet. “Even the Kuritai only have to survive for one.”
“They don’t have the benefit of a life in the Sixth Order, eh, Frentis?” The man winked at him, provoking another surge of familiarity.
The woman gave the grey-clad a look of close scrutiny. “Older than your last. What’s this one’s name?”
“Karel Teklar, a wine seller of middling station, with a fat wife and five perfectly horrible children. I’ve done little else but beat the little beasts for two days.”
“The gift?”
The man shrugged. “Some small scrying ability he didn’t know he had. Always wondered why he did so well at cards though.”
“No great loss then.”
“No,” the man agreed, getting to his feet and coming closer to Frentis. The angle of his head as he studied him once again maddeningly familiar. “What exactly happened at Untesh, brother? I always wondered.”
Frentis remained silent until a flare of the woman’s will forced the words out. “Council-man Arklev Entril arrived to treat with Prince Malcius after the Alpirans laid siege, bringing greetings and offers of trade with the Volarian Empire. He shook my hand after I’d searched him for weapons. When the last Alpiran assault hit the walls his will bound me, forced me to abandon the prince. I ran to the docks and came aboard his ship.”
“That must’ve stung a bit,” the man said. “Losing the chance for glorious self-sacrifice. Another tale for Master Grealin to tell the novices.”
Frentis’s confusion deepened. How can he know so much?
“Don’t fret though.” The man moved away, casting his gaze about the room, taking in the racks of weapons lining the walls. “Malcius survived and returned to rule the Realm, though by all accounts, not remotely so well as his illustrious father.”
“Did Malcius see you run?” the woman asked.
Frentis shook his head. “I was commanding the southern section, he was in the centre.” I fled and left two hundred good men to die, he thought. They saw me run.
“So for all he knows,” the man said, “brave Brother Frentis, onetime thief raised to great renown by service in the Sixth Order, died heroically in the final attack on the city.” He exchanged a glance with the woman. “It’ll still work.”
She nodded. “The list?”
The man reached into his shirt and tossed a folded piece of parchment to her. “Longer than I expected,” she said, reading it.
“Well within your abilities, I’m sure.” He picked up the wineglass and took another large gulp, wincing a little as if he found it sour. “Especially with the help of our deadly urchin here.”
Urchin. Nortah used to call him that, Barkus too. But Nortah was dead and Barkus, he hoped, safely back in the Realm.
“Anything else?” the woman asked.
“You need to be at South Tower within a hundred days. Once there someone will find you. You’ll be tempted to kill him. It’s important you don’t. Tell him the Fief Lord alone won’t suffice. The whore must die as
well. He should also have some word of our perennial foe, some stratagem to kill him, or at least make him vulnerable, the details are a little vague. Other than that.” He drained the wineglass and Frentis noticed a sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Only the usual, eternal pain if you fail, and so on. You’ve heard it before.”
“He never was very original in phrasing his threats.” She got down from the table and walked to a rack of thin-bladed swords over the fireplace. “Any preference?”
The man flicked a fingernail against his wineglass, bringing forth a sharp ping. He smiled at the woman. “Sorry to disappoint you.” He dropped the glass to the floor where it shattered, slumping into the chair at the head of the table, face now bathed in sweat. His gaze grew unfocused, but brightened momentarily when he saw Frentis. “Give them all my regards, won’t you brother? Especially Vaelin.”
Vaelin. Frentis burned as the binding surged, keeping him immobile. He wanted to charge at the man, wring the truth from him, but could only stand in rigid fury as he grinned a final time. “You remember that last fight, that outlaw band the winter before the war?” he asked, voice fading to a whisper. “The blood shone like rubies in the snow. That was a good day . . .”
His eyes closed and his arms dropped, limp, lifeless, the swell of his chest halting shortly after.
“Now,” the woman said, shrugging off her clothes. “Time for a bath, don’t you think?”
CHAPTER THREE
Vaelin
I should have stopped her.
Reva took aim at the sack of straw they were using as a target, loosing an arrow which caught the edge of the charcoal circle in the centre. He saw her hide a grin of satisfaction. They had purchased a quiver and arrows in Rhansmill, gull-fletched with broad steel-tipped heads best suited to hunting. Every day she rose early to practice, at first scorning his advice but eventually accepting the guidance in sullen silence when she saw the wisdom of it.