“Where are you from?” A man dressed all in gray stepped into Sheyn’s path. “I don’t know that accent at all.”
“I won’t speak with you until you give me your name.”
“The slavemaster named me Thursday, but my mother called me Taranz.”
“Clear out of my way, Taranz.”
“Where are you going?”
“That’s not your business.”
“It could be.” Taranz smiled, his teeth very white in his tanned face. “If you were in need of a guide.”
“If you can take me to the wayhouse by the eastern gate, I can pay you when we get there.”
“We have a deal.” Taranz bowed. “Now, tell me where you’re from. It will pass the time as we walk.”
“Why are you so curious?”
“You speak Deyn, which is very odd. Even odder is that I knew it was your language as soon as I saw you.”
“It’s not my language. No one with any culture speaks Ondey.”
“No? What a pity.” Taranz gestured down the alley. “This way, my beauty.”
“Don’t address me as though we’re equals. Simply show me to the wayhouse, and you’ll receive your fee.”
“I think I’ll take my reward now.” The man who called himself Taranz crowded Sheyn against the wall and put a hand over Sheyn’s nose and mouth. He held Sheyn tightly until the drug that permeated the leather of his glove put the young man to sleep. After hefting the dead weight to his shoulder, he walked the short distance to a tavern owned by a friend. He paid a boy to carry a message for him and waited for the visitor he was sure would arrive as quickly as possible. Windfalls like this happened once, perhaps twice, in a lifetime.
TARANZ ANSWERED the door on the first knock. “Come in, Harkot,” he said as he stood aside to let the rotund man into the room.
Harkot the slave merchant sniffed audibly. “Why do you insist on conducting business in a whorehouse?”
“Strictly sentimental reasons. If you’re in a hurry to leave, let’s get down to business.”
“There’s no excuse to flout my dignity. I supply pleasure slaves to the nobility, even to kings.”
“Everyone knows this. You brag enough.” Taranz grinned. “Forget custom for a moment and look at what I’ve brought you.”
“You said he was special, or I’d have sent my overseer.”
“I don’t think you’ll want very many people knowing what you’ve come into possession of.” Taranz removed the cloak that covered Sheyn and stepped aside. He had the very distinct pleasure of seeing Harkot’s pudding face go slack with surprise. “Did I lie?” he asked.
Harkot shook his head slowly, rubbing a hand over his close-cropped ginger hair without taking his gaze from the unconscious young man.
“Have you ever seen anyone who looks like this?” Taranz loosened the ribbon that held Sheyn’s hair back. “It’s pale as fresh milk and feels like silk floss.”
“He’s entirely unique,” Harkot said.
“And quite valuable, I imagine.”
“Priceless,” the slave merchant said before he caught himself. Harkot glanced at Taranz, trying to gauge whether the thief knew just how special his prize was. The merchant regained his equilibrium and got ready to bargain.
“What will you give me for him?” Taranz asked.
“Come to my door in a few hours, and you shall have a ring of gold for each finger, gold bands for your wrists and ankles, and a collar of gold that reaches to your waist.”
“I’d rather have something else.”
“Any dealer in precious metal will give you enough coin for you to retire on four times over.”
“And how would I carry it around? I’d have to hire servants and guards. Too much work. I want something else.”
“Name your price.”
“I want land.”
“A thief like you imagines he can become a landowner?”
“You have land. Give me some of it.”
“No one trades land for a pleasure slave.”
“Ah, but he’s not an ordinary pleasure slave, is he?” Taranz paused. “His coloring alone makes him priceless.”
Harkot relaxed a bit more. Taranz knew his catch was exceptional, but he didn’t know just how special the foreigner was. Not that it made a difference. Harkot could pretend to deliberate on the price, but he knew he would pay it. The pale-haired stranger was exactly what he’d been looking for. If Harkot bargained shrewdly, he could trade this foreigner for enough wealth to buy a minor title. His children would be born noble and might marry into noble families. He could sell his less than respectable business and retire to a place where no one knew his reputation.
“Very well,” Harkot said. “Bring him to my smaller warehouse at midnight. I’ll have the deed to a piece of land for you.”
“I knew you’d come around.”
“Be on time,” Harkot said.
Taranz grinned. “I’ll come to the door on the west side,” he said. “Look for the rag cart. That’ll be me with your delivery.”
TARANZ PUSHED the two-wheeled cart into the empty warehouse and let the long handles rest on the ground. The bed tilted, but the cargo didn’t shift, and the thief began tossing aside the rags that covered Sheyn.
“What did you use to keep him quiet?” Harkot asked as he looked into Sheyn’s slack face.
“That will cost you extra. Where’s my payment?”
Harkot took a rolled piece of parchment from his sleeve and handed it to the thief.
Taranz unrolled the sheet and doffed his hood to read it. The buttery light of the oil lamps smoldered in his close-cropped, ruddy hair as he bent his head over the document. “It looks real enough to me,” he said.
“And it’s the farthest from my other holdings, so I suppose we’re both content.”
“My, how lordly you’ve grown. Have you forgotten we were born in the same sty?”
“I choose to put that history behind me. I hope this will be the last time we do business.”
“What if I find another like him?” Taranz jerked his chin at Sheyn.
Harkot chuckled. “Then I’ll make an exception,” he said. “But until then, I hope you’ll take this land and start another life.”
“Is it truly your wish to never see me again?”
“It is.”
“So be it.” Taranz gave Harkot a small bottle. “A gift to keep your new pet sweet. Good-bye, brother.” He went out the door and closed it behind him.
Chapter 4
AFTER TARANZ had gone, Harkot spoke. “You may come out now.”
A man stepped from the concealment of an empty row of shelves and came to the cart. He stared down at Sheyn, seeming to fall into a trance.
“Well?” the slave merchant said loudly. “Will he do?”
The green-robed man jumped. “Help me put him on the table,” he said in a dull voice.
“Do it yourself, priest. I’m paying you, not the other way ’round.”
“Don’t call me that. I’m not a priest.”
“So you say, but you took vows. I don’t reckon you can just quit something like that.”
“You can become unworthy.”
Harkot snorted. “As long as you can still perform the ritual, I don’t care if you’re worthy or not.”
“I can perform the ritual, but as I’ve told you before, there are no guarantees.”
“Look here, Yozif. You’ll do what I’ve paid you to do, or I’ll tell everyone who you really are. What do you think will happen if people around here find out you’re not just a harmless drunkard, but a dark wizard of Kandaar hiding from justice?”
“No one would believe that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” Yozif cried out, as he’d cried out many times since the tragedy. He’d lost control of the magic for just a moment and a life had been lost. That wasn’t his fault. It was the magic that had killed, not him. Yet… it was his fault, and he knew it. He should’ve be
en sober.
“Are you drunk right now?” Harkot asked.
“I’m never completely sober anymore.” Yozif set his bag down on the plank table and came back to the cart. He bent down and lifted Sheyn in his arms. With slow, staggering steps, he made it to the table and dropped Sheyn onto it.
“Well?” Harkot said again.
“He’s heavier than he looks.” Yozif put his palm against Sheyn’s forehead and felt the unmistakable energy signature. In this young outlander’s veins flowed a drop of the blessed blood of Anaali, the Goddess Yozif served. And he was of a type that had not been seen in the world since the first daaksim were created. The most numerous incarnations were the redheads who burned with Her Fire. Second in number were the sun-haired beauties who embodied Her Earth. Third were Sea children with ivory skin and hair dark as ink. In all of known Kandaari history, there had been only two Ice daaksim, unique with their white hair and diamond black eyes. Yozif didn’t have to see the foreigner’s eyes to know they were dark and depthless as the sky at midnight.
Harkot observed the priest’s change of expression and smiled in satisfaction. “I was right, wasn’t I?”
“Yes.” Yozif sighed.
“I can’t explain how I knew, but he felt… different.”
“You have a gift,” Yozif said as he turned away to rummage in his bag. It was a travesty that this trader in flesh should have such a gift, but as Yozif knew, the Gods were rarely fair or logical when bestowing their favors. This merchant, who knew nothing about daaksim, had twice now sniffed out a candidate, and this was the second time he’d coerced Yozif into performing the ritual. When Yozif had braved the Kurais to escape Kandaar and his Goddess, he’d thought he’d find a haven of forgetfulness in the west, but such was not his luck. A few indiscreet words over a skin of wine had put Yozif in thrall to Harkot and Harkot’s greed.
After the slave merchant had learned of the existence of daaksim from Yozif, he became wildly obsessed with finding and selling one, believing it would bring him enough wealth to retire. To Yozif’s shock and dismay, Harkot found a candidate among the attractive young men and women he sold as pleasure slaves. Yozif was summoned to one of Harkot’s properties and shown into a room where a young man was bound to a table. Yozif scoffed at Harkot’s claim that this lad was “different.” How could anyone not born in Kandaar harbor the spark of Anaali’s Favor? However, the ebony-haired bandit’s son did indeed prove to have the potential, and Yozif had performed the ritual that transformed him into a daaksi.
Harkot had no idea what sort of miracle a daaksi was and planned to sell the lad to highest bidder. Yozif had protested passionately, insisting that daaksim could only be owned by kings, Kandaari kings. Harkot listened and recognized a unique opportunity. He sent the new daaksi to Kandaar by a route Yozif mapped for him. His emissary found his way to the court of a local king, and the daaksi was offered as a gift. Since then, Harkot had enjoyed sporadic but profitable trade with King Yevdjen of Sumadin and was constantly scheming to expand that trade.
Everything Yozif had done since fleeing Djenaes had gone awry, and he had reached the point where he no longer cared what happened. What difference did it make if he performed the ritual for faith or for money? He had no power over his fate, so why not do as Harkot wanted and enjoy the comforts Harkot’s gold bought? A jug of good wine could drown a lot of guilt.
One by one, the disgraced priest set out the items he needed, his movements taking on a measured cadence. He lit the sacred candle and sprinkled the dried flower petals, and a faint, sweet scent filled the air. Breathing deeply of the smoke, he murmured the words of the Invocation and let calmness possess him. Yozif picked up a small, curved knife, and the edge of the blade glowed as though heated in a forge. He bent over Sheyn and touched the point of the knife to the outside corner of Sheyn’s right eye. With a sudden, decisive gesture, he made a curving, downward cut following the contour of the high cheekbone. As blood welled up and trickled down like a red teardrop, Yozif repeated the action on the other eye. Setting the knife on a folded square of red silk, he took up a small metal container with a pierced lid. He shook powder from the filigreed tube onto the small wounds, and the blood clotted instantly.
Yozif’s gaze was caught by a glint of light between Sheyn’s eyelids, and he was abruptly seized by something he’d thought he’d never feel again. The Goddess took hold of him and lifted him up, infusing him with Her light, love, and joy. The container of powdered herbs fell from his hand and struck the table with a sound like a great golden gong. Sheyn’s skin began to glow with a faint luminescence like the inside of a shell, and Yozif heard the merchant gasp. The moment stretched out as the air itself seemed to take on weight, and then the ringing ceased and the light sank back into Sheyn’s flesh.
For several moments there was silence in the chamber. Yozif leaned heavily against the table as the glorious feeling of exaltation faded away. Harkot stood frozen, his mouth open, as he stared transfixed at what had been wrought. The new daaksi’s skin had a slight pearlescent glow like the inside of a shell, and his pale hair glimmered like moonlight on water. His lips and cheeks were touched with the faintest stain of rose, and his eyebrows and eyelashes had darkened to sable. There was nothing about him that wasn’t pleasing to the eye. And he had something beyond sheer beauty that drew the heart. Harkot took a step toward the table, and Yozif stirred. Slowly, the priest reached out and touched Sheyn’s cheek. When Yozif brushed away the reddish crust at the corners of Sheyn’s eyes, the small cuts had healed, leaving two crescent-shaped scars.
“It’s done,” the priest said.
“Excellent,” Harkot said. “The first one bought me exclusive trading rights with the Sumadinim. This one will buy me—”
Yozif interrupted. “You cannot sell him to any but a king.”
“Yes, no need to make pronouncements. You’ve explained it many times. Don’t worry. Who but a king could afford him?” Harkot smiled. “The Sumadi ruler is eager to acquire another daaksi. He likes making gifts of them.”
Yozif nodded. “Where else would you sell him but Sumadin?”
“It’s true Sumadin is the only trade ally I have in Kandaar, but that will change. I’m the only merchant who trades on the other side of the Greiwoll, and someday everyone will have to come to me to sell their goods in Kandaar.”
“Do you really believe that? If so, you’re as foolish as you are greedy.”
“And you’re an outcast whose opinion doesn’t have any more weight than a beggar’s fart.”
“True. Why am I so weak?”
“Because you drink liquor and burn kataash all day and night.”
“Also true.” Yozif’s expression hardened. “Our bargain stands. You won’t tell anyone about me.”
“You have my word.” Harkot patted the priest’s cheek. “I won’t tell anyone a single thing about you. Why do you worry so much?”
“It’s forbidden to awaken a daaksi outside of Her Temple.”
“Yes, so you’ve said.”
“I don’t deserve Her Grace.”
“I don’t disagree.” Harkot glanced at the door, eager to be gone with his prize. Yozif had become invaluable to him, but Harkot found the man’s religious ramblings unbearably boring.
“And yet….” To Harkot’s annoyance, Yozif continued. “Anaali has graced me twice since I turned my back on Her.” He held out his hands to Harkot. “What does it mean?”
“I’m no sage.” Harkot unfastened a clinking pouch from his belt and tossed it to Yozif. “Here, go buy yourself some comfort. Maybe you’ll find some answers in a wineskin.”
Yozif took a last look at his handiwork, packed his bag, and left the warehouse. The moon on the snow turned the wall of mountains into a silver carving, and the ashes of his soul yearned toward them. He’d thought he would never go back over those mountains or see his homeland again, but why shouldn’t he? If Anaali hadn’t blasted him for his sacrilege by now, he doubted She ever would. So why was he s
till cringing in this hateful foreign land? If he could make daaksim for Harkot, why not go back to Kandaar and make daaksim for kings? If he had the protection of the rulers, he needn’t fear the Shrine’s wrath. Instead of searching out liquid solace, he went to his squalid room, packed his few belongings, and began walking homeward.
IN THE city of Taar Muergan, capital of Muergath in the heart of Kandaar, in the Red Temple of Taankh, God of the Shadoworld, High Priest Chanesh sat up in his bed. Clutching the ragged edges of his dream, he reached for parchment and ink. With several strokes of the quill, he recorded what he could remember. When the vision had faded, he lay back and rang for an acolyte.
“Reverend Lord?” A young man entered Chanesh’s sleeping chamber. “How can I serve you?”
“Come here, boy.” Chanesh gestured with a hand like a vulture’s claw. He was little more than a collection of bones held together by wrinkled, papery skin, no more substantial than a cobweb. This frail elder was the most powerful man in Muergath, the third largest nation of Kandaar.
The acolyte stopped beside the high priest’s bed and stood with his head bowed.
“Which one are you?” Chanesh asked.
“Moksha, Reverend Lord.”
“Fetch the pitcher on the ledge there and pour a cup for me.”
“At once.” Moksha hurried across the room and back. He poured some liquid from the pitcher into the cup beside Chanesh’s bed.
Chanesh sat up gingerly and took the cup of restorative herbal wine. “Take up the quill and make notes,” he said.
It was not the first time Moksha had acted as night scribe to Chanesh, and he knew where to find writing materials. He seated himself at Chanesh’s worktable and lit the oil lamp. “I’m ready, Reverend Lord,” he said.
“I had a vision tonight,” Chanesh said. “The Way is opening. It has begun.”
Moksha hid his start of surprise.
“After centuries of banishment, our lord Taankh shall walk in the Waking World again.” Chanesh took another long drink of his potion. “The one who will open the Way is here.”
The Bastard’s Pearl Page 3