by K J Taylor
And yet when he saw the collars, it was all the reminder he needed. These people still weren’t free men; they were property, and that was how they were treated. What they had here was enough to keep them strong and in reasonable health, and that was all.
Arren finished the stew and took a second helping; his stomach was aching with hunger. No-one said anything, but he noticed many of the others were making do with just one bowl, and he felt a twinge of guilt, as if he had just stolen something.
He was finishing the second bowlful when the call came for them to leave; there were shouts and a series of thumps from the corridor, and Arren saw Caedmon pause briefly in the doorway and smack the frame with his stick, shouting, “Up! Up! Get up, move out! Move! Move!”
Arren sighed and put the bowl back down with the others. Torc had appeared from somewhere with a tub of water and was already cleaning up, and the others formed themselves into a rough column and began to file out of the door in the manner of people who had done this a hundred times before.
Nolan nudged Arren in the side. “C’mon, Taranis. We’ll go at the back; you won’t be able to move too fast with them things on.”
Arren fell in behind him. “Why are you helping me?”
Nolan gave him an odd look. “What sort of question’s that, then?”
“I didn’t mean to offend you or anything,” Arren said hastily. “But we’ve only just met, and—I’m sorry, never mind.”
Nolan whistled. “Ye gods, where’d you learn to speak like that? Where’d you say y’came from again?”
“Oh. Er. Uh.” Arren cursed himself; he’d been too distracted to try and disguise his voice. Not that he would have been any good at it. “Withypool,” he said. It would do. Skade had told him enough about it that he could describe it fairly well. He should be able to bluff unless he met someone else who had come from there.
“Withypool, eh?” said Nolan. “Damn long way away. Never met anyone from there before; you got to tell me all about it.”
“Of course,” said Arren. They were out in the passageway now, in front of a long row of others who had emerged from the other dormitories. Up ahead, their own column was slowly filing out of the iron gateway, where a guard was giving each slave a quick going-over before letting him through. Arren looked over his shoulder and was surprised by how many men were behind him; the slave-house had looked large from the outside, but he hadn’t realised it had this many people in it. He estimated that there were at least a hundred slaves all told.
“Well,” said Nolan, as the guard turned out his pockets, “we’re both Wolf, ain’t we? You’re my clan. My dad always said, ‘We helps other Wolf as and when they needs it, because that’s our way.’ ” He glanced at Arren and grinned. “I’m sorta lyin’, of course. I’d be helpin’ you even if y’weren’t Wolf. Way I see it is that a man in our position only gets what the people around him will give him, and we needs all the help we can get.”
Arren flinched as the guard patted him down. “Thank you, Nolan. If there’s ever anything I can do . . .”
“Don’t worry, I’ll tell you if I needs anythin’ in return,” said Nolan, flashing another gap-toothed grin. “Now”—they had emerged into the open air—“we got work to do, eh?”
There were more guards waiting outside for them. Caedmon was there, too, and he gave the commands. The slaves split themselves into groups according to which room they slept in, and each group was then led off to its place of work. Arren saw two groups head off toward the quarry that lay just outside the town walls. Another one was sent to help carry back the stone blocks they would cut there, and the rest were taken to the wall itself. Arren’s group were directed to the spot where they must have been working the day before; there was a large gap in the wall where the mortar had crumbled away and the stones had come tumbling down. Some had been broken in the fall, and others looked to be missing, probably carried off to build houses.
Tools were being brought over by another group of slaves: buckets, sticks, ladders and large sacks of sand. Arren’s group obviously knew what it was doing; ladders were quickly set up at the edges of the gap, where fresh stones had been laid, and the buckets were set up in a long row beside the bags of sand. The group that had brought the tools returned again with more buckets, these full of water, and put those beside the rest.
“Right.” Caedmon strolled over. “Ye, runner,” he said, pointing at Arren, “yer in no state for carrying blocks, and ye can’t climb the ladders with them irons on, so ye can mix the mortar with Nolan and the rest. Think ye can manage that?”
It sounded fairly straightforward. “Yes, sir.”
Nolan looked pleased. “Looks like y’ve already done me a favour,” he said as they took up position by the buckets. “I’d’ve been set to haulin’ blocks most like if I weren’t with you. This is the easy job.”
“Thank gods for that,” said Arren. “How does it work, then?”
“Easy as fallin’ off a log,” said Nolan. “Only tricky part is gettin’ the balance right. Here, I’ll show you.”
Arren watched as the other man gave a quick demonstration, measuring out sand, water and lime, and stirring them with a heavy stick. It was simple enough, and before long Arren was working on his own bucket. Once the mortar was ready, another team hauled it off to the wall, and the mixers began again with fresh buckets. It was simple work, though fairly tedious, and Arren was glad. The stone blocks being used on the wall were enormous, and carrying even one of them would have been backbreaking. He was even half-glad that he was wearing the irons; the mere thought of having to climb one of the ladders made him feel dizzy.
While he worked, he watched the other slaves at work. His father had always told him the Northern people were proud warriors, but these didn’t look much like warriors to him. As for pride—well, there wasn’t much to be proud of in the life of a slave. The gang of robed men—there were no women that he’d seen so far—worked steadily, not lagging or digging their heels in, but not rushing, either. They worked with the efficiency of men who had a task to carry out and didn’t particularly care about when it would be over or whether their overseers would say they were doing a good job.
And really, why would they? he thought as he scooped sand into the bucket. It’s not as if they can expect a pay rise.
A line of men trudged past carrying more blocks to the wall. To his surprise, Arren noticed two of them were, like him, wearing leg-irons. One was about his age, the other a little older, and they hunched slightly as they walked.
He nudged Nolan. “Did those two try and run off?”
Nolan followed his gaze, and spat. “Hah. Yeah, that they did. Them and a couple of others. You want to stay away from them, Taranis.”
The dislike was obvious in his voice, and Arren was surprised. “You’re not staying away from me,” he pointed out.
“Yeah, well, that’s different,” said Nolan. “That lot are bad news. They’re Northerners.”
Arren gave him a long, slow look. “And that’s . . . unusual, is it?”
Nolan laughed. “You’re funny. I mean they’re from the North. Born there. Not like the rest of us. From the way they act, you’d think that made ’em royalty or somethin.’ They’re only workin’ under sufferance. It was one of them did a runner a while back. Those two tried to go with him but got caught.”
Arren watched them curiously. “I thought you were all from Canran.”
“Most of us, but not all,” said Nolan. “See, this is a temporary assignment thing here. They sent a gang of us here to fix up the wall, an’ a bunch of others got brought in from other places. They want the job done fast, see, and that means more men.”
“I haven’t seen any women here,” Arren remarked.
“Of course you ain’t. Buildin’s not a job for womenfolk. They’re all at home. Most of us have got wives waitin’ for us. Not me, but there’s my three sisters back at Canran.” He paused to scratch at a flea bite. “We’ve been here a while now, an’ mos
t of us just want to go home.”
“What about Torc?” said Arren. “What’s he doing here?”
“Orphan,” Nolan said. “They couldn’t find anythin’ else to do with him, so they sent him out here with us. He does odd jobs. Runs errands, takes messages, makes the food. He’ll be bringin’ out some lunch later on. We’re all fond of the lad.”
Arren nodded. “Remind me not to complain about that stew when he’s listening, then.”
One of the shackled slaves shuffled back past them, on his way to get another stone. Arren watched him. “So, tell me about those Northerners,” he said. “How did they try and escape?”
Nolan dragged another bag of sand over and opened it. “Way I heard it was that one of ’em found a loose board at the back of his dorm. They worked together to pull it out and then slipped out through the hole and ran off.”
“What, it was that easy?” said Arren. “Those guards must be bloody stupid.”
“Ah, well, no-one was expecting them to try, see,” said Nolan. “Herbstitt’s the only settlement for a long way, an’ anyone out on their own in the countryside is bound to starve to death in a few weeks. They didn’t think anyone would be stupid enough. Course, you can’t expect that lot to have any sense. Bloody tendernecks.”
“Tendernecks?” said Arren.
“What, you don’t know what it means?”
“We must call it something different in Withypool,” Arren said hastily.
“Newly collared,” said Nolan. “You can see how their necks is all swollen when you gets close enough. They weren’t born slaves like the rest of us; they were born free in the North an’ got collared as punishment for some crime or other.”
“I was trying to go north when they caught me,” said Arren.
“Why?” said Nolan.
“To live free, of course,” said Arren. “Where else could I have gone?”
“Is that why you done a runner, then?” said Nolan.
Arren thrust his stick into the bucket and began to stir. “Yes. I’m a human being, and I have no intention of living out my life as someone else’s property, and I’d rather die than wear a collar again.”
Nolan was giving him a slightly nervous look. “That’s dangerous talk, Taranis. You ain’t gonna try an’ run off again, are you?”
“No,” Arren lied. “What’s the point? I can’t run anywhere in these irons, and they’ll only catch me again.”
Nolan relaxed. “That’s good. We’d all get it in the neck if you did. Anyway, I like you.”
“You do?” said Arren. That surprised him.
“Yeah, I do,” said Nolan, unembarrassed. “You’re good to talk to. An’ I liked how you were with Caedmon. You did the right thing, bein’ respectful to him an’ all. Runners don’t usually; they think he’s a traitor for workin’ with the Southerners.”
Arren had never heard anyone refer to Southerners like that, as if they were a different race. It was odd, seeing it from the other side like this. “I don’t see why I should look down on him for that,” he said. “It’s not like he has any choice.”
“You’re right there,” said Nolan. “Caedmon doesn’t like’em much, but he gets better rations and extra bedding an’ a bit more freedom than the rest of us, an’ really—”
“You get what you’re given,” Arren finished.
“Yeah.”
They worked on through the morning, mixing cement. Arren found it monotonous, but he didn’t care much. It gave him plenty of time to think. His back wasn’t too painful now; it was his hand that hurt. In spite of his efforts to keep it clean, it quickly became encrusted with sand, which actually soothed it a little once the initial stinging had stopped. The sand and water formed a kind of mud poultice, he realised, but he made a mental note to try to pick some griffin-tail if he saw any. Nolan had been right when he’d said that his wounds needed to be kept clean. An infection could kill him.
Noon finally arrived, and they were allowed to stop work and have some lunch. Torc had appeared carrying an enormous basket full of bread and had left it by the wall then scurried off and returned with a huge earthenware jug and a stack of wooden cups. Caedmon gave the command, and the slaves put down their tools and eagerly crowded around the basket, where Torc doled out a small loaf of bread and a cup of water to every man. They were still being watched closely by guards—Arren had the uncomfortable feeling that they were paying special attention to him—but they were allowed to sit down on the grass at the base of the wall to eat. Arren had been anticipating this; he lost Nolan among the crowd and went looking for the two Northerners he’d seen before. He found them sitting a little way off, using some of the blocks they had been carrying as seats. They were talking in low voices and looked up sharply when Arren came near them.
“What d’ye want?” one said immediately, standing up to confront him.
Arren straightened up, trying not to flinch when his back hurt in response. “I was wondering if I could sit with you. My name’s Taranis.”
The man looked at him askance. He was the older of the two; he looked about forty, and there was a hint of grey in his hair. The skin above and below his collar was swollen, and there were traces of dried blood underneath it. “Ye’re the runner from Withypool,” he said.
Arren shrugged. “I suppose so.”
“Well, what d’ye want with us?” the other man asked. Like his companion, he had a harsh accent to his voice and looked at Arren with deep suspicion.
“To talk,” said Arren. They obviously weren’t going to offer him a seat, so he chose a chunk of rock nearby and sat on it. “I’m told you two are from the North,” he added, hoping this would mollify them.
The older man sat down again. “What’s it to ye, Southerner?”
Arren had been diffident, but this was too much. “So, now I’m a Southerner, am I? That’s news to me.”
“Ye’re Southern born,” said the man, unmoved. “Like the rest of them water-bloods. Ye speak Southern, boy, and that makes ye Southern to me.”
Arren took a deep breath and decided he wasn’t going to let himself be provoked. “I was wondering if you could tell me how your friend escaped from here.”
The younger man tore off a chunk of bread. “Why, are ye hopin’ to follow him, maybe?”
“Are you?” said Arren.
The man glared at him. Arren stared back, unblinking. Finally, the other appeared to relax slightly. “Name’s Prydwen.”
“What clan?” said Arren.
“Crow. And ye?”
“Wolf.” Arren looked at the older man. “And you?”
The man shrugged. “Olwydd. Bear Clan. So, ye think ye can run from here the same way Gwydyon did, do ye?”
“I’m willing to give it a shot,” said Arren. “I’m damned if I’m going to stay here and build walls for griffiners. Let the bastards do their own building.”
They liked that. Olwydd grinned. “Show me a griffiner can put one stone atop another and I’ll show ye a deer with wings. So”—he looked down—“how exactly do ye plan to get those off?”
Arren tugged at the iron ring locked in place around his right ankle. “I don’t know; if there was some way to pick the lock I’d do that, but if they search us every day . . .”
“They do. Ye’d be seen, anyway.”
“So I was planning to bide my time,” said Arren. “Do as I’m told, not make any fuss. Sooner or later they’ll decide I’m not going to run and take them off.”
“Talk fancy, don’t ye?” said Prydwen. “How’d ye get here, anyway?”
“They caught me because they were after your friend,” said Arren. “They thought I was him, and when what’s-his-name—that man at the tower—found out, he said he’d take me anyway because he needed the extra pair of hands. He told me to keep quiet about it.”
Olwydd snorted. “Man’s a damn fool. There’s no secrets among slaves. Where’s yer collar?”
“It came off,” said Arren. “They were supposed to put a new
one on me, but I don’t think they could find one. Thank gods,” he added.
“Aye, they comes off if ye know how to break ’em,” said Olwydd. “Or so I’m told.” He paused. “So, that’s yer plan, is it? Wait around, be a good boy and hope they give up watchin’ ye and give yer back yer legs?”
“It’s got to be better than trying to run off in these things,” said Arren. “Why, what were you planning?”
“And why should we tell ye?” said Prydwen, sullen again.
So, they didn’t have a plan. “Fine, if you’d rather keep it to yourself. Where do you intend to go once you’ve escaped?”
“Home,” Prydwen said instantly. “Where else? Back to Tara.”
“Tara?”
All their grudging respect disappeared in a moment. Olwydd spat. “Ye’re pathetic, Southern boy. Like the rest of them, ye’re no true Northerner. Ye don’t know the name of yer own homeland, do ye?” he sneered and bit into his bread.
Arren had had enough. He lunged forward, grabbing the front of Olwydd’s robe, and dragged him forward until they were face to face. “Dwi chan ’r Gogledd. Gwna mo amhercha ’m,” he rasped.
For a few moments the two of them were frozen, until Arren let go and sat back. He started on his lunch, calmly, as if nothing had happened.
There was silence. Then Olwydd coughed. “Ye’re brave or mad, but ye’re no fool, I’ll give ye that. Very well, then. Tara’s the true name of the North, though there’s not many call it that now. I take it ye meant to go there.”
“Yes,” said Arren.
Prydwen was watching him with renewed interest. “An’ why would that be, Taranis?”