Queen of Slaves (The Powers of Amur Book 4)

by J. S. Bangs

  The ties which bound them to the pier came off, and with a heave at the oars they began to move. Aryaji whimpered next to Mandhi, looking at receding land with an intense disappointment.

  “And now what?” Mandhi said, her voice rising in annoyance. “Where will you put in to avoid the Kaleksha authorities that you fear so much?”

  Jauda scowled and waved her away like he was dismissing a child. “A few days from here we can reach Danadl.”

  A few more star-cursed days on the boat. “Danadl? And what happens if they don’t accept us there?”

  “There are ways,” Jauda said. Then he turned pointedly away from her and continued shouting orders at the men.

  Aryaji took Mandhi’s hand and pressed it against her cheek. “Only a few days. We’ll be fine. There are other—”

  “I don’t want other harbors,” Mandhi snapped. “I want to be off this damned boat and on land, and I want to get Jhumitu, and then I never want to have another thing to do with the Kaleksha again.” The last of the words dribbled out of her mouth into a sob, and she bent forward and hid her face in Aryaji’s shoulder, softly crying.

  Aryaji lifted her cloak and wrapped it around Mandhi’s shoulders. “Be still,” she whispered. “We’ll find Jhumitu.”

  Mandhi felt like a fool, weeping into the shoulder of her maid, but she couldn’t help herself. “Jhumitu,” she whispered. “But also Taleg—why did I say I never would have anything to do with the Kaleksha? I’ve known them, I’ve known they can be good. Oh, Aryaji.” She wiped her eyes and stood up straight. “Only a few days. I will make it a few days. My son is near. Taleg’s son is near. I’ll make it.”

  The pier receded from them slowly. The sail dropped to catch the sea breeze, and the oars returned to the boat. The jewel-green shore of Kalignas slipped by them, quiet and beautiful. Mandhi’s eyes scanned the sod houses and stone lodges, the black fir forests and white peak of the mountain above them.

  Somewhere in there was Jhumitu. She only had to find him.

  Vapathi

  Vapathi, Apurta, and Kirshta walked in a crowd of twenty children. The children ran ahead of them into Pukasra, shouting in the mountain dialect, pointing at the mud brick houses, crumbling dirt clods in their hands and picking up crow feathers and fallen leaves. Most of them had never seen brick houses before, only the gray stone hovels of the mountains, and two small boys ran off to pick at the crumbling mud plaster on the first house they saw.

  The first person to meet them was the woman of the house, who came out to scold the overly-curious boys, then stopped dumbfounded at the sight of two dozen more children overrunning the road. Vapathi walking in their midst followed Kirshta, limping and injured, and Apurta carrying his sword. The woman only stared. Vapathi gave her a casual wave as they passed.

  The path gradually thickened and sprouted side-streets with larger houses, fences of bark, and gardens shaded by banyans and palms. The emerald-robed mountains were behind them, and at the end of the main street ahead spread the golden sliver of the ocean. As they came closer to the center of the town, more and more people exited their homes or stood up in their fields to watch Vapathi and her brood pass. Vapathi smiled and waved and responded with a cheerful hello to those who hailed her, but she didn’t stop until they reached the center of Pukasra.

  Pukasra was not a large town, and its center was a ring of two-story houses with stone foundations, filled with a desultory crowd of fish-mongers, trinket traders, and old women with vegetables spread atop muddy linens. Kirshta and Apurta stood next to her, and the children began to disperse through the market. Kirshta’s face was drawn together in pain, and he leaned into Vapathi’s shoulder for support when they stopped.

  The hubbub of the market square was so great that their entrance wasn’t immediately noticed.

  “How do we get their attention?” Vapathi asked.

  “We could just wait for the children to make enough ruckus,” Apurta said. He pointed to a young pair, brother and sister, who were pestering one of the merchants to give them a fig.

  “I’ll do it,” Kirshta said. He drew a deep breath and bellowed, “Who is the khadir of this place?”

  A few of the sellers glanced up.

  “Are these your children?” the merchant with the figs demanded.

  “They’re mine,” Vapathi said calmly. “Where is your khadir?”

  The crowd which had followed them in from the edge of town began to fill into the market. “What are you doing here?” someone demanded.

  “You can’t possibly be their mother,” one of the peasant women said. “Where are their parents?”

  Vapathi raised her voice and tried to hide the nervousness beneath it. “Their parents were judged unworthy. They gave their children up to slavers.”

  “So you’re with the slavers?” another man asked. The movement of the market had stopped. The streets filled with onlookers, every eye turned toward Vapathi and the others. Vapathi cringed at their stares. She did not like being stared at. Not in public like this.

  “We are not with the slavers,” Kirshta said calmly. “We are here to release the slaves.”

  “And what happened to the slavers?” the man shouted back.

  “We destroyed them.”

  “Destroyed them? They’re dead?”

  “Yes.” Kirshta folded his hands beneath his thin chin. “Now bring me your khadir.”

  Muttering and argument sounded at the edges of the square. “I sent for him when I saw them walking in,” someone said.

  “They should go to the house.”

  “He should—”

  “Yes,” Kirshta said. “Point us to the khadir’s residence.”

  Hands pointed to the west where a long two-story house stood on a hill overlooking the bay. Kirshta started for it. The crowd split to let them pass. Vapathi called for the children, and they followed, darting between the legs of the villagers and pilfering things from the sellers’ blankets as they came.

  It was a short walk up the hill on a path of pounded red clay. The children sprinted up the hill and called for their friends, running after the scattered sheep which grazed on the hillside. Most of the town seemed to follow. When they had ascended halfway to the house, the bronze-riveted door split and a fat man emerged, flanked by two young guards with spears.

  “The khadir comes to meet us,” Apurta said.

  The khadir wore a long oiled beard and a cap of emerald green with a cream-colored kurta and dhoti. One of the children approached him, but the guards snapped and swatted at the boy with the butts of their spears. Vapathi called the boy over, and he climbed into her arms.

  “We don’t need to fear them,” Kirshta said. “They can be devoured in a moment if necessary.”

  When Vapathi and the others were ten paces away, the man bellowed, “Who are you? Why are you bringing the town to my doorstep?”

  Kirshta stopped. “I am the Mouth of the Devourer.”

  The man laughed. “That’s a lofty title for someone who looks like an escaped mountain slave.”

  “I was a mountain slave,” Kirshta said bluntly. “And these children were taken as slaves. But we’ve come to put an end to the profit you make off the slave trade in Pukasra.”

  The khadir guffawed. “This is the most pitiful slave revolt I’ve ever heard of. I see one man with a sword, and one more who is ill and injured. The rest of you are women and children. Do I need to turn my spears on you to convince you that I’m serious?”

  “Would you like to know why I’m called the Mouth of the Devourer?” Kirshta asked.

  The khadir waved a hand at them dismissively. “Not especially.”

  Vapathi glanced backward. The crowd watched ten paces back, not yet terrified. That would happen soon enough.

  The khadir gestured at the two guards. They lowered their spears, pointing one at Vapathi’s chest and one at Apurta’s.

  “No spear for me?” Kirshta asked. “That might be very wise or very foolish.”

  “H
e’s the only one with a weapon,” the khadir said, pointing at Apurta. “And the woman looks stronger than you.”

  Apurta glanced over at Vapathi. He adjusted his grip on his sword.

  “Drop your sword,” the guard said to Apurta.

  “I’d rather not,” Apurta said. “I might need it.”

  “Hit the woman,” the khadir demanded.

  The point of the spear flashed. Vapathi flinched. The flat of the spearhead smacked her cheek, and she dropped the boy in her arms. She fell. Apurta cried and launched into motion in front of her. She touched her cheek. Blood.

  Apurta stood before her, his sword raised. Both of the spears were trained on him now.

  “Don’t hurt her,” Apurta hissed.

  “Apurta,” Kirshta said, “I don’t think that’s necessary. Let me talk to the khadir.”

  “I have no reason to listen to you,” the khadir said. “The only way to deal with a slave revolt, especially one as ill-advised as this one, is to—”

  His words stopped in his throat. A moment of panic showed in his eyes, then a spout of black bile gurgled out of his mouth. The bile ran down his kurta, dissolving the fabric and making his skin blister. A gargled scream of terror escaped his throat.

  He tried to wipe the bile from his mouth, but the skin of his fingers began to flake away, revealing black hissing blood underneath. Blisters spread from his mouth, over his face, down his neck and arms. They swelled and burst, splattering a black pus which stank of rot, dissolving the flesh underneath them. His bones showed through his dissolving flesh.

  Screams sounded from the crowd.

  One of the guards stumbled back, panicked.

  A moment later, all that remained of the khadir was a reeking puddle and a heap of bones. The other guard glanced at the khadir’s remains, then at Kirshta. He lunged with his spear toward Kirshta. Apurta shouted. He leaped forward. A moment of blurred motion. Twin screams.

  The guard lay doubled over on the ground, his hand over his side. He whimpered in anguish as blood gushed up from a long gash. Apurta stood above him holding a bloody sword. Kirshta had been knocked to the ground, the spear planted between his ribs. But he stood, pulled the spearpoint out of his flesh without a word, and looked down at the man with pity.

  “Did you think I’d be here if a spear could kill me?” he said softly. “Tell me, do you want to live?”

  The man gasped and twitched.

  “Apurta, how well did you stab him?”

  “Pretty well,” Apurta said. He looked over his shoulder at Vapathi. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Vapathi reassured him. No one had touched her other than the boy huddling in her arms. She looked around and saw no trace of the second guard. Must have fled.

  Kirshta turned his attention back to the guard curled up on the ground. “As you can see, your spear cut me but drew no blood. My name has been devoured, and my death with it. You, meanwhile, are going to bleed out unless I help you.”

  The man looked up at Kirshta with wild, panicked eyes. His lips moved soundlessly, for a moment, then a croak could be heard. “Help me.”

  “Give me your name.”

  The man looked at Kirshta in incomprehension. Kirshta sighed and knelt next to the man on the ground.

  “Tell me your name,” he whispered. “She Who Devours will eat it. You will be like me, fearless, deathless, nameless. No weapon will hurt you.” Kirshta gestured to the gash the man had made in his side. No blood flowed. In the depths of the wound a black liquid lurked.

  The man’s face contorted in fear.

  “Or you can bleed out and die,” Kirshta added.

  For a moment the man’s lips trembled. He stared at Kirshta with terror and madness in his eyes. He bowed his head and whispered.

  “Say it again,” Kirshta said.

  “Kurma Amitu of Pukasra,” the man said.

  As he said his name, a black vapor issued from his mouth and his nostrils. Curls of darkness rose like incense from a censor, twisting slowly in the still air. Kirshta’s mouth opened. His tongue extended, tasting the edges of the black cloud. With a sudden gasp he sucked the cloud into his mouth. The sound of swallowing. For a moment Kirshta quivered, his hands shaking. Then he rose.

  The nameless guard lay on the ground for a moment more. His eyes were open, but he was still. He opened his mouth and laughed.

  “With your name I have eaten your death,” Kirshta repeated, turning away from the man and facing the silent, terrified village. “He lives like me, wounded but undying, with neither pain nor fear. Would anyone else like to join him?”

  No one moved.

  “In that case,” Kirshta said, “my sister, my friend, and I will be taking the khadir’s residence for ourselves. The slave trade in Pukasra is ended. None of you will object.”

  Still no one moved.

  Kirshta turned and began marching up the hill. “Call the children,” he said to Vapathi. “I’m sure the khadir has food for them.”

  Vapathi set down the boy in her arms. “Go find your friends,” she whispered to him in the mountain dialect. “Tonight we’ll eat well and be warm. Tell everyone to come.”

  With pride and relief, the boy scampered off toward the trees where the children had disappeared, calling for them to follow. Finally, she would be able to offer them real comfort. For weeks they had camped outside and eaten simple crusts of roti or pilfered cheeses.

  They deserved better, and she would give it to them.

  * * *

  The khadir’s house had a shaded portico that overlooked the shallow bay, screened in with transparent silks to keep out the mosquitoes. The peaks of the mountains to the southwest turned orange and pink as the sun slipped behind them. The waters of the bay reflected the purple star-laden sky, the sound of waves lapping the shore in a gentle counterpoint to the crackling of the fire. The town of Pukasra had faded into a dim jumble of gray squares in the darkness, lit by sparks of orange where lamps burned in windows.

  Kirshta sat in a rattan chair watching the stars emerge from the cloak of day. Vapathi watched him. He was pensive and nervous. Not how she expected to see him after their first victory. His lips were tightly drawn together, and he held his hand against his wounded side.

  “Why did you tell the man that he would be without pain after you took his name?” Vapathi asked.

  “He will be,” Kirshta answered in a low, hoarse voice.

  “But you aren’t.”

  “I’m bearing She Who Devours,” Kirshta said. “He is not. That’s the difference.”

  “And it hurts you?”

  Kirshta was silent for a bit. “If I didn’t have a thikratta’s discipline,” he said softly, “I wouldn’t be able to restrain her at all. She hungers. Everything she sees, she wants to devour. I channel her. I let her eat, a little. My will keeps her in check.”

  Vapathi shivered. “And you’re sure you can keep this up?”

  Kirshta gave her a smile, but in the firelight the expression looked ghastly and grim. “I wanted a power that wouldn’t fail me,” he said. “And I have it. My will is strong. I’ll be fine.”

  Vapathi rose from her chair and lay her hand on Kirshta’s shoulder. “Then what now? I wouldn’t mind resting here in Pukasra.”

  “Rest for a while,” Kirshta said darkly. “Not long.”

  “Why not?” Vapathi looked hungrily toward the soft, silk-covered beds that once belonged to the khadir and his wife. A bed, a real bed. It had been months since she had slept in real comfort.

  “We have work to do,” Kirshta said. “There are plenty more villages to liberate.”

  “Do we have to hurry? What if we just made Pukasra our fortress?”

  She felt Kirshta stiffen beneath her hands. “We can’t,” he hissed.

  She let go of him and moved to the far side of the fire, taking a seat on a cushioned chair. She watched him through the licking flames. “Why not? We came to put an end to the slave trade—”

  “But t
he slavers—”

  “This is their main port of call. If we guard Pukasra and the paths to the mountains, no more will go up.”

  Kirshta clenched his jaw. His hands pressed firmly together and he leaned forward to stare into the fire. “There are more slaves than these.”

  “Yes, but you can’t possibly go through all of Amur and free every single slave.”

  “And why not?”

  Vapathi balked. She hadn’t imagined that Kirshta’s ambition was so large. She had thought as far ahead as Pukasra, imagining the khadir’s bed and a comfortable home. They would deliver the children and prevent the slavers from coming again. “You’d have to be the Emperor of Amur in order to free every slave.”

  “Yes,” Kirshta said.

  Vapathi stared at him. “Kirshta, my brother,” she said softly. “You don’t have to do this for us. I’d be happy living here in Pukasra, so long as we are comfortable and free.”

  “But I’m not doing it for us,” Kirshta said. “I’m doing it for them.” He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the village.

  “The peasants of Pukasra?”

  “The peasants are not much better off than the slaves, are they? But I don’t just mean Pukasra. I mean all of them. Vapathi, if you just want to be free and comfortable, you will be. But I have more to do.”

  He rose from his chair and began to pace around the fire. He watched the flames eating away at the wood in the center, his hand on his chin, his eyes narrowed in thought.

  “Then I’ll come with you,” Vapathi said. “You’ve gotten us this far.”

  He didn’t smile. “Vapathi… I need you to be strong.”

  She reached up and took his hand. He bent and kissed the top of her head.

  “I need you,” he went on, “to be able to carry the fame of She Who Devours. I can’t do it by myself.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” she said.

  “You are healthy, for one,” he said. “You can walk much faster than me, go to places where I am not. I can send you ahead—”