by Carol Berg
Paulo grumbled that he would be happy if he was but allowed to use what knowledge he had.
“I don’t know that I trust these Dar’Nethi or their schemes,” I told the boy privately. “I may need you to come rescue me.”
I spoke half in jest, but Paulo did not. “I’ll do it,” he said, quiet and fierce. “Be sure of it. I’m watching your back.”
On the fourth day of my stay with Gar’Dena, Aiessa burst into our workroom with the terrible news that a Zhid raiding party had attacked three outlying settlements, killing or capturing all who lived there.
Gar’Dena practically pounced on the girl. “The names, child. What are the names of the settlements?”
“Vilkamas, Sen Ystar, and Nithe.”
At the names, the sorcerer clasped his huge hands, pressed them to his brow, and closed his eyes. “Have your sisters light the war flame, my Aiessa. Remind them to take into their hearts those who have fallen and more especially those souls who find themselves this night under the yoke of the Lords. May their courage and honor light our Way.” The girl nodded and hurried away, and Gar’Dena turned back to my lesson. “You must be ready to go at any moment.”
We drilled for two more hours, Gar’Dena trying to trip me up with questions about the squalid work camp where Eda the sewing woman had spent her whole life, and how she had come to be in service at the fortress of Zhev’Na. “… And when was your mate killed?”
“The people of our work camp were honored to serve the Lords in a battle exercise a twelvemonth since. My mate did not return.”
“And why were you not returned to your work camp?”
“Only I and three others survived the battle exercise. It was not in the best service of the Lords to send so few back to the work camp.”
“And how did you come to Zhev’Na?”
“I’ve worked for these past months in the war camp of the Worships, but I was not suited to tent making. The keeper said I should perhaps be killed because I was useless, but then he heard that there was a lack of sewing women at Zhev’Na. I am greatly honored to be allowed to serve the Lords here, and I work diligently to improve myself.”
“And what is your present service?”
“I sew, Your Honor, linens and tunics for the Worships, for such is simple work suited to my poor skills. I repair what needs it and change the linens in the rooms where I might be assigned. On occasion I am called on to stitch tunics for slaves, though only for the glory of the Lords of Zhev’Na would I perform any service that might benefit vermin slaves.”
On and on we went, until Gar’Dena’s head jerked up. A streak of blue light creased the air-a message had arrived. The Dar’Nethi would drop an enchanted stone into a flame to alert a distant correspondent that he wished to speak in the other’s mind. “It is done,” he said, almost reverently, after a moment’s quiet as the sender communicated the message. “The first move is made. You go tonight. You may wish to sleep for a while now, my lady, as it will be many days until you can rest in safety. I will assist you to sleep if need be.”
“I couldn’t rest well anyway,” I said. “Tonight is my husband’s funeral procession. As I cannot attend”- Gar’Dena had declared it too dangerous-“I intend at least to watch what I can of it.”
The people of Avonar had at last been told of the death of the Prince D’Natheil. The Preceptors’ examination had revealed that his mind was too damaged by his summer’s battle on the Bridge to allow him to assume his duties, so they told the shocked populace. Cast into despondence, he had taken the sorrowful step that was the final proof of his illness-taking his own life. The Preceptorate would deliberate on the succession, but, of course, nothing could be done until the Prince’s son came of age.
And so in the last hours before I was to go to Zhev’Na, I stood on Gar’Dena’s balcony with the Preceptor and his daughters and watched the funeral procession of the Heir of D’Arnath. Karon’s funeral. As the sun slipped behind the peaks of Eidolon, the Dar’Nethi spilled out of houses and shops. Dressed in white, each carrying a glowing white sphere, they converted every lane into a river of light.
As the procession passed slowly through the grand commard, they began to sing, first the men, then the women, and then the children. They sang the story of Vasrin Creator and the dawn of time, and of Vasrin Shaper who set men and women free to walk their own paths through the world. And then they sang of D’Arnath and his Bridge and his oath to sustain it, and of the sad young Prince who had lost his father and brothers and been thrust onto the Bridge too early in the desperation of his people. They sang of the unknown Exile who had opened the Gate, and of the Prince’s mysterious journey to the other world that had resulted in the renewal of life in the Vales of Eidolon.
The rite was heart-wrenching and exhilarating. Only when they carried the white-silk-draped bier past the window did I falter. But I closed my eyes and prayed that the songs of the Dar’Nethi would echo far from Avonar. “Wherever you are, my dear one, listen well,” I whispered. “Let the beauty of this night give you comfort.” I would not grieve. I would not.
Even after the procession wound out of sight, the singing rang through the frosty air, echoing off the mountain peaks well into the night. But time for my departure had come, and I could no longer permit my thoughts to linger on either beauty or sorrow. I donned the shapeless garb of black and brown and allowed Gar’Dena to tie a red kerchief over my eyes.
“Please forgive this,” he said. “Each piece of our mosaic must remain separate lest we reveal the whole picture too soon.” He led me through his warm house, scented with spices and flowers and baking bread. And then we stepped through a magical portal, so the chilly prickle of my skin told me, into an echoing room with no scent but cold stone.
“Now, my dear lady”-Gar’Dena spoke loudly into my ear, as if my blindfold might be hampering my hearing- “our honor and blessings go with you. In fourteen days you will be contacted, and shortly after, as the Way leads us, we shall be together again, rejoicing at our success, your son safely in our care. Until then…” He grasped my hand in his meaty one and kissed it. “Now, take three steps forward, turn immediately to your left, and then left again.”
Three steps forward. A tremulous disturbance of the air. Another chilly ring surrounding me. As I turned left and then left again, a grim voice spoke in my head. Do not be afraid. You are not alone…
One more step and the air and space around me changed dramatically. Hot. Dry. The scent of smoke and ash and seared stone. Air, stale and close. I believed I could reach out and touch walls on every side. Cool, damp hands grasped my own, and a man whispered in my ear, close enough that I could feel his warm breath. “Quickly, step forward. One moment…” I stood in the hot, airless darkness for a moment and felt the quivering boundary of the portal vanish. “You may remove your eye covering. You’ll not see me again after this day.”
I yanked off the kerchief. The tiny, windowless room was lit by one candle. My companion pressed his ear to a wooden door and then faced me. Wearing a well-tailored coat with a high collar, trimmed with a great deal of gold, and knee breeches and hose of light tan, he was almost as large a man as Gar’Dena, but a much harder man, who crowded the little room with his muscular presence. Yet, despite his robust frame, his complexion was gray and unhealthy-looking, and the hollows of his eyes were dark and sagging. My stomach tightened considerably when I saw that he wore the plain gold earring of the Zhid and that his eyes were cold and empty as only those of a Zhid can be. He bowed. “Welcome to Ce Uroth. This is quite a risk you take.”
“Perhaps not so much a risk as you take, sir.” To live as a Zhid, hiding one’s soul…
“But I have a great deal for which to make amends, which you do not, and I am accustomed to my risks. Now to our business-”
From somewhere not far from this room where we spoke so politely intruded such a dreadful scream that I thought it must be an animal at the slaughter. Such a notion was banished quickly when my host bowed his he
ad. “One thing at a time,” he whispered to himself, the cast of his skin even more sickly for that moment.
Unwrapping a square of coarse brown cloth, he revealed a thumbnail-sized slip of stamped metal. “The shipment of uncollared servants to Zhev’Na will occur at dawn. You will be added at the last moment. This is your identification tag. You know of them?”
“Yes.” Gar’Dena had told me of the plain metal tag, fixed to one’s left ear like the earrings of the Zhid, that carried a Drudge’s name and assigned duty, and the enchantments that compelled the servant’s obedience.
“To attach it will cause only brief discomfort. Your tag will carry your identification and a false enchantment- lacking any power of compulsion-but you understand that the least failure in obedience on your part will be noted and quickly remedied?”
“I understand.” I said it calmly. But my fists did not unclench until the sting in my earlobe had dulled, and I had proven to myself that I could still move and think as I wished.
A loud knock on the door made my host frown. He waved me into the deepest shadows in the corner of the room. I crouched in as small a space as I could manage between two stacks of crates.
“Slavemaster Gernald?” called the intruder.
“What is it?” growled my companion, holding the candle in front of his chest and pulling the door slightly open.
“Sir, Dujene has two more collars for this lot and wants to know if you intend to set the seals. He had already sealed the first, when I told him of your desire to set more of them yourself.” I could not see the speaker through the narrow opening of the door.
“Good.” The man snuffed the candle and set it on a stack of crates beside the door. “Yes, I want to be there for all collarings until further notice. I’ve had too much work and too little pleasure lately. Nice when one can experience both together.” He stepped out and closed the door behind him. The rattle and snap of a hasp left me feeling not at all secure.
For half an hour or an hour I huddled in the dark room. It seemed to be a storage room for ledgers and documents of various kinds. My anxieties were not soothed by the bone-chilling screams that occurred twice more. Shortly after the second instance, I heard voices outside my hiding place. “Is that all, Slavemaster?”
“I’ve no more need of you tonight. I plan to sup, to make one more attempt to find the records Gensei Seto requested, and then to retire.”
“As you wish, Slavemaster.”
A door closed. Shortly thereafter, my own was unlocked and opened. The Zhid shoved a small flask and a plate of meat, cheese, and bread into my hands. “I would recommend you eat this. You’ll get nothing decent until your mission is complete.”
“Thank you.” I touched the small round loaf. It was cold and dry.
He lit the candle with a touch of his finger. “None but I have entry to this room. Nonetheless, I will lock the door until I come for you in a few hours. Do you have the scarf to cover your hair? No female servant is permitted to have uncovered hair.”
I pulled the red kerchief from my pocket. “I have it.”
“Don’t forget it. I wish you a safe night. May our work be the redemption of the worlds.” He didn’t sound like a man who could have caused such screams as I had heard, but I suspected that he was. Perhaps that accounted for the diseased look of him.
The door closed behind him again, the lock snapped, and I was abandoned in the pool of candlelight. As I picked at the tasteless cheese and bread and sipped from the flask of warm ale, I imagined with a twinge of jealousy how Paulo would curl up on the hard floor and be asleep in an instant. I didn’t know if I would ever be able to sleep in Zhev’Na. Of course, as is often the case when sleep seems impossible, at some point in that night, my mind let go and I drifted off. But some time later, when the key turned in the lock again, I was on my feet, wide awake, before my host reappeared in the doorway.
“Quickly. Quietly. Follow me.” He led me through a large, bare room with a wide desk and a single chair, and then through a dim passageway rife with unwholesome smells. Just outside a wooden door fastened with a long bolt, he motioned me to be still. After a moment’s listening, he quietly guided the bolt from its latch, cracked the door, and peered through. Beyond the door a goodly number of people were murmuring and milling about. A harsh-voiced woman shouted for attention.
The Zhid closed the door, grabbed my arm, and drew me close. He held up three fingers and pointed toward the door. I didn’t get his meaning until he motioned again, counting one finger and then two… When the third finger came up, he cracked the door open just wide enough to shove me through. I stood at the rear of a line of fifteen or twenty rumpled, sleepy people moving slowly forward through a cavernous room. All were dressed as I was.
Another, larger group of Drudges-perhaps fifty altogether-were being led through a wide door into another room, prodded by three Zhid with long sticks who kept yelling at them to be quiet or he’d have them eating sand for a week. Behind them a gaunt man, barefoot and wearing a short gray tunic, dragged a wheeled sledge piled high with rough mud-bricks. The wide metal collar around his neck told me he was a Dar’Nethi slave.
Near the head of the line in which I stood, three Zhid stood at a fuzzy discontinuity in the air that I now recognized as a magical portal. One of the Zhid, a woman, questioned those in line and ticked off items on a list. Another seemed to be matching the responses with the ear tag. A third Zhid laid his hand on the head of every person before they passed through the portal. Hunting Dar’Nethi, certainly.
“Name and service,” snapped the woman writing the list to a hunched man in line ahead of me.
“Grigo, butcher.”
“Step through.”
“Name and service.”
“Mag, scrub.”
“Step through.”
“Name and service.”
“Eda, sewing.”
“Step through.”
And so I did and found myself at last in the heart of all my fears-Zhev’Na.
CHAPTER 28
I stepped from the portal into a barren courtyard: pounded red dirt surrounded on all sides by buildings of dark stone or red mud-brick. Gray wisps of night lingered in the dim colonnade that marked the east side of the yard, while the rising sun had already heated the broad square. Despite the heat, I crowded together with the other drab, silent bodies, all of us shapeless in our brown tunics and black skirts or baggy trousers.
The guard handed his list to a tall Zhid woman who announced herself to be Kargetha, a supervisor of uncollared servants in the fortress. Kargetha clearly did not relish being saddled with twenty dull, sleepy Drudges, and dispatched us to our duties as quickly as possible. Some were sent to the kitchens, others to the stables or the smithy, herded along by Zhid assistants.
I was the last on the list, and by that time, Kargetha had no subordinates left to show me the way, so with an ungracious poke of a sticklike finger, she pointed me toward a set of worn stone steps on the north side of the courtyard. Down the steps and to the right was a low-ceilinged, windowless room with pallets laid out on the floor-a dormitory where twenty or thirty people could sleep. The room was stifling and smelled as if it had been neither cleaned nor aired since this part of the fortress was built, long before the Catastrophe.
“This is your sleeping place. Leave your things.” I dropped the small bundle that Gernald had provided me next to the grimy pallet Kargetha indicated. Then I followed her back up the steps and across the courtyard toward the long mud-brick building backed up against a high wall. She led me through one of the many open doorways into a crowded, wood-floored room. In the front of the room stood a broad table, piled high with rolls of brown and gray cloth and stacks of flat, cut pieces of the same. Two women dressed like me stood next to the table stitching the pieces into garments. At another table, three more women were hemming a huge square of raw linen. Without any introductions, I was assigned the fourth side of the square. “Do as they do.”
I picked
up a needle from those stuck into the wood frame of the table, threaded it with cotton from a large wooden roll, and began to fold the edge and stitch as the others were doing. Kargetha spent the rest of the morning at my shoulder, ripping out stitches that she judged too large or too uneven or too crooked. She was very particular and demonstrated her displeasure by rapping a short stick across my knuckles.
As the morning passed, the sewing room grew hot and stank with the sweat of the women. Kargetha decided she’d seen enough. “You’re slow and incompetent,” she said with a snort. “I don’t know how you’ve survived this long. You’d best improve your skills or you’ll be sent into the desert for hunting practice. Here”-she nudged me toward another of the women-“that’s Zoe. Do as she says.”
Zoe was an older woman with broken yellow teeth and mottled skin. She and the other Drudges wore the faces of brutalized women everywhere: old beyond their years, worn and battered by filth and poor food, eyes holding little intelligence and no hope. Once Kargetha had gone, the women began to talk quietly as they worked, mostly about the heat, and the dullness of the needles, and the coarseness of the thread with which they were expected to do decent work. Unlike the Dar’Nethi slaves, Drudges were permitted to speak without asking permission.
Zoe, being in charge of the group, took it on herself to question me about how I had come to be sent to Zhev’Na. She nodded sagely as I finished my story. “Aye, there’s a deal of us here as have lost a mate or three in the camps.” Zoe pointed her needle at a younger, slack-lipped woman.