“Say ‘hello’ to the palace for us!” someone responded, provoking a round of laughter.
Theus looked over at the auctioneer, who looked down at someone off the stage, then gave a curt nod of his head.
“The auction is concluded for today. Come back to see more fine specimens at our next auction,” the man announced to the crowd. He looked over at Theus. “Follow Pastin,” he pointed down the steps on the side of the stage. “And enjoy the king’s hospitality.”
Then he was gone, and Theus gamely limped over to the steps, and cautiously and painfully let himself down.
“Let’s show some hustle. We want to be done with this before nightfall,” a burly employee of the auctioneer told Theus, grabbing the collar of Theus’s shirt and pulling him forward.
Theus promptly fell down, and cried out in pain as his injured leg struck the paving stones that covered the area.
“Alright, I’ll bring the wagon to you. Stay put,” Pastin directed Theus, then left him alone.
“Voice, where are you?” Theus asked. “Can you help me now? I need you.”
There was no answer once again. The invisible advisor had abandoned Theus.
Theus had never known why the voice had chosen to speak to him. He had never detected any pattern to the visits of the voice. The invisible guide had clearly been a follower of the god of the mountains, Limber; Theus had assumed that after the extraordinary visits to the crumbling temple on Jewelers Lane in Great Forks. Whatever the reason for the relationship had been, Theus knew he had benefitted from it.
But Theus knew of nothing he had done to deserve to be so completely cut off from attention and help. And he was in circumstances that demanded any assistance possible. Theus wasn’t worried about how quickly he would be able to return to Great Forks to see Coriae, or even how quickly he could gain his freedom. Theus was fundamentally worried about whether he was going to stay alive much longer.
“Alright, climb up here,” Pastin’s voice broke through Theus’s reflections. The man had a cart, drawn by a pair of mules. Theus smiled at the sight of the animals, a reminder of the life he had known while working for the traveling merchant Grant in the caravan. What had ever happened to Grant, Theus wondered. The caravan had seemed to have disappeared after Theus had been pushed off the bridge over the Landwide River in the wilderness and parted ways with the travelers.
“Move it along,” Pastin urged Theus. As soon as the boy managed to lift himself in the back of the carriage, Pastin attached another set of shackles to his ankle, then climbed onto the bench in the front and set the vehicle in motion, traveling away from the auction block by the docks, and presumably towards the palace of the king of Southsand.
Chapter 3
Theus felt feverish and tired and hungry and frightened as the carriage rolled out from the warehouses near the docks, and entered the city of Southsand proper. He closed his eyes and let his head droop forward, his chin resting on his chest as the carriage bumped along the road. After several minutes of rest he wearily opened his eyes and looked at the passing tableau.
The city of Southsand looked much like the city of Great Forks, he thought. The streets held people and horses and carts, going about everyday business. The buildings were shabbier than he thought Great Forks’s were, and the air felt warmer than it did in that early autumn season in Great Forks. He closed his eyes again, and wondered if he would be able to find the ingredients needed to create the cure his infected injuries called for.
The carriage came to a stop, and Theus realized he had dozed during the journey to the king’s palace. From his view of the road the carriage had already passed over, Theus could see that they had entered a large plaza, whose circumference was bordered by elegant buildings. He slowly craned his neck around to look forward, and saw that they were stopped at a gate in a very tall and imposing wall, waiting in a line behind other vehicles.
He turned back around and closed his eyes to wait, as the carriage inched forward with periodic movements, then he listened to the carriage driver speak to the guards at the gate.
“What business at the palace?” a voice asked in a bored rasp.
“I’m delivering a new slave to the palace,” Pastin replied from the driver’s seat.
“Which part of the palace? Who bought him – the stables, the kitchen, the household?” the first voice asked.
“He wasn’t bought,” Pastin’s voice was lower and hesitant. “He didn’t sell in an auction, so he defaults to the palace.”
“What kind of a screwy rule is that? Why give us the scrapings of the barrel? Better to just turn around and dump him in the harbor,” the guard at the gate said dismissively.
“It’s the king’s own rule,” Pastin replied defensively.
“Fine,” the guard harrumphed. “Take him to the kitchen and let them deal with him.”
Theus felt his spirits rise for the first time in days. The kitchen held the items he needed to produce a remedy to treat his infections, or at least most of the items. He might have a chance to heal his wounds. He might have a chance to get healthy. What would come after that was unknown, but it didn’t matter at the moment.
The wagon jerked forward, and Theus watched as the wagon rolled past the guards and into the roads that were paved inside the thick masonry walls. The open space inside the walls of the palace was wide, wide enough that Theus’s father would have been able to plant a field of potatoes big enough to feed the family for the year, he thought. He hadn’t thought of his family in some time, he realized. The memories of his life on the family farm were still vivid, he was sure, though he suddenly realized he wasn’t sure what color his smallest brother’s eyes were.
He could remember the clear green eyes that Coriae had, eyes that stood out against her brown skin. Somehow, he had to find a way to get back to her.
“Theus, you’re alive!” he barely heard the faintest sense of his guiding voice, speaking to him for the first time in days. He hadn’t heard from the voice since he’d boarded the Swaigg. He could barely hear it at all; but he had.
“Voice!” he spoke aloud, joyfully. “Where have you been?”
“The evil is dense, and the barriers,” he heard the voice speak, but it faded out, and he heard no more.
“What are you talking about back there? Who are you talking to?” Pastin called back to Theus.
“No one,” Theus muttered, his head hanging once again as he realized that the voice wasn’t able to reach him. He’d wait, and try again later.
“So not only are you a lame and wounded mess, but you’re talking to the empty air,” Pastin muttered. “The guard was right; we should have just dumped you in the harbor.”
The carriage rolled along, then made a turn and followed a different road that headed straight towards the palace. Theus shuffled his body and craned his neck to look at the building.
It looked hostile. His first impression was of a building designed as a barrier. The windows were narrow and high off the ground. There were no attractive decorations, only the plain stone walls. The palace reared high above the surrounding grassy lawn, without anything to break up the monotony of the flat landscape.
There were guards patrolling around the exterior of the palace, and even some on top of the building, Theus saw. It wasn’t a place to tread lightly.
The carriage pulled through an arched opening, and beneath a portion of the palace, then emerged in the rear of the building, and rolled to a stop.
“Out of the cart. Your good times are over. You belong to the palace now,” Pastin spoke without facing Theus as he climbed off the carriage. “You stay here.”
Theus saw Pastin climb a half-flight of stone steps and disappear inside a doorway, while Theus rolled to his good side and slid off the carriage, then waited, as the shackled chain rattled before it settled into silence.
Minutes later Patin backed out of the door, listening to someone onside.
“You left him out here unattended? He’s either run off or h
e’s dead,” a woman’s voice called shrilly.
“He’s chained, my lady,” Patin protested as he descended the steps.
A woman stepped out onto the porch space at the top of the steps and disdainfully watched Pastin, then turned her eyes on Theus.
She was an attractive woman, someone who appeared as old as his mother, or older. But she was not as care worn as his mother; her face appeared smooth and wrinkle-free. Her eyes were cold and chilling though. Her hair was short, and whiter than any human hair he had seen in his life.
Pastin pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the shackle around Theus’s good leg.
“She is your new master; go to her and obey her, you foreign scum,” Pastin directed Theus. The man pulled the loose chain up into the back of the wagon, then climbed onto the bench as Theus began to walk around the carriage towards the steps. Pastin chucked the reins, and the mules pulled the wagon away.
Theus took a deep breath when he reached the bottom of the steps. There was no railing, no aid to help him make the painful climb up.
“Move faster; I don’t have all day to stand here and wait on you,” the woman told him impatiently. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I was injured in a battle, my lady,” Theus explained, as he swung his good leg upward, then pulled the wounded one up after.
“Slaves like you are always wounded, always trying hard, always failing,” the woman answered harshly. “Now, don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. Get in the kitchen and let Letta take a look at you to see if you can be any good, or if we ought to give you to the stables.”
Theus started to ask who Letta was, but stopped himself from risky further disapproval from the icy woman. He would stumble into the kitchen and hope to find the right person in one way or another.
A full minute later, the woman snorted in disgust and stopped waiting for Theus. She left the doorway with a muttered insult, and left Theus alone to enter the palace.
He found himself in a roomy vestibule, where several crates of produce were stacked, including artichokes, which he knew he needed to concoct one of the remedies he hoped to mix in the kitchen. He grabbed one with his good hand, then walked through the largest doorway and into the palace kitchen.
There were many similarities between the kitchen in the Southsand palace and the kitchen in Warrell’s mansion. But there were also differences, the most notable one being the difference in size. The palace kitchen appeared to be at least five times as big as Warrell’s kitchen. There was one entire wall that was a collection of ovens, so many that Theus couldn’t begin to estimate how many loaves of bread might be baked at any one time.
People walked about with purpose, but not as many as Theus would have expected in such a large facility. There were large swathes of the kitchen that were unattended.
Theus had no idea which of the half dozen people he saw were Letta, the woman he was supposed to let judge his fitness to serve in the kitchen. He stopped and leaned on a counter to look around. In one direction he saw several empty counter spaces, in another direction he saw dishes being scrubbed, and in a third direction he saw an open pantry door, within which there were many commodities and herbal items.
He felt an inspiration. Theus quickly placed his purloined artichoke on one of the empty counters, then walked to the pantry and surveyed the herbs and spices. Three quarters of the ingredients he wanted to use were plainly visible; without hesitation, he lifted the containers one by one, tucked them between his wounded arm and his body, then turned and shuffled back to his counter with the canisters.
He bent and looked beneath the counter, where he found a bowl. The next several minutes were spent making measurements that were only approximations of the amounts needed, and then he carried his plundered resources back to the pantry and restored them as best he was able to remember where they went. But when he returned to his counter once again, he found that a woman was waiting there, lifting his bowl and swirling the contents, observing the mixture within.
“Good day, chef,” she said brightly. She was an attractive woman, of medium height, with a pale complexion that made her dark eyes seem larger. Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun.
He had been caught, Theus could tell. The polite greeting was only a façade, an opening line before she was going to lower the boom on him.
“My lady,” he began, “I’m a new slave for the king. I wanted to heal myself, so I began to mix a remedy to treat my wounds,” he explained. “Are you the lady Letta?”
I am Letta, the chief slave of the palace kitchen. Since you know my name, you must know that you should have come to see me before you began to waste the king’s kitchen supplies on this waste,” the woman said calmly. She reached out and grabbed the wrist of his injured arm, then gently pulled it forward. Theus winced but allowed his injured limb to move as her firm grasp directed.
She stared at the arm, then look at his leg, the angry red flesh visible where his pants remained slashed as a result of the battle he’d fought on board the Swaigg.
“You’d be better to just have these amputated,” she said calmly. “The poison must be spreading to the rest of your body already.”
“This remedy will heal it, if I just have two more ingredients – antimony and mistletoe berries,” Theus insisted.
“Nobody can heal a mess like you’ve got. I’ll call the surgeon,” she dismissed his comment as she released his arm.
“My remedy is tested, my lady,” Theus reached forward with his good hand and held Letta’s hand in his own. There were smudges of flour on her wrist he noticed.
“Unhand me,” she said calmly.
Theus released his hold.
“My apologies. I’m sorry,” he said sincerely. He was a slave, and he suspected his touch was a severe violation of what was permitted.
“If you ever touch me again without my permission, I’ll have you flayed alive,” Letta spoke matter-of-factly.
“Were you a physician in some other life?” she asked. “No, of course not. Look at your age. You’ve barely started to shave or look at women.”
“I worked in a shop. I learned many remedies,” Theus replied. “If you have some ailment, tell me and I may be able to heal it for you,” he offered eagerly.
The pain in his leg grew momentarily severe, making him wince and stagger momentarily.
“I can’t afford to be soft. I have a kitchen to run and delicate appetites to please,” Letta showed a flash of annoyance.
“But I’ll send for antimony and mistletoe. In the meantime, tell me what you’d need to cure itchy feet, the type of itching that is constant and burning,” Letta directed.
“Let me see your feet to make sure I understand the problem,” Theus requested.
“It’s not for my feet. Do you know a remedy or not?” she asked sharply.
“I know two,” Theus replied, an edge of desperation creeping into his soul. The question was a test, he was sure, and his future depended on answering it correctly. “Knowing more about the problem will help me make the correct salve to cure the problem.”
“Make both of them,” Letta told him. “What does it take? Are they expensive?”
“One requires only baking soda, mustard seeds, salt, Grace tree oil, and sour milk,” Theus rattled off a remedy. “The other requires walnut hulls, blueberries, quicksilver, distiller’s spirits, and powdered pumice.”
“You rattled those off like you really know what you’re talking about,” Letta observed. She paused.
“Go write down everything you need on a piece of paper on the desk over there,” she pointed towards a corner of the kitchen. “Do you have quarters assigned?”
“No my lady. You’re the first person I’ve spoken to since the white-haired lady directed me to see you,” Theus answered.
“Colandra sent you to me, did she?” Letta asked softly. “This will be delicate.
“Now go over there,” Her voice returned to its firmer tone as she dismissed Theus.
&n
bsp; He felt her eyes upon him as he limped over to the desk, then gingerly lowered himself into a seat, and gave a sigh of relief as he took his weight off the wounded leg. If he had a blade, he’d be best served by cutting the wounds open and letting the pus drain away freely, while he waited for the treatments to be applied, he knew. That would be his next order of business, as soon as he wrote his list of needed materials.
He plucked a quill pen and dipped it in the ink well, then began to write on a small piece of white paper, listing the ingredients he wanted in three different lines of text. Satisfied with his work, he put the pen carefully back in its place, then stood and waved the paper to dry the ink while he looked around for Letta’s location.
His arm sent a spasm of pain shooting up to and through his shoulder. When he looked down, he saw the angry red streaks climbing through his flesh from the infected battle wounds, and the skin drawn tightly over the unhealthy area. He would have to pierce his wounds and let them drain sooner rather than later, his imposed memories told him. It would be painful for him, and an ugly sight for others, he realized as he watched his mind’s eye relive those scenes that the ancient memory stone had imposed upon him.
It wasn’t something Letta would want to take place in the kitchen, he was sure. The now dry list of needed ingredients was still in his hand, he realized, before he laid it down on the counter.
He hobbled over to the blocks that held numerous knives, and selected one, then returned to the doorway he had entered the kitchen through. On the outside of the palace wall the same intimidating steps without railings remained in place, daunting his faltering courage as he stood at their summit. He looked to his right and saw that past the end of the drive there was a paved yard, and on the far side of the yard was a stable. Either the yard or the stable would do, and the stable would provide some privacy from prying eyes, if he could make it that far.
He took a deep breath, and then exhaled. He made the first step down the stairs, the paused before he attempted the second step. He felt his injured leg start to tremble with weakness, on the verge of collapsing beneath him, so he threw himself down into a sitting position on the steps, where he sat and winced and moaned.
The Deadly Magician (The Memory Stones Series Book 2) Page 3