The Bonemender's Choice

by Holly Bennett

  He let his thoughts play over the plunder he had piled in the ship’s belly. A disappointing haul, he would have said, but for the children. Those last two had been a lucky find, and the news of their royalty even luckier. Were they bluffing? No matter, Turga decided. Bathe and dress that girl properly, and with her glorious hair and startling round eyes she would look every inch the foreign princess.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  MATTHIEU HAD CURLED into his ragged blanket and fallen asleep soon after their evening meal. Madeleine was thinking about joining him—they all felt weak and tired now, worn out from the toxic mix of fear and inactivity. When she was sleeping, she could forget about the itching and the smell and the constant gnawing upset in her stomach.

  Then they heard orders called out from the deck above, a flurry of hurried footsteps overhead, the crackle of flapping sail, and the ship suddenly slowed. Luc’s head pricked up like a hound on scent.

  “They’re trimming the sails.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “They’re reducing the amount of sail so the ship goes slower,” he explained. “Taking some right down, or maybe folding ‘em up smaller. It’s for rough weather, or...”

  His eyes, scared now under his rough bangs, met hers. “Or for coming into harbor.”

  Madeleine’s belly became a live thing with teeth and claws, icy and hot and liquid. The fetid air was too thick to breathe—her chest heaved with the effort of drawing it in, but even so she was choked and dizzy. All this time, the deepest part of her had not believed it would come to this—that she would actually arrive in this hostile land, be torn away from her brother, exist only to serve the whim of the highest bidder. Now the pretense crumpled, and the scrape of the oars being fitted into the oarlocks, the jerky rhythm of their strokes, underscored her terror. This was no dream. Her father had not come. Time had run out.

  Then Luc’s arms were around her, strong despite the quaver in his own voice. “There, Maddy. There now.”

  She wrapped her arms tight and clung on. But though the comfort of his lean warmth helped her breath come easier, the swirling thoughts would not still: She would never see her mama grow old, never see Sylvain grow to a man. Never see the sun rise over the Avine River or ride through the Chênier hills. Never have a boyfriend or husband of her own, but only masters who—

  Madeleine raised her head and fixed Luc with blue eyes that blazed with equal parts fear and determination.

  “Luc—kiss me.”

  “What say?” Luc’s shock would have made her laugh in a happier time and place. Not now. She was fierce with urgency.

  “I mean it. Just one time I want to kiss a boy because I choose to. Because I like him, not because he bought me. Please—”

  She didn’t have to ask again. His lips were chapped—hers too—and they both stank. She didn’t care. They kissed each other for a long time, tenderly, sadly, and when they drew apart the scrabbly panic had receded. It was still there, but so was her own strength.

  She took a deep breath and stepped back. “I better wake Matthieu.”

  THE SHIP MADE berth in a flurry of commands and brisk activity. The children listened and waited, their tension ratcheting tighter minute by minute. They had hated this ship, but now they were terrified to leave it. When the men began pouring down the hatch-ways, they were sure they would be taken—but no one so much as glanced their way. The crew were busy at their bunks—rummaging through their kits, stuffing purses with coin, donning bright neck scarves or less filthy tunics—and then they were gone. Night and silence descended on the ship.

  “Will they just leave us here?” asked Madeleine.

  “Maybe just till morning,” suggested Luc. “The men—”

  “The men have gone drinking.” Matthieu jumped in, relieved, Madeleine saw, to have some diversion for his mind. “Remember what Uncle Tristan told us, Maddy, that the harbor tavern keepers were happy when Tarzine ships arrived? They always eat and drink lots—”

  Matthieu’s voice stopped abruptly and he turned away, his shoulders hunched as though fending off a blow. Madeleine understood. Matthieu adored his uncle, hung on his every word and exploit. With the mere mention of his name, Tristan had sprung as vividly into her mind as if he stood in the cramped cell beside them, and with him came all the other people she loved and longed for. Then they crumbled to dust and were gone.

  It was hot below decks—they were on land again in high summer, and the deepening night was thick and muggy. It was late when Madeleine fell into uneasy half-sleep, later still when a commotion on deck jolted her awake, her heart tripping like a frightened bird’s. But it was not morning—the open hatchways were black still—and no one came for them. Now and then a group of men made their way to the berths by lamp or torchlight, rummaged with their things and climbed back up the hatches. The men were silent and their faces, when the flames caught them, were grim.

  She shook the boys awake. “Something’s happening.”

  Angry words sounded on deck, a proper tongue-lashing to hear it, and shouted commands, a flurry of footsteps, the scrape of oars in the oarlocks. The ship moved, almost imperceptibly at first and then in the jerky rhythm of hard rowing. Some time later, they heard the crinkle and flap of sails unfurling, and then felt the ship list as the night breeze tugged at the sails.

  “We’re heading out,” Luc muttered. “I don’t get it.” He was a voice in the blackness, nothing more.

  Madeleine’s mind was doing a complicated skittish dance, circling around the flare of hope that she was afraid to grab hold of.

  But Matthieu did it for her. “He changed his mind, that Turga. What else could it be? He’s taking us back home for ransom. That’s why the crew’s mad—they thought they were getting a holiday, and now they’re back to work!” His hand groped for hers, caught it, squeezed hard. She squeezed back, unable to speak around the hard ball of tears that had grown in her throat. She wanted so badly for Matthieu to be right. But she knew too much now, and she didn’t believe it.

  IT HAD NOT yet been fully dark when Turga’s first mate, Zhirak, had returned to the ship, his expression uneasy. “It’s bad, boss. Half of Baskir’s closed up—Grindor just ordered the plague flags hung out. It’s the Gray Veil, spreading fast if you believe the wenches at Puka’s. Of course, he’d be open for business if the place was on fire.”

  Turga cursed, his mind already racing ahead.

  “The auction?”

  “Closed. You know it hits young ones the worst. They don’t even want ‘em in the holding pens. No one will buy a slave that might spread sickness through the house and be dead in a week.”

  Children made up more than half of most auction offerings. Buyers considered them more trainable than adults, and better value in terms of potential years of service. But Zhirak was right— in this particular circumstance, youth was a liability.

  “Bring the men back.” There was no time to lose. Turga had seen the Veil at work long ago, seen his small brother whistle and gasp to breathe around the evil coating that spread over the back of his throat and filled up his tiny airways. The lad had lived, but plenty in their village had not.

  “Sir? They’re all over town by now.”

  “Find them!” The command was roared. “Take the three who came back with you and the two above-deck guards and scour the town. Haul their arses back to the ship, and demon-fire take you if you fail.”

  The startled men scrambled toward the catwalk.

  They would sail to Rath Turga at first light and keep the children there until the epidemic died down and the markets reopened. And he would promise gold to his own patron god, the axe-wielder Kiar, if the Great Hewer would only ensure that no invisible unwanted guest came aboard with the returning crew.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  TURGA’S STRONGHOLD WAS AN IMPRESSIVE SIGHT. The deep bay was nearly a lagoon, so tightly did the two craggy outcrops of land enclose it. The children did not see the ship’s journey through those straits, but they
heard the braying horns that announced Turga’s arrival.

  This time they were taken off the ship soon after it nudged up to the quay. Matthieu fought to keep hold of Madeleine, but they were pried apart by the three burly pirates who came for them. The bright morning stabbed at his eyes and made them water as he was thrust through the hatch and into the light—yet to feel the warm sun beating down and breathe sweet air again was lovely beyond belief. He squinted up at the massive building that brooded over the harbor.

  It seemed to grow out of the high cliff it was built upon, a squat, nearly windowless hulk of red stone enclosed by a matching wall. Smaller than Castle DesChênes, it was a good deal more imposing. It did not seem like a place where anyone would live.

  “It’s a fortress, Maddy,” Matthieu breathed, impressed despite his fear. “Like in the general’s stories of the old heroes.” Before she could answer they were pulled along, off the ship and along the jetty to a broad, hard-packed dirt road that skirted wide of the cliff-face and then snaked uphill to Turga’s stronghold.

  It was a long climb up to the fortress. The children were kept in single file, each escorted by a guard and flanked by the handful of crew members who were not assigned to unloading the ship. The sun was hot on Matthieu’s head and back, though it was not yet midmorning. The land that stretched out beyond the road had a dry, baked look, the vegetation sparse and dusty. Walking felt strange after so long at sea, and Matthieu’s legs tired quickly. Even the guards, he noticed, were breathing hard by the time they were halfway to the gate. Luc stumbled in front of him, loose stones and dust spilling down from the scrape of his shoe. The guard, who had let go of Luc’s arm to avoid falling himself, bent over to help the boy up. But Luc twisted around, kicked out hard to the pit of the guard’s stomach and was on his feet and running into the brush.

  He did it! The thought was a shout of triumph in Matthieu’s head, a lightning bolt of excitement. But Luc hadn’t made twenty paces before three pirates sprinted after him. They ran him down like a rabbit, and though he twisted and turned to escape their grasp, at the end he was sent sprawling into the hard-packed earth. Matthieu’s heart sank as Luc’s guard, recovered now, made his way down the slope to where Luc lay pinned. The man stood, expressionless, as Luc hoisted up to his knees and started to his feet. Then his heavy booted foot swung back.

  Matthieu heard Madeleine cry out behind him as the boot caught Luc under his ribs and lifted him into the air. A moment later he was slung between two pirates and hauled back to the road. He looks like a fish, thought Matthieu, the image absurd and horrifying at once. Luc’s mouth gaped in a fruitless attempt to suck air as the guards shouldered him back into place. Finally, when it seemed to Matthieu his friend must breathe or suffocate, Luc lifted his head and Matthieu heard the long gasping rush as his wind returned.

  Matthieu raised his eyes once more to the tall enclosure now looming and the thick red walls of the fortress beyond. He had been stupid to imagine such a place had anything to do with heroes and adventures and old tales. It was a prison, nothing more.

  DOMINIC GRIPPED THE handrail and stared across the wide bay to the dark blurry jumble that was Baskir. Could the wretched ship go no faster? The town crept into focus more slowly than his frayed nerves could stand. His children could be on the auction block even now, sold out from under his very nose, while the ship dawdled into port.

  It was a large town with an extensive harbor—he could see that now. It sat nestled into gentle green banks, but Dominic could see to the south the low bare mountains that marked the beginning of the dry upland plateau known as the badlands. This town, Yolenka had told him, marked the unproclaimed border where the rule of law lost its hold completely and the warlords held sway. The slave auction was just one of the illegal activities that thrived in Baskir, and its overlord, Grindor, was smart enough to ensure that wealthy visitors from the northern settlements were left to do their business in safety. “Many rich families in the north, even in the Emperor’s own city, have slaves,” Yolenka had told them with obvious disgust. “They say, ‘Oh, is my young servant, is daughter of my maid,’ and everyone knows what is truth but they say nothing. And the warlords fill their pockets and grow strong with the gold of these people.”

  They were closer now—the network of wharves reaching far out into the water, though with fewer ships at berth than Dominic would expect from so much docking space. His stomach clenched in a roil of doubt. This was not his style, sneaking around, adopting false roles and an innocent facade. Who on earth would believe he was married to a Tarzine dancer? He clung to the hope that they would be able to make a straightforward raid on the slave house without need for such playacting.

  Black banners flew at the end of each pier and from the higher buildings along the shorefront. That certainly seemed at odds with Yolenka’s taste for color. He tapped her shoulder, pointing them out.

  “What do the flags represent, Yolenka? Are they the city’s standard, or do they proclaim a warlord’s territory?”

  Yolenka squinted into the wind. Dominic had been around her enough now to recognize the curse that escaped her. She turned to him, her face stricken. But her reply was drowned out by a loud cry from one of the sailors. He was pointing to shore, yelling the same Tarzine word over and over. Soon all the men around them took up the refrain.

  “What is it, Yolenka?”

  They all clustered around her now, anxious to understand, but the din of the sailors made it impossible to hear until Derkh pointed to the hatch and led them to the relative quiet of the belowdecks.

  “Is warning to stay away.” Yolenka shook her head, words for once eluding her.

  “Is...sign of sickness, bad sickness that goes all through city. Is danger sign.”

  “Plague?” asked Gabrielle sharply. “Some sort of plague?” There had been no plague in the Basin during her lifetime, but she had heard of the terrible illnesses that could spread over a land, leaving behind more dead than could be decently buried.

  Yolenka shrugged. “I not know this word, plague. Is sickness that goes fast from one to other person, goes everywhere. They are closing city to keep it inside.”

  ONLY WHEN THE ship was turned around and heading back out to sea would the captain sit down to discuss a new plan. Braving the plague flags and entering Baskir was not an option he would entertain.

  “The children may not be there, in any case,” suggested Féolan. “Not if the banners were up when Turga arrived.”

  “The captain say we had fast crossing,” added Yolenka. “We are not more than two days behind.”

  “So if Turga sailed here and saw the banners, what would he do?” asked Dominic.

  “Go to his stronghold and wait where is safe,” said Yolenka. “Wait till slave market opens.”

  “But we can’t sail to—what is it called? Rath Turga? The captain said so.”

  The captain bent over his map, jabbed with a brown weathered finger. Yolenka nodded.

  “If it is open, no sickness, we can land here,” she translated. “Niz Hana. Is small harbor, only a few deep...ah...tie-up places. Hire cart, mule, travel to Rath Turga by road, is not so far. Captain waits with ship.”

  “How long?” asked Derkh.

  The captain considered. “Seven days should be enough,” Yolenka translated. “He waits ten. But if black flags go up in Niz Hana, he leaves and we are left.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “MATTHIEU, MADELEINE...I’M SORRY.”

  Madeleine looked across the cell to where Luc sat hunched on his iron bedstead, elbows on knees. He was scraped and scuffed everywhere, blood drying on his chin and palms and forearms. She winced at the thought of the bruise that must be spreading under his shirt and hoped no bones had been broken.

  “Sorry for what?”

  Luc glanced up through his rough fringe of hair, then away. “I said we’d all go together. But the sight of this building...And then I saw a chance—and I just kind of panicked and ran.

  �
�I’m sorry,” he said again. “I should have stuck with you.”

  “Luc, listen.” Madeleine looked at Luc, but her message was even more for Matthieu. She knew now what she wanted to say about the notion of escape.

  “There was no chance for us to all get away at once. There probably never will be. And there wasn’t really a chance for you, either.”

  “There was. My legs were just weak from bein’ cooped up for so long. Otherwise, I could’ve outrun ‘em.”

  Madeleine shook her head impatiently. “Even if you did. Then what? Where would you go?”

  Luc shrugged. “Down the coast. I know how to fish. I’d find some guy who could use a hand.”

  He had some kind of plan, at least. “It’s a good idea,” Madeleine conceded. “But without a word of Tarzine, you couldn’t even speak to anyone, or get any sense of whether they were inclined to take you in or take you back.”

  Luc glared at her. “What do you suggest then? Just give up?”

  “No! But bide your time.” Madeleine gestured to their leg chains. “Wherever we end up, it won’t be as guarded as this. They’ll have to let you out to work. Work hard, do what you’re told, let your master relax and start to trust you. Learn the language and how things work here. Then when a chance comes along, you’ll be ready.”

  Luc set his face and said nothing, but Matthieu was nodding in agreement. “If I get away, I’ll come look for you. Both of you.”

  “No, Matthieu.” This part was hard to say. Madeleine took a deep breath and plunged on. “If you get away, I want you to get home. Maybe father could pay a Tarzine merchant to search for us and buy us back. But if you try, you’re too likely to be recaptured. Don’t do it.”

  Could she really follow her own advice, Madeleine wondered—escape and leave Matthieu behind? It was unthinkable. But then, so was nearly everything about her life now.