Faces of Deception

by Troy Denning

  Naraka swam up alongside Atreus, dagger flashing in one hand and sword flailing in the other. Atreus rolled off the far side of his mount and let his sword sink into the river, pulling himself under the beast’s shaggy belly. He could see Naraka’s legs in front of him, kicking madly as the patrol leader pulled himself onto the yak’s back. One foot nearly caught Atreus in the head. He ducked out of the way, then kicked hard and came up behind his foe.

  Naraka realized his mistake as soon as he heard Atreus’s head break the surface. He pushed off the yak, turning to face his attacker. Atreus cupped both hands and slapped the patrol leader’s ears. Naraka’s eyes lit with pain. He began to sink, too dazed to keep himself afloat. Atreus caught him by the arm and knocked the dagger loose, and by then Naraka had recovered enough to raise his sword.

  Atreus knuckle-punched him in the throat, but even that did not stop the determined patrol leader. The sword flashed down. Atreus shoved a hand up and caught hold of the wrist. In the next instant, the fingers of Naraka’s other hand were ripping at his waist, gouging into his wound and tearing at the flap of loose skin. Atreus screamed and felt his chest fill with cold water, and he began to sink.

  He reached up and caught Naraka by the throat, trying desperately to crush his attacker’s windpipe, but the cold water had sapped his strength. It was all he could do to keep squeezing. Naraka tried to jerk his sword arm free, but the patrol leader was growing weak too. He followed Atreus beneath the surface, and they hung in the icy current for a long time, clutching and tearing at each other with cold-numbed fingers.

  Something crackled in Naraka’s throat His eyes bulged, and a filmy white bubble slipped from his lips. The sword tumbled from his hand, but Atreus continued to squeeze, even after he saw water fill the dead man’s open throat. He wanted to shake the patrol leader alive, to rebuke him for the prejudice and ignorance that had made them enemies in the first place. Of course, Naraka would not have listened. He was too good a soldier; he did as his queen commanded, whether that meant hunting down innocuous explorers or hurling himself into battle against ghastly devils.

  Feeling no regrets for killing him, Atreus pushed Naraka’s body away. The patrol leader might not have deserved to die because of his ignorance, but neither had Atreus, nor Yago, if that was what had become of the ogre.

  Atreus broke the surface coughing and gasping for air. He felt more weak than cold, though he could sense the river sucking more heat from his body with every passing moment. His yak was gone, swimming for the far shore, and the small slave boats were well downstream, zigzagging back and forth after the surviving members of Naraka’s patrol.

  Atreus thrust an arm up. “Here!” His voice was a mere croak, his legs so stiff he could barely tread water. “Help!”

  The distant dugouts paid him no attention. One of the little boats slowed, as a slaver pulled a limp rider half out of the river and slit the man’s throat. Atreus was too exhausted to be shocked. He merely hoped he would not meet the same fate.

  Upstream, Rishi cried out, “I have g-gold!” The Mar sounded as weak as Atreus felt. “Help me, and you shall be r-rewarded.”

  Atreus turned and saw Rishi splashing toward the big slave barge where half a dozen men stood just forward of the ramshackle cabin with the gaunt figure he had glimpsed earlier. There were no more boats coming around the bend, and all the others were well downstream, murdering the last of Naraka’s wounded riders.

  Rishi raised his hand, holding the small purse of gold Atreus had given him earlier. “I have gold,” he said. “It is yours!”

  The gaunt figure turned toward the center of the boat and barked a command. At once, the two oarsmen began to row against the current, holding the vessel in place. Rishi tucked his gold away and began to swim. Atreus followed, determined to find a place on the boat.

  As he neared the barge, Atreus saw that the gaunt figure looked more like a demon than any sort of human. His slimy, snakelike torso was covered in green-glistening scales, while his spindly fingers ended in filthy-looking claws long enough to disembowel a yak. To protect him from the frigid weather, he wore nothing more than a loincloth and a soiled yellow cape, and a long barbed tail flicked back and forth over his shoulder.

  His face was even more hideous than his body. He had a narrow, pointed head with a bony brow ridge, a pair of beady black eyes set deep in dark hollow sockets, and a huge nose dribbling mucus and shaped vaguely like an arrowhead. His flaky-lipped mouth stretched a full handspan across his face, exhibiting a row of jagged fangs that rose up from his lower jaw like saw teeth. Hanging from his chin was a greasy black beard braided into long spikes and teeming with white lice.

  When Rishi reached the boat, the hideous figure—Atreus supposed he was the slavemaster—dropped to his belly and thrust an arm over the side. “Pay up!” the demon called.

  To Atreus’s surprise, Rishi did not insist on being pulled aboard before yielding his gold. He simply withdrew the purse from inside his tunic and placed it in the fellow’s hand. “I c-can get you more … much more.…”

  Leaving Rishi to kick against the slow current, the slavemaster tore open the purse and pulled out a gold piece. He tested it on his teeth, then glared down at the Mar.

  “How much more?”

  “Enough to drown a yak!” Rishi reached up. “And it is all yours, for no more than sparing my life.”

  The slave master’s eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “You try to peel me, sod, and you’ll wish you drowned.”

  With that, he plucked Rishi out of the river and tossed him onto the deck like some half-dead fish. Atreus reached the boat, then began to scratch at the slimy hull, too sore and exhausted to call out for help. A scaly hand reached down and caught him by his wounded shoulder. Recalling the fate of Naraka’s men, Atreus raised his good arm to block the expected dagger, already starting to explain why his life should be spared.

  There was no need. The slavemaster jerked him out of the water and dropped him on the deck beside Rishi, then kneeled down and brought his face close to Atreus’s. His breath stank of rotten fish.

  “You don’t smell like no Walker!”

  “Walker?”

  “If you got to ask, you ain’t,” said the slave master. “So what in the Thousand Darknesses are you?”

  “A m-man, of course,” Atreus said indignantly. “A human being.”

  The slave master’s lip curled into a sneer, revealing a stringy mass of rotten gum. “You’re a funny one, bubber. Could be worth something in Baator.” He faced the ramshackle cabin in the stern. “Seema! Gather up your brews and come out here. I got something for you.”

  The slave master turned to Rishi, who was lying beside Atreus shaking. “Now, where’s this gold you were jabbering about?”

  Rishi paled and said, “Just up the river.” He cast an angry glance in Atreus’s direction. “In the river.”

  “What do you mean, in the river?” The slave master asked angrily, jerking Rishi up by the collar. “Like on the bottom?”

  “It is his fault, Terrible One,” Rishi said, pointing at Atreus. “He sank it!”

  The Terrible One’s barbed tail began to twitch. He rose, casually lifting Rishi with one hand. “It don’t matter who sank it, addlepate,” he said. “You tried to bob me. All the gold in this squalid little world does me no good on the bottom of a river!”

  “The river is not deep,” Rishi offered, pointing upstream. “Take me back to that bend tomorrow, and I can dive down and find it for you!”

  The slave master considered this, his fangs scratching his upper lip. Finally, he tucked Rishi under one arm and started forward. Rishi’s feet clipped the heads of some of the captives as the fiend stepped over rows of neatly chained slaves. The two oarsmen heard him coming and scrambled out of the way, allowing the boat to drift as the Terrible One passed. Even the bow guards scurried away to give him a wide berth.

  The slave master draped Rishi over the side. “Prove it,” he said.

  The slaver o
pened his hand, and Rishi splashed back into the river.

  Atreus gasped and started to rise, but stopped when a stinging whip wrapped itself around his throat.

  “Sit down,” said a gruff voice behind him. The guard at the other end of the whip jerked the handle, and the coil grew so tight that Atreus began to gasp. “Tarch didn’t say you could watch.”

  “And yet, did he say you were allowed to harm this man?” The question came from the shack on the stern. Though heavily accented with a strange dialect of Maran, the woman’s voice was as pure and lyrical as a lyre. “This man should not be strangled.”

  The guard continued to hold the whip taut, choking Atreus. “What?” he asked, then turned to the door. “You think you’re giving orders now?”

  “It is an observation, not an order. This man will die if you keep strangling him.”

  Atreus grasped the whip cord and managed to loosen the coil enough to breathe, then twisted around to see a dark-haired woman emerging from the shack. In her hands, she held a wooden tray.

  “Did Tarch not say that this one is meant for Baator?”

  “Tarch says a lot of things.” Despite his words, the guard flicked his whip, loosening the coil. He kicked Atreus in the thigh, then said, “We’re watching you. Try anything, and we’ll whip you skinless.”

  The woman kneeled on the deck beside Atreus and said to the guard, “I am sure he will be very cooperative.”

  She was dressed simply, in a heavy tabard of dark yak-hair over an equally heavy tunic, and she wore her black hair twisted into silky braids. Her face was round and gentle, with a small nose and almond eyes as deeply brown as mahogany. There was a peacefulness in her bearing that seemed to well up from inside and envelope her in a halo of grace, and when she smiled at Atreus she was more beautiful than any priestess of Sune.

  “I am Seema. I will look to your wounds, yes?” the woman said. She looked straight into Atreus’s eyes and betrayed no sign of revulsion or abhorrence, or even that she had noticed the hideousness of his face. “How do you feel?”

  “Yes … er, fine.” Atreus was so stunned by her beauty and her reaction to his ugliness—or rather, her lack of reaction—that he could hardly follow her questions. “Perhaps a little cold, Atreus—uh, I mean I am Atreus … Atreus Eleint.”

  Seema nodded, pulled his arm away from his waist, and examined the wound there. Her hand on his skin felt as warm as the sun. “Do you feel weak, Atreus?”

  Atreus nodded, unable to take his eyes off her face. “Tired.”

  Seema smiled again, displaying a set of teeth as white as snow, and pulled off his sopping cloak. She tossed it aside, then started to unlace Atreus’s tunic. He found himself wondering how such a beautiful and kindly woman could be working with a crew of slavers. Certainly, it was not unusual for attractive women to associate with evil men, but such women were never truly beautiful. They lacked the grace and serenity that Seema radiated so clearly.

  “This man is very wet and tired,” Seema said, glancing at the guard who had lashed Atreus earlier. “There is danger of the cold sleep.”

  The slaver scowled, then hung his whip on his belt and disappeared into the cabin. A moment later, he tossed a pair of dry blankets out on the deck, calling, “I’ll find some clothes.”

  Seema smiled to herself and pulled Atreus’s tunic over his head. When she saw the festering wound beneath his collarbone she raised her brow and poked around the edges until a stream of yellow ichor poured out. She grimaced and started to unfasten his empty sword belt.

  Atreus caught her hands between his. “I, uh … I can manage.”

  Seema glanced down at his shivering fingers and looked confused, but she shrugged and said, “As you wish.”

  As Atreus struggled to remove the last of his clothes, Seema began to take cloth satchels from inside her tabard and drop pinches of pungent, brightly colored powders into an earthenware bowl. Atreus wrapped a blanket around himself and became so caught up in watching her lithe fingers that he did not remember Rishi until one of Tarch’s men called out.

  “There he is! He’s got a rock or something.” An instant later, the guard added, “He’s going under again.… I think he’s drowning.”

  The rest of the guards rushed over to the side where the lookout was pointing behind the boat. Tarch roared a command, and the oarsmen began to row against the current. The slave master came rushing back, kicking the heads of helpless captives in his mad scramble to step over them.

  “I’ve lost him,” the guard reported.

  “Get in there and find him, berk!”

  The slaver glanced down at the river. “You mean jump in?” he asked, surely knowing the answer.

  Atreus started to rise, but Seema caught him by the arm and shook her head. “Leave it to the guards,” she told him. “You are too weak.”

  Tarch cleared the last row of slaves and bounded toward the side of the boat, his tail whipping back and forth so fiercely that it swept the feet from beneath one of the men guarding Atreus. The slaver at the side peeled off his weapon belt and reluctantly hopped into the water.

  Seeing the attention of the guards fixed on the river, Seema leaned in closer and whispered, “Your friend is safe enough for tonight, but I think he should not show Tarch where to find the gold. Tarch says he must die for what he did.”

  “Leading the queen’s men to the river?” Atreus asked.

  “Tarch did not say what angered him,” Seema answered. She put away her pouches and poured water over the pungent mixture she had prepared. “I suppose leading those men here may be the offense.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Why should I?”

  Atreus raised his brow, then glanced at the slavers lined up along the side of the boat. “I thought you were one of them,” he said.

  “By the lotus, no!” The anger in her eyes vanished as quickly as it had appeared. She pointed her chin at the rows of slaves ahead and said, “I am one of them.”

  Atreus did not know whether to despair or rejoice. Enslaving someone as beautiful as Seema was a terrible outrage against Sune, and it would have been an equal blasphemy for her to be one of the slavers.

  “Forgive my witless tongue,” he said. “I am as stupid as I am ugly.” Atreus felt himself blushing and turned away, knowing that the color only served to emphasize his motley complexion. Hoping to excuse his affront with an explanation, he gestured at her feet. “When I saw no chains, I thought you were one of them.”

  “You are no more stupid than you are ugly,” Seema said. “Tarch wants no scars on me. He says his buyers will pay a hundred times more for the chance to ‘paint their own canvas.’ ”

  Atreus did not know what to say, so he said nothing.

  Seema began to stir her mixture with a finger, at the same time speaking in a soft Maran dialect that sounded more ancient and delicate than any Atreus had heard so far. Wisps of steam began to rise from the bowl. She continued to stir and avoided looking into Atreus’s eyes.

  “I am not sure I understand what kind of buyer Tarch is thinking of,” she said. “Do you know, Atreus?”

  “I can only guess.” Atreus reached out but stopped short of actually clasping her shoulder. He had long ago learned that few women found comfort in his touch. “Don’t let it worry you,” he said. “Whatever Tarch has in mind, I’ll stop him.”

  Seema raised her gaze. “Now you are sounding foolish,” she said simply. “No one can stop Tarch.”

  8

  Atreus stopped shivering after the third swallow of Seema’s steaming elixir, and by the fifth swallow his strength was returning. The concoction tasted of flower pollen and pine needles, yet it sat in the stomach like a good hearty stew, fueling the furnace inside and chasing the cold ache from his muscles.

  With warmth came pain. His festering shoulder wound started to throb again, and the gash in his waist kept sending fingers of agony through his abdomen. Even with his strength returning, Atreus was in no condition to escape or f
ree Seema, yet he feared the situation would only grow worse after his captors finally plucked Rishi from the river.

  Atreus allowed himself three more swallows of the restorative, drinking slowly and carefully so he did not dishonor Sune by dribbling down his long chin. After lowering the bowl, he glanced around the deck. The guard who had gone to fetch him dry clothes was still inside the cabin, but the other slavers were all gathered along the side of the boat, jeering at the man Tarch had chased into the river after Rishi. No one was paying attention to Atreus or Seema.

  “The guards aren’t very watchful,” Atreus observed. He glanced at the dimming sky. “What happens after dark?”

  Seema shrugged and said, “It is difficult to say. This will be our first night on the river, but in the mountains the guards chained the other slaves to boulders and took turns watching them.”

  “And you?” Atreus asked.

  “Tarch kept me with him.” Seema looked away. “He said it was to protect me from his men, and perhaps it was. Certainly no night passed without screams.”

  “Rishi said they have inns along the river,” Atreus said.

  “You must let me look to your wounds.” Seema pushed Atreus down to an elbow. “I may not see you after tonight. If the guards can have a fire, they will bring out their anvil and put on your manacles. After that, you will sit with the others until we reach Konigheim.”

  “Where we are to be sold?”

  Seema nodded. “There is a market there,” she said, then sprinkled yellow powder over Atreus’s mangled waist. The wound began to go numb. “Tarch says ‘bashers from all across the Multiverse’ will be waiting to buy from him.”

  A cry went up from the side of the boat, and the guards began to point into the water where Rishi had again broken the surface. Atreus sat up, gathering himself to spring. He hardly felt ready for a fight, but short of Yago’s sudden return—and he knew he could not trust in that—he would never have a better chance to free himself or his fellow captives.