"But what did he do?"
"He killed his brother!"
"That's worth a statue?"
"Don't you know nothing? His brother was king. When you kill the king, you get to be king. When you're the new king, you can't have a bunch of statues of the old king around. Whose monuments do you think we're taking these stones from?"
Joti didn't pursue the conversation. As soon as the mess was cleaned up, they were put back to work. The sun crept across the sky. Time thudded in Joti's ears. Finally, the guards yelled at them for break. Joti collapsed for a few minutes, then got in line at the water buckets.
He filled his cup and walked away from the crowd. Thirty feet across the dusty ground, a young man turned and gaped at Joti. Most of the man's teeth were gone, others broken. A thick, light green scar ran across his scalp. This was hairless, but he'd grown out the hair around it, leaving his head as patchy as a dying garden.
Seeing Joti staring, he grinned from ear to ear. A strand of drool fell from the corner of his mouth. The stupidity in his eyes was deeper than a chicken's. So deep that he didn't have enough brain to hurt anyone.
Yet as the man waved at Joti, grinning harder yet, Joti turned and ran in panic, clenching his throat to stop from vomiting. The guard hollered for them to get back to work. Joti returned to the line, heaving stones. His limbs didn't quit trembling until he was too tired to think of anything at all.
~
Summer stretched on. Slowly, his rope-chafed hands began to heal, callusing over. He thought in time his body might get used to the work as well, but the city-dwellers' bread was too weak to make him properly strong.
Six weeks into his labor, as they stood at the rope, waiting for the order to heave, the water carrier trudged back, full buckets dangling from the long rod bowed across his shoulders. The boy's face went ashen, then red. His eyes rolled up. He fell in the dust, thrashed spasmodically, and died.
The one-eared woman muttered, nudging the body with her sandaled toes. "Worthless Kran. Didn't even last six months!" She peered at her slave crew with small, black eyes. She pointed at Joti. "You. Come over here and stand up straight."
Feeling the eyes of the others upon him, Joti dropped the heaving-rope and stood in front of her, pulling back his shoulders. "Yes, ma'am?"
"Yep, you're definitely the weakest. Won't miss you. From now on, you carry the water."
She yanked the padded collar from the dead water carrier's shoulders, tugged it roughly over Joti's head, then laid the rod and buckets over his neck. A fellow slave was assigned to show him the way to the river. They walked along rutted streets of hard-packed gray dirt. The buildings were chunky and massive, occupying whole blocks, three and four stories high. Was everyone in the city as rich as Dame Fere?
Yet unlike her airy manor, here, every other balcony was occupied, with grubby men and women going in and out of the front doors as they pleased. The buildings weren't great big houses of wealthy chieftains. They were more like the tents of the Yatto tribe's All Family, who took in the orphans and the childless elderly, the men and women whose spouses beat them too much, the young boys whose families despised them for their softness.
But rather than the merry rainbow colors of the All Family, these people were grungy and drab. They watched each other with suspicion, and Joti with scorn.
In contrast to the dusty gray streets and buildings, the river was clear and blue. The slave showed him how to fill his buckets from a pump-operated tube that carried water from the river as if by magic. Joti lifted the yoke, the buckets straining at his shoulders, and trudged back to the monument. An empty pair of buckets awaited him. He dropped off his full buckets, fit the empty ones into the grooves at the end of the pole, and returned to the river.
The work wasn't as brutal as hauling stone, but it was more relentless. There were scores of thirsty, sweaty workers, and the stonemasons needed water to work and clean their blocks. His only real breaks, such as they were, came when he was carrying the empty buckets down to the river. At least it was different. That made it feel less grueling, for the time being. But he already suspected that feeling wouldn't last for long.
It wasn't until his third day lugging water that it occurred to him he was no longer being watched at every moment. After dropping off a pair of buckets, he put two blocks between himself and the work site, then scampered down the main road.
Half a mile later, he drifted to a stop. Ahead, a stone wall enclosed the city, straddling the road, watch towers spaced along its circumference, gates monitored by soldiers with long spears.
Just seeing it sent a quiver up his legs. He turned around and went to the river to refill his buckets. As he bent to lift the yoke, his left knee went out from beneath him, tipping him to the side. A bucket slid free, spilling to the ground. The unweighted side of the rod flipped up, dumping the other bucket with a splosh and a wooden thunk.
"Son of a bitch!" Joti rubbed the side of his head where the rod had struck him. He bent to pick up the rod. Grasping it in both hands, he gazed down at its solid wooden length. He glanced around the river bank. There were others nearby bathing and washing laundry, but no one was paying him any attention.
He spread his feet to shoulder width, bent his knees, and thrust out the staff just as Fardo had taught him.
A shock like ice cold water rushed over his body. He executed a block, a disarming twirl of his lead wrist, a counter-thrust. His body yearned to continue, but he was already going to be late with the water. He filled his buckets, hung them from the staff, and hustled back to the colossus of the brother-slayer slowly rising over the city.
Two empty buckets awaited him. Ukkad the guard spat at his feet. "Pick up the pace, scum!"
Joti bowed, yoked the buckets, and headed for the river. He didn't have breaks, but if he could run the buckets back and forth—or at least jog with them—he could buy a few minutes to himself. Doing a bit of exploring, he found shortcuts down alleys and side streets.
He used the small time he carved out for himself to practice with his staff. Jabs and swings, blocks and sweeps, feints and pivots. In his hands, the staff felt right. The forms came back to him like he'd never stopped practicing. Between each run to the river, for five minutes, he was free.
Then he picked up his buckets and returned them to the great statue. He wondered if he would see it finished before he dropped dead.
~
He used to look forward to sleep. Now, he looked forward to the dawn. Dawn meant he could climb out of the musty, piss-smelling tunnels, hoist the buckets over his shoulders, and run off to train by himself.
The summer drew to a peak. Even the nights were too warm. One day, as Joti returned from the river with two full buckets, he returned to the statue to find the one-eared woman standing over a pair of empties.
She curled her lip. "Days are heating up, boy. We ran out of water five minutes ago. Get haulin' before I refill these buckets with your blood."
Not wanting to lose his brief training time, Joti picked up the buckets and ran from the statue toward the river. After a few blocks, he glanced back and saw a tall man walking briskly a block behind him. The man was dressed in the slavers' uniform. Ukkad.
Had someone at the river witnessed a slave practicing staff fighting and alerted the work site? The city forbid the slaves from bearing weapons of any kind. He would have to find an alley or somewhere more hidden to practice. And until Ukkad quit following him, he'd have to cease practice altogether.
At the river, he filled his buckets from the pump. He thought he felt a pair of eyes on him, but he was careful not to look around. Sunlight dazzled from the blue river. He hefted the full buckets, hiked up the bank, and threaded through the alleys toward the work site.
A sandal scuffed behind him. He spun, buckets sloshing, pulling him off balance. A rough hand clamped over his mouth.
"Quiet now," Ukkad said. "Keep your mouth shut, and it will only hurt a little."
He knocked the staff from Joti's back.
A falling bucket clipped Joti's right ankle; pain shot up his leg. Gripping Joti's shoulder, Ukkad turned him to face the stone wall. Joti bent forward and slammed his heel up between Ukkad's legs. The guard howled and cuffed him on the back of the head.
At the blow, and the stars it brought, Joti's heart felt like it exploded. He caught himself against the wall. He was still alive. Despite his fears, the punch hadn't put him back in the fog. Hadn't taken away his memory of his family and of himself.
But the next one might.
He dropped to the ground. Spilled water soaked through his breeches. He scrabbled for the staff. Ukkad cocked his knee, preparing to stomp on Joti's head. Just as he'd once jabbed at the bags of pebbles and leaves, Joti took aim at the slaver's planted ankle and rammed home the tip of the staff.
Something crunched. Ukkad yelled out and collapsed in a tangle of his own legs. Joti popped to his feet and punched the staff into Ukkad's cheek, tearing open the skin. Joti followed the thrust with two more, both at the same spot, red drops spattering the gray dirt.
Ukkad collapsed a little further with each strike. Joti knocked away the man's hand, breaking the guard's knuckles, and drew back for a full swing. The blow landed so hard it stung his hands. Ukkad plopped on his back, eyes staring up at the cloudless sky, blood pouring into his open mouth.
Joti was still hitting him when two members of the city gaolers skidded into the alley, axes in hand.
"You!" The taller of the two strode forward as the other circled to Joti's flank. "Drop them sticks and put up your grabbers!"
Joti stared, chest heaving. Blood slipped down his arms and face. None of it was his. Both guards were twice his size. If he tried to fight, they'd call in ten more. Feeling sick, he let his staff fall to the ground and lifted his empty hands above his head.
The tall guard grasped the collar of Joti's vest, dragged him from the alley, and tossed him into the street. "What are you doing, beating on a man?"
Joti propped himself up on one palm, palms and knees stinging from his hard landing. "He attacked me!"
The man threw back his shoulders and laughed. "Expect me to believe the big strong boss comes after a scrawny, worm-bodied whelp, and the whelp wins? You was ambushing him, you little liar. You hid there in your darkness and bashed him over the back of the head. Why? Because he made you do your job?"
"I was carrying water! He followed me to the river and—"
The second soldier leaned over Joti, skin pocked and pebbled as a frog's back. "He's lyin'. I can hear it on him. You know the only way to get a liar to quit lying?"
The first soldier folded his arms and nodded sagely. "Pound the rest of the lies out of him."
The second soldier grabbed Joti's arms and twisted them behind his back. Joti tried to kick his heel into the man's crotch, but the soldier turned his knee inward, protecting his groin. A crowd was assembling from the street and its shops, forming a ring around the action, gossiping and grinning.
The taller soldier drew back his elbow and drove his fist into Joti's gut. Joti tensed his muscles like Fardo had taught them, but the soldier's punch crushed the air from his lungs.
"Was you sneaking?" the man said. "You was, wasn't you? A ratty sneak!"
Joti shook his head, tears of pain and frustration dropping down his cheeks.
"Squeezed the juice from him!" The second soldier clapped his hands. "The lies can't be far behind!"
The first man hit him again. Joti collapsed in the second guard's grip. The first man yelled a question. Joti tried to ask him to repeat it, but he couldn't catch his breath. The crowd whooped. The tall man spat and drew back for another blow.
"Gentlemen." A woman's voice silenced the crowd as fast as a hatchet on a chicken's neck. "Are you aware you're beating a child?"
The guard holding Joti's arms turned, pulling Joti around with him so that Joti's legs flapped like a cloth doll's. The crowd crumbled back like an undercut river bank, exposing a wiry woman dressed in a long, lightweight coat the color of wet iron. A brimmed hat was pulled low over her eyes. An arm-length stick hung from both her hips. These had wrapped handles topped by a metal, forward-jutting guard—swords.
The gaoler who'd been hitting Joti stood straighter. "This aren't none of your business, raindrinker. We're seeing to a slave who attacked a master."
"So I heard. You'll be turning him over to me now."
"Why would I be doing that?"
"Because your interrogation is shit." She strolled forward, hands dangling close to her hips. "If you deny my claim, you're welcome to duel me for him."
The guard stuck out his chin, fangs exposed. She didn't break eye contact. After a very long moment, the man spat in the dust at her feet. "He's got more lyin' in him than a bunkhouse. You're doing us a favor."
The second guard dropped his grip on Joti's elbows. Joti lurched forward, legs threatening to give out, but he forced himself to stay upright.
The woman in the iron gray cloak stared at the gaolers, then jerked her chin at Joti. "Follow me."
She strode down the street, the crowd scrambling back from her like she was dripping with Yellow Plague. The woman didn't seem to be watching Joti, but he didn't so much as think of trying to make a break for it. She stopped to talk to a man in a light gray robe, who gestured between the alley, the two guards, and Joti.
When the conversation finished, the woman headed down a quiet street, ushered Joti inside a weather-worn building of plain black stone, and took him to a shaded courtyard. There, she sat at a desk like nothing had happened. Joti stood across from her, heart beating fast.
She got out a long black feather and a scrap of something that looked like a square, pale leaf. "They say you beat a guard from the Monument of Graband. Is that true?"
"He was following me," Joti said. "When I went into the alley, he attacked me."
"So you beat him to the ground. How?"
"With the pole from my water-carrier."
"Then what?"
"I kept beating him."
"Did you think this was a just decision?"
"Not at all. I think I should have killed him."
The woman raised an eyebrow, then scratched the quill of the feather across the pale sheet.
"What are you doing?" Joti said.
She looked at him for signs of a joke, then smiled thinly. "I'm writing."
"I've heard of that. What's it for?"
"Because the mind's ability to hang onto memories is about as practical as my ability to reach down my throat and turn myself inside-out. Hence we enslave pen and ink to do our remembering for us." With professional quickness, she gave him an assessing look. "You're of the Drim Clan?"
"Yatto tribe."
"You defeated a grown man who jumped you. Do all Yatto fight like you?"
"No. Most are better. I never finished my training."
She removed her hat, turning it in her hands. "He's dead, you know."
"Good."
"Which makes this murder."
He shrugged.
The woman grunted. "Nomadic savage though you might be, I can't imagine you don't understand that they'll kill you for this."
"I'm a slave. I killed a soldier of the chieftain. I know what that means."
She put away her writing instruments and rose. "Then it's time to present my findings to your master."
Joti expected her to take him back to the monument to be handed off to the slavers, but she turned her back on the half-finished structure, leading the way to Dame Fere's manor. Movo answered the door, frowning like he'd opened a closet and found a turd on the floor.
"My name is Shain," the woman said. "I've come from the No-Clan of the Peak of Tears. I'm here to see Dame Fere."
Movo's reduced his frown to a conservative pucker. "Dame Fere is not available."
"Is she in the house?"
"As I said, she isn't available."
"But she is here. She just won't come out and speak with me." Without moving her head, Shain gazed up, t
aking in the facade. "In that case, I'll burn down the estate and have a word with her when she leaves to escape the flames."
Movo bared his teeth. "If you are attempting to threaten the lady of the house—"
Faster than a grass cat, Shain slapped him upside the head with one hand, grabbed his collar with her other, and mushed his face against the doorframe. "There's been a murder, you ceaseless shit. Unless you want another, you'll tell Fere that I will have my audience."
She shoved him back, releasing him.
Movo smoothed his shirt and hair, face stony. He wouldn't meet her eyes. "Wait here."
He retreated inside the house. Shain loosened her swords in their scabbards. With the rush of battle behind him, Joti felt sluggish and mildly ill. Should he run now, and die on Shain's sword? Or wait for them to try him and execute him, wringing the last few hours out of his worthless life?
The door reopened. Wordlessly, Movo gestured them inside and brought them to the hall where Fere had turned Joti over to the statue crew. She sat in her immense black lacquered chair. She didn't rise.
Shain touched the tip of her cap. "Dame Fere. I have with me a young slave named Joti of the Yatto. I understand he's yours?"
The old woman tipped back her chin. "My servant told me he's a murderer. Well, I won't be blamed for it. I leased him to the builders. Anything he did under their watch is on their own hands."
"But as his owner, what do you feel would be a just punishment?"
"Who precisely did he kill? And what was the victim's station?"
"A sentry at the work site. His name was Ukkad of the Darok Family."
"The Darok Family? Any of Jipkik's blood?"
"None that I'm aware of."
"No royal lineage, then." The old woman gave Joti a look of disgust. "Yet he still killed a superior. He must be executed to teach his fellow slaves. Best to do it in front of them. They're savages, and can't understand a thing unless they witness it with their own dull eyes."
"Is that your command, my lady?"
"Indeed it is."
Shain nodded, pressing her thumb to her chin. Her eyes moved down Joti's form, coming to a stop at the metal ring around his left ankle. "What's this, Dame?"
Students of the Order Page 18