Freedom's Apprentic

by Naomi Kritzer

  “I haven’t met him,” she said. The scent of her perfume mixed with the reek of unwashed clothes and spilled wine that permeated Lycurgus’s room.

  Thank the gods for that. “I work for him. This is the second time he’s sent me here. The first time was a year ago; after that, Kyros arranged for Lycurgus to be sent an assistant, since it was clear he wasn’t entirely competent. I’m sure that’s evident to the Sisterhood, as well.” Melissa’s face furrowed slightly, and on impulse I added, “Especially its younger members.”

  “Indeed,” Melissa said.

  Lycurgus came in, panting for breath. “You’re a spy, a foul—”

  “Of course I’m a spy,” I hissed, turning on Lycurgus. “I was sent to spy on Solon, before you threw any chance I had of success onto the flaming kitchen and danced on the ashes.”

  “If you were sent to spy on Solon, why wouldn’t you have told me?”

  “Because,” I said, “you are a drunken, sodden fool of a steward and Kyros knows better than to trust you with any information. You’re only in your position because you’re his cousin. Everyone knows not to trust you.”

  “But the papers—” He turned to the sorceress. “She was going through my ledgers, giving information to Solon—”

  “It was only a matter of time before Solon went through the papers himself. Someone had to clean up your mess.” I turned to the sorceress. “He kept letters,” I said, my voice dripping scorn. “Letters that mentioned his younger sister.”

  “You what?” Now Melissa turned on Lycurgus.

  “If you could have just trusted me,” I said. “Or waited until we could talk alone instead of attacking me in Solon’s office . . .”

  Lycurgus looked from me to the sorceress and then said, “You’re lying. Kyros would never cover up for the Younger Sisters.”

  “Why would he tell you where his loyalties lie? He knows you’re not trustworthy.”

  Outside, we heard shouts. Lycurgus went over to look out the window and then backed away, his face pale. “There’s—there’s another sorceress out there. I only sent for you, Melissa.”

  Melissa peered out the window and then stepped away, breathing hard. “Solon. Where did Solon get a spell-chain?”

  “He doesn’t have one,” I said. “If he did, he’d have used the djinn to put out the fire earlier.” I should have said aeriko, not djinn. Maybe she won’t notice.

  Lycurgus’s hand crept to his wrist and his face went even whiter. The sorceress was already running down the stairs. I followed; behind me, I could hear Lycurgus’s slow tread.

  “Phaedra,” Melissa said, her voice surly. “We meet again.”

  Phaedra wore white—brilliant, shining white like the polished marble of the Temple of Athena. Her hair, too, was white; she was much older than Melissa. “Melissa!” she said with warm welcome. “My sweet little Melissa. How good you look. Come here and give me a kiss.”

  I need to find Burkut. Whatever those two sorceresses did—whether they kissed and declared their bonds of eternal friendship, or fought to the death—I did not want to be around for it. Particularly once the dust settled and someone remembered to ask about that Xanthe or Lauria who had been the cause of all the trouble. Let’s just get out of here.

  Both guards and slaves were clustered near the ruins of the kitchen; some had come out to stare at the two sorceresses, while others were poking at the smoking debris and speculating about the cause of the fire. Burkut was staring at the wreckage, and I touched his arm and drew him aside.

  “You have to choose,” I said. “Now. I can’t wait any longer.” He still hesitated, and I said, “Look, you could rally the strength to pass buckets of water for an hour, trying to put out a fire. You can ride to the steppe, too, if you want to. I think Uljas would like you to, but it’s your choice.”

  Burkut nodded, finally. “I’ll come.”

  I felt a moment of triumph, followed immediately by the knowledge that this would make things even more complicated than they already were. “Follow me,” I said.

  We walked away from the wreckage of the kitchen, across an open field, and then we were over a small rise and out of view of the farm. No one stopped us; everyone had other things to worry about. As we reached the very edge of the farm, Uljas fell into step beside us, his face alight. “You came,” he said, and embraced Burkut.

  “Did you start the fire?” I asked Uljas as they broke apart. And did you get the idea from your own escape?

  Uljas looked at me, then at Burkut’s face, and gave me sort of a half-shrug. Yes. “No,” he said. “I saw smoke from here, though. What burned?”

  “The kitchen,” Burkut said. He fell into step behind me again, Uljas at his side.

  “Must’ve been a spark from the fire,” Uljas said.

  “Burkut had friends working in the kitchen,” I said. “We helped try to put the fire out, but our buckets didn’t do much. Then Lycurgus summoned his djinn.”

  “Was anyone hurt?” Uljas asked.

  “We didn’t stay long enough to find out,” Burkut said. His voice sounded frighteningly weary. “All my friends seemed to be safe, though.”

  With Burkut, it took much longer to walk back to our campsite. We stopped to rest a few times; as we grew close, Uljas urged him to keep going. “It’s just a little bit farther, I promise. We’re almost there.”

  Tamar jumped to her feet when she heard us coming, and grabbed me in a hug. “You did it,” she said. “Do we need to get moving?”

  I shrugged. “I have no idea what’s happening back at the farm right now. If they’re looking for me—well, there are two sorceresses with an awful lot of djinni. If the Weavers want to find me, I think they’ll probably be able to.”

  “Get in the tent,” Tamar said. “Both of you, get under cover. The djinni can’t find you if they don’t see you, right? You’ve told me before how bad they are at looking for people . . .”

  I went into the tent; Burkut lay down on the blankets and Uljas sat down beside him to rub his shoulders. “I’ll bring you all some food,” Tamar said.

  I lay down and covered my eyes. I was so tired; I couldn’t remember ever having been so exhausted. I couldn’t decide what I thought would come of the standoff at the farm. What happened when sorceresses fought? They couldn’t make their djinni kill each other. They could, I supposed, kill each other with their own hands. I’d met a number of Weavers, in my days working for Kyros; all were quite accustomed to giving orders, either to their djinni or to human slaves and servants. None were fond of getting their hands dirty. It was hard to imagine one of them committing bloody murder against a fellow sorceress. I can always hope. It would certainly solve some of my problems.

  Tamar came in with bowls of lentils and rice. I shook my head. “Eat,” she said. When I still made no move to take the bowl, she said, “Eat or I’ll feed you if I have to.”

  I took the bowl and started eating. “We should probably start moving,” I said. “Keeping me and Burkut under cover and out of sight is a nice idea, but we’re too close to the farm. We need to get moving. I just wish I had time to sleep for a little while first . . .”

  “It’s too late in the day to start out,” Tamar said. “By the time we got the horses loaded, the sun would be setting. We’re going to have to hope for the best tonight and start our journey very early tomorrow.”

  I should have been worried, but mostly I was just relieved that I wouldn’t have to move. I closed my eyes, just to rest them for a moment, and forgot to open them for a long, long time.

  I dreamed of Solon that night. “Such a lot of trouble to go to, to steal a worthless slave,” he was saying. We were sitting in Kyros’s study, but Kyros was nowhere to be seen. Solon’s feet were on the desk and he leaned back against the cushions in Kyros’s chair, sipping from a cup of tea. There was a tray of honey cakes on the desk; he took one, nibbled at it experimentally, raised his eyebrows in approval, and took a large bite. “Slaves like Burkut are a problem. You can’t sel
l him, because no one wants to buy a dying slave. A mine owner might, but you’d have to get him to a mine and he probably wouldn’t survive the trip. You could force him to work if you whipped him enough, but that’s demoralizing to the rest of the slaves. It makes them angry. And angry slaves don’t work as well. They’re more likely to have ‘accidents’ that can cost you a lot of money if they break the wrong thing. I never knew whether to think Burkut was really sick or just lazy, but the other slaves believed he was sick. There was no good option, but letting him lie around pathetically was the best one I had. I’d have given him to you if you’d asked. He was a useless stomach, nothing more.”

  “So you’re not going to come after us?”

  “I might have to, just to ask you a couple of questions,” Solon said. “Where is the letter you spoke of yesterday? That’s what I really need to know.”

  “I had to hide it quickly when I saw Lycurgus. I was facing the door, holding the letter in my right hand. I thrust the letter into the stack of ledgers closest to me; you will probably find it on the third shelf from the bottom, in the stack of ledgers closest to the door. The letter spoke of younger sisters and was very incriminating.”

  “I see. And Kyros. You do work for Kyros, don’t you?”

  “I . . . did. If you tell Kyros that you’ve seen me, he will be eager to hear more. Much more.”

  “I see.” Solon finished his honey cake and refilled his tea, knocking some of the papers off of Kyros’s desk.

  “So you suspected all along that I worked for Kyros?”

  “Of course I knew. Did you take me for an idiot? I’d hoped that you would take word of Lycurgus’s number-juggling back to your master, so Lycurgus would be removed and I’d be left out of it. It complicates things considerably that you’re not working for him anymore. Well, at least you’ve taken Burkut off my hands. That’s worth something. Here . . .” He held out the tray of honey cakes. “Have a cake . . .”

  I recoiled and turned to look over my shoulder—was Kyros here?—but no one lurked in the doorway. Still, the dream was fading away. “Don’t worry about me,” Solon called as the darkness and fog swirled around me. “Kyros chooses sharp tools.”

  The phrase puzzled me, and for a moment I wanted to turn back to ask Solon what he meant, but the office was gone. I was suspended somewhere between sleep and morning. There was no road under my feet, no walls against my outstretched arms. “Solon!” I shouted. “Solon?”

  A hiss, and a swirl of dazzling light. “Here. You have come.”

  It wasn’t Solon.

  The djinn whirled around and around me like a fly. Its words were coming too quickly for me to understand—like a sorceress in the iron grip of the cold fever. It stopped suddenly and faced me. Here, in this dark place, the djinn looked very different: like a brilliant flame instead of a flickering shadow. Though I saw no eyes, I had a clear sense that I was being looked at. “Hello,” I said.

  “I’ve heard of you,” it said, much as the djinn on the road had. It began to whirl again; trying to watch it gave me a headache.

  “Would you do me a favor?” I asked.

  It stopped cold and waited.

  “Go to Solon, on the farm just west of here, with a message.”

  The djinn flared brightly, and interrupted me. “I am not your errand-boy. But I’ll give you this . . .” For a moment I felt as if I was falling; then I was sitting on the floor of my mother’s apartment. It was raining outside, a cold, steady rain. My mother was awake, by lamplight, knitting. The apartment was quiet; if Kyros was here, I could neither see him nor hear him.

  I thought my mother might be able to hear me if I spoke. I tried to think of something I could say, knowing that she might pass on any word to Kyros. I’m safe was a lie. Don’t worry about me was a useless thing to say to a perpetual worrier like my mother. Take care of yourself. She had always taken care of herself quite well.

  I waited too long; the dream was fading, someone was shaking me. I heard Tamar’s voice, felt her small hands on my shoulders, and then I was awake.

  I saddled the horses and loaded our gear onto the packhorse; Tamar woke Uljas and Burkut. Uljas looked fully alive for the first time since I’d seen him; he kept looking at Burkut as if to confirm that Burkut was really there. Burkut, however, did not look good. He had the misty, glazed look of someone facing a forced march. I helped him mount. “Do you know how to ride?” I asked.

  “No,” he whispered.

  “I’ll teach you,” Uljas said, taking the reins of his horse in hand. “It’s really not that hard.”

  I hope my dream last night was one of the real ones—that my message got to Solon, that Burkut was worthless to him and he doesn’t want him back. It made sense. Kyros would have brought Burkut back, even as sick as he was now. But Kyros also would have whipped him into working, no matter how angry it made the other slaves. In any case, we wouldn’t be able to outrun his guards, if Solon made a serious attempt to catch us—not with all our gear and a sick, inexperienced rider. I’d assumed that Burkut’s illness was mostly a ruse to avoid work, but he didn’t look good this morning.

  Still, he seemed to rally as we got farther from the farm. Uljas rode beside him, speaking quietly just to him; I thought that was probably giving him strength. Tamar, at least, was in an excellent mood as we rode out. The sun was shining, she was on horseback with her friends, we were headed for the steppe, and best of all, we’d completed another rescue.

  I wondered what had happened back at the farm; I’d seen no flying palanquins overhead as we rode, so were the sorceresses dead? Injured? Or had they simply headed in the other direction, or left in the night?

  We camped in midafternoon to let the horses graze. We had bought grain for them back in Daphnia, and feeding them grain would let us ride longer days, but Burkut looked exhausted. We’ll need to start riding longer days soon, if we’re going to get up to the steppe before the snow starts. Well, in my experience there was nothing like time on horseback to condition you for time on horseback. I wished I had some of the salve that Maydan, the Alashi healer, had made over the summer; Burkut no doubt was on his way to developing saddle sores, and the salve would help.

  Uljas, at least, rode without complaint. He brought Burkut his dinner each evening and fed it to him if Burkut lacked the strength to finish the bowl himself.

  It wasn’t until we’d been riding for a week that I realized that Burkut was getting worse, not better.

  He had been perilously thin when I first saw him at the farm; now his skin seemed to hang loosely on his bones like a too-large shirt, and his eyes were sunken. “You need to eat more,” I said that evening, and dished him out a larger bowl of food, though that meant less for everyone else. But Burkut seemed to find it painful to chew, and left much of the bowl uneaten. The next day I started the meal earlier and cooked his lentils for twice as long, then mashed them with some water so that all he had to do was swallow them. That went better; he ate a bit more of his dinner, and I went to bed that night feeling more confident that he would regain his strength as he traveled.

  But the next day, as I was packing up the blankets and the tent, I found a handful of black hair on Burkut’s blankets as I was rolling them up. My first thought was that someone had cut off some of the hair from one of the horse’s tails, and I wondered why they would have done that. But when I gathered up the handful of hair, I realized that it was Burkut’s. His hair was falling out.

  I had seen people lose most of their hair before, when seriously ill. Also, once when Kyros’s wife was in the grip of the cold fever, she’d shorn all her hair off and then taken a razor to her scalp, removing every trace; the hair had been scattered across the courtyard. I remembered averting my eyes and stepping over the handfuls on the step into Kyros’s office. I shook out the blanket, scattering Burkut’s hair onto the ground. Now that he’s eating more, he’ll get better, I told myself. I saw Uljas watching me; he wiped his hands against the legs of his trousers, as if he could
still feel hairs clinging to them.

  When we called a halt that afternoon, Uljas settled Burkut down to sleep and then came to find me as I groomed the horses. “He’s getting worse, not better,” he said.

  “He needs to eat more,” I said.

  “He’s eating as much as he can. As much as his stomach will hold. We need to find better food for him—some meat, maybe. Olive oil. Honey.” He gripped my arm. “I told him we would take care of him.”

  “I’ll go look for a farm later this afternoon,” I said. “Once the horses are settled. I’ll see if I can find something.”

  I knew Uljas was watching me as I finished grooming the horses, resenting every moment I took caring for the horses rather than finding more food for Burkut. I clenched my teeth, thinking, This isn’t my fault. Uljas was the one who convinced Burkut to come along. Yes, I took him back to slavery the first time, but he would have died if I hadn’t. Uljas thought Burkut was faking his illness. If Burkut is getting worse on the road, it’s Uljas’s fault. Not mine. I heard a footstep near me and turned to glare at Uljas—only to see Tamar, bringing water for the horses. She saw my furious, defensive look and quickly lowered her gaze, getting out of my way as fast as she could.

  I kept my word once the horses were settled, finding a small farm and handing over some of my dwindling supply of money in exchange for a jar of honey, a jar of oil, and some dried meat. It was dark by the time I got back to the camp. I handed all three packages directly to Uljas, silently. He stirred oil into Burkut’s lentils and rice, mashing it in; he fed him some of the honey directly from the jar.

  The honey seemed to help Burkut rally. I thought I could see a hint of color returning to his cheeks, and he smiled more often. But there were still hanks of hair in the blankets when I shook them out in the morning, and Burkut shook with cold even in the warmth of afternoon. Still, I believed that the honey was helping; that all we needed to do was get Burkut up to the Alashi and, as Uljas had promised, the steppes would make him well again. When the honey started to run out, I stopped and bought more.