by J A Hutson
“Well, shove a sword up my bunghole,” another voice says as a second head joins the first. This one is so pale he’s almost translucent, blue veins etched beneath his skin. He presses a finger to his nose and shoots a wad of mucus out of his left nostril. I think it lands somewhere on me, but I can’t be sure.
“Hrm,” I repeat.
The pale head glances at the black one. “Looks like I owe you a silver glory,” he says, sighing.
“We’ll take it out of what he brings in,” replies the scarred head, and then the man moves out of my sight. Moments later I feel the weight pressing on my shoulders start to lighten. Strong fingers curl under my arms.
“Right. Pull on three. One, two, THREE.”
The mud does its best to hold on to me, but with a sucking sound my body finally comes free. I try to find my feet but it’s like my legs have been cut from my body.
“He’s got a sword!” says the pale man excitedly. “It’s like glass, or something.”
“That’s for the boss,” admonishes the bald man, whose voice is much deeper. “You bring the circlet?”
“Course, like you said.”
“Well, put it on.”
I try to shift my neck slightly so I can see what’s happening. The black man’s arms are encircling my body, keeping me from collapsing. The smaller man crouches beside my dangling legs, fiddling with something that looks like a silver anklet. Finally it snaps open and he fits it around my ankle, then closes it again. I stare at it dumbly. Why are they putting jewelry on me? Everything is very confusing, and I’m finding it very hard to concentrate.
“Back to camp, then. Ximachus will be angry we’ve been gone so long.”
The man holding me dismisses this with a snort. “The old buzzard will be giddy as a milk maid when the lord’s son rides into town. Fresh meat for the market, and everything legal.”
Meat for the market? I stir, trying to struggle free. Where is Bell? Deliah?
“Careful there, boy,” the man says. His breath is rancid.
Hands touch my waist, fumbling with my belt. A bell chimes as the green-glass blade slides from its sheath. The pale man slashes the air awkwardly with my sword, his eyes wide. “Tainted saints, Chev! Look at this! You ever seen anything like it?”
“Can’t say I have,” says the bigger man slowly. There’s a trace of uncertainty in his words now, as if the sight of my sword has unsettled him. “Ximachus will know what to do. Let’s go.”
I drift in and out of consciousness as the two men carry me like a sack of meal. Blearily, I watch my sword bounce at the hip of the smaller man, who is holding my legs, his back to me. I want to grip my sword and feel that same healing rush that flooded me after I’d been injured fighting the golems of the Cleansing Flame. But the thought of struggling free and grabbing my sword away from this thief is about as laughably unlikely as me flying back to wherever my companions are.
What happened? I’d charged up the slope towards one of the monstrous bandits. Then there had been a light . . . a flame above me, rippling in the snow, filled by a twisting shadow. A great crack had sounded, and then a wall of white had surged towards me . . . I’d run, but I’d known it was hopeless. I was going to die. Then I had been lifted, carried, enveloped by rushing darkness. But there had been glimpses. The avalanche had swept me over a cliff, and for a moment I had seen blue sky above and emptiness below. I’d fallen towards a twisting silver thread that had quickly swelled into churning water. Then nothing, until coming awake on the riverbank.
Had Deliah and Bell and Xela survived the avalanche? Had they also been swept off the cliff? Did they need my help now?
“Oi!” snarls the smaller man, struggling to hold on to my legs. “Get him to stop writhing!”
“Settle down, you.” The hands under my arms lower me to the ground. I try to sit up, but something clubs me across the back of the skull, and I return to the blackness.
“Well, he is a pretty thing.”
“Think he could go to the Lotus Tower?”
The sound of a throat clearing is followed by an impressive wad of something being hawked. “No. They like their boys young. You see the scars on him? Damaged goods.”
Again I surface. I’m sitting inside a large tent, my arms bound behind the central pole. I’m dry, feeling has returned to my limbs, and I’m dressed in something loose and scratchy. My pouch with the key to the Gates is gone. There’s an old Zimani crouching in front of me, his dark face creased as he studies me intently. His bushy eyebrows and fringe of hair are stark white, but his eyes are bright and curious, as if they belong in a younger face. The two who brought me here hover in the entrance, watching the old man pensively. Behind them the sky is dark, but torches somewhere are burning, gilding them with a ruddy light.
“Then where do you think he’ll go, Xim?”
The old man squints and leans closer. “I’m not sure. But there’s always a buyer for a strong back.” His thumb lifts my eyelid roughly, and I flinch from the brief flash of pain. “Silver. Never seen the like.” Then his fingers grip my chin hard. “And teeth look good.” He flashes a gap-toothed grin in their direction. “Saints, I might keep him for myself.”
The two in the entrance laugh uncertainly, as if they’re unsure whether that is a jest or not. The old man notices this and scowls, then waves them away.
“Go on, get. You’ll get the standard cut for a find, don’t you worry.” They turn to go, but then freeze as he continues. “Oh, and report to Yerevus for extra duties.” He smirks as they start to splutter. “You were supposed to bring back firewood, yes? And you did not. Now leave, or I’ll add a lashing to your punishment.”
The old man’s smile widens as they disappear into the darkness, grumbling. He turns back to me.
“Laws and rules, my fortunate unfortunate friend. They are the bones of the body of society – rip them away, and the rest would collapse into jelly.” He pauses for a moment, as if imagining this. “Laws and rules – Gelian, get in here!” A moment later a Zimani youth slips between the tent flaps, his hands tucked into the long sleeves of his dark blue robe.
I finally find my voice. “Who are you?” I whisper, my throat raw.
The old man presses two fingers to his chest. “I am Ximachus, a merchant of the second rank. Born in the copper creche, raised in the halls of the Lessanius Trading House. And who are you?”
“Talin. I’m –”
The man holds up a finger to silence me.
The boy glides closer, coming to hover beside the old man.
“This is Gelian, the Witness for this venture.”
“I’m honored to meet you both,” I rasp, wishing I could rub my neck. “Why am I restrained?”
“Because you are an ignorant savage,” the man says cheerily, with no hint of rancor. “And you may not know the ways of Enlightened Zim.”
I strain at my bonds, rattling the post. “I’ve done nothing wrong. Why am I tied up?”
“Again, we return to the law,” says the old man. “In Zim, if you save a man’s life, it belongs to you for two years. Fair, yes? Now, you certainly would have perished if Qerin and Tak hadn’t found you. And as their employer, anything of value they find while working belongs to me.”
“You expect me to be your slave for two years?” I say incredulously, shaking the tent’s pole again.
Ximachus ignores me and holds up his finger, turning to the blue-robed youth. “On the third evening of the seventh month of the Year of the Jade Butterfly, this man’s life was saved by men working for Ximachus of the Lessanius. By the laws of Zim, his body will belong to those who saved him until two years have passed, unless his life-rights are sold to a third party, or he receives manumission by imperial decree. Is this witnessed?”
“It is witnessed,” intones the youth, staring at me with empty eyes.
“Good, good,” the old man says, shooing him away. “Then you are dismissed. Make a record for when we sell him.”
The youth bows his head
slightly. “Of course, Master Ximachus,” he murmurs, and then withdraws from the tent.
I finally find my voice. “You should cut my throat right now. I’ll never be your slave.”
The old man chortles, clapping his hands. “Fiery! I hope you show such spirit at the auction. Many prefer their meat unbroken.” He stands and shuffles over to a cluttered table, then begins to pick through the mess, looking for something. “But you will obey,” he says as he picks up a silver circlet that looks the same as the one around my ankle and what appears to be a wooden practice sword. As he turns back to me, he slips the circlet around the blade and lets it slide down until it clinks against the hilt.
“Slaves are expensive,” the old man says, brandishing the sword so that the circlet glitters in the lamplight. “In times past, they had to be constantly watched, lest they run off.” He slashes at the shadows clumsily. “Then one brilliant inventor designed the perfect means to ensure loyalty. Zino was his name, so we call that lovely little bangle around your ankle a Zino Circle.” Ximachus holds up the sword. “Watch.” He reaches inside his tunic and pulls out a necklace of many small spheres. His brow furrows as he examines the spheres carefully, his lips moving silently, as if he’s reading something carved onto their surfaces.
Finally, his face brightens as he finds the one he’s searching for. “Ah! Here we are. Now pay attention.” He rubs the small sphere, and almost immediately the circlet around the practice sword’s blade begins to vibrate. “A warning,” the old man says. “But if I so chose . . .” Ximachus gives the sphere a flick with his thumb and I can’t help but jump as the circlet suddenly contracts, slicing through the wood. The blade tumbles to the ground, sheared clean.
The old man finds another sphere on his necklace and the circlet around my ankle begins to vibrate. “Now,” he says smugly, “do you agree that you are my slave?”
I grit my teeth. Would this bastard actually sever my foot? I hold his cold gaze for a long moment.
“Yes,” I say, struggling not to choke on the word.
4
I huddle in the corner of the wagon, wrapped in a tattered blanket. Morning light has begun to filter through the iron bars, creeping across the wooden floor towards me, but I ignore it, hoping to return to my uneasy sleep. I’d dreamed of Deliah’s warm body, Bell’s brilliant blue eyes, and Xela’s enigmatic smile. Their loss sends a pang through me, and I roll over on my side to stare at the wall. Are they alive? I would feel it if they were dead, surely. But still, in this moment, I am utterly alone.
Something hard hits me in the shoulder, and I twist around. A man is silhouetted in the morning light outside the wagon, holding a small bag. As I watch he reaches inside and tosses a small, round object at one of the two other prisoners in here with me. The big bearded fellow who glared at me yesterday when I tried to talk to him comes awake with a snort, then scrabbles for whatever has been thrown at him as it rolls away. I reach down and find what had hit me: some kind of ridged purple fruit. The bearded man gives this fruit a hard twist and the skin comes off, revealing speckled white flesh. Then he falls on it like he’s starving, scooping out chunks with his fingers and shoving them into his mouth. He catches me looking at him and his eyes narrow, as if he thinks I might try to steal his breakfast. I look away, not wanting to deal with this right now.
The last prisoner, a mound of rags recessed in the shadows, doesn’t do anything when the man outside bounces a fruit near his head. Did he die in the night?
“Stay away from the bars,” the man outside says gruffly, apparently not caring that one of us isn’t moving. “Entering the grass today.”
“What’s in the grass?” I ask, and the shadow pauses, as if surprised I’ve spoken.
“Hungry things,” he replies.
I glance over at the bearded man to see his reaction, but he doesn’t seem to be listening. His attention is on the fruit lying on the floor of the wagon a few paces from the motionless prisoner. A slow smile creeps across his face, and from what I can see I’m fairly sure his teeth have been filed into points. His bristly beard glistens, coated with juice and flecked with bits of white.
With surprising stealth he begins to move towards the fruit, sliding silently across the wooden floor of the wagon. I glance at the man who gave us breakfast, but he has vanished. My attention returns to the aspiring thief. His arm stretches out, slowly, slowly, slowly . . . his fingers are almost brushing the purple rind when an olive fist flashes out from the mound and slams down on the man’s hand. With a surprised shriek the man scuttles back, cradling his hand.
Thick gray-green fingers tipped with yellow nails close around the fruit and pull it into the pile of rags. The bearded man spits a string of harsh sounds in a language I don’t know . . . though there’s one word I do recognize.
Kvah.
I watch the kvah warily as the light outside deepens, but although I do hear quiet sounds of slurping as it eats the fruit, the pile of rags otherwise doesn’t move. I remember my first encounter with these creatures, when they ambushed Bell and Poz and myself as we were transporting the glitter to the Contessa’s manse in Ysala. Those kvah had been brutish and crude, some unnatural blend of animal and man, and had callously discussed eating us after we’d been taken captive. I’m more than slightly worried about being locked in a wagon with one – I don’t think I’ll be getting much sleep anytime soon.
The sharp-toothed man watches me sullenly, almost angrily, as if I’m the one who has smashed his hand or brought him to his current predicament. Finally, against my better judgment, I decide to try and speak with him again.
“My name is Talin,” I say slowly, pointing at my chest.
He doesn’t reply, but I think from the way his eyes narrow slightly that he understands me.
“Do you know where we’re going?”
For a long moment he remains silent, as if weighing whether he should respond. “Zim,” he finally says, and with such loathing it almost sounds like it pains him to speak the city’s name.
“Zim,” I repeat. I’d guessed as much.
“Black heart of the world,” he grates, and then spits.
“So you disagree with the whole ‘Grand and Enlightened’?”
His mouth twists. “No grand. Only one man free in Zim. Purple Emperor. All others in chains. Like us, but their chains can’t see.”
I gaze out the bars of our cage at a pair of horsemen riding past the wagon. One of them says something to the other and they both dissolve into laughter. “They certainly look freer than us.”
The man snorts as if I’m a fool and recedes deeper into his corner. “They not free. Fools. I was free man. No king, no lord. If I want food, I kill. If I want woman, I take.”
“You sound charming,” I say, and he sneers at me and spits again.
I decide then that I prefer solitude and turn away from him, staring out the wagon at the landscape as it slides past. All morning and into this early afternoon the wagon has been trundling through ragged hills and scrubland. I come closer to the bars and glance back the way we’ve come: the mountains of Hesset’s Wall still loom over us, but they’ve dwindled since I last looked. Another stab of sorrow hits me as I gaze upon where I lost my friends.
After a long moment, I tear my gaze away and look ahead. This wagon is the last in the caravan, and in a line in front of us I can see maybe seven or eight more. I think the one directly ahead of us might also have prisoners, but the others look like they are carrying trade goods – these wagons also have large hewbows mounted on their roofs. That unsettles me slightly. Hewbows that large should be used as siege weapons, not carried with caravans. Around the wagons mill men on horseback – some are older, and dressed in richer clothes, while others are clad in bits of armor that flash copper in the sun. I recognize the blue robes of the youth who ‘witnessed’ my enslavement. Of the old man, Ximachus, there’s no sign.
Gradually the hills recede until we’re traveling through an arid plain. Then, with jarring sud
denness, the badlands give way to a field of golden grass. It rises up like a wall, three times the height of a man, and though the caravan is cast into shadow the grass itself seems infused with light. The wheels are clattering over stone now; a road must be laid through this grassland, and for about thirty paces across the stalks have been hacked to knee level, as if ten thousand soldiers waded through this place swinging their swords. Which, given what Xela said about the Red Legion, might be what happened.
And I can understand why they do it. The grass rises golden and gleaming, thick enough that I can’t see what lurks in its depths. An army could be skulking out there and I wouldn’t know until they attacked. What had that guard said when he brought breakfast? There are things in the grass, and they are hungry? I push away from the bars and lean against the wood, putting a bit more distance between myself and the shimmering, forbidding wall.
Time passes. The light trickling through the grass deepens, changing from gold to amber. Our wagon darkens, until the other prisoners are merely splotches of deeper blackness. Still, infused by the sun, I can’t help but find it beautiful. Sometimes a strong wind gusts, making it seem like something is undulating within the depths.
Wait. My breath catches in my throat – it truly looked like some great shadow had flickered near the edge of the grass and then retreated. The shape was formless, gone in an instant. I shake my head, wiping away the cold sweat that has broken out across my brow. My imagination, surely. Just late afternoon shadows.
But there it is again. A darting, twisting shape . . . and gone. I creep to the bars, peering intently at where I have glimpsed this thing.
“Hey!” I cry, trying to get the attention of a warrior riding past. He blinks, his empty smile fading, as if he’s returning from some pleasant daydream.
“Quiet, meat,” he snarls, his hand going to the handle of the whip at his side.
“No, you don’t understand, there’s –”