by J A Hutson
“Come,” Ximachus says finally, motioning for us to follow him and a trio of heavily armed guards towards the wooden platform. I see his face fall as we approach, and I think that’s because there are only a handful of buyers waiting to see what he has brought. Most of them are older Zimani men dressed in the same manner as I remember from Ysala – long, colorful robes stitched with geometric designs. They fan themselves with shimmering iridescent feathers as Ximachus leads us up the stairs and arrays us along the platform’s length.
“Esteemed gentlemen of Zim,” he says loudly, flourishing a bow. “I am Ximachus of the Lessanius, slave trader of the second rank. I bring before you today my wares, their acquisitions all legally witnessed, with documentation that will be provided after the sale.” He clears his throat and indicates the three Zimani youths, who look scared enough to faint. “First, we have these three boys, nearly men, all healthy and strong. They are of good character and sound mind, and have committed no crimes. They were sold to me so that their father could settle his outstanding debts. Their term of indenture is five years, and I shall start the bidding at fifty glories a head.”
“Sixty,” one of the watching Zimani said, raising his feather high.
“Sixty-five,” said another, waving his own feather languidly.
As the auction proceeds, my already smoldering anger flares higher. Who are these men, that they think they can own the life of another? The casual evilness of the whole spectacle makes me want to rip my sword away from Ximachus and leap down among the buyers and show them that I am not a piece of flesh to be bartered.
I’m lost in this fantasy when I feel something sharp poke my back, and I stumble forward a step.
“And this one,” Ximachus is saying from his perch at the edge of the platform, “was found on the shores of a river, near drowned. It was witnessed that he would have perished in the cold mud if my men had not rescued him, and so his life belongs to me, and for only a hundred glories it could instead be yours! Look at those exotic silver eyes, set in a face handsome enough for the Lotus Towers. But he is a fighter, mark my words! When a grass kraken attacked our caravan, he helped fight it off with only his strength, and the barbarian ferocity for which the southern people are known!”
“May we see a demonstration of his prowess?”
The speaker is a slight man, shorter than most of the other buyers. His burgundy robes lack the angular, multicolored designs that adorn the garments of his fellows, and he wears a pair of thin-framed spectacles that flash in the late afternoon sun.
Ximachus recognizes the man with a slight bow. “Of course, Exalted Exarch. We would be honored to put on a show for a representative of the Department of Public Services.”
The old man snaps his fingers and one of the guards steps forward. “Vinicus, spar with the slave,” Ximachus says loudly, and then continues in a whisper that I just barely catch, “and don’t humiliate the fool.”
The Zimani guard gives a sharp nod and takes a curved wooden sparring sword from a barrel on the platform. He slashes the air a few times and then takes a position across from me. Ximachus catches my eye and gestures impatiently towards the same barrel. “Fight well, or it’s the mines for you,” he says quietly as I step forward to examine the collection of worn hilts.
Most of the swords are actually curving scimitars, but that’s not what I’m accustomed to using, so I choose the one that reminds me of my straight-bladed sword. I heft it, testing the balance, and can’t help but sigh at the horrible weighting. It’s like swinging a log. My eyes slip to the falcon-hilt of my sword hanging at Ximachus’s hip, and I again imagine the satisfaction wrenching it from him would bring. The old man sees where I’m looking and his fingers go to the necklace of silver spheres around his neck – now diminished since some of the other slaves have been purchased – and the circlet around my ankle begins to vibrate ominously. Gritting my teeth, I turn from him and face the waiting guard.
He comes at me with a bored expression on his face, lazily swinging his sword like he expects me to throw aside my weapon and beg for mercy. I catch his attack easily, then with a flick of my wrist send his blade spinning off the platform. I’m tempted to follow up with a rattling blow to the side of his head, but I can still feel the lingering touch of the circlet and I don’t want Ximachus to think I’m trying to escape.
The Zimani warrior steps back, blinking in surprise, as mutters ripples through the small crowd. Someone tosses the practice sword back and he catches it awkwardly, clearly shaken. I raise my sword and gesture for him to come at me again, and he does, but this time he’s much more cautious.
It doesn’t matter.
A quick clatter as our blades come together, and then he’s stumbling away, cradling his hand. I kick his sword back towards him, but Ximachus raises a hand to stop the fight.
“Enough!” he cries, turning to the robed man. “Does this satisfy you, Esteemed Exarch?”
The Zimani nods slightly, touching his spectacles. “The Department of Public Works will buy his life at your price. And we have need of one more – are there any other fighters among your stock?”
The slaver smiles broadly. “This one!” he says, gesturing at the bearded man, who glares sullenly back at him. “A feral from deep within the Tangle, as much a bear as a man.”
“We have had some difficulty in making other ferals obey commands,” says the exarch with a look of slight distaste. “But if that is the best you can offer, then very well.”
“Take the kvah instead.”
Everyone turns to me. Ximachus’s bulging eyes look like they’re about to pop out of his head. “Quiet, slave,” the old man hisses, his hand going again to the spheres around his neck. “The kvah is for the mines.”
But the exarch gives me a measuring stare, ignoring the slaver. “And why should I do that?”
“The kvah is a fierce fighter,” I explain, dispatching a silent prayer to the dead gods that Ximachus prefers gold to his pride. “It wasn’t me who helped fight off the monster in the grass. It was her.”
“Her?” the exarch says, adjusting his spectacles again as he peers at Bright Eyes. She stares back at him defiantly.
“Yes, yes, I see it now . . .” he says slowly. “How interesting.”
“He . . . she . . . all kvahs go to the mines,” Ximachus says again, giving me a withering look.
“I would have them fight,” the exarch says. “I will give fifty glories for the victor, which is far more than you can expect for a kvah or a half-mad feral.”
I can see a vein throbbing in Ximachus’s temple, but he sweeps down into an apologetic bow. “Of course, High One. The winner goes with you, the loser to the mines.”
The feral snarls as he’s prodded forward, but then he strides confidently towards the barrel of practice swords. He chooses the largest available, one that would be a great-sword for most men, but he lifts it with just one hand. A little trickle of unease goes through me at this.
“You see?” Ximachus exclaims. “The wild blood gives him great strength.”
“Strength is also useful for hacking obsidian from tunnel walls,” replies the exarch. “Let us see what skill he has.”
As Bright Eyes approaches the collection of wooden swords, she glances at me, and though I can’t be sure what her expression means, it almost looks to me like she’s confused. Or perhaps nervous. I swallow, wondering if I’ve doomed her to a thrashing – perhaps female kvahs are forbidden to fight. She hesitates, her hand hovering over the barrel, and then pulls out a short, broad-bladed sword.
Ximachus seems to sense her uncertainty, as he’s smirking. “Well, get on with it, then,” he barks, and before he’s finished speaking the bearded man howls and lunges at Bright Eyes, swinging his massive sword in a wide arc. I can immediately see that he’s undisciplined, but the savagery of the attack would certainly overwhelm any novice warrior.
I shouldn’t have worried. Bright Eyes steps back quickly and the blade whistles past a hand span
from her throat. Unable to stop his momentum, the feral stumbles forward, off balance, and the kvah steps forward and smashes him in the face with the hilt of her practice sword. There’s a crunch and a flowering of blood and the bearded man collapses.
A stunned silence follows the sound of the unconscious man’s head smacking against the platform.
Bright Eyes stands over him, looking almost as surprised as everyone else, and then she drops the red-smeared sword next to the feral’s unmoving body.
Polite applause breaks the quiet, and I’m not surprised to see that it’s the Zimani in the burgundy robes, smiling faintly.
Ximachus stares daggers at me as he hands our spheres over to the waiting exarch. The auction has finished, the lives of the other slaves already exchanged for heavy purses, and we are the last transaction to be finalized. Night has fallen, with just a few shreds of indigo sky remaining. He’s saved us for last, I suspect, but if the wait has annoyed the red-robed Zimani who bought us, he doesn’t show it. His expression is calm and untroubled as he accepts our spheres and slides them onto his necklace. There are three other spheres already hanging on the glittering thread, and I wonder if they are for the trio of hulking warriors clad in etched bronze armor that now surround us.
“A pleasure doing business with you, Ximachus of the Lessanius,” the exarch says smoothly.
The old slaver scowls. “And you as well, High One. I only ask that if the kvah proves to be untamable, you do not hold me responsible, and remember that I counseled against you choosing this animal.”
“You will be blameless,” says the Zimani. “Now, if you will excuse us, we must return to the city.”
Ximachus gives a jerky bow and then whirls away, motioning curtly for his warriors to join him. I watch him hurry away, my eyes on the hilt at his waist. I will recover my sword someday.
The Zimani who bought us clears his throat, and with some effort I tear my attention from the retreating slaver and turn to him. He adjusts his spectacles, peering at us intently.
“My name is Velius dep Amash, exarch of the third rank in the Department of Public Works. You both are now cogs in the great machinery of Zim.”
Bright Eyes stares at the ground and shuffles her feet. She’s looked scared ever since she knocked down the feral. What’s the matter with her?
I glance at the fierce-looking soldiers flanking Velius. “Will we guard you, like them?”
Velius smiles slightly. “No, no. These are free men in service to the Purple Emperor and his exarchs. You will work in my department.”
“What’s that?”
He takes off his spectacles and rubs at the lenses with the hem of his robes. “We are entrusted with one of the most important duties in the Empire: to make sure the water flows in the great city of Zim. We clean the gutters, lay the pipes, repair the fountains and build the aqueducts.”
I blink at him, confused. “You made sure we could fight so that we could muck gutters for you?”
He smiles thinly and settles his spectacles on his nose again. “That would be ridiculous. Oh, no – you two are on sewer duty.”
6
Whatever reaction I was expecting from Bright Eyes, this was not it.
We sit across from each other on slabs of wood in the back of a jouncing wagon, one of the warriors in bronze armor watching us from under heavy-lidded eyes. A lamp hangs from the ceiling, swinging with the movement of the wagon. The kvah is hunched over, glowering at the floor. She almost looks like she’s in pain.
“Are you all right?” I ask, and she glances sharply at me.
“None of your concern, pinkling,” she snaps, her black eyes flashing.
Anger flares within me. I risked Ximachus severing my foot for what I did for her, so why is she still so angry? Perhaps there truly isn’t any difference between her and the creatures that threatened to eat Bell.
“You should say thanks. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be on your way to the mines, yes?”
Bright Eyes snorts. “You are trying to say I am in your blood debt? That I have to grovel on the ground to thank you for your mercy?” She turns and spits. “I know all about the treachery of pinklings. I will not give thanks to you, or to any other of your wicked people.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Fine,” I reply. “You’re welcome.”
The guard chuckles softly. “Don’t bother, salah,” he says, with more of an accent than the other Zimani I’ve met. “That is kvah. Before the gods made the first man, they tried many times and failed. The kvah are the worst of the failures: almost man, but broken both outside and in. One small step above the dogs and the jackals.”
Bright Eyes glares at him. “You black-skinned devils are the children of those that dwell in shadow. No honor.”
The soldier shakes his head, amused. “This one talks well, though. Almost like a real woman. Not so ugly, too. In the dark, who knows?” He laughs. “But do not grow so attached to her, salah. The kvah will always be the first down the grates, the overseer will be sure, I promise you. The ones who go down first do not last long.”
“Go down?”
“Into the sewers. I heard the exarch say that is your fate. You are muckers now. The sewers, they take all the shit of Grand and Enlightened Zim . . . including you!” He laughs again at his wit.
“Why must we go down into the sewers?”
He expression suddenly looks more somber. “The water must flow, salah. The water must flow.”
“Yes, but –”
I’m interrupted by a rapping on the wood next to the seated soldier. A moment later a panel slides open, another of the bronze-armored warriors framed in the square of darkness.
“Midnight,” the newcomer says tersely, stepping inside. The other soldier gives me a final wink and rises, then disappears into the night. As the panel closes, the new warrior settles on the bench, laying his unsheathed sword across his lap. He doesn’t look nearly as friendly as his predecessor, so I lean back with a sigh, resting my head against the wood.
This world is mad.
I’m awoken by a commotion outside the wagon just as we shudder to a stop – shouted commands, the braying of animals, and beneath it all, crystalline voices raised in song. Bright Eyes and I blink at each other in confusion, and then the panel slides open and the talkative guard from the evening prior motions for us to exit. I stumble down the steps, my legs sore after a half day of sitting on the bench.
It must have rained last night, as a cool mist coils above the glistening grass. I shiver, and not just from the early morning chill. Soaring above us are walls that remind me of what it was like hiking through the mountains. A thousand span tall, at least, made of great bricks of red stone. Once, this wall must have been decorated with fanciful carvings, and here and there I can make out the head of what might be a dragon or a great blooming flower, but the grinding ages have obliterated whatever scenes had been meant to welcome visitors.
A line of shaggy four-legged animals with long necks is being driven through a huge gate by a Zimani in a straw hat, and the bleating I’d heard is the sound these things make as he lashes them along with his whip. Marching towards us is a small squad of soldiers in the same bronze armor as our guards, arrayed around a young Zimani in a brown frock. The ethereal singing I heard earlier rises again, floating down from above, and I squint up to where the tops of the great walls scrape the lightening sky. Four women – youthful, by the looks of them – are standing on the edge of the parapets, their arms raised to the distant sun. Each is garbed in a dress that reminds me of colors I associate with the dawn – red, yellow, orange and pink.
“They’re singing the sun awake,” says the gregarious soldier when he sees me staring up at the singers. “Without the Prophet’s Daughter, there would be endless night.”
He sees my skepticism. “No, really, salah,” he continues. “This world is old and the sun is tired. Zim is the Twilight Empire, and the only way to keep the darkness at bay is to entice the sun to wake each morn
ing. But one day even that won’t be enough.”
“Don’t touch me, pinkling!” Bright Eyes snarls, and I turn just as she sends the young Zimani in the brown frock sprawling. The soldiers around him step forward with their hands on the hilts of their swords, but a shouted command stills them. It’s the exarch Velius, and he strides up, a servant behind him holding the hem of his burgundy robes to keep it from trailing in the wet grass. The soldiers hurriedly clap fists to their chests, and then one of them helps the now-sodden Zimani to his feet.
“Why are you accosting my slave, mendicant?” asks the exarch calmly as the Zimani youth smooths down his wet and rumpled frock.
“O-orders of the emperor, High One. There have been rumors that the Wilting Plague is abroad. I’ve been commanded to make sure that no one entering the city is infected.”
“Hm,” the exarch says absently, taking off his spectacles and polishing the lenses. “The Wilting. Very well – slaves, free men, allow the mendicant to check that you are healthy.”
Bright Eyes crosses her arms defiantly, and the exarch frowns. “Kvah, I do not wish to discipline you. I would much prefer if you followed my commands the first time. I have no patience for a disobedient slave.” He does not touch the spheres hanging around his neck, but I notice Bright Eyes glance at them quickly. Then she swallows hard and nods, her fists clenched.
“Very good,” says the exarch, and the mendicant steps forward nervously to examine the kvah’s neck, running his fingers lightly over her throat.
Bright Eyes is absolutely rigid, and her breathing is getting shorter and faster, as if she’s on the verge of panicking.
The Zimani realizes this as well, as he quickly steps back. “Good, good. There’s no swelling. Assuming the Wilting affects kvah the same as humans, she’s free of it.”