She splashed forward another few steps, tripped over a thick tangle of water weed and fell, hands breaking her fall but sending up a splash that pinpointed her location to everyone within fifty strides. Rillirin flailed onwards, spear gone somewhere in the water, her only thought to get out deep and then move parallel to the shore. The reed bed was thick and tall, bulrushes standing proud above her head, and she was half crawling, half paddling, chin just above the water, but there was splashing behind her and more shouts and she floundered on, just about deep enough to swim, and she stretched out, cupped palms seeking open water and distance and speed and someone grabbed her by the ankle.
Rillirin screamed and kicked, her head going under and half her breath lost to the water, surfaced and kicked again, thrashing, felt her boot come off in his hand and flapped another stroke before he got another grip, on her calf this time. She twisted on to her back, took a breath and kicked with her free foot, aiming for his head and letting the motion carry her beneath the surface again. She felt impact, not sure whether it was his face or shoulder, and his fingers loosened, but then more hands, two-three-four as more Rankers piled into the shallows and she came up and screamed and screamed and screamed, blinded by her hair, by the water, by terror.
‘Get off me,’ she choked, spitting water. ‘Get the fuck off me!’
Hands on her hips now, grasping her shirt and jerkin, reeling her in like a desperate fish, and as soon as she could she added punches to her kicks but there were four of them and they dunked her, held her down until her struggles were to grab their arms and pull herself up to breathe. And when they jerked her upright and she couldn’t think about anything other than sucking in air, her wrists were already tied.
A strange-looking man in animal skins and covered in tattoos stood on the bank, victory beaming from his face. ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ he demanded. ‘My sister sent me on ahead to bring you this gift and here it is.’
The Ranker captain turned a disgusted look on him. ‘Fuck do you want, a reward? We’d already had four separate reports of this band moving to the foothills and had an ambush planned.’
‘We have captured the Bloodchild and its mother,’ Pesh said as though the captain hadn’t spoken. ‘The Dark Lady will be reborn.’ He looked into Rillirin’s eyes. ‘And my feet are on the Path.’
They stood her up in the shallows and Rillirin fought them until a soldier stepped behind her and pulled her hard against him, head tucked between her ear and shoulder, one arm looping across her chest, the other across her belly, his touch a foul invasion.
‘None of that now, girly,’ he whispered. ‘You’ll upset your child.’
Rillirin screamed again, loud and full of hate, thrashing against the restraining hands, legs scissoring. None of it made a difference. ‘Please,’ she wheezed. ‘Please don’t take me back. Please.’ The captain stepped forward, pulling a ring of metal from its place tied on his belt. ‘No! No no no!’
He snapped the collar around her neck, hammered the pin through the lock. It was just a symbol – there was no chain – but as its weight settled on her collarbones and the back of her neck, Rillirin wept at its awful, heart-breaking familiarity.
They led her carefully out of the water and past the wood and into the sun and on to firm ground where more soldiers cut down or captured the last terrified members of her group, once thousands strong, now just piles of meat. Old folks, children, it didn’t matter. Some of the Rankers laughed as they hunted down the defenceless; some of them were silent and grim.
Sadler and the soldiers who’d been under his command had fought well and fought to the death, piles of Easterner corpses littered around their broken formation.
‘Fetch the horses,’ the captain called. ‘Me, the savage and these two here will take her to Rilporin.’ He laughed, boyish and full of delight. ‘Might be on for that reward, lads!’
Cheers erupted from those soldiers within earshot.
As if the collar had stolen Rillirin’s strength, or her will, she followed the man towards the horses with her head down, bound hands resting on her belly and the still, quiet, sheltered form within.
She just followed.
TARA
Eighth moon, first year of the reign of King Corvus
Night kitchen, the palace, Rilporin, Wheat Lands
The violence that had spread through the city in the wake of the revelation of the Sky Path killings had claimed more than a thousand lives. Tara and the other slaves belonging to Valan had been lent to his friends while he was away in Pine Lock. Friends who had worked them hard and fed them little but not killed them, at least. Or not killed Tara, anyway – she hadn’t seen any of the others since Valan had left, but she doubted anyone would harm the second’s slaves.
Her temporary owner was War Chief Fost, the man who’d travelled to the Sky Path and discovered the carnage. He’d lost two consorts and seven children, apparently, and perhaps it was only the weeks of his journey with the survivors that had hollowed out his rage and grief into something crystal-sharp and brittle, lethal but not to her. She’d survived the weeks of Valan’s absence so far with nothing more than a few casual slaps and kicks, though the violence throughout the city continued unabated. Each day saw new corpses and not all of them were slaves: Mireces women were now a commodity and men killed to possess them. Tara was too busy serving Fost and making contact with potential rebels to wonder what the women themselves thought of the situation.
Back resting against the wall, she sat on the stool with her eyes closed. The heat from the ovens beat against her skin, bringing a light sweat to her palms and brow, but she ignored it. Ignored the quiet industry of the cooks and cook boys and the frail, incessant whimpering of a baby strapped to its mother’s back as she pounded dough.
Tara was exhausted by the stress of sounding out palace slaves, of maintaining her cover, of finding plausible reasons to go to the market where she could pass word to Merol or the Rankers, who toiled now on rebuilding houses in the merchants’ quarter. As they’d hoped, more and more slaves were open to the idea of rebellion and fighting their way free to flee the city. They’d slowly set up a network of people who knew people who’d pass along word, so that nobody – not even Tara or Vaunt – knew exactly who was on their side.
Not that she’d been allowed to see Vaunt in Valan’s absence, though the order gave credence to her swapping a few words with the labouring Rankers. He was alive and as well as could be expected. And so was she.
Tara yawned and scratched at the raw skin beneath her collar and it was then she became aware of the quiet. Even the newborn had ceased its complaint. Her eyes opened on the dim kitchen, deserted but for three figures standing opposite. At their head was the prison guard, Bern. The one who’d assaulted her so many weeks back. The one Valan had punched and threatened in consequence. The one who she knew had lost his consort in the Sky Path massacre and demanded another from Fost, who’d refused him.
Tara stood fast, crossed to the table and snatched up the bottle the war chief had sent her to fetch, grabbed a glass as well and turned to leave. A hand closed on her shoulder.
‘Now, now, pretty,’ Bern said, ‘don’t be rude. It’s our night off.’
Cold flooded Tara’s stomach. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
‘Forgive me, honoured,’ she said to the floor as he tugged her around to face him. ‘War Chief Fost awaits his wine, but I’m sure anyone else here would be happy to serve you a hot meal. Please excuse me.’
A second man slid around behind her, cutting her off from the exit. Her heart began to thud. Chances were good she could kill or disable all three – she certainly had the rage for it and the element of surprise – but that would be the end of her cover. Then again, she knew from their expressions what they wanted, and she wasn’t giving it to them, disguise be fucked.
‘I must go, honoured,’ she tried again, bobbing a curtsey and backing to the door. As expected, the man behind her wrapped an arm around her waist, hand grabbing her r
ight wrist. She struggled, testing his strength, but fell still as Bern approached.
‘You are rude,’ Bern said, running a finger down her cheek, ‘and you haven’t learnt your place in the world, despite this.’ He flicked his fingernail against her collar. ‘Best you learn the lesson now, with us, so’s you’re broken in for Valan. We’re doing you – and him – a favour, really. Hold her, Ram.’ The man behind tightened his grip on waist and wrist as Bern began to unlace his trousers.
Tara struggled a bit more, whimpering for the look of the thing, and when Bern opened his mouth to laugh or speak, she rammed the glass in her left hand into it so hard it shattered against his teeth and ripped his lips and tongue open as she ground it deeper between his jaws. A short kick to his groin, using Ram as a support, and then her hand came up with the splintered remains of the glass in it and she stabbed blindly backwards. Ram screeched and let her go, hands going to his face, and she stepped around the keening, blood-drooling Bern to accept the third attacker’s rush, waited until he’d committed himself and then clubbed him on the side of the head with the wine bottle.
The heavy glass held and he went down without a sound. Tara hesitated for a second; if she left them alive, they’d never stop hunting her, but if she killed them, Corvus would tear the palace apart looking for the culprit, and although they were all slaves together Tara didn’t doubt that one of the kitchen workers would sell her out, rebellion or not. Slavery and loyalty were uneasy bedfellows.
Bern’s hand snaked around her ankle and tripped her; she fell heavily, shoulder blades hitting the flagstones, the back of her skull a second later. The bottle did break this time, but by the time she’d blinked away the lights in her head, Bern had twisted the shattered remnants from her hand and was dragging her away from the debris. Towards him. Beneath him.
Her right hand was bleeding, splinters of glass in her palm; Tara gritted her teeth and hooked her thumbs, going for his eyes. He reared back, slapping them down, and then headbutted her hard enough to stun.
Blood burst from Tara’s nose and mouth, bubbled hot and salty into her throat, and she gathered a mouthful and coughed it hard in his face, slammed her undamaged hand under his chin as he jerked away, his centre of balance shifting so she could squirm out from beneath him. Not far enough.
He scrabbled, caught a handful of neckline and flesh, tore her hand from his jaw and slammed her back down on the stone, lifted her, slammed her down again, and once more. The impacts drove the air from her lungs. Tara fell limp, the pain in her back monstrous, vision bleary and thoughts muddled.
‘Fucking. Little. Bitch,’ Bern slurred through his ruined mouth, blood spraying with every word, every breath. He paused a second to pick slivers of glass from his mouth and tongue and she stirred, trying to slide away again.
Ram appeared in her eyeline, his cheek and ear pouring blood, and aimed a kick at her head, missed, and slammed his boot into her shoulder instead. Tara grunted, the new pain restoring a little clarity. Bern was straddling her thighs, so she grabbed his jerkin, slammed both knees up as hard as she could, dragging him forward and twisting her hips at the same time. He tumbled off her and towards Ram, who skipped back out of the way.
Tara scrambled to her feet but tripped on her skirt; she went back down, putting out her hands instinctively to break her fall and screeching when the glass and cuts hit the stone. The pain was dizzying, lightning bolts shooting all the way up to her shoulder, and involuntary tears sprang to her eyes even as she got a foot under her and lurched back upright, right hand held protectively to her chest.
Ram came in low, shoulder driving into her stomach to throw her and she managed to get an elbow strike down into his back before her feet left the floor and she was hurled backwards again. Tara tucked her chin to her chest, shoulder blades hitting the stone and left palm slapping the ground to break her fall and then swinging back to grab the back of Ram’s head, pressed to her belly. She pushed him down and herself up, scissored her legs around his neck and one arm, his face lost in the folds of her skirt somewhere by her groin, and then she squeezed with every ounce of strength in her thighs, left hand twisting the wrist of the arm scrabbling for purchase across her stomach and chest.
‘The fuck?’ Bern bubbled, trying to get past Ram’s thrashing legs.
Go to sleep, fucker. Go to fucking sleep. Sleep! It only took seconds for Ram’s thrashing to lessen to twitches, but he wasn’t quite out when Bern came at her again. And he wasn’t playing any more, a knife longer than Tara’s forearm clutched in his hand.
‘Let him go,’ he lisped. Tara kept squeezing but Bern roared and lunged and she had no choice – she kicked Ram away and rolled, crashed into a stack of barrels and then was being dragged backwards by her collar, choking.
Bern hauled her into clear space and put his knee in her back, pressing her into the stone until her ribs creaked and she couldn’t breathe. The point of the knife was very, very cold beneath her eye. ‘Bitch,’ he hissed again, blood and saliva stringing from his chin on to her cheek. Tara could feel her heart thudding against his knee, he had so much weight on her. Tiny sips of air, rapid and not enough, and pain everywhere as it all caught up with her and adrenaline even now brightening everything so she could see the dust in the cracks between the flagstones, the glitter of glass fragments, could hear the pat-pat-pat of Bern’s blood over her own heart and gulping, whimpering lungs.
The knife dug in, sliding through the delicate skin down into the socket in preparation to shuck her eye like an oyster and the only sound she could make was a thin mewl like a starving kitten, no breath for more.
‘What are you doing?’
The knife slid out of her face, the knee released its pressure and Bern began to babble. Tara sucked in three breaths deep enough to make her dizzy and then the animal inside her slipped its collar and she climbed to her feet, snatched up the knife he’d dropped, wrapped an arm around his neck to pull his chin up, and sawed through his windpipe and half his neck.
Valan stood in the doorway to the kitchen. ‘Fost said you’d be here,’ he said, the words so incongruous in light of it all that she just stared at him, panting, bleeding, and ready to kill him too. And Ram. And every last motherfucking Mireces in Gilgoras. Every exhalation ended with a soft growl as she brought the knife up ready.
Ram groaned and rolled to his knees. ‘Second? Second, this slave, cunting bitch, she attacked us—’
Valan took three long steps into the room, drew his own knife and stabbed him once in the chest.
Ram fell back, his face comical with surprise as he pressed his hands to the small, neat wound that was shortly going to kill him.
Tara moved into clear space where the bodies wouldn’t trip her; Valan followed. ‘Why did you do that?’
‘Because they tried to hurt you and they failed,’ Valan said and pushed her knife down – didn’t take it from her – then put a finger under her chin and examined the injuries. His eyes were dark with unnamed emotion. ‘Because if they were incompetent enough to lose to a woman, they didn’t deserve to live. And because they touched my property without permission.’
Tara didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t that. She slid back another step, pulling out of his grip. ‘Are you going to kill me too?’ she asked, bringing the knife back up. None of this made sense. He’d walked back in after weeks away and found her murdering Mireces and he looked … worried for her.
Valan sheathed his blade. ‘Not right now,’ he said softly, ‘though I need you to give me that.’ She licked blood from her lips, hers or Bern’s, and handed him the knife hilt-first, smothering the voice inside that screamed at her to kill him.
Valan examined the blade and put it down on the table. ‘You remind me of her,’ he said, radiating both pain and approval. He opened his arms, a clear invitation, and if she wanted to live Tara had no choice. Limping and bloody, she stepped into his embrace and stood rigid while he comforted her.
Valan was different now
. He did his duty for Corvus, settled the disputes among the men and kept the violence that was their nature to a minimum; he petitioned the king when necessary and said his prayers before bed, but he was different. The hard edges had been rounded by grief, a softer, warmer grief for real people rather than the brittle, spiky-edged thing that was the loss of the Dark Lady and which all the Mireces shared.
His grief, his distraction, got under Tara’s skin. It made it harder to hate him. You remind me of her.
No need to ask who he meant, and no need to guess what he’d be expecting of her soon enough. Expecting or demanding. Forcing.
Valan claimed the deaths of the three men as his own, retaliation for walking in and finding them assaulting his property and so furthering Tara’s debt to him. The one she’d hit with the bottle, whose name she didn’t know, had never woken up. Fost apologised for the oversight; Corvus didn’t even acknowledge the deaths. The second didn’t ask where she’d learnt to fight or how she’d managed to survive; he just treated her cuts and bruises himself and put her on light duties.
Tara was more scared than she’d ever been in her life, more out of her depth than when she’d been drowning in the Yew Cove tunnels. And a tiny, tiny bit grateful. She knew that was how they got to people: they took away everything that made a person who they were and then gave parts of it back until the slave was so thankful they became complicit in their own captivity. She swore not to be like that, told herself Valan was as much her enemy as ever, and didn’t allow herself to wonder if she lied.
Tara thought of Vaunt and their brief, beautiful and savage fucking, and her hand strayed to her belly and the cramps twisting it. One less thing to worry about.
She wondered if she lied about that, too.
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