Aurian

20 The Slave Master

From the familiar way in which the floor rocked and heaved beneath him, Anvar realized that he was on board a ship once more. He was tightly bound with coarse rope, and his aching head was throbbing in time to a hollow, muffled booming that assailed his hearing with ceaseless monotony. He lay still for a moment, not daring to open his eyes, his cheek resting on damp, splintery boards. It was suffocatingly hot. He could smell tar and reeking bodies, vomit and excrement. As well as the booming thuds that echoed painfully through his skull, he could hear the clink of chains and the occasional crack of a whip, punctuated by screams of pain.

Anvar opened his eyes. He lay in a long, narrow, torchlit space that took up, he guessed, most of the belowdecks area of the ship. Chained slaves, in rows of four, sat at benches on either side of a narrow aisle; each row of men wielded a heavy oar between them. The hulking figure of an overseer prowled up and down, flourishing a vicious whip, while at the far end a bald giant with skin like dark-tanned leather pounded on a heavy drum, setting the pace for the rowers. Anvar had been thrown into the cramped space in the narrow bow, where there was no room for oarsmen. A quick glance round showed no sign of Sara, and his stomach tightened with fear.

Someone was coming down the ladder that was attached to the wooden bulkhead behind the behemoth with the drum. From the sudden smartening of the overseer’s attitude, the quickening of the drumbeat, and the richness of the man’s loose robes, Anvar decided that this must be the captain. He was a tall, emaciated-looking man with a hook nose and a thin, straggling beard. His head was shaved completely bald, except for a braided pigtail at the back, and his skin glowed like polished wood in the dim red torchlight. His voice was deep and guttural as he addressed the overseers. “Pick up the beat, you! Get these sluggards moving, or you’ll find yourself joining them!”

Anvar was stunned. The man was speaking a language that was completely strange to him—he could hear that quite plainly—yet he could understand every word! The ability to understand and speak any language was a talent common to all the Mageborn . . . Anvar felt a warning pain lance through his skull, and had to clench his teeth to keep from groaning aloud. To turn his mind from such dangerous thoughts, he concentrated on the captain’s words.

“... and swill this pigsty out! How can you endure the stench? I will not have us coming into port smelling like a cattle boat! We are Royal Corsairs, and we have a reputation to uphold!”

A groan of protest came from the overseer. “It’s bad enough having to live with these animals. Why should we have to clean up after them?”

The crack of the captain’s fist hitting his face echoed in the confined space. He staggered and fell, dropping his whip and hitting his head on the edge of one of the benches. A murmur of appreciation ran through the shackled slaves.

“Because, you stupid son of a donkey, if you leave them to wallow in their own filth, they will sicken and die,” the captain said testily. “They wear out too quickly as it is—and if I have to squander our profits replacing any more galley slaves, I intend to take it out of your bonus.”

“But that isn’t fair,” the overseer whined.

“Think of it as a favor. If the crew lose out through your carelessness, they’ll slit your throat for you.” The captain grinned evilly. “Get busy, Harag. And you, Abuz, pick up that cursed beat. I want to be in time to catch the Khisu’s procurer tonight. He should be very interested in buying the pale-haired wench for His Majesty’s collection, and the man will fetch a good price in the market. With the Khisu building his summer palace, the price of slaves is as high as the stars just now. The Slavemaster will find a place even for an illegal Northerner, and his gold will line our pockets. So think of that while you work.

It might help to speed things along.” He left, whistling.

Having been doused with several pailfuls of seawater during Harag’s rough swilling-out of the slave area, Anvar could no longer pretend to be unconscious. As he choked and spluttered, Harag seized a handful of his hair and pulled his head backward, giving a low whistle of astonishment. “Souls, Abuz, you want to see this one! It’s true—Northerners do have eyes the color of the sky!” With a shudder he dropped Anvar’s head

“Ugh! Unnatural, I call it. I’m glad the captain is selling him —with eyes like that, he’s bound to be unlucky.”

Abuz nodded, never losing the rapid beat of his drum. “I know what you mean. I saw one when I was young—a captive spy about to be executed. When his head was struck off, those pale eyes stared right through me. Gave me nightmares for ages. Northerners are bad luck, I think. Good thing we’re nearly home.”

“Should we feed him?” Harag wondered. “The captain will have our hides if he arrives in poor condition.”

“Nah. He’ll only be sick, and you’ve just cleaned up. They can feed him in the slave pens—at their expense!”

Anvar closed his eyes in utter wretchedness. A slave! Oh Gods, no! And what of poor Sara? Cursing inwardly, he struggled against his bonds until a vicious kick in the stomach from Harag stopped him. Anvar doubled up, vomiting bile onto the boards.

Harag howled in fury. “Filthy swine! I’ve just cleaned that!” He raised his whip and Anvar cringed, awaiting the blow.

“Stop that, Harag!” Abuz bellowed. “I don’t intend to lose my bonus through your temper!”

Harag turned, his whip still raised, his face livid with rage. “You mind your own business, you lumbering ox!”

Abuz laid the massive drumsticks down on top of the drum and rose to his feet. He was so huge that he had to bend beneath the low ceiling. The slaves ^topped rowing immediately, relief on their pain-wracked, sweat-drenched faces. “Do I have to come down there and deal with this, Harag?” Abuz said. “Because you’re beginning to make me angry—and you know what happens when I get angry!”

Harag’s swarthy face paled. Slowly, he lowered the whip.

“What in the name of the Reaper is going on down there?” The captain’s angry voice bellowed through the open hatchway above. “Why have we stopped?”

Abuz flinched. “Sorry, Captain. Just having a little problem with the new slave.” Without waiting for a reply, he sat down hastily and picked up his drumsticks, resuming a rapid beat. Harag, taking his temper out on the gasping, glassy-eyed slaves, strode up and down, lashing them into greater efforts.

Anvar curled around his bruised stomach and abandoned himself to utter misery.

A cascade of cold water awakened him abruptly, washing away the pool of vomit in which he had been lying. He heard the captain’s voice rising in anger. “I thought I told you to clean this place up!” There was the sick thud of a fist striking flesh.

“But I did,” Harag whined. “The mangy dog threw up again!”

“Never mind,” the captain sighed. “Just get on with it.” A stinking sack was thrust over Anvar’s head, and he was lifted by rough hands. As they bundled him through the hatch, he heard the hubbub of what must presumably be the docks. The sun’s heat hit him like a hammer blow as he was carried down a sloping, bouncing gangplank and thrown down roughly, with all the breath knocked out of him. Suddenly he was in motion—from the jolting, it seemed that he was in a cart, and the multitude of sounds around him seemed to indicate a town or city of some sort. He thought he understood why they had put the sack over his head—if he should escape, he would have no idea where he was, or where to run. Unfamiliar with the customs of this land, he failed to realize that it was also to hide the fact that the captain was bringing an illegal foreigner into the slave markets instead of turning him over to the city’s authorities, as the law demanded.

The cart bounced along, jarring Anvar’s aching head. The motion made him feel £ts though he would be sick again at any minute. His body was baking in the heat of the sun, and he w,i nearly suffocating inside the smelly sack. But at last the sui heat vanished abruptly, and the faint light that filtered throu; the weave of the sack dimmed. The cartwheels echoed hollow on smooth stone, then stopped.

“Greetings, Captain.” The light voice dripped false honey “You had a profitable voyage, I trust? Are we buying today, or selling?”

“Selling, Zahn. Just the one this time.”

“Only one? Tut tut, Captain. You are usually one of my more dependable suppliers.”

“Be reasonable, Zahn,” the captain said irritably. “What could we possibly gain from two months’ duty patrol up the coast? We are the Khisu’s Corsairs, you know. Sometimes we must do our duty, and forget profit for a while.”

“Your loyalty does you credit, Captain,” Zahn replied smoothly. “Shall we inspect the merchandise, then?”

The bonds were cut from Anvar’s feet, and he gasped with pain as blood ran back into the numbed tissues. He was pulled from the cart and hauled upright by strong hands, and the sack was wrenched from his head. A short, wizened man with a face like a steel trap stared at him openmouthed.

“Reaper of Souls!” he gasped. “A Northerner. How dare you bring an illegal slave into my premises!”

“Spare me your righteous protests, Zahn,” the captain said impatiently. “I know how desperate you are for slaves—any slaves—just now.”

His words seemed to deflate the Slavemaster. “Where did you find him?” Zahn asked with a frown.

“Washed up along the coast. Shipwrecked, by the look of it, in that freak storm. We saw some corpses and floating wreckage. They must have been blown far off course. Normally, they have more sense than to venture into our waters.” He grinned wolfishly. “Anyway, enough of this. Do you want him, or shall I turn him over to the Arbiters like a good little Corsair?”

The Slavemaster pursed his lips and began to walk around Anvar, looking him carefully up and down with an occasional pinch and prod. “Strip him,” he ordered, and one of his handlers drew a knife and began to slit away the ragged remains of Anvar’s clothes. Anvar struggled wildly—then, feeling the bite of cold steel against his naked flesh, he froze, swallowing hard .is he realized where his guard had positioned the knife.

“What are you doing?” the captain protested.

Zahn grinned evilly. “Don’t worry—I can sell him just as well as a eunuch—but there will probably be no need. He may not speak our tongue, but I think he understands!”

Sweat broke out on Anvar’s brow. He froze in position, hardly daring to breathe. Though he was sickened by the touch of Zahn’s overfamiliar hands on his body, there was nothing he could do. His hands were still bound, and there was a burly handler on each side of him, one holding the knife in its perilous position. Anvar clenched his fists and shuddered. To take his mind off the examination, he concentrated instead on his surroundings.

He was in a large, circular chamber built of stone, with a domed ceiling. In the center was a raised, roped-off platform, to one side of which stood a row of large iron cages, empty at present. The walls of the chamber were pierced at regular intervals by a series of shadowed archways. Only one of them was filled with the glare of bright sunlight, leading to the outside world.

“Well . . .” Anvar heard Zahn say, and snapped his attention back to the slave merchant, who was eyeing him thoughtfully. “He’s in fair condition, considering,” he told the captain, “and he seems strong enough, with that height, and those lovely broad shoulders.” Zahn was eyeing him in a frankly speculative fashion that made Anvar shudder. “Unfortunately,” the slaver continued, “I cannot sell him to a private client—those eyes would put people off. Besides, there would be too many questions. But as you know, the Khisu is desperate for more laborers. The Reaper only knows how they go through so many slaves out there! Sheer mismanagement, if you ask me. Still, this summer palace is the best thing for trade in years, and His Majesty pays well. I think we can come to an arrangement. Of course, he will not last long in our climate, but that is not our problem. Come, my friend. Let us discuss the price over a glass of wine.” He snapped his fingers at the two husky men holding Anvar. “Take him,” he said.

To Anvar’s utter relief, the knife was taken away. He was dragged through one of the shadowy archways, and forced down a long, echoing corridor lit by lamps that hung from chains set in the ceiling. Bars of sunlight filtered through a latticed wooden door at the far end. His captors unlocked it and Anvar was thrust out into a dusty yard edged with open-fronted workshops. A potter sat in one, turning a rough clay bowl on his wheel. In the next, a draggled woman stirred a caldron of vile-smelling swill over an open fire, pausing only to flick away a myriad of great black flies that swarmed around her greasy face. Outside another booth, a man was plaiting long, thin strips of hide into a whip. Anvar turned his eyes away, not liking what it portended.

On one side of the courtyard was a smithy. A skinny, sweating little boy worked the bellows, keeping the forge at white heat while two dark-skinned men in leather aprons hammered out chains and manacles. There was no mistaking the smith himself. A squat black man, his skin tanned like wrinkled leather from the heat of the forge, he was twice as broad across the shoulders as Anvar, his muscles standing out like rough-hewn rocks. The two guards approached him with respect. The smith’s eyes widened at the sight of Anvar. “Reaper take us!” he growled disgustedly. “Zahn is getting desperate!” He advanced on Anvar, holding a hinged metal collar that looked like a child’s bracelet in his great hands. One of his assistants followed, bearing a glowing, white-hot iron.

Anvar struggled desperately, flinching away as the broad collar was placed around his neck and the ends were closed together, but the guards held him firmly. The smith was well accustomed to this delicate task, and caused him little pain, though Anvar whimpered in fear as he felt the collar grow hot when the edges were welded together with the searing iron. But the little boy, who had left his bellows, was standing ready to douse him with cold water from a jar, and the heat vanished at once. The child gave him a cheeky grin as he returned to his former task, and Anvar felt like a craven fool. The coarse rope binding his hands was cut away, and his hands were drawn round to the front and fitted with manacles joined by a short length of chain. One of the guards produced another chain which he attached to a ring on the collar. Nodding brusque thanks to the taciturn smith, he gave a^sharp tug, preparing to lead Anvar away.

Like a dog! Anvar, furious, humiliated, and still shaking from the jolt of fear that had gone through him when the collar was sealed, gripped the chain in his manacled hands and pulled back as hard as he could. Instantly the other guard took a short, thick whip from his belt, and the heavy lash fell once, twice, three times across Anvar’s back and shoulders. He staggered, crying out with pain, and the guard pulled sharply on the chain. The hard edge of the iron collar cut into his neck and the lash fell once more, branding a line of fire across Anvar’s back as he staggered after the guard. The other handler followed, his whip flashing down whenever Anvar stumbled or slackened his

They took Anvar back inside the building, down a steep flight of steps into the cellars beneath. He was thrust into a bare and gloomy cell that housed several other slaves, all men. Their collars were attached at half height to rings on the wall by a 1 handspan of chain, so that they were forced to remain sitting up 1 at all times. Ventilated only by an iron grille set high on the wall, the place stank of human excrement. Gutters led down to a dip in the center of the floor, in which was set a noisome open drain. Anvar was later to learn that the cell was swilled out, slaves and all, twice a day, and that was the limit of the sanitation.

The guards chained him by his collar to a vacant ring in the wall and left him, bolting the door behind them. None of the other slaves reacted in any way to his presence. They werf sorry specimens mostly: filthy, half starved, and covered in sores and scars. Some wept, some dozed, while others stared blankly at nothing with hollow, vacant eyes.

Anvar tried to reach behind him with manacled hands to grasp the chain that fastened him to the wall. He managed to get a grip at last, though the iron collar almost throttled him. He tore at the chain until his fingers bled, but it was firmly attached to the collar at one end, and at the other, to the ring that was bolted into the wall. At last he gave up, and hiding his face in his bleeding hands, he gave himself over to despair, There was no escape, not now at least. What would become of him? What was being done to Sara? And most of all, what had happened to that faithless Mage? In his self-pity, he imagined Aurian continuing her journey, free and uncaring about the t\ she had so callously abandoned to their fate.

Despite his anger at her, the thought of Aurian steadied him. At least she faced things with courage and determination,

What would she say if she could see him giving way like this?

Nothing, Anvar suddenly realized. She would simply get these bloody chains off, and get him out of here—and it wouldn’t be the first time she had saved him. Anvar thought of Aurian’s past kindnesses, remembered the closeness they had briefly shared on board the ship. He recalled that in bringing him on this journey, she had saved him from the Death Wraiths—and remembered why she had left him in the first place. It was his own fault. He had driven her away, and wherever she was, she would be facing difficulties of her own. At least he could take an example from her courage. Anvar vowed then that whatever happened, he would endure—as he knew that she would endure. “I will survive this,” he promised himself fiercely. “And one day I’ll see Sara and the Mage again.”

Sara cringed back as far as her bound limbs would let her, shrinking into the corner of the narrow bunk as the cabin door opened. The captain entered with a bundle in his arms, followed by two brawny sailors carrying a large tub ,of water between them. Another followed with a plate of bread and fruit and a tarnished cup, which he set down on the table. The captain waited until his men had left, then with a sweeping gesture, he drew a jeweled dagger from the sleeve of his loose-fitting robe, Sara uttered a little shriek, but he merely leaned forward and cut the ropes that bound her feet and hands. Then standing over her, he made motions for her to undress, Sara clutched the neck of her tattered gown, and shook her head wildly in denial, “No!” she gasped. “Please, no.” The captain laughed, and pointed at the tub of water, the bundle that he had dumped on the bed, and the food on the table. Then with an ironic bow, he turned and left the cabin, locking the door behind him.

After a moment Sara slipped out of the bunk and ran to try the door, knowing the futility of the act even as she did it. It was locked, of course. She was not sure whether to be glad or sorry. In a way it was a comfort to have this solid piece of wood between herself and the men who had laid hands on her on the beach. She shuddered at the memory. After Aurian’s warning about the sailors on the first ship, she’d been half crazed with terror—but when the captain set eyes on her, he had shouted some orders in his harsh foreign tongue, and they had brought her down here. Apart from sleeping for a while—she had no idea how long—she had kin here, trembling, ever since, the sound of every footstep filling her with dread.

Now it seemed that the captain wanted her for himself, Well, Sara decided, it was better than being raped by his unsavory-looking crew. He’d been courteous, at least , , . Fear was such a familiar companion by now that practicality asserted itself. The fruit on the table, though strange to her, looked ripe and luscious, and it smelled so good ... Oh well, she thought. Might as well be.ravished on a full stomach! The cup held a light, spicy wine that Sara found delicious, although in her dehydrated state she would have preferred water. The contents of the tub looked clean enough, but she had no intention of risking it.

After her meal, Sara felt much better, and turned to examine the bundle on the bed. ^^^^^^^^^^ia^ ana’ jcytaff A&wJ/; a bar of coarse soap, a comb carved from some white bonelike substance—and a richly embroidered hooded robe that tied at the waist with a silken sash. As she shook out the folds of the robe, something fell out and rolled across the cabin floor. It turned out to be a little glass vial of perfume. Sara sniffed the fragrance appreciatively. Despite the dangers that lurked all too close, things were looking up.

Although the water in the tub was shallow and only lukewarm, the bath was a glorious luxury. She washed her hair too, drying it afterward as best she could with the damp cloths and combing out the tangles and snarls until it fell in its usual, glimmering cascade of rich gold. The robe felt wonderfully soft and cool against her bare skin, and the perfume was rich and sweet. It felt so good to be clean again. She only wished she had a mirror.

The sound of the door opening made her jump. Sara backed hastily away, wondering belatedly if it had been a mistake to make herself presentable once more. The captain stood in the doorway, smiling approvingly. Then he gestured toward the door. “Where are you taking me?” Sara asked suspiciously, forgetting that he could not understand her.

The captain shrugged. Abandoning all pretense of patience, he swept down on her in three rapid strides and grabbed her wrists, tying them in front of her with the trailing ends of her sash. Ignoring her shrieks and struggles, he called on a brawny sailor to hold her still while he fitted a veil of some unfamiliar diaphanous material over her head and pulled the deep hood of the robe down to cover her face. The sailor threw her over his shoulder with careless strength, and she was carried away.

Like Anvar, Sara was placed in an uncomfortable, jouncing cart, traveling blind. After a while, she knew from the tilt of the vehicle that they were climbing a steep hill. Then the road flattened, and the cart drew to a halt. Sara heard voices, followed by the grinding creak of huge gates opening. Then they were in motion once more.

They stopped, and Sara heard the cheerful patter of a fountain. The captain helped her down, and she found herself standing on glassy stone that felt delightfully cool to her bare feet. He pulled the hood from her head. She saw his outline through the translucent veil, and that of another man to whom he was speaking with rapid eloquence. Then he lifted the veil and the other man gasped. Sara, blinking, echoed his gasp at the sight of him. He was short and chubby, his face elaborately painted with cosmetics, his eyes outlined with kohl. He wore many glittering necklaces over brightly colored robes, and gold earrings pierced his ears. His shaven head was painted with intricate swirling designs in gold. The overall effect was painfully dazzling.

At least, Sara thought smugly, her appearance seemed to dazzle him, too. He was almost jumping up and down with excitement. There was a rapid volley of talk between the two men, then the fat man gave the captain several bags that clinked, and seemed to be heavy. Sara felt a sudden stab of panic. He was selling her? As he turned to leave she tried to grab his sleeve, forgetting that her hands were bound. She didn’t think much of him, but he was the only familiar thing in this strange place. He shrugged her off, and leaping aboard his cart, maneuvered the donkey carefully,, round in the narrow space of the white-walled courtyard. The high, sturdy gates were closed and locked behind him by two slender young men with shaven heads and curiously effeminate, painted faces. Sara felt a wild urge to run, but there was nowhere to run to. The walls that surrounded her were very high. Her eyes filled with tears that spilled unchecked down her cheeks, since her hands were still bound to her waist by her sash.

The fat man clucked in concern, and patted her arm, “Weep not,” he said, in a high, reedy voice.

Sara stared at him in astonished relief. “You speak my language?”

He nodded vigorously. “Little,” he beamed, “Khisu speak good. He teach. You like Khisu. Weep not, lady. Spoil.” With a gentle hand, he stroked the tears from her cheeks. “Be proud.

You for Khisu—your word, King.”

“King?” Sara gasped.

The fat man nodded again. “Khisu many beautiful lady. Want always beautiful lady. Want you, for sure.” He gave her a dazzling smile, showing a gold tooth at the front. “Come,” he said. “Bathe. Dress. See other lady. Many lady. See Khisu this night. Weep not. He like.”

The ladies’ quarters were a labyrinth of many interconnecting rooms, their walls and floors richly decorated with pastel tiles and intricate mosaics. There were rooms with silk-covered couches, and tables, chairs, and chests that were inlaid with gold; rooms with wide, low beds curtained in drifting white muslin; rooms with fountains, pools, and huge, circular marble baths. There were shady courtyards and gardens full of exotic flowers and vivid butterflies. The air was laden with mingled perfumes and the sweet piercing song of bright-hued birds in cages of gold.

The women drifted in and out, some like silent ghosts in their diaphanous robes. Others gathered in chattering flocks around the edges of pools, or splashed and soaked together in the communal baths with a complete disregard for their nudity. A few gossiped together on the soft cushions of couches. There were more of them than Sara could count, and each was more beautiful than the last.

Sara’s companion detached half a dozen dusky beauties from one group, jabbering to them in their own language, with an occasional gesture toward her. Their amazement at her golden hair seemed no less than his own had been, and they crowded round her, exclaiming loudly and fingering her heavy tresses. The little man silenced them sharply and issued what seemed to be a stream of instructions. Then he turned to Sara with a smile. “Zalid, I,” he said, pointing at himself. “You want, you send. You?”

“Sara,” she told him, realizing that he wanted her name.

“Sara. Good. Like desert wind. Go with lady now. Bathe, dress, eat. Later, see Khisu.” Unbinding her hands, he delivered her into the care of the girls.

Sara was ushered into a luxurious suite of rooms. She ate first, the chattering girls serving her with spiced meats, fruit, and strange, flat, leathery bread. She drank wine from a jeweled goblet, and looked around her sumptuous chambers, wondering if she had strayed into a dream. Then she bathed again, in a deep pool of steaming water scented with flowers and herbs. After her bath, two of the girls massaged her body with fragrant oils.

Sara relaxed beneath their hands, enjoying the pampering. As Vannor’s wife she had been used to such attentions, and over the last few days she had missed them dreadfully. After the terrors and hardships of her flight from Nexis, the harem was a haven, not a prison. She was not concerned about meeting the—what did they call him?—the Khisu. She knew she was beautiful. She had used her looks to twist Anvar and that lout Vannor around her little finger, and had no doubt that she could do the same with this King. She felt a flutter of excitement. A real, live King! It was the chance of a lifetime! Sara stretched like a cat, thinking how far she had come in the last few years. This was a far cry from marrying the baker’s son!

Anvar, indeed! Sara scowled, irritated by the slight pang of guilt that marred her self-congratulation. She had not seen him since their capture. She shrugged. He’d been alive then, so they must have plans for him, and he was already a servant, so things couldn’t get much worse. Besides, it served him right for dragging her off on this insane journey! She meant to survive, to take care of herself. With that, she put Anvar out of her mind.

They brought great heaps of clothes for her to choose from—embroidered robes of translucent silk in a myriad of colors, veils with less substance than a summer morning’s mist. They brought gilded sandals, and perfumes, cosmetics, and more jewels than Sara had seen in her life. She took her time choosing, combining the materials for maximum effect. She was in her element now. This was what she was best at.

Ar last she was ready. Sara stood gazing at herself in a full-length mirror of polished silver, and the vision that stared back at her took her breath away. Gods, she thought, I’m stunning! I’ve never looked so beautiful! Although her heart was bearing rather fast, Sara waited with calm confidence to be summoned into the presence of the King. The dazzling creature in the mirror smiled at her enigmatically. This was going to be child’s play.