Shadows Return

CHAPTER 11 No Good Place for a ’Faie

ALEC HOPED IN vain to see the veiled Aurënfaie again. He hadn’t even asked his name. But no one except the boy came, bringing him food and water and taking away the slop pail. Alec tried to befriend him, but the boy kept his eyes averted and never lingered.

On the morning of the fourth day the breeze through the little window changed, carrying the scent of land. Standing up on the bed again, he caught a glimpse of white stone cliffs, bright in the distance. There was no sign of green-no forest or fields-and as he took more sightings through the day, his impression remained the same. Seregil had told him that Plenimar was barren in places, especially here in the south; that was why the Plenimarans tried so often to take the land of others. At least that was the Skalan view.

And they kept slaves. Alec looked down at the scabbed brand on his arm, trying to imagine what lay ahead.

They made port late in the afternoon, and Alec began to feel sick. He told himself that it was just the rolling of the ship at anchor, but his heart knew better.

He’d eaten to keep his strength up. He’d watch for his chance and break for freedom at the first opportunity. He had no idea how he was going to get out of his shackles, but he could worry about that if he actually managed to get away.

That proved a vain hope. Three sturdy Zengati sailors came for him. They bound his legs together with rope and carried him out of the cabin on their shoulders like a rolled carpet.

The ship was a large one, long and lean, and there were dozens of sailors and armed men milling around. No one spared him a glance as he was carried past. Beyond the rail, he could see a waterfront teeming with people.

There was some sort of holdup at the head of the gangway, and he looked around wildly, realizing how futile his hope of escape had been.

At first glance, Riga was no different than any seaport city. The shadows were growing long, and there were lanterns lit along the streets. Tall warehouses lined the shore, and between them he got a glimpse of a large city that spread as far as he could see. Beyond that, in the distance, were white, rolling hills dotted with bits of dark green. It reminded him of Gedre.

On deck, a hatch had been thrown back and filthy, naked people were being led up. The smell was so bad that he retched around the mouth plate of the branks.

The miserable slaves were staggering in chains and, as Alec watched, two sailors came up carrying a limp body by the arms and legs. The man was filthier than all the others-emaciated and bloody, too-but Alec still recognized him.

“’eregil!” he shouted, thrashing in his captors’ grip and cursing the branks that gagged him. “’eregil! ’eregil!”

He was terrified at first that Seregil was dead. The man was deathly pale under the filth, and his eyes were sunk deeply in dark, bruised-looking sockets. But as soon as the sailors stretched him on the deck, Alec saw him make a feeble effort to curl into a ball. The heavy metal bars fastened between his hands and feet were too much for him. As Alec watched, he went limp, only the whites of his eyes showing under half-open lids. Alec had never seen his talimenios so weak.

But he’s alive and he’s here!

Before he could tell anything more of Seregil’s condition, Alec’s handlers hoisted him higher and carried him down the gangway. Helpless he might be, but he was no longer without hope.

The last thing he saw before the deck rose out of view was the nameless Aurënfaie slave kneeling beside Seregil.

Help him, please! Alec silently begged, as he was carried ashore.

Alec?

Seregil was only dimly aware that the motion around him had changed. Then he was in sunlight, too painfully bright even through his eyelids. A fresh, cold wind cut through the stink he’d thought endless. Had he been asleep? Had he dreamed Alec’s voice, calling to him?

It hurt too much to stay here, though, and he let himself sink back into the welcoming blackness.

Consciousness flirted with him, and he wasn’t sure if he was awake or dreaming the sound of voices, coming to him faintly, as if from a great distance.

“I told you to hold him, not kill him!”

Seregil knew that voice from somewhere.

“We didn’t know…”

He was too far gone to register what language was being spoken; he only knew that he understood it.

“Useless! He’s dying!”

Who’s dying? Not me, friend! Not until…

Alec’s captors carried him down a long stone quay and into a market square. If he’d had any doubts about slavery here, they were put to rest now. There were iron cages full of naked men, women, and children, and beyond that, a raised platform where more people stood chained to posts in front of a crowd.

“Maker, save me,” Alec whispered.

The sailors tightened their grip on him and bore him down a paved street between the warehouses.

The chill air was dry and full of dust. The street was crowded even at this hour and, for the first time in days, he was painfully aware of his nakedness. Old women and young girls laughed and pointed, calling out in their own language. Alec’s command of Plenimaran was far from perfect, but their jeering tone was enough. Still possessed of a deep-bred northern modesty despite all his time with Seregil, he burned with shame.

And he guessed there was worse to come. They were in sight of more auction blocks now, then among them. On one platform a fair-haired young woman was on display, with her hands tied behind her to keep her from covering any part of herself. Their eyes met in a moment of shared anguish. On the next block, two little boys stood weeping and clinging to each other as the auctioneer harangued the crowd. A blind fiddler stood on a street corner, playing a bright jig.

A sudden turn in the street spared Alec any more such sights, but it had been enough. Angry tears blurred his vision as he screamed and struggled, helpless to stop, as his captors hurried him into a long, low building.

It was like a barn inside, and lined with stall-like cages. They put him in one of these, laying him down carefully on a thick bed of straw and slamming the iron door shut behind them.

The place was brightly lit. Alec pushed himself up on his hands and looked around. The walls of his little cell were made of heavy boards, so he could only see out the front. Across the room, most of the cages held one or more captives.

Still hampered by the iron bar between his hands and the ropes cutting into his legs, he crawled to the back corner of his cage and covered himself in the straw as best he could. His heart was pounding, the sound of his own blood loud in his ears as he fought a renewed rush of panic. He had no tools, and there were people everywhere, talking or haggling loudly in languages he could not understand. He wished now he’d let Seregil teach him Plenimaran. After his last experience, he’d wanted nothing to do with this country, not even its language. Now he kicked himself for his stubbornness.

How long until someone dragged him back out to the blocks and put him on display? How would he know what was going on?

It was a busy place, this slave barn, not unlike a horse dealer’s market. People of all sorts strolled up and down the line of cages, laughing and chatting together as they inspected the merchandise. Many stopped to look at Alec, but none came in after him. There were a number of Zengati about in their salt-stained boots and striped tunics. Most, however, had the look of nobles or merchants, and dressed more in the Skalan fashion. Alec studied them all carefully. Aside from Duke Mardus and his necromancer, the only Plenimarans he’d had any experience with were their marines, and they were a cruel, hard-bitten lot. By comparison, these people looked like any ordinary market crowd, except for the goods in which they were trading.

An elegantly dressed young woman paused to stare at him, attended by several servants and friends. Her bodice was more modestly cut than that favored by Skalan women of fashion, but she had brilliant feathers and jewels in her upswept hair. Her face was covered in some sort of white powder and her lips were painted dark red. The unnatural cast of it, and the appraising look in her hard, dark eyes, made Alec nervous. She gestured at him, then moved on, casting back some remark that set her companions laughing and pointing.

Alec guessed she must be one of the courtesans the veiled man had mentioned. What little he’d ever heard about proper Plenimaran women was that they were kept at home and closely guarded.

I’ll be damned if I end up the toy of some whore!

He tried to ignore the crowd after that, until a few ruffians crowded up to the bars and threw pebbles at him until he looked up. They were dressed like butchers, in leather aprons streaked with dried blood, and had curved knives and oddly made pincers dangling from their wide leather belts. One of them caught Alec staring and cupped his groin through his apron, making an unmistakable slicing motion with his other hand.

A distinguished-looking Plenimaran man spoke sharply to them and shooed them off. He was past his prime, but not old. He wore a black velvet surcoat with silver chains and wide cuffs of lace, a number of gold rings and a jeweled chain.

“Calm yourself, boy,” he said to Alec in perfect Skalan. “If you are what I’ve been led to believe, then you are in no danger of the gelding knife.”

The stranger was accompanied by a smaller man in a deeply hooded cloak that obscured his face, and a small entourage of manservants, all of them dark-skinned, with close-cropped hair and beards. These looked more like the Plenimaran marines Alec had known, and he wedged himself more tightly into his back corner, even though he’d already guessed it wouldn’t do any good.

There was no mistaking the look on the well-dressed man’s face; he’d found something he’d been looking for, and Alec was it. He spoke softly to the hooded man, who in turn motioned forward someone who’d been concealed behind the others.

This one wore a veil over the lower part of his face, and Alec knew him at once for an Aurënfaie by his slighter build and light eyes. He wore a long, sleeveless tunic under his cloak and good leather shoes. A golden torque glimmered at his throat.

The hooded man and the man in the black coat spoke quietly with him in Plenimaran. The veiled man turned to look down at Alec, nodding agreement to something the men said.

“What’re ’ou ’ooking at?” Alec spat bitterly in Aurënfaie, his words slurred around the branks.

The man in black said something to the ’faie, who then approached the bars and said in Aurënfaie, “My master bids you put your hand out through the bars. He won’t hurt you.”

Master? So this ’faie was a slave, too.

“Your masker can go fuck himsel’!” Despite the branks, he had made himself understood. Those eyes weren’t smiling now.

“Softly, little brother. A bad temper won’t do you any good here. Come to the bars and put your hand through. You’re in no danger.”

“’o ta the ’rows, ’rai’or!”

“Please,” the ’faie implored softly, stealing a look back at his waiting master. “Obey now, or they’ll come in and force you. And that will hurt.”

“He’s quite right,” the dark man told Alec, speaking Aurënfaie as fluently as he did Skalan. “And it will all end the same way, Alec of Ivywell. See? I know who you are. And I’ve been most eager to meet you. Now give me your left hand nicely, or those rough men in leather aprons will drag you out for me.”

Defeated, Alec crawled awkwardly to the front of the cage and hesitantly extended his shackled hand out through the bars, half-expecting it to be cut off. The man grasped it and twisted the palm upwards, tracing the round, faded scar at its center with a thumbnail. Alec held still, watching as the man smiled to himself. It was almost as if he knew the history of that mark. Alec also noted that his fingers were stained with ink. Perhaps he was a wizard, after all or, worse yet, a necromancer.

“Just a little poke,” the possible necromancer murmured, and before Alec could pull back he produced a thick needle from the folds of his robe and pricked the end of Alec’s forefinger deeply.

Alec hissed at the pain and tried to pull back, but one of the servants reached in quickly and held him there while the master caught a large drop of Alec’s blood on his fingertip. They released him then, and Alec quickly pulled back out of reach. The nobleman rubbed the blood between thumb and forefinger and a small tongue of muddy red flame licked up for an instant, then disappeared.

“’ecroman’er!” Alec hissed, his worst fears realized.

The man wiped his soiled fingers with a spotless white handkerchief. “I’m nothing of the sort. And that’s good news for you, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

The wizard, or whatever he was, turned to speak to the hooded man in his own tongue. Alec knew the Plenimaran word for blood-ulimita-and heard it spoken several times. The noble seemed very pleased about something, and so did the hooded man. Though Alec could still see nothing of his face, he heard him say something softly in Plenimaran. There was something familiar about that voice. Before Alec could tell for sure, though, the hooded man turned and strode away. Whoever it was, he had the gait of an old man.

The not- necromancer nodded to one of his companions and a weighty-looking purse changed hands with a slave dealer.

Turning back to Alec, he said, “My name is Charis Yhakobin. I own you now, Alec, and you will call me Ilban, which means master in my language. To address me in any other fashion is disrespectful, and will be punished.”

“ Kish my ash!” Alec snarled as a new wave of panic threatened.

“My tastes do not run in that direction, boy, and you will incur my great disfavor if you ever again suggest such a thing. You are a useful instrument to me. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

At his order, one of the slave market men came with a bunch of keys and opened the cage. Alec cowered back, but it did no good. His new owner gave orders to a pair of muscular servants. They entered the cage and cut the ropes around his legs, then roughly hauled him up by the arms.

“Come along, or my men will carry you out by force,” Yhakobin advised.

Alec’s legs burned as the blood returned to limbs too long bound. Even so, the urge to fight or run was strong. Alec hated feeling so helpless, but the memory of one of Seregil’s early lessons came back, calming him a little.

Pick your fights carefully, talí.

So he feigned resignation, hanging his head as he shuffled out, but all the while surreptitiously glancing around for a way to run.

“I think we can dispense with this, as well.” Yhakobin reached behind Alec’s head and released the branks, then lifted the apparatus from his head. “The slavers can’t tell the ’faie with power from those without. You’re no wizard.”

“Then what do you want with me?”

Without the slightest change of expression, Yhakobin struck him across the mouth so hard it snapped Alec’s head sideways.

“Your first lesson, young Alec, is to address me with respect. Your second awaits outside. Cover him, Ahmol.”

One of the older servants shook out a plain cloak and wrapped it around Alec, covering his bound hands.

Yhakobin turned to leave and the larger servants took Alec firmly by the shoulders and steered him to follow. Alec kept his head down, peering around from behind the cover of his dirty, unbound hair, looking for Seregil as they passed more of the cages, but there was no sign of him.

Night had fallen and the market crowd was even thicker. Even if he did manage to get loose, he was barefoot, weaponless, and practically naked. His fair skin and hair would be like a banner here, not to mention the fresh brands.

Everywhere he looked, Alec saw people in the same miserable situation, caged, chained, on display, or being dragged along behind Zengati traders or Plenimaran masters. Most of the slaves appeared to be from the Three Lands, but he saw a few ’faie among them, branked and bound, their eyes vague.

It was colder now, and the rounded street cobbles hurt his feet. Still unsteady, he tripped and would have fallen more than once if his guards hadn’t held him so tightly. He stubbed his toes painfully and was limping by the time they dragged him to the edge of another large square.

“Here is a lesson every slave that comes through Riga is given.” Yhakobin pointed to a line of half-naked wretches chained by the neck along a stone wall. Each one had a placard around his or her neck, and most had a bloody, bandaged stump where a hand or foot or arm had been.

“Slaves who run lose a foot.” He nodded at a bone-pale boy with no feet at all. “That one has run twice, as you can see. He’ll be hanged in a few days. Those who steal lose a finger or hand. I’m sure you can guess the rest.”

He had his men lead Alec to a dispirited-looking woman chained near the end. She had all her limbs, but at Yhakobin’s sharp order she opened her mouth wide, showing Alec the blackened wound where her tongue had been cut out.

“That is the penalty for speaking back to your master,” Yhakobin warned. “I do hope you’ll keep that in mind. I have no use for your tongue, and will happily have it out if it offends me again. Do you understand?”

Alec swallowed hard against the fresh bile rising in his throat, then said as humbly as he could manage, “Yes, Ilban, I understand.”

Whatever role you play, play it to the hilt, Seregil’s voice whispered in the back of his mind. Alec embraced all the fear and horror he’d been battling and let it show in his face.

“Very good.” Yhakobin patted his shoulder. “Show me the proper respect, and you will find me a kind master.”

They stopped next at what appeared to be a blacksmith’s shop. It was warmer inside, at least. The smith greeted Alec’s owner with a respectful bow, then motioned for Alec to kneel beside an anvil at the center of the shop. When he pretended not to understand, he was compelled to obey with a few rough shoves and a kick to the back of his knees.

Yhakobin took a thin, silvery-looking circlet from his robes and gave it to the smith. A collar, Alec realized, just as the golden torque the other slave wore must be a sign of his station.

The silver collar had a gap in it, with pierced flanges on both ends. The smith bent it out wide enough to place it around Alec’s neck, then forced his head to the anvil. One of Yhakobin’s men held Alec down while the smith fitted a copper rivet through the holes, set the tip of a blunt chisel against it, and struck it a single sharp blow with his hammer, so hard it jolted Alec’s head against the iron.

“Sit up.” Yhakobin slipped a finger under the collar and gave it a small tug. “Not too tight, is it? Have you nothing to say to me?”

“It’s not too tight-Ilban,” Alec managed, hating the cold weight of the metal against his skin just as much as the fetters on his wrists.

“The brands mark you as a slave, and every Plenimaran knows where to look. This collar marks you as my property, and it won’t come off as easily as it went on. Keep that in mind as you dart those sharp eyes of yours around, looking for your chance to run.”

Alec colored guiltily and Yhakobin laughed. “You do have spirit, don’t you? Quite wasted on me, I’m afraid.”

At his order the men marched Alec out to a waiting carriage. It was small, but well made, and decorated with inlay and polished woods. The glow of the brass lanterns set beside the driver’s bench shone on the glossy flanks of a pair of Silmai blacks harnessed to it. This Yhakobin must be a lord of considerable wealth.

The liveried footman jumped down to open the door. Yhakobin climbed in and sat down on a seat covered in tufted red leather. Alec’s guards shoved him inside and he was made to kneel at his new master’s feet. The driver whipped up the horses and they set off through the darkness. Yhakobin took some papers from a pocket under the window and perused them, ignoring Alec as if he’d ceased to exist.

Alec seized the opportunity to study Yhakobin more closely. Like the carriage, the man’s clothing and fine shoes spoke of wealth. Seregil had taught him to look beyond first impressions, however, and Yhakobin’s hands told another story. In addition to the ink stains, the man had a scattering of small white scars on the backs of his hands-the sort of marks common among smiths and chandlers. Or wizards, he added silently. He tried to remember what the necromancer’s hands had looked like, but his memories of them were vague now, overlaid by the torment he’d known in their grasp.

“Where are we going…Ilban?” he ventured at last.

Yhakobin didn’t even look up. “Home. Be quiet now.”

Alec gritted his teeth and pondered jumping from the moving vehicle while Yhakobin wasn’t looking. But he was still manacled and at too much of a disadvantage. He wasn’t going to risk losing a foot this early in the game. Instead, he contented himself with staring out the window. His low vantage point cut off most of the useful view; he caught only the impression of tall buildings and narrow streets, then an orderly line of trees, interspersed with lamp poles, which suggested a park. After that there was little to see except the rising moon.

The road grew bumpier and Alec was hard-pressed to keep his balance. One hard jolt threw him against Yhakobin’s knees. The man righted him and ruffled his hair, as if Alec were a hound.

“What’s this?” He pushed the hair back from Alec’s left ear and examined the blue-stained dragon bite on the lobe.

“Is it some sort of clan mark?”

“It’s nothing, Ilban,” Alec lied. “Just decoration.”

Yhakobin released his ear and went back to his reading.

Alec twisted his wrists in the manacles, pressing the spanner bar between his wrists. I could strangle him and jump from the coach.

And then what, aside from the broken bones and the lack of clothing? the Seregil in his mind asked wryly.

Before he could come up with a better plan, the carriage took a sharp turn, and then slowed. Alec glimpsed an arched stone gate, then heard the crunch of gravel under the coach wheels. A moment later they came to a stop and the door flew open. Men dragged him out by the spanner bar and hustled him quickly across a walled courtyard and through a low door. From there he was rushed down a narrow servants’ stairway, to a long, dank, brick corridor. They took several turns as Alec looked around frantically, trying to make sense of where he was. The few doors they passed were closed. His guards halted in front of one that looked no different from any other and opened it to reveal a tiny, whitewashed room. One of them took the cloak, leaving him naked again.

Someone spoke curtly behind him; Yhakobin had followed them down here.

He took something from his pocket and palmed it before Alec could see what it was. But when he then touched each of the manacles, they cracked in half and fell to the floor, taking the wretched bar with them.

“Thank you, Ilban.” Alec almost meant it this time.

Yhakobin frowned at the raw skin on Alec’s wrists. “Those fools, risking infection for no reason.”

At his order, the man called Ahmol produced a small pot of salve and rubbed it over the damaged skin.

Yhakobin seemed satisfied. “There, that should heal well. In you go, now.”

They shoved Alec into the room and slammed the heavy door behind him. He heard a bar fall into place and shuddered. Shut in, and helpless again.

“Rest now,” Yhakobin called in to him. “I’ll have food brought down to you.” There was a pause, then he added sternly, “It is customary for a slave to thank his master, Alec.”

That was too much. “I’m no slave, and you’ll never be my master!” Alec yelled, forgetting Seregil’s lessons and the sight of the slave with her tongue cut out as he slammed both fists against the door.

It opened so fast he would have fallen into the corridor if one of the guards hadn’t caught him and locked an arm around his throat. The collar bit into his neck as he was jerked off his feet and shoved face-first against a rough stone wall. Yhakobin was close behind him now, breath warm on Alec’s cheek as he held up a short, thick riding crop.

“I will be lenient this time, since you are new and we are not in public.” Stepping back, he struck Alec hard across the back. It hurt like hell, but didn’t break the skin. Nine more blows followed, then Alec was grabbed by the hair and thrown back into the cell. He came down hard on the stone floor, banging his right elbow painfully and scraping the bandaged burn on his arm. The pain drove him back to his feet. He faced the doorway, braced to fight.

Yhakobin regarded him for a moment, then smiled. “Perhaps it’s a good thing, this strong spirit of yours, though it will not make your life here an easy one.”

“It’s not my choice to be here, Ilban,” Alec snarled, shaking with anger.

“No, but it is your fate.” With that, the door closed and the bar fell again.

Alec listened as the footsteps faded away. The stripes on his back stung like fire, but the pain cleared his head. He was acting foolishly, fighting when there was no hope of winning, and antagonizing the man who held his life in his hands. Yhakobin could have just as easily had them tear out his tongue. For some reason he’d refrained, but it would be foolish to push the man.

The cell was cold and dark. A tiny barred window set high in the wall across from the door let in a little torchlight-just enough to make out that the walls were smoothly plastered and whitewashed, and the floor was paved with bricks set in mortar.

As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he saw a pallet bed piled with folded quilts over in the far corner. A long robe had been laid out for him, too. He pulled it on, surprised at how soft and clean it was. The wool gave off a faint scent of lavender and cedar, as if it had been stored in a proper clothes chest. The plain quilts smelled like fresh air and sunlight. The pallet, too, was a thick, well-aired feather tick.

It was a relief to be dressed again. He wrapped himself in one of the quilts and circled the room, looking for anything he could use to his advantage. The walls were solid and gave back the dull report of stonework under his knuckles. The door was hinged on the outside, and there was no lock to pick, even if he’d had something to work with. Stymied for the moment, he sat down on the pallet with his sore back against the cold wall, and pulled more quilts over himself.

“I’m alive,” he whispered, shivering from the pain now and feeling a little sick. “He’s alive, too, and we’re both on dry land again. We will find each other.”

All he had to do was bide his time and keep himself in one piece. Sooner or later, an opportunity would present itself.