The Talismans of Aerdrim

[havenstone]

The Harvest Banquet

ON THE DAY of Harvest, every slave on the Tang Estate is caught up in frenetic preparation for the evening’s great feast. The stern Slavemistress Shushila tutors Carwyn and Kyla for hours in the dances they’ll be expected to perform. By the end, both are aching and thirsty beyond belief. Before releasing them to bathe and prepare for the night, she looks over them with an unreadable stare. “The most important dance of all, you will not learn in a week, or a year,” she finally says. “To sense the desires of a hundred men around you… and dance through and upon those desires, managing not to be caught until you reach the right Master. One who will protect you from the others. To live, you must learn it in time. But whatever happens tonight, remember that you have many years to learn. Don’t be fools.”

Dozens of richly robed guests begin to arrive at sunset, their litter-bearers carrying them from all over Tziwan. The banquet is held in the Hall of the Kirin Garden, a grand dome of woodwork and silk surrounded by lush open-air courtyards and fountains. The household slaves of the Tang Estate wash the feet of the guests as they arrive, guide them to low couches around the hall, and serve them from huge bowls of food and rice wine. The Northern slaves are frequently summoned between clusters of fascinated guests and asked to tell stories of their far land. The musicians and dancers perform on a raised dais in the center, ringed by smokeless oil lamps.

Ontaya is serving at the end of the hall with the Minister and his closest guests, who regard her exotic coloring, sinewy build, and muscular arms with the same fascination they would show to an unfamiliar animal. Nearby, the Minister’s nephew and a band of raucous youths are watching the dancers with a very different kind of fascination. Ontaya looks up to the central dais just as the syncopated rhythm and wailing strings of the che’saan fill the room. Under normal circumstances, she would have relished watching Carwyn, quiet Jaori, and the other girls dance; here, with the darkness of others’ cruelty and greed flowering repulsively in her mind, all the paladin feels is dread and rage.

DESPITE HER OWN crushing fear, Carwyn naturally shines onstage, especially with The Dance That Drives Men Mad. After the dancing, the girls are dispersed to serve around the room. Many of the guests leave their couches to admire the gardens, converse, and – in the case of Minister Tang’s nephew and his friends – pursue the slave girls. Ontaya bravely does her best to insert herself between the dancers and the decadent nobles, who for the most part are too taken aback by her size and strength to harass her. Her heart sinks as Minister Tang summons her over to explain Northern culture to some of his allies at court.

The young nobles converge on Kyla and Carwyn, who do their best to duck and weave their way through the guests to a safer part of the hall. A distracted Carwyn fails to notice the high-caste Lakshari who is stalking her from her left. He catches her with a triumphant exhalation of alcohol. “So exquisite,” the young man murmurs. “I have never seen the che’saan danced so powerfully, even in Lakshadar.”

Carwyn suppresses a shriek. “The Master is too kind,” she manages, wriggling free of his grip.

One of the young Xaimani rakes is there to block her escape. “Don’t run from such a great honor, little one. You have caught the eye of Rupesh Narayan Shah, heir to half of the Imperial spice trade.”

Rupesh leans in and recaptures her. “What is your name, slave?”

“Carwyn, Master. Please, I am needed by the Slavemistress.”

“The Slavemistress?” he laughs in disbelief. “She will wait until you’ve danced for me.” Over Carwyn’s frantic protests, and with her friends watching helplessly from across the room, Rupesh Narayan Shah picks her up and carries her off toward one of the small houses in the garden. Ontaya manages to excuse herself from further attendance on Tang just in time to interrupt a similar knot of noble assailants around the terrified Jaori.

For her part, Kyla has made it to a particularly dense cluster of banquet guests at the edge of the room when Minister Tang’s nephew appears, squinting drunkenly and possessively at her. Discovering dexterity she hardly knew she had, Kyla manages to trip the Xaimani youth. As he topples to the floor, she vanishes among the bemused guests. For the remainder of the evening, she uses all her skills at tracking and hunting to stay far away from the pack of vile young aristocrats.

CARWYN STUMBLES FROM the garden much later, her face bruised and tear-streaked. Ontaya catches her, immediately uses her paladin gifts to heal the superficial damage, and conveys her to Slavemistress Shushila. “Slavemistress,” she says, harsh-throated. “Our friend is... sick. May Jaori and I see her safely back to our quarters?”

“Take her,” Shushila replies at once. “The banquet is nearly done. Others can serve from here.” As Kyla emerges from the crowd to follow her friends, the Slavemistress steps in close to her and speaks in quiet, neutral tones. “The Minister’s nephew does not understand exactly how he was shamed tonight, but others who were near to him do. If the story comes to the Minister’s ears, it will not go well with you. I warned you not to be foolish.”

Kyla’s emotions are all too plain across her face. “Death would be better than... this, woman.” She pushes her way past the somber Lakshari slave and hurries to rejoin the others as they reach the slave quarters.

“I stole the bastard’s jewelry,” Carwyn says dully, producing a necklace of fine cut stones from inside her slaveclothes. “I should have strangled him with it – I would have, if I hadn’t known what they’d do to you all...”

“Oh, Carwyn,” Ontaya says in anguish. “Carwyn, I’m so sorry.” And by Ain and every thing holy, she vows with all her fury and faith, we will see justice done for this.

Kyla just sits next to Carwyn, holding her in silence. At least I had a moment of choice, she thinks bleakly. And I took it. Now let the bastard Xaimani do what they will.

 

[havenstone]

Repercussions

ASH WAKES MOMENTS before the rest of the party, hearing the unmistakable clatter of armed and armored men approaching their quarters. Baby T’harai starts up and begins to wail. The captain of Tang’s guard appears, his short spear in his hand, and snarls, “Northerners. Up, now, and follow me.”

The estate is swarming with guards. The usual Xaimani equanimity is absent today; anyone who sees the Northern slaves not only stares, but turns to a neighbor and begins talking excitedly. Carwyn (at first wondering numbly if this has to do with stolen gems) hears anger and incredulity in the hushed voices, and one word repeated over and over: Escape.

They are ushered into a small, musty room where Slavemaster Daoran stands with two strangers. One is a cleric of Ii, wearing the dark stole that signifies high rank in the Reflective Path. Next to him is a black-swathed man wearing a silver skull pendant; he carries a weapon that looks like the captain of the guard’s short spear, but with serrated edges and an array of twisted hooks.

“To every question I ask, you will each immediately answer yes or no -- or die under the worst tortures of the Skull Path,” Daoran says grimly. “Your two friends who were sold to the Imperial Palace. Have you communicated with them in any way since your sale?”

“No, Slavemaster,” comes back the unanimous answer. The priest nods quietly to Daoran.

“Did you know they had any plan to escape from the Palace?”

“No, Slavemaster.” All of the Northerners struggle to keep any sign of hope or happiness from breaking across their faces.

“Do you have any idea where they might be now?”

“No, Slavemaster.” The priest looks at each of them in turn, then nods again.

Daoran exhales raggedly, looking more unsettled than Ontaya had ever thought to see him. “You -- tall one. Follow me.” As Meeshak steps forward, the Skull executioner smoothly sheathes his hooked spear in a harness across his back and produces a bamboo rod with a length of studded leather at the end.

EACH PARTY MEMBER is taken for questioning and a thorough beating by the Skull Path. Even one-year-old Hamber and T’harai are given a symbolic whip blow. They are given no explicit reason for their punishment, but the questions they are asked make clear that Atrix and Darren escaped from the Emperor’s Palace shortly before dawn. Neither Kyla nor baby T’harai return from their questioning, leaving their friends sick with worry.

Shortly after her whipping, Ontaya is taken to Minister Tang. The Minister of State is wearing silk robes more elaborate than any she has seen before; his long hair is intricately groomed and held together with gold needles. He turns to her, clearly struggling to retain his poise as she prostrates herself. “Slave. A grave... no, an unimaginable crime has taken place. Two slaves have dared to bring indignity upon the Palace, to commit murder, to deny their slavery. And they are your compatriots, from the very cage that brought you here.” When Ontaya remains silent, Tang snaps, “What do you have to say of them?”

“Master – we have no knowledge of their deeds,” Ontaya replies tersely. “We had no idea that they would violate the laws of the Empire in this appalling way.”

“Look at me,” Tang demands, his face pale and taut. “Tell me, how do you regard their deeds?”

“Their crimes are a grievous attack against the foundations of the Imperial order, Master,” Ontaya says at once, unblinking. “The law demands their excruciation.”

“And do you think as lightly of the Order of Heaven as your... friends do?”

“No, Master. I strive always to follow law and order. A disordered society produces only injustice and destruction.”

Tang holds her gaze for a long minute, then turns away; Ontaya immediately returns her eyes to the floor. “Your Northern lands do not understand order. For slaves to dishonor the Highest of Houses... not even the lowest barbarians would behave so. This is a great shame on all Northerners. When the next legions march north, it will not be forgotten.”

AS TANG STALKS off toward his litter-bearers, Daoran beckons Ontaya back toward the slave quarters. “He was debating whether to bring all your heads to the Emperor as an honor gesture,” the Slavemaster informs her. “You answered ably enough. Still, you should pray that his audience goes well.”

“Yes, Slavemaster,” Ontaya says emotionlessly.

“Your friends have brought madness to Tziwan. Kesh’ao of the Windowless Spike has been called out, and the South Forge of the Spear Level stilled for a whole day. Cadans and Slavemasters have been given to the Skull Path. Every Northern slave is to be beaten, throughout the entire Empire. Much more could and will be done.” There is hurt in Daoran’s reproof. “Chang of the Imperial Household was a friend of mine. Good men die when order is violated. Do you understand what I say?”

“Yes.” Ontaya waits for a minute, then voices her fear for Kyla. “Slavemaster – forgive me, but our Arawai friend – surely it is not necessary to keep her for additional questioning?”

“She is not being questioned.” Daoran’s demeanor darkens further. “It is well known that Arawai don’t make good slaves. Wild as their horses. I should not have assumed that she would be different.”

“What has happened to her?”

“She has been given as a novelty to one of the Minister’s guests. From Sziao, far away. There they understand how to discipline troublesome slaves. You will not see her again.”

Ontaya tries to mask her horror. “And her child?”

“No, the Minister wished to keep the child. We purchase a new dancing girl today to replace your friend. She will also be given responsibility for the child.” Daoran’s tone admits no question. “Your Slavemaster training is suspended. Remain in the slave quarters until you are called for.”

IN THE EARLY afternoon, the little group is gathered again for another interrogation – this time by a man wearing the golden robes of an Archmaster in the Radiant Path. The mage is potbellied but his face is emaciated; his pockmarked cheeks and thin lips are tight with zealous anger.

“Slaves,” Daoran declares, “it is your honor to be in the presence of Archmaster Kesh’ao, Enforcer of the Imperial Will and foremost avenger of crimes against the Order of Heaven.”

“I am no slave-hunter,” Kesh’ao says with contempt. “But your fellows have committed a crime against nature. Every breath they take is a shame to all Tziwan. Their excruciation is most richly deserved.” He looks at each of the Northerners in turn. “If any of you so much as dream of lying or withholding any information from me, you will all share your friends’ fate.”

The mage begins to question the group for details about Darren and Atrix: faces, names, histories. Then he suddenly fixes Carwyn with a clinical stare. “Slave: have you mated with either of them?”

“Yes,” Carwyn manages, bile rising in her throat.

“Think on it,” the mage commands, places three fingers on her forehead. Carwyn closes her eyes and emphatically fills her mind with the memory of the late Alan d’Loriad.

Kesh’ao slowly draws his hand away. For a terrible moment, Carwyn is sure he’s seen through her deception; then a look of triumph breaks over his face. “Perfect. I have an image of the runaway’s soul. He cannot evade me now.” The Archmaster stalks out of the room to scry for a dead man.

 

[havenstone]

Meeshak's Dreams: 3

That night, Meeshak dreams:

 

[havenstone]

Humbler-Than-Thou

ON THE FAR side of Tziwan, the two objects of Archmaster Kesh’ao’s hunt clamber out of the rubble-strewn alley where they encountered Tchuchek the Ear. The tidal cliffs in this qohei are lined with derelict houses; Atrix and Darren limp past roofless beggars’ nests, dense clusters of rhododendron, and garbage mounds picked over by feral pigs and chickens. Hearing murmured voices from a nearby street, they quickly scramble into a vine-tangled ruin where they hope they won’t be seen.

“Where now?” Darren asks, his voice fraying with exhaustion but still determined. “I doubt this place will stay empty for long, even in the middle of the day.” And we can’t lose a minute if we’re going to save Kay.

Nose wrinkled, Atrix assesses how much of his skin has been effectively hidden by blood and sewage. “If we’re lucky, we’ve got one friend in this city who’s not a slave. We just need to find him.”

The two friends tie rags around as much of their bodies as possible. With a few minutes’ work, their faces are almost entirely obscured, and they think they could plausibly pass as beggars suffering from a wasting disease. They keep the thieves’ daggers concealed at their sides and waists. Pushing back the fear of discovery, they emerge into the din of Tziwan’s back streets: a labyrinth of interlinked courtyards and alleys housing people from every nation in the Empire. The soaring, dilapidated houses in this sector of the city are punctuated frequently with brothels, gambling dens, and shacks wafting intoxicating smokes. Most of the passersby are intent on their sordid pursuits and don’t spare two battered vagabonds more than a passing glance.

Darren practices a crucial Xaimani phrase under his breath to get the accent right, and finally dares to try it on a bored-looking Chramic sailor. “Honorable Master: we seek the Sufza qohei.”

The man glances at Darren, then quickly turns his face away and gives a disgusted wave northward. “That way, go. You’ll find the horse-takers where the Shanyang meets the sea.”

IT TAKES THEM the rest of the day to traverse eastern Tziwan. Atrix and Darren try to keep the coast always in view, but stick to back alleys and shadows as much as possible. By sunset, they finally reach the sheer headland that looks north over the River Shanyang. Despite his fatigue, Darren is excited to see hundreds of tiny sails: intrepid fishermen plying the tidal wedge where the vast river enters the sea. The Sufza qohei, a ramshackle but cheery warren of stables and garrets centered on a dirty canal, is backed up against the sea-cliff. The disguised Northerners move through the horse markets on the outskirts of the qohei and enter a street where they are the only non-Sufza.

Atrix approaches one of the lanky barbarians and speaks hoarsely. “Forgive me. We seek one of your kin who was recently traveling in Arawai. He is our friend. His name is Nurak, but he called himself Humblest of the Sufza.”

The dark-eyed man grins, unfazed by the Northerners’ ghastly smell and appearance. “In this place, for that title, your comrade will find copious competition among his cousins. Will you accept this one’s even-humbler hospitality while I hunt for him?”

Trying to ignore their anxiety and pain-wracked bodies, Atrix and Darren and sit on a bench and drink hungrily from a shared bowl of mare’s milk. The daylight is nearly gone by the time their host returns – with a blessedly familiar figure loping alongside him.

“Nurak,” murmurs Atrix, too overcome with relief to say anything else.

Nurak seems about to burst with elation. As soon as they get inside, he embraces the two runaways and laughs with unrestrained delight. “Most daring of Darrens, most audacious of Atrices! To find you here is the most unexpected good news. Of all our friends, I had harbored the least hope of being able to devise your deliverance. And then today your notorious and most intrepid departure from the Imperial Palace was the tidings on every tongue in Tziwan!”

“Well, actually, we only overheard it being discussed ninety-two times as we crossed the city today,” Atrix demurs.

“Thank Ii we found you, Nurak,” Darren says fervently, unwrapping his face and leaning against the wall. “I don’t suppose you have any priests you trust among your cousins? Not to detract from the heroic gossip, but we’re only barely able to stand up right now.”

Nurak looks rueful. “None of the simple Sufza Singers in this place have comparable clerical capabilities to your Ain-Priests, who are all so effortlessly erasing injuries. But we do possess some potions and herbs that may help heal your hurts and restore some part of your strength.” He glances to his cousin, who nods and makes a move to the garret door.

“Wait,” Atrix rasps urgently. “I’m sorry, but we need to ask you for more than just potions. Nurak: in the morning, we have to go to the mines of Graiqal to save Kay. She’s in greater danger than any of our other friends. We’ll need a much better disguise than this one. And I’ll need a sword.”

ATRIX AND DARREN drowse off almost as soon as Nurak’s cousin leaves the room, only half-waking for a much-needed meal. When their Sufza host returns around midnight, he brings healing herbs and elixirs that restore them to some degree of health and consciousness. He also brings a sword for Atrix, a steel-shod club for Darren, well-cut freemen’s clothes, and tabal, a spice which (when applied in sufficient quantity) dyes pale skin a long-lasting light brown. “You can pass as cunning Chramics with this – or perhaps even as far western Szianars, where the Xaimani influence is less. This is a reliable ruse well known in the North, but we can be sure that few folk here are familiar with ways to stain Northern skin.”

The two Northerners throw away their filthy rags, bathe, and begin rubbing the brown powder over their bodies. Atrix winces as the tabal stings the still-fresh wounds across his body and cheek. When he’s done, he looks at the slave brand on his shoulder. “We really need to do something about that, too. Can’t run the risk that it gets exposed at the wrong time.”

Darren nods bleakly. “Without priests powerful enough for a major healing, there’s only one thing to do.”

With help from Nurak’s steady hand, they heat the blade of the sword and sear their shoulders, leaving a suspicious-looking but unrecognizable scar. Both nearly pass out again from the pain, but as the initial nausea fades, both begin to feel a giddy euphoria. The removal of the slave brand makes it all feel real – for the first time in a year, they are not marked as property.

At first light, Atrix, Darren, and Nurak ride out of Tziwan toward the Mines of Graiqal.

 

[havenstone]

Rivers of Blood

SHIELDING THEMSELVES AGAINST a morning cloudburst, the three riders skirt the massive central mount and bear off through the city to the southwest [see map]. Nurak informs them that this geomantically inauspicious corner of Tziwan is where the most desperate migrants to the capital wash up – runaway slaves, ragpickers, petty thieves in hiding from the Shrouded Path, and vascars (those cursed with a wasting disease, known in the North as vascarus and in the South as mafeng, that resists priestly healing). “We would be wise to stay out of those qoheis, where the fortunately futile hunt for you will surely be at its height.” He points to a distant black outcrop which ends in a long, jagged precipice. Squinting through the rain, Atrix and Darren can just make out the tiny figures suspended from its edge. “There are the Execution Cliffs of Tziwan. Most knowledgeable of Northerners, you are doubtless already aware of the Xaimani habit of excruciation?”

“To flog, pierce, stretch, stone, and drop from a great height,” Darren recites bleakly. “Chang warned us.”

“Such public punishment is reserved for offenses of the most egregious nature,” their Sufza friend explains. “For lesser faults a slave will not be so dramatically disposed of, but simply sold to the Mines.”

Unlike the fertile, densely populated plain to the north of the Shanyang, the terrain beyond Tziwan to the southwest is craggy and thickly overgrown with trees and vines. The only human habitations are clusters of rickety huts clinging to the steep, rocky cliff-faces. The broad highway through the jungle is busy by Senalline standards – thanks mainly to legionnaires and slave caravans traveling between the capital and the distant province of Guizan – but it seems empty compared to the throngs that permanently plied the roads of north Xaiman.

Two hours’ ride from Tziwan, the road skirts the edge of a yawning crevice. The rock here has been seared lifelessly white and eaten away in great bubbles that cascade down into invisibility; even with his dwarrow amulet on, Darren cannot make out the bottom. “Siseo laou,” Nurak declares, gesturing at the emptiness. “When joined with water, it will corrode even the most sturdy of stones. These hills contain many thick veins of the salt.”

“Why in Ain’s name do the madmen mine the stuff?” Atrix says, shaken.

“The Xaimani have not been noted among the Sufza for their sanity,” Nurak agrees. “But I am told they find it useful in etching steel and in some manners of magics.”

THE THREE FRIENDS soon leave the main southwest highway. The branch road is lined with many more of the gaping, barren fissures where water has breached a deposit of siseo laou. In some, the sound of dripping water is accompanied by fizzing, gurgling noises emerging from the depths. The air takes on a faint acid tang. By late afternoon, the road arrives in the town of Graiqal, a poor-looking place built from salt-scarred stones. On either side of the pitted street stand merchants’ stalls, painstakingly waterproofed with many layers of greased canvas. They offer grey-white cubes of siseou laou immersed in bowls of clear oil. Several traders’ carts, similarly protected against rain, are loading up blocks of the caustic salt for transit to Tziwan.

As they agreed before leaving Tziwan, Atrix assumes the role of a minor Chramic noble on his first trip to Xaiman, with Darren as his factotum and Nurak as their guide. Nurak gets directions to a run-down winehouse where travelers can rent rooms. “It is to be assumed that the Refined Path overseers will come here for their evening libations,” he informs the Northerners in their quarters.

“Excellent. I’ve thought of a plan,” Atrix begins, staring up the well-guarded jungle road toward the Mines.

“Here we go,” Darren sighs. “Rivers of blood.”

“What? No – this is a cunning plan.”

“They always start off cunning, but they end up with us having to kill lots of people. Or, you know, die. Either way: rivers of blood.”

“We’ll see about that,” retorts Atrix, irked. “If we’re lucky, we won’t even have to get within a mile of the mine.”

THEY DESCEND TO the main drinking room, eat a light meal, and join the mine overseers when they arrive. Atrix does his best to be charming, buying rice wine for the scarred Refined Path workers and spinning a grand story about his plans to start shipping siseo laou in bulk to his home in Chraman. The lunatic idea of taking any significant quantity of the salt on board a ship sends the overseers into paroxysms of mirth, but Darren holds their interest by explaining his (quickly improvised) design for protection of the hold against dampness. When they ask Atrix how he got the fresh scar on his face, he laughs it off with talk of the rough taverns on the Tziwan docks.

After several rounds of wine, Atrix draws aside Jumji, the Fourth Overseer, a white-whiskered Xaimani who has been the most amiable of the miners. “I’m not just here for the salt, you know. I heard talk in Tziwan of a couple of Northerners who were sold here. These new Pale Folk slaves.”

“That is true,” says Jumji, suddenly cautious.

“Are they kept together with all the rest of the slaves?”

“In the same pen, yes.”

“I would be very interested in seeing the girl.” Atrix absently jingles the purse of gold coins Nurak gave him. “Just for a night. Discreetly. You look like a discreet man.”

The Xaimani swallows, then shakes his head. “That would be impossible.”

“Irregular, I’m sure. But impossible?”

“Wholly impossible.” Jumji wrinkles his nose in distaste. “She was very weak from the day she arrived. Siseo laou does not spare the weak for long. She died yesterday.”

Atrix stares in consternation at the Refined Path overseer, unable fully to mask his grief and guilt. Jumji’s face twitches uncomfortably, and Atrix feels a sudden, angry certainty that he’s lying. “What a shame,” he shrugs. “I’d have given a lot for such a rare opportunity.”

“A shame indeed,” mutters the overseer. Jumji soon excuses himself from the group and leaves; Atrix and his friends do likewise, returning to their quarters.

“AT LEAST WE know Kay’s in the same pen as the others,” Darren says encouragingly as they descend from the window of their room. “We’ll sneak in, find it, and break her out before the guards know we’re there.”

The road from the town to the mines is steep and switchbacked, broken by small rivulets of hissing, pungent water that burst from the hillside. The three friends move stealthily through the rocks past the first guard outpost, but as they are approaching the second, Nurak fails to see an acidic pool underfoot, and splashes noisily. The five guards spring upright, raising their lanterns and bringing spears and maces to bear. Atrix, Darren, and Nurak charge down, trying to silence them as quickly as possible, but one of them bellows, “Intruders!” repeatedly until Nurak’s staff cracks his skull.

“This clumsy Sufza begs your forgiveness,” Nurak whispers, aghast, as they hear guards’ excited shouts from both below and above.

“No time for that,” Atrix replies tersely, wiping his sword clean. “Quick, up to the mine. It’ll be rivers of blood after all.”

The mine sentries are for the most part semi-skilled local thugs employed to keep droves of doomed slaves in line. The first wave charges down eagerly, expecting to put down an escape party, and are shocked to confront two well-armed Chramics and a Sufza. Atrix fights like a demon, pressing fiercely up toward Kay, refusing to give ground even when it means taking club blows to his head and body. Nurak and Darren, desperate to maintain their uphill momentum, cut down the guards who get past Atrix. Together, they kill a dozen Xaimani and fight their way up to the high point of the road. They can see the steaming caverns of Graiqal, and a high-walled stockade – the slave pens where Kay must surely be sleeping.

They also see that more than twenty guards remain, most of whom are marching down to the fight. Meanwhile, the initially noisy guards from the lowermost outpost have fallen silent; clearly they have found their comrades’ corpses and are moving forward more cautiously, determined to surround the intruders and take them by stealth. The bloodied Northerners sway in place for a moment, feeling their adrenalin evaporate and the exhaustion of the previous day’s ordeal weigh down their limbs again.

“I’m sorry, cousin,” Atrix murmurs, his voice strained and bitter. Then he looks over to the silent Darren and Nurak. “There's no way we can win here. We did our best. Let's get out while we can.”

 

[Orichalcum]

Yay for a return to Aerdrim! And soon we get out of depressing stuff and into fun hijinx.

 

[Orichalcum]

A Charming Girl

More Excerpts From
"A Brief Account of the Life of my Master’s Master, Laoshi Tai-tai, by Soong Ling"

Now came the crucial turning point in the life of Rian of Tilung. The slavemaster Daoran took her to Minister Tang's estate and handed her chain off to Shushila, the Slavemistress. "Train this one as another dancing girl, a replacement for the Arawai. Her dealer spoke highly of her talents, though I have my doubts."

Shushila bowed. "What tasks shall I assign her until she is trained enough to perform in public?"

Daoran considered for a second, little knowing the import of his words. "Oh, give her the care of the pale baby - no need for a more useful slave to do that. You, girl - what's your name, anyway?"

"Rian, honored Slavemaster," she spoke, feigning submissiveness.

"Do you know anything about taking care of children?"

"I fed and watched my younger brothers when my parents were in the rice fields, Slavemaster," Rian answered, confused somewhat by the line of questioning.

"Good enough," he answered. "Bathe and dress her and tell her the routine; then give her the babe."

Once Daoran was out of the room, Shushila tsked at Rian's dusty slave robes and ragged hair. "Not really fitting for Minister Tang's, are you?" Rian attempted to scrape some of the dust out of her robes and cast a spell, but before she could Shushila whisked the robes off her entirely and bade her lift her arms. "Well, you've got the body of a dancer, at least, though you're a bit small. We'll see what we can do with you. Meanwhile, you very much need a bath." She raised her voice, calling into the slave quarters. "Carwyn!"

A voluptuous, strangely pale-skinned young woman, her beauty marred by visible bruises on her cheeks and wrists, hurried into the room. "Yes, Slavemistress?"

"This is Rian of Sziao, the new girl. Take her and bathe her and do something about her hair. You think you can manage that task, Northerner?"

"Yes, Slavemistress."

Carwyn led Rian into a simple but large bathing chamber, heated by the hot springs that ran under the Minister's estate. She handed her a pumice stone and a bucket of warm water. Carwyn's tone was brusque, not welcoming the replacement for her departed friend Kyla. "First, you scrub yourself down with the stone. Then, wash with the water. Then, you can rinse in the pool, and I'll try and deal with your hair."

Rian, terrified at her lack of success with the Slavemistress or Slavemaster and knowing that the dealer had vastly overstated her talents, was determined to find an ally - by whatever means necessary. She bent down timidly and grabbed the stone, scraping off some of its surface as she scrubbed her feet and palming it in her hand. Under her breath, she spoke the words of magic learned from her grandfather's scrolls and looked up piteously at Carwyn. "I'm all alone here. Would you be my friend?"

Carwyn felt her heart surge with an unexpected wave of empathy and compassion for the young girl, who looked all of fourteen. "Of course. Don't worry. You'll be all right. My friends and I will take care of you."

 

[Orichalcum]

Continued Excerpt:

After her waist-length hair had been trimmed of its coarse ends and elegantly braided by Carwyn, Rian dressed in the simple slave's robe, shoulder bare to show her new brand, that had been brought for her. Carwyn, now eager to help, offered to show her to the slave women's dormitory. Shushila appeared again as they were walking towards it.

"Carwyn, before you show her the dormitory, you should both report to the nursery. The infants need feeding and washing. Rian is to care for the white-skinned one."

Carwyn looked up in surprise and dismay. "Slavemistress, Ta...the white-skinned infant belonged to Kyla."

"The Arawai has been sold. Her new master had no use for a mewling infant. He remains here until he can be profitable," Shushila answered.

"Then I can care for him; he already knows me well," Carwyn requested.

"No, you have other duties, like practicing your dancing; more than enough of your time is already spent with your own child. Give him to Rian." Shushila strode off, preventing Carwyn from making another appeal.

Carwyn was highly dubious, despite the warm feelings she now felt towards the Szianar girl, of handing over the half-fey child Taharai to her, but she told herself that it was only a temporary measure, until they could all escape.

Rian had merely stood silently during the exchange, looking confused. Carwyn spoke up reluctantly, "Well, we'd best go to the nursery, then."

The slave nursery of Minister Tang was full of a dozen babies and small children, being cared for by slave women too old to work the fields or clean the house, much less dance for the young lords. It was simple, with bamboo mats laid out on the floor and bamboo sticks and small clay balls as the only toys, but the children seemed happy enough. While most of the children were gathered in groups either playing with a ball or practicing a simple dance under the guidance of a nurse, two children were pointedly being ignored by the others. One, a large study baby boy, just starting to actively crawl, was noticeable mainly for his Northern skin and light eyes. He kept trying to grab the ball from the other children, who persisted in running away each time. The other strange child had skin as white as the snow that fell in the mountains some winters, and pink eyes, and unnatural silver hair. He lay quietly on a mat, looking at the other children solemnly.

Carwyn ran to the sturdy Northern boy and swooped him up in her arms. "Hamber! How have you been?"

"Mama!" he babbled, and turned and pointed. "Ba!" Rian quietly went and fetched another ball that the children weren't playing with. "Here you go; play with this one."

Hamber smiled up at her and started rolling the ball. Carwyn smiled at Rian and pointed towards the white-skinned baby. "That is T'harai. For now, he is your responsibility."

"Mine??? But...where are his parents? I am a stranger to him! And why does he look so strange?" Rian blurted out, forgetting courtesy in her shock.

"His mother is dead; his father is...nowhere near here. His foster-mother was sold last week. He has no one, and so do you. Perhaps you will suit each other."

"Is he sick, that he is so pale?"

"I don't think so. He has looked like that since he was born; I think some babies, at least in the North, just turn out that way. You probably shouldn't keep him outside in direct sun too much, though." Carwyn answered calmly, while trying to keep Hamber from eating his ball.

Rian went quietly over to the pale baby's mat and knelt beside him, holding her hand out for his tiny fingers to grab. "Greetings, T'h...T'h....Ta-rai. I will be taking care of you."

T'harai slowly reached out his tiny, almost translucent fingers and touched Rian's palm. For a second, as he did so, her palm glowed with light. She gasped, and quickly closed her fingers around his own, shutting out the light from the other nurses. She scooped him up into her lap in a panic, afraid that he would do something more spectacular in the next instant and doom them both to exposure by the Radiant Path.

"Well," she whispered, "I suppose we do have something in common, little one."

 

[havenstone]

Among Barbarians

ATRIX AND DARREN jolt out of an uneasy sleep in their garret in the Sufza qohei. Though it cannot be long past midnight, the alleys outside echo with low, angry voices and the distinctive clink of Xaimani armor. The two Northerners reclaim their blades from their bedsides and stand just as Nurak enters the room. Their roguish friend points wordlessly to the back window.

As they scramble out, they hear an elderly Sufza pipe up loudly from the passage on the other side of the building. “Your servant does not understand why the legions have come at such an hour to our humble houses.”

“Archmaster Kesh’ao has determined that this qohei is sheltering renegades against the Order of Heaven,” a flinty voice replies. “Every house is to be searched. Stand aside, old man.”

Nurak leads his friends on a silent sprint across the rooftops of the Sufza qohei – and this time, unlike their ill-fated attempt at stealth in Graiqal, none of the three makes a sound to alert the swaming soldiers. The qohei is ringed by legionnaires and Tziwan city watchmen carrying torches, allowing no one to pass. After a quick whispered conference, Nurak heads off to trigger a horse stampede in a nearby stable, distracting the sentries while Atrix and Darren vault across the narrow alleyway. Shaken by their narrow escape, the Northerners head south toward the Chramic qohei. The silence behind them is broken by faint screams, and a reddish light tints the rooftops, too early for dawn.

The next day, a tearful, soot-streaked Nurak finds them at the docks. “The most cruel Kesh’ao has destroyed the Sufza qohei. When the searching soldiers were unable to locate your selves, he was calling down a storm of magefire to drive every person out of their homes. One hundred of my unfortunate cousins are being questioned by the legions, and our horses have been taken. Every building is burned to the ground, and the winter rains are coming.”

“Nurak – I am so sorry,” Atrix says, appalled. “We brought this down on you. We should have headed North as soon as we escaped.”

The mournful rogue shakes his head. “This Sufza and his cousin gave you sanctuary – it was not your doing. We could not have been doing otherwise for old friends. And while there is still hope of redeeming our captive comrades, we should not leave this city. To steal them away as well will be our best revenge on the callous Kesh’ao.”

“We’ll take more revenge than that, Ii willing,” Darren promises. “Atrix and I will never forget what this madman has done – any more than we’ll forget what you’ve done to help us. For now: can we stay anywhere without him finding us?”

Nurak wipes his eyes, and his voice steadies. “We Sufza have acquired some familiarity with the scrying skills of Southern sorcerers. The Archmaster plainly does not have enough knowledge of you to be perceiving your location with certainty. If you remain in a populous place which he cannot seal off or burn down – such as the docks – it is unlikely that his hunting will result in your capture, even if he is able once again to be sensing the vicinity of your trail.”

THE FUGITIVES ACCORDINGLY hire a room at a dockside inn with more of Nurak’s money, and spend a week developing their fake identities. Darren is reasonably fluent in Chramic, which he picked up in Rim Square with Nina and her uncle. They decide to act as young traders on their first trip to Xaiman, from the merchant clan Atlaisan, an obscure family which (according to Nurak) is mostly based in the North. Carefully, they begin to befriend the Chramic sailors who frequent the inn. Between Nurak’s knowledge, Darren’s quick wits, and Atrix’s charisma, they cover their ignorance and don’t make any major mistakes that would raise suspicions.

As days pass, they relax slightly; it seems likely that Archmaster Kesh’ao really has lost them. One evening Nurak enters their room, looking flustered, and places a bag of gold coins on the table. “Most considerate of companions, as it seems possible for you to remain here unknown and unbothered for a short time, I hope you will understand if your humble friend needs to leave Tziwan. There is... Sufza business that requires this one’s presence, and not in this place. This meager purse should provide for your needs. We will hopefully be meeting again in a month and finding the opportunity to rescue our remaining friends.” He will say no more about his errand, and despite their curiosity, Atrix and Darren accept that they’ll have to manage without their friend for a while.

To further deter scrying, at Nurak’s suggestion, they spend most of their days walking through crowded, unremarkable places in the docks and markets of outer Tziwan. Atrix visits a swordsmith from the archipelago of Niyon and commissions two expensive masterwork swords to replace the one Shect broke. He’s unsure whether Nurak’s largesse will ever cover the full cost of the blades, but with typical optimism Atrix assumes that by the time the swords are forged, he’ll be able to afford them.

IN THE EVENINGS, they spend most of their time with their newfound Chramic friends – though in mixed-ethnic groups as often as possible, as an excuse to speak in Xaimani. Darren gets to fully indulge his fascination with ships and shipbuilding, as the Chramics are the best ocean-going sailors in North or South, with the possible exception of the fine-featured Niyonari (from the mountain archipelago of Niyon, east of Tziwan). A friendly sea-trader named Seraband invites them out to the House of the Yellow Rose, a dockside institution where all the best sailors and shipwrights from all the Southern nations meet to trade stories and drink.

“You must meet this one fellow before someone else catches his ear,” Seraband says enthusiastically. He guides them over to a table occupied by a slender, middle-aged Szianar with a grey-flecked beard and deep-set, mournful eyes. The man glances up politely from the toddler playing at his side. “This is the man who knows about everything. Every rumor in the Empire comes to him sooner or later – usually sooner – and he lives well off them. Chingan Dai: these two are Clan Atlaisan merchant-prentices, on their first visit to the South.”

“Welcome to the Heart of the World, lads,” Chingan Dai says in Xaimani-accented Chramic. “You chose rightly: this is the place to make your fortune.”

“Thank you,” Darren responds with a bow. “It is an honor to meet one so knowledgeable.”

“Please, sit and share your stories with me – and excuse my daughter Tiya. Since her mother died, she has had to accompany me on my rounds of the city more often.”

Atrix starts playing with the cheery toddler, while Darren leans across the table, switching to Xaimani. “So: what does a Chramic trader most need to know in Tziwan these days?”

“Your race has been better loved than they are today,” the gloomy-eyed Szianar replies drily. “Many in Xaiman are still outraged by the revelation that the Chramics have known for generations about the Pale Folk kingdoms in the North – and have used that knowledge to their great profit. I have heard priests, mages, and nobles arguing that when the next Legions march north, they should pass through your errant protectorate and bring Chraman and its traffickers directly under the Imperial yoke.”

“And when might those Legions be marching?” Darren asks, not having to feign his surprise and anxiety.

“Don’t fear – it won’t be soon. It’s clear now that the Pale Folk are no military threat, and extending Imperial authority across the vastness of Arawai is no simple matter. The Emperor’s ministers are cautious men, and none wish to propose a major new conquest without years of gathering intelligence. They will be seeking that knowledge from you Chramics – along with a greater share of the wealth from the Northern trade – but they are not fools enough to think they’d get it better by making war on you. The recent expedition to defend the Arawai border has strained the Imperial coffers enough. The Northern slaves brought back are only a token recompense, bringing the Legions less gold than honor.”

“Even after a few of those slaves escaped from the palace?” Atrix asks idly. Darren kicks him under the table.

“You’d be well advised not to joke about that around a Xaimani,” says Chingan Dai, smiling for the first time. “That escape is considered the greatest insult to the Emperor since the entire province of Theilash rebelled seventy years ago.”

“Ah – well, I’ll steer clear of the subject, then,” says Atrix, overpoweringly smug.

 

[Orichalcum]

A Fate Worse Than Injury

The Northern barbarian Carwyn introduced young Rian to her other Northern friends, especially Ontaya and Meeshak. In such a large group, it was difficult for Rian to work her magic, and both the tall blonde warrior and the saturnine, cynical Meeshak seemed immune to her charm in any case, if friendly enough.

Carwyn, on the other hand, was very receptive, especially when Rian proved a ready audience to listen to her worries about her lost lover Lune. Though Rian grew increasingly nervous trying to hide her repeated invocations of the charm spell in the midst of the crowded slave quarters, she was reasonably certain that Carwyn viewed her as a trusted friend and companion. Some of the liking might even be genuine - they were both strangers here, after all.

On the first full day, the Slavemistress Shushila summoned Carwyn, Rian, and a few of the other most graceful young slaves for another lesson in dancing. She started a drumbeat and asked Rian to follow along with the other more experienced girls, watching her closely. The young Szianar excelled in the group dances and pair dances, which were similar to those danced in the moon festivals back home in her village. When Carwyn attempted to show her the steps of the che'saan, the Dance That Drives Men Wild, however, Rian's natural modesty and embarassment caused her to trip and stumble.

Shushila clucked in reproof. "You must work harder on that one, Rian. I know you can't all be as naturally talented as Carwyn, but you will never please the young nobles by merely traipsing out the steps of a country dance."

Carwyn blanched a little at Shushila's remark, and Rian noticed her friend's pause in the rhythms of the mirror dance they were practicing. When the dance was over and Shushila dismissed them to the baths, Rian fell back by Carwyn's side. "What's wrong with pleasing the young nobles?" she whispered.

Carwyn turned bitterly to her. "If they like your dancing, they ask for a 'private performance.'" Her tone left no doubt as to her meaning.

Rian paled in shock. "I...I can't! I won't!"

Carwyn's eyes held little hope in them. "We're slaves. Would you rather be flogged to death?"

Rian's mind worked quickly. "You said if they like your dancing. What if I danced badly?"

Carwyn considered and then dismissed the idea. "Then Shushila would beat you; she knows you're capable of very good dancing after today, even if your hips aren't really up to the full sway and swish."

Rian paused and offered another idea, "What if I couldn't dance? What if I was injured somehow? Then it wouldn't be my fault!"

Carwyn replied, "Well, yes, but you aren't. And I don't think we could disguise that easily; she'd be sure to check, and our dancing robes don't conceal much."

Rian bit her lip and summoned her resolve. "Then I'll have to actually be injured. You said your friend Meeshak was good with healing. Can he sprain my ankle?"

Carwyn looked at her, horror mixed with admiration. "For real, you mean?"

"It's better than being the plaything of some obese nobleman," Rian replied, attempting a firm tone to hide her fear and panic that any contact with nobles would also reveal her secret.

"Well....we can ask him," Carwyn finally answered reluctantly.

At mealtime, the two women drew Meeshak aside and explained the situation. He grimaced as he considered Rian's idea. "It's very risky. I can't guarantee that I would just sprain it. I might even break it."

"But you've done something like this before?" Rian asked.

"Well, I've injured ankles, yes...but not of friends! Ankles are very complex parts of the body. I could do a wrist pretty easily." Meeshak offered.

"Wrist won't help. I'd still be able to dance with a sprained wrist. Look, just do it. I trust you. You seem skilled." Rian said, placing her foot on the bench next to the Northern priest.

"All right...but you've been warned." Meeshak summoned up all his long-ago lessons in anatomy and gripped Rian's foot with one hand and her calf with the other. Slowly, carefully, he twisted in opposite directions, until the girl grimaced in silent pain, biting her lip to stay silent. When he released her foot, the ankle started swelling almost immediately. She tried standing on it and fell down, wincing.

"Thank you, Meeshak," Rian said, through her tears of pain. "I owe you a debt. Now let's go see Shushila and explain how I fell down the stairs."