The Talismans of Aerdrim

[Feir Fireb]

"The Unscholarly Journals of Darren the Senalline": Bringing Things to Light

SUSPECTING I WOULD not be able to move Atrix for at least a little while, once I had had a moment to rest I carefully moved him out of immediate view from the sewer and entered the water again. If we had more than a moment's time here, I could at least see what I could glean from the corpses of the men we'd just dispatched. Clothes, certainly. We would need more than loincloths if we wished to be at least a little less conspicuous as escaped Northerner slaves. The thieves' clothes were all black and had a few holes, but were a significant improvement all the same. They also had sizable hoods that would serve well for hiding our faces. The one I had felled wore a string of golden beads about his neck. Having no money, I thought them possibly valuable to sell, not knowing they signified a certain rank in the Shrouded Path. Donning that strand about my neck, I had unwittingly marked myself as a Nightlord.

The thieves carried a small amount of actual coin which I appropriated as well. I took the club, as in I often favored its weight and reach, and of course found a blunt instrument useful for knocking people unconscious but relatively uninjured. Each of them also bore a belt of several daggers and I took one for each of us, for throwing or to replace dropped weapons. A couple of the daggers struck me as quite remarkable, tinted a dull black so as to not glint in stray light. They were also much lighter and better-balanced than even a well-made dagger and bore none of the scratches or notches that a blade would accumulate with ordinary use. They were, in fact, the work of the Radiant Path, not that I knew.

One of them also bore three vials of what I'd assumed to be poison, as well as a pouch of herbs. The black vial was in fact the dread okordo, and one of the others was a poison designed to induce drowsiness and sleep. The remaining vial was okordo's antidote, keder. But at the moment I couldn't tell what any of them was for sure. The herbs had a vaguely familiar medicinal smell and I tasted a small amount before giving Atrix a larger quantity. I looked at his wounds and resolved that I needed to move him away from this place and any danger of meeting more thieves, but there would be no point in applying the herbs to his wounds immediately before dragging him through the sewage again. In addition, I might well reopen them too easily.

I PULLED ATRIX back out into the water and proceeded to drag him along the surface again, much as I had when he convulsed in the cave beneath the Square of Wonders. But this time I had no hope that simply moving away would improve his condition. Only time and the natural efforts of his body would do that, if it happened at all. Feeling as if a stiff wind would knock me over and into the sewage, I still wondered if a stiff wind might at least rid me of the stench that surrounded us. I trudged onward, well away from the strange lit doors and dead thieves with Atrix trailing limp behind me, until the headaches from the amulet began to come on again. I found a long-abandoned storefront and pulled Atrix up on the ledge, much as I had before. Then, as my head felt as if it would split if I wore the amulet much longer, I applied the herbs again, force feeding him a little and treating his wounds beneath the bandages. Then, removing the amulet, I sat and waited in the featureless blackness.

Hours passed. I donned the amulet again at occasional intervals to confirm our rest remained unintruded. I peered at each of Atrix's wounds in a futile attempt to determine if I could improve their condition beyond their present state. I could, of course, replace the filthy guards' rags that bound his wounds with filthy thieves' rags, or simply remove them altogether in hopes they'd be cleaner. But the bleeding had long stopped and his wounds would need to stay bound if we hoped to move again, should he awake. I slept a little. Then in the blackness I missed the flitter of his eyelids but I heard his groan clearly. "Atrix? Are you all right?" I donned the amulet again to see him better.

"Bloody hell I'm not allright. That one cracked me hard, right... erk.... up there." Atrix groaned again as he attempted to point to the wound on his head, then thought better of it. "Are we dead or is this darkness still the sewers? No..." he raised a hand, pausing a moment when a chill washed over him as he seemed to remember something. He shook his head, "No, it's the sewers."

"It's the sewers. But you came really close. I'm glad you're still here."

"Me too, believe me."

"You should rest and recover your strength, but I'll be ready to continue whenever you are. Can you sit up?"

It was perhaps a half hour from then until he could, then another half hour until he ventured a few steps in the dark around the dingy old shop where we'd found ourselves. I took his arm to make sure he didn't trip on the detritus or the cracks in the floor. Atrix dressed in a thief's black garments and we sat again for another half hour to steel ourselves for one more push. I prayed to Ii that we would encounter no more thieves or guards, no strange reptilian beasts or traps, no fast flowing waterways or sudden drops. We would do anything just to see daylight again and take our chances in the city above.

I EASED ATRIX down into the fetid water and followed almost as carefully. This time I supported Atrix as we walked. For all of his injuries, we could not move fast enough through the waist-high water to reopen old wounds if we wanted to. We followed the water east for a long time, though probably not as long as I'd waited while Atrix recovered. Gradually we drifted away from the edge of the Shroud qohei and the horrid stench of the sewers began to take on a salty tang. I grew mildly nervous as I realized that if we came out to sea low enough, a sudden change of tide could wash us back the way we came, or even worse trap us and drown us. I hoped that the old, buried city would not have sunk so low that we needed fear any but the highest tides.

My heart raced when I saw the faintest glimmer of sunshine in the distance, and the warm, wet winds of the sea drifting down the submerged alley in which we'd found ourselves. I turned to see a broad grin erupt on Atrix's wounded face. "Daylight, Darren!" We continued forward to an old, rusty grate, taking the sight of the abandoned city alley that continued on the other side, half-lit a few rays of sun.

As much as I wanted to take the amulet off and enjoy the sunlight with my natural senses, I thought caution the better path here. The lock had long rusted to near inoperability, but fortunately was of simple design. After clearing away some of the rust that foiled my initial attempts, I took but a moment to pop it open with my tools. We then climbed through the grate, into the short stretch of water that pooled at the end of the alley and probably came to a thin waterfall as it descended sharply with the tidal cliffs.

And beyond that, we saw the ocean, the same as we'd seen it from the Floating Gardens some distant time ago. The thrill of freedom arose in me even greater than awe I'd felt the first time I'd seen the sea so long before in far-away Lynar. As we hustled towards the end of the alley, Atrix froze in his tracks and stared motionlessly ahead, over the vast expanse of ocean, roiling and churning. I saw him shiver as though a chill had run down his spine. "Something's wrong, Darren. Very wrong."

A MOMENT PASSED with his eyes fixed on nothing; then a rough, rasping laugh interrupted Atrix's dread reverie. We turned to see an old, bleary-eyed beggar watching us from near the end of the alley. He sat on a pile of rags, resting his sole leg folded in front of him.

Smiling like a cat who'd caught a bird, the beggar spoke in a gravelly, unnervingly casual voice, "Thought you'd probably end up here." His gaze drifted over us, sizing us up as he continued, "Never heard a rumor run through Tziwan faster than your escape, little Northerners. Die tomorrow and you'll be legends. All the city will crowd to the cliffs to watch your excruciation."

Atrix and I looked at each other for a moment. I wondered if we should pounce upon him, and could tell Atrix wondered the same. I also wondered if we had much chance of killing a one-legged old beggar before he killed us. It was just possible -- we were in sorry shape -- but this man spoke with a tone of voice like Carwyn had when she had a few cards up her sleeves and had probably stacked the deck as well. Atrix bore himself up with full d'Loriad dignity. "We'd rather not, thank you."

"No?" The old man regarded us drily. "Then there’s the question of what you’re worth alive. Even Kesh'ao himself, the great wizard of the Windowless Spike, was unable to track you down from what I'd heard. There's a thousand gold I could get for turning you in."

With growing alarm, I scanned the windows and roofs of the alley for hidden friends of the beggar, and listened for passersby venturing the cliffs who could witness an altercation. The old man waited a moment for a response, grinning, but none was forthcoming. What was the point of telling him we'd kill him before letting him report us to the guards?

Sensing our trepidation, he continued, "But I feed off news and rumors, boys, not gold, and you might prove a source of particularly interesting news. In fact, to speak without veils, you might lead me to one of the best-hidden and intriguing secrets in Tziwan. So I'll let you live. But remember in days to come -- you owe Tchuchek the Ear five hundred secrets apiece."

A thousand... secrets? The thought of a thousand anything staggered me, even assuming it was well-defined and easily quantifiable. I queried guardedly, thinking maybe we could play his game if it bought us enough time to disappear. "How would we know whether a secret would be interesting enough for your price? And how would we contact you to... repay you?"

"Oh, I'll be the judge of that. As far as finding me goes, any beggar of Tziwan will know how to find me. But don't worry too much. I'll be able to find you when your bill comes due."

With that, the Beggarmaster of Tziwan unfolded his leg, revealing the other one that we had thought lost had in fact been hidden under the pile of rags on which he sat. He stood up and began to walk away. At the end of the alley, he turned about to face us one more time, "And boys? Always watch out for Dragons!"

As Tchuchek disappeared around a corner, Atrix and I regarded each other in a mixture of alarm, confusion and relief, wondering what exactly he meant by "dragons." At the time, we knew them only as a motif of Xaimani art. But we did not talk long before breathing deeply the fresh air of the shoreline and ascending the rough slope and collapsed buildings that marked the end of the city's sewers. And so we walked away as well, beginning our first day of freedom in many months -- deep in debt to the fourth most dangerous man in Tziwan.

 

[havenstone]

Hiatus...

First, thanks so much to Feir Fireb for writing up the escape from the imperial palace with such derring-do and detail!

Both Mr. Fireb and myself are currently swamped -- in my part of the world, there are some elections about to take place that are making my job a little tougher than usual -- so we've had to wait a while for either the end of Darren's story (he and Atrix heading to the Mines of Graiqal to rescue Kay) or a return to our other heroes who have just been sold to the Tang estate.

Accordingly, I wanted to invite Orichalcum to post a different interlude: our introduction to Laoshi Tai-tai, also known as Zhiu-nu, best known as Rian.

 

[Orichalcum]

A Brief Account of the Life of my Master’s Master, Laoshi Tai-tai, by Soong Ling.

(A new PC joins the campaign.)

On the Leaders of the Second Dragon Path:

A Brief Account of the Life of my Master’s Master, Laoshi Tai-tai, by Soong Ling.

It is traditional to learn from the lives of one’s predecessors, and when your teacher and your teacher’s teacher followed paths as eventful as mine did, they are especially worthy of study. I am particularly blessed in researching the early life of Laoshi Tai-tai because, unlike most of the Radiant Path, she did not hide her true name or home until much later in her life. Still, I only ever addressed her as Laoshi Tai-tai, Venerable Lady Teacher, the name she chose to use later on in her life. But while she never spoke of her personal life, fearing it could be used against her by her enemies, I have spoken to those of her comrades who survived to the present day, and here are the fruits of my researches, that they may enlighten future students of the Radiant Path.

Laoshi Tai-Tai, also known as Zhiu-nu, was born Rian of Tilung, a small village in the northeastern hills of Sziao, the second daughter and fifth child of a peasant family. Her family had formerly been prosperous, and still lived in the elegant bamboo three-story house that her great-grandfather had built when he moved to the village from Orokin, the capitol city of Sziao. Yet even before Rian’s birth, they had fallen on hard times, oppressed by the harsh taxes of the regional overlord and the increasingly dry rice paddies.

If the rain had fallen more heavily the summer that Rian of Tilung turned fourteen, Tsiwan might be a far different place today. If the rice crops had been plentiful that year, Rian’s parents might have been able to marry her off to one of the village boys. Though her dowry was small, the girl had much to offer a husband: she was strong enough to work a full day in the paddies, nimble enough to climb to the top of the tallest trees for fruit, rarely sick despite her slender build, quite pretty for a village girl, with long straight black hair and deep brown eyes with flecks of gold in them, and she never needed to have a task explained twice. Her mother beat her frequently for her rash tongue, lack of respect, and tendency to disappear during odd times of the day, but a husband would have needed to impose his authority anyway on a wife. Yet the rains that year barely stirred the dust, and no one was fool enough to take a bride during such a lean harvest.


If the traveling priestess of Ii had been willing to take Rian as an acolyte when her parents brought her to the monthly service, telling the priestess of Rian’s ready memorization of the sacred texts, our empire might have never faced the horrors of twenty years ago. But the priestess tested Rian and told her parents that, while a bright child, she was completely unsuited to adopt the discipline and serenity needed to be a priestess, even as a lowly servant.


If the follower of the Radiant Path who came five years before and took Rian’s cousin Mei-shan away from Tilung had noticed the girl, my own master might have lived out his days as a cheerful pickpocket. But when Rian saw that after meeting the dark-clad mage, Meishan’s eyes glazed over, and he no longer knew his own parents, she ran and hid in the attic, among the scrolls of her great-grandfather. And when she had taught herself to read, she found the letters of her great-grandfather, warning his descendants never to attract the attention of the Radiant Path, for it was for this reason that he had fled the capitol of Sziao for a remote village. She also found a sealed scrollcase containing words and rituals of power, and studied them closely when not working in the rice paddies.


As it happened, the slave dealers came the summer that Rian was fourteen. They looked at her and saw an object of high potential value, one who could be sold as a skilled house slave, not just as a farmhand. And her parents looked at their four sons, and at their own empty rice bowls. Her mother locked the chains around Rian’s wrists and handed her to the dealer in return for four shiny silver coins, a sack full of rice, and a chicken in a cage.

Rian cried out to her mother, I was told, begging, “How can you do this? Am I not your daughter? Do you not love me?”

And her mother answered harshly, guarding her own expression tightly, “Indeed you are our daughter. And that means you have duties and obligations to us, and to your brothers. Would you rather that your little brother Asiran starve this winter? We have fed and kept you for all these years; now you must repay your debt by supporting us.”

And Rian fell silent, only begging the dealer for a chance to fetch her clothes, hoping to have an opportunity to take her great-grandfather’s scrolls. But the dealer laughed, telling her she would have more suitable garments for a slave soon, and pulled her away on the chain. Rian looked back at her parents and at the protruding ribs of her young brother Asiran and firmed her chin, biting back the tears. “I will pay my debts, honored parents. Feed Asiran with the rice my life has bought.” She turned away, stumbling down the road, and followed the slave dealer towards Xaiman.

 

[Orichalcum]

Laoshi Tai-tai continued.

Once the slave dealer rejoined his main caravan, Rian was handed over to a slavemistress named Mara. Mara was a plump Xaimani woman, loaded down with jangling bracelets. She pursed her narrow lips, eying the girl.

"Take those rags off, slave. We need to see whether you're worth more as a bribe for the next set of town guards or whether we should just turn you into meat for the Emperor's tigers," Mara ordered harshly.

Rian complied quietly, shrugging out of her robe despite the chains, but she also bent down to the ground as she dropped her garments and surreptitiously gathered a handful of dust. As she crouched on the ground, she threw the dust on Mara's feet and silently murmured her great-grandfather's words of power in her head.

When she slowly rose, trying to hide her nakedness as best possible, Mara's wrinkled face was slowly beaming at her, with an awkward grimace, as if the woman had forgotten how to smile. "Well, aren't you a pretty little thing? Don't worry, dear, I think I have just the robe to drive your purchase price up to the sky. You'll be going someplace very special, don't you fret."

Rian thanked her, smiling inwardly at her success, and graciously accepted the new red silk robe and the double rations - to fatten her up, as Mara said. Every few hours, she kept re-casting her spell to charm the slavemistress, and made sure to pour a few drops of rice wine out at a crossroads as an offering to her great-grandfather's spirit in gratitude. She grew exhausted from her frequent use of magic, but kept casting the spell out of fear that the effect would otherwise wear off.

Over the next few weeks, the caravan traveled east and north through Sziao and Xaiman, acquiring dozens of slaves from impoverished villages. Most of the slaves were simply resold at the next plantation they came to. One buyer complained that the last batch the dealer had sold him had been unable to work sufficiently hard and died after a month, so the dealer gave him a discount and a larger number this time. They joined other, larger caravans, but the main dealer and slavemistress stayed in charge of the Szianar captives, as they could speak most easily to them. Through Mara's patronage, Rian was able to stay on with the caravan, while her owners looked for "just the right customer."

She gradually charmed a guard or two and the cook, but was never able to get enough guards at once that escape seemed possible. At all costs, she could not let her Golden Blood be revealed, she knew, or she would be turned over to the mages of the Radiant Path. So she bided her time and acted as cautiously as possible. Mara taught her noble etiquette and some Xaimani dances, to try and increase her value.

After many, many weeks of travel, the caravan reached the great slave markets of Xaiman. Mara painted Rian's face and dressed her in a sheer white robe, much to the girl's embarrassment. She led her up onto the block and loudly advertised Rian's grace, beauty, and submissiveness. The bidding was reasonably fierce, although Rian heard one bidder commenting, "I don't know what all the fuss is about. She's pretty enough, I suppose, but nothing special, and the slavemistress is talking as if she's fit to be an Imperial Concubine!"

Eventually, the last bidder was an older, shaven-headed slave. After handing over the money to Mara, who embraced Rian and gave her a handful of tinny bracelets - "for making yourself pretty" -, the slavemaster turned to Rian herself.

"You are to become a dancing girl in the court of my master, Tang, the Minister of State. I hope you will live up to the gushing praise of this dealer, girl, or we will quickly find a position far less comfortable for you."

 

[havenstone]

The Minister of State

SLAVEMASTER DAORAN LEADS Ash, Carwyn, Kyla, Meeshak, and Ontaya back through the streets of Tziwan to the river Shanyang. Passing by the slave ferries, they approach an elegant barge whose upper decks are screened with fine jade and silver latticework. The shorn-headed Slavemaster raises the silver Xaimani symbol chained around his neck, and the spearmen standing guard outside the barge wordlessly swing their spears aside to let the slaves board. While the party stands on the empty lower decks, the barge slides out onto the vast, muddy river. Ash discreetly casts his eyes around, but can’t figure out how the barge is powered; there are no obvious oars or sails, and the movement feels perfectly smooth.

“The barge was a gift from the late Archmaster Feishou to the Ministry of State,” Daoran says, giving no other sign that he has noticed the party members’ curiosity. “The Rivermaster of Minister Tang can guide it with a thought. Our glorious Master possesses a widely known interest in the most useful Radiant Path arts. Other Ministers are equally renowned for their interest in... more brutal sorcery.” Ontaya recalls Archmaster Orozu and thinks bleakly that for all of Curago’s malice, she would not have wished him to end up in the hands of such a man.

“Tell me your names, Northerners,” the Slavemaster continues, and watches them intensely as they do so. “We will soon arrive at the Tang Estate. While it is understood that you are from barbarian lands, this must not be taken as license for offensive or shameful behavior. If you are slow to learn what is expected of you... our gracious Master is not cruel. The pain you experience will be no more nor less than what is required to speed your learning to an acceptable level. Do you understand?” The party members mumble their assent as the barge draws up to an ornate wooden dock. “Your first lesson: a name is a rare privilege. When you hear the cry of ‘Slave’, you will hasten to see whether you are the one being summoned. If any person should call you by your name, you will thank them for their kindness.”

Minister Tang’s riverside home is a maze of gardens, groves, and outbuildings surrounding a lofty central mansion. The colors of jade green and silver recur deliberately throughout the estate; the leaves of the trees, the creeping orchid vines in the garden, and the exterior friezes of the mansion are all dominated by those two colors. As they walk through the scented walkways, Kyla and Ontaya note the spearmen and archers discreetly stationed at strategic points. Despite the air of serenity, the estate could quickly be sealed against any unwanted intruder.

ON THE LOWER floors of the mansion countless slaves are busily at work cleaning, cooking, and running errands. While the Northerners see a few fascinated glances stolen in their direction, for the most part the slaves of the Estate keep their heads down and studiously ignore anything that is not part of their assigned task. Daoran shows the new slaves to a washroom. “It is expected that all slaves, however lowly, will remain clean. You will bathe every day – beginning now.”

The Northerners blink at the wildly unhealthy notion of a daily bath, but do not protest. They strip, wash themselves in tepid water, and don new slaveclothes in a far finer cut than the ones they wore on the road. When they emerge, Daoran has been joined by two new slaves wearing the Tang Estate’s garb: a short man with pale golden skin and flat features, and a slender woman with dark brown skin, graying black hair, and a silver pendant. “You didn’t tell me the women had children, Slavemaster,” she says pensively.

“One hopes that is not relevant to their skills,” the weathered slave replies.

The woman strides over to Carywn and Kyla, pinching and prodding them in a way that stops just short of being painful. “Turn around,” she commands. “No, your eye was good, Slavemaster. Do you dance, girls?”

Carwyn nods, managing to find some trace of enthusiasm. Kyla inclines her head doubtfully.

“Slavemistress Shushila will teach you to entertain the Minister’s guests in dance and song,” Daoran states to the two women. “You two,” indicating Ash and Meeshak, “will begin your training as messengers, bearing the Minister’s letters to the city and carrying out any other public errands required of you. Follow Slave Chosdzed, who will teach you the duties of an errand slave.”

“You honor me, Slavemaster,” Chosdzed says, bowing low.

Daoran turns to Ontaya. “You will follow me.” Leaving the other party members with their respective trainers, the two of them begin to climb a mahogany staircase. “You will begin Slavemistress training, learning what is expected of the slaves who manage the Estate. Do any of you have experience in the court of your land – serving Ministers there, or the equivalent?”

“I do,” Ontaya offers.

“Good,” Daoran says shortly. “The Minister asked me to bring him one of the Northern slaves, and I know he will have many questions.” The two of them pass several elaborately armored guards and enter a perfumed chamber where musicians are playing on the Xaimani lyre. Two young slave boys stand at either side of a great cascade of silk curtains. As Daoran sinks to his knees, the boys begin to pull back the curtains. Ontaya smoothly prostrates herself.

“RISE.” ONTAYA LOOKS upcautiously and sees a corpulent Xaimani resting in a nest of cushions. He is wearing light robes of what looks like linen, and multiple jeweled rings on each finger; his long black hair runs in plaits down his back. As Daoran and Ontaya approach the Minister, she notices that his skin glistens with scented oil. Though everything about his posture bespeaks laziness, his eyes are piercing and inquisitive. “What is your name, slave?”

Ontaya’s voice is perfectly level. “I am my Master’s servant. I understand I have no name unless it pleases him.”

Daoran’s face does not move, but Ontaya feels his satisfaction. The Minister’s lips curve slightly upward. “It pleases me to know what you were called in your Northern Empire.”

“You honor me, Master, and I thank you. I was called Ontaya.”

“Who rules in your Empire? How many states does it encompass?”

Ontaya pauses. “The North is not a single Empire, Master. There are five civilized realms – Senallin, Caragon, Aradur, Kedris, and Velnar – and several barbarian nations around the periphery. Ones which we considered barbarian, that is: Arawai, Chraman, Harakra, Maenon, Megrim. Then there were the Sea People – the Kells and Sturmlanders – and the nomads – the Sufza and Jendae, who are known also in the South. I was born and raised in Senallin, so it is the kingdom I know best.”

The Xaimani lord listens with obvious fascination. “Do you know what a ‘map’ is? Can you draw one for me?” When Ontaya nods to both questions, he gestures sharply at a servant, and a scroll is produced of some material far thinner and less brittle than the parchment and vellum Ontaya knows from her homeland. Ontaya does her best to sketch an outline of her known geography, with the names written in Northron.

“Your people read and write, obviously,” the Minister notes, poring over the crude map with an infinitely satisfied expression. “Tomorrow I will send functionaries from the Ministry for you to tutor in your tongue and script. What gods do you worship?”

“Master, we worship Ain, the One. I believe the people of Xaiman know Ain as Ii.”

“Yes, I have heard that you recognize Ii in a clearer form than the Arawai or Lakshari.” Minister Tang purses his lips. “Why did you invade Arawai?”

A fragment of verse floats into Ontaya’s memory: To tame the horse and till the plain, and teach them all the fear of Ain. “The nations of the North wanted to live in the northern plains, Master. To stop Arawai raids, but mostly to open up new land and make new cities.”

“How many of your legions survived the invasion?”

“I do not know, Master. I was taken as a slave, and do not know how many may have escaped.”

“Which nations provide most of your slaves in the North?”

“We do not have slaves in the North, Master.”

The Minister pauses, brow furrowing in confusion. “I thought she understood Xaimani well, Slavemaster.”

“Her understanding is quite good, Master,” Daoran says uncomfortably.

The Minister tries again. “In the North, who are the slaves and who are the masters?”

“Master, in the North, a man may serve a noble family for oath or money, or be bound by law to the land his family works... but men do not own other men.”

The uneasiness in the Minister’s half-comprehending eyes is not echoed in his suddenly hard voice. “You will explain to me everything about the politics of your realm, Slave Ontaya.”

“You honor me, Master,” Ontaya says quietly.

 

[havenstone]

A Slave Education

OVER THE FOLLOWING days, Ontaya spends long hours educating Minister Tang and his functionaries in Northern politics and geography. She freely volunteers anything she believes the Xaimani could learn from other sources, to cover her careful omission of more militarily useful information. Meanwhile, her friends are learning much more about the culture and social structure of the Empire, and the limits on slaves.

The first, disheartening thing they learn is slavery is irreversible – there is no provision for emancipation in Xaimani law. Slaves are seen as having entered an inherently lower order of being, which may explain why no one of noble blood, from any nation, can ever be made a slave. No slave may bear a sword (a weapon associated loosely with nobility), though they may carry other weapons and act as bodyguards. No slave may practice magic or other skills associated with one of the higher Paths. They may not own property, and have no right even to their own offspring (who will be lifelong slaves, even if one of the parents was free). Slaves must always wear muted gray clothing that exposes the brand on their shoulders. The penalty for hiding or attempting to magically Heal the slave brand is the same as the penalty for attempted escape: excruciation. This elaborate punishment consists of being “flogged, pierced, stretched, stoned, and dropped from a great height.”

In Xaiman (and by extension in most of the other nations in the Empire), individuals who are neither slaves nor nobles often belong to a Ranked Path, which defines one’s occupation and social status within a complex guild-like structure. Each rank is marked by a color, from brown (the lowest, least experienced rank, analogous to apprentices in the North) to gray (the sixth and highest rank, generally held by no more than one to ten people in each Path). This color will be displayed somewhere in the regalia of the different Paths, as a motif in their robes, headdresses, armor, and so on. The Sword Path are the Imperial officer class, the Spear Path common soldiers, the Horizon Path sailors. The Reflective Path are priests, the Radiant Path wizards, the Scroll Path sages and scholars, and so on.

Some of the Paths have “aberrant” counterparts with an equally intricate hierarchy. The imperial executioners of the Skull Path– the black-clad men who slaughtered the nobility of the north – are considered an aberrant Spear Path. The anarchic Shattered Path ascetics, whose peculiar mental powers are reportedly based on ritualistically turning their minds in on themselves until they go mad, are an aberrant Reflective Path. The Golden Path (merchants) and the Shrouded Path (thieves), while officially opposites, are widely rumored to be the same path when all is said and done.

Most rural commoners belong to Non-Ranked Paths, such as the Unrefined Path for miners or the Rice Path for farmers. These are Paths where there is no differentiation between levels of skill, and brown is the most common color worn by anyone in a Non-Ranked Path. It is possible for children of commoners to aspire to Ranked Path status, though in some Paths (such as the Sword or Scroll) it can be extremely difficult to find a master who is willing to accept students who are not from well-educated noble families.

SHUSHILA, THE LITHE Lakshari slavemistress with graying hair, teaches Carwyn and Kyla the essential etiquette for entertaining noble guests at one of the Minister’s many feasts. “Avoid eye contact unless you are spoken to. Extend drinks and food to the noble guests in such a way that your hand does not and need not contact theirs – but do not shrink away if they initiate the contact. Do not in any way express your own hunger or thirst, nor take food or drink in eyeshot of any guests.”

She then asks them to demonstrate their dancing skills, and nods thoughtfully at the girls’ demonstration of Northern dancing techniques. “You have considerable grace and skill – especially you,” pointing to Carwyn. “We will begin, then, with a southeastern Lakshari dance that is far from simple, but is the most important for any dancer to master if you wish to increase your value and your influence with the masters of the Empire. It is the che’saan: the dance that drives men mad.”

Despite her general unhappiness, Carwyn takes to this sinuous, intensely suggestive dance like a duck to water. She spends the evenings in their drab, crowded quarters absent-mindedly practicing the arm curls and neck movements. Kyla is less enthusiastic, a fact noted with disapproval by Shushila. Ontaya passes by the lessons one day and develops a protective crush on Jaori, a slender Xaimani dancing girl. During their brief conversations, the paladin tries to get a sense of Jaori’s personality but can’t get past a shield of guarded, bland submissiveness.

As Ontaya accompanies Daoran on his daily rounds, she begins to understand the essential role of trusted slaves in managing a Xaimani noble estate. Most of the slaves who keep the estate running answer to a Slavemaster or Slavemistress, who take their orders from lesser members of the noble family. The higher class of slaves is treated well and is largely spared the abuses and penalties that their less fortunate fellows endure.

 

[wmager]

This was such an excellent Story Hour that so suddenly stopped being updated; I have to wonder whether it will start being updated again.

 

[Orichalcum]

Thanks! The GM/main author is currently on a walking tour of all of Great Britain and will be until late August, unfortunately, so I suspect that updates soon are unlikely. However, once he's settled back down again in a location with regular email access, I think he'll start up again.

 

[havenstone]

Hiatus over

Apologies to the five or six people who may have wondered why Talismans of Aerdrim went on hiatus for a year!

When I started writing this, it was escapism from my work in Afghanistan. Then I got to the point in the story where the characters were facing the full violence, degradation, and darkness of the Xaimani slave system... and you know, suddenly it just wasn't so escapist any more. Not that Afghanistan is anything like Xaiman in the details. But for a while, it just stopped being fun to write.

Now that I'm indefinitely back in Britain, it's fun again -- and I hope I can keep last year's promise to Ladybird to get Xiao Hua into the story before 2011!

 

[havenstone]

Messengers

WITHIN DAYS, ASH andMeeshak are allowed to leave the estate, to learn the run of the city – or at least the roads to the various noble estates, which are mostly spread out along the north bank of the Shanyang river. The diminutive, self-effacing errand slave Chosdzed is their tutor, guide, and only guard. Slavemaster Daoran clearly feels that no armed guards are necessary to keep the new slaves from running away. Where would the Pale Ones go, and who would possibly help them?

As they walk briskly through the streets of northern Tziwan, the two Northerners manage to learn that their guide’s parents originally lived in Kardei – a mountain kingdom far to the west – before being enslaved and brought to Xaiman, where Chosdzed was born. When Ash asks cautiously about the circumstances under which his parents were enslaved, the Kardei slave gives an uneasy smile and evades the question.

Ash and Meeshak soon realize the logic behind assigning them to carry messages. Owning an exotic Northern captive is fashionable, and the two tall, pale slaves wearing Minister Tang’s colors draw both curious and envious stares on the street. The nobles to whom they deliver their letters seem pleased and flattered to a greater extent than the mundane content of the messages would justify.

SHORTLY BEFORE THE Day of Harvest, the two Northerners are sent across the river for the first time since their purchase. As on the day of their sale, they cross the Shanyang on a ferry and pass through the Celestial Gate, the northern entrance to Tziwan’s outermost tier [map]. But this time instead of bearing west toward the slave market, Chosdzed beckons them eastward, into a neighborhood where every compound wall seems to be covered in ornate wood and stone carvings. “The lords of Lakshadar are very fond of such ornamentation, and their artisans are the finest in the Empire,” their Kardei guide explains. “This is the qohei [quarter] where the Lakshari dwell – the loyal nobles who have been granted land close to the light of the Emperor. Lakshari travelers and merchants also usually stay somewhere in the qohei.”

“We passed a column of Lakshari slaves on the road south,” Ash recalls aloud. “They had been captured in a rebellion.” He thinks back to the oddly cheerful, newly enslaved Chandur. The Empire does its best to keep control over the mages. The Kardei insurgency sixty years ago taught them that. After all it cost them to pacify the Kardei...

Chosdzed’s smile does not waver. “It is tragic that some subject nations do not recognize the power of our Masters. One cannot conceive of the hard heart that would nurture such rebelliousness.”

They deliver a message to the estate of a Lakshari nobleman named Raj Narayan Shah, inviting him and his son Rupesh to the great Harvest banquet at the Tang estate. Afterward, Ash and Meeshak stand in the outer courtyard of the Narayan Shah estate while Chosdzed talks with the local Slavemaster, waiting for a response letter to be scribed. A quiet voice from the gate addresses them: “Slaves of Tang – would you tell me, is it true that you were captured north of the Arawai plains?”

Ash and Meeshak glance around and see a black-eyed Lakshari swordsman, perhaps three or four years older than them, regarding them from a game of tiles with some of the off-duty gate guards. His earnest, friendly tone and expression are out of keeping with the curt contempt they’ve grown used to in the South. As with all non-Xaimani who choose to bear swords in Tziwan, the young Lakshari’s saber is fastened to its sheath on his back with an elaborate peace knot. “I’d have thought that all Xaiman knew the answer to that one by now – my Lord,” Meeshak ventures acerbically, caught off guard by the swordsman’s unexpected affability.

The gate watchmen eye each other and shake their heads. “You see, Njitra?” one of them chuckles to the inquisitive young man. “These pale slaves are as unruly as a half-Halaturq desert tribesman, or a Theilask with carbuncles.”

Njitra smiles warmly, to all appearances unaffected by Meeshak’s sarcasm. “I had heard otherwise. But I’d also heard it rumored that north of Arawai, there is no slavery – and that’s why the pale ones don’t know how to be slaves.”

The guards, Ash and Meeshak all fall uncomfortably silent. “None of our Northron words means the same thing as your word ‘slave’,” a cautious Ash says at last.

“Had you ever seen a man or woman sold before you reached the Empire?” Njitra inquires, his eyes searching their faces. “No, I thought not. You could never have imagined being a slave. How is it to find yourselves forever the property of a Xaimani?”

“Ii’s will is not always easy,” Meeshak replies guardedly. A flash of half-remembered dream comes to him: You are heroes, however much the vines choke you. “But nothing can stand against it.”

Njitra tilts his head to one side, as if weighing the fatalism of the Northerner’s words against the fierce determination in his eyes. “That thought seems to comfort you much more than it would me.”

“Forgive me, Master – we would answer more of your questions, but we must go,” says Ash, pointing to the returning Chosdzed.

“I’m no Master to you, slaves of Tang,” the young Lakshari says, waving them away. “When you see me again, just call me Njitra.”