Blood and Iron: The Book of the Black Earth (Part One) (10 page)

After the last man in white had passed through the intersection, Isiratu's driver cracked the reins, and the wagon lumbered off. Two blocks farther, the caravan entered into a vast square. Tall windows stared down from the surrounding buildings. Horace's gaze followed the arching lines and intricate scrollwork of the architecture. It was so different than the staid style of his homeland, and on such a grand scale.

The procession stopped before a broad building with a beautiful facing of marble columns, each carved to resemble a woman with her arms lifted above her head to hold up the portico roof. The guards moved the slaves against the wall as the wagon door opened and Lord Isiratu emerged. Ubar and Nasir awaited him, but the nobleman brushed past and entered the building before them. The soldiers fell in behind. Horace anticipated they would be taken inside, too, perhaps by a different entrance—the homes of the highborn in Avice often had separate doors for their servants. Yet the slaves were made to stand against the side of the building for more than an hour. Horace's guards complained until a slave woman emerged with a tray of cups. The slaves had to watch while their captors drank in front of them. Horace's tongue pressed against his lips, wanting to seize a cup from their hands and gulp it down, but the sudden crack of a whip snatched his attention way. A party of men had approached. Five wore bronze breastplates, polished to a brilliant shine, and had swords at their sides. Two were older men in robes.

The two elders walked down the line of slaves, speaking back and forth as they examined each man and woman. They paused a moment when they got to
Jirom, pointing to the mark on his face, but when they got to Horace at the end they hardly glanced at him before retreating a few paces to confer. After a brief conversation, the caravan guards unhooked the majority of the slaves, including Gaz. The small man walked behind the soldiers with his head bent low, the perfect model of obedience. For some reason, the attitude bothered Horace.

Hold up your head! Don't just follow at their heels like a dog.

The soldiers herded the chosen slaves toward the northern end of the square where several large wooden platforms stood. Auction blocks, Horace guessed. Jirom and five other male slaves were left behind. Horace tried to understand what was happening. Why were they being separated? He swallowed his mounting anxiety as the old men talked back and forth, pointing to each of the remaining slaves in turn. They didn't look in his direction as if he was invisible, but somehow he didn't think they had forgotten about him.

“What are they doing?” he asked.

Jirom was looking east across the plaza where two covered wagons stood along the far side. A crowd of people stood around the wagons, listening to a man in a red uniform reading from a scroll. Jirom scratched his neck under his collar. “Culling.”

“What's that?”

“When an animal gets sick, it must be separated from the rest. Or if it is unfit to breed, it is taken away.”

“So which are we? The sick or the unfit?”

“I think we'll soon find out.”

As if summoned by his words, the guards came for Jirom and the last slaves. Horace started to go with them, but the guards held out their hands. He stayed.

Jirom grasped his shoulder and bent down to meet his eyes. “Be strong.”

Horace nodded. “You, too. Maybe we'll meet again someday.”

“Perhaps.”

As Jirom and the last slaves were taken to the tall wagons, Horace expected to learn his fate. However, the old men turned and departed, leaving him alone with his guards. Horace glanced around. The soldiers weren't paying much attention to him. He could have slipped away and vanished into the
crowd. But where would he go? He was a foreigner and an enemy, and he didn't even know enough of their tongue to ask for directions.

Stay calm. Use your eyes. What are you missing?

Murmurs drew his attention as the crowd made way for a white palanquin carried by a team of eight burly men. Opaque curtains hid the occupants from view, but Horace's guards drew themselves up straight, arms by their sides, eyes forward. A trickle of sweat ran down his back as the sedan chair drew up in front of him. The bearers stopped in unison, their muscular limbs gleaming with an oily sheen.

A guard opened the door and stood aside. Horace looked at him, and the guard nodded. The interior was vacant, just two empty bench seats. Horace glanced back at the building with all its windows and the carved columns. Then, without any idea where he was being taken, he climbed inside the chair.

Alyra hugged the satchel to her chest as she closed the door to the armory. She had just enough time before the second bell to get to her secret cache and back before she was expected in the queen's chambers. She dared not be late again for Hetta's sake.

She stole down the empty corridor in the direction of the slaves’ quarters, where there was an exit near her hiding spot. The main level of the palace was empty this time of day except for slaves assigned to cleaning duties, which was why she'd picked now to visit the armory. By midmorning, these halls would be overflowing with diplomats and petitioners, with nobles and their prodigious entourages. The audiences and meetings would continue well into evening when formal matters of state gave way to frolics and feasting and other entertainments. After three years as a chamber-slave, Alyra had ceased to think of the palace as just the home of the queen; it was more like a carnival for the lascivious and the disturbed that never ended.

Marble squares of black and vermillion covered the hallway's floor. Artful decorations in bronze and iron hung on the stone walls. While the outer chambers were rich in natural light from many windows and skylights, Alyra was glad that these interior corridors were dim. Officially, she wasn't supposed to be in this part of the palace, but as one of the queen's handmaidens, she had more access than most of the other slaves. But she didn't wish to rely upon that flimsy protection if she got caught, especially because she was more than just a household servant. She had been sent by the neighboring nation of Nemedia to root out signs of Akeshian aggression against that country. Three years was a long time to live among one's enemies, serving them, suffering under their heel, but she believed in her mission with all her heart. Her father had been the governor of an Arnossi colony on the island of Thym when the Akeshians attacked. He'd died giving Alyra and her mother a chance to escape. After the Nemedian secret police took them in, she gladly joined their network to fight the empire that had destroyed her family.

She approached an intersection between two large drawing rooms and froze as heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor. Her first thought was that she had been caught during the changing of the guard, but the chime hadn't rung yet. Then she realized the sounds were coming from behind her.

She threw herself into a shallow niche and hid behind the marble bust of King Ubinhezzard. She held her breath and pressed herself deeper into the niche as someone passed by. She waited for several frantic heartbeats before peeking out. A black cloak fluttered behind a tall man as he strode down the corridor. It was Lord Astaptah, one of the queen's chief viziers. As he disappeared around a corner, Alyra knew she should turn around and head in the opposite direction, but instead she kicked off her slippers. Holding the satchel with care to keep its contents from clanking together, she stole after the vizier on quiet footsteps.

This is crazy. This is crazy. This is
…

The words ran through her head as she peeked around the corner. This
was
crazy. She didn't want to even think about the ramifications if she was discovered, but this was also a golden opportunity. Lord Astaptah was the most mysterious man in the city. No one knew where he came from, although rumors were rife, but within a few months of his arrival he had risen to the top of the social ladder to become the queen's highest servant. Rarely seen at court functions, he dwelled in the catacombs beneath the palace. Alyra had long wondered what he did down there and why the queen favored him, but opportunities to find out were so rare that when faced with one—like now—she had to take it.

Alyra hurried down the corridor, deeper into the interior of the palace. Small lamps glowed high up on the walls. She avoided their pools of light as best she could while following Lord Astaptah into a part of the palace she had never seen before. They were far from the slave quarters and ever farther from the kitchens. If she were caught here, she'd have very few excuses as to why she had wandered so far from her assigned duties. Biting her bottom lip, she pressed on.

The vizier turned down a dark corridor. After a dozen steps Alyra lost sight of him. She kept close to the left-hand wall, trailing her fingers along its stones to keep her sense of direction as she followed Lord Astaptah's heavy strides. Then the strides drifted off to her right, and Alyra barely stopped in
time to keep from walking face-first into a wall. She felt the corner and turned with it. A thought struck her as she trailed after the footsteps. How was Lord Astaptah finding his way without a light?

He must have the route memorized.

But why not carry a candle? Why the secrecy? That's what she wanted to find out. So she continued onward through the dark. The satchel was getting heavy, but leaving it behind was out of the question. Lost in her thoughts, Alyra halted in mid-stride as a cold shiver ran through her body. The footsteps had stopped.

She held her breath, straining to hear the slightest sounds, but there was nothing louder than her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. Where was he? Had she been discovered? She cursed herself for not paying more attention. Then a sound traveled down the corridor, like two boulders grinding together. Vibrations ran up through Alyra's bare soles. She remained perfectly still, afraid to move.

The grinding noise stopped. Footsteps echoed somewhere in front of her or perhaps to the left. She was becoming disoriented. Then the noise began again. Not sure what she was doing, she inched forward with one hand extended in front of her, and barely stifled a yelp of surprise as her fingers touched a moving surface. It was stone and very large. Running her hands up and down, she determined that it was a door, and it was closing before her. She hurried to reach the opening, but it was narrow and shutting quickly. She had only a moment to decide. Should she wait for another time when she was better prepared? What if there wasn't another time?

The grating noise stopped as the door settled into its frame. She had missed it.

Alyra rested her forehead against the stone. What had she done? As she berated herself, she noticed that the surface was warm. She put down her satchel and ran both hands across the door's smooth face. It was definitely warmer than the surrounding stone. Almost hot, in fact. What was behind it? There was no handle or latch in the expected place. Alyra was searching for an opening mechanism when footsteps echoed behind her.

An icy dread filled her chest as she heard voices. Alyra started to dart back up the corridor to the last intersection but then remembered her satchel
and ran back to it, searching along the floor until her hands bumped into the coarse burlap. Clutching the bag, she sprinted down the corridor, her feet slapping on the marble. She stopped at the intersection and listened above her own breathing. Yes, there was no doubt. She had run into Xantu and Gilgar. The twin brothers were two of the most notorious members of the court. Many referred to them in private as the Queen's Hounds. They served as Her Majesty's enforcers, and their penchant for cruelty was legendary. There was a saying in Erugash: better to risk the fire than let the Hounds sink their fangs into you. It sounded like they were coming from her right, but she couldn't be sure. If she guessed wrong, she would run directly into them, and that was trouble she didn't need. She slipped into the left-hand corridor, ran a few steps, and then pressed her back against a wall. A spot of orange light appeared in the darkness. It bobbed like a hot coal on the end of a fishing line but showed enough for her to see their approaching faces.

Alyra retreated deeper into the darkness. There was nowhere to hide and no way that she could escape from magicians of their caliber if she was discovered. She let out a soft sigh of relief as the twins turned the corner in another direction. Now she could go back to searching for a way to open the stone door. She hurried back toward the intersection, but she hadn't gotten halfway there when a deep, rolling chime rang above her head.

I'm late!

She turned and ran, cursing herself the entire way. The second bell faded away before she got back to the lighted corridors. The appearance of daylight ahead made her breathe easier. She passed by a trio of slaves scrubbing the floor and had to tread carefully for a few yards to avoid spilling onto her backside. Following a corridor reserved for slaves, she almost stepped into the Grand Atrium before she realized she was still holding the satchel. It was too late to get it to her hiding spot. Looking around, she found a service closet and tucked it onto the highest shelf behind a pair of buckets. With a prayer that the sack and its contents would remain hidden until she could return to fetch them, she smoothed her hair and brushed the front of her tunic for stray dust, doing the best she could without a mirror. Then she went out to face the consequences of her tardiness.

Head bowed, she crossed the atrium's golden flagstones at a quick walk. The chamber was a marvel of engineering. Twelve pillars—each so thick that five men could not reach around them with their hands linked—held up a ceiling seventy paces above the floor. Brilliant sunlight poured through the round crystal windows in the ceiling. Gigantic frescoes covered the walls, depicting the history of Erugash from its humble origin as a trading village to the sprawling city-state it had become.

She took a side door and started up the long series of zigzagging staircases. It was several minutes more before she arrived at the queen's residence on the top tier of the palace. The royal suite had its own foyer, bedecked with fine furniture and a collection of erotic sculpture. A squad of brawny bodyguards stood at attention, their tulwars held in perpetual readiness. Alyra slipped through the inner doorway, hoping—praying!—that she would arrive unnoticed. A strong contralto voice dashed her hopes.

“Ah, my errant handmaiden arrives at last.”

Alyra froze on the threshold of the main parlor. The voice came from the doorway to her right, accompanied by a slosh of water.

How does she always know?

Alyra curled her fingers into tight fists at her sides. Of course the queen knew. She was
zoanii
, descended from an ancient line of powerful sorcerers.

“Alyra, come. I'm getting a chill.”

She obeyed at once. The queen's bathing chamber was as large as the house Alyra and her mother had shared in Nemedia. Every surface was faced in pink marble, including the floor and arched ceiling. The bathing tub set into the floor could have held a dozen people, and Alyra had seen it filled to capacity on more than one occasion. Her Majesty's parties were notorious affairs throughout the empire.

The queen stood at the edge of the tub. Rivulets of soapy water ran down her exquisite body. Tall with long, firm legs and a thin waist, she looked like a dancer. Her long, black hair hung in wet ropes about her slim shoulders. Alyra kept her head down as she took a towel from a nearby bench and attended the queen, drying her gently before wrapping the towel around Her Majesty's body. She used a smaller towel to cover the royal hair.

“Thank you, child,” the queen said. “Now come.”

Alyra followed her through the sitting room and into one of the suite's three lounge chambers. This one was decorated in shades of red and pink with white accents. Plush couches piled with pillows were arranged around the room. This was where the queen often entertained her male guests. Alyra stopped short when she saw who was chained against the far wall. “Hetta,” she whispered.

“I don't know how many times I've told you, Alyra.”

The queen walked up to Hetta. The girl was only ten years old, and as skinny as an alley cat, but beautiful with her olive skin. The queen believed in surrounding herself with lovely things. Alyra's stomach twisted into knots.

The queen ran her fingers down the girl's bare back. “You must be on time when I have my morning bath.”

Alyra rushed forward and fell to her knees. “Yes, Majesty. Please forgive me. The blame is all mine. Please! Do not—”

“Shhhh.” The queen patted Alyra's head like she was a lapdog. “You know that I must punish you. How else will you learn?”

“Yes, Majesty! Please let Hetta go and punish me. I take full responsibility for my lateness.”

The queen laughed. It was such a lovely sound, but it filled Alyra with dread. “Silly child.” Her hand caressed Alyra's face and then dipped down across the upper slope of her chest. “This is how you learn.”

A tiny shudder ran through Alyra as the clipped staccato of high-heeled boots entered the room. Hetta whimpered, and Alyra didn't need to look to see who it was. The queen's personal torturer brought a case of whips and canes that she set at Her Majesty's feet.

“The red one,” the queen said as she pulled Alyra over to the nearest couch. “To begin with.”

As the blows began to fall, and Hetta's cries resounded through the room, the queen held Alyra close and forced her to watch the spectacle. With each crack of the switch, Alyra focused on the importance of her mission, even as a woeful refrain ran through her mind.

I'm so sorry. So sorry. So sorry.