Servant of the Empire (46 page)

Presuming to speak without being addressed, Kevin whispered, ‘Should I carry the boy to bed?’

Mara stroked her son’s soft cheek and shook her head. ‘Let him stay.’ Then, as if her own happiness made her sensitive to the needs of others, she said discreetly, ‘Go say your greetings to your countrymen. You need not return until later.’

Kevin smothered a smile as he stepped through sumptuous piles of cushions and made his bow. The long journey from Dustari had permitted little privacy for Mara to consort with her body slave. Unlike the huge command tent on the field, with its many rooms, and the comings and goings of servants a matter beneath notice, the trader’s galley which had borne them back across the Sea of Blood and up the River Gagajin had been too cramped to allow intimacy. As much as Kevin longed to visit his fellows, he ached for the moment he could return to Mara’s side.

He might have won his mistress’s lasting love, but Tsurani culture would never change; Kevin slipped from his Lady’s hall with the briskness of a man dispatched on an errand. Once outside the main house, he crossed the lighted grounds at a jog. His favour as Mara’s lover would avail him nothing should Jican find him ‘lazing about’, with work to be done.

Kevin kept to the shadows, an easier task as he drew away
from the kitchens and barracks; fewer lights burned in the servants’ compound, and the slaves’ quarters beyond were almost dark.

The music of the victory festivities seemed distant, too faint to make out a melody. Kevin stumbled over ruts in the packed earth until his eyes adjusted to the night. Left only a coppery half moon for guidance, he passed the outermost buildings and entered the cluster of board-walled shacks beyond. There were no trappings of gaiety here. Kevin felt his chest tighten as he noticed: the slave quarters might wear fresh whitewash for the celebration, but they were still only bare little huts. Seated on the ground before the doorways, clusters of ragged, dirty men shared the contents of several ceramic kettles. They ate their portion of the banquet given in Mara’s honour with their hands, wolfing down each bit as if it might be their last meal.

One man noticed Kevin’s approach and whispered, and instantly conversation broke off. All eyes turned from the food pots. Then someone commented in Midkemian that a body as tall as Kevin’s could never be a Tsurani overseer; yet another voice shouted through a hut’s open doorway.

‘I’ll be damned! They haven’t hanged you yet?’ A laugh followed, and a bulky figure in a patched grey robe rushed outside to meet him.

Kevin returned the laugh and hugged the broad-shouldered man, playfully rubbing his bald head. ‘Patrick! They haven’t hanged you, either, I see.’

Patrick gave a wide grin. ‘Not hardly, old son. I’m the only one who can keep this murderous crew in line.’ Voice lowered to a whisper, he added, ‘Or at least that’s what we convinced the runts.’

Stiffly, Kevin broke off the embrace. For three years he had lived with only ‘runts’ and the derogatory term shocked the recognition that his view of the Tsurani had changed. Now, confronted by the gaunt faces of his countrymen, he
could not escape the fact that his perspective was unique. Familiar features had changed, become suntanned and hard despite the smiles that welcomed the discovery that their liege lord’s son still survived. Kevin surveyed the ragged gathering, his joy dampened further as he took stock of who was absent. ‘Brandon and William of LaMut, where are they?’ As if more men might be hidden within the dim doorways, Kevin cast about. ‘Marcus, Stephen, and Henry. The two Tims? Brian, Donell, and Jon: where are they, Patrick?’

‘Things changed since you left, old son.’ Patrick expostulated with a tired sigh. ‘This Jican’s a fiend for cutting expenses, so the favours you arranged from her Ladyship vanished. We’re treated the same as any other slaves now.’

‘But where are the rest of us?’ Kevin demanded in concern.

A mutter ran through the men, while thin-lipped, Patrick answered. ‘Brian’s stomach turned sour and he died in a week. The runts let him lay there and wouldn’t call any doctors for a slave. Donell was killed by a needra bull, during breeding last spring. Marcus died from the fever the wet season after you left. Some sort of snake – called “relli” by the runts – bit Tim Masonsson and the guards killed him without batting an eye. They claimed they spared him a slow death.’

‘That at least was a kindness,’ Kevin cut in. ‘Relli poison kills very slowly and painfully, and nobody knows of a remedy.’

Unconvinced, Patrick laid his arm around his countryman’s shoulder; he smelled of dirt, and needra, and unwashed sweat, but Kevin noticed little beyond his whispered words. ‘Some of these runts understand bits of the King’s tongue, we suspect. Jon was sent elsewhere to work with wood; somehow they discovered he was a carpenter. We’ve not seen him for a year. Samuel of Toren
lost his temper and struck a runt, and him they hanged within minutes.’ Glancing nervously across the compound, Patrick dared one last line. ‘But Tim Bloget and the others have escaped.’

Kevin forgot himself. He jerked back, eyes wide, and said, ‘Escaped!’

Patrick caught Kevin by the wrist and pulled him strongly away from the huts, past the perimeter hedge and over to the bank of a small brook. Jumpy, tense, and looking often over his shoulder, he continued in a low murmur. ‘There are camps of bandits in the foothills to the west. The runts name them “grey warriors”. We overheard some soldiers speaking of them after the army left. William of LaMut escaped and then snuck back telling us it was true. Brandon, Tim Bloget, and Stephen went with him and we’ve got a few messages back and forth.’

The streamlet chuckled quietly over its bed of stones; the music could not be heard at all here, only the scraping of night insects. Kevin sat down, his hands gripped tightly to his forearms. ‘Escape,’ he muttered.

Patrick chose a worn rock, sat also, and absently pulled a grass stalk. ‘Security’s tighter now. That Keyoke’s no fool. Once the overseers figured out the boys had cut and run, he changed the patrols and doubled the guards who escort us to work.’ Patrick sucked his grass stem, found it bitter, and spat. ‘Leaving would be tougher, now the runts have puzzled out what took place. Before, they never imagined a slave might want to escape.’ He chuckled in bitter irony. ‘Odd lot. Lived here five years and I’ve still got no clue how they think.’

Kevin shrugged. ‘I understand them better now.’

A snap to his words, Patrick said, ‘Well you should. You’re the educated one, Kevin, being a noble and all. I’d have taken the other boys into the hills by now, but I thought it wiser to leave that to you. We need your
leadership. Because one chance is very likely all we’re going to get, and –’

‘Wait!’ Kevin kicked a clod with a splash into the stream. ‘Escape to where?’

‘Why, to the mountains.’ Patrick peered closely at his companion, but the gloom hid details of expression. ‘These grey warriors want nothing to do with us, but they will trade a bit. They’re not about to hunt us down. So, I figured we’d wait for our moment, then bolt and make our own camp in the high country.’

‘And do what?’ Exasperated, Kevin shook his head. Though Patrick had been born a commoner, they had been friends, hunting companions, and later soldiers together; while a loyal man and a staunch fighter, Patrick had little imagination. On campaign in Dustari, Kevin had been quartered among Mara’s soldiers often enough to learn that some had once been grey warriors. Their existence, as they told it, had been a misery of poverty and starvation.

‘Kevin, damn it, we’d be free!’ Patrick insisted, as if that settled things.

‘Free to do what?’ Kevin pried loose another bit of dirt. He tossed it hard into the water, and the splash startled nearby insects to silence. ‘Ambush patrols of Acoma soldiers? Cho-ja? To fight our way back to wherever the hell we came through that magical hole from our own world? Or, far more likely, we can die of fever or starvation.’

Patrick answered in anger. ‘We’re nothing here, Kevin! If we kill ourselves working, do we get thanks? A better meal? A day of rest? No, we get the same treatment as the animals. Damn it, man, today was the first we’ve not had to labour from dawn to sunset since you left. At least in the mountains we can lead our own lives.’

Kevin shrugged in resignation. ‘I don’t know. You’re a gifted enough hunter in the Grey Towers,’ he said in reference to the mountains near Zun. ‘But up there?’ He
sliced a hand at the dark. ‘So you snare some six-legged creature, do you even know if you can eat it? Half the damned things are poisonous. Not like the game at he me.’

‘We can learn!’ snapped Patrick. ’Would you rather work until you die of old age?’ A thought struck him. ‘Or is there another reason, old son? Maybe you’ve come to appreciate the runt way of looking at things?’

Surprisingly stung, Kevin stood up and spun away. ‘No, I …’ He sighed, shed his hurt, and tried again. ‘It’s different for me, Patrick. Very different.’

‘You won’t work as hard as us, for one thing.’ The inserts scraped loudly and long through a silence. Then Patrick rose also. ‘I see that much.’

Kevin whipped irritably around. ‘No, I don’t think you do.’ Aware he had reached a sort of watershed, he struggled for words to tell his friend what he had come to know and feel for Mara. His hands twisted in frustration. No matter what he said, Patrick would only see the Lady as his captor. A man of plain tastes and simple intellect could not appreciate her ingenious way of seeing things, or Kevin’s own delight when she laughed at his jokes when they were alone. Neither could he explain the magic, the fulfilment of his life as he lost himself in her.

Too tired to communicate the impossible, Kevin threw up his hands. ‘Look, we’ll talk about this again. I … can’t promise anything in a hurry. But we can always leave, and since Dustari, things are not quite so hidebound as before.’

‘In what way?’ Patrick snorted, unconvinced. ‘Are the overseers going to treat us like drinking pals now that you’ve come back with her ladyship?’

Kevin shook his head, the gesture mostly lost in the dimness under the trees. ‘No. But I think I’m making progress. Someday …’

‘Someday, we’ll be dead,’ Patrick said brutally. He gripped Kevin’s shoulders and all but shook him. ‘Don’t go
daft, man, over a little soft thigh. I know you’ve always been one to moon after this pretty face or that, thinking a ready sword meant you were in love. But Kevin, there are no lovely ladies for us to cuddle.’ In the murk Kevin could see Patrick nod toward the distant estate house. ‘While you enjoy your silks, we sleep in mud. When you dine with the mistress in the morning, we’re three hours in the field already, and when you take supper with her, we’re just coming back. You’re only spared our lot as long as you can keep your sword sharp, and the woman doesn’t get tired of you. She’ll choose herself another lover one day, and then you’ll come to know how we live.’

Kevin wanted to argue, but in gritty honesty, he knew Patrick spoke the truth. Mara might love her tall barbarian, but he must never fool himself: she would order his death without an instant’s hesitation if the honour of her house became compromised. Generous, innovative, even softhearted as Mara could be, she was equally capable of ruthlessness.

Kevin laid his hands over his friend’s taut wrists. ‘I’m not saying I’m against the idea of escape. Just I’m not convinced that living as outlaws, eating whatever we can steal, and sleeping on the run in the forest is one whit better than slavery. Give me time. Let me see what I can do about arranging better food and less work.’ He pulled away, torn by a conflict he had rashly never foreseen. ‘Don’t let the lads do anything stupid. I’ll use my influence with the mistress and find another way to recover our freedom.’

‘Don’t linger too long, old son. If you’ve come to like the runts, that’s your affair – I’ll never stop loving you like a brother.’ Patrick spun away from the stream bank, his voice suddenly cold. ‘But know this. I’d kill you if you try to keep us here. The lads have decided; we’d rather die free than live as slaves. We’ve figured the Tsurani out enough to know that if your Lady had failed down South, it would have been
every man for himself, demons take the hindmost. So, we waited for news. If the Lady was dead, we’d be off with no one to tell us stay. When we heard she had won … we agreed to wait for you to come back, you being our officer and most likely to get us out safe.’ He fixed his countryman with a hard gaze. When Kevin didn’t answer, Patrick added, ‘We won’t stay much longer. With you or without you, old son, we’ll go.’

Kevin sighed. ‘I understand. I won’t try to keep you. Just … give me a few days.’

‘A few days it is.’

Wrapped in uncomfortable quiet, the two men picked their way back to the slave huts. Kevin lingered to chat with the men he had known as soldiers in the field, and a few others he had met in the slave pens and coffles en route to Sulan-Qu. The captive Midkemians had formed a tight-knit friendship since coming to Mara’s estate; except he was a man marked apart. That had not been so apparent during the year he had worked on the needra fields; but now, the distance between Mara’s bed and a miserable life in the slave huts left an unbridgeable alienation.

Kevin listened to gossip, and commiseration over insect bites, hunger, and sores. He had little to contribute to such talk. The exhilaration of a triumphant homecoming faded, and he did not mention the marvels he had encountered in Dustari. Well before midnight, the slaves began to rise and seek their huts. They would be roused before dawn, celebration notwithstanding, and Tsurani overseers used the whip on any laggards. Kevin made excuses and departed. As he walked alone through the night, past sentries who nodded him greeting, and servants who made way to let him pass, each small privilege galled him. As he passed on into the lantern light, and laughter, and pretty serving maids who teased and called for him to dance, his discomfort sharpened to bitterness. For the first time since
his headlong plunge into love, he wondered how soon he would come to curse himself for a fool.