Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (22 page)

Turning a corner he saw why. A row of clerks and other non-slave servants knelt in the hall while Fitch paced up and down the line with a drawn sword. A new gold-and-ruby cuff hugged his biceps.

Lance tensed. He would not stand by if Fitch decided to execute them all—most were elderly men with a few youths and women mixed in. He also saw a Qiph with white streaks in his braids and a serene expression. The slave Esam had spoken of?

Fitch stopped in front of a plain woman with scraped back hair and lifted her chin with the flat of his blade. “Where is your master hiding? I know he’s on the estate.”

The woman’s gaze darted to and fro. She licked her lips. “Please, I don’t—”

“Don’t what? Want to live?” Fitch asked.

She was spared from answering when a Grasslander carried a four-year-old child, kicking and screaming, into the room. The curly-haired girl wore the silk dress of a noble.

“Excellent. Put her with the other usurpers,” Fitch ordered.

For the first time, Lance noticed the three Republicans cowering under guard in one corner. Both men bore bruises and cuts; the younger, fitter one had been battered unconscious. The woman—from the family resemblance, more likely a sister than a wife—had a cut lip, and her dress had been torn half off. Her stare was vacant; she’d almost certainly been raped.

While Lance and the Goddess had been healing the fallen, Fitch and his Grasslanders had apparently been having “fun.”

The Grasslander put his hand over the little girl’s mouth to stifle her, and she bit him. Startled, he dropped her on the floor.

She shrieked again, but got up in a flash and barreled down the hallway. “Pah!”

Fitch laughed as the Grasslander, who was liberally bedecked with gold necklaces, cursed and started after her.

“Nalimis. Here.” The plain-faced servant woman, probably the child’s nursemaid, motioned desperately.

You’re
here
to
save
the
slaves
,
not
the
slave
-
masters
, Lance reminded himself, but he found himself stepping forward nonetheless. He scooped the girl up and, before she could give more than a surprised whoop, deposited her in front of the nursemaid. The woman shot him a grateful look, then gathered the child to her, careful to hide her face.

Fitch frowned at him.

Lance stood his ground. “She’s just a child. She doesn’t belong with the others.”

Fitch studied him, more perplexed than angry, still riding high from his victory. “What do you mean? She’s of their House. If I spare her, she’ll inherit the estate and be married off to some fat lord.”

Sara spoke up, dispassionately. “If you kill her, the Senate will vote to award the estate to whichever House gives them the biggest bribe. Her death gains you nothing.”

Fitch smiled charmingly. “Who said anything about killing her? Perhaps I’ll marry her myself.” His jest earned a laugh from his audience. “I merely ordered her to be put with the others—but when Beauty asks, War listens.” His gaze roamed her figure, seemingly not put off by the blood staining the skirts and bodice.

Lance interrupted. “If I can find Lord Garius, will you give your word to spare the—any children?”

“That’s one trick I’d like to see,” Fitch said. “We’ve searched all the rooms as well as the baths and stables. I even had a man crawl under the floor and check the hypocaust.”

Lance waited.

“Very well, you have my word.” Fitch waved a hand, indicating the open door to the kitchens. “Have at it.”

Lance stayed in the hall. The little girl had called out “Pah”—short for Papa? He studied the men kneeling against the wall, ruling out the Qiph and two others with heart-shaped slave brands. Which left four men. One, he judged too young, but the other three were over forty and could have fathered both the little girl and the older siblings. He stopped in front of the man with the fleshiest face and compared his visage with the prisoners. Perhaps the nose was the same. Lance felt a surge of frustration.

“Him?” Fitch asked, incredulous, reaching for his sword.

“I’m not sure,” Lance said. “It could be any of these three.” The hall was utterly silent. “We need to get one of the field slaves.” Either loyalty or fear kept the house slaves silent. All except the Qiph studied the floor as if searching for a crack to open up and swallow them.

But Sara shook her head. “The ossoes may never have seen him up close. Look at their hands.”

“I’m a clerk,” the man protested, sweating. “That’s why I don’t have calluses.”

Lance looked at the pampered, soft hands before him. “If you’re a clerk, where are your ink stains?”

With a cry, Lord Garius lurched to his feet. Perhaps he thought to fight or flee, but Fitch’s sword brought him up short, the tip touching the underside of his chin.

Fitch smiled. “Greetings, Lord Garius. I’ve been wanting to meet you for a long time.” Menace shivered in his voice.

Did he intend to execute him on the spot? Lance’s throat tightened with guilt. The lord probably deserved it, but—

“May I speak with you in private?” he asked Fitch.

Fitch sighed. “You’re a pushy man, priest, but I suppose that you’ve earned that much.” He pushed Lord Garius to where his sons and daughters sat under guard and walked into a dining room. Red and blue panels lined the walls.

“In Kandrith, we let those most wronged stand in judgment,” Lance declared.

Fitch stared at him in amazement. “Are you speaking up in favour of that whoreson coward, priest?”

Lance kept his voice mild. “No. But if your rebellion is to succeed, you need more than supplies, you need men. How many men did you recruit on your last pass through Tolium? Five?” He paused. “There are probably over a hundred slaves working at this estate.”

Fitch lifted an eyebrow. “Half of them women and the other half have never lifted a sword.”

Lance let this exaggeration pass. “Men can be trained.”

“It takes time to train a warrior. It’s best begun as a child. Besides, what would we arm them with?” Fitch shook his head.

“I can melt down their chains into swords,” Lance said quickly. “The rest can be armed with quarterstaffs. Wood is one thing you have plenty of.”

Fitch stared at him. “You’re a blacksmith?”

“My father was.”

“Nir’s sword, man! Why didn’t you say so earlier?”

Lance felt a surge of triumph; he had the other men thinking now. “So you’ll try it my way?”

Fitch narrowed his eyes. “I risk losing my Grasslanders, if I forbid them the taking of slaves.”

Sara spoke up from Lance’s elbow. “Promise them the leader’s share of the gold.”

Fitch made a face, but didn’t reject the notion outright.

“You’ve twisted the racha’s tail with this raid,” Lance said quietly. “They’ll have to send in the Legions now. You need men.”

“And how will freeing Lord Garius gain me this?”

“Not freeing him, letting his slaves judge him,” Lance urged. “Give them that much power, and they might have the pride to take up a sword for you. Bad enough they’ve had to be rescued. Don’t rob them of their justice.”

And if Lord Garius had been kindly then he would escape with his life. Once Lance would have laughed at the mere suggestion of a kind master. Before he’d met Sara.

Fitch stared at him, then smiled blindingly. “I’ll try it your way, but if it doesn’t work be warned—I’ll take the lost gold out of your hide.” He exited the room. “Bind and gag Lord Garius and his family and take them outside to be judged.”

* * *

Fitch raised his hands, quieting the uneasy crowd of slaves. “Let all who have a grievance against Lord Garius step forward!”

Feet shuffled, someone coughed, but no one moved forward. They seemed too afraid to speak.

Fitch put his hands on his hips, looking impatient. Lance winced. If someone didn’t step forward soon, Lance was going to take the brunt of Fitch’s temper. Lance scanned the crowd for Relena; he could rely on her to speak her mind.

“Edvard!” Fitch called. “Come here!”

Edvard limped forward from the group of Gotians on Fitch’s left. Apparently unable to bear Edvard’s slow progress, Fitch pulled him over to where Lord Garius knelt on the grass.

“There’s the man who crippled you. Pronounce him guilty and slit his throat.”

What
?

Lord Garius mumbled behind his gag, blue eyes wide with terror as Fitch drew his sword and offered it to his brother.

But Edvard drew back, shaking his head. “It was the other one, the fat one. He ordered the overseer to beat the ring’s location out of me, and then put it on his fat finger. He’s the one I want dead. Where is he?” Edvard limped down the line of prisoners, scrutinizing faces. He looked torn between rage and tears.

To Lance’s relief, Relena stepped forward. “I remember you, lad. You were a brave one. The one you’re talking about is Drencis, the Viper’s husband—Lord Garius’s son-in-law. Unfortunately, he’s visiting the capital.”

“No,” Edvard whispered, face ashen. “He can’t be.”

Lance put his hand on Edvard’s shoulder, but the boy twisted free and stumped off into the crowd.

Fitch cursed a blue streak.

“If you’re looking for a reason to strike off his head,” Relena nodded toward Lord Garius, “I’ll give you one.”

“I’m waiting,” Fitch growled.

“He let it happen.” She stared down at the sweating lord, dispassionately. “It’s his estate, and he let his sons and the Viper and her husband have full rein. He didn’t care. He may not have sullied his hands, but he gave the orders for us to be worked like dogs in the hot sun. Wallec, Rubio, Jenneth...none of them had to die. All they needed was a little shade and water and rest. Nor did he have to sell away Rhonwen’s girls. Always money for horses and feasts and the Viper’s dresses, never money for mercia to ease a dying slave’s last breaths.” She spit on him. “I judge him guilty.”

A roar of agreement from the ossoes. The blood slaves and heart slaves seemed ambivalent, some voting yes, some no, but the ossoes outnumbered them. A few argued to have him burned alive, but Fitch ruled the smoke would attract unwanted attention and cut the man’s throat instead.

Lord Garius looked surprised as he bled out into the dust.

Both sons and the elder daughter were similarly executed. The sons were both judged guilty of rape. The daughter, the one Relena had called the Viper, apparently liked to order whippings over infractions, often leaving the slave dead or maimed for life.

Lance thought of suggesting to Relena that being raped was enough punishment—but then he remembered Madam Lust ordering Wenda whipped and said nothing. It wasn’t his place to judge.

A few of the freed slaves called for the tot’s blood, too, but Relena’s glares and the nursemaids’ pleading shamed them into silence.

Next came the overseers. The mob gave a bloodthirsty keen when they were brought out, bound and deprived of their whips. Not one voice spoke out for clemency, nor did the hardened thugs beg for mercy as the nobles had. Fitch looked half-sorry to lose them.

The last one refused to kneel for the killing stroke. He lowered his head and bellowed, running at the crowd. But instead of scattering in fear, the crowd pushed back, swiftly bringing him down. Fists rose and fell, and then Fitch strode into the melee with his sword.

Blood sprayed everywhere. Sara wiped a smear off her cheek—something she wouldn’t have done a month before—then looked at the blood on her fingers, nose wrinkling. Her skin suddenly ashen, she bent and vomited into the dirt.

Chapter Fourteen

Lance winced in sympathy as Sara emptied out her
stomach. He stood behind her and held her shoulders both to steady her and cure
the nausea. “Don’t look,” he advised her.

Remorse rolled through him. It hadn’t occurred to him that the
executions would upset her, but it should have. Her soul was returning, and the
Goddess knew the dead made a gruesome sight, especially the daughter with her
black hair dipped in blood and her staring blue eyes. A sudden thought struck.
“Did you know one of them? Is that why you’re upset?”

But Sara shook her head before wiping her mouth on her sleeve.
“It’s the smell.” Sara shuddered, then bent forward and vomited again. Spasms
racked her slender frame.

Even though Lance was touching her.

Lance blinked, feeling stupefied. The last time he’d been
unable to heal Sara, a blue devil had been attached to her soul.

“What ails her?” Relena asked, approaching from the left. “Did
she catch the sickness making the rounds right now?”

“Sara’s not sick,” Lance said sharply.

Relena put her hands on her bony hips and raised her
eyebrows.

Lance moderated his tone. “She can’t be sick. The Goddess would
have healed her before she developed any symptoms.”

“Maybe it’s not the kind of sickness that should be
healed.”

Lance frowned.

Relena rolled her eyes. “And you call yourself a healer! If
she’s vomiting for no good reason, then chances are she’s pregnant.”

Lance stopped breathing, the wind knocked out of him as surely
as if someone had rammed a spear butt in his belly.
Sara
,
pregnant
.

Relena didn’t notice his reaction, squinting at Sara. “She’s
not showing much, I’ll grant you. I’d say she’s probably only three, four months
along.”

He calculated backward. About four months had passed since they
first made love.

Wordless, his throat as dry as sand, Lance scooped Sara up in
his arms and carried her behind a granary, far from Relena and the sight and
smell of blood. He flattened his back against the wall and slid down so that
Sara sat on his lap. Tenderly, he brushed a wayward brown curl behind her ear.
“Better?” he asked after a moment.

She nodded, resting her head against his chest.

Love swelled in his heart, so strong it threatened to choke
him.

“Did you hear what Relena said? That you may be pregnant?” he
asked gently.

“Yes.” Her voice was calm.

“Since you lost your soul, have you had your menses?” he asked,
but he knew the answer already. That first awful month without a soul, she
wouldn’t have bothered to clean herself or her underwear. He would have
seen.

“No,” she confirmed.

It was really true. She carried his child. Terror and joy
fought for dominanace in a giddy whirl. Joy won.

He kissed the top of her head, but kept his voice
matter-of-fact. “Have you had any other symptoms? Nausea? Tender breasts?”

“No.”

He spread his hand on her abdomen, finding a small bump. “Any
flutterings from the baby moving?” Though it was still early for that.

A faint frown creased her forehead. “I haven’t noticed any.
Does that mean I’m not pregnant?”

“No, the lack of menses is pretty conclusive. Every woman’s
pregnancy is different. Some are nauseated all the time, some only in the
mornings, and some lucky few sail through with little or no sickness.” He took a
deep breath as she absorbed that. “How do you feel about being pregnant?”

“I don’t know,” she said after another pause.

Uncertainty was better than feeling nothing, Lance told
himself.

“How do you feel about my pregnancy?” Sara asked, turning her
head to look up at him. Another question she wouldn’t have asked three weeks
ago.

“Awed,” Lance said softly. “Happy.” A foolish grin curved his
lips.

On the other side of the granary Fitch began to exhort the
slaves to throw down their chains and join his cause. Lance barely heard him,
entranced by the vision in his mind of a tiny sleeping baby, bundled in a
blanket.

“If you’re happy, then I am...pleased.”

A short laugh escaped him. “I’m going to be a father.”

Cadwallader had told his mother she would have grandchildren,
but Lance hadn’t dreamed one was already on the way.

Thinking about Cadwallader and the other ominous things he’d
predicted threatened to blight Lance’s joy. Something black loomed at the back
of his mind. He pushed it away. He would think about Cadwallader’s predictions
later. For now he would just be happy. He cuddled Sara closer, wishing they had
privacy. He felt an intense desire to strip her naked and examine her body for
changes.

But Sara was frowning again. “How do you know you are the
father and not Claudius?”

Sara
bent
over
Vez’s
stone
mouth
,
bleeding
from
his
knife
-
like
teeth
,
as
Claudius
rammed
into
her
from
behind
. Lance shook his head to dislodge the ugly
image. He kept his voice calm and deliberate. “It’s more likely the baby is
mine. We made love twice, and when Claudius raped you he didn’t give you his
seed.” Because Lance had torn him off of her. He only wished he could’ve
strangled the lordling.

Did she believe him? Her gaze was opaque.

“Sara, look at me.”

Her blue eyes fixed on his face.

“This is very important.
It
doesn’t
matter
if
Claudius
is
the
father
. I will love the child because it is your
child and I love you—and because babies are very loveable. Julen loves Meghan,
though he is not the father. Julen
is
Meghan’s
father now, and I will be your child’s father. Do you understand?” He squeezed
her hands for emphasis.

“Yes.”

Silently, he vowed not to let the babe’s possible heritage cast
a shadow on their family. Too many times he’d seen rifts occur between the
parents and the innocent child of rape. Sometimes the mother, poisoned by
memories; sometimes the father, always looking for signs the child wasn’t
his.

Ironically, the Republican lordlings responsible for the rapes
never had any trouble convincing themselves that the resulting children couldn’t
possibly be theirs. Lance would never understand how they could chain their own
flesh and blood.

* * *

“Lance!”

Looking up, Lance saw Edvard limping toward him.

“Have you seen Rhiain?” Edvard asked.

The words jolted Lance out of the pleasant daydream he’d been
having of Sara, him and a baby living in a snug little house. Guilt stabbed
Lance. He hadn’t given Rhiain one thought since the battle started; she was his
compatriot and deserved better. He gently set Sara aside and climbed to his
feet. “I haven’t seen her.”

“Fitch assigned her to help take the field north of the villa.
Willem says she chased after an overseer on a horse, but didn’t come back.”
Concern tightened Edvard’s face. “What if she’s hurt?”

“Then we’ll find her,” Lance said firmly. “But we know she
succeeded in running down the overseer, or we’d be knee-deep in legionnaires by
now.”

Some of the tension eased from Edvard’s neck and shoulders.

Lance was less reassured. “Let’s find out if anyone else has
seen her.” Rhiain would’ve reported straight to Fitch if she’d returned, so
Lance headed in that direction. He measured his pace so that Edvard wouldn’t
fall behind.

A pile of bodies with their throats neatly cut decorated the
columned entrance to the villa. A warning for those who would find them? Lance
steered Sara well clear, having spotted Fitch by the grain wagons talking to
several of his lieutenants.

Fitch scowled and stabbed a finger at him. “This is your fault.
I call for warriors and what do I get?” He swept out a hand, indicating the
ex-slaves running in and out of the villa, gathering up their meager
possessions. “Broken old men and women with babes in arms.”

Lance smiled in delight. “They’re all coming?”

“Every last one, except the Qiph slave,” Fitch confirmed
grimly. “That Relena woman convinced them any who stayed behind would be
punished.”

“Good.”

“Good? It’s going to take forever to move them, and they’re
going to eat up all my supplies. That grain was supposed to feed us for a
season.” He kicked a stone.

“Oh, really?” Lance folded his arms. “If the Republicans
haven’t sent for more Legions yet, they will after this. You won’t be around
next season to eat that grain—unless you change tactics.”

Fitch glared at him.

“It’s time to stop leading a doomed rebellion and found a
nation.” Lance leaned closer. “Nations need people.”

“I need warriors, not old men and girls.”

Lance rolled his eyes. “Rhiain’s a girl, and she’s a
warrior.”

“Rhiain is a racha,” Fitch said slowly, as if he were
explaining to someone stupid.

Lance shrugged. “A racha who was once a girl. Speaking of
Rhiain, has she returned? I’m worried about her.”

Fitch snorted. “Worry about her foes. She’s death on four
feet.”

Only
as
long
as
there
are
no
crossbowmen
. Seeing Edvard’s anxious expression,
Lance kept the words back. “She should be back by now. You need to send out
searchers.”

Fitch shrugged. “She’ll either return on her own, or we’ll know
she’s feasting in Nir’s halls tonight.”

Lance fumed. “If you won’t order men to search, then Edvard and
I will go alone.”

Fitch shot his hand out, and he grabbed Edvard by the shoulder.
“My brother isn’t going anywhere. And neither are you. You’re going to be too
busy.” He waved a hand at the slaves. “You’re the one who wants to save them
all, so you can take responsibility for them. Get them moving. We leave in a
quarter hour.”

“They’ll never be ready. You can’t just abandon them.”

Fitch bared his teeth. “Any who can keep up are welcome. The
rest are deadweight.” He ducked past Lance.

Lance hurried after him, vaguely aware of Sara and Edvard
following at his heels. “They’ll be slaughtered.”

“In all likelihood,” Fitch agreed. “But that falls on you.
You’re the one who encouraged them to put their masters to trial and kill them.”
He clapped Lance on the shoulder with false cheer.

“Wait. In half an hour’s time—” Lance bargained
desperately.

“They still won’t be ready,” Fitch finished. “It’s time to
leave. I can feel it like a heaviness gathering in the air. Every moment we
linger increases the chances of the Legion descending on us. A leader needs to
know when it’s time to strike, and when it’s time to retreat.”

A
leader
needs
to
take
responsibility
for
his
people
.

“Willem! Raven Claw! Cold Frost!” He bellowed, and his
lieutenants gathered. “We’re moving out. Retreat to the woods with your warbands
and find your way back separately. Willem, are the grain wagons ready?”

“Yes, but this heavily loaded we won’t be able to take them off
the road without risking a broken axle.”

Wagons were slow. “Let me bring the women and children with the
wagons.”

Willem shook his head. “They’ll be too noticeable. We’ll have
trouble enough getting the wagons through Tolium without being arrested.”

“Well?” Fitch asked mockingly. “Still want to stay behind and
save these wretches?”

Lance’s chin lifted. “Yes.” He couldn’t abandon Relena and the
others.

Surprise and some other, uglier, emotion crossed Fitch’s face.
“I’ve changed my mind. You’ll come with us. I can’t risk legionnaires torturing
the location of our camp from you.”

Bastard
. Lance started to sweat.
When was he going to learn not to butt heads with Fitch?

To his surprise Willem stepped forward, his face solemn. “I’ll
kill him myself if we’re caught, I so swear.” He held his fist to his chest.

Lance grabbed Sara’s elbow before she could reach for her
knife, and shook his head warningly. She subsided.

Fitch looked displeased, but nodded his head, accepting
Willem’s sworn word.

Fitch mounted his horse. In very little time, the rebels
streamed out the gate and began to melt into the forest.

Lance looked around at the remaining slaves, who were now
trusting him to save them, and felt overwhelmed. What had he done? He wasn’t a
leader. How was he going to pull this off?

“What’s Edvard doing?” Sara asked, pointing.

Lance saw that Edvard’s horse was lagging farther and farther
behind. Was the beast lame? But while he watched, the boy turned his horse onto
a different path. “He’s going to search for Rhiain.”

The boy’s chances of success weren’t high, but at least he was
trying. Lance just had to do the same.

Lance offered a quick prayer to Loma for Rhiain’s and Edvard’s
safety, then approached Willem. The older man shook his head when Lance asked if
some of the wagon drivers could be spared as guides, to lead the slaves through
the wood.

“No, I picked the drivers specifically because they can pass as
Temborians. It’s one thing for a Gotian to drive a wagon full of hay as we did
on the journey here. Free Gotians might own a small plot of land, but never
harvest this much grain. The riches belong to the Republicans.”

“Can you draw a map then?”

Willem shook his head again. “The forest is vast. And if you
send the slaves on their own they’ll get lost. They’ll wander around and either
die, or beg to be rechained when they stumble back out.”