The Bonemender's Choice (11 page)

He did it! The thought was a shout of triumph in Matthieu’s head, a lightning bolt of excitement. But Luc hadn’t made twenty paces before three pirates sprinted after him. They ran him down like a rabbit, and though he twisted and turned to escape their grasp, at the end he was sent sprawling into the hard-packed earth. Matthieu’s heart sank as Luc’s guard, recovered now, made his way down the slope to where Luc lay pinned. The man stood, expressionless, as Luc hoisted up to his knees and started to his feet. Then his heavy booted foot swung back.

Matthieu heard Madeleine cry out behind him as the boot caught Luc under his ribs and lifted him into the air. A moment later he was slung between two pirates and hauled back to the road. He looks like a fish, thought Matthieu, the image absurd and horrifying at once. Luc’s mouth gaped in a fruitless attempt to suck air as the guards shouldered him back into place. Finally,
when it seemed to Matthieu his friend must breathe or suffocate, Luc lifted his head and Matthieu heard the long gasping rush as his wind returned.

Matthieu raised his eyes once more to the tall enclosure now looming and the thick red walls of the fortress beyond. He had been stupid to imagine such a place had anything to do with heroes and adventures and old tales. It was a prison, nothing more.

D
OMINIC GRIPPED THE
handrail and stared across the wide bay to the dark blurry jumble that was Baskir. Could the wretched ship go no faster? The town crept into focus more slowly than his frayed nerves could stand. His children could be on the auction block even now, sold out from under his very nose, while the ship dawdled into port.

It was a large town with an extensive harbor—he could see that now. It sat nestled into gentle green banks, but Dominic could see to the south the low bare mountains that marked the beginning of the dry upland plateau known as the badlands. This town, Yolenka had told him, marked the unproclaimed border where the rule of law lost its hold completely and the warlords held sway. The slave auction was just one of the illegal activities that thrived in Baskir, and its overlord, Grindor, was smart enough to ensure that wealthy visitors from the northern settlements were left to do their business in safety. “Many rich families in the north, even in the Emperor’s own city, have slaves,” Yolenka had told them with obvious disgust. “They say, ‘Oh, is my young servant, is daughter of my maid,’ and everyone knows what is truth but they say nothing. And the warlords fill their pockets and grow strong with the gold of these people.”

They were closer now—the network of wharves reaching far out into the water, though with fewer ships at berth than Dominic would expect from so much docking space. His stomach clenched in a roil of doubt. This was not his style, sneaking around, adopting false roles and an innocent facade. Who on earth would believe he was married to a Tarzine dancer? He clung to the hope that they would be able to make a straightforward raid on the slave house without need for such playacting.

Black banners flew at the end of each pier and from the higher buildings along the shorefront. That certainly seemed at odds with Yolenka’s taste for color. He tapped her shoulder, pointing them out.

“What do the flags represent, Yolenka? Are they the city’s standard, or do they proclaim a warlord’s territory?”

Yolenka squinted into the wind. Dominic had been around her enough now to recognize the curse that escaped her. She turned to him, her face stricken. But her reply was drowned out by a loud cry from one of the sailors. He was pointing to shore, yelling the same Tarzine word over and over. Soon all the men around them took up the refrain.

“What is it, Yolenka?”

They all clustered around her now, anxious to understand, but the din of the sailors made it impossible to hear until Derkh pointed to the hatch and led them to the relative quiet of the belowdecks.

“Is warning to stay away.” Yolenka shook her head, words for once eluding her.

“Is...sign of sickness, bad sickness that goes all through city. Is danger sign.”

“Plague?” asked Gabrielle sharply. “Some sort of plague?” There had been no plague in the Basin during her lifetime, but she had heard of the terrible illnesses that could spread over a land, leaving behind more dead than could be decently buried.

Yolenka shrugged. “I not know this word, plague. Is sickness that goes fast from one to other person, goes everywhere. They are closing city to keep it inside.”

O
NLY WHEN THE
ship was turned around and heading back out to sea would the captain sit down to discuss a new plan. Braving the plague flags and entering Baskir was not an option he would entertain.

“The children may not be there, in any case,” suggested Féolan. “Not if the banners were up when Turga arrived.”

“The captain say we had fast crossing,” added Yolenka. “We are not more than two days behind.”

“So if Turga sailed here and saw the banners, what would he do?” asked Dominic.

“Go to his stronghold and wait where is safe,” said Yolenka. “Wait till slave market opens.”

“But we can’t sail to—what is it called? Rath Turga? The captain said so.”

The captain bent over his map, jabbed with a brown weathered finger. Yolenka nodded.

“If it is open, no sickness, we can land here,” she translated. “Niz Hana. Is small harbor, only a few deep...ah...tie-up places. Hire cart, mule, travel to Rath Turga by road, is not so far. Captain waits with ship.”

“How long?” asked Derkh.

The captain considered. “Seven days should be enough,” Yolenka translated. “He waits ten. But if black flags go up in Niz Hana, he leaves and we are left.”

“
M
ATTHIEU, MADELEINE...I’M SORRY.”

Madeleine looked across the cell to where Luc sat hunched on his iron bedstead, elbows on knees. He was scraped and scuffed everywhere, blood drying on his chin and palms and forearms. She winced at the thought of the bruise that must be spreading under his shirt and hoped no bones had been broken.

“Sorry for what?”

Luc glanced up through his rough fringe of hair, then away. “I said we’d all go together. But the sight of this building...And then I saw a chance—and I just kind of panicked and ran.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I should have stuck with you.”

“Luc, listen.” Madeleine looked at Luc, but her message was even more for Matthieu. She knew now what she wanted to say about the notion of escape.

“There was no chance for us to all get away at once. There probably never will be. And there wasn’t really a chance for you, either.”

“There was. My legs were just weak from bein’ cooped up for so long. Otherwise, I could’ve outrun ‘em.”

Madeleine shook her head impatiently. “Even if you did. Then what? Where would you go?”

Luc shrugged. “Down the coast. I know how to fish. I’d find some guy who could use a hand.”

He had some kind of plan, at least. “It’s a good idea,” Madeleine conceded. “But without a word of Tarzine, you couldn’t even speak to anyone, or get any sense of whether they were inclined to take you in or take you back.”

Luc glared at her. “What do you suggest then? Just give up?”

“No! But bide your time.” Madeleine gestured to their leg chains. “Wherever we end up, it won’t be as guarded as this. They’ll have to let you out to work. Work hard, do what you’re told, let your master relax and start to trust you. Learn the language and how things work here.
Then
when a chance comes along, you’ll be ready.”

Luc set his face and said nothing, but Matthieu was nodding in agreement. “If I get away, I’ll come look for you. Both of you.”

“No, Matthieu.” This part was hard to say. Madeleine took a deep breath and plunged on. “If you get away, I want you to get home. Maybe father could pay a Tarzine merchant to search for us and buy us back. But if you try, you’re too likely to be recaptured. Don’t do it.”

Could she really follow her own advice, Madeleine wondered—escape and leave Matthieu behind? It was unthinkable. But then, so was nearly everything about her life now.

G
OLD IN THE PALM
of the harbormaster of Niz Hana for the privilege of making berth. More gold for their safe passage through town and for directions to a carter who could supply
them with travel gear. A ridiculous amount of gold for the brightly painted tented wagon Yolenka pronounced “perfect” and the mule (plus feed) to pull it. Dominic understood now why she had insisted they come laden with wealth. He shifted his weight on the hard platform that was the driver’s seat, trying to fit himself into the depression worn into the wood by some previous owner. He flicked the long reins impatiently (and without effect) over the plodding mule, and wondered yet again if this elaborate charade was not just foolishness.

“Shouldn’t we have horses?” Derkh had protested. “We can hardly make a getaway with one mule.”

He had voiced Dominic’s thoughts precisely, but Yolenka shook her head in adamant insistence.

“Some traders, yes, are rich enough for wagons and horses both. Top craftsmen, demanded by kings. Men with names. Not little traveling bands like this. No one will believe.”

She noted Dominic’s troubled frown.

“You have army, then yes, ride down on Turga and fight. Maybe you win where others fail. No army? Then you need way to get inside. Worry about ‘getaway’ after.”

“Dom.”

Gabrielle’s hand rested light on his arm, joggling in the same mule-cart rhythm that rocked his body. Her green eyes held his in that direct warm gaze that seemed to look right into his soul.

“You made the right decision.”

Her offer to ride up front with him had been more than casual, Dominic realized. Gabrielle had played little part in their preparations so far, but Dom was suddenly very glad to
have her along. Just her quiet presence renewed his hope and courage. She smiled at him now.

“Sneaking around in disguise goes against your grain, I know. But this is Yolenka’s country, and you are right to put your trust in her knowledge. We’ll find a way to get out again.”

T
HE BOYS LOOKED SO DIFFERENT
with their hair cut short, thought Madeleine. Luc seemed older, the lean firm planes of his face more prominent. Matthieu, though—the close crop exposed all his childish roundness, the brown trusting eyes and soft cheeks. She could look at him now and see him at five, a chubby charming pest, and the memory brought the sting of tears to her eyes.

“How come they left your hair long?” Matthieu was rubbing his hand back and forth over the dark carpet on his head, fascinated with its bristly softness.

Madeleine knew why. Because exotic foreign princess slaves sell better with long red-blond curls, that was why. She also knew why she and Luc had been chained by the ankle to their heavy iron bedsteads, on opposite sides of the room so that at the full length of the chain they could touch hands, but no more. Because exotic foreign princess slaves sell better when no other man has touched them. Still, for now they were better off than on the ship, and for that she was grateful.

The room, with only a narrow slit of a window, a single lamp and a solid wood door, was every bit as dark as the hold of the ship had been. And it was hot. But it was dry and clean and, blessedly, so were they.

Matthieu had looked so scared when, only a short while after they had climbed the narrow stone stairs to their cell, guards had come and taken him and Luc away. This is it, Madeleine had thought, her heart a frozen stone in her chest. The last I will ever see him.

Then she had been taken as well, by two silent armed women, to an outdoor enclosure where her clothes were stripped off her and tossed onto a fire and she was scrubbed from head to foot with a stinging pungent soap that made her pale skin bloom into red blotches. And her hair—no wonder the boys’ hair had been cut! After coating her head in a thick oily concoction that reeked of herbs and lamp oil, it had taken the women most of the afternoon to comb, with painstaking thoroughness, the bugs and nits out of each strand of hair and finally to wash out the greasy mess. When at last she was brought back, Matthieu had hurtled into her arms. Madeleine understood what he didn’t say: He had thought she was gone for good.

“Why did they bother to clean us up like this?” Madeleine was changing the subject, but she truly wondered. The long tunics they had been given were rough but clean, and so were the thin pallets on their bedsteads. Her skin and scalp felt almost sunburned from its harsh treatment, but already the fierce constant itching of wrists and ankles and neck she had endured on the ship was subsiding.

Luc shrugged. “Lots of those pirates were out there getting cleaned up too. They didn’t burn their clothes, but they dumped ‘em all into big vats of boiling water, and they scrubbed ‘emselves raw just like us. Maybe Turga doesn’t like bedbugs in his house.”

A heavy tread and the sound of a key opening the door’s padlock interrupted them. As the door was pulled back, a thick aroma wafted into the room. Meat and spices—something sharp that licked at the nostrils—and a sweet fruity...Madeleine’s mouth filled with saliva and her stomach cramped sharply. She knew she must have the same hawklike intensity on her own face that she saw on Luc’s and Matthieu’s as they stared at the large tray carried in by yet another stranger. They barely noticed him leaving as they clustered around it.

“What is this stuff?” asked Luc. It didn’t look like anything from home; that was certain. Fist-sized packets of something wrapped in steamed leaves of some kind, heaps of a tiny bright-yellow grain, shriveled orange-red chunks that Madeleine hoped were dried fruit, greens so dark they were almost black.

Matthieu bent over the tray and took a deep fervent sniff. “It’s food, Luc. Real food that a person would actually want to eat.”

There was very little talk after that. They fell on their dinner, and until it was gone Madeleine did not think once about slave auctions or home or the chain on her ankle. She just ate.

B
REAKFAST WAS NOT
so sumptuous, but it was wholesome and plentiful: bread and fruit and a bowl of creamy-looking stuff that was too tart for pudding, too liquid for cheese and too cold for soup. They debated over this for some time until Matthieu solved the problem by scooping a generous layer onto his bread and wolfing it down. It was good that way, they agreed—odd, but good.