The Seven-Petaled Shield (19 page)

*   *   *

Zevaron sensed the change in the air as he neared the harbor the following morning. Sea birds swooped overhead, and the breeze carried a salt tang. Underneath it, he caught the bitter taste of ashes. He passed the warehouse district, where he had seen wooden structures ablaze two nights before. As he came into view of the water, he saw that the damage here had not been as extensive as he’d feared, given the size of the fire. A single row of buildings had taken the
brunt. Their northern sides were gone, leaving blackened beams. He could not determine the condition of the piers and ships.

The smells of pitch and smoke combined with those of rotting fish and seaweed. The docks seethed with activity, far better organized than Zevaron expected so soon after the invasion and the fires. Isarran laborers passed through with carts of coiled ropes and bales of canvas, huge timbers, barrels, and oiled baskets. Gelonian guards questioned anyone entering the area.

Zevaron found a corner to slouch in, listening and watching. Workmen passed, as well as sailors. They spoke in a polyglot of tongues, phrases here and there in Gelone, in Isarran, even a version of the trade-dialect used in the steppes of Azkhantia. Hope rose in him, for his outland accent and poor command of Isarran might well pass without notice. Heartened, he moved closer to the piers.

The sea smell changed, no longer unpleasant but invigorating. The sound of the water as it surged against the pilings resonated through his bones.

The ships drew his gaze, some barely more than dugouts lashed together, others sleek and brightly painted, their furled sails of plain gray canvas or striped red and black. The thought came to him that he could be happy out there, lost in wave and sky, but he set it aside. He was Meklavaran-bred, a creature of rock, of mountains and ancient lore, trained since childhood to be the loyal shield of his brother. All that had changed when Ar-Cinath-Gelon sent his armies across the Sea of Desolation. Meklavar would never be the same, any more than Gatacinne would be the same. Zevaron shivered in the sudden realization that he might never see home again.

He spotted a warehouse guarded by two armed Gelon. One stood beside the door while the other watched over the approach. Although damaged by the fire, it looked sturdy enough but windowless. As the day heated up, the place would turn into an oven. There was only one door visible.

Zevaron watched while several Isarrans, fairly well-dressed, attempted to approach and were turned away. It seemed he was not the only one trying to discover the fate of a relative.

He nodded to one of the sailors, Isarran by his clothing, who was hurrying toward the ships. The man maneuvered a handcart that creaked under the weight of an enormous cask.

“A fair day to you, friend,” Zevaron said in trade-dialect, trying to sound casual.

“Fair skies, but no fair day,” the other responded, resting for a moment. Zevaron had never seen a man with skin so leathery, his eyes bright chips among the scars and pleats.

“I seek news—” Zevaron began.

“You and half the city. The bunch inside is bound for the
Wave Dancer
, that’s to sail tomorrow. Come back in the morning and say your farewells then.”

“Is there a woman, dark like me, foreign accent?”

“Nay, lad. But the
Silver Gull
, she set off yesterday. Marsus there, he helped load supplies, for the Gelon what commanded her were in a terrible hurry, as well he should be, bringing news of what they done here.” The sailor turned his head and spat. “May every coin they took bring them a hundred year of curses.”

Zevaron muttered agreement.

“Don’t let them hear you say it, lad,” the sailor said. “Keep your head down and your thoughts to the seas, that’s the way.” His narrowed eyes turned to the horizon of blue-gray water stretching north from the jumbled, half-burned pier. “There’s things out there that even Gelon cannot stand against, and not all of them are men.”

Zevaron supposed he meant the force of the sea, the storms and waves that might drown friend and enemy, good men and bad, without discrimination.

The man wheeled his cart past the Gelon at the base of the pier, who stopped him and inspected the cask. Zevaron turned away, lest he appear overly interested in the
Wave Dancer
. If Tsorreh were not among the palace captives and
not here, then where was she? The sailor could be mistaken, after all. He might be going on rumor and hearsay. There was another possibility: she might have already sailed on the
Silver Gull.

Marsus, who had helped load supplies on that ship, which one was he? A couple of discreet questions resulted in a sympathetic onlooker pointing out the laborer. Marsus had neither the aspect nor the coloring of an Isarran, although his skin was so weathered and seamed, and his sparse hair so streaked with white, that it was hard to tell where he might have come from. Thin and stooped, he sagged under the load of two huge coiled ropes. Zevaron greeted him politely in trade-dialect, and was surprised when the man answered in pure Meklavaran.

“Is it true that Meklavar has fallen to the Ar-King?” Marsus asked.

“Though it breaks my heart to say so, it is indeed true.” Zevaron kept his voice low. “I was there myself. I watched the King’s Gates burn.”

“Aye! That I should live to hear such a thing!” The old man rolled his eyes. “Come, we cannot stand here, or the jackals will get suspicious. Take this rope and walk with me.”

Zevaron hoisted one of the rope coils over one shoulder. It was far heavier than it appeared. He did not have to pretend to trudge along under its weight. “What is a man of Meklavar doing here in Gatacinne?” he asked between breaths.

“I should as soon ask you, for you have not the look of a wanderer.”

“My mother and I fled here after the Gelon took Meklavar.”

Marsus whistled under his breath and glanced at Zevaron out of the corner of his eye. “So that was her.”

“You have seen her? Here in port? On the
Silver Gull
?” Zevaron dropped the rope. The way was narrow, and he jostled a pair of sailors struggling to carry a tangle of netting in the opposite direction.

Zevaron resumed his burden, and soon they came out onto the pier, alongside a large ship and well past the Gelonian guards. “Please,” he said, his voice suddenly choking. “Please, tell me.”

“What’s that gabble?” came a raucous shout from the deck of the ship. The words were a choppy mixture of Isarran and badly accented Gelone. “Marsus, you lazy oaf! Can’t even carry your own load but must trick some half-grown boy? You there, gutter-rat!”

Zevaron looked up to see a hugely muscled giant of a man, dressed in outlandish colors, standing at the ship’s railing. “We were just—”

“Off with you! Work to be done! No time for talk!”

Marsus reached out for Zevaron’s rope. As it was passed it to him, he said, “Yesterday, the
Silver Gull
. Remember my name. Marsaneth.”

Zevaron stared at the old man’s retreating back. With the big sailor staring down at him, he dared not follow. The deck crawled with men. Some were obviously seamen, but others appeared to be shore laborers. He stepped closer, into the sailor’s glare.

“I want a job.”

“Get away!”

Zevaron took a breath. “I’ll work for my passage—carrying, hauling, scrubbing. Anything you say!”

“Row like slave?” The sailor’s mouth curved in a cruel line.

“If that’s the work to be done,” Zevaron insisted. “I must get to Gelon.”

“Ha! We have crew enough, too many! Bring money, I take you as passenger.”

Zevaron was about to continue bargaining when he glimpsed a Gelonian soldier heading their way, perhaps alerted by their conversation. He ducked his head in what he hoped was a properly naval gesture and hurried away.

Money? Where can I get money?
He had no coins or anything to sell…or did he?

Scarcely daring to pause long enough to think, lest the
audacity of what he was doing overwhelm him, Zevaron searched out the alley where he’d spent the night. The sword was still where he had left it. Now, in daylight, it did not look at all valuable, with its dried blood and nicked edge. He should have cleaned the blade better to prevent the blood from etching pits into the metal. Still, it must be worth something. These sailors might want weapons to use against pirates.

Trying to stay out of sight, he made his way to the poorest, most disreputable tavern he could find. He hoped it was the sort of place where a sword with obvious recent use and in none too good condition could be sold without questions. The room inside was dim and rank-smelling, with a row of ill-patched tables, one of which bore a line of pottery jugs and trays of coarse bread, dried figs, and olives. Flies buzzed around the food and the unwashed wooden bowls.

Zevaron slid onto one of the benches, rested the sword against his good leg, and tried to look calm as he surveyed the handful of men. All he had to do was display his wares and let them come to him. He wouldn’t take the first offer. He’d just sit here until he got a sense of how much they would pay.

One of the drinkers, a thick-bodied, grizzled man who had been sitting at the far end of the bench, glanced pointedly at the sword and then at Zevaron’s face. He heaved his bulk to his feet and began to walk toward the back.

Before Zevaron could follow, the door burst open and a handful of Gelonian soldiers rushed in. Swords drawn, they fanned out, pushing the tavern customers against the rough walls.

Zevaron grabbed the sword and leapt to his feet. A Gelon lunged for him, attacking with his own blade. Zevaron took a step backward, lost his balance, and came up flat against the wall. In a split instant, the Gelon parried, sending Zevaron’s sword spinning free, and jabbed the tip of his sword against Zevaron’s throat.

“What have we here?” A Gelon in the plumed helmet of an officer stepped into the middle of the room. A sword
hung from his belt. He carried a short whip of the sort used on cattle.

“What do you want with us?” The bartender’s voice quavered so badly, his Gelone was almost incomprehensible. “We’ve done nothing!”

“This,” the Gelon picked up Zevaron’s sword, “is not
nothing!
I see a nest of criminals.”

“No! No! We are innocent men, quietly drinking!” the tavern host protested. “I know nothing of this, I tell you! Nothing!” The Gelon who held a sword to his belly shoved harder. The man squeaked, gulped hard, and swallowed any further protest.

“As I was saying,” the Gelonian officer went on, “in the interests of peace and order in this city, we cannot allow such dangerous men to roam the streets. That one—” He pointed. “That one and, oh yes,” he said, voice turning silky, “the boy with the sword. We can’t very well have
him
roaming around, threatening innocent civilians. Bring them!”

The next moment, Zevaron was spun around, his wrists bound in front of him in rings of rough iron, and shoved out through the door. The brightness of the day stung his eyes. A central chain linked him to a dozen or so men. Some had freshly bleeding wounds or swollen lips. When he stumbled, one of the Gelon cuffed him on the back of the head, almost sending him to the ground. The shackles on his wrists pulled him up.

The officer emerged from the tavern. “Get them on board. And you prisoners! A word of advice, which is the last anyone will give you. Pray if it comforts you, but abandon all thought of ever seeing your families again. You are no longer free men. You are the property of Ar-Cinath-Gelon, the Scourge of Isarre and Protector of the One True Land, may-his-power-ever-increase, to do with as he wills. And what he wills is that you spend the rest of your miserable lives rowing his ships back to Gelon. Your lives can be short and painful, or shorter and filled with agony beyond your wildest nightmares. The choice is up to you. Or rather, up to me!”

The sound of the officer’s laughter rang in Zevaron’s ears. Let the fool boast, he told himself, if it would mean passage to Gelon. He could keep his head down, do as he was told, and work as hard as anyone. Once he was in Gelon, he would find a way to escape. His Gelone was good and—

“Stop!” the officer shouted, and the train of prisoners came to a shambling halt. “That one—the boy with the sword and the smirk on his face. As an introduction to your new lives, I will now provide you with a lesson.”

One of the guards jerked on Zevaron’s manacles, dragging him forward. The officer took up a position in front of him, tapping his shoulder with the coiled lash. Zevaron forced himself to stand still. He kept his eyes downcast and his expression bland. After all, the Gelon could not read his thoughts.

Thwack!

The Gelonian officer brought the lash across Zevaron’s face. Shock took his breath away. Parallel lines of fire seared his cheeks. He hunched over and tried to cover his head.

Slash-thwack!

Backhanded, the lash struck again, this time striking Zevaron’s arms and shoulders. How could this be happening? He’d offered no resistance—maybe they thought he was someone else.

Thwack! Thwack!

He felt the individual strips of knotted leather as they rained down on his back. His shirt afforded him little protection.

“S-stop!” he gasped. “This isn’t f-f-fair! I’ve done nothing!”

“Silence!”

Zevaron tried to twist away, but the officer kicked his legs out from under him and kept hitting him, over and over again. Within a few moments, his back and shoulders had turned into a tangle of criss-crossed welts.

“The first law—”

Thwack!
The blows fell and fell, too fast and heavy to
count. More cuts lacerated his buttocks and the backs of his thighs, but the main force was directed at his back. The Gelon struck with such a vicious frenzy, it was as if he were hitting every slave who’d ever been insolent, every person who’d ever offended him.

“—of the slave—”

Thwack!

“—is that I will do whatever I wish—”

Thwack!

“—whenever I wish—”

The hiss and slap of the lash filled Zevaron’s ears. Tears spilled down his cheeks. He tried to scream, but he couldn’t draw a breath.