Shadows Return Page 9

  There was no mistaking the look on the well-dressed man’s face; he’d found something he’d been looking for, and Alec was it. He spoke softly to the hooded man, who in turn motioned forward someone who’d been concealed behind the others.

  This one wore a veil over the lower part of his face, and Alec knew him at once for an Aurënfaie by his slighter build and light eyes. He wore a long, sleeveless tunic under his cloak and good leather shoes. A golden torque glimmered at his throat.

  The hooded man and the man in the black coat spoke quietly with him in Plenimaran. The veiled man turned to look down at Alec, nodding agreement to something the men said.

  “What’re ’ou ’ooking at?” Alec spat bitterly in Aurënfaie, his words slurred around the branks.

  The man in black said something to the ’faie, who then approached the bars and said in Aurënfaie, “My master bids you put your hand out through the bars. He won’t hurt you.”

  Master? So this ’faie was a slave, too.

  “Your masker can go fuck himsel’!” Despite the branks, he had made himself understood. Those eyes weren’t smiling now.

  “Softly, little brother. A bad temper won’t do you any good here. Come to the bars and put your hand through. You’re in no danger.”

  “’o ta the ’rows, ’rai’or!”

  “Please,” the ’faie implored softly, stealing a look back at his waiting master. “Obey now, or they’ll come in and force you. And that will hurt.”

  “He’s quite right,” the dark man told Alec, speaking Aurënfaie as fluently as he did Skalan. “And it will all end the same way, Alec of Ivywell. See? I know who you are. And I’ve been most eager to meet you. Now give me your left hand nicely, or those rough men in leather aprons will drag you out for me.”

  Defeated, Alec crawled awkwardly to the front of the cage and hesitantly extended his shackled hand out through the bars, half-expecting it to be cut off. The man grasped it and twisted the palm upwards, tracing the round, faded scar at its center with a thumbnail. Alec held still, watching as the man smiled to himself. It was almost as if he knew the history of that mark. Alec also noted that his fingers were stained with ink. Perhaps he was a wizard, after all or, worse yet, a necromancer.

  “Just a little poke,” the possible necromancer murmured, and before Alec could pull back he produced a thick needle from the folds of his robe and pricked the end of Alec’s forefinger deeply.

  Alec hissed at the pain and tried to pull back, but one of the servants reached in quickly and held him there while the master caught a large drop of Alec’s blood on his fingertip. They released him then, and Alec quickly pulled back out of reach. The nobleman rubbed the blood between thumb and forefinger and a small tongue of muddy red flame licked up for an instant, then disappeared.

  “’ecroman’er!” Alec hissed, his worst fears realized.

  The man wiped his soiled fingers with a spotless white handkerchief. “I’m nothing of the sort. And that’s good news for you, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  The wizard, or whatever he was, turned to speak to the hooded man in his own tongue. Alec knew the Plenimaran word for blood—ulimita—and heard it spoken several times. The noble seemed very pleased about something, and so did the hooded man. Though Alec could still see nothing of his face, he heard him say something softly in Plenimaran. There was something familiar about that voice. Before Alec could tell for sure, though, the hooded man turned and strode away. Whoever it was, he had the gait of an old man.

  The not-necromancer nodded to one of his companions and a weighty-looking purse changed hands with a slave dealer.

  Turning back to Alec, he said, “My name is Charis Yhakobin. I own you now, Alec, and you will call me Ilban, which means master in my language. To address me in any other fashion is disrespectful, and will be punished.”

  “Kish my ash!” Alec snarled as a new wave of panic threatened.

  “My tastes do not run in that direction, boy, and you will incur my great disfavor if you ever again suggest such a thing. You are a useful instrument to me. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

  At his order, one of the slave market men came with a bunch of keys and opened the cage. Alec cowered back, but it did no good. His new owner gave orders to a pair of muscular servants. They entered the cage and cut the ropes around his legs, then roughly hauled him up by the arms.

  “Come along, or my men will carry you out by force,” Yhakobin advised.

  Alec’s legs burned as the blood returned to limbs too long bound. Even so, the urge to fight or run was strong. Alec hated feeling so helpless, but the memory of one of Seregil’s early lessons came back, calming him a little.

  Pick your fights carefully, talí.

  So he feigned resignation, hanging his head as he shuffled out, but all the while surreptitiously glancing around for a way to run.

  “I think we can dispense with this, as well.” Yhakobin reached behind Alec’s head and released the branks, then lifted the apparatus from his head. “The slavers can’t tell the ’faie with power from those without. You’re no wizard.”

  “Then what do you want with me?”

  Without the slightest change of expression, Yhakobin struck him across the mouth so hard it snapped Alec’s head sideways.

  “Your first lesson, young Alec, is to address me with respect. Your second awaits outside. Cover him, Ahmol.”

  One of the older servants shook out a plain cloak and wrapped it around Alec, covering his bound hands.

  Yhakobin turned to leave and the larger servants took Alec firmly by the shoulders and steered him to follow. Alec kept his head down, peering around from behind the cover of his dirty, unbound hair, looking for Seregil as they passed more of the cages, but there was no sign of him.

  Night had fallen and the market crowd was even thicker. Even if he did manage to get loose, he was barefoot, weaponless, and practically naked. His fair skin and hair would be like a banner here, not to mention the fresh brands.

  Everywhere he looked, Alec saw people in the same miserable situation, caged, chained, on display, or being dragged along behind Zengati traders or Plenimaran masters. Most of the slaves appeared to be from the Three Lands, but he saw a few ’faie among them, branked and bound, their eyes vague.

  It was colder now, and the rounded street cobbles hurt his feet. Still unsteady, he tripped and would have fallen more than once if his guards hadn’t held him so tightly. He stubbed his toes painfully and was limping by the time they dragged him to the edge of another large square.

  “Here is a lesson every slave that comes through Riga is given.” Yhakobin pointed to a line of half-naked wretches chained by the neck along a stone wall. Each one had a placard around his or her neck, and most had a bloody, bandaged stump where a hand or foot or arm had been.

  “Slaves who run lose a foot.” He nodded at a bone-pale boy with no feet at all. “That one has run twice, as you can see. He’ll be hanged in a few days. Those who steal lose a finger or hand. I’m sure you can guess the rest.”

  He had his men lead Alec to a dispirited-looking woman chained near the end. She had all her limbs, but at Yhakobin’s sharp order she opened her mouth wide, showing Alec the blackened wound where her tongue had been cut out.

  “That is the penalty for speaking back to your master,” Yhakobin warned. “I do hope you’ll keep that in mind. I have no use for your tongue, and will happily have it out if it offends me again. Do you understand?”

  Alec swallowed hard against the fresh bile rising in his throat, then said as humbly as he could manage, “Yes, Ilban, I understand.”

  Whatever role you play, play it to the hilt, Seregil’s voice whispered in the back of his mind. Alec embraced all the fear and horror he’d been battling and let it show in his face.

  “Very good.” Yhakobin patted his shoulder. “Show me the proper respect, and you will find me a kind master.”

  They stopped next at what appeared to be a blacksmith’s shop. It was warmer inside,
at least. The smith greeted Alec’s owner with a respectful bow, then motioned for Alec to kneel beside an anvil at the center of the shop. When he pretended not to understand, he was compelled to obey with a few rough shoves and a kick to the back of his knees.

  Yhakobin took a thin, silvery-looking circlet from his robes and gave it to the smith. A collar, Alec realized, just as the golden torque the other slave wore must be a sign of his station.

  The silver collar had a gap in it, with pierced flanges on both ends. The smith bent it out wide enough to place it around Alec’s neck, then forced his head to the anvil. One of Yhakobin’s men held Alec down while the smith fitted a copper rivet through the holes, set the tip of a blunt chisel against it, and struck it a single sharp blow with his hammer, so hard it jolted Alec’s head against the iron.

  “Sit up.” Yhakobin slipped a finger under the collar and gave it a small tug. “Not too tight, is it? Have you nothing to say to me?”

  “It’s not too tight—Ilban,” Alec managed, hating the cold weight of the metal against his skin just as much as the fetters on his wrists.

  “The brands mark you as a slave, and every Plenimaran knows where to look. This collar marks you as my property, and it won’t come off as easily as it went on. Keep that in mind as you dart those sharp eyes of yours around, looking for your chance to run.”

  Alec colored guiltily and Yhakobin laughed. “You do have spirit, don’t you? Quite wasted on me, I’m afraid.”

  At his order the men marched Alec out to a waiting carriage. It was small, but well made, and decorated with inlay and polished woods. The glow of the brass lanterns set beside the driver’s bench shone on the glossy flanks of a pair of Silmai blacks harnessed to it. This Yhakobin must be a lord of considerable wealth.

  The liveried footman jumped down to open the door. Yhakobin climbed in and sat down on a seat covered in tufted red leather. Alec’s guards shoved him inside and he was made to kneel at his new master’s feet. The driver whipped up the horses and they set off through the darkness. Yhakobin took some papers from a pocket under the window and perused them, ignoring Alec as if he’d ceased to exist.

  Alec seized the opportunity to study Yhakobin more closely. Like the carriage, the man’s clothing and fine shoes spoke of wealth. Seregil had taught him to look beyond first impressions, however, and Yhakobin’s hands told another story. In addition to the ink stains, the man had a scattering of small white scars on the backs of his hands—the sort of marks common among smiths and chandlers. Or wizards, he added silently. He tried to remember what the necromancer’s hands had looked like, but his memories of them were vague now, overlaid by the torment he’d known in their grasp.

  “Where are we going…Ilban?” he ventured at last.

  Yhakobin didn’t even look up. “Home. Be quiet now.”

  Alec gritted his teeth and pondered jumping from the moving vehicle while Yhakobin wasn’t looking. But he was still manacled and at too much of a disadvantage. He wasn’t going to risk losing a foot this early in the game. Instead, he contented himself with staring out the window. His low vantage point cut off most of the useful view; he caught only the impression of tall buildings and narrow streets, then an orderly line of trees, interspersed with lamp poles, which suggested a park. After that there was little to see except the rising moon.

  The road grew bumpier and Alec was hard-pressed to keep his balance. One hard jolt threw him against Yhakobin’s knees. The man righted him and ruffled his hair, as if Alec were a hound.

  “What’s this?” He pushed the hair back from Alec’s left ear and examined the blue-stained dragon bite on the lobe.

  “Is it some sort of clan mark?”

  “It’s nothing, Ilban,” Alec lied. “Just decoration.”

  Yhakobin released his ear and went back to his reading.

  Alec twisted his wrists in the manacles, pressing the spanner bar between his wrists. I could strangle him and jump from the coach.

  And then what, aside from the broken bones and the lack of clothing? the Seregil in his mind asked wryly.

  Before he could come up with a better plan, the carriage took a sharp turn, and then slowed. Alec glimpsed an arched stone gate, then heard the crunch of gravel under the coach wheels. A moment later they came to a stop and the door flew open. Men dragged him out by the spanner bar and hustled him quickly across a walled courtyard and through a low door. From there he was rushed down a narrow servants’ stairway, to a long, dank, brick corridor. They took several turns as Alec looked around frantically, trying to make sense of where he was. The few doors they passed were closed. His guards halted in front of one that looked no different from any other and opened it to reveal a tiny, whitewashed room. One of them took the cloak, leaving him naked again.

  Someone spoke curtly behind him; Yhakobin had followed them down here.

  He took something from his pocket and palmed it before Alec could see what it was. But when he then touched each of the manacles, they cracked in half and fell to the floor, taking the wretched bar with them.

  “Thank you, Ilban.” Alec almost meant it this time.

  Yhakobin frowned at the raw skin on Alec’s wrists. “Those fools, risking infection for no reason.”

  At his order, the man called Ahmol produced a small pot of salve and rubbed it over the damaged skin.

  Yhakobin seemed satisfied. “There, that should heal well. In you go, now.”

  They shoved Alec into the room and slammed the heavy door behind him. He heard a bar fall into place and shuddered. Shut in, and helpless again.

  “Rest now,” Yhakobin called in to him. “I’ll have food brought down to you.” There was a pause, then he added sternly, “It is customary for a slave to thank his master, Alec.”

  That was too much. “I’m no slave, and you’ll never be my master!” Alec yelled, forgetting Seregil’s lessons and the sight of the slave with her tongue cut out as he slammed both fists against the door.

  It opened so fast he would have fallen into the corridor if one of the guards hadn’t caught him and locked an arm around his throat. The collar bit into his neck as he was jerked off his feet and shoved face-first against a rough stone wall. Yhakobin was close behind him now, breath warm on Alec’s cheek as he held up a short, thick riding crop.

  “I will be lenient this time, since you are new and we are not in public.” Stepping back, he struck Alec hard across the back. It hurt like hell, but didn’t break the skin. Nine more blows followed, then Alec was grabbed by the hair and thrown back into the cell. He came down hard on the stone floor, banging his right elbow painfully and scraping the bandaged burn on his arm. The pain drove him back to his feet. He faced the doorway, braced to fight.

  Yhakobin regarded him for a moment, then smiled. “Perhaps it’s a good thing, this strong spirit of yours, though it will not make your life here an easy one.”

  “It’s not my choice to be here, Ilban,” Alec snarled, shaking with anger.

  “No, but it is your fate.” With that, the door closed and the bar fell again.

  Alec listened as the footsteps faded away. The stripes on his back stung like fire, but the pain cleared his head. He was acting foolishly, fighting when there was no hope of winning, and antagonizing the man who held his life in his hands. Yhakobin could have just as easily had them tear out his tongue. For some reason he’d refrained, but it would be foolish to push the man.

  The cell was cold and dark. A tiny barred window set high in the wall across from the door let in a little torchlight—just enough to make out that the walls were smoothly plastered and whitewashed, and the floor was paved with bricks set in mortar.

  As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he saw a pallet bed piled with folded quilts over in the far corner. A long robe had been laid out for him, too. He pulled it on, surprised at how soft and clean it was. The wool gave off a faint scent of lavender and cedar, as if it had been stored in a proper clothes chest. The plain quilts smelled like fresh air and sunlight. The
pallet, too, was a thick, well-aired feather tick.

  It was a relief to be dressed again. He wrapped himself in one of the quilts and circled the room, looking for anything he could use to his advantage. The walls were solid and gave back the dull report of stonework under his knuckles. The door was hinged on the outside, and there was no lock to pick, even if he’d had something to work with. Stymied for the moment, he sat down on the pallet with his sore back against the cold wall, and pulled more quilts over himself.

  “I’m alive,” he whispered, shivering from the pain now and feeling a little sick. “He’s alive, too, and we’re both on dry land again. We will find each other.”

  All he had to do was bide his time and keep himself in one piece. Sooner or later, an opportunity would present itself.

  CHAPTER 12

  Bargains in Flesh

  CHARIS YHAKOBIN WAS not a man who took any particular pleasure in disciplining his slaves. He usually left that to someone else, but this young Alec was quite a special case, and he’d already decided that no one else was going to lay a hand on him.

  He climbed the stairs to the main level of the villa and crossed the central courtyard to find the Virésse khirnari waiting for him at a small wine table by the fountain pool. Ulan í Sathil was still wrapped in his cloak against the evening chill, with the hood thrown back. His white hair glimmered in the torchlight.

  “You are satisfied with our bargain, Charis?” the khirnari asked in that cold, level voice of his.

  “Most satisfied, though it’s a pity the boy is a half-blood.”

  “But you can still make use of him?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “And the other one?”

  “You don’t use his name, I notice. I haven’t heard you speak of him directly once.”

  “He has no name. He is an outcast, and no concern of mine. I trust he will be dealt with appropriately?”