She also noticed the slaves working in the fields. She felt slightly discomforted whenever she saw them. Too many years in Elyne had taught her an aversion to slavery, yet she could also remember adoring the slaves who had looked after and indulged her as a child.
I’m sure life is a lot better for a house slave than a field slave, she told herself. But as Mother said, “slavery is slavery’. She had hated it, and Stara knew it was part of the reason her parents had parted and her mother had returned to Elyne.
There were other reasons, Stara knew. Some she had been told, some she had worked out herself. Her mother had run away from her family in order to marry the man she loved, then discovered that he was a different person at home from the one he’d been in Elyne. He needed to be, she had explained to Stara. You have to be tough and cruel to survive Sachakan politics and make slaves obey you. Yet she couldn’t bear to see the effect it had on him. Eventually he had allowed her to return to Elyne. A harder man would have made her stay, she had admitted. Or kept both of their children.
The man who visited them every year had always been the same: loving and generous. Stara had watched him carefully, looking for some hidden monster, but never saw it.
Perhaps because he never had to whip a slave when he was in Elyne.
Her brother, Ikaro, had visited Elyne a few times. Younger than Stara by three years, he had always been reserved to the point of being rude. She had admitted to her mother years before that she was jealous of him for being the one who stayed behind, but also felt sorry for him for growing up without his mother. But when she had expressed the latter to him during one visit, he’d sneeringly told her it didn’t matter as much for a man to grow up without women around, as they weren’t as important as men.
She lost a lot of respect for him that day. The expectation that he would feel the same way about her as he did about other women, especially in regard to her value in the trade, soured the anticipation and excitement of finally reaching her destination. But she was determined not to let him spoil her new life.
The fields between the mansions on either side had been shrinking, and now they disappeared entirely, to be replaced by unending walls broken by the occasional broad alleyway. The wagoners’ cheerful whistling had stopped and their expressions were alert and unsmiling. Slaves hurried back and forth along the road, their eyes downcast. The only light now came from the wagoners’ lamps and those carried by slaves, or the glow of hidden light sources on the other sides of the walls. Stara felt both excitement and disappointment as she realised they had entered the city, and it wasn’t anything like she’d expected. Unlike Capia, Elyne’s capital, the buildings didn’t spread themselves around a great harbour in a glittering display. Instead they hid behind walls in an unending, secretive sprawl.
The wagon slowed as they approached a large wooden gate and Stara’s heart skipped a beat as she realised this must be her father’s mansion. The vehicle stopped and the head wagoner called out. No answer came, but there was a clunk, and then the gates began to swing open, revealing a wide paved courtyard lit by several lamps. The walls around her were white, broken only by doors and the ends of dark wooden beams. Stara’s heart was beating fast. As the wagon moved inside her eyes searched the courtyard for her father, but all the people she saw were strangers.
When the vehicle stopped they threw themselves to the ground. Looking around, she realised that all their heads bowed toward her, and all their feet pointed away, so that bodies radiated away from her in all directions.
Slaves, she thought. Do they always do this? What should I do now? She looked towards the house. No familiar paternal figure appeared. Sagging back in her seat, feeling a little confused and disappointed, she waited to see what would happen next.
“Nobody is going to tell you what to do, mistress,” a voice murmured close by. She glanced down to see a wagoner leaning up against the vehicle, his attention apparently elsewhere. “You give the orders now.”
Understanding came in a rush. Nobody was going to tell her where her father was unless she asked. Nobody would even get up. In Elyne a woman was supposed to wait until she was met by her host – or a senior servant at the least – before alighting from a wagon. This was not Elyne. Here she was not a guest, but part of the family that ruled the estate.
“Go back to what you were doing,” she called out.
The slaves slowly rose from the ground and resumed their tasks, but with a deliberate caution. She noticed that one, a man in a red cap, was ordering some of them about. Rising, she climbed down off the wagon with as much dignity as she could manage. She turned to the man in the red cap.
“I wish to see my father, if he is at home.”
He bowed, this time bending at the waist, then gestured to a shirtless slave standing near the doorway.
“Your wish can be fulfilled, mistress. Follow this man and he will take you to Ashaki Sokara.”
As she followed the slave into the interior she breathed deeply. A familiar scent hung in the air, but she could not identify it. The slave’s thin silhouette led her down a narrow corridor coated in the same white render as the exterior. They emerged into a large room. Stara recognised the floor plan. This room was the centre of the house: the “master room’, where her father met, entertained and fed guests. Doorways led from it to other parts of the house. Her mother’s home followed the same design, as did other Sachakan-built houses in Elyne.
She took all this in with one glance, because a man sat on a large wooden chair in the centre of the room. Recognising him, she felt her heart leap with joy.
“Father,” she said.
“Stara.” He smiled and beckoned.
Walking across the room, she was disappointed when he didn’t rise to greet her. She hesitated, unsure what to do next.
“Sit,” he suggested, indicating a smaller chair next to his.
Taking it, she sighed with appropriate and not entirely faked appreciation. “Ah. You’d think after sitting down all day I wouldn’t want to even look at a chair.”
“Travelling is tiring,” he agreed. “How was the journey? Did my men treat you well?”
“Interesting, and yes,” she replied.
“Are you hungry?”
“A little.” In truth, she was ravenous.
He made a small gesture and a gong on the other side of the room chimed. A moment later a slave ran into the room and threw himself on the floor.
“Bring food for mistress Stara.”
The slave leapt to his feet and hurried away. Stara stared at the doorway he had vanished through. His arrival and departing had been so dramatically performed that Stara could not help finding it comical. She had to suppress the urge to laugh.
“You will grow used to the slaves,” her father told her. “Eventually you forget they are there.”
She looked at him and bit her lip. I don’t want to get so used to them I forget they’re there, she thought. The next step might be forgetting that they’re people.
The conversation turned to her mother. She told him of the latest deals and of new customers, as well as an idea her mother was considering: developing a trade in sail dyeing.
“Sailcloth has always been undyed, but if we can suggest the benefits of dyed cloth to the right people, and the idea becomes popular, we might open up a whole new market.” She grinned. “That was my idea. I was watching some children playing with toy boats, and—”
Annoyingly, slaves chose that moment to enter the room with food. She had hoped for some expression of admiration, or even just an opinion, from her father, but he was completely distracted now. From a box next to his chair he drew two small but deadly-looking knives, one of which he handed to her.
Sighing quietly, she watched as a strange ritual unfolded. The slaves took it in turns to fall to their knees before her father. He selected a few morsels of whatever was presented, picking them up with a stab of his knife then lifting the food to his mouth. Then he gestured that she should sample the dish,
and the slave would shuffle sideways until he knelt before Stara.
Her mother had described Sachakan meals to her, and warned her that the master of an estate always ate before anyone else. Stara wasn’t sure how much to try, as he wasn’t taking much from each platter and there appeared to be quite a few dishes coming.
Whenever she had finished eating from a plate the slave remained in place until her father spoke. “Done,” he said each time, then he glanced at her and told her to dismiss the slave when she had had enough.
Before her hunger was quite satisfied, but long after the ritual had lost its novelty, he abruptly waved a hand and simply said: “Go.” The slaves hurried away, their bare feet making no sound on the carpets. Her father turned to regard her.
“In a week I will entertain some important visitors and you will attend. You will need some training in Sachakan manners. The slave who nursed you as a child will teach you what you need to know.” He smiled, his expression becoming a little apologetic. “I wish I could have given you more time to settle in first.”
“I’ll be fine,” she told him.
He nodded, his gaze moving over her face. “Yes. Any mistakes you make will be easily forgiven, I think, especially since you have the excuse of a part-Elyne upbringing.” His smile faded. “You should know that I have one of the men in mind to be your husband.”
Stara blinked, then found she could not move. Husband?
“A link between our families would strengthen an alliance that has been tested these last few years. Your slave will tell you what you need to know, but be assured they have plenty of land and the favour of the emperor.”
Husband?
He scowled. “And unfortunately your brother’s wife is incapable of bearing children. If you do not bear us an heir our land will be passed on to Emperor Vochira when your brother dies.”
“Husband?” escaped her throat.
Looking at her, he narrowed his eyes. “Yes. You are a little old to still be unmarried and childless, but your Elyne blood should counter that – unlike Elynes, Sachakans believe a little foreign blood is a strength, not a weakness.”
A little old? She was only twenty-five!
“I thought . . .” She heard the indignation in her voice and stopped to breathe in and out. “I thought you wanted me here to help run the trade.”
His face broke into a smile and he chuckled, at which she could not help bristling. Just as quickly the smile faded into an expression of realisation.
“You really did, didn’t you?” He shook his head and grimaced. “Your mother should not have let you come here with such a misunderstanding. In Sachaka women do not trade.”
“I could,” she said quietly. “If you give me a—”
“No,” he said firmly. “Not only would clients laugh at you, they would stop trading with me. It is not done here.”
“So instead you sell me off like another pot of dye?” she exclaimed. “Without any say in who I marry?”
He stared at her, his expression slowly hardening, and her heart sank.
He means to do this. It was his intention all along. Mother can’t have known. She would never have sent me if she had. All the hopes she’d had of working for her father, of making a new life here with him, crumbled into ashes. She stood up, moved away, then turned to face him.
“I can’t believe it. You sent for me – you tricked me – into coming here. So you can sell me off like stock.”
“Sit down,” he said.
“Surely you didn’t think I’d be happy about it?” she raged. “That after living in Elyne for fifteen years, working for your benefit most of that time, I’d be delighted to become some stranger’s wife? No, a whore. No, a slave, since at least whores get paid for their serv—”
“SIT DOWN!”
She could not help flinching. Still breathing heavily, she closed her eyes and willed the fury inside her to cool and shrink. When it had, she opened her eyes and looked at him.
“Is this truly why you sent for me?”
His eyes were dark with anger now. “Yes,” he growled.
She walked to the chair and sat down with what she hoped was resolve and dignity.
“Then I must, respectfully, refuse. I will return to Elyne.”
He regarded her with narrowed eyes, then a wry smile pulled at his mouth.
“On your own, with no guards and protectors?”
“If I have to.”
“The mountains are full of ichani. They’re outcasts – they don’t care what family they offend or harm. You would never make it back.”
“I’m willing to try.”
He grimaced and shook his head. “You are right. I shouldn’t have left you in Elyne for fifteen years and expected you to return without some foolish ideas in your head – though I’m not sure why you think your future would be so very different in Elyne. Your mother has been telling me for years that it is long past time for you to marry, and that most women your age have already produced more than one child.” He straightened. “You should rest and think about your future, and I clearly need to reconsider my plans for you. Do bear in mind that I still expect you to behave like a proper Sachakan woman for our visitors.”
She nodded. While a part of her wanted to rebel, to leave for Elyne before this meeting – or at least to convince the man her father had picked as her fiancé that she was a crazed shrew he’d never want to live with – she couldn’t help feeling a twinge of hope. Perhaps there was a way to convince her father her value was in trading, perhaps in ways acceptable to Sachakan society other than as a womb with legs. She had to try.
He made a small gesture. The gong rang again. A woman with streaks of grey in her hair stepped into the room and prostrated herself, her movements stiff with age.
“This is Vora. You may remember her from your childhood. She is sure to remember you. She will take you to your rooms.”
Stara managed a smile and turned away to look at the woman. There was something familiar about the name, but the wrinkled face did not raise any memories. Vora’s eyebrows rose, but she shrugged and said nothing as she led Stara out of the room.
Twenty horses and their riders made their way up the steep track as quietly as twenty horses and their riders could hope to travel. The chink and flap of harness, the equine snorts and the occasional smothered human cough or sneeze were so familiar to Tessia now that she barely heard them. Instead she heard – or didn’t hear – the lack of sound in the trees surrounding them. No birds chirruped or whistled, no wind rustled the leaves, no animals barked or bellowed or howled.
Perhaps the others had noticed the unusual quiet, or perhaps they felt a strangeness without recognising the source, but they were all searching the trees or staring ahead or behind. Frowns marred foreheads. Nervous glances were exchanged. A magician crooked a finger and his apprentice rode closer so they could have a murmured conversation. Signals like this were becoming a kind of language throughout the group, developing through necessity.
Tessia checked that the magical shield she was holding around herself and her horse was strong and complete. They all rode with barriers in place each day, ready in case of an unexpected attack. At night they took it in turns to shield their camp, if they were forced to sleep outside, or patrol whatever village or hamlet they had reached.
A figure appeared on the track ahead, jogging bravely in full view. Tessia recognised one of the scouts who were sent ahead each day. She knew Lord Dakon was not happy about them using non-magicians to do this work, as they were defenceless if the Sachakans found them, but if any of the magicians ventured out alone and encountered more than one of the enemy, or a Sachakan of greater power, he was just as likely to perish. Magicians were in much shorter supply than non-magicians.
The man’s expression was grim. He met the first of the magicians and spoke quietly, pointing back from where he’d come. Slowly the news was passed on, in a murmur, from one person to the next.
“There’s a house ahead,” Dakon t
old Tessia and Jayan. “All but one of the occupants has been murdered recently. The survivor is not likely to live much longer.”
“Shall we go ahead and see?” Tessia asked. “Perhaps I can help this person.”
He looked thoughtful, then nudged his horse forward. Lord Narvelan and Lord Werrin had become unofficial leaders of the group, though this mainly involved putting questions to the others and offering advice rather than actually making decisions, Tessia had noticed. The others would accept any overriding decision Werrin made, as he was the king’s representative, but they tended to become uncooperative if he didn’t let them debate it among themselves first.
Some of them are so worried that someone will usurp their authority, it comes close to taking precedence over finding and getting rid of the Sachakans. I shouldn’t be surprised if the Sachakans managed to overcome all of Kyralia during one of these “discussions’.
After several minutes, Dakon returned.
“Just us and Narvelan,” he said.
To Tessia’s surprise, two other magicians and their apprentices broke away from the others to follow them up the road: Lord Bolvin and Lord Ardalen. Dakon nodded his thanks.
Seems not everyone is willing to huddle in the protection of the group while some poor ordinary Kyralian dies. Though I suppose Ardalen will want to know more. We are getting close to his ley now.
“Did the scout say what the injury was?” she murmured.
Dakon shook his head.
Several nervous minutes later they came upon a tiny stone building at the side of the track. Insects buzzed around the prone forms of two men, one with grey at his temples, the other much younger. Dakon, Tessia and Jayan dismounted, but the others remained on their horses, forming a protective ring around the front of the house.
Removing her father’s bag, Tessia followed as Dakon cautiously stepped through the open doorway. A light flared into existence, revealing a table that filled most of the room. They stopped and glanced around, looking for the survivor.