The soldier was less amused. “Argas, take your knife! Do you have any idea how many will die if some fool summoner starts another Hellmarch? When demon princes get loose from Hell, they don’t just throw a party. They summon more demons! Answer my questions, boy.” The soldier reached out to grab him, but let his hand fall short at the last second.
Kihrin flinched back anyway, but his jaw clenched in a stubborn line. Something snapped inside him, some better sense that might have kept him from saying something stupid to a man who could have him thrown into a pit—just by snapping his fingers. Kihrin drew himself up without wobbling, without listing, without throwing up, even though the need to do all those things lurked in waiting ambush. “That monster destroyed my father’s harp. How are we supposed to make a living? How are we supposed to eat? That may mean nothing to you, but it means a lot to me.”*
“General, wait.” The man with the patchwork cloak held up a hand before he focused his attention on Kihrin. “That was your father’s harp? You’re Surdyeh’s son?”
Kihrin meant to keep yelling, but the soft question cut the strings of his anger. “How did you know…” He blinked. “You know my father?”
“Indeed.” Fond remembrance wrestled with old pain behind the man’s eyes. “We were friends, once.” He examined Kihrin, his expression unreadable.
“Wait, my father! Where is he? He was right here—” Kihrin hadn’t seen him since he pushed Surdyeh through the doorway. He hadn’t been injured, had he? Kihrin could imagine his father slumped up against some alcove, leaking his life away into a gutter while no one paid him the least attention. He turned back to the soldier—wait, general—who seemed like the one with the authority to help. “You have to find him. He’s blind. He probably didn’t get very far.”
The General stared at him, unfriendly and hard as drussian. Then he snapped his fingers and gestured to one soldier nearby. “Captain Jarith, have your men search the area. See if they can find a blind man, possibly hiding, named Surdyeh. Please escort him back with every courtesy. We must reunite him with his son.”
The young soldier saluted. “Yes, General. Right away.”
“Thank you,” Kihrin said. “Thank you.” He closed his eyes in relief.
Closing his eyes was a mistake, however. The anger that had been keeping him conscious retreated. His world tilted as darkness wrapped around him.
“Quickly—” he heard the General say.
Kihrin might have paid more attention to what happened next, but he was too busy fainting.
11: THE COMING STORM
(Kihrin’s story)
Eventually, I went up on deck. Staying in our room felt like being trapped in a wooden crate: the passenger cabin on board The Misery was smaller than a water closet. It fit four people, in theory.
I was in a mood to find whoever had come up with this “theory” and beat their head against the railing.
A bulky, Zheriaso-built ship, The Misery shuttled slaves bought in Kishna-Farriga and Zherias to Quur, where the good citizens of the Empire bought them for a variety of unsavory uses. The ship possessed the usual number of masts and sails, and a deck of slave-rowers in the bowels—to speed passage in poor wind or navigate tricky port dockings.
I am more familiar with the rowers’ galley on The Misery than I care to remember, even now.
The slave holds were further divided into levels, or ’tween decks, by thick iron gratings. These quarters housed the majority of the slaves with ceilings so low that a small woman wouldn’t have room to stand. The ’tween decks made our passenger cabin seems like the height of grand privilege.
The cargo deck had been emptied of all but trade goods (maridon tea, sugar, barrels of sasabim brandy, Eamithon pottery) when The Misery had brought me to Kishna-Farriga as a slave, but no longer. Captain Juval had stayed in port only for as much time as was necessary to drop off his cargo and pick up the next batch of victims. He probably planned to buy more in Zherias* before the trip across the Galla Sea to Quur. I wondered how many times he’d made the trip, how many lives he had bought and sold.
I took perverse pleasure in putting myself where the Captain could see me. Watching his eyes slide right past me without recognition helped smooth the occasional impulse to use a dagger to sever his spine. Juval was in a sour mood too, growling and snapping at every crew member who came near.
Perhaps he’d heard the news of my final sale price. He’d been in such a hurry to get rid of me that he’d taken a flat fee instead of staying in Kishna-Farriga for a percentage. Juval didn’t realize he’d gotten the better end of the bargain.
Teraeth sat on one of the grates covering the slave holds, fingers laced around the iron bars as he stared down. The sailors gave him a wide berth.
I wasn’t surprised. He might look like a Quuros and sound like a Quuros, but the illusion wrapped around him couldn’t hide his menace.
Teraeth looked up and saw me watching.
We stared at each other for a few moments. He motioned me over.
I avoided looking into the hold.
“I’m sorry when I said you were nothing but a slaver. Khaemezra explained things, and—”
“Look.” He pointed through the grating.
I felt no compulsion to follow his orders, a reminder his mother carried my gaesh. “I know what slaves look like, thanks. I just wanted to say—”
“Look, damn you!” He reached up, grabbed the corner of my robe, and dragged me to his level. “This is what you are.”
I pulled at his fingers with my hands. “You don’t need to remind me I’m a slave.”
“You think I mean you’re a slave?” He scoffed with a whispery sharp voice. “They don’t care that you’re a slave. Look at them. Really look. Do you see them? Men, women, children. Some of them won’t live to see the end of this journey. Others will start their lives of concubinage early and rough. They come from a dozen nations, some from villages so small they didn’t know they had a ‘nation.’ Most of them don’t speak Guarem, or any language you know. They would gladly give their souls to be where you are, too valuable to be thrown in a cell like rotting meat. Instead they’ll die of starvation, or flux, or not have enough air to breathe during a storm. Look at them. There is no hope in their eyes. They don’t even have the strength to cry, or ask why this has been done to them. They can only whisper the question, the way a madman shouts the same phrase over and over, growing soft and quiet until there is only silence…”
I choked off a sob and tore his hand from me. “I don’t need—”
“You’re Quuros. This is your legacy. This is your gift to the world: ship after ship of pain, sailing the seas to sate your people’s lust and cruelty and your thirst to conquer everything. Don’t you dare look away from your birthright. This is what the wizard Grizzst created when he bound the demons. This is what your Emperor Simillion brought to the world when he claimed the Crown and Scepter. This is the way of life Atrin Kandor died to save.”