I sat down on the grating, numb.
“How many slaves have you known? How many have you taken for granted, dismissed as just another unchangeable facet of Quuros life?” Teraeth settled back on his heels, fingers pressed against the bars to balance himself. “You asked who we are, and I will tell you who we are not. We are not people who would ever do this.”
I didn’t answer for a long time.
Finally, I whispered, “That doesn’t make what you do right.”
“No, but for every life I take, I give others their lives back. When I meet Thaena in the Afterlife, my head is held high and my conscience is clean.”
“I can’t do anything to free these people.”
“That’s true if you believe it, but make no mistake—it is only true because you believe it.”
I stared out at the sea. Seagulls had followed us from Kishna-Farriga. They would stay with us for a few miles yet before they decided the scraps weren’t coming fast enough. The salt air filled my nose and the sound of rigging stretched and groaned against my ears. If I listened, I could just make out the muted sound of crying. The ship didn’t smell of anything but salted wood and tar. More awful smells would come later.
I thought long and hard on the irony of being lectured on freedom by the assassin who owned me.
“Juval used a cat-o’-nine-tails on you, didn’t he?” Teraeth asked after a long silence.
“He had questions. He got all cranky on me when I wouldn’t answer them.”
“Do you want me to kill him?”
I looked sideways at the vané. “Don’t you think that might delay our arrival in Zherias, just a little?”
“His first mate looks capable enough.”
The idea made me shudder. If I had nightmares anymore, first mate Delon would haunt them. “Delon’s worse than Juval. Much worse.”
Teraeth stared at me. The line of his jaw turned rigid and he looked away. “I’ll remember that.”
“Besides, Tyentso will take it personally if you start killing off her crew. Even you might have a problem with her.”
“Tyentso?”
“The ship’s sea witch. Remember how you wanted to know if the Captain keeps one? The answer’s yes. Tough as drussian. She’s the one who gaeshed me. I haven’t seen her yet, but she’s around here somewhere. She spends most of her time by herself. She’s like a hermit in a cave, except her cave is on a ship.”
Teraeth smiled in a way that reminded me of tigers scenting the air for prey. “If my mother can handle Relos Var, I don’t think a hedge witch will be much problem.” He flexed his fingers around the bars.
“Show me around the ship,” he said after a pause. “I want to be familiar with the deck plan when things go wrong.”
“Why? You think something’s going to happen?”
“I think Relos Var gave up on you too easily.” He turned to stare out at the water. “That’s not his reputation.”
“So, he’ll make another attempt?” I didn’t need to ask. In my heart, I knew Teraeth was right. Relos Var wasn’t finished with me yet.
He chewed on the end of a finger. “He’d have to know where we are. My mother shields us both against scrying, and you’ve always been hidden from magical attempts to locate you. No one is tracking you down using magic.”
I scowled. “It’s been done.”
“Not easily.”
“They had to summon a demon prince to do so, so yeah. We should be fine. Unless Var’s into that kind of thing.”
“He’s been known to dabble.” Teraeth looked nervous.
That made me nervous. If there was going to be trouble, the last place I wanted to be was trapped on a slave ship, a thousand miles out at sea.
As Taja would have it, that’s exactly where trouble found us.
12: BEHIND THE VEIL
(Talon’s story)
Morea poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher at her bedside, swished the water around in her mouth, spat it back out again. She repeated the process until the tang was gone.
The small room was barely furnished once one looked past the tapestries, lewd sculptures, labial mosaics of Caless, and the priapic offering dishes of her lovers. There was a bed, a sideboard, and an armoire. A pitcher, ceramic mugs, and a washbasin rested on the sideboard. The armoire held the few clothes Madam Ola had given her.
The bed held a drunken merchant named … Something. Hallith? She didn’t remember. He’d been too intoxicated to do much, and the smell of his boozy breath on her face had set her skin crawling. She’d cooed and stroked him and prayed he’d be content with suckling.
Fortunately, he was.
It wasn’t easy for Morea to come to a place like this. She knew her lot was better than many, but she still remembered a time when a room this size wouldn’t have been fit for her use as a water closet. Baron Mataris hadn’t been handsome, or charming, or even young, but he had been rich, and not so unkind to his slaves that she didn’t regard his memory with fondness. If she and her sister hadn’t been happy at least they had been pampered, and the men and women that Baron Mataris gave them to believed in daily baths.
Unlike some. Her eyes flickered over to the form of her customer, already snoring.
Madam Ola told her that on nights when Morea did not dance, she might expect to make two or three thrones in tips. The madam allowed her people to keep their tips, although she was under no obligation to do so. That meant, if Morea saved up every throne, every chance, every chalice, she might have enough to pay off her slave price in five years. Five years of this. Five years of taking all comers, of lying on the mat under the grunting, thrusting attention of drunken sailors, miners, merchants, and anyone else who paid Ola Nathera enough metal.
Morea had one consolation: the possibility there might be an end to this. Ola allowed for the potential of buying her freedom. Baron Mataris had never done so.
Ola herself was an enigma to Morea. The woman was a legend with a dozen stories about her origins, all of them probably lies. Ola didn’t use the veils so many Zheriaso wore outside the borders of their island home, so it was obvious to all that she had once been a wild beauty. Her skin was midnight, her eyes like the ocean depths, her soft curled hair tied in elegant knots. Yes, a great beauty—or she would have been if time and a fondness for sweets had not rounded out all the edges.