Kevin laid his hands over his friend’s taut wrists. ‘I’m not saying I’m against the idea of escape. Just I’m not convinced that living as outlaws, eating whatever we can steal, and sleeping on the run in the forest is one whit better than slavery. Give me time. Let me see what I can do about arranging better food and less work.’ He pulled away, torn by a conflict he had rashly never foreseen. ‘Don’t let the lads do anything stupid. I’ll use my influence with the mistress and find another way to recover our freedom.’
‘Don’t linger too long, old son. If you’ve come to like the runts, that’s your affair – I’ll never stop loving you like a brother.’ Patrick spun away from the stream bank, his voice suddenly cold. ‘But know this. I’d kill you if you try to keep us here. The lads have decided; we’d rather die free than live as slaves. We’ve figured the Tsurani out enough to know that if your Lady had failed down South, it would have been every man for himself, demons take the hindmost. So, we waited for news. If the Lady was dead, we’d be off with no one to tell us stay. When we heard she had won . . . we agreed to wait for you to come back, you being our officer and most likely to get us out safe.’ He fixed his countryman with a hard gaze. When Kevin didn’t answer, Patrick added, ‘We won’t stay much longer. With you or without you, old son, we’ll go.’
Kevin sighed. ‘I understand. I won’t try to keep you. Just . . . give me a few days.’
‘A few days it is.’
Wrapped in uncomfortable quiet, the two men picked their way back to the slave huts. Kevin lingered to chat with the men he had known as soldiers in the field, and a few others he had met in the slave pens and coffles en route to Sulan-Qu. The captive Midkemians had formed a tight-knit friendship since coming to Mara’s estate; except he was a man marked apart. That had not been so apparent during the year he had worked on the needra fields; but now, the distance between Mara’s bed and a miserable life in the slave huts left an unbridgeable alienation.
Kevin listened to gossip, and commiseration over insect bites, hunger, and sores. He had little to contribute to such talk. The exhilaration of a triumphant homecoming faded, and he did not mention the marvels he had encountered in Dustari. Well before midnight, the slaves began to rise and seek their huts. They would be roused before dawn, celebration notwithstanding, and Tsurani overseers used the whip on any laggards. Kevin made excuses and departed. As he walked alone through the night, past sentries who nodded him greeting, and servants who made way to let him pass, each small privilege galled him. As he passed on into the lantern light, and laughter, and pretty serving maids who teased and called for him to dance, his discomfort sharpened to bitterness. For the first time since his headlong plunge into love, he wondered how soon he would come to curse himself for a fool.
Incomo hurried into his Lord’s chamber. Desio sprawled before an open screen, his robe flapped open to allow the lakeshore breeze to cool him. Stacks of reports from his various holdings lay scattered at his feet, but he had taken a break from reading to hear a trio of poets recite ballads from the Empire’s history. Incomo heard enough to identify a stanza from the Deeds of the Twenty, a tale of ancient heroes revered for extraordinary service. Titled Servants of the Empire by some long past Light of Heaven, they were fondly recalled, although the scholars of present generations insisted they were legends.
Since Tasaio’s influence had bent Desio toward the martial tradition, the Lord’s tastes had shifted from pursuit of lascivious adventure to the glorified exploits of champions; his choice of activity may have changed, but his resentment of interruptions remained in force. The Minwanabi Lord glanced aside at his First Adviser’s abrupt entry and as if his scowl were a signal, the chorus trailed raggedly into silence. ‘What is it?’
Incomo bowed. ‘We have an unexpected visitor.’ Since the poets were travelling players, and not given patronage by the household, the First Adviser leaned close and whispered. ‘Jiro of the Anasati awaits at the far dock, asking permission to cross the lake.’
Desio blinked in surprise. ‘Jiro of the Anasati?’ At Incomo’s near reprimand, he prudently lowered his voice. ‘What possible reason could bring Tecuma’s brat here unannounced?’ Then, aware he inconvenienced himself by whispering for the sake of the hired entertainers, Desio waved the poets away. A servant would pay them; they had not been gifted enough to retain.
The First Adviser watched the doorway until the chamber was private. ‘I have little to add. Jiro sends you greeting. He regrets the informality of his call and begs a few moments of your time. The messenger in from the river gate adds that the boy travels with a minimal honour guard, only twelve men.’