Bloodstone (18 page)

He had thought they were all roped together. Now he realized they were tethered in small groups. Just so they could fall into the neat lines their captors required.

Some forty or fifty other newcomers had already been arrayed in the center of the compound. Nearly all were men and most had red hair. He wondered why there were so few; he’d seen ten or twelve boats at the mouth of the river. Had the other raids failed or did those boats have different destinations?

He tried to think, to remember, but he was so tired. He heard moans around him, voices begging for water. A shout silenced them.

Four men in loincloths trudged through the gates, clutching the ends of two long wooden poles that supported a box big enough for three men to lie in. Sweat streaked the bearers’ naked chests and the muscles in their straining arms. Grunting, they carefully lowered the box to the ground. Two open-toed shoes thrust through the bright blue fabric on the side of box. Beringed hands reached out. Two of the bearers seized them and pulled.

A heavyset man emerged, clad in baggy knee-length breeches. Bracelets decorated his arms and a bronze collar adorned his neck. A man hurried forward to greet him. He was dressed in the same odd half-breeches, but his only adornment was a sheathed sword belted around his waist. Three boys trotted behind him. One unfolded a small stool. Another proffered a cup. A third waited until the heavyset man seated himself before holding up a short pole topped by a fringed canopy that shaded the man from the sun.

Keirith didn’t even realize another man had emerged from the box until he began speaking. “Slaves of the barbarian north. You are blessed to have come to Pilozhat, holy city of the Zherosi.”

He spoke the tribal tongue with an odd guttural slur, but the word “slaves” was clear enough. And now his enemies had a name: Zherosi.

“You live to serve the pleasure of the gods and the pleasure of the Jhef d’Esqi—the Slave Master.” He gestured to the heavyset man. “A few of you will be selected to serve in the great houses. The rest go to our temples. It is an honor to be chosen for such service. Others must toil in the fields or in the mines.”

Keirith had no idea what mines were, but it might explain where the rest of the captives had been taken.

“If you obey, you will be treated well. If you disobey, you will be punished. The punishment for the first act of insubordination is the loss of a day’s water. The punishment for the second act of insubordination is the loss of a day’s food. The punishment for the third act of insubordination is ten lashes.” The litany of punishments rolled on, climaxing with, “The punishment for attempted escape is death.”

No one spoke. No one moved. Keirith hardly dared to breathe. Who knew what these people would consider insubordination?

The Slave Master heaved himself up from his stool and slowly walked between the lines of captives. Each time he pointed, the captive was untethered and led off to the side. Keirith’s heart pounded when the Slave Master paused in front of him, but after a moment, the man moved on. At the end of the inspection, seventeen people—mostly girls and boys—had been chosen.

The Slave Master climbed back into his box, while the Speaker said, “Now you will clean yourselves. You will drink. You will eat. You will rest. When Heart of Sky descends, you will be inspected by the Jhef d’Esqi and the Jhevi of the great houses.”

The welter of strange names and titles immediately fled his mind with the promise of water. Impatiently, he waited for the Slave Master to take his leave, and licked his dry lips when he spied guards trotting forward with buckets and long wooden dippers. The other guards edged closer, whips and clubs at the ready, as the water bearers moved between the lines of captives. The man in front of him elbowed his neighbor aside and grabbed for the dipper. A club crashed down on his hands and he cried out, dragging those roped to him to their knees as he fell. The guards jerked him to his feet, cut him free, and dragged him over to a wooden stake. Ignoring his pleas, they tied his hands to the stake and returned to the lines.

After that, no one attempted to take water out of turn. Keirith watched the bearer in an agony of anticipation, cursing him for giving each captive two drinks, cursing each captive for taking so long. When his turn came, he seized the dipper with trembling hands and swallowed the lukewarm water in three gulps. Licking his dripping fingers and lips, he waited for the guard to raise the dipper again. Too soon, he moved on. Keirith could only watch as the precious water dribbled down Roini’s stubbled chin.

To his amazement, the guards then handed out bulging waterskins to each of them. Keirith drained almost half the skin before Temet whispered, “Save some for later. This may be all we get today.” Reluctantly, he lowered the skin, nodding his thanks. But why go through the ritual of the buckets and the dippers if they intended giving each person a skin of water? Then he glanced at the man tied to the stake: they had just been given their first lesson in obedience.

His mouth tasted sour. He wondered if it was the aftertaste of the water or the lesson.

The guards herded a group of captives toward two wooden troughs. Keirith’s stomach lurched when they began to strip off their clothing. Were there marks on his body? Scratches or bruises that would testify to the rape?

When his turn came, he kept his back to the trough as he shed his tunic. He accepted a dirty round of soap from Temet and picked up one of the scraps of cloth dangling from the edge of the trough. The rough fabric abraded his skin, but it was a relief to wash some of the filth away. If only he could scour away the memories as easily.

Boys in loincloths trotted forward with new clothes. Their noses wrinkled with disgust as they picked up discarded tunics and breeches. After some experimentation, Keirith figured out how to wind the long strip of wool around his hips and through his legs, tucking one end in at his waist.

He followed the others to a long slab of wood supported by two crosspieces. Here, a guard handed each person a bowl and another ladled soup into it—fish soup, by the smell. He gulped it down where he stood. After a moment’s hesitation, he followed Temet to one of the canopied shelters that lined the walls of the compound. One man raised himself on his elbow, but the others dozed, oblivious to the newcomers. Keirith seated himself at the far corner of the shelter. He would rather endure the sun’s glare than another night of bodies brushing against him.

To his dismay, Brudien walked toward him, one arm around Sinand’s shoulder. Carefully balancing his bowl, Brudien helped Sinand sit and coaxed him to eat. Sinand just curled up on the ground. Brudien sighed and nodded to the man propped up on his elbow. “I am Brudien, Memory-Keeper of the Holly Tribe.”

“Soriak.”

“You’re a child of the Oak and Holly, too?”

“Oh, aye.”

“How long have you been here?”

Soriak shrugged. “Half a moon. Or so.”

“How many others were taken with you?”

“Not so many as that.” His gaze drifted to the line at the feeding station.

“Where are they now?”

Again, Soriak shrugged. “Gone. Mostly.”

“To the great houses? And the temples?”

“It’s only the young, pretty ones who go to the houses.”

When Soriak turned that sleepy smile on him, Keirith felt heat rise into his cheeks. He glanced at the group selected by the Slave Master; they huddled together under one of the shelters near the gate.

“What about the others?” Brudien asked. Soriak gave a languid wave and flopped down on the hard-baked earth. Brudien shook his shoulder, his voice sharp. “Soriak. Where do the others go?”

“Big gates. Little door. Pretty ones out the gates. Other ones out the door.”

“Where does the door lead?”

“Not the ones with red hair.”

“What happens to them? Soriak!”

Roini cursed and spat. “He’s drugged. Or bespelled. They want to keep us docile. If we’re going to make a break for it, it’ll have to be soon. Else we’ll all end up like him.”

His comment sparked renewed discussion about escape, but for every man like Roini who favored action, there was another who cited Dror’s foolhardy attempt. No one had seen him after the guards had dragged him off, but everyone suspected he was dead.

Keirith fell asleep to the drone of men’s voices and dreamed of cool rain and the rumble of thunder. When he awoke, the sun hung atop the western wall of the compound and all of the men were sleeping; even the guards on the walls seemed content to doze, heads drooping, bows held loosely in their laps.

The headache that had plagued him since his arrival had become a persistent throb. The equally persistent howling of dogs only made it worse. His bag of charms seemed like a great weight around his neck. All he could do was lie on his side watching the ants marching past his nose. They streamed across the compound in long lines; in Pilozhat, even the ants were orderly.

Shouts roused them. The gates slowly creaked open under the combined efforts of eight guards. A line of curtained boxes swayed into the compound, stopping before a large canopied shelter the guards must have erected while he slept. Men emerged, as richly adorned as the Slave Master. As they settled themselves on brightly colored cushions, boys trotted forward with jugs and platters of food. The smells made Keirith’s mouth water.

Two guards pulled a girl forward. An animated discussion followed, the voices of the five Jhevi—for surely that was who they were—as shrill as women. They punctuated their arguments with groans and shouts and dramatic shaking of fists. When the voices fell silent, the Slave Master clapped his hands twice and the Speaker scratched something on a clay tablet. The girl was shoved to one side and, after the Jhevi paused for meat and drink, the process began again.

The sun sank below the wall while they haggled. Light-headed from hunger and heat, Keirith watched and hated them: their clacking speech and callous laughter, the jewels on their greasy fingers and the bracelets clattering on their wrists, the oily sheen of their black hair and the pretty cushions beneath their pampered arses, and their utter and appalling disregard for the starving captives who watched every bite, every sip with mingled torment and longing.

Finally, it was over. The Jhevi crawled into their boxes. Their chosen captives lined up behind them. The gates creaked open.

A shout from a neighboring shelter made the Slave Master freeze. The guards on the walls drew their bows. Those in the compound hefted their clubs. Instead of a mass attack, a lone man leaped up and staggered out of his shelter. As the guards moved in, more men poured out from under the canopy, knocking over slower comrades crawling on their hands and knees. One man untied his bulky loincloth and swatted the ground with it. He looked so silly that Keirith laughed.

He was still laughing when someone seized his arm and yanked him to his feet. Temet pushed him out of the shelter. Sinand screamed. Roini shoved past, screaming even louder.

The snakes seemed to come from everywhere, wriggling out of the walls, slithering across the parched earth, slipping over the legs of men who blinked sleepily at the commotion. Keirith backed away, stumbling in his haste. In horrified fascination, he watched the snakes converge on him.

He bumped up against the serving table. Heedless of the greasy platters, he hopped onto it, drawing his feet up in the air. The snakes streamed past. They were adders, he realized, with the same distinctive markings as Natha.

Only then did he remember the rest of his dream, when the rain and the clouds gave way to bands of shimmering blue lights. They arced across the sky like rainbows, then spiraled in on themselves and slithered earthward, hissing his name with Natha’s voice.

Mercifully, none of these adders hissed his name. They simply slithered past the screeching Jhevi, and through the open gates.

For a moment, guards and captives alike simply stood there, staring after the adders. The last screams faded. Even the howling of the dogs ceased. As if by magic, his headache vanished as well. He experienced a moment of pure relief. And then the screaming began again.

Not the voices of frightened men and women, but howls, bleats, squeals, squawks. As if every animal in the world were crying out in terror. Instinctively, Keirith covered his ears, although he knew that he couldn’t shut out the sounds, that it was the spirits of the birds and beasts screaming inside of him. He tried to block them out, but there were too many. Their terror lanced through him, ripping him open until he was screaming, too, begging them to stop, begging the gods to silence them, please, Maker, stop the screaming.

The earth rumbled like the thunder in his dream. The table shuddered beneath him, rattling the bronze platters. A clay jug danced off the edge and shattered. The wine spread like a bloodstain and the greedy earth sucked it up. Ladders tilted off the walls and clattered to the ground. The poles of the shelters swayed like saplings in a storm. Captives staggered drunkenly and fell to their knees. The guards planted their feet, bracing themselves. Human shock mingled with animal terror, crashing over him in ceaseless waves.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The shaking of the earth, the rattling of the platters, the screaming of the animals—it all just stopped. The terror of the men and women in the compound faded more slowly, vibrating inside of him until it was no louder than the drone of bees.

He didn’t know when he had fallen. He was only aware of dusty earth beneath his cheek and dusty toes in front of his face. A voice spoke, but he closed his eyes, too exhausted to respond. Water splashed his face. He licked his lips greedily. His eyes fluttered open, but instead of Temet or Roini or Brudien, he looked up into the flat black eyes of the Slave Master.

The Speaker’s face loomed into view. “Why did you scream?”

Keirith shook his head, then gasped as a whip stung his legs.