Faces of Deception (14 page)

“I am Seema. I will look to your wounds, yes?” the woman said. She looked straight into Atreus’s eyes and betrayed no sign of revulsion or abhorrence, or even that she had noticed the hideousness of his face. “How do you feel?”

“Yes … er, fine.” Atreus was so stunned by her beauty and her reaction to his ugliness—or rather, her lack of reaction—that he could hardly follow her questions. “Perhaps a little cold, Atreus—uh, I mean I am Atreus … Atreus Eleint.”

Seema nodded, pulled his arm away from his waist, and examined the wound there. Her hand on his skin felt as warm as the sun. “Do you feel weak, Atreus?”

Atreus nodded, unable to take his eyes off her face. “Tired.”

Seema smiled again, displaying a set of teeth as white as snow, and pulled off his sopping cloak. She tossed it aside, then started to unlace Atreus’s tunic. He found himself wondering how such a beautiful and kindly woman could be working with a crew of slavers. Certainly, it was not unusual for attractive women to associate with evil men, but such women were never truly beautiful. They lacked the grace and serenity that Seema radiated so clearly.

“This man is very wet and tired,” Seema said, glancing at the guard who had lashed Atreus earlier. “There is danger of the cold sleep.”

The slaver scowled, then hung his whip on his belt and disappeared into the cabin. A moment later, he tossed a pair of dry blankets out on the deck, calling, “I’ll find some clothes.”

Seema smiled to herself and pulled Atreus’s tunic over his head. When she saw the festering wound beneath his collarbone she raised her brow and poked around the edges until a stream of yellow ichor poured out. She grimaced and started to unfasten his empty sword belt.

Atreus caught her hands between his. “I, uh … I can manage.”

Seema glanced down at his shivering fingers and looked confused, but she shrugged and said, “As you wish.”

As Atreus struggled to remove the last of his clothes, Seema began to take cloth satchels from inside her tabard and drop pinches of pungent, brightly colored powders into an earthenware bowl. Atreus wrapped a blanket around himself and became so caught up in watching her lithe fingers that he did not remember Rishi until one of Tarch’s men called out.

“There he is! He’s got a rock or something.” An instant later, the guard added, “He’s going under again I think he’s drowning.”

The rest of the guards rushed over to the side where the lookout was pointing behind the boat. Tarch roared a command, and the oarsmen began to row against the current The slave master came rushing back, kicking the heads of helpless captives in his mad scramble to step over them.

“I’ve lost him,” the guard reported.

“Get in there and find him, berk!”

The slaver glanced down at the river. “You mean jump in?” he asked, surely knowing the answer.

Atreus started to rise, but Seema caught him by the arm and shook her head. “Leave it to the guards,” she told him. “You are too weak.”

Tarch cleared the last row of slaves and bounded toward the side of the boat, his tail whipping back and forth so fiercely that it swept the feet from beneath one of the men guarding Atreus. The slaver at the side peeled off his weapon belt and reluctantly hopped into the water.

Seeing the attention of the guards fixed on the river, Seema leaned in closer and whispered, “Your friend is safe enough for tonight, but I think he should not show Tarch where to find the gold. Tarch says he must die for what he did.”

“Leading the queen’s men to the river?” Atreus asked.

“Tarch did not say what angered him,” Seema answered. She put away her pouches and poured water over the pungent mixture she had prepared. “I suppose leading those men here may be the offense.”

“You don’t know?”

“Why should I?”

Atreus raised his brow, then glanced at the slavers lined up along the side of the boat. “I thought you were one of them,” he said.

“By the lotus, no!” The anger in her eyes vanished as quickly as it had appeared. She pointed her chin at the rows of slaves ahead and said, “I am one of them.”

Atreus did not know whether to despair or rejoice. Enslaving someone as beautiful as Seema was a terrible outrage against Sune, and it would have been an equal blasphemy for her to be one of the slavers.

“Forgive my witless tongue,” he said. “I am as stupid as I am ugly.” Atreus felt himself blushing and turned away, knowing that the color only served to emphasize his motley complexion. Hoping to excuse his affront with an explanation, he gestured at her feet. “When I saw no chains, I thought you were one of them.”

“You are no more stupid than you are ugly,” Seema said. “Tarch wants no scars on me. He says his buyers will pay a hundred times more for the chance to ‘paint their own canvas.’ “

Atreus did not know what to say, so he said nothing.

Seema began to stir her mixture with a finger, at the same time speaking in a soft Maran dialect that sounded more ancient and delicate than any Atreus had heard so far. Wisps of steam began to rise from the bowl. She continued to stir and avoided looking into Atreus’s eyes.

“I am not sure I understand what kind of buyer Tarch is thinking of,” she said. “Do you know, Atreus?”

“I can only guess.” Atreus reached out but stopped short of actually clasping her shoulder. He had long ago learned that few women found comfort in his touch. “Don’t let it worry you,” he said. “Whatever Tarch has in mind, I’ll stop him.”

Seema raised her gaze. “Now you are sounding foolish,” she said simply. “No one can stop Tarch.”

Atreus stopped shivering after the third swallow of Seema’s steaming elixir, and by the fifth swallow his strength was returning. The concoction tasted of flower pollen and pine needles, yet it sat in the stomach like a good hearty stew, fueling the furnace inside and chasing the cold ache from his muscles.

With warmth came pain. His festering shoulder wound started to throb again, and the gash in his waist kept sending fingers of agony through his abdomen. Even with his strength returning, Atreus was in no condition to escape or free Seema, yet he feared the situation would only grow worse after his captors finally plucked Rishi from the river.

Atreus allowed himself three more swallows of the restorative, drinking slowly and carefully so he did not dishonor Sune by dribbling down his long chin. After lowering the bowl, he glanced around the deck. The guard who had gone to fetch him dry clothes was still inside the cabin, but the other slavers were all gathered along the side of the boat, jeering at the man Tarch had chased into the river after Rishi. No one was paying attention to Atreus or Seema.

“The guards aren’t very watchful,” Atreus observed. He glanced at the dimming sky. “What happens after dark?”

Seema shrugged and said, “It is difficult to say. This will be our first night on the river, but in the mountains the guards chained the other slaves to boulders and took turns watching them.”

“And you?” Atreus asked.

“Tarch kept me with him.” Seema looked away. “He said it was to protect me from his men, and perhaps it was. Certainly no night passed without screams.”

“Rishi said they have inns along the river,” Atreus said.

“You must let me look to your wounds.” Seema pushed Atreus down to an elbow. “I may not see you after tonight. If the guards can have a fire, they will bring out their anvil and put on your manacles. After that, you will sit with the others until we reach Konigheim.”

“Where we are to be sold?”

Seema nodded. “There is a market there,” she said, then sprinkled yellow powder over Atreus’s mangled waist. The wound began to go numb. “Tarch says ‘bashers from all across the Multi-verse’ will be waiting to buy from him.”

A cry went up from the side of the boat, and the guards began to point into the water where Rishi had again broken the surface. Atreus sat up, gathering himself to spring. He hardly felt ready for a fight, but short of Yago’s sudden return—and he knew he could not trust in that—he would never have a better chance to free himself or his fellow captives.

The slavers let out a collective curse as Rishi vanished again. Someone began yelling instructions, and Tarch tossed the direction-giver into the water to help. Atreus held himself in check, hoping the unpredictable slave master would throw a few more men overboard.

Seema pushed Atreus back down. “You can do nothing our captors will not do,” she assured him. “Now that he thinks your friend can recover the gold, Tarch will stop at nothing to see him back alive.”

Though Atreus was concerned for Rishi, his thoughts had already leaped to his own fate, and Seema’s. “What’s this ‘Multi-verse’ of Tarch’s? And who are the ‘bashers’?”

Seema shrugged, then removed a curved needle from one of her pouches and threaded it with coarse black thread.

“Tarch is a devil. He says many things I do not understand.”

Atreus raised his brow. “A devil?” he asked. “One of Ysdar’s?”

Seema’s brown eyes lit in brief distress. She laughed nervously. “It is possible, but Ysdar has been locked away for a very long time.” She pushed the needle through a flap of Atreus’s skin and said, “Ysdar is only a myth now.”

“Myths can be dangerous, too,” Atreus replied. “He certainly caused me enough trouble.”

Seema raised her brow but said nothing and began to sew. There was a faint tugging at the edge of the gash, but the yellow powder had left the wound too numb to feel more. Atreus sipped at the elixir and glanced around the barge casually, taking stock of the situation. He counted thirty slaves chained in the center of the boat, with only eight slavers still aboard to guard them; four in the bow and four in the stern. There were also the two burly oarsmen and Tarch himself, who was a great unknown, but with surprise the odds would clearly favor the slaves. In fact, Atreus found it difficult to understand why they had not rebelled already.

He leaned closer to Seema and whispered, “What can you tell me about Tarch in a fight?”

Seema scowled and said, “You mustn’t ask such things. Blood draws blood—”

A rousing cry went up from the edge of the barge and Atreus knew one of the slavers in the water had come up with Rishi. Tarch growled an order at the oarsmen, and the boat began to move upstream with surprising speed.

Leaving his wound half stitched, Atreus pushed Seema’s hand away and started to rise. The slaver who had gone to fetch his dry clothes emerged from the cabin carrying an armload of grimy cloaks and trousers.

“What’s all the noise?” he demanded, looking to Seema.

Atreus settled back to his elbow. “They’ve got Rishi back. It looks like you’re going to be rich men.”

“Tarch will be rich,” the slaver corrected, dumping the clothes on the deck. “He isn’t much for sharing.”

As the slaver turned to join the others, Atreus flung his blanket aside. He grabbed the back of the guard’s belt and pulled himself up, at the same time driving the heel of his palm into the base of the man’s skull. Something popped in the slaver’s neck, then he collapsed into his killer’s arms.

Atreus jerked the padded club off the man’s belt and sprang across the deck, raising the weapon to strike even as Seema cried out in shock. A pair of guards spun toward her voice, but Atreus ignored them and went straight for Tarch. The club caught the devil across the side of the head and knocked him into the water.

Atreus continued the swing, smashing the club into a guard’s head. The impact knocked the man unconscious and sent him sprawling across the deck toward Seema. Atreus crippled a second slaver with a stomp kick to the knee, then found himself standing on the outside edge of the deck, facing two guards with their own clubs.

He pressed the assault, sliding forward to feint at the one standing on the inside of the deck. As Inside tried to block, Outside took the bait, slipping around to attack from the rear. Atreus performed a quick reverse-spin, catching the fool in the chest with a back-thrust kick that launched Outside into the river.

Suddenly alone, Inside screamed for help and backed away. Atreus moved in fast, beating the slaver’s guard down in three quick blows and finishing him off with an elbow to the temple. So powerful was the strike that the man’s eye popped free of its socket. He screamed and reached for his head, then fell silent and collapsed.

Atreus returned to the side and kicked the slaver with the mangled knee over the edge, and only then did he pause to peer into the river. His victims lay in a line trailing downstream from the boat, with Tarch floating facedown at the far end, his scaly arms and tail lashing the water as though instinctively trying to right himself. Rishi was a short distance upstream, bobbing in the grasp of the first guard Tarch had sent to rescue him. Both the Mar and his captor were shivering, coughing, and looking as astonished as they did exhausted.

“In the name of the Forgotten Ones, good sir!” called Rishi, coughing up water. “What are you doing?”

“Escaping,” Atreus replied. A confused uproar rose forward. He glanced toward the bow to see the four bow guards rushing back, clambering over slaves with whips and clubs in hand. He waved at Rishi. “If you want to live, get over here and help!”

Rishi’s hand disappeared beneath his cloak. In the next instant, his rescuer cried out and released him, then floated away grasping his ribs. The Mar swam for the boat.

When Atreus turned back to the forward guards, he found Seema standing before him. Her hands were covered with blood, and she had such a look of confusion on her face that he feared the worst.

“Seema, are you injured?” Atreus reached out to grasp her shoulder, but she quickly shook his hand off and pulled away. He lowered his arm and wondered what he could have been thinking. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have presumed—”

“Two men!” she cried. “You killed two men!”

Atreus shrugged, unable to understand why she seemed so surprised. “It was nothing,” he said humbly. “I had the advantage of surprise.”

The barge lurched, then began to travel in the opposite direction as the oarsmen began rowing downstream. Atreus stepped around Seema, gesturing toward the rear of the boat.

“Rishi will need help getting aboard.”