Magician (60 page)

He signaled for the slaves with the
axes to cut Pug loose, and in short order Pug was out from under the
branch. Laurie carried him over to where the young soldier stood. Pug
coughed the last water from his lungs and gasped, “I thank the
master for my life.”

The man said nothing, but when the
overseer approached, directed his remarks to him. “The slave
was right, and you were not. The tree was rotten It is not proper for
you to punish him for your bad judgment and ill temper I should have
you beaten, but will not spare the time for it. The work goes slowly,
and my father is displeased.”

Nogamu bowed his head. “I lose
much face in my lord’s sight. May I have his permission to kill
myself?”

“No. It is too much honor. Return
to work.”

The overseer’s face grew red in
silent shame and rage. Raising his lash, he pointed at Laurie and
Pug. “You two, back to work.”

Laurie stood, and Pug tried. His knees
were wobbly from his near drowning, but he managed to stand after a
few attempts.

“These two shall be excused work
the rest of the day,” the young lord said. “This one”—he
pointed to Pug—“is of little use. The other must dress
those cuts you gave him, or festering will start.” He turned to
a guard. “Take them back to camp and see to their needs.”

Pug was grateful, not so much for
himself as for Laurie. With a little rest, Pug could have returned to
work, but an open wound in the swamp was a death warrant as often as
not. Infections came quickly in this hot, dirty place, and there were
few ways of dealing with them.

They followed the guard. As they left,
Pug could see the slave master watching them with naked hatred in his
eyes.

There was a creaking of floorboards,
and Pug came instantly awake His slave-bred wariness told him that
the sound didn’t belong in the hut during the dead of night.

Through the gloom, footfalls could be
heard coming closer, then they stopped at the foot of his pallet.
From the next pallet, he could hear Laurie’s sharp intake of
breath, and he knew the minstrel was awake also. Probably half the
slaves had been awakened by the intruder. The stranger hesitated over
something, and Pug waited, tense with uncertainty. There was a grunt,
and without hesitation Pug rolled off his mat. A weight came crashing
down, and Pug could hear a dull thud as a dagger struck where his
chest had been only moments before. Suddenly the room exploded with
activity. Slaves were shouting and could be heard running for the
door.

Pug felt hands reach for him in the
dark, and a sharp pain exploded across his chest. He reached blindly
for his assailant and grappled with him for the blade. Another slash,
and his right hand was cut across the palm. Abruptly the attacker
stopped moving, and Pug became aware that a third body was atop the
would-be assassin.

Soldiers rushed into the hut, carrying
lanterns, and Pug could see Laurie lying across the still body of
Nogamu. The Bear was still breathing, but from the way the dagger
protruded from his ribs, not for long.

The young soldier who had saved Pug’s
and Laurie’s lives entered, and the others made way for him. He
stood over the three combatants and simply asked, “Is he dead?”

The overseer’s eyes opened, and
in a faint whisper he said, “I live, lord. But I die by the
blade.” A weak but defiant smile showed on his sweat-drenched
face.

The young soldier’s expression
betrayed no emotion, but his eyes looked as if ablaze. “I think
not,” he said softly. He turned to two of the soldiers in the
room “Take him outside at once and hang him. There will be no
honors for his clan to sing. Leave the body there for the insects. It
shall be a warning that I am not to be disobeyed. Go.”

The dying man’s face paled, and
his lips quivered. “No, master. I pray, leave me to die by the
blade. A few minutes longer.” Bloody foam appeared at the
corner of his mouth.

Two husky soldiers reached down for
Nogamu and, with little thought for his pain, dragged him outside. He
could be heard wailing the entire way. The amount of strength left in
his voice was amazing, as if his fear of the rope had awakened some
deep reserve.

They stood in frozen tableau until the
sound was cut off in a strangled cry. The young officer then turned
to Pug and Laurie. Pug sat, blood running from a long, shallow gash
across his chest. He held his injured hand in the other. It was
deeply cut, and his fingers wouldn’t move.

“Bring your wounded friend,”
the young soldier commanded Laurie.

Laurie helped Pug to his feet, and they
followed the officer out of the slave hut. He led them across the
compound to his own quarters and ordered them to enter. Once inside,
he instructed a guard to send for the camp physician. He had them
stand in silence until the physician arrived. He was an old Tsurani,
dressed in the robes of one of their gods —which one the
Midkemians couldn’t tell. He inspected Pug’s wounds and
judged the chest wound superficial. The hand, he said, would be
another matter.

“The cut is deep, and the muscles
and tendons have been cut. It will heal, but there will be a loss of
movement and little strength for gripping. He most likely will be fit
for only light duty.”

The soldier nodded, a peculiar
expression on his face: a mixture of disgust and impatience. “Very
well. Dress the wounds and leave us.”

The physician set about cleaning the
wounds. He took a score of stitches in the hand, bandaged it,
admonished Pug to keep it clean, and left. Pug ignored the pain,
easing his mind with an old mental exercise.

After the physician was gone, the
soldier studied the two slaves before him “By law, I should
have you hanged for killing the slave master.”

They said nothing. They would remain
silent until commanded to speak.

“But as I hanged the slave
master, I am free to keep you alive, should it suit my purpose I can
simply have you punished for wounding him.” He paused.
“Consider yourselves punished.”

With a wave of his hand he said, “Leave
me, but return here at daybreak I have to decide what to do with
you.”

They left, feeling fortunate, for under
most circumstances they would now be hanging next to the former slave
master. As they crossed the compound, Laurie said, “I wonder
what that was about.”

Pug responded, “I hurt too much
to wonder why. I’m just thankful that we will see tomorrow.”

Laurie said nothing until they reached
the slave hut. “I think the young lord has something up his
sleeve.”

“Whatever I have long since given
up trying to understand our masters. That’s why I’ve
stayed alive so long, Laurie. I just do what I’m told to, and I
endure.” Pug pointed to the tree where the former overseer’s
body could be seen in the pale moonlight—only the small moon
was out tonight. “It’s much too easy to end up like
that.”

Laurie nodded. “Perhaps you’re
right. I still think about escape.”

Pug laughed, a short, bitter sound.
“Where, singer? Where could you run? Toward the rift and ten
thousand Tsurani?”

Laurie said nothing. They returned to
their pallets and tried to sleep in the humid heat.

The young officer sat upon a pile of
cushions, cross-legged in Tsurani fashion. He sent away the guard who
had accompanied Pug and Laurie, then motioned for the two slaves to
sit. They did so hesitantly, for a slave was not usually permitted to
sit in a master’s presence.

“I am Hokanu, of the Shinzawai.
My father owns this camp,” he said without preamble. “He
is deeply dissatisfied with the harvest this year. He has sent me to
see what can be done. Now I have no overseer to manage the work,
because a foolish man blamed you for his own stupidity. What am I to
do?”

They said nothing. He asked, “You
have been here, how long?”

Pug and Laurie answered in turn. He
considered the answers, then said, “You”—pointing
at Laurie—“are nothing unusual, save you speak our tongue
better than most barbarians, all things considered. But you”
—pointing at Pug—“have stayed alive longer than
most of your stiff-necked countrymen and also speak our language
well. You might even pass for a peasant from a remote province.”

They sat still, unsure of what Hokanu
was leading up to. Pug realized with a shock that he was probably
older by a year or two than this young lord. He was young for such
power. The ways of the Tsurani were very strange. In Crydee he would
still be an apprentice, or if noble, continuing his education in
statecraft.

“How do you speak so well?”
he asked of Pug.

“Master, I was among the first
captured and brought here. There were only seven of us among so many
Tsurani slaves. We learned to survive. After some time, I was the
only one left. The others died of the burning fever or festering
wounds, or were killed by the guards. There were none for me to talk
with who spoke my own language. No other countryman came to this camp
for over a year.”

The officer nodded, then to Laurie
said, “And you?”

“Master, I am a singer, a
minstrel in my own land. It is our custom to travel broadly, and we
must learn many tongues. I have also a good ear for music. Your
language is what is called a tone language on my world, words with
the same sound save for the pitch with which they are spoken have
different meanings. We have several such tongues to the south of our
Kingdom. I learn quickly.”

A glimmering appeared in the eyes of
the soldier “It is good to know these things.” He lapsed
deep into thought. After a moment he nodded to himself “There
are many considerations that fashion a man’s fortune, slaves.”
He smiled, looking more like a boy than a man. “This camp is a
shambles. I am to prepare a report for my father, the Lord of the
Shinzawai. I think I know what the problems are.” He pointed at
Pug. “I would have your thoughts on the subject. You have been
here longer than anyone.”

Pug composed himself. It had been a
long time since anyone had asked him to venture an opinion on
anything. “Master, the first overseer, the one who was here
when I was captured, was a shrewd man, who understood that men, even
slaves, cannot be made to work well if they are weak from hunger. We
had better food and if injured were given time for healing. Nogamu
was an ill-tempered man who took every setback as a personal affront.
Should burrowers ruin a grove, it was the fault of the slaves. Should
a slave die, it was a plot to discredit his oversight of the work
force. Each difficulty was rewarded by another cut in food, or in
longer work hours. Any good fortune was regarded as his rightful
due.”

“I suspected as much. Nogamu was
at one time a very important man. He was the hadonra—demesne
manager—of his father’s estates. His family was found to
be guilty of plotting against the Empire, and his own clan sold them
all into slavery, those that were not hanged. He was never a good
slave. It was thought that giving him responsibility for the camp
might find some useful channel for his skills. It proved not to be
the case.

“Is there a good man among the
slaves who could command ably?”

Laurie inclined his head, then said,
“Master, Pug here . . .”

“I think not. I have plans for
you both.”

Pug was surprised and wondered what he
meant. He said, “Perhaps Chogana, master. He was a farmer,
until his crops failed and he was sold into slavery for taxes. He has
a level head.”

The soldier clapped his hands once, and
a guard was in the room in an instant. “Send for the slave
Chogana.”

The guard saluted and left. “It
is good that he is Tsurani,” said the soldier. “You
barbarians do not know your place, and I hate to think what would
happen should I leave one in charge. He would have my soldiers
cutting the trees while the slaves stood guard.”

There was a moment of silence, then
Laurie laughed. It was a rich, deep sound. Hokanu smiled. Pug watched
closely. The young man who had their lives in his hands seemed to be
working hard at winning their trust. Laurie appeared to have taken a
liking to him, but Pug held his feelings in check. He was further
removed from the old Midkemian society, where war made noble and
commoner comrades-in-arms, able to share meals and misery without
regard for rank. One thing he had learned about the Tsurani early on
was that they never for an instant forgot their station. Whatever was
occurring in this hut was by this young soldier’s design, not
by chance. Hokanu seemed to feel Pug’s eyes upon him and looked
at him. Their eyes locked briefly before Pug dropped his as a slave
is expected to do. For an instant a communication passed between
them. It was as if the soldier had said: You do not believe that I am
a friend. So be it, as long as you act your part.

With a wave of his hand, Hokanu said,
“Return to your hut. Rest well, for we will leave after the
noon meal.”

They rose and bowed, then backed out of
the hut. Pug walked in silence, but Laurie said, “I wonder
where we are going.” When no answer came, he added, “In
any event, it will have to be a better place than this.”

Pug wondered if it would be.

A hand shook Pug’s shoulder, and
he came awake. He had been dozing in the morning heat, taking
advantage of the extra rest before he and Laurie left with the young
noble after the noon meal Chogana, the former farmer Pug had
recommended, motioned for silence, pointing to where Laurie slept
deeply.

Pug followed the old slave out of the
hut, to sit in the shade of the building. Speaking slowly, as was his
fashion, Chogana said, “My lord Hokanu tells me you were
instrumental in my being selected slave master for the camp.”
His brown, seamed face looked dignified as he bowed his head toward
Pug. “I am in your debt.”

Pug returned the bow, formal and
unusual in this camp. “There is no debt. You will conduct
yourself as an overseer should. You will care well for our brothers.”