The Complete Empire Trilogy (58 page)

Mara stopped her fan in midair with barely hidden relief. ‘Tiny courtesy? Your kindness is unmatched, Hokanu. When your business in Jamar is concluded, I would be most pleased if you would accept my invitation to rest as a guest of the Acoma on your way back to your father’s estates.’

‘Then the matter of the slaves is settled.’ Hokanu took her hand. ‘I will accept your hospitality with pleasure.’ He bowed, sealing their agreement. As he straightened he saw two brown eyes regarding him intently. The Lady of the
Acoma had always attracted him, from the moment he had first seen her. When he returned from Jamar, he might have the opportunity to know her better, to explore possibilities, to see if his interest was reciprocated. But now, intuitively, he sensed that his nearness confused her. The public slave market was no place to unravel the reason why, and rather than discomfort her to the point where her pleasure at seeing him changed to regret, he rose from his seat. ‘Well, then. The sooner I’m off to Jamar, the sooner I’ll return this way. I look forward to seeing you again, Lady.’

Mara fluttered her fan before her face. Unexpectedly self-conscious, she felt both regret and relief that Hokanu was departing. She nodded with the appearance of poise. ‘I, too, look forward to that time. Fare well upon your road.’

‘Fare you well, too, Lady Mara.’

The younger of the two Shinzawai sons threaded his way through the benches and left the upper gallery. As he stepped into the sunlight on the stair, his profile showed the straight nose, high forehead, and firm chin that had captured the attention of many a noble’s daughter in his home province of Szetac. Even to Lujan’s overcritical eye, the man was as well favoured as he was socially well placed.

The sound of raised voices drifted up from the slave compound. Mara’s attentions turned from the retreating figure of Hokanu. She pressed close to the gallery rail to view the cause of the commotion. Since archers could not be concealed among bands of naked slaves, Lujan did not urge her to stay back within the shadows, but he did continue to observe nearby rooftops.

Mara was surprised to discover that the unseemly shouting came from the factor overseeing the barbarians. Short, plump, and swathed in costly yellow silk, he stood shaking his fist under the chin of an outworlder. Facing him stood the red-haired Midkemian Mara had glimpsed before, his naked body gleaming in the afternoon light. He seemed to
be desperately smothering laughter as he endured the factor’s tirade. Mara was forced to admit the tableau was comic; the factor was short, even for a Tsurani, and the barbarians towered over him. In a vain attempt to look threatening, their overlord was forced to stand upon tiptoes.

Mara studied the outworlder. Although at any moment he might be savaged by a whip, he stood with arms crossed, a study in self-confidence. He was a full head taller than any of his betters, the overseer and the two assistants who rushed to the factor’s aid. The outworlder looked down on their agitation like a boy noble bored by his jesters. Mara felt a sudden twist within her as she studied the man’s body, made whipcord-lean by meagre rations and hard work. As she forced herself to calmness, she wondered if Hokanu’s presence had affected her more deeply than she had imagined. The men she needed to be most concerned with at
this
moment were down in the pen, and her interest in them was solely financial.

Mara ended her frank appraisal of the man’s appearance and focused on his interaction with the Tsurani overseer and his assistants. The factor’s rant reached a crescendo. Then he ran out of breath. He waved his fist one last time at the height of the barbarian’s collarbone. And much to Mara’s amazement, the slave showed no sign of submissiveness. Rather than prostrating himself with his face pressed into the earth at the factor’s feet, silently awaiting his punishment, he stroked his bearded chin and, in a resonant voice, began speaking in broken Tsurani, his gestures those of a confidant instead of obedient property.

‘By the gods, will you look at him!’ exclaimed Lujan in astonishment. ‘He acts as if slaves were born with the right to argue. If they’re all as brazen as this fellow, it’s no wonder a slave master must beat their skins off to get a half day’s work from them.’

‘Hush,’ Mara waved her hand toward Lujan. ‘I wish to
hear this.’ She strained to understand the barbarian’s mangled Tsurani.

Suddenly the outworlder stopped speaking, his head cocked to one side, as if he had made his point. The factor looked overheated. He motioned to the assistant with the tally slate and said in an exasperated tone, ‘Line up! All of you! Now!’

The slaves unhurriedly strung themselves out in a row. From her overhead view from the gallery, Mara noticed that the barbarians shuffled to their places in such a way as to conceal the activities of two fellows, who were crouched before the log palisade on the side that fronted onto the river.

‘What do you suppose they are doing?’ she asked Lujan.

The warrior shrugged Tsurani style, the barest movement of the shoulders. ‘Mischief of some sort. I’ve seen needra show more brains than that factor.’

Below, the overseer and the assistant with the slate began laboriously to count the slaves. The two by the palisade joined the line late, and by dint of a staged trip and some, scuffling as the off-balance man crashed into the row, the tally keeper lost track of his count. He started over, looking down to chalk a mark for each slave as he passed, while the factor cursed and sweated at the delay.

Each time the tally keeper consulted his slate, the unruly barbarians shifted position. The man with the whip lashed a few backs in an attempt to establish order. One slave shouted something in his native tongue that sounded suspiciously like an obscenity as he jumped away from the punishment, and others laughed. The lash fell to silence the ones nearest the overseer, which caused the line of standing slaves to break and shuffle and re-form behind the man’s back. The tally keeper looked up in despair. Once again, the numbers were hopelessly confused.

The factor shouted in a shameful show of impatience,
‘We’ll all be dead and ashes by the time you finish with that!’ He clapped his hands at someone on the sidelines, and a moment later, a servant scuttled into the compound with a basket of rough-woven trousers and shirts. These he began to dispense among the slaves.

At this point the red-haired barbarian began to scream insults at the overseer. His Tsurani might be broken and heavily mispronounced, but at some point along his line of march since his capture some nameless beggar child had taught him thoroughly and well. The overseer’s mouth opened in incredulity as he considered the biological implications of what the outworlder had just said about his mother. Then he reddened and swung his lash, which the barbarian adroitly avoided. A chase developed between the large Midkemian and the smaller, fatter Tsurani.

Lujan laughed. ‘It’s a shame the barbarian needs to be broken; this is a comedy worthy of any travelling troupe of performers I’ve ever seen. He certainly seems to be enjoying himself.’ Movement caught Lujan’s eye in the far corner of the pen. ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘And to clear purpose, it would seem.’

Mara, too, had noticed that one of the slaves had resumed his crouch by the palisade. A moment later he appeared to be stuffing something through. ‘Lashima’s wisdom,’ she said, startled into a smile of amazement. ‘They are pilfering the shirts!’

The gallery afforded a view of the operation. The redheaded giant raced around the compound. Despite his height, he moved with the grace of a sarcat – the quick and silent six-legged hunter of the grasslands – at first avoiding every attempt of the overseer to catch him. Then, strangely, he began to plod like a pregnant needra cow. The overseer came close, and as the barbarian dodged the near miss of the lash, he shuffled, slid, dragged his heels and toes, and kicked up an excessive amount of dust. He also crashed often into
those of his comrades who had received their allotment of trousers and shirt. These suddenly clumsy men fell and rolled, and under cover of dust and movement, cloth miraculously disappeared. Some was bundled and passed to other slaves; occasionally a shirt would unfurl and land, to be picked up by another man. In this manner the clothing passed at last to the man by the palisade. At opportune moments he stuffed the fabric through a gap and caught the shell counters that served as coin within the Empire that someone slipped through from without. These the Midkemian wiped on his hairy chest. Then he placed them in his mouth and swallowed them.

‘There must be beggar boys on the other side.’ Lujan shook his head. ‘Or perhaps some bargeman’s child. Though why a slave should think he has use for coin is a mystery.’

‘They certainly show great ingenuity … and nerve,’ Mara observed, and Lujan regarded her keenly. That she had mistakenly conceded honourable attributes to men who by the inflexible laws of society were accorded less stature than the lowest scabby beggars in the gutters made the Strike Leader pause. Desperation had taught Mara to reappraise the traditions of her people with sometimes ingenious results. Yet although Lujan himself had sworn to her service through just such an unorthodox twist, even he could not guess what she might see in a lot of barbarian slaves. Trying to fathom her fascination, the warrior regarded the ongoing conflict down below.

The overseer had called in reinforcements. Several brawny guards equipped with curved hooks of roughened needra hide raced into the compound and ran at the unruly redhead; slaves who tried to hamper them were elbowed aside or kicked with sharp-toed sandals. One barbarian fell with a bloodied shin. Seeing that, the others quickly cleared the soldiers’ path. The redheaded ringleader also slowed his
pace. He allowed himself to be cornered rather than suffer injury from brutal handling. The warriors took him in hand with their hooks and dragged him before the red-faced and dusty factor, whose robe was now sadly in need of a wash. They pitched their huge captive on his knees and held him, while the overseer yelled for cuffs and straps of hardened needra leather to restrain his unmanageable wildness.

Still the barbarian was not cowed. As if unaware that his life could be taken at a gesture of his overseer’s hand, he flung back his tangled hair and regarded his captors with wide blue eyes. At some point in the scuffle he had acquired a slash across one cheekbone. Blood ran down his face and soaked into the fiery brush of his beard. He could not be past his twenties, at a guess, and even harsh handling had not tamed his flamboyance. He said something. Mara and Lujan saw the factor’s face go stiff, and one of the guards repressed an un-Tsurani-like burst of laughter behind one lacquered gauntlet. The overseer with the whip proved more in control. He answered with the lash, then kicked the barbarian forward onto his face.

Mara did not flinch at the violence. Disobedient slaves were beaten on her estate for far less cause than this barbarian’s outrageous behaviour. Still, the fact that the redhead’s actions were inconceivable to the mores of society did not shock her beyond thought. She had acquainted herself with the customs of the cho-ja, and come to respect their ways and wisdom, alien though it might be. As she watched the slaves in the compound, it occurred to her that these men were as human as she, but their world was far different from Kelewan. Being strangers, perhaps they did not comprehend the scope of their lot: for on Kelewan a man left slavery only through the portals of death. He was honourless, soulless, insignificant as an insect, to be raised to comfort or ground down in misery with as little thought as a man might regard a red-bee who gathered his honey.

A Tsurani warrior would die by his own hand rather than allow himself to be taken alive by an enemy – captives were usually wounded, unconscious, or cowards. These Midkemians presumably had the same options, and in living on past honour, they had chosen their lot.

The redhead seemed anything but resigned. He rolled to escape the whip and crashed into the factor’s ankles. The fat man yelped and staggered, saved from a fall by the tally keeper, who hurriedly dropped his slate and grabbed a double handhold of creased yellow silk. The chalkboard fell flat in the dust, and the barbarian, with enviable subterfuge, rolled over it. The tally marks were obliterated by a smear of sweat and dirt; and Mara, in the gallery, saw with a queer thrill that the hamper was empty. Only a third of the men in the yard were clothed; some lacked breeches and others had no shirts. Although the redhead had gained himself a beating, perhaps even death by hanging, he had won a small victory over his captors.

The men with the hooks closed in. The heat and the exertion had stripped them of patience, and this time their blows were aimed to cripple.

On an impulse, Mara of the Acoma leaped to her feet. ‘Cease!’ she called over the railing. The command in her voice compelled the warriors’ obedience. She was a Ruling Lady, and they no more than servants. Conditioned to follow orders, they lowered their hooks and halted their rush on the Midkemian. The factor straightened his robes in surprise, while, on the dusty, torn earth, the barbarian slave rolled uncomfortably onto one elbow and looked up.

That his rescuer was a small, black-haired woman seemed to take him aback. Still he brazenly continued to stare, until the tally keeper slapped his face to make him avert his gaze.

Mara’s brows knitted in anger. ‘I said cease! Any more of this, and I will demand that you be obliged to pay for
damaging goods while a bidder stands waiting to make an offer.’

The factor snapped straight in stupefaction, his spoiled yellow silk forgotten. He brushed sweaty hair from his temples, as if by mending his appearance his lapse in decorum might be forgotten. Seeing the Lady of the Acoma in the buyers’ gallery, he bowed very low, almost to his knees. After the redhead’s bad-tempered display, he knew he would be lucky to sell this lot of Midkemians for the price commanded by a pet fish. That this Lady had witnessed, and yet still wished to purchase, was a marvel no sane man would question.