The Empire Stone (4 page)

Peirol realized he must’ve recovered from the storm when he felt his body stir. He was about to tap on the door when wisdom took him. He combed the ship, looking for the eunuch. He couldn’t find him, grinned tightly, went back to the great cabin.

He opened the hatch quietly just in time to see Edirne slip into Zaimis’s cabin, the door closing behind him. Peirol waited for roars of rage from the eunuch, but heard nothing for a while — quite a long while.

Peirol went into his own cabin, undressed, and crawled into bed. He managed to fall asleep just before dawn, but the two in the other cabin were very awake and noisy.

He woke a couple of hours later, put his breeches on, and went on deck to wash. Zaimis’s cabin door was closed.

Edirne was on deck, naked, looking wrung out. He dragged a bucket up from the sea, dumped water over his head, and began scrubbing his body with a bar of soap.

Peirol stripped, took the line, and brought up his own bucketful. Edirne tossed him the soap.

“So now we sail north to Arzamas, to dispose of our cargo,” Peirol said. “After a storm such as we went through, I wouldn’t guess any of its owners would worry if there’s a bit of … damage.”

Edirne roared laughter.

“My friend, some of the cargo will arrive in exactly the shape it left in.”

“Oh.”

“That no-longer-a-man who was supposed to be guarding certain cargo has vanished, by-the-bye. We’re missing a small cask of wine, some dry rations. I guess he swam ashore during the night and fled.”

“So my caution wasn’t necessary,” Peirol said.

“It slowed you badly,” Edirne agreed. “Speaking of which, the lady Zaimis told me you appraised one of her presents, and told me exactly how you put your words. You
are
a careful man.”

“It seems to pay.”

“Sometimes yea, sometimes nay,” Edirne said. “Perhaps nay with eunuchs, perhaps yea with barons with short tempers and swordsmen by the company on retainer.

“I find the situation amusing. Lord Aulard is known for his love of women and gems. I’ve heard he came by some of his gems in … interesting ways. Be that as it may, when he takes one of his wives into Arzamas, he drapes her with glitter, the tale goes. But if there’s a theft, or a loss, he never seems to mind. That suggests something.”

Peirol remained silent.

“What a good jest. False gems for false virtue.” Again, Edirne laughed. “I would imagine someone aboard this ship might have learned to moan like a virgin and make a small cut for some blood at the proper time, wouldn’t you?”

Peirol didn’t answer, both because he considered himself a gentlemen and because something Edirne said had just struck him. “You said
one
of Lord Aulard’s wives?”

“I did, did I not? I think there’s a certain young woman who may be in for some surprises about certain Manoleon customs, don’t you?”

Peirol saw movement and hurriedly pulled his breeches back on as Zaimis, looking as pure as any temple virgin, came on deck. Edirne, laughing harder than ever, dressed quite leisurely, and Zaimis watched him as coolly as if she was considering a well-made statue.

Two turnings of the glass later, the
Petrel
sailed south. Half a day later, the black ships attacked.

There were four sleek black galleys, each nearly two hundred feet long. They came from behind a headland, oars dipping in unison, skittering toward the
Petrel.

Todolia looked up at the caravel’s sails, slatting in the light wind, muttered a prayer, and shouted for the men to arm themselves and prepare for boarding.

Peirol obeyed, hurrying to his cabin. Outside came shouts and the thunder of feet.

“What’s going on?” a wide-eyed Zaimis asked.

“Pirates, my lady,” the dwarf said. “You’d best stay below, and not let them see your beauty and become more determined.”

Even now, Zaimis managed a white-faced coquette before she went back into her cabin and closed the door.

Peirol went back on deck. The crewmen now wore motley leather armor and were armed with cutlasses and knives. One or two had javelins, another pair sporting bows.

Someone said in a low voice, “Best just surrender. There’s no more’n a handful of us, against how many soldiers?”

“I count thirty, mebbe more,” another said. “And a few hunnerd oar-slaves on each boat. And cannon. But we’ll never raise a white flag. If th’ skipper’s right, and we’re off Parasso, likely th’ ships hail from Beshkirs.

“Th’ mate spent half a dozen years on their damned galleys, and I’ve never known anyone who pulled an oar for them who didn’t swear he’d rather die’n go back.”

“Edirne must’ve assed somebody fair,” a second sailor put in. “None of us’d end up a galley slave, as long as we can shinny up a mast and box a compass. Beshkir’s hurting for sailors, always has been, always will be. As for bein’ a slave, who hasn’t gone overside in a fair port to get out from under an asshole skipper? Chains won’t hold me for long, nor any of you, I’d bet.”

“There you have it,” a third said. “I’d
allus
rather take a chance on life over death.”

There were mutters of agreement, but the sailors, at Edirne’s command, drew heavy, wide-meshed rope nets from below and draped them loosely from the yardarms to the railings, so boarders would ensnare themselves.

Peirol stared, fascinated, at the oncoming galleys. They were very narrow-beamed, and bulwarks were built overhanging the hull, rowing benches on them. He counted five slaves on each oar. Gleaming bronze cannon lay in a low carriage in the bows, with two smaller swivel pieces on either side. Men with whips trotted back and forth on catwalks, lashing the oarsmen while thudding drums gave the rhythm. The galleys were twin-masted, with huge, single yardarms on each mast hanging at an angle, sails furled, great banners on one end of each. On the stern of the galleys was a canopy, sheltering the ship’s officers and rudder, and above it a huge ornate lantern.

Peirol admired their strange grace — but then the wind brought the stink of the ships, the unwashed, closely packed men, their shit and blood. His stomach roiled.

A sailor was praying loudly for wind, for a sea monster to rise up and save them, but the gods didn’t appear to be listening.

Peirol went up to the poop deck, sword in hand. He hoped he didn’t look as scared as the man at the rudder.

He saw a man in the bows of the second galley wearing robes, moving his hands back and forth. A feeling of weakness, of panic, swept across him, and Peirol realized there was magic being set against them as well.

A man in the stern of the leading galley shouted through a speaking trumpet. Peirol understood what he was saying and realized that Abbas’s spell was at work, for the words changed as he heard them and became familiar.

“What’s he saying?” Todolia asked. “I don’t speak whatever heathen language he’s blathering.”

“He wants us to surrender,” Peirol answered, before Edirne could interpret.

The mate gave him a suspicious look but didn’t have time for anything else, as the lead galley’s cannon boomed, white smoke plumed, and a ball bounced across the water, just in front of their bows.

Edirne picked up a great double-curving bow, nocked an arrow, and sent the shaft arcing toward the first galley. It splashed just short of the ship.

“That’s reply enough,” he said, and two other cannon boomed from other ships. One missed, but the second smashed through the
Petrel
’s rigging, and lines snapped, falls clattering down to the deck.

“Bad,” Todolia said. “Hear that whirring? They’re using chain shot, shooting at the rigging. They’re trying to dismast us, so they can take the ship intact for the cargo.”

“And us for slaves,” Edirne said.

“Damme, but I wish the flittering owners would’ve bought one piece, one frigging falconet, a crappy little moyen even,” Todolia growled. “Damn them for the budget-minded butchers they are.”

“One popgun wouldn’t do much good against those culverin,” Edirne said.

“No, but I’d feel like I was doing
something.
”

Todolia shouted an obscenity at the galley, waved her fist. Peirol saw a small puff of smoke, heard the captain snort, like an angered bull. She turned, and Peirol gasped. The woman had no face, but a ruin of blood from the musket ball. She put her hand up, then it fell limply, and she sagged as if all the bones in her body had vanished.

“You men,” Edirne bellowed at the sailors. “Shoot back at ‘em! They’ve killed our captain!”

But he needed make no warning. Two sailors below were down in blood, writhing. A sailor hurled his javelin out through the netting. It splashed far short of the galley he was aiming at, and the two bowmen loosed shafts.

The galley cannons all fired, a ragged volley, and the
Petrel
’s mainmast snapped, sagged in its stays, and slowly dropped overside. The caravel listed.

“Cut away the rigging and the mast,” Edirne ordered. “Get axes! We’ll have to sail around ‘em!”

He dropped his bow, went to a gear locker, took out a heavy ax. A javelin arched through the air and took him just below the ribs, the bloody spearhead jutting out through his back. Edirne screamed shrilly, clawed at the shaft of the spear, stumbled, and fell.

“Get the godsdamned white flag up,” the sailor who’d speared him shouted. “Before they kill us all!”

Peirol went to Edirne, saw a spark of life flicker, vanish from his eyes as blood poured from his mouth.

“Are you another fool for fightin’?” a voice demanded, and Peirol saw a sailor with cutlass ready. Not trusting what he might say, feeling anger pound at his temples, Peirol dropped his sword, got up, and backed away.

“There’s things worse’n bein’ an oarsman,” the sailor said. “Not that you’ll ever pull one, havin’ real talents with jewels. Somebody’ll snap you out of the slave market on first showin’.”

Two galleys were alongside, and grappling hooks dug into the
Petrel
’s bulkheads. Men in armor swarmed up the sides and cut through the netting. They herded the sailors and Peirol to one side, and broke into the great cabin. Peirol heard wood smash, and a scream.

A grinning man stuck his head out. “C’mon, boys, there’s meat to share! Get your asses in line!”

There were shouts of glee, and two men dragged a struggling Zaimis out. Another rolled out the small cask of wine that stood in the cabin, smashed in its head with a dagger butt, and dipped himself a palmful. He wore, tied around his neck, the green silk scarf Kima had given Peirol.

A man took hold of Zaimis’s dress at the bodice and ripped it away while the woman shrieked. The men watching roared amusement.

Then a pistol thudded, and the first would-be rapist contorted as blood gouted from below his armored waistcoat. He convulsed like a landed fish and lay still.

The others were very still as a large young man with cold eyes and blond hair and beard paced forward. He wore finely worked armor and an ostrich-plumed hat. He had a pistol in each hand, one smoking, two others in his waistband. He stuck the fired piece in his belt, drew, cocked another, blew its slow fuse to life.

“I believe my orders were to take the woman alive and unharmed, were they not? No man disobeys me, and remains healthy. I could’ve sworn you wretches had learned that lesson well by now.”

The blond man nodded to two men, also finely dressed, beside him, obviously officers. “Help the baggage up, and assist her in getting dressed. I’ll decide whether we transfer her to my ship or if she would be more comfortable where she is.”

He turned his attention to Zaimis. “Don’t be frightened, girl. I sought you for your ransom, not for your body. You’ll not be harmed — at least not if your master is quick to reward me for saving your life.”

Zaimis’s eunuch Libat capered forward, beaming as if he’d had his manhood restored. The man leered at Zaimis, who turned away, sobbing bitterly. The man laughed, saw Peirol, and came toward him, as if expecting applause.

Peirol’s mind said he was stupid, this would undoubtedly be his death, but his fingers were too quick, sliding behind his buckle, and tossing, underhand, a twin to that dart that had half-blinded the serpent. It flashed into the side of the eunuch’s throat. Libat screamed rage, plucked it out, and lifted his sword. Then he looked very surprised as the poison worked quickly. He touched his throat, gaped three or four times, and went down.

There were half a dozen swords at Peirol’s guts, and the blond man had a pistol aimed, very steadily, between his eyes. “That was a nasty surprise,” he said, after seeing Peirol remained still. “Have you any more of those devices about you?”

“No,” Peirol said. He hadn’t time to hide another dart.

The man kicked the eunuch’s body. “We
do
despise a traitor, don’t we?” He didn’t seem to require an answer. “Dwarf, listen well. I’m going to allow what you did, for I had no wish to reward this one who told us of his mistress and her value. A faithless servant deserves nothing but death.

“But do you have any ideas of continuing your no doubt quite noble pastime of revenge? If so, your value to me is slight, even though the not-man told us you had certain marketable skills, so I’ll toss you overside now.”

“No,” Peirol said, tiredly. “I’m through with blood.”

The blond man lost interest in Peirol, snapped orders to his men.

And so Peirol of the Moorlands became a slave.

By the time Peirol reached the slave market at Beshkirs, he knew quite a bit more than he had, more than he wanted. He was now the property — and his mind roiled at the word — of Kanen of the Sporades, one of the Beshkirian warlords. He was precisely named.

Beshkirs, a pariah nation of slavers, thieves, fences, and pirates, had existed for half a millennium as a city-state without a real government. Instead, all its services, from garbage collection to war, were put out to the lowest bidder, and the winner’s performance was reviewed annually by the city’s property-holders. If unsatisfactory, the contract was rebid, and the former contractee subject to trial by ordeal if his performance had been overly incompetent or corrupt.

Beshkirs had half a dozen naval lords. Kanen was regarded as one of the boldest — witnessed by his having taken a few of his galleys out before the campaign season, while storms still raged — and luckiest, considering how Zaimis’s eunuch had found his ships beached for the night and led them to the
Petrel.

“Campaigning season?” Peirol asked.

“When we earn our keep,” a captor said. “Taking merchantmen, mostly, from the Manoleon Peninsula.”

“But this year, we’ll likely earn it and more,” another added. “We’ll likely sail against the Sarissans, since they’ve been cuttin’ into our gelt and the richies can’t abide that for long.”

The other men looked frightened. Peirol asked what were the “Sarissans,” and was told to be silent; mere mention of them might bring them from nowhere.

Peirol asked if the black ships of Beshkirs were the ones that had sacked Thyone centuries ago. One seaman guessed that Beshkirs had stolen that tale to further frighten its prey, and the real black ships, the ones of legend, were either long gone or else from far to the west.

Peirol learned all this and more, for he was the only one on the
Petrel
besides the six-man prize crew. Kanen had decided that Zaimis would be best kept close, and the sailors from the
Petrel
weren’t to be trusted, even chained up, so they were transferred to one of the galleys. But a mere dwarf was nothing to worry about. The bodies were dumped overside, the broken mast cut away, and the
Petrel
taken under tow by three galleys, with only a headsail on its foremast to reduce yawing.

Peirol still had the small bag of diamonds behind his left knee, but he knew better than to try to bribe one of the prize crew. It was known that he was a jeweler, and his bag of gold and lesser gems had been discovered. If he came up with another jewel, he’d likely be stripped, searched, and given a “Beshkirs smile,” throat slit from ear to ear.

At least he’d recovered his roll of tools, cast aside as worthless when the raiders looted his cabin. So if all went well, and he found the master everyone said he would, Peirol would be able to work his craft, impress his master no end, and hopefully be manumitted.

Eventually the pirates reached Beshkirs and sailed into its harbor. It was at the end of a peninsula, a rocky hand curving around a deep-water mooring. Low, thick-walled stone forts were built at either side of the harbor mouth, and the city climbed across the knolls behind them. To one side of the roughly rectangular harbor, more than fifty galleys were drawn up, sterns to a seawall. Behind the seawall loomed a great stone barracks.

“That’s where the galley slaves are quartered when they’re not afloat,” a sailor said. “Free ships are over there.” He gestured to the other side of the harbor, where merchant ships were anchored, or tied to wharves. “This bucket and its cargo’ll be auctioned for Lord Kanen’s and our shares. You and your friends’11 be for the auction block.”

Peirol had never considered slavery more than a natural part of the world like sunrise and wine, since he of course would never become one. He felt sorry for the slave with a harsh master, and for the poor traveler or soldier who got caught in a slaver’s snares. Suddenly he realized being another’s property, having to do his bidding forever, would be his doom. For an instant he thought of hurling himself overside, but his good sense caught him. There was always a way out, always something a clever man could do to improve or change his lot. And certainly Peirol of the Moorlands was a clever man….

• • •

The slave market was a natural amphitheater in the center of Beshkirs. Stone slave pens that could hold one or a hundred bodies were behind the block, which was large enough to stage a masque. Milling around the front of the block were the traders and hangers-on, exchanging raucous jeering, insults, and lewdness. Behind them, row on row, rose seats where other, slightly more dignified spectators watched and bought.

The pens were crowded with men and women, of a dozen shades and, it seemed, a hundred races. There were few children, and only two or three older men or women. Peirol assumed the old ones had some highly marketable skill, fairly sure what had happened to the middle-aged and ugly.

He asked one of the guards about Zaimis, but no one knew her either by name or description. Peirol assumed either Kanen had kept the woman or, since his reputed love was more for gold than sex, had successfully ransomed her to Aulard, her intended husband. He wished her well and hoped her marriage would be happier than he feared, given what Edirne had said.

The auctioneer, Jirl, was a fat, jovial man who carried a heavy staff and kept matters moving quickly. Someone would be pushed up the stairs by the two guards, who wore studded, weighted gloves and had clubs and daggers at their belt, and blink bewilderedly or try to fix a smile while Jirl rattled off details of the person and announced a floor bid.

Young men, young women, pulled in the highest prices. Sometimes Jirl would allow a dealer or two onto the block, let him — and the dealers were always men — prod and pry the offering. Peirol noted when the man or woman was particularly attractive, however, none of these pit traders were allowed that indignity, no doubt to avoid soiling the merchandise.

He saw one trader of average build, quite normal looking, who bid just on children. Peirol, wondering what they’d be used for, saw the man’s expression after his successful bid for a rather handsome boy about eight, shuddered, and looked away.

“
TWO GIRLS
,” Jirl bellowed, and two young women — light-skinned, white-blonde, in their early teens — were brought up. “Cirmantian, asserted to be virgins.”

There was a howl of disbelief from the pit.

“Also purported to be of noble birth. Brought in by Lord Whaal, one of our most honorable dealers, who advises they have just been brought from their homelands, and neither has ever been a slave. A condition of offer is they are to be sold together. These are prime, my friends, and so I’ll start at five hundred gold coins. Each.”

More lustful shouts, two men shouted offers, and the price rose and rose. A man, richly dressed, waved a fan.

“This is good, this is exciting, my friends,” Jirl called. “Baron Clarmen is pleased to offer two thousand as a preemptive bid … wait, I see an offer from Lord Nonac for three, three-five, four, four-five, eight, eight is the bid, eight, eight,” and Jirl thudded the staff on the block, “and Baron Clarmen has two of the most beautiful, uh, house servants I’ve seen for many a day.”

And so it went. Only one man struggled, and he was quickly bashed down and dragged back to his pen.

The sailors from the
Petrel
were brought out in a block, and bidding from the upper tiers was brisk. They were sold to a man Jirl called Captain T’thang, and vanished from Peirol’s life.

Then it was his turn on the block.

“An interesting specimen, here,” Jirl called. “Like the last lot, brought to us by Lord Kanen. This man is reportedly a skilled jeweler, and would certainly make his owner wealthy. Handsome, healthy, young — I’m afraid I’ll have to start with an opening bid of … six hundred gold coins.”

“Dwarves ain’t good luck,” someone called.

“I don’t believe that,” Jirl said. “Bid on this man, and prove the tattle-talk wrong.”

“If he’s a jeweler, has he been checked by the guild?” a well-dressed man said. “Has Niazbeck approved his sale? I’d hate to try to market this man’s work without approval from the Jewelers’ Guild.”

Jirl looked worried. “Magnate Niazbeck was supposed to be here, but his appearance seems delayed.”

“He’s off makin’ noises with his toys,” someone called.

“On condition Magnate Niazbeck approves, do I have five hundred gold pieces?”

“He the man who killed somebody when he was took, after th’ ship ran down its colors?”

“I’m, uh, not aware of any such report,” Jirl said, stammering a bit.

There was silence.

“Four hundred. Do I have four hundred? Three hundred. Two … come now, someone, anyone, make an offer for this valuable artisan.”

But no one spoke. Jirl smashed the staff down. “Remove him — next offering.”

Peirol of the Moorlands was given back to Lord Kanen, and became a galley slave.

• • •

He was taken to the white stone barracks, given a numbered disk and a chain to hang it around his neck, told this was his mustering number and that he would be whipped if he was ever found without it. A barred door was opened, and he was led into a long cage that was a sally port into the three-storied barracks with a huge central area and open cells at each level. The room was full of men, bearded, hair untrimmed, wearing everything from rags to soiled finery. A few — and Peirol noticed these were smaller, thinner than the others — were naked.

He sighed, knowing after what a couple of Koosh Begee’s thieves had told him about prisons what was likely to come next. The inner door was unlocked; Peirol walked into the main room, and the door clanged shut. There were shouts, catcalls about dwarves, nothing Peirol hadn’t heard from street urchins for years and years. He kept his back close to the cage, waited.

One of the better-dressed bullies swaggered up, flanked by three others. “Pay or strip!”

“Pardon?” Peirol asked politely.

“The way things are,” a satellite thug explained in a not-uneducated voice. “If you have copper, or a bit of silver, Guran and we’ll make sure you’re taken care of, not hurt, get food when they serve it. If you’re skint, your clothes’ll serve for payment. I fancy that tunic — the embroiderin’ll look good on me.”

“So give,” Guran demanded.

“And,” another of his men said, “we’ll have a look at that wee roll you’re luggin’.”

Peirol began to slip out of his jacket. Guran beamed, and Peirol spat in his face. Guran recoiled, and Peirol raked the side of his foot down the man’s shinbone. He screamed, bent, and Peirol head-butted him in the face. Guran stumbled, fell on his back. His assistants were frozen. Hating what he had to do, but doing it, Peirol jumped forward and stamped hard on Guran’s throat with the side of his foot. He felt cartilage, bone crunch, and the man flopped, was dead.

A sound came, somewhere between a hunting beast’s roar over his kill and astonishment.

“You killed him,” Guran’s former toady whispered.

“Did, didn’t I,” Peirol agreed, forcing toughness when he wanted to vomit. Keeping his eye on the other three, but not very worried that they’d jump him, he knelt, swiftly felt through the corpse’s pockets, found a scattering of copper, one gold and four silver coins, as well as a rather handy little knife that he pocketed.

“Lord Kanen’ll have you skinned,” a watcher said.

“No, he won’t,” Peirol said. “Guran slipped on the steps, fell. A true pity. I could tell he had signs of real leadership. Now listen well,” he said, raising his voice. “Somebody talks to the guards, I’ll have time to get you before they take me away. But nobody talks. Who needed Guran, anyway? These assholes who sucked around him? Nobody else. New rule. Everybody leaves everybody else alone. Or else I’ll sic my new jackals here on you.

“Now you — ”

“Habr,” Guran’s former aide said.

“Habr. Show me to Guran’s cell. That’ll do for me.”

• • •

As Peirol had expected, none of the guards were very interested in the circumstances of the late Guran’s passing. He kept the plug-uglies around, to alert him when the guards checked the upper tier and to get food and drink. He warned that any bullying he saw would be dealt with in the same manner as he’d handled Guran. Peirol wasn’t naive enough to think the prison had become a delight of civilization, but life appeared quieter.

After a day’s thought, peering deeply into the heart of the best diamond he had, which he’d heard gave strength, Peirol had an idea. He set out his tools, wishing he had either a pedal- or sorcery-powered lathe. He also lacked a crucible to melt and cast, so he gave one of his goons a silver coin and an iron spoon and set him to tapping the edge of the coin, turning it regularly hour after hour. Slowly the edge metal flattened, and the coin became a ring two finger-widths wide, needing only its center drilled out.

Peirol mixed glue from his roll, fastened a diamond to a stick, improvised a tiny vise, then began spinning that diamond against another, more perfect greenish-yellow gem, slowly cutting the stone round: what was known as girdling, or, in the case of this already worked gem, perfecting the “bearded,” poorly rounded girdle it’d already had.

That finished, he used ink to mark where he’d make cuts, then glued the stone into a little cup. His “working” stone was used to cut a groove into the first diamond along the ink cuts. With his specially made cleaving knife, he made ready to cut the diamond.

About to strike the knife with an iron rod that’d been a cell bar, he whispered a prayer, aimed at whatever god or gods reigned in this land that he didn’t much believe in. He was sweating slightly, just as he did whenever he made the first cut on a stone.

Peirol was very glad that he had never had to cut a great diamond, remembering the legend about the master cutter given a great stone who studied it, its lines, its grain, for a year, readied himself for the first cut, made it perfectly, and fell dead from the strain. Peirol didn’t believe the story and had a perfectly strong heart; but still, he was glad he hadn’t yet had to test it.