The Godspeaker Trilogy (14 page)

Hekat flinched. Retoth snapped his fingers at her in passing. She did not scold him, but followed him to the door. Five paces from it she slowed, and turned.

“Trader Abajai? You never loved me?”

“ Loved you?” said Yagji, and flapped his hands. “I was right all along, it is stupid, stupid !”

“Masters do not love their slaves,” said Abajai, impatient. “I am fond of you, Hekat, I wish you no ill. But love you? Aieee! Perhaps Yagji is right. Perhaps you are stupid.”

She ran at him screeching, reaching to claw out his eyes, his tongue, to tear his long godbraids out of his scalp. His swinging fist caught her, clubbed her sideways, she fell onto a low table and smashed it flat. The monkey Hooli screamed from the curtains and Yagji threw himself backwards, squealing.

Dazed, half unconscious, Hekat felt Abajai drag her onto her feet. His flat hand struck her, hard stinging blows. At first she fought him but it made no difference, he was strong, she was weak. In the end she stood there just like the woman, and let him hit her.

He was no different from the man.

“There,” he said, when he was finished beating her. “You are punished, Hekat. Now go with Retoth, you will sit in your chamber until he gives you permission to leave, you will eat no dinner. Tomorrow you will get your slave-braid in the godhouse, I will have no more of this nonsense. If your defiance continues the god will smite you. Do you understand?”

Her eyes were full of pricky tears. She would die before she let them fall. “I understand, Abajai.”

“I understand, master ,” said Abajai, sharply.

She nodded, even though that hurt her head. “I understand, master .”

“Good. Now go.”

She followed Retoth down the stairs, to the slaves’ place. He banged her chamber door shut behind her. She vomited the remains of her highsun meal into the pishpot, chicken and cornmush and spicy fried greens, then curled into a ball on the beautiful carpet, paid for by the sale of girls like herself. She felt small and cold yet still burning hot.

Yagji is right. I am stupid. Stupid.

In her dreams the man’s dogs chased her, howling and growling and running behind Abajai’s camel. Blood and spittle dripped from their open jaws, their claws like stone scythes scrabbled in the dirt. Abajai wasn’t riding his camel, he wasn’t warm and solid and comforting at her back, he was riding Yagji’s camel. There was Yagji, there was Abajai, and there was the stupid monkey Hooli, they rode the white camel all happy together, laughing and pointing at Hekat alone, and the man’s starving dogs were coming . . . they were coming . . .

“ Abajai !” screamed Hekat, and sat up on the floor.

In the chamber’s darkness her breathing sounded loud and frightened. Her skin was sweaty, her tunic and pantaloons damp and twisted about her body. She wiped her sleeve across her face and stood, silver godbells tinkling, feeling her heart hang hard on her ribs.

Retoth would not give her flint and striker to light her chamber lamp, she counted eight paces to the door and pulled it open, one finger wide. The passage beyond was lit with three candles, and she could hear no sounds of slaves walking or talking. It was late, then. The quiet time. She opened the door a little wider, some faint light creeping in, she counted six paces to her bed and sat. Her head felt sore, her mouth tasted mucky.

If I stay in this place, Abajai will sell me. In this place I am a goat fattening in the slaughter-pen, waiting for the knife. Waiting for a rich man’s coin to buy me. If I stay in this place I am truly a slave.

It did not matter that Abajai had given the man coin for her. She was not a slave, a weak nothing person like Retoth or Obid or Nada. Not in her heart, where she was her true self. But if she stayed here past this night Abajai would have her marked with a slave-braid and then she would be a slave, in Mijak’s eyes she would be property forever. Even if she cut off that slave-braid with the sharpest knife her hair would grow back again red as blood. A slave-braid was given by the god for life.

I have to run.

Shuddering, she remembered that runaway slave in Et-Nogolor city, the sound of his babbling agony, the flies in the slashed-open cavern of his belly. If she ran and was caught, that would be her. She would die as that slave died. Running was only the start, she had to run to somewhere, find a place where she could safely hide and make a new life.

But where? In Et-Raklion she knew Abajai, she knew Yagji, she knew the stupid tutor. They were the only free men she knew in all of Mijak, except for the man, and she couldn’t go back to the savage north. Even if she knew how to get there, even if she could journey so far on her own . . . she never would. That life in the village was slavery too. The man was poor, and Abajai was rich. Otherwise, they were the same.

Where can I go? Where will I be safe, and free ?

Gossip in the kitchen, slaves laughing over sadsa. Talking of other slaves in the bazaar, in the Slaughter district, with tales of Raklion warlord and his beautiful palace, his mighty warriors, the city within a city that was their warrior barracks.

Home to ten thousand fierce fighters and their horses, was Raklion’s barracks. Home to the blacksmiths who shod those horses, the artisans who forged the warriors’ weapons, crafted those leather chest-pieces to keep their godsparks safe inside, who built sleek swift chariots and the wheels they rode on. The cooks who fed the warriors and the workers, the laundries that kept their tunics clean. The stables to house the horses, the pens to house the animals whose carcasses fed the hungry ten thousand. Some were slaves who worked there, others were poor folk, eking out a living. That’s what the slaves said, gossiping in the kitchen, the laundry, in the villa’s gardens.

The barracks of Et-Raklion. A city within a city . . .

Surely one she-brat could find a home in such an anthill, unnoticed. Surely Abajai would not think to look for her in Raklion warlord’s warrior barracks.

He would not, she knew it. In the barracks she would be safe. All she had to do was reach them. Except she’d learned other things from slaves’ gossip in the kitchen: godspeakers walked the streets of Et-Raklion in the quiet time and to be found by a godspeaker then was to be punished by the god. If a godspeaker found her running away . . .

Hekat dropped to her knees on the beautiful carpet, she clenched her fingers into fists and pressed them to her pounding heart.

Let me leave here, god. Guide me to the warlord’s barracks. If you do this—if you do this for me—I will be yours forever. I will serve you with my last breath. My blood and bones will belong to you. I will be Hekat, slave of the god.

How long she knelt there, she did not know. The god did not speak to her, or if it did she could not hear it. Did that mean the god was not listening? Or had the god turned its back to her, was she unworthy to serve? Was Yagji right, did the god not see her heart at all?

The god sees me. It sees me. It saw me in the savage north, it will see me in Raklion’s barracks. It will. It must. I am Hekat, beautiful and precious. I was chosen by Abajai. I was chosen by the god.

Her heart still pounding, she got off the floor. If she was truly leaving it had to be now. Her godbells sang with every step she took and Retoth slept light as sadsa froth. She took a towel from the shelf by her bed and wrapped it round her singing godbraids so he would not wake. Then she slipped from her chamber, slid the nearest burning candle from its holder and crept down the passage to the kitchen, where she took one of the cook-slave’s thin sharp knives. She took five small bread loaves from their basket, five small bricks of cheese from their stone bin and an empty leather flask from the pile left ready for the villa’s outside workers. All the time she listened for Retoth, or Nada, or any slave stirring so late at night.

No-one stirred. No-one heard her.

Safe again in her chamber, she fixed the candle to her bed chest with drips of wax, searched through her clothes trunk and chose the plain dark blue tunic and pantaloons Retoth had thought she should have in case a godspeaker came calling to the villa. She tugged off her bright clothing and pulled them on, and her sturdiest shoes without the curly toes.

Then she cut one leg from the pantaloons she’d discarded and tied a knot at the bottom. That would be her food-sack. Into it she dropped the loaves and cheeses and put the leather flask on top. Last of all she sawed off her godbraids one by one and laid them like an offering on the bed. She looked at them sadly, silent silver godbells gleaming in the yellow candlelight. Now her hair was short and spiky, hacked-off godbraids unraveling, disrespectful to the god.

I am sorry. I had to do it.

The knife she slid into her pocket. On impulse, she snatched back two of the godbraids and buried them in her pocket too. And that was it. Unless . . . should she write something on one of her practice clay tablets? Her writing was not perfect yet but she knew enough word-symbols to cause some trouble . . .

Working as quickly as her trembling fingers would let her, she pressed her stylus into the damp clay. Retoth say Hekat bad slave, Abajai angry, sell Hekat Trader visiting. Hekat sad. Go Et-Raklion . Despite her pain, the knife in her heart, she laughed a little in her throat. She hoped Abajai would beat that slave Retoth until he cried.

Or died.

Touching the lapis snake-eye round her neck, Abajai’s gift, she felt her face twist with hate. She wanted no gift from him: cruel, lying Abajai. She dragged the amulet over her head, unpicked the knot in its leather thong and unthreaded the carved blue stone. It fell from her fingers like a piece of camel dung. Ignoring it, she took her carved scorpion amulet out of hiding. It had a hole bored through its head, she threaded it onto the leather thong, retied the knot and put it on, letting it drop beneath her tunic. The scorpion was heavy, warm against her skin, promise of the god’s protection. She left the practice tablet with her message on the bed beside the severed godbraids, then crept from the chamber with her food-sack, silent like the smallest breeze. Still no slave was stirring, they slept as though a demonspell had turned them to rock.

Unnoticed, she slipped out of the villa. Into the garden. Climbed the jaga tree by the villa’s back wall, wriggled hand-over-hand along the branch that stuck out into the side-street beyond. Dropped soundless to the cobbles far below . . .

. . . and was free.

Barely four streets distant from Abajai’s villa, flitting from shadow to shadow in the quiet time with her food-sack bumping bruises against her leg and her heartbeat so loud she wondered the godmoon and his wife did not hear it, she saw a godspeaker, striding in the moonlight, grim and vigilant for the god.

She stilled herself, like a lizard beneath the eagle’s fleeting shadow. Her severed godbraids were silent in her pocket, he could not hear the godbells singing. But he did hear something, he stopped beneath a street torchlight and his bony face was listening. The scorpion bound with leather to his forehead was listening. The tall staff in his hand, carved and painted like a godpost, was listening.

Then she heard what the godspeaker heard: the sounds of stumbling feet, of voices raised in raucous whisper. Two men, traveling late. They fell out of shadow into light, from the mouth of the narrow alleyway between two Trader villas. Their faces were stupid with sadsa or some other rowdy drink, and shiny with grease around their sloppy lips. Their robes were fastened uneasily to their bodies, their arms wrapped tight around each other’s shoulders. They saw the godspeaker and staggered to a halt.

“You Traders,” said the godspeaker. His voice was soft, yet it sounded loud. “The god sees you. It sees you, Trader Voltek, it sees you, Trader Lopa. It sees you in the street, in the quiet time.”

The Traders stared at the godspeaker, their eyes alive with fear. “Not by choice, godspeaker,” said the Trader with his godbraids tied in a tail. “We got lost.”

“Lost?” said the godspeaker. “In your own district?”

The other Trader nodded. His godbraids clacked together, he wore no silver godbells, only beads and amulets. “First we got drunk, godspeaker,” he explained. His voice was high and squeaky. “Then we got lost.”

“Drunkenness offends the god,” said the godspeaker. “It blurs the mind and weakens the wits.”

“We didn’t mean to drink so much,” said the first Trader. “It was an accident, godspeaker. So was getting lost.”

The godspeaker did not answer, he just swung his godstaff hard and sharp. It caught the Traders behind their knees, it sent them crashing to the street so they cried out in surprise and pain. They wriggled on their backs, staring up at the godspeaker.

The godspeaker knelt between them and laid his godstaff on the ground at his side. Hekat saw no anger in his face, no sorrow, no pleasure. His face was smooth like sand before the wind rises, and his eyes were quiet, and calm, and terrible.

“‘And the god spoke to the people, it said: between the time of working and the time of quiet there shall be the time of revelry, where men will sing and dance. But after revelry, then will be the quiet time, the streets will sleep and so will men beneath their roofs.’”

The Traders said nothing, they wriggled on their backs and made little gasping noises like dying she-babies on The Anvil.

“You breach the time of quiet, Traders,” said the godspeaker. “Your sin offends the god.”

His hands came up, fingers stretched wide. His palms glowed, like white fire they burned, but his face was calm. He touched the Traders with his hands, he pressed his burning palms against their faces. The Traders screamed, they shrieked like goats torn to pieces by sandcats, they writhed and flailed and thrashed upon the ground.

“The god smites you, Trader Voltek, it smites you, Trader Lopa. It leaves its mark upon you for one fat godmoon, in your folly,” the godspeaker told them. “For one fat godmoon the god’s smiting is upon you and for one fat godmoon no man shall speak with you or Trade with you, no woman shall spread her legs for you, you will kneel before every godpost in the city and when you kneel you will weep tears of blood in your pain and your sorrow as the godsmite in your faces cleanses you of sin. You will eat bread, you will drink water. All other food and drink will drop you dead. Traders, you are smitten.”