The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1) (52 page)

“Why don’t they bind their hands?” asked Rostand Beige,
staring.

“You have a good eye,
dueieh
,” Sig said, and chuckled.
“A slave is bound by the feet so he cannot run, and by the neck so he cannot
blend in as a free man. A slave with unfettered hands has ownership of only one
thing: his choice. The choice to please his master or dissatisfy him. All
slaves must serve, but a good slave chooses to bring favor to his master.”

Rostand nodded, but said nothing, still entranced by the
glistening bodies of the slave women. Most were thin and malnourished, but the
young man’s eyes didn’t stray for an instant. One of the nomads was pulling a
slave up the ramp and into one of the garages. He pushed her down beside the
goat pen and began to unclasp his belt.

Rostand snapped out of his trance. “Why isn’t anyone stopping
that man?”

Sig shrugged. “She is his slave. He can do what he wants.”

As they crossed the yard, nomads began to jeer and taunt
them. A few spat on them. Others made rude gestures and revealed parts of their
bodies.
This is an odd way to treat slaves
, Raith thought. Then he
remembered that his companions were still wearing their Scarred uniforms.

Sig raised his voice over the clamor. “
Gisheino, aigueir
.”

A man turned from where he was inspecting the slaves and
approached them. He wore loose-fitting cloth, with a thick leather belt and a
bandolier across his chest. A pillar of curly black hair leaned sideways on his
head. His black eyes were shrewd and critical, but his demeanor alone spoke
well enough of his authority. “
Tileir chaeladi
,” he said, smiling.

“They are not gifts, Lethari,” Sig said.

Lethari’s smile faded. “Why else would you bring this filth
into my camp?” he asked, flinging a hand. His accent in the Aion-speech was
less pronounced than Sig’s.

Ernost leaned close to Sig and whispered. “This is Lethari
Prokin, the one you told me about?”

Sig ignored him. “These are friends, Lethari. They took Tally
and me out of the prison with them.”

“These are no friends. Have they softened your mind?”

“They have not,” Sig said, frowning.

Lethari Prokin’s smile returned wider than before. “Ah, now I
understand. They are your payment to me.”

“No,” Sig said. “We owe them a debt.”

“We owe nothing to these
lathcui
but the disgrace of a
slow death. The only debt that matters is the one you owe to me.”

Sig exhaled, but gave Lethari an obedient nod.

Other nomads were gathering to witness the exchange.

“Whatever he owes you, we’ll pay it,” Raith said. “We only
ask for your help. I have wounded men who need attention.”

“I will never give help to the beasts of the steel city,”
Lethari said.

The crowd flared up with coarse shouts and more spitting.

“There’s no reason we should be at odds,” Raith said. “We
have a common enemy. We can help each other against them.”

Lethari gave him a fierce look. “I know no other enemy but
you.”

“You’re at war with the Scarred Comrades, aren’t you?”

“You know this. We have warred with you for long years. Since
the beginning.”

“With us? No, we aren’t Scarred.”

“You are not Scarred,” Lethari repeated. “I thought you were
Scarred. Sigrede, why did you not tell me these were not Scarred men you
brought to me?” He launched into a hasty tirade in their own tongue.

Sig cringed at every word, flinching as if being struck. “I
thought you knew,” he said, his voice meek.

“They dress like the Scarred,” Lethari shouted. “How could I
know?”

“We wear the cloth of our enemies,” Jiren said, before Raith
could respond. “Do you see how many we’ve killed? There was too much cloth for
us to wear.”

Lethari shook his head. “Pale-skins, even if you are not
Scarred, you have given help to Sigrede and Tallis. For this, they owe me
dobae
foirech
. I claim you as my slaves in payment of this debt.”

Ernost grew fearful. “What does he mean?”

“
Dobae foirech
is the Coward’s Debt,” Sig said. “A
warrior who shows weakness brings a curse of disgrace on his lord. If he does,
he must pay the cost as he would a debt. It is our custom.”

“Tell him he can’t do that,” Ernost said. “We’re not your
property to give him.”

Sig’s face was tight with worry. “Since I brought you here,
you are mine by right. I am sorry, but… it is Lethari’s choice. I thought he
would be more merciful.”

“I don’t care about your customs,” said Jiren, raising his
voice. “Sig and Tally helped us find our way out of the tunnels. We consider
them our friends, even if you don’t consider us yours. They’re fine warriors,
and they’ve returned safely. They shouldn’t owe you anything for that.”

“Close your mouth,
dueieh
,” Sig said through clenched
teeth.

Lethari was silent for a long while, his face emotionless.
Then he laughed, slow guffaws with a moment of dead space between each. “You
are a disrespectful
dueieh
. I do not like this, and I will not allow it.
This is
my
domain, and you will show fear to me. I can see that the only
way to get it from you is to make you bow your head. The rest of you will take
this lesson and fear me the way you should.”

Lethari gestured. One of his men bowed low and presented his
blade, a thick, curved scimitar with a silver lizard’s head pommel. Emerald
spikes were embedded along the ridge of the lizard’s skull.

The warleader grasped the leather-wrapped hilt with both
hands and slid it from the scabbard. He twirled the blade in one hand,
firelight dancing on the steel. “You wear your head-hair like one of us. I do
not like that either. It insults me to be imitated by someone so profane. Now,
show fear to me. Lower your head, or I will do it for you.”

“Come and try,” Jiren said.

“Jiren,” Raith said. “This isn’t the time for show. Do as he
asks.”

Lethari turned his attention to Raith. “I am not asking, old
man. You think you are a smart one, do you? A wise man. You are wiser than this
young
dueieh
, I will give you that. There are a lot of brains in that
head of yours. Brains you want to keep.”

Raith stared into the warleader’s eyes. “Take them, if you
have the need.”

“So you are a funny man, too. Good. We will get to you next.”
Lethari approached Jiren and laid the blade of his scimitar flat on the young
man’s shoulder.

Jiren didn’t flinch.

“He’s sorry,” Raith said. “We’re all sorry. We’ll follow your
customs, if it pleases you.”

“It pleases me,” Lethari said. “Striking this man’s head from
his shoulders will please me even more. When I am done with this one, we will
speak more about what pleases me.”

Lethari gripped his blade with both hands and swung back. The
Sons of Decylum gave shouts of protest, but the nomads around were quick to
silence them.

“I would advise against that,” Raith said, but the din
drowned out his words.

Jiren turned toward Raith and smiled, a look filled with
fondness. His hands hung at his sides, blood and pus congealed between the
cracks in his skin. Raith wanted to close the distance between them, but there
was no time.

Lethari swung his sword.

There was a flash of red light. Steel clattered to the
pavement. Lethari gave Jiren a puzzled look, then stared at his scimitar. A
hilt and three inches of blade, topped by a line of beaded metal like the
melted wax of a silver candle. A thin red line rose on the side of Jiren’s
neck, and he wiped it away.

The crowd murmured, shuffling backward a few steps. The color
had gone out of Lethari’s face. Sig shifted his eyes, looking as though he
wished he were invisible.

“I will allow you to take that back,” Jiren said. “We can
pretend it never happened. But if you ever try that again, I’ll tear out your
heart, and you’ll die choking on it.”

Lethari lowered the hilt he still held in two hands, noticing
the rest of the blade where it lay at Jiren’s feet. “You are
yarun merouil
.
I have heard you could do these things, but I never believed it. They say you
cannot be killed.”

“That… is true,” Jiren said. He made a sudden movement with
his hands, and everyone took another step back.

Raith noticed him trying not to smile.

Lethari eyed Jiren’s scalp. “You wear the cloth of your
enemies. Do you cut your hair like your enemies too?”

 Jiren’s hair had grown since the last time he’d been able to
shave. He flicked the veil out of his eyes. “My head stays cooler this way.”

“Your head is not good. You look like a mop.” Lethari smiled,
the first sign of warmth Raith had seen in his face. Warmth, or fear.

“If you’ve heard rumors about us, it’s because we’ve traded
with your people out in the wastes. You must know we’re not from Belmond. We
come from far away over the sands. That’s where we need to go.”

“You have killed this many Scarred?” Lethari said, counting
their uniforms.

“More. Many more,” said Jiren.

“How many more?”

“Two hundred.”

Sig cast him a doubtful glance.

“Okay, it was more like a hundred.”

“That is a good number. Not more than we have killed in this
long year, but a good number. It is enough to pay your
dobae foirech
,
Sigrede. And yours, Tallis.”

A wave of palpable relief swept over the courtyard, letting
some of the tension dissipate. Sig and Tally bowed to their lord. Lethari
barked commands, and men came to tend to Peperil Cribbs and the other wounded
Sons of Decylum.

“We thank you for your help,” Raith said. “Whatever
provisions you can spare us for our journey, we will send whatever recompense
you require when we arrive home.”

“I fear I cannot give you these things,” Lethari said. “They
do not belong to me. All we have here belongs to my lord, the master-king of
Sai Calgoar. If you wish to return home, you must first come to the City of
Sand with us and beseech the master-king. He is wise and generous, and it would
please him to meet
yarun merouil
. He will help you.”

“We were told
you
would help us,” Jiren said.

“The master-king is busy with his affairs. But he is worthy
of fear, and he is good. Bringing you to him is the greatest help I can give.
If there is anything else besides these things you have asked, if it is in my
power to do, I will do it.”

“That’s kind of you,” Raith said. “There is one other thing.
I believe we have friends who survived when the Scarred attacked us, but who
weren’t taken captive. If they’re in the city south, we need to find them.”

Rostand was looking at Lethari, hope written across his face.

“You must come with me when I leave the steel city,” Lethari
said. “But this I can do for you. I will send word to my scouts. If even a
single one of your men still lives, they will find him.”

CHAPTER
46

Where It All Began

Daxin stood in the doorway of the Prokin family’s
cavernous palace, its thick pillars ringed in stratified sandstone. This place
had been a second home to him once, a place to take refuge whenever he wanted
to forget himself. It had been a long time since Daxin had visited, and longer
still since he’d felt at home in the City of Sand.

Home itself was a lost concept to him now. When he thought of
Bradsleigh, all he could think about was Savannah, now the subject of his
constant worry; of Victaria, with whom he had shared a household for some
fifteen years; and of Toler, whose whereabouts he couldn’t guess. Toler might still
be on his route with the caravan, or back in Unterberg tending to Reylenn. Or
he could be here, in Sai Calgoar. The thought shook Daxin with a sudden fear.
Toler
had to have known I was on my way to Sai Calgoar. What if he’s here waiting for
me?
For the hundredth time, Daxin fingered the loop that had held his
skinning knife, and confirmed it empty.

“
Maigh
Glaive. Good to see you again.” The voice was
not Toler’s, nor was his the shape that appeared from around the corner to the
next room. Oisen had been a servant in Lethari Prokin’s household for many
years. He was older now, even more stooped than Daxin remembered.

“Oisen, how are you?” Daxin said, glad to see a familiar face
that wasn’t his brother’s.

“Things here are the same,” said the old man. “You are here
to see
Maigh
Prokin?”

“I’m early, I know. The sentinels in the
caolas
told
me Lethari is in Belmond right now.”

Oisen nodded. “On his way back soon.”

“Daxin Glaive.” A woman’s voice this time.

“Frayla Prokin,” said Daxin, relieved.

“So you already know my husband is away,” she said, dark eyes
twinkling as she flowed toward him in a slender green gown that bared her
shoulders and was beaded in ivory through the waist. “He is due back any day
now. I should think he will soon be on his way home. And what is this, a new
style for you?” She twirled a finger over her head to indicate his haircut.

Daxin smiled sheepishly. “It was a bit of an accident. My way
here was not pleasant.”

“Ah,” she said, her eyes warming. “You will stay with us
until Lethari’s return, of course.”

“I’d be honored,” Daxin said.

“Then come in, old friend. We will try not to have any more
accidents.” Frayla gave sharp orders to her servants and led Daxin into the
sitting room.

It was dark and cool, oil lamps spreading pools of dim light
across the rugs and fine pillows that covered the floor.

Daxin flung himself onto a huge disc-shaped cushion of dark
red velvet, embroidered with golden thread. It felt like so long since he’d
been able to indulge himself in the comfort he was so used to. There had been
times over the past few weeks when he had doubted whether he’d ever experience
such comfort again. As he drank the cold, clear water from the clay mug the
servant handed him, he wondered why his brother would ever want to forego this
type of luxury.
For the same reason he’s thrown his lot in with Vantanible;
because he’s a malcontent. He’s never been happy with what he has, despite
having the whole world handed to him at birth. He’d rather spend his life searching
the Aionach for some experience he thinks he hasn’t found yet.
Daxin gave
the room a quick glance, as if Toler might be listening to his thoughts from
the shadows. Aside from his host and two of her maidservants, however, the room
was empty.

Frayla draped herself across the seat next to him and turned onto
her side. Her gown clung to the contour of her hip and pulled at her breasts.
She brushed away the dark curls that fell over her face, regarding Daxin with a
look that made him wonder if he’d missed a spot shaving. “Lethari has been
pleased with your aid,” she said.

“I’m happy to hear it. He’s kept to his word; the caravans
have been coming through Bradsleigh without any interruption all year. Though I
hear the other trains haven’t fared so well.”

The corner of Frayla’s mouth drew upward. “To our great
benefit, yes. We’ve struck the Scarred Comrades where it hurts, thanks to you.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Daxin said. “I have another blow that
needs striking.”

“Lethari will be grateful for every advantage you can give
him against the Scarred.”

“I’m glad to help Lethari. I’ve always considered him one of
my closest friends, you know. I regret that he’s had to visit me in Bradsleigh
more often than I’ve made it here lately. But I do have some helpful news for
him.”

Frayla waited expectantly.

Daxin gritted his teeth. He’d held it all in for so long,
hiding his thoughts and plans from the strangers he’d been forced to call
friends; keeping his emotions pent up inside. He’d known Frayla for a long time;
almost as long as he’d known her husband. He was sure he could trust her, if
for no other reason than because her motivations were in line with his. “The
caravan routes are changing again,” Daxin said. “I have the new ones. Last time
we spoke, I gave Lethari the routes and told him I wanted Reylenn Vantanible
dead in exchange.”

“Reylenn?
Maigh
Vantanible’s daughter? Why?”

“Because I knew she would’ve ruined everything if she lived.
You understand, don’t you? Lethari did. My family heritage may not be worth
much in the eyes of the
calgoarethi
, but it means too much to me to be
spoiled by an idiot and his terrible decision-making.”

Frayla knew. “Toler, you mean. Daxin, a love between two
people is exactly that. You may know your brother well and still know nothing
about the way he loves a woman.”

“Thank Infernal for that. My brother has gone off the deep
end, Frayla. If it wasn’t bad enough that he thinks he’s in love with a
Vantanible, he tried to kill me. He caught up with me the day after I left
Bradsleigh, on my way here, and told me Reylenn was still alive. Lethari’s
Clay-brothers failed. For Infernal’s sake, my own brother would rather see
me
dead than a Vantanible. How’s that for a slap in the face?”

Frayla was frowning. “I do understand,” she said. “Blood ties
are the most important thing. But I also think you have a hard head. You want
things to be a certain way, and when they do not turn out that way, it hurts
you. So you try to erase what has already happened. What happened to the Daxin
we used to know? That Daxin visited more than once every other long year. That
Daxin met the love of his life here and never looked back. He took life as it
came because he was not so consumed with trying to fix the past.”

Daxin leaned forward on the cushion until his head was in his
hands. He’d told Ellicia that he had met his wife in Pleck’s Mill, but that had
been a lie. He’d met her here, in Sai Calgoar, all those years ago. From the
very first moment Daxin knew her, Vicky had impressed herself upon his life
with some powerful force, as though she belonged there—and from then on, she
did.

He couldn’t help but smile when he thought of the docks, the
flat rock at the end of the pier where he and Victaria had made love for the
first time. All those smudged, fraying edges cleared away from the picture in
his mind, and the memory of her came rushing back to him. He could see her slender
face, smell her fair skin, feel her dark hair as he brushed it with his fingers.
He wanted her back, so much. Even if only to spend one more moment with her,
however fleeting, he was convinced that moment would be enough. To talk with
her. To speak his mind one more time, and to find out why she was gone. To hear
her say, once and for all, why she wouldn’t let him take care of her. Why she
couldn’t understand that he loved her, needed her, more than he had ever needed
anything.

“I know you miss her,” Frayla said. “But do not try to rewrite
the past anymore. Not yours. Not your brother’s.” Frayla kissed him then,
lightly, on the top of his head.

When Daxin looked up, the last of Frayla’s gown was
disappearing around the corner.

The lowest tier of the city always came alive an hour or
two before dawn on market day. Daxin had slept off his travels through the
previous afternoon and had woken early in the guest quarters of Lethari’s
household, amid elegance too excessive to complain about. The life of a wealthy
man on the Aionach was harder than it might appear, if only because of the
kinds of things a man had to do to stay wealthy in a world where so many others
were barely getting by.

Daylight was nothing more than a hint of blue above the
mountains to the east when Daxin stepped outside. He knew how hazardous it
could be for an unchained pale-skin to walk the market streets alone, so he had
oiled his machete and cleaned the dust and grit out of his gun. He could see
merchants scurrying like ants through the market far below, crossing in and out
of view under tent flaps and canopies. It was a long way to the bottom, and
almost two stories down from here to the next ledge. He’d never been afraid of
heights in his younger years, but now, with the wind tugging at him, he found
he felt better when he stayed a good distance away from the edge.

Daxin made his way down, past early risers hanging clothes to
dry, servants fetching jugs of water, and children playing at sticks in the
courtyards. Smoke wafted from the network of chimneys that tunneled between
homes, bringing him the suety aroma of eggs and seared meat, and making his
stomach rumble. He could have bidden the servants to make him breakfast this
morning, but waiting on Lethari’s return was making him too anxious to eat.

When he came closer to the valley floor, he began to smell
the sea air, and with it the tang of woodsmoke. The walled-in market grounds
ended in a wide gap, where a pathway jammed with carts and herds of livestock
sloped downward toward the port cave. Daxin threaded his way through the mob as
angry merchants cursed one another in the name of making room for their
vehicles. He snatched a handful of mulligraws from one of the carts as he
passed, while its owner was distracted with the problem of coaxing the mule that
was pulling it.

Tossing the crunchy beanskins into his mouth, he escaped the
throng and entered the port cave, forcing the food down despite his worried
stomach. The harbor was a familiar sight, a maze of leaning shanties built across
the downward slope from the cave mouth to the docks. The air was damp with the
green smell of dry rot, the darkness spotted with blemishes of soft light
through fogged lantern-glass. But there was also a deeper haze and a stronger
smell of smoke from further within.

The ground’s downhill angle joined with the excitement of
things remembered to make Daxin quicken his pace. His feet carried him past the
Gullwing Tavern, the three adjoining Haelicari warehouses, the Numassi
shipwright, a string of fishing shacks, and dozens of other buildings without
signage. There were more murrhods walking around down here than in the city.
He’d never given them much thought before Eivan’s mention of them in Dryhollow
Split; he had always accepted the verminkind as a facet of Sai Calgoar’s seaport
society. It took him some time to reacquaint himself with the peculiar sight
and smell of the squat, furry creatures with long tails and whiskers, but as
they began to appear in greater numbers near the docks, he forgot his biases
altogether.

Boards creaked with the weight of laboring sailors and
longshoremen. Rusting metal freighters were moored beside clippers and galleons,
with no discernable docking system except that each ship looked snug in the
space it occupied. A hundred-or-so fathoms down the docks, Daxin came to the
source of the smoky smell: a huge oar galley that had caught fire and sunken in
its berth. It was leaning dangerously to one side, a burnt-out hulk cowering in
the darkness. He coughed and rubbed his eyes, taking a moment to look the
vessel over before he continued on his way.

Where the dock ended, Daxin lowered himself off the edge and
dropped onto the long, flat rock below. He made a pillow of his bags and laced
his fingers behind his head to watch the daylight spread across the roof of the
cave. This was the spot.
Their
spot; the place where he and Vicky had hidden
themselves away and fallen in love. It had been awkward and uncomfortable, and he’d
felt the fear and excitement of being caught, but those moments had also
embodied the rhythm of youth: actions without consequences, whispered laughter,
the rush of a new lover’s skin.

Maybe Daxin had been more like his brother at that age than
he remembered. He’d known nothing of Victaria’s home or family before they
married, only that she had been born and raised in the east. She rarely asked
him about his past, and she spoke of her own more seldom still.
No
,
Daxin told himself, refusing to believe it.
I’ve never been like Toler
.

That was why Daxin had resolved to come back to Sai Calgoar.
He would give the new routes to the nomads, even if it put Bradsleigh in
jeopardy this time; even if his own brother became caught in the crossfire. And
he’d make sure Vantanible’s daughter met her end before she could bring any half-blood
mongrels into this world. Daxin couldn’t protect his brother from the hazards
of the career he’d chosen for himself. But he could still protect Toler in
other ways.

There was a noise; an echo from the cavity beside the
breakwater, even further out beyond the docks. Not the sound of the waves
lapping, or the creaking of ships, or a seagull’s call. Just an echo. Daxin sat
up sharply. His hand went to his gun, and he waited. When nothing more happened
for a long time, he took a breath and scratched at the itchy new hairs coming
through the spots of rain rash on his scalp. White flakes of skin fluttered
onto his leathers, and he brushed them away.