Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2) (5 page)

As the
calaihn
fought their way up the hillside,
Marauders poured out from rocky hideaways and took them unawares. Each time the
nomads gained ground, the Marauders beat them back again. Sniverlik continued
his crippling advance, the Marauders as thick in the crags as swarming flies.
Lizneth’s hand went to her dagger. By some miracle, the
calaihn
hadn’t
taken it from her when they put her in chains. Maybe Neacal hadn’t meant to
take her as a slave after all. Maybe he just wanted to be sure she didn’t flee
before she led them to Sniverlik’s stronghold. Should she help them? She was no
warrior. Was there anything she
could
do to help them?

When she stood up, paralyzed with uncertainty, Sniverlik saw
her. She could tell he had already scented her
haick
. Now he knew she
had returned to the above-world against his orders. The look he gave her was
one of disappointment more than rage. It was if he’d always known she would
betray him, and she had only proven him right. She’d had to convince herself
that helping the
calaihn
didn’t make her a traitor to her own
zhehn
—just
to Sniverlik. Now that she saw his eyes, his disquiet shifting to anger, she
was beginning to doubt even more that she’d done the right thing.

What I’ve done is put my family in danger. If Neacal
doesn’t enslave Papa and Mama and little Raial and the others, Sniverlik will
kill them. There’s no way out of this
. Still, she’d had to try. Hadn’t she?
She wasn’t sure. She drew the dagger, wishing it had been only a dream that
she’d dropped it into the cotterphage’s river; imagining the sickly green
luster of venom still shining on the blade. But her wish was only that, and in
place of poison the steel was streaked with dried water stains. It was nothing
more than a normal dagger now. She wanted to kill Sniverlik and Neacal both,
but the sight of so much carnage frightened her.
There’s only one thing I
expect from you
, Neacal had said.
Courage
. She didn’t care what
Neacal expected anymore. If she was going to have courage, it would be for her
own sake.

The Marauders had begun to tire, growing flushed and listless
in the heat. The nomads were gaining ground, but they were still fighting
uphill. Some had recovered from the Zithstone’s trance and were picking up
their swords to fight again. Lizneth slid down from the boulder and circled
around to the far side. She didn’t think about what she was doing; another
moment of hesitation would’ve rendered her too afraid to do anything.

The underside of the ridge was long and narrow. She picked
her way north, unconcerned with the noise of her chains, taking hold of them
only when they got in her way. Where the path smoothed into an impassable
cliff, she ascended until she came to another vantage point alongside
Sniverlik’s horde, looking down on the battle from the heights. She’d had long
enough now to consider her plan, and she was realizing how absurd and
implausible it was. Did she think she was some kind of guerilla warrior? Had
she thought from up on that boulder that she’d had any chance of getting close
to Sniverlik?

She sank down and watched the battle unfold as the light-star
beat down on her back. After only a short while the shade began to look
enticing. Her tail was heating up and her goggles had begun to fog. The lash
wound on her back was still stinging above her older wounds. On top of all
that, the will to overcome her fear had waned. She would die if she tried to
get involved in this fight, she knew, even if she’d been wearing no chains at
all.
No, I’m no warrior, and I won’t survive a minute down there
.

So she remained in her hiding place, concealed from
calaihn
and
ikzhehn
alike. She’d been awake for more than a day now, and no
amount of excitement seemed enough to stop her tired eyes from closing. Despite
the role she had fantasized about playing—delivering the blow that ended
Sniverlik’s life—her part in this war amounted to nothing more than a drop in
the bucket, if she was honest with herself.

She curled up in the shade and tried not to fall asleep.
Yet even as the gruesome songs of the dying rang in her ears, war soon began to
sound like a lullaby.

When she woke, it took her a moment to remember where
she was. The light-star had crossed far into the afternoon sky and her shaded
hideaway was fast becoming a daylit well in the rock. She stood and remembered
her chains. Despair flooded over her, as did surprise at having slept so
soundly through everything. Her body ached, and the heat made her feel
light-headed and feverish. She slid her tongue around inside her mouth, but
there was no moisture to be found. The nearest water would be in the
below-world. She could scent a passage into the caverns, and it wasn’t far.

The ridge was littered with bodies. Insects buzzed and
carrion birds circled high above. The battle was ended, but she could still
hear the voices of
calaihn
and
ikzhehn
dying on the crags. It was
impossible to tell which side had won. In times of war, it was hard to believe
anyone ever truly won anything. Had the
calaihn
stormed up the ridge and
entered the caverns, or had Sniverlik’s Marauders swarmed over them and chased
them south? Lizneth didn’t much care anymore. All she wanted was to see her
family. To hold little Raial again; to be wrapped up in one of Papa’s hugs; to
warn them that there was a war going on, and that they were its spoils.

Lizneth made her way over the rocks to the spot where
Sniverlik had been standing during the battle. Could she have made it all the
way here without being detected? The dying called out to her in a jumble of
Ikzhethii and the Aion-speech and other languages she didn’t understand, some
begging for a drink, others for death. She hurried past, her heart breaking
with every step. The heat would kill her if she stayed above. And what could
she give to the wounded but the mercy of a quick end?

There were
calai
corpses strewn about the mouth of the
tunnel.
The calaihn began to fare better as the battle went on
, she
theorized, though even after she had scented and listened down the tunnel, the
battle’s result remained unclear. Every whiff of
haick
was tainted with
the stench of blood and death and
calai
sweat. Bloody trails led off down
the ridge and into the abandoned
calai
camp, but there were just as many
tracks leading into the dampness of the tunnel.

I’ve put off seeing my family for too long already
,
Lizneth told herself. She took a side passage into the below-world and headed
toward Tanley, stopping to drink from pools of standing water wherever she
found them. If the fighting was still going on in the main tunnel, she was
better off avoiding it altogether.

The scents of battle died away in the dark. She let the
chains rattle and clink as she ran, too concerned with getting home to care
about the noise. Alert to the slightest sign of danger, she took side roads or
detours whenever she scented trouble ahead. By the end of her journey, the
chains had begun to feel like lead weights. Her heart was racing and her mouth
was dry, each breath as rigorous as Kroy’s mill wheel churning river water. But
when she caught sight of her parents’ cottage, she ran as though nothing in the
world could hinder her.

She wasn’t halfway down that familiar meandering stretch of
road before the cottage door opened and her family spilled out into the
clearing. Her brothers and sisters stumbled over one another to reach her. The
collision was like being pummeled with a cartful of stones, only the stones were
laughing and shouting and licking her and crying and blanketing her in fur.

After a joyful few moments, Papa helped her to her feet and
examined her. “Lizneth, you’re absolutely torn to ribbons.”

Her white fur was caked with dust and dirt, blood-stained and
yellowed from the above-world air. The skin was rough and raw where the
manacles had tugged at her neck and ankles. She was bruised and battered and
cut, sore and tired and feeling twice as old as when she’d left home. But she
was home. There would be time to tell them about all she’d seen and been
through later. For now, it was enough just to be with them.

Mama’s face was a sad wreckage, aged by the desolation of
worry, her eyes lined with the crust of red tears and wet with the clear ones
she was crying now. Lizneth knew all the things she wanted to say, about how
worried they’d been and how far they’d searched for her and how hard it had
been here without her. But all those things were written on Mama’s face
already, and they both knew there was no need to say them now, after all that
had happened.

“There’s a war—”

“We know,” said Mama.

“Sniverlik has called every able-bodied buck from all the
villages to fight for him,” Papa said. “Not as conscripts for the Marauders… as
members of a temporary militia in this time of need. Not me, of course. I’m too
old. Many of the farmers and fisherfolk have been granted leave to pursue their
trades in support of the effort, until such a time as the fighting ends.”

So it’s not over
, Lizneth realized with despair.
Today’s
battle was only the start of something much larger
. “What are we going to
do?”

Papa and Mama exchanged a look. “First, we’re going to get
you out of these chains. Then we’re going to do the only thing we can do,” he
said. “The only thing we’ve ever done when times were hard. Go on living… and
do our best to stay together.”

CHAPTER 5

Bargain

Raith Entradi and his seven companions spent the night
on the floor of Sigrede Balbaressi’s den, crammed together like salted fish in
a crate. Raith woke with strains in his neck and back, opening his eyes to the
sight and smell of Theodar Urial’s feet. He sat up on his elbows and rubbed his
eyes, squinting through the pre-dawn light to count the others. Everyone was
present, and two of them were awake.

Jiren Oliver and Derrow Leonard gave Raith commiserating
looks when they saw him reach up to massage his neck. Jiren stood first, taking
care to do so quietly. Derrow did the same, and they beckoned Raith to follow
them out into the morning.

Together the three men descended the sandscape terraces of
Sai Calgoar, bound for the empty market below. They spoke not a word, but Raith
knew the two younger men had it in mind to discuss what was to be done about
Rostand Beige and the master-king, and that they intended to do so beyond the
listening ears of Sig and his family and servants.

On the way down, they passed hundreds of doorways standing
dark and dim and still. When a flock of sparrows panicked from a rooftop and
swirled into the muddy sky, the memory of a dream returned to Raith like a
ringing bell. He had dreamed of Myri, the graceful, mysterious girl he had
known in his youth; the healer who had left Decylum and never returned.

In his dream, Raith had found Myriad far from the halls of
their underground facility, in some hallowed place timeless beyond estimation.
She had been yoked to a great block of stone, and when Raith looked back he saw
that the stone stretched as far as he could see into the distance behind. He
had tried to break her harness, to shatter the stone and set her free, but both
were harder than even his gift could penetrate.

Then Myri had stopped him with a calming hand, and said, ‘
This
encumbrance is not yours to bear
.’ And then two pillars had risen up, one
to either side of her, and they had formed themselves like liquid into great
looming statues—one in the shape of a man wrought in steel; the other, a woman
made of sand. The statues had begun to move alongside her, lending her their
strength. And before his eyes, Myriad and her helpers had begun to pull their
great burden together. Raith had only been able to stand and watch as the girl
and the two living pillars had dragged the stone on and on toward the
unreachable ends of the earth.

Raith thought back to a time when he had known Myriad. He
supposed he had loved her then, but it had been a love fashioned more of
admiration than desire. How one so young could possess so much wisdom and
insight was beyond his reckoning. She’d bent the will of the council to her
own, and proven her foresight in ways far beyond what anyone expected of her.
She had been older than Raith, yet her youthful beauty had remained long after
that of the other women began to fade.

A warm breeze was funneling through the market streets,
lifting tent flaps and shaking wooden stalls as it blew the previous day’s
debris down the lanes like the ghosts of children at play. Being outside wasn’t
altogether unpleasant—the shadow of the mountains would keep the market in
shade for hours yet as the morning drew on—but Raith carried with him a feeling
of unease nevertheless.

“Imagine living in a place like this,” said Jiren. “The
chance to find goods from all over the Aionach; antiques from the old days with
the work of new craftsmen, all together in one place. This city is a world away
from Belmond, yet it’s just a few days off through the desert. What a wretched
place that was.”

“Wretched maybe, but it’s a place we may have to return to
sooner than we’d like,” Raith said.

Derrow Leonard was somber. “The master-king’s caravan will be
ready to leave in five days. He’s forbidden us to leave the city. There’s no
way we’d make it to Belmond and back without him finding out.”

“I don’t know why he’s convinced there’s some secret to
discover in Decylum,” said Jiren. “Blackhands are born, not made. He must know
he’ll never be able to learn the gift for himself.”

“A fool’s hope is just that,” Raith said. “And a powerful man
is more susceptible to his own foolishness than anyone. Tycho Montari has
already begun to lure himself toward Decylum with the promise of greater
power—a promise he’s made to himself, despite our warnings to the contrary.”

“I don’t think he’d listen to another dose of reason if we
gave it to him,” said Jiren. “Like if we told him we’ve been researching the
gift in Decylum for decades and we haven’t found an explanation for it, you
don’t think that would change his mind?”

“I’m afraid that might make him even thirstier for it. You
heard the way he spoke about us. We’re legends in the nomads’ eyes. Yet here we
are, in the flesh. Our very existence seems enough to have entrenched his
belief in the impossible.”

Derrow Leonard frowned. “The master-king can dream of
impossibilities if he likes. I’d sooner return to Belmond. We should be looking
for our missing brothers.”

“Not that I’m not worried about them,” said Jiren, “but what
about the council? What about home? There’s Cord and his scheme to think about.
If he forces his way into a Head Councilorship, we’ll be returning to a very
different Decylum from the one we left.”

“I’m not on the council,” said Derrow. “We’ll straighten out
Cord Faleir and his minions after we’ve granted our lost brothers a safe
return.”

“I last spoke with Kraw Joseph weeks ago, before we reached
Belmond,” Raith said. “If I hadn’t lost our commscreen, we’d have a better
grasp on the situation back home right now. Kraw only hinted that Cord might be
staging a coup. That wasn’t a certainty. Electing a new Head Councilor requires
a nearly-unanimous vote. As cunning as Cord may be, I doubt he has the
influence to turn the whole council against Kraw Joseph. They respect him too
much.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Jiren. “It gives me the dithers,
thinking of the damage that maniac could do if he ever took the headship. He
could reinstate the cycle of chosen births, or enact any of a hundred other
terrible laws.”

“Derrow is right,” said Raith. “We have no choice but to hope
for the best and deal with him when we return, if the worst has come to pass.
I’m also of a mind to return to Belmond. But as long as Tycho Montari is
holding Ros hostage, I don’t see us having much choice in the matter.”

“So we break him out,” Jiren said.

Raith considered this, surprised at himself for entertaining
the idea. “I have little doubt we could do it, but at what cost? The nomads are
the only friends we have out here, as taxing as their friendship may be. There
would be bloodshed—on both sides, like as not.”

“The master-king has done everything short of threatening
bloodshed himself. He’s made it impossible for us to refuse him by using Ros’s
life as a bargaining chip. What sort of friendship is that?”

“I’m sorry, Raith, but I have to agree with Jiren here,” said
Derrow. “Can we really betray Decylum’s location to the nomads? Lone wanderers
may stumble across the facility every now and then, but the nomads know the
desert better than their own reflections. Once they know where it is, they’ll
never forget. We’ll be at their mercy for the rest of eternity. I may not be a
member of the council, but I would never cast my vote in favor of letting a
foreign dignitary and his armies force themselves upon us.”

“I do not disagree with either of you,” Raith said. “We are
in the master-king’s snare, there is no doubt.”

“Then why haven’t we freed ourselves from it?” said Jiren.
“It’s clear that we can never show Tycho Montari where Decylum is. Do we agree
on that much?”

Raith and Derrow both nodded.

“Then we need to rescue Ros. That, or change the
master-king’s mind.”

“I have a solution that wouldn’t require us to do either,”
said Derrow.

Jiren was curious. “Spit it out.”

Derrow gave them a mischievous smile. “The nomads may know
the desert, but we don’t.”

“Pretend we’ve lost our way home, you’re saying…”

“We don’t have to pretend, Jiren. We
are
lost. We were
relying on our navigators to get us home. Aliman Torpor and Staley Gilcraft are
dead. Wickman Garitall is missing. Without Raith’s commscreen, we have no way
to call Decylum and ask for guidance. The plain truth of it is that we couldn’t
get back if we wanted to. Not without a helping hand from the fates.”

“And what happens when the master-king decides we’re taking
him for a fool?”

“We ask him for a few weeks to go back to Belmond and find
our lost navigator.”

Jiren scratched his head. “That sounds like a big gamble to
me. I don’t like the idea of gambling with the people who are going to be
keeping us alive in the desert.”

“We don’t have to gamble,” Raith said. “Derrow is correct—we
are
lost. There are only two ways we’re sure to get home. We need to find a working
commscreen somewhere, or Wickman Garitall has to turn up alive. That gives us
two perfect excuses to go back to Belmond.”

Jiren gave him a relieved smile. “We may not have to lead the
nomads halfway across the Inner East after all.”

“Not yet, at least. If the master-king lets us go to Belmond
first, all we’ve really done is bought ourselves some time. Assuming we’re
successful in finding a way home, then we can talk about how and when to rescue
Ros.”

A muffled cracking sound halted their conversation. From
within one of the large market tents nearby came a shuffling noise and the low
sound of strained voices. Derrow was the first to react, breaking into a run
toward the tent.

Raith and Jiren followed close behind.

When they arrived, Derrow lifted the door flap and spoke into
the darkness of the tent. “Hey, you—let go of her.”

Raith came near the opening just as the shapes of two people,
a man and a woman, were pulling away from one of the low wooden tables inside.
The man yanked his billowing white trousers up around his doughy rump while the
woman tossed the crumpled fabric of her skirt down over her knees. The man
adjusted himself with one hand and grabbed a whip off the table with the other,
then stepped in front of the woman as if to protect her. She cowered behind
him, still seated on the table.

All Raith could see of the woman was the scarring that ran
down her left leg past the ankle—an old wound, maybe, or one of the nomads’
ceremonial tattoos. After the warning the master-king had given them, Raith
wondered whether they should be getting involved.
You are free to wander my
city as you please, but if you bring harm to my people, harm will come to him
,
Tycho Montari had said as his men took Ros away.

“
Abin ti daenien duos sheo?
” the man asked, indignant.

Derrow faltered, trying to decide whether he knew the words.
“I don’t understand,” he finally said. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“This is not place for you to come looking,” the man shouted,
gesturing with the coiled whip in his hand. “Away.”

Jiren took a step inside the tent. “Not until you let her
go.”

“
Lathcu methact
,” the man said, bristling. “You dare
to speak to me in this way? Who is your master?”

Derrow grinned. “He thinks we’re slaves.”

Raith did not like where this was going. One small screw-up
could land them in front of the master-king again, and not under circumstances
they were hoping for. “Careful, Derrow. We’re not at home. Things are different
here.”

Derrow gave him a sidelong glance. “He’s taking advantage of
her, Raith. That’s the same wherever you are.” Then, to the other man, he said,
“Drop the whip and let her go.”

“The woman is no concern for you,” said the man in his broken
dialect.

“She doesn’t look like she wants to be here,” said Derrow.

“She is… my slave,” said the man, hesitating. “I do with her
what I want.”

“I don’t care if she’s your guardian spirit. You’re going to
let her walk out of here, or I’ll make sure you can’t.”

The man was done playing nice. He uncoiled the whip and swept
his arm backward, ready to strike. “Now I punish you myself. You tell me name
of your master, and I stop.” He swung, aiming to lash Derrow hard across the
shoulder.

The walls of the tent lit up in a red flash, and the man drew
back to find himself gripping a few feet of smoldering leather. He backed up to
the tent’s rear wall, tossing the whip away as if he thought it might burn down
to his fingers like a fuse. “I swear to see you die for this,” he said, trying
to find his voice. “Your master will honor me with your deaths, or I will buy
you from him and take your lives myself.”

“Calm down,” said Derrow. “We’re not slaves. We’re what you’d
call…
yarun merouil
.”

The man gave him a bewildered look. “
Yarun merouil
,”
he repeated.

Derrow folded his arms.

The man’s anger softened to fear as he arrived at the sudden
sobering truth of his predicament. “You do not know me,” he said. “Yes. This is
plain. Allow me to introduce.”

“I don’t care who you are,” said Derrow. “If the woman
doesn’t want you touching her, you stay away.”

“Oale Haelicari,” said the man, speaking in a hurry.

“
You’re
Wally? Excuse me…
Oale
?” said Jiren
with a laugh. “You. We heard you were some big-shot merchant with a mansion and
tons of slaves. We traveled here with one of them—a murrhod named Tazkitt.
Lethari Prokin brought him back from Belmond for you.”

Even in the dim light, Oale seemed to pale at the mention of
Lethari’s name. He cast the woman a backward glance, though Raith could not see
enough of her to gauge her reaction. “I have many slaves, and many respectable
friends,” Oale said. “You belong to Lethari Prokin, do you?”