Dragonfly (28 page)

"Thunder lets me travel with him for a while."

The man examined the girl closely: she was injured and weak. It would be the work of a moment to take the mount from her. The horse, as if sensing his thoughts, reared up, almost unseating Tashi, flailing his hooves in the direction of the leader. It appeared the horse would not be so easily parted from its rider; this called for a change of tactic.

"Who are you and where are you going?" the man asked imperiously.

"I'm Taoshira, the Fourth Crown Princess, also known as the Blue Crescent Witch, and I'm going home," she said, beyond caring what they thought of that.

What they thought was that she was joking. Laughter rippled through the line of riders.

"I like your imagination, girl," the leader said. "Come, you ride with us while I decide what to do with you."

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"That is not your decision, sir. My fate lies in the hands of the Goddess."

He gave her a crooked smile. "Then maybe I'm her instrument." He reached down and took the picket rope still tied to the bridle. "Follow me."

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As they rode, Tashi tried to stay awake this time. Falling from the saddle in front of these men did not seem a good idea: they'd probably just leave her on the ground, taking Thunder with them.

"What is your name, sir?" she asked the leader.

"Zeliph of the Horse Followers."

"And am I your captive, Zeliph of the Horse Followers?"

"I have not decided. We return to my tent. There you will tell me your true name and your story. Then I will decide."

Tashi accepted that there was nothing more she could do. The scouting party travelled over the featureless steppe with an unerring sense of direction. Once they gave a shout in unison, greeting a herd of horses galloping free the other way, but they did not stop. By late afternoon, they approached a collection of white tents pitched by a pool. Beyond lay the first dunes of the true desert, golden in the setting sun. As Tashi watched, the light changed and they flushed blood red.

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Zeliph reined in the horses outside the largest tent. Tashi slid stiffly from the saddle and almost continued going to the ground but caught herself on the stirrup. Zeliph whistled and a young boy bobbed out of the tent and took the horses.

"He'll be well looked after," Zeliph assured her, seeing Tashi's worried frown.

Tashi hadn't doubted that, but she was thinking if she would ever see Thunder again.

Not bothering to welcome her to his tent, Zeliph took the saddle bags inside and upended them on the rug. He picked through the shirts as if looking for some clue to his guest's identity.

"Men's clothes, not yours," he said, stating the obvious.

Tashi nodded.

"Did you steal the horse?" he asked bluntly.

"No."

"But he doesn't belong to you?"

"No." It was clear Thunder was the only thing this man was interested in.

"Then who does he belong to?"

"That's a difficult question." Tashi was feeling lightheaded and very tired.

"May I sit?"

He gave a curt nod.

"I suppose he belongs to Fergox Spearthrower, but Ramil liberated him when we escaped from Felixholt."

She wondered faintly when was the last time she'd eaten properly. She'd survived on a canteen of water and scanty rations since her plunge in the river.

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The man was oblivious to his guest's distress.

"Ramil? Ramil ac Burinholt? Zarai's son?"

Tashi nodded. "I'm sorry, but I think I'm going to ... " She didn't complete her sentence, as the world suddenly turned sideways and she passed out on the cushions. Alarmed, Zeliph called his wife to assist him. Together they carried the unconscious girl into the women's quarters at the back of the tent.

His wife did not stop berating him. "What were you thinking of?" she scolded. "Questioning the poor child like that? Can't you see she's been through an ordeal?" She flapped him out of the room and efficiently set about nursing the stranger, stripping off her rags, washing her cuts, putting ointment on her bruises, and finally burning a feather under her nose to rouse her.

Tashi opened her eyes to see a dark brown pair gazing down on her.

The woman touched her chest. "I'm Larila."

"Tashi," she replied, touching her own chest. She then realized she was naked under her cover. "Where are my things?"

"I have sent them to be washed."

The girl burst into tears, clutching the blanket to her chest. "Don't do that!

They won't smell of him anymore if you do that."

"It is too late. They have already gone," Larila replied, wondering at this irrational response. Was the child mad?

The girl turned her head to the pillow, her shoulders heaving, and refused to answer more questions.

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Ramil chose to look upon his situation as a war and plan his strategy accordingly. Sitting in the filth of the pen, he was in retreat and had to move on to the attack. His greatest and only strength was that many others shared his predicament. All the slaves penned for the sale the following day would be potential recruits. There was no advantage in waiting for a better opportunity because he was unlikely to find one. But he had to allow for some being too fearful to get involved and others that might see it in their own interests to betray any conspiracy to the masters. The captives had no weapons but their bare hands and chains. Looking round the slave market with its guards and whip-bearing overseers, Ramil knew that the first task would be to break out of the pens and hold a defensible area of the city, before he could get involved in more ambitious plans. Ramil had already set upon Fergox's palace as his ultimate target. Like a flea biting a man in armor, Ramil's hope was that he would distract the warlord from his fight with Gerfal by attacking his soft part underneath.

"Send out the whisper," Ramil told Melletin, "starting with all Brigardians in the pens. Tell them the Dark Prince who escaped Fergox has come to lead them--"

"But you're in the cage with them," Melletin pointed out.

Ramil shrugged. "They don't need to know that. Keep it vague and majestic.

See if the ones who have

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been here longest know who we can trust. There's bound to be a few slave rats among us. We'll make our move during the sale once we're out of these pens."

Melletin nodded. "And what's the sign?"

Ramil looked at Gordoc. "Our new masters are so proud of their big man that they haven't stopped to ask just how strong he is. Gordoc, I've seen you bend bars in Felixholt. Do you think you could break our chains?"

The giant looked down at the hefty links shackling his hands to the collar around his neck. "I'm not sure. But I could certainly break that pretty necklace of yours. The bolt's the weak point."

"That will do. With the ring attached to the chain, I'll have a useful weapon to swing at someone. So the sign is when I take my collar off and attack." Ramil smiled wryly at the ease with which he made that suicidal statement. "We'll only win if we have overwhelming numbers. Everyone has to join in or this'll be the shortest slave revolt in history."

Under the cover of darkness, Gordoc slipped his stout fingers inside Ramil's collar. It felt like being throttled, but then the strong man pulled and the collar snapped open. "Thanks," croaked Ramil, rubbing his neck. He then replaced the neck ring, securing the broken hinge with some cloth ripped from his shirt. "I hope they just think I'm trying to stop it from chafing."

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Gordoc moved silently on to the other men in the pen, starting with Melletin.

All the slaves, bar one, had agreed to join the revolt. The exception, a thin mad-looking man who was a defrocked priest of Holin, had been too crazy to trust with the secret.

As dawn approached, Ramil gazed at the men crouched around him: his first army. He knew that he was probably leading most of them to their deaths.

The whole plan had only the barest chance of success. But he made no apology for the attempt.

"I'd rather die than be a slave," he murmured, thinking of Tashi's desperate plunge into the river.

"What's that, Ram?" rumbled Gordoc.

"We'd rather die than be slaves, wouldn't we, my friend?" Ramil said with more confidence, knowing that his men were listening.

"That's right." Gordoc laughed. He seemed untroubled by the enormous risk they were about to take. "What about you, my brothers, is that what you think too?"

The men grinned at each other recklessly, eager eyes shining in the darkness of the cage.

"Aye, big man, we're with you and the Dark Prince," said a man from Kandar.

"We'll give Fergox a bloody nose before we're done."

The market began mid morning. In the shade of a pink silk canopy with gold tassels, rich merchants, farmers, and mine owners lounged on chairs, conveniently close to the block on which the slaves stood for display. The slaves were hustled from their pens lot by lot. The majority of those who had already been

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sold waited to one side with their new masters--good news for Ramil because it meant potential allies were in the open. Finally, it was the turn of Ramil's slave masters to bring out their wares. They started with the women.

"Now here's a sweetener to open bidding," the southerner called, prodding a mother carrying a baby onto the block. Ramil made a mental note that he would have to do something to protect the women and children in the battle that would follow. He murmured to Melletin, who nodded and passed on the message.

The mother went for a good price to a family needing a wet nurse and was led away. Next onto the block was Yelena. Rather than treat the block as humiliation, she stared around her with a scornful look like a queen on her throne. The slaver prodded her with the end of his whip.

"A
house girl, fresh caught and spirited, a pretty addition to any household."

Bidding for Yelena was intense. Two merchants had their eyes on her and drove the price up. The southerner was clearly delighted when he finally closed the bidding at a hundred heralds. Ramil watched anxiously as she was led from the block to her new master under the canopy. The merchant pinched her cheek and said something to his neighbor as she glowered at him. Ramil was relieved to see Yelena being told to wait behind her new master; they would have had little chance to find her later if she'd been led away now.

The women all sold. It was now the turn of the male

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slaves. Ramil had been hoping to be one of the last so that most of his men would be out of the pen; instead, he found himself hauled out first. He made a rapid change in plans: he would have to allow himself to be sold before he gave the signal.

The southerner propelled Ramil up to the block.

"Another top quality slave, ladies and gentlemen. Strong fighter. Healthy.

Biddable. Suited to be a bodyguard or bath-house attendant."

A lackluster bidding began, not enough to satisfy the man's greed. He ripped open Ramil's shirt and slapped his well-muscled torso as if he were no more than a side of meat.

"Come, ladies, we can't waste this young man in the mines. Think what a pleasure it will be to have this lad carry your fan for you when you go visiting.

You'll be the envy of all your friends."

The bidding picked up and Ramil was finally sold to a rich elderly woman in a dress of lurid green silk. She giggled with her companion when Ramil was pushed before her. After ogling him closely, she ordered him to wait behind with the other new house slaves.

Ramil made sure he was standing next to Yelena.

"I feel a fool," Yelena muttered, glaring at the velvet back of her new master.

"But what he doesn't know is that he's just bought himself a trained assassin.

He's in for a shock."

"The shock will come sooner than you think, Yelena," Ramil replied, watching the block as more of his men were sold to the mine owners and herded to

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one side. "We're going to kick up a little dust in a minute. Be ready."

Yelena's eyes narrowed. "I'm with you, brother."

The final slave to be brought out of the pen was Gordoc. An excited murmur ran through the bidders.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen, last but not least, I present to you our greatest prize!" declared the slaver. "As strong as an ox, he'll do the work of ten men."

Gordoc stood up proudly and thumped his chest. The slaver stepped back, delighted that his catch was playing to the audience.

"Would you like to see how strong I am?" Gordoc roared.

"Yes!" shouted back the merchants, all grinning at this unexpected display.

Slaves rarely gave such good value.

"Then I'll show you." Gordoc glanced at Ramil, who gave him a nod. Gordoc tugged the chain that looped between his manacled wrists and collar until he had enough slack in his right hand. He then folded it over his fist. Taking a couple of breaths he began to pull, the muscles bulging in his arms, veins standing out in his neck as he strained. The crowd shouted encouragement and cheered until finally the links broke and Gordoc stood there with his hands free, chain dangling in two pieces. The merchants burst into spontaneous applause which gradually petered out as they realized they now had a giant man standing in their midst unshackled.

"Er . . . shall I start the bidding?" quavered the

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slaver, giving Gordoc a wary look. "Who'll give me two hundred heralds?"

At that moment, Ramil ripped off his neck ring and sprinted from behind the merchants. He vaulted onto the block to be caught up by Gordoc and lifted onto his shoulders. The big man steadied Ramil's legs so he stood high above everyone. The Prince swung the collar two-handed in the air.

"Ironfist has shown that we are strong. We'd rather die than be slaves!"

With a head-cracking swoop of the collar, Ramil struck the slaver, dashing him to the ground. Confusion erupted in all quarters as the men from Ramil's pen swung their collars with deadly intent. Guards rushed to subdue the ringleaders only to find themselves attacked by slaves on all sides of the market. Chains were used to throttle guards; soldiers were overwhelmed by the weight of numbers as men threw themselves on sword arms. Those still in their pens howled and clashed the bars. Onlookers screamed as they tried to escape the crush. Melletin and his Brigardian recruits formed a barrier around the slave women with young children, defending them from the stampede. The rich merchants turned to flee but found a determined-looking slave girl standing behind them armed with a pole ripped from their canopy.