Guardians of the Keep: Book Two of the Bridge of D'Arnath (50 page)

“Yes, Zoe.”

I couldn’t believe my good luck. Though I would do almost anything to set down my needle, I had

not dared volunteer for such duty, grumbling like the others when given a mission upstairs to the

threadmaker’s or next door to the tannery. I had not yet come up with a scheme to get into the Gray

House. Now the opportunity had fallen in my lap.

Zoe told me how to get to the servants’ door at the Gray House and where to find the

guardroom—just to the right of the front gate, where I had seen the lights so late. As I walked slowly

through the archway to the Lords’ Court with my bundle of leggings, I noted carefully the exact position

of the Zhid at the corner watchpost. He looked right through me.

The Gray House was larger inside than one might expect. From the back passage where Zoe had

directed me to go, I glimpsed immense, sparsely furnished rooms. All rooms in the house opened onto

small courtyards by way of arched doorways, but each courtyard was as dry and barren as the rest of

the Zhev’Na. A sterile house.

A dark-eyed slave girl, no more than a bony child, was carrying a basket of linens down the stairs.

When I asked her which way to the lower guardroom, she cringed, shook her head, and hurried away. I

came upon another slave polishing the tile floor with a rag and asked him the same. The man pointed

down a side passage, then angled his hand to the left and held up two fingers. Being a slave, the man was

not allowed to speak. Being a Drudge and therefore nothing, I could not give him permission, even by

asking a question.

“The second turning to the left?” I asked.

He nodded wearily, then went back to his work. Dreadful scars covered his shoulders. I had never

been close enough to a slave to see the collar. The strip of black metal, etched with letters and symbols in

brighter metal, extended all the way from collarbone to jaw. I remembered the screams I had heard the

night of my arrival, and I swallowed hard.

I delivered the leggings to the guardroom, noting that two guards were awake and two sleeping on

pallets in the next room. Keeping my eyes down as I had been taught, I asked the guards where I might

find the chamberlain. The Zhid directed me up the stairs.

Halfway up the tight staircase, I heard shouting and the unmistakable clash of weapons from outside,

beyond a sheltered balcony that opened off the stair landing. Seeing no one to observe me, I stepped

onto the balcony, staying to one side where I would be shielded from view by a column that supported

the roof.

In the center of a dusty courtyard, two boys were engaged in a fierce fight, circling, weaving, swords

flashing in the sunlight. One boy wore boots and padded leather armor, while the other—taller by a

head—was barefoot and wearing only a slave tunic and collar. I caught my breath. The boy in leather

was Gerick, his face fierce and shining with sweat as he beat off a quick blow and swiveled to attack.

The speed and accuracy of his movements had no relation to the awkward ten-year-old I’d watched at

Comigor.

The slave parried, and the two boys circled again. The slave was proud and unafraid, and though his

left arm dangled useless and bleeding at his side, he advanced on Gerick with cool and deadly precision.

What could a slave hope to accomplish by attacking the favored guest of the Lords?

I backed toward the stair ready to run for help, but a glint of sunlight on steel at the edge of the yard

stopped me. A Zhid warrior stood watching from the shadowed corner. Gerick moved to attack again.

The Zhid shouted something, and the slave shifted his defensive stance before Gerick struck. Earth and

sky! This was practice.

Gerick missed an easy opening, and the Zhid stepped out and stopped the match, castigating Gerick

thoroughly. While the warrior made Gerick repeat the required move ten times over, the slave boy

walked over to a water barrel by the wall and scooped out a drink, holding his wounded arm tightly. The

swordmaster completed his instruction, then stepped back and raised his hand. The boys took their

positions, and when the Zhid lowered his hand, they went at it again.

As I watched them close and strike out at each other again, I decided I’d been wrong to judge this

combat mere practice. In truth, it was war, both boys the casualties. When the opening came again,

Gerick did not miss. His sword caught the slave youth just below the ribs, and a red stain blossomed on

the youth’s gray tunic. Gerick stepped back, sword raised. The slave was bent over, his sword arm

clasped over his middle.

Yield
, I begged silently.
Someone end this
.

The youth, not more than fifteen or sixteen, straightened, and lifted his sword. He was pale. The two

engaged once more, and after only a few moments, Gerick knocked his opponent’s sword away. The

slave sank to his knees on the red dirt. Gerick touched the point of his sword to the boy’s neck, then

sheathed his weapon and turned his back. He walked over to the water barrel, scooped a dipper of

water, and drank deep. The swordmaster talked to Gerick for a while, demonstrating another movement

and making him practice it ten or fifteen times. Then the two of them moved off toward a shadowed

doorway. The gasping slave knelt in the broiling sun, trying to keep his life from leaking away into the red

dirt.

Voices from the lower level of the house set me moving again. I could think of nothing to do for the

youth. Any deviation from my orders would see us both dead. Certainly my tears could do nothing for

him or others like him, nor could they open Gerick’s eyes to see what lessons his masters were teaching.

Quickly I slipped back onto the landing and hurried up the stairs to the second level of the Gray

House. A sideways glance told me that the lights I had seen above the main gate were indeed from

another guardroom. Next to it was the storage room where I was to find one Sefaro, the person who ran

the household. To my astonishment, Sefaro was a slave.

“You’re the chamberlain?” I asked the slight middle-aged man who appeared to be taking inventory

of the pottery, linens, and myriad other items on the shelves that lined the large, windowless storage

room.

The slave nodded and gestured to himself, then raised his open palms in inquiry. How were we to do

our business if he could not speak?

“I am Eda, a sewing woman. Her Worship Kargetha sent me.”

A smile blossomed on his face, the first I’d seen on any face in Zhev’Na. Setting down his pen and

paper, he gestured me to follow. Up another winding stair and through a doorway, we came to an

immense set of apartments that covered the entire third level.

The sleeping and sitting areas each opened directly onto a balcony that ran the entire length and width

of the house. Filmy beige draperies, hung across the south windows of the sitting room, were showing

signs of sun rot. Sefaro brought in tall stools and helped me take them down. When the load of fabric

made me wobble, he gave me a hand down from my stool and bowed cheerfully at my thanks.

“I was told to find out how soon we must have them done,” I said.

He considered carefully, then raised three fingers.

“Three days?”

He nodded, and opened his hands as if asking if that was reasonable.

“Three days should be fine,” I said.

He smiled again so kindly that I decided to take a great risk. In a much quieter voice than before, I

said, “Are you really in charge of this house?”

He cocked his head, surprised at the question.

“I’m new here,” I said. “Don’t know the ways. Nobody told me that such as you ... a slave, that is ...

could be in charge of anything.”

He chuckled and waved his hand about the room, then settled it on his shoulder as if it weighed like

stone. Then his fingers touched his collar, and he shook his head with a rueful smile.

“You bear the responsibilities of the house, but, being a slave, you’ve little power to see them done.”

He agreed readily, his eyes appreciative.

I knelt and began to roll up the rotting draperies, motioning him to kneel beside me. He did so, and

began to smooth the wide fabric. With my head bent over the folds, I whispered, “Do your

responsibilities include checking on the fencing yard, just in case there is anything that needs to be seen to

there—something left that might be damaged?”

He paused for a moment, staring at me, and then ducked his head.

“Then, I think I can finish this task alone and find my way out.”

He laid a hand gently on mine, and then he bolted from the room.

At the same time that I finished rolling the fabric, voices sounded on the stair. Heart racing, I patted

the red scarf to make sure it covered all my hair and bowed my head as would be expected.

“I told Calador that I wanted better partners.” It was Gerick. “The younger boys don’t last long

enough any more.”

“And what did he say to your request?” Curse the devil forevermore . . . Darzid.

“That he’d see to it.”

The two walked slowly into the apartment. Weapons clanked and rattled as Gerick tossed his sword

belt onto a low bench.

“I’m happy to see how you’re improving. Your enemies will not expect such prowess from one of

your age. Don’t concern yourself with slaves. Their lives are to serve you.” Raging inside, appalled as I

considered the lasting effects of such vile mentoring on a child, I hefted the unwieldy rolls on my shoulder,

dipped my knee, and moved slowly toward the stair. Neither of them gave me a second glance. I could

not get back to the servants’ compound fast enough. Six more hours of sewing, then to bed. Another

thread in my little bundle under the pallet. Six more days, and we’d have Gerick out of this wretched

place.

CHAPTER 29

As the end of my sojourn in Zhev’Na approached, I believed fortune had smiled on our venture. I

had watched the Gray House through three more nights and seen no variation in the guard schedule. I

had taken note of the lights on the third level—Gerick’s apartments—and had seen that all of the

windows were dark well before the hour I called midnight. Only one small lamp on the corner of the

balcony flickered throughout the night.

I hoped to get sent back to the Gray House with the repaired draperies and even dawdled about my

work so perhaps Zoe might get annoyed with me again, but Dia was sent instead. No matter how I

prompted her, Dia could tell me nothing about her errand. She had seen no one, noticed nothing

interesting. I considered a midnight exploration of the Gray House, but as the deadline approached, I

decided not to jeopardize my good luck—not until I knew what help was available.

And so came the fourteenth day. It began at dawn just as any other day. Dia made the trip to the

cistern for the pail of wash water we all had to share, and I was fortunate to be second in line, so it was

still reasonably clean. I had learned to be happy to get the dirt out from under my fingernails on occasion,

saving anything more for the day I would be back in my own life.

Hours passed. For once, I didn’t notice my aching feet or punctured fingers. Terrified that I might

miss the signal, I studied every face, jumped at every voice. Every sense remained alert, while in the back

of my head I counted so as to be sure of the time. We stitched until two hours after sunset. Night ... of

course, night would be better. We retired, as usual, to the dormitory. When my eyes grew heavy in the

airless heat, I decided to sit on the steps and let the cold night air keep me awake. But one of the women

stirred restlessly, belching and moaning as if she were sick. I dared not move. The next thing I knew, it

was dawn.

I buried my disappointment in an even higher state of alertness. We washed and shuffled across the

courtyard to the sewing room, ate our morning cup of gruel after two hours of work, and the day

proceeded, no different from any other day. Another night passed. Perhaps I had miscounted the days.

Perhaps Gar’Dena had not meant fourteen days exactly, but only that fourteen, more or less,
should
see

it done. No plan dependent on so many mysterious elements could be so precise.

On the twenty-first day, I soothed my rising panic with Gar’Dena’s assurances.
They’ll not forget

me. If they decide the plan has failed, I’ll be transferred back to the military encampment and sent

back through the portal, just as Gar’Dena said
. But my cynical self taunted me.
The Preceptors

wouldn’t have just sent you here to rot, would they? All these Dar’Nethi are so honorable. . .
.

I put such thoughts out of my mind. I had to trust someone.

But as more days passed, my doubts grew right alongside the calluses on my fingers. What had gone

wrong? Why was there no attempt to retrieve me?

At the four-week mark, numb and terrified, I was sent to the Gray House once again, to deliver five

gray tunics for the household slaves. Sefaro was in his storeroom, writing in a journal of some kind. His

face brightened when he saw me.

“I’ve brought five tunics as ordered,” I said.

He nodded and inspected them carefully, then folded them and put them on one of his shelves.

“I’m also instructed by Kargetha to ask if it is time for the new banners to be made with the young