Lord of Raven's Peak (2 page)

He heard an agonized cry and turned back. The very fat merchant, the same Swedish merchant Merrik had seen the night before, the same merchant who had just been dealing with Valai, had grabbed the boy's arm and was pulling him away from the line of other boys and men. He was shrieking that he'd paid too much silver for the filthy little
garla,
or puny pig, and he would shut up now or be very sorry for it. But the shouts and cries weren't all coming from the boy. The most piercing ones were from a small child who had a death grip on the boy's other hand. By all the gods, Merrik thought, it was the boy's little brother and the man hadn't bought him. The child was screaming, terrified cries that were pathetic, and it made something deep inside him twist and cramp and he didn't understand it. He took a step forward, then saw the fat merchant slap the boy, for he was now trying to grab his little brother. The merchant then kicked the child hard. Merrik watched him fall onto his face and remain still, saw him just lie there, huddled into himself, sobbing. The boy hit the merchant, not a hard hit, for Merrik doubted he had the strength, but a fist in that oaf's fat belly that surely had to hurt. The merchant raised a fist, but then lowered it. He cursed, threw the boy over his shoulder and walked away.

The child rose slowly, holding his ribs, and just stood there, not crying out now, just staring after his brother, and suddenly, quite without warning, Merrik couldn't bear it. Something gave way deep inside him. No, he couldn't bear it, he wouldn't bear it. “Wait here,” he said to Oleg.

He was on his knees in front of the child. He gently cupped the child's chin in his large hand and lifted it. The tears were still streaming down his dirty face, leaving obscene white marks in their wake. “What is your name?” Merrik said.

The little boy sniffed loudly. He stared at Merrik, his small features so drawn with fear that Merrik said, “I won't hurt you. What is your name?”

The child said quite clearly, his words only mildly accented, “My name is Taby. That fat man took my—” His voice died, just stopped cold. He looked at Merrik and the tears were thicker now and the child was sniveling and hiccuping. And there was such fear in the child's eyes that Merrik wanted to snarl like a wolf, but he didn't. He didn't want the child to fear him more.

He said only, his voice low, slow, “What is your brother's name?”

The child ducked his head down and said nothing.

“Is he your brother?”

The child nodded, nothing more. He was very afraid. Merrik didn't blame him.

Merrik had looked up as he'd spoken, but the merchant was gone. The child was alone. He looked down at that bowed head, saw the child's thin shoulders heave and shake with his crying. He knew well what became of children who were alone and were slaves. Most of them died, and if they didn't, well, perhaps what became of them was even worse. Suddenly, Merrik didn't want this child to die. He took the little boy's hand, felt the filth on the child's flesh, felt the delicate bones that would snap like twigs at the slightest pressure, and something lurched inside him. The child wasn't as thin as his brother, and Merrik knew why. The older brother had given what food he'd gotten to the little boy. “You will come with me, Taby. I will take
you from this place. You will trust me.”

The child shuddered at his words and didn't raise his head or move.

“I know it is difficult for you to believe me. Come, Taby, I won't hurt you, I swear it.”

“My brother,” the child whispered, and he raised his head then and looked at Merrik with pathetic hope. “My brother is gone. What will happen to him?”

“Come,” he said, “trust me.” He walked away from the line of slaves, the little boy's hand tucked firmly in his large one.

Merrik knew he would buy the child for a very small weight of silver, and he was right. Soon he had completed his business with Valai, a small man with a twinkling eye and a shrewd, ruthless brain. Valai wasn't, however, necessarily cruel, just matter-of-fact and spoke his mind when it couldn't hurt his trade. He said to Merrik, “I know you aren't a pederast, thus the child will bring you no pleasure and will be only a burden to you.”

“Aye, but it doesn't matter. I want him.”

“It's possible that someone would buy him and he would be raised well, used only to service his masters. Not a bad life for such as he. Better than dying, which is what would happen at many other places.”

Merrik said nothing but he felt his guts surge with rage. Aye, the best that could happen would be that the child would be raped endlessly, then trained to pleasure men, those damned Arabs who kept both sexes in their keeping to pleasure them at their whim. After Taby grew up and no longer had a boy's allure, he would be thrown into the fields to work over crops until he died. And Merrik couldn't bear that. He looked down at Taby. No, he wouldn't allow that to happen. He didn't
question what he would do with the child. He paid Valai, then went to find Oleg.

If Oleg believed him mad, he said nothing, merely stared at the small boy, then grinned and nodded, rubbing his hands together. Oleg always loved an adventure. Merrik realized he was thinking he would grant him one this day. And Oleg would probably be right, Merrik thought.

T
HRASCO
,
A VERY
rich fur merchant of Kiev who prided himself on the quality of his miniver and his judicious use of bribes, looked down at the boy, smiled grimly, and nodded to himself. He tossed the whip to his slave, Cleve, who was also looking at the thin bloodied back, at the shuddering skinny body.

Thrasco was too fat to come down on his haunches, so he merely leaned down a bit, breathing hard even with that mild exertion, and said, “Now, boy, you will know that any disobedience from you, any hesitation in doing whatever I bid you to do, and I will flay the flesh off your pretty back. Do you understand me, boy?”

The boy's head finally nodded.

Thrasco was pleased; he was also relieved. He'd paid a goodly amount for the boy and he didn't want to kill him, but he'd had to discipline him for the blow in the belly he'd given him at the slave market. Now he was broken. Thrasco straightened. Aye, it was good now. Once he'd fed the boy for several weeks, he would be repaid many times over for his investment. He said his plans aloud to Cleve. “This boy will be a fine present to Khagan-Rus's sister, Old Evta. She is fond of young boys, and I know once this one is bathed and given a bit of food, he will please her. She will gain much
enjoyment from him. If he shows her a bit of spirit, why then, she will enjoy whipping it out of him.”

“Aye,” Thrasco's man said, one eye on that whip. He said nothing more because he had no wish to taste the whip on his own back, and Thrasco was unpredictable.

“I know what you're thinking,” Thrasco continued, still staring down at the boy. “You're thinking that the boy is a pathetic scrap and even clean will still look a pathetic scrap. I am a man of experience and I know that the boy has a fine-boned face. He is slight, delicate even. Just look at those hands and those feet, long and narrow. Aye, it's good blood he carries in his skinny veins. His parents weren't slaves. No, this one is different, and I will use his differentness to my advantage. See to him now, bathe his back and use some of that cream my mother sent me from Baghdad, 'twill prevent scarring. Leave him filthy for the moment, leave him clothed in his torn rags. He deserves to wallow in his dirt for the blow he struck me. All saw it and Valai laughed, others too. If he obeys you completely, you will bathe him on the morrow.”

Cleve nodded. Poor little boy, he thought.

Thrasco said as he walked to the door, “Old Evta will appreciate the little squirrel. Did I tell you that she likes to call her boys animal names? Perhaps if he comes to answer to squirrel here, she will like that and reward me even more. I will send food for him, just some broth, I don't want him to puke up his guts. Feed him, Cleve, and keep feeding him.”

Cleve nodded again, turning back after his master had left the small chamber to once again look at the lad. At least he wouldn't be sodomized, and that was something. Cleve had been sodomized regularly for nearly two years until finally he'd been sold to a woman with hair so pale it seemed white, a woman who looked
like one of the Christians' angels, but she wasn't. He unconsciously fingered the jagged scar on his face. After her, he was bought by a master who didn't like boys, and that master was Thrasco, bless the gods. He was cruel but he wasn't a pederast. He was occasionally even generous. He'd given Cleve a patched beaver fur to wear this past winter. Cleve knelt down and said quietly, “Are you awake, boy?”

“Aye.”

“The pain is bad, I know it. Thrasco enjoys wielding the whip, but his mother disapproves of it so he can only do it when she is visiting her family in the Caliphate. You are unlucky she is not here. Now, Thrasco ordered me not to bathe you or change you from these rags you wear. I dare not disobey him, but I will bathe your back and fetch this cream he just spoke about. He will send you food and you will fatten yourself.”

“I heard everything he said.”

“Then I won't repeat anything else.”

“There is nothing else to repeat. I'm not a squirrel. Your master is beyond foolish. He's also ugly and fat.”

“Nay, it is Old Evta who would call you an animal. Thrasco merely tries to select the animal before she does.”

“They are both foolish.”

Cleve frowned. The boy was still arrogant; Thrasco wouldn't like that at all.

“You heard Thrasco speak of Khagan-Rus?”

“Aye, he will give me to this man's sister. But who is this Khagan-Rus?”

“How can you be so ignorant? Why, he is the prince of Kiev. He is rich, and Old Evta is even richer, a fact the prince hates, but she controls him. She calls him her proud bull when he pleases her. When she wishes to hurt him, she calls him her little swamp beetle.
Thrasco wants to supply her with furs, mostly miniver, and she requires many. She is very fat, you know, nearly as fat as Thrasco. You will be his means to succeed.”

“Have you looked at me?”

The tone of voice was odd, but Cleve said only, “Aye, you're a miserable offering, but with food, you will improve, at least Thrasco believes so. I hope you're not really ugly under all that filth.”

“I am.”

Cleve frowned. “You're in pain yet you speak back to me as if I would not do anything to hurt you further. I am Thrasco's slave. You are the foolish one.”

The boy was finally quiet.

“Good,” Cleve said. “Keep your mouth shut and I will attend you. Thrasco won't tolerate his wishes being ignored.”

“He will die soon of gluttony.”

“Aye, mayhap, but you won't be here to see it. Now, boy, you will allow me to help you. No, don't shrink away from me. I know your back hurts, but you must let me get you onto the cot.”

“I would allow it, but I really can't move.”

Cleve stretched out his hand and gently turned the boy's face toward him. He lifted that face and saw that the pain had leached the very color from the boy's flesh. He saw, too, immense rage in eyes that should have grown accepting. Cleve lifted him as gently as he could, propping him up, actually, and half dragging him to the narrow bed. He eased him carefully down onto his side. Then he just stood there, staring down at the thin figure. And Cleve said quietly, “I can see your breasts.”

The girl said nothing, made no move to pull together the shreds of her tunic. The pain was simply too great.

“What is your name?”

“Laren.”

“A strange name and you speak with a stranger accent. You will tell me soon enough why you play the boy. In this land being a boy can lead to your rape as quickly as being a girl. Come now, I must help you. Nay, I shan't tell Thrasco, but know he will learn the truth soon enough and then I will suffer for saying naught to him.”

“I know,” she said, and bit her lip until it bled when he picked away bits of the filthy sealskin from her back and began to bathe her. “Thank you.”

Cleve grunted, calling himself more stupid than a naked man in winter, but he was gentle, and each time the girl tightened in pain, he felt it inside himself. After her back was clean and the thick white cream coating it, Cleve stood over her and said, “You will lie still. I will bring you food. Broth, Thrasco said, else you'll puke up your guts you're so skinny.”

“I know,” she said. “I heard him say it.” She said nothing more, merely waited until the man had left the small chamber. She looked about. The room was all clean whitewashed walls. She was used to dark timbered chambers with smoke-blackened beams, not this stark whiteness. Huge chambers that smelled richly of men and women and scented candles. Here it was so very different. There was only the bed she lay upon and a small table beside the bed. There was a single candle on the table. A high window, its fur covering drawn back, let in bright sunlight, and for that Laren was grateful. She looked at the bright light and wondered what had happened to Taby, trying for a moment to keep it a question even though she knew well enough. She felt the pain grip her chest even as it twisted and roiled in her back. She'd failed him.

She wasn't stupid. She knew what happened to
children left in the slave pit. They died. She had already seen it happen. Or here, in this strange savage land, they were used sexually until they no longer pleased their masters. Taby wouldn't survive that.

She didn't cry. Tears were a long, long time in the past, in a past that was vague and whispery and gray now, the blacks and whites having faded quickly, so very quickly in the press of hunger and cruelty and the absolute will to survive.

She wondered if she should simply end it now, for there was no reason to go on. She'd forced herself to go on in the past, for Taby's sake; she'd tell herself, I will survive for Taby. But it was difficult. Although the hatred inside her still burned as brightly, the need for vengeance still gnawed fiercely in her belly, it seemed all that was left of her. Ah, but there was Taby, always her little brother. He'd kept her spirit alive, kept her determined upon life else she might have simply closed her eyes forever if he hadn't been there, if he hadn't needed her, if she hadn't known that if she died he would surely die as well. And now, Taby would die.

But not right now, not immediately.

If he hadn't been bought today, he would be in the slave pen, a filthy enclosure near to the slave market. He would be alone and hungry and terrified. She realized she was his only hope. But because she'd been stupid enough to strike Thrasco, he'd beaten her, and now she was sprawled on her belly, helpless as a pup. At least a pup was better than a squirrel. She shook her head at that and raised herself on her elbows. The pain shot through her back, curving around her chest, making her gasp. It even hurt to breathe, but she did, and she realized that she could bear it. Odd how she could bear things now that before would have surely killed
her. Had she once been so soft, so delicate, such a useless creature?

She was so hungry. She smelled the rich beef broth before she even heard Cleve come into the small chamber. She felt saliva pool in her mouth.

“You will remain on your belly but I will put a pillow under your chest to raise your mouth.”

Soon he was spooning the hot broth into her mouth. It burned all the way to her belly. She felt light-headed at the taste of it, felt her body warming and strengthening. But she knew that it was an illusion at best, that her body would betray her, for she'd denied it too long.

She ate until the bowl was empty. She raised her eyes to Cleve's face. “I want more.”

He shook his head. “Nay, you'd puke if you ate more. Thrasco knows about these things.”

“I don't know how he could know. He looks as if he's never stopped eating in his life.” But she knew it as well, even as she spoke, but her belly was still rumbling, and she didn't care if she vomited up her guts if only she could have more of that broth to eat.

“You will sleep now, 'tis best for you.”

“What is the hour?”

“It is noonday.”

“You're very ugly, Cleve. What happened to you?”

He was silent a moment, then he laughed, a raw, hoarse sound, obviously a sound he hadn't made in a very long time. “It is a worthy story, one that makes women cry and men sigh with envy. Aye, it is a tale that makes the soul take flight.”

“I've given you pain. I'm sorry. Did someone slash your face when you were that young?”

“Aye, you've good eyes, little girl. Hush now.”

“Your eyes are beautiful. One is gold and the other is blue. In my land, many would believe you a devil's get.”

He grunted even as he pulled a cover to her waist. “If I were devil's get, believe you I would be Thrasco's slave? Nay, I would rule this damned Kiev had I the power. What you see in me is the way of life and men, naught more, naught less. At least I have enough food in my belly and my ribs don't stick out. Right now, you're uglier than I am.”

“And I smell worse.”

“Aye, that too.” Cleve paused a moment, rubbing his chin. “Do you have much pain?”

“It is less now. The cream is magical.”

“ 'Tis because Thrasco's mother is a witch. Even the Arabs fear her. She goes wherever she wishes to and no man tells her no.”

“You've been kind to me. If you didn't have the scar, you would be beautiful. Your hair is golden, like a god's, and your body is well made.”

“Aye, you've the right of it, little girl. Be quiet now. Thrasco ordered me to care for you. Aye, I find you unusual for a slave. Is Thrasco right? Are your parents not slaves? Is your blood unlike mine?”

She looked at him, then said slowly, “I have a little brother, Cleve.”

“Aye, I did, too, once long ago, only he was my big brother and he was sold and I wasn't. I cannot bring his face into my mind now.”

“Then you must understand. I must save him.”

Cleve laughed in genuine amusement. “The little boy won't die here, not in Kiev. Nay, he'll be sold to an Arab trader from Miklagard, or even farther to the south, and he'll be used, aye, I won't lie to you about that, but it won't be so bad. I survived it.”