Rise of a Hero (The Farsala Trilogy) (35 page)

The night stretched on. Soraya couldn’t even think of sleep, but eventually her hands grew numb. At least getting rid of the rope would give her something to do. She might be able to untie the knots with her teeth, but there was a better way.

It was hard to reach the full shilshadu trance, frightened as she was, but the soft discipline steadied her. Once she found the bright, still place in her spirit, she waited until the patroller had passed and then opened herself to the fire of the torch, and thrust her wrists into the flame. Her heart danced with the fire’s delight at the new fuel the rope provided, and the flames caressed her wrists like a toddler’s patting hands.

How long had it been since she had held Merdas, felt his chubby hands on her face? Almost a full year. He would be three years old now, taller and thinner, talking in sentences. He too would have a slave’s tattoo on his small shoulder, and a slave’s life ahead of him if Soraya couldn’t get out of this, and win him free.

The fire stung her skin—fire didn’t feel grief—and she yanked her hands back, breaking the charred rope.

Brushing sparks from her skin, Soraya gazed at the untouched flesh beneath the black smudges. Maok’s gift. She danced a few steps, to the joy of magic. Whatever happened tomorrow, she had this: magic, and her goal. She would survive, and go on. If she couldn’t escape tonight, well, someday she would and then—

“Girl!” The soft voice came from the other side of the fence, in the corner behind the shed. It wasn’t dark—no place in the slave pen was dark tonight, but it wasn’t as bright. “Get over here, so we can talk!”

Soraya frowned, even as she moved to obey. She had started burning off the rope just after the watch passed, and it hadn’t taken long, so she had
some time. Who in the Hrum camp would try to talk to her tonight? Casia? But it sounded like a man’s voice. Suddenly aware that someone else might be watching, Soraya slowed her steps and tried to move casually.

“Hurry up,” the voice whispered impatiently. “The sentry won’t pass for a bit, and they’ve all gone by on the other side of the pen before, but we’ve got to . . . You!”

The sharp exclamation was still a whisper. Soraya went up to the fence and pressed her face against the slats, peering into the darkness. The torchlight cast soft bars of light onto the man’s face . . . the astonished face of the peddler her father had hired to bring supplies to the croft where she’d hidden all last winter.

“What are you doing here?” They spoke almost in unison.

The peddler snorted. “Never mind. We don’t have time for this. Although . . . You’re the slave that Ludo got into trouble? I thought you stayed with Golnar and Behras.”

“How do you know about Ludo?” Soraya demanded. “About me? I saw you here before—I assumed you were selling things, but—”

“Look, we really don’t have time for this,” the peddler repeated. “I brought a knife so you can free your hands. You need to—” His gaze fell to her smudged, bare wrists. “How did you get out of the rope?”

“A trick,” said Soraya impatiently. “We don’t have time for that, either. The night watch will be back soon.”

“Right.” The peddler drew a steadying breath. He had given her a name once, but she hadn’t bothered to remember it—largely because she was certain it was false. “I’m going to let the watch pass one more time, then I’ll pick the lock.”

“How do you—”

“Will you stop asking questions? I was a smith once. I’ve helped make locks. But it may take a while, so while I do that, I want you to bundle some of that straw up into a blanket. Make it look like you’re still there, asleep. When I get the gate open, head straight for the animal pens. Hide near a place where the midden cart will stop. Do you know where—”

“I’ve been loading it. It stinks!”

“Who cares? I’ve arranged for—I’ve tied a net beneath the cart. It will sag a bit, but it shouldn’t
be visible as long as no one’s looking for it. And that cart is the only thing that will leave camp before they come for you. When the cart stops, get yourself into the net and keep still until you’re well away—the carter doesn’t know, and we need to keep it that way.”

“But won’t the carter—”

“There’s a bumpy place in the road, just before the second canal bridge, about half a league from the camp. When you reach it, cut the ropes that hold the net. You’ll have to cut two of them. Just lie on the road till the cart’s over the bridge, then get yourself into the bushes beside the canal. There’ll be clothes and food waiting there, and I’ll come for you later in the day. But until I come, you hide. Understand?”

“Yes, but why in Azura’s name are you—”

The peddler stiffened, listening, then turned and hurried into the darkness. Now that she was listening, Soraya could hear the clanks and clicks that heralded the sentry’s approach.

Swearing under her breath, she ran to the shed and lay down in the straw, pulling the blanket over her, leaving just her face showing. The last time the sentry passed, she’d been sitting still
to meditate. Now she would appear to be sleeping. When he saw her next, it shouldn’t seem odd that she’d rolled over in her sleep, carrying the blanket with her.

Soraya tried to relax, to make her breathing soft and even, but she didn’t succeed. She’d never felt less like sleeping in her life.

But why was the peddler, of all people, helping her to escape? He did business with the Hrum. She’d seen him! How did he know she needed to escape? And why did he care? He hadn’t known who she was—he’d been as surprised by her identity as she was by his. But whatever his motives, she could hardly be worse off, even if the attempt failed. And that seemed likely. She could probably get from the slave pen to the barns in the darkness, but even though the midden cart arrived at dawn, there would still be some light. How could she get beneath it, unseen, much less get out of the camp without anyone looking under the high cart to see her dangling there like a netted trout? She hadn’t missed the fact that someone else had rigged the net, and probably left the clothes and food by the canal for her, so there was at least one other conspirator. And then she had to get out of the net
without the carter—who was presumably loyal to the Hrum—noticing her departure! This was far too complicated . . . but it was better than any plan she’d come up with.

She listened as the sentry clanked up to the fence, paused for a moment, and then walked on. She waited until she heard the faint clicks of someone trying to pick the lock before she flung off the blanket and began to gather straw.

Making a straw-filled blanket look like a sleeping human was harder than it sounded and required a lot more straw than Soraya would have thought. She used all the straw in the back of the shed, piling up the straw in front to hide its absence. She was thinking she could use another bundle when a hiss from the gate summoned her.

The iron-barred gate swinging open onto the night was one of the most beautiful sights she’d ever seen.

“It’s good enough,” the peddler whispered. “You know what to do?”

“Yes,” Soraya replied as he quietly shut the gate and snapped the lock closed. From a distance the blanket-shrouded shape looked remarkably like a sleeping person, and she felt a thrill of pride.
“But I’ll need a knife to cut the ropes under the cart. And I insis—I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me why you’re doing this.”

The peddler already had the knife in his hand, but now he hesitated, eyeing her strangely. “You’ve changed.”

Soraya snorted. “Never in my life would I have been crazy enough to insult you at a moment like this.”

“It’s not that.” He handed her the knife, still staring at her face as she tucked it into the waistband of her britches. “At least, not entirely. It’s—”

A privy door slammed in the distance. It wasn’t the sentry approaching, but it was enough to remind both of them that their time was limited.

“I’ll explain later,” said the peddler. “I promise. Go now.” He gave her a small shove toward the animal pens, then turned and walked away.

Soraya knew he was right, but even as she stepped into the darkness—unable to hurry until her eyes adapted—she wondered what he’d been going to say. Her hands were callused now, but she didn’t think she’d changed. Then she wondered if she would escape to hear his explanation, and forgot about trivial questions.

It was very dark coming from the well-lit slave pens, but Soraya had become familiar with this part of the camp over the last month, and she groped her way toward the goat pen without knocking into anything. The goats were out in the pen, but they were familiar with the scent of the person who slept on the other side of the back wall of their shed. They didn’t bleat as Soraya felt her way down the fence to the pile of fresh straw that was mounded between the goat pen and the pig sty.

She settled herself between the straw and the fence, but decided not to burrow in and cover herself—it would rustle too much as it was. Still, she could think of no better place to hide. It was all very well for the peddler to say, “hide where the midden cart stops,” but the midden cart didn’t stop in many places, and all of them were on open streets where there wasn’t much cover.

She expected a long, fearful wait, but despite her tension and doubts, there was something soothing about being free. Soraya actually dozed on and off, though the rattle of the cart in the distance brought her jerking awake. She rolled out of the straw toward the fence, and lay watching the street, where she knew the cart would appear.

The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the sky had turned from starry black to gray, and the flat light illuminated the world. In early autumn, this time of morning was cold. Soon it would be winter. Soraya didn’t want to spend the winter as a Hrum slave. Though if she left now, she would have no way to discover where Merdas and Sudaba had been sent. For a moment her resolve wavered. If she could get that information, it would be worth a beating. But her only chance to see those records had been lost when Garren realized who she was; with the watch he kept on her, she would never be able to reach them. And with a slave’s tattoo on her shoulder, her odds of crossing the Hrum Empire to find and free them were vanishingly small.

No, the best thing she could do now was escape, and try to help the resistance keep Farsala unconquered for the remainder of the Hrum’s year. In the despair that followed her father’s defeat and death, Soraya had thought that impossible. But Mazad had held out for almost six months already, and worried Garren so much that he had suborned the city’s governor. When she got free, she must find the men who were using Sorahb’s name and
warn them. Yes, that was the first thing to do. But she’d have to be careful who she told. She’d seen that peddler dealing with the Hrum; the fact that he was helping her now wasn’t . . .

Could this whole thing be some sort of trap? Could Garren plan to let her think she’d escaped, so that in her gratitude she’d tell her rescuer all she supposedly knew? Was he that subtle? He might be. But even if it was a trap—and it might not be—she might still spring it unexpectedly and win her freedom. But she’d have to be very careful with this peddler. Just because he seemed to be helping, didn’t mean he was really on her side.

The cart came into view, followed by two yawning men with pitchforks. Soraya watched as they cleaned the corral where the horses and mules were kept. The carter stopped the cart where he always did, and climbed down to help them just as he’d helped her. A methodical man, Azura bless him.

They were too sleepy to talk much, but they grumbled a bit about “that slave girl’s” absence, and Soraya grinned. The muscles of her face felt stiff, and strange. Cold? Or had it really been that long since she had smiled? She felt more alive this
morning than she had for months—as if her mind, her spirit, had been sleeping and come suddenly awake.

It might have been the excitement, the chance to act on her own, the prospect of escape—but Soraya thought it was also the awkward stiffness of the knife’s sheath poking into her belly. She would fight if they tried to capture her, and if she escaped she would fight them in earnest, as a deghass should. As her father would have done. No wonder she felt as if her true self was waking from a long sleep.

They finished with the corral and moved the cart forward to stop beside the goat pen. Soraya took advantage of the noise to extract herself entirely from the straw and crawl around to the other side of the pile. Anyone who came down the street from the other direction would see her, but no one else seemed to be awake.

The cart was still several yards from the straw pile—Soraya had known the cart wouldn’t park right next to it since the men needed clear access to the pen. The ox who pulled the cart was near the pile. His nostrils flared as he caught Soraya’s scent, and one great eye rolled down to look at her.
But Soraya had been loading the cart herself for weeks now, and the placid ox knew she belonged there.

She waited till the men were busy mucking out the pen, until the carter had climbed down to help them. Then, heart hammering, she crept in front of the ox and down the far side of the cart. She watched their legs as she crawled, moving slowly for silence. If all she could see was their legs, then they couldn’t see her. Silence was more important than speed, but she longed to hurry, to get out of sight as quickly as possible.

In moments she passed the first of the cart’s tall wheels and could roll—
Quietly, girl!
—underneath. If the net wasn’t there . . .

It was! Bound to the bottom of the cart by two ropes that ran through axle braces and crossed in an X. It didn’t look like there would be enough room between the tight ropes and the bottom of the cart for Soraya’s body, but when she pulled down one edge of the net and worked her way onto the ropes—
Quietly!
—they sagged alarmingly close to the ground.

Small thuds shook the cart as the men cast forkfuls of dung aboard, and Soraya struggled to
balance herself on the crossed ropes. The net would catch an arm or leg that slipped, but the weight of her body had to rest on the ropes or she would be dragged . . .

A drop of moisture lit on the back of her neck and ran down the side. What? . . . of course. The midden was damp, and though the slats at the bottom of the cart were well fitted, they weren’t watertight. They would leak.