Tales of Neveryon (22 page)

‘This isn’t Kolhari. This is a mountainhold where they pay mountain prices. And I don’t need three slaves. I’ll give you ten iron pieces for the boy just to shut you up.’

‘Thirteen and your astrolabe there. You see I couldn’t take the thirteen by itself because certain gods that I respect consider that a highly dangerous number –’

‘I’ll keep my astrolabe and give you twelve, which is twice six – which certain other gods regard as highly
propitious. Now stop this back-country squabbling and …’

But the slaver was already squatting by the heavy plank, twisting one of his identical thick keys in the peg lock while sweat beaded the creases on his neck. ‘Well, get it out. Get your money out. Let’s see it.’

Gorgik fingered apart his fur sack and shook out a palmful off coins, pushing of some with his thumb to clink back in. ‘There’s your money.’ He poured the palmful into the slaver’s cupped hands, then took the proffered key and bent to grab up the loosened chain. ‘The iron coin is Imperial money too, and supposed to be worth two and a half silver bits to the Empress’s tax collectors.’ Gorgik tugged the boy up by the shoulder, wound the chain high on the boy’s arm, pulled it tight across the narrow back, and wound it high on the other arm: pigeoning the shoulders made running at any speed impossible.

‘I know the Imperial money. In five years’ time you won’t see any other sort – more’s the pity.’ The slaver fingered through, translating the various coinage into imperials and adding them with silent tongue and moving lips. ‘And you know too, apparently, the way they bind slaves in the mines down at the Faltha’s feet.’ (Gorgik finished tying the boy’s wrist; the boy was still looking down at where his leaf had fallen.) ‘Were you once an overseer there? Or a gang foreman?’

‘You have your money,’ Gorgik said. ‘Let me be on my way. You be on yours.’ Gorgik pushed the boy forward and pulled the end of the chain tight. ‘Go on, and keep out to the very end.’ The boy started walking. Gorgik followed. ‘If you run,’ Gorgik said, matter of factly, ‘in a single tug I can break both your arms. And if I have to do
that, then I’ll break your legs too and leave you in a ditch somewhere. Because you’ll be no use to me at all.’

From behind the slaver called: ‘Are you sure I can’t buy your astrolabe? Two silver bits! It’s a nice piece, and I have a yearning for it!’

Gorgik walked on.

As they passed from under the scraggly market awning, the boy twisted back to look at Gorgik with a serious frown.

He wasn’t a good-looking boy. His shoulders were as tan as river mud. His hair, bleached in bronze streaks, was matted low on his forehead. His green eyes were bright, small, and set too close. His chin was wide and weak, his nose was sharp and arched – in short, he looked like any other dirty and unmannered barbarian (they had lived in their own, filthy neighborhoods along Alley of Gulls at the north side of the Spur whenever any of them had ended up in Kolhari). The boy said: ‘You should have taken the woman. You get her work in the day, her body at night.’

Gorgik tugged the chain. ‘You think I’ll get any less from you?’

Gorgik ate heartily from a heavily laden table. He joined in an army song and beat a mug of rum on the boards in unison with the mugs of the soldiers; half his spilled over the horny knot of his fist. With the fifteen-year-old barmaid on his knee, he told a story to three soldiers that made the girl shriek and the soldiers roar. A very drunk man challenged him to dice; Gorgik lost three rounds and
suspected that the dice were loaded by an old and fallible system; his next bet, which he won, confirmed it. But the man’s drunkenness seemed real, for Gorgik had been watching him drink. In a long, long swallow, Gorgik finished his mug and staggered away from the table looking far drunker than he was. Two women who had come to the mountains from the plains and, having eaten behind a screen, had come out to watch the game, laughed shrilly. The soldiers laughed gruffly. And, at least, the barmaid was gone. One of the soldiers wanted the older of the women to gamble with the drunken dice man.

Gorgik found the inn owner’s wife in the kitchen. Outside, a few moments later, furs piled high as his chin, furs swinging against his ankles (as it was too warm for furs inside the house, she hadn’t even charged him), Gorgik edged between the ox-rail and the cistern wall and out of the light on the packed dirt behind the pantry window.

The inn, frequent in provincial middle-class cities, had once been a great house; the house had been closed up, ruined, parts of it pulled down, parts of it rebuilt. For more than a century only a third of it had stood at any one time; seldom for twenty years had it been the same third.

Gorgik carried the furs across what might have once been a great hall, or perhaps an open court. He stepped over stones that had, centuries or decades ago, been a wall. He walked by a wall still standing, and up a stand of rocks. Earlier, when he had asked the inn-keeper’s wife where to house his slave, she had told him to put the boy in one of the ‘outrooms.’

Out of the three, one had been filled with benches, branches, broken three-legged pots no one had gotten ’round to mending, and a cart with a shattered axle; the other two were fairly empty, but one had an unpleasant
smell. The ‘outrooms’ had probably once been quite as ‘inside’ the house as the pantry in which the heavy, spotty-checked woman had paused, on her way from kitchen to common room with a basket of roots on her hip, to instruct Gorgik the way here to them. The rooms sat alone on a rag of granite that raveled away behind the inn itself, a single wall from one winding down (here and there fallen down), to join with the wall of the standing wing.

This was Gorgik’s third trip to the outrooms.

The first trip, just before sunset, had been to chain up his young barbarian to the post that supported what was still left of the room’s sagging ceiling (the straw was sticking out of the cracked daub): more than half the ceiling was down and most of two walls had fallen, so that the room was missing one corner.

The second trip, before his own dinner, had been to bring the barbarian his supper – a pan of the same roots the woman had been carrying, skinned and boiled with a little olive oil. In taste, texture, and color they were between sweet potatoes and turnips. Also, in the pan, were pieces of fried fat that, if still hot and served with salt and mustard, were fairly tasty. It was standard fare for a laboring slave, and substantially better than the boy would have gotten with his slaver. Gorgik had paid the extravagant price for salt, and, in the smokey kitchen, stolen a handful of ground mustard and another of chopped green pepper from two crocks on the table, scattered them about the pan, then, brushing his hands against his leg, ducked under the slant beam of the kitchen’s transom, with a yellow mustard flower on his thigh.

The third trip – this one – was to bring out the blankets – not that it was particularly chill tonight. As he reached the room, a black cloud dropped its silvered edge from the moon (one of the rugs, up under his chin, tickling the side
of his nose in the pulsing breeze, was white); as the leaf-rush up about the thick trunks stilled, Gorgik heard the sound that had begun before the end of his first visit, had continued all through his second, and was whispering on into this, his third.

Gorgik stepped over the broken wall.

The boy, squatting away from him, so that only one knee was in direct moonlight, rubbed and rubbed his chain with a leaf.

The food in the pan was gone.

Gorgik dropped two of the furs on the rock floor and began to spread the third, black one.

The boy kept rubbing.

‘I bought you –’ Gorgik kicked a corner straight – ‘because I thought you were simple. You’re not. You’re crazy. Stop that. And tell me why you’re doing it.’ He shook out the second, white fur, dropped it to lap the black, and flung out the brown on top of both.

The barbarian stopped, then squat-walked around and squinted at his owner, dropping both forearms over his knees; the chain hung down from his neck (a length sagged between his two fists) to coil on the ground before snaking away to its pole back in the dark. The boy said: ‘I am dead, yes? So I do my death task.’

‘You’re crazy is what you are. That scraping and rubbing, it gets on my nerves.’ Gorgik stepped on to the blanket edge and sat down. ‘Come over here.’

The boy, without rising, squat-walked on to the white fur. (Behind him, the chain lifted an inch from the ground, swung.) ‘I am not crazy. I am dead. Nargit was crazy, but not … ’ The boy lowered his eyes, moving his thin upper lip around over his teeth – one of which, Gorgik had noticed by now, lapped the tooth beside, giving all his barbaric expressions still another imperfection. ‘Crazy
Nargit is dead too … now. Because I kill him … I wonder if I would meet him here.’

Gorgik frowned, waited.

The mark of the truly civilized is their (truly baffling to the likes of you and me) patience with what truly baffles.

The boy said: ‘I have as many lifetimes as there are leaves on a catalpa tree three times the height of a man in which to go at my task. So I must get back to work.’ He brought leaf and link together; then he dropped his eyes again. ‘But already I am very tired of it.’

Gorgik pursed his lips. ‘You look very much alive to me.’ He grunted. ‘Had I thought you were dead, I never would have purchased you. A dead slave is not much use.’

‘Oh, I am already dead, all right!’ The boy looked up. ‘I figure it out, at the beginning. It is almost exactly like the tales of my uncle. I am chain in a place where there is no night and there is no day; and if I rub a single leaf against my chain for a length of time equal to as many lifetimes as there are leaves on a catalpa tree three times the height of a man, my chain will wear away, I shall be free, and I can go to the fork in the river where there will always be full fruit trees and easy game … But you know?’ The barbarian cocked his head. ‘When they took me from the forest, they chain me right away. And right away I begin my task. But after a week, a whole
week
into this death of mine, when they gave me to the man from which you took me, they took away my old chain and gave me a new one. And it wasn’t fair. Because I had already work at my task for a week. Work hard. And do it faithfully every waking hour. A week, I know, is not so much out of a length of time equal to as many lifetimes as there are leaves on a catalpa tree three times the height of a man. Still I
had
work hard. I had do my task. And it make me very discouraged. So discouraged I almost cry.’

‘Let me tell you something about being a slave,’ Gorgik said, quietly. ‘Even if you work at your task a length of time equal to the number of lifetimes as there are leaves in an entire catalpa forest, as soon as your master sees that you are one leaf’s thickness nearer freedom, he will promptly put you in another chain.’ There was a length of silence. Then Gorgik said: ‘If I take that chain off, will you run?’

The boy frowned. ‘I do not even know which way I should go to find the fork in the river from here. And I am very tired.’

‘How long have you been captured now?’

The barbarian shrugged. ‘A moon, a moon-and-a-half … But it feel like a man’s lifetime.’

Gorgik fingered for the pouch dangling beside his buttock, took out the key, went forward on his knees, and reached for the boy’s neck. The boy raised his chin sharply. The key went into the lock; the chain fell – soft on fur, a-clink on rock.

Gorgik went back to sitting, rolling the key between his fingers.

The boy reached up and felt his neck. ‘Will you take the collar off too?’

‘No,’ Gorgik said. ‘I won’t take the collar off.’

Slave and owner squatted and sat at opposite edges of the blanket, one frowning, fingering his collar, the other watching, turning the key.

Then the moonlight in the boy’s matted hair darkened.

Both looked up.

‘What are those?’ the barbarian asked.

‘The giant flying lizards which these mountains are fabled for. They raise them in the corrals further up among the rocks.’ Gorgik suddenly lay back on the fur. ‘They are the special wards of the Child Empress, groomed and
trained with special riders. There –’ Gorgik pointed up through the broken roof. ‘Another one. And another.’

The boy went forward on all fours and craned his head up to see. ‘I saw some out earlier. But not as many as now.’ Now the barbarian sat, crossing his legs. One knee bumped Gorgik’s.

Dark wings interrupted the moonlight; and more wings; and more. Then the wings were away.

‘Strange to see so many out,’ Gorgik said. ‘When I was last through Ellamon, I only saw one my whole stay – and that might have been a mountain vulture, off between the crags.’

‘No vulture has a tail – or a neck – like that.’

Grunting his agreement, Gorgik stretched on the rug. His ankle hit the food pan; it scraped over rock. He drew his foot back from stone to fur. ‘There, the whole flock is coming back again. Move over here, and you can see.’

‘Why are they all over – no, they’re turning.’ The barbarian moved nearer Gorgik and leaned back on his elbows. ‘They have riders? What must it be to fly so high, even above the mountains?’

Gorgik grunted again. He put one hand under his head and stretched out the other – just as the barbarian lay down. The metal collar hit Gorgik’s horny palm; the matted head started to lift, but Gorgik’s horny fingers locked the nape. The barbarian looked over.