The Invisible Hands - Part 1: Gambit (24 page)

Not to mention that someone, somewhere, who only possessed the two first volumes, would give a nice sum to acquire the final one to complete the series.

Standor was not just collecting books out of passion. It was in fact his pension plan. He had always loved them, books, scrolls, rare documents, and he had begun collecting them at almost the same time he had started his career, at the age of nineteen, as a simple assistant scribe at the Royal Administration. He smiled, thinking how the many books that cluttered his house, by now represented a veritable fortune.

They stood there, on shelves against almost every wall, for everyone to see. Only, nobody knew just what they saw. Old, dusty parchments and worn out tomes to the untrained eye. Invaluable and precious to the collector. Thieves looked for money, gold, jewels and the like. Things that glittered. Things they understood. Standor felt safe in the knowledge that no intruder in his right mind would ever steal a book.

He had climbed his way up through the ranks over the years, but always cautiously. He had been content to let others take the positions that brought authority, but also responsibility with them. He could 20
have sought promotion beyond his current rank, but eventually had decided against it. Who needed the stress, not to mention the dangers?

Months ago a young whippersnapper, a know-it-all with a big mouth, had made an almost instant rise to the top, only to end up in a back— water up north, disgraced, probably never to return. A victim of his own frankness and jealous colleagues. Nobody was jealous of Standor.

From the first days on the job, his demeanor had clearly stated that he was there just to do what was asked of him, not to make waves. He took great care to not excel, but just be quietly competent. It had served him well. Now in his fifties, he had a decent salary, the rank of head scribe and almost no responsibilities to speak of. It was a quiet, monotonous, ordered life. It was just how he liked it.

A few years ago, on his way home, he had been approached by a young noble, a very young noble, still a boy in Standor's eyes. He had a proposition, he had said. Standor had looked at the handsome face with the twinkling eyes and wavy light brown hair. He had to admit the young lord had congenial, pleasant manners and wasn't conceited.

It couldn't hurt to hear him out, he had decided. The young man had led him to the offices of Prandon & Malchiam, notaries, where they were shown into a little, private room, undecorated, with just a small table and two chairs. The young man, without giving a name, had presented himself as a companion of Prince Ehandar. Standor knew enough of the Tanahkos dynasty to guess what would come next. He was assured that he needn't put himself in any danger. Just transmit regularly any and all information that he thought could be useful to the prince. No risks whatsoever were involved, the young man smiled genially. After this one time he never needed to have contact with anybody associated with His Highness. He could just deliver his messages here, at the notaries, and put them into a locked box. What could be more natural than someone like Master Riggtar visiting his notaries?

After all he would have an account at the firm. An account into which his monthly retainer would be deposited.

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Standor did his utmost to look unimpressed when he heard the

amount of this monthly stipend. It was a substantial part of his salary.

He brought to the young man's attention that he couldn't guarantee spectacular results, given the need for caution and his less than exalted position. The prince understood as much, he was assured with a broad smile. In fact, he insisted on Master Riggtar being very circum— spect as an inquiry by the Black Shields could have disagreeable consequences for His Highness. Not as disagreeable as for Standor Riggtar, he remembered thinking. Whatever he could lay his hands on would be fine, the young noble had insisted, and so he had agreed. He was getting on in years, and who couldn't use some extra money?

From then on he regularly visited the offices of the notaries. They knew him and automatically led him into the small room. On the table now were a quill, ink and parchment, and a locked metal box. Only he, and presumably the young lord who had recruited him, had a key. He wrote down, from memory, all kind of tidbits he had been privy to the last week or so, in the normal execution of his duty. When he was finished, he locked the document in the box. He didn't smuggle documents under his clothes out of the castle, not even rough drafts. Too dangerous. Except this one time. To his annoyance he had been feeling a bit guilty that he was ripping off the prince. His Highness paid him quite a hefty sum, and, relatively speaking, what he gave back wasn't all that much.

Until the day came his superior was taken ill and a Royal Charter needed to be drafted. He saw its importance immediately. He knew his patron had been appointed, together with his younger brother, joint lord governor of the Northern Marches, and here was a document that gave the commander-general of the Army of the North a superior authority, superseding that of their highnesses. He had copied the rough draft on the back of a used scrap of parchment, hastily and with shaking hands, and crumpled it tightly into a small ball. The original draft he gave back, together with the finished charter, to his supervisor.

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The day dragged on interminably, and when he finally was able to leave the castle, it seemed as if every sentry knew, could see through his clothes, that he was smuggling an important document of state under them. Only when he had locked the parchment in the metal box had he been able to relax.

When he entered his living room, dusk had already fallen. He put his purchases on the table and lit a candle. Just when he was looking for a place on the shelves for his most recent acquisition, he heard a voice coming from the chair by the hearth.

“Good evening, Master Riggtar. My name is Gorth. Gorth of Sidullia. I am a friend of His Highness, Prince Ehandar. We have things to discuss.”

Uckmyo had shown him into his cell, that first day. It was a small room, in a long hallway, next to many of its kind, with a sturdy wooden door, fitted with a spy-hatch. A wall of iron bars ran from side to side and divided the already cramped space in two parts. The head slave prodded him on through a narrow metal door on the left of the grill, and locked it behind him.

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“Remove your sandals, and give them to me,” Uckmyo had said.

Lexyntas had looked at him uncomprehendingly.

“I don't know what the customs are where you come from, but in Naodyma slaves go barefoot at all times.” He had pointed at his own feet. “Don't worry, you'll get used to it soon enough. After a few months your calluses will be so thick you won't even notice small stones anymore.”

Lexyntas had nodded silently, removed his sandals and handed them through the bars to Uckmyo.

“Oh, you poor lamb, you're going to need some time to get used to your new condition, aren't you? I wish there was something I could do to help you. In fact there may be. From tomorrow on I will teach you what will be expected from you. It will make your life a lot easier. The rest of the day, of all days until you are sold, will be filled with light work in the vegetable gardens of the master. Smart man, our master.

Not only does he make a profit on you, he makes you work for your keep, such as it is, while you're here. It's sound business, he says, and I can't help but agree with him. We're rather proud of growing almost all our food ourselves here. As I said, it's light work in the fresh, open air, and it has the advantage of keeping you fit and healthy. Far better than moping in this little cell, isn't it?”

Lexyntas had nodded again, not daring to speak, afraid that his voice would crack.

Uckmyo had looked with compassion at the young man on whose face the misery and despair were clearly visible. He was a strong lad, yet he seemed to the head slave so thin and vulnerable. He had wanted to take him in his arms, whisper comforting words into his ears and tell him things weren't as bad as they seemed. It was out of the question, of course. For one, it would be totally unprofessional and unac— ceptable behavior for someone in his position. For another, things were as bad as they seemed.

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“For now I'm going to leave you,” he had said at last. “One of the other slaves will bring you food in a few hours. Don't be alarmed when, once every few hours, the hatchet opens. We keep a constant eye on all of you, day and night.”

He had turned around.

“It gets easier,” he had mumbled, not even convincing himself.

When the outer door closed behind Uckmyo, Lexyntas looked around. It wasn't cold in the little cell, yet he shivered. The stones felt cold to his bare feet. He was all but naked. The only garments he still had were his thin tunic and his loincloth. He wasn't even sure they were really his anymore. Someone could come in at any moment and order him to take them off and surrender them, like his sandals. He had been bought after all. All of him. Everything about him.

He sat down on his bunk bed, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, and suddenly the full realization of what he had lost, what he had become, sank in. He started to cry softly.

He thought of his friends. How when the times were hard, desperate even, there had always been the warmth of a shared destiny, of comradeship in misery. Now he was all alone and at the mercy of whomever bought him. He would be sold to the highest bidder. He was merchandise.

Although it was only late afternoon, he lay down on the narrow bed and pulled the covers over his head. Still crying, he hoped to flee in dreams from his despondent thoughts. He was still awake when they brought his evening meal, but he feigned to be fast asleep. The slave put the tin plate inside his cell without a word.

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Surprisingly enough, it had become better. A little, anyway.

Uckmyo was very patient and gentle with him, giving him time to get used to his new circumstances.

“You'll meet the others this afternoon, on the fields. Just be calm and friendly, but not too friendly. You see, most of them were born slaves, and they take a special sort of pleasure in harassing those who used to be free. I've asked the supervisor to keep an eye on you. He's a friend of mine, and he owes me a favor or two. He'll make sure they leave you alone.”

The head slave had explained that the master was trying to sell him to an important Naodyman kinship.

“That's not too bad, is it? You'll be a house slave, just like me. Well fed, decently clothed, and not too roughly treated if you behave. Most of the others will be sold to large farming estates of rich kinships. The food there will be coarse and sparse, the work hard. In fact, they will often think back to their days on our fields as a leisurely period in comparison. But you, you my friend, could go far.”

Lexyntas smiled bitterly and skeptically.

Uckmyo smiled back encouragingly.

“Maybe I shouldn't be telling you this, but if all goes well — that is, if the senator likes you — you will become the personal slave of his only son. Since you'll have to carry his books and scrolls for him, or his weapons, or anything else, wherever he goes, you'll be well clad and kept reasonably clean. All the noble kinships take good care of their house slaves, as the state of their possessions reflects on their reputation. Your chores will be minimal. Keeping your young master's room clean and shipshape, fetching stuff and generally making yourself useful. If he should be so inclined, some bed service may be required of you, but I expect that won't be—”

“What?” Lexyntas couldn't help exclaiming.

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“Oh dear, I do hope that won't be a problem.”

He sighed.

“Listen, my young friend,” he continued, “you really have to set your mind to understanding just what you are and what will be required of you. It's nothing extravagant. Young boys of noble kinships are expected to, eh, sow their first wild oats…well, in someone like you. It's an accepted and valued way for the young nobles to acquaint themselves with the pleasures of the flesh. Just obey your young master and let him do what he wants to do.”

Lexyntas had paled.

“Oh, come on, don't tell me you didn't play naughty games with your little buddies in your village. It's no worse than that, I suppose.

Unless, your young master has an exceptional appetite. On the other hand, some of them simply don't like guys. One can always hope, can't one? In any case, it will probably only last for a few years. Soon enough your young master will have real partners of his own class, male or female. That's you off the hook then.”

None of this had been able to remove the look of horror on Lexyntas's face.

“Let me put it this way,” Uckmyo tried again. “The drawbacks are short-lived, the potential benefits could be for life. Your young master will probably have had his share of groping and all kind of games, but you'll be the first one he has access to on a regular basis and in decent, comfortable surroundings. If you manage to make him feel like a God in bed, he will be grateful for the rest of his life. He won't be able to help feeling like this, because you made him feel like that. Think about it.”