Blood Storm: The Books of Blood and Iron (5 page)

“Just need the right moment,” he said at the door, then paused. “Just to be clear, you’re going to say yes, right?”

“What woman can refuse a man who brings her a handful of squid ink?”

He grinned and left, but Aisa noted the expression had an air of sadness to it.

•   •   •

After a considerable walk from Mrs. Farley’s rooming house, Aisa arrived with her pack at the Docks. Because Balsia was a port city—perhaps
the
port city—the Docks had a life of their own. Countless quays, dock, slips, berths, and piers jutted like the warrior’s toes into the green water of Bosha’s Bay, and hundreds of vessels of all sizes, from tiny rowboats to massive ships that moved under sails as big as clouds moored themselves here. The bay was protected from the South Sea by a spit of land that lay across the mouth, keeping the bay calm in even the strongest autumn storms. The spit was called the Sword of Bal, and legend said the great hero had fought a great fire-breathing wyrm on this spot countless centuries ago. They had killed each other. The wyrm’s blood created the bay, and Bal’s dropped weapon created the spit of land that sheltered it. At one time in her life, Aisa wouldn’t have given the story a shred of credence, but after watching Danr wield the Iron Axe, she half wondered.

Sailors, merchants, dockworkers, rope weavers, prostitutes, innkeepers, coopers, sail makers, and others created
a city all its own down at the Docks. Like the city of Balsia itself, the Docks were split in half by the river Bal—Aisa noted the lack of originality in names for this place—which emptied into Bosha’s Bay. As she always did when she arrived at the Docks, Aisa paused to shade her eyes and look out over the water in case one of the merfolk might be swimming there. There never was, but she always looked.

At least the sky was clear for the moment. When they had first arrived in the city of Balsia, Aisa was hoping to board a ship right away and go looking for merfolk, but they had arrived in early autumn, the beginning of storm season. Dreadful typhoons blew up out of nothing in the Iron Sea and rushed across the coast. Only the most desperate or foolhardy captains put to sea at this time of year. Instead they cozied up to Balsia’s forgiving port for a month, made repairs, and let their sailors get into fights on land, where it was the busy season for innkeepers and whorehouses. Aisa tried to tell herself it was only one more month, but the time dragged, and the ever-present ocean tempted her daily.

Some days, the ocean called to her, almost sang to her, like a mother humming a lullaby, and she wanted to . . . what? It was hard to say. She had no real desire to sail, could barely swim, but the ocean was mysterious and powerful and gentle all at once. It held secrets, and she wanted to know every one. She had no real idea why she felt this way. It was simply a fact that she did. Most likely it had something to do with the conversation she had had with the mermaid all those years ago when she was first sold into slavery. She would have liked to ask the merfolk in person about it. But merfolk never swam the filthy waters of Bosha’s Bay, and the ocean hid its secrets beneath the greasy little waves of the harbor.

On the west bank where the river met the bay stood the gleaming azure jewel that was Bosha’s temple. Since Bosha was the goddess of the ocean, her priests were in charge of the Docks, and her temple showed their wealth. A high wall studded with shards of blue glass surrounded the temple complex, and within rose a number of intricate buildings designed to appear that they flowed and crested like waves. More glass, and even real jewels, were inlaid on the pale stone so the place sparkled and shone like a bit of ocean dragged up on land.

It made a stark contrast to the cages and pens of the slave market directly across the river. Most of the pens were long, low buildings with cages or shackling areas inside. If the city was a seedy warrior, this place was a festering sore on his buttocks. Here, the smell of fear and feces made the wind heavy with hopelessness. Today, every pen was filled to capacity, and more slaves of all ages, including babies, were chained outside them. Slave dealers in black moved among the pens, mingling with customers—wealthy estates intending to buy in bulk, whorehouses looking to fill beds, homeowners seeking a cheap maid or houseboy.

Aisa’s teeth ground until her jaw ached. She hated this place, but she couldn’t stay away. The pens were packed because of what she and the others had done to the Fae. Before the Battle of the Twist, the main market for human slaves had been the elves in Alfhame, just up the coast to the east. The Fae used slaves the way a pampered lady devoured sweetmeats, and many humans had been sent to Alfhame as tribute, but just as many were exchanged for elven silver.

Almost no humans ran away from slavery among the Fae. A lingering touch by an elf put on a glamour that made the human love the elf, worship him, yearn for him.
Aisa remembered very well how badly she wanted her elven master, the king, to touch her, or simply say her name aloud. And then Aisa had displeased her master and he leveled on her the worst possible sentence: exile. For two years she had lived in Farek’s cold house, hungering for the elven king’s touch, until the Nine had given her the chance to lay the elf king low. The moment he died at her feet, her hunger had ended. It was a revelation—killing the elf ended the hunger among the human slaves. Once that knowledge got out, the Fae no longer wanted human slaves. With the main buyer no longer interested, a glut appeared on the market. Prices fell sharply. And with lowered value came an increase in abuse of the merchandise. The combination of guilt and outrage brought Aisa here.

Aisa filled two buckets of water at the common pump and made herself stride toward the first pen. The guard stationed there recognized her and let her pass inside with a simple nod. The smell of the pen hit her with a ghostly fist. The streets had nothing on the pens, where sanitation was a bucket or bowl, where few people were able to wash, and where people often vomited or soiled themselves from fear. The stench of misery, pain, and waste lay thick and pungent on Aisa’s skin. Slaves were chained or tied to a series of low walls that ran the length of the pen. Voices bounced off the walls and ceiling in a mix of conversation, moans, cries, and soft sobs. There was no laughter in this place.

“Here you are.” A plump human woman in a red robe bustled up to Aisa. She had a wrinkled face, twisted hands, and thinning white hair. Her name was Kuri, and she was a priestess for Grick. The temple of Grick officially disliked slavery, but did not have the political clout to make its displeasure known. It did send its priests and acolytes to the slave pens to practice their healing. Aisa was no
acolyte, but the temple never turned away volunteers, partly in the hope that they might become converts. Aisa wondered what the priests would think if they knew Aisa and Kalessa had once kept house for Grick for several months while the Old Aunt herself called up Aisa’s personal demons in single combat. As a reward for defeating her inner monsters, Grick had given to Kalessa a sword that changed into any blade Kalessa desired and to Aisa an old fireplace poker that unexpectedly turned out to be the handle of the Iron Axe.

“A new lot came in early this morning, and they need seeing to,” Kuri said to her. “Over in the corner. Do you have what you need?”

“I do, and good morning to you.”

Kuri waved a hand and hurried off to a knot of children who were chained together. Aisa watched her go, a little glad Kuri had not requested that she deal with them. The adults were heartbreaking enough.

Aisa was carrying her buckets to the corner when a hand lifted one of them from her. Surprised, she turned. The helper was a dark-haired woman in her fourth decade, old enough to be Aisa’s mother. She wore a patched blue cloak with the hood cast back, and she carried a broom in her other hand. Her name was Sharlee, and Aisa had come across her and her broom in the slave pens a number of times.

“Let me carry this one, honey,” Sharlee said. “Do you need a hand today?”

Out of habit, Aisa almost refused, then changed her mind. It was silly to turn down help. “Thank you,” she said instead.

In the corner, three women were chained to the wall by ankle shackles that gave them spare movement. The first had a festering cut, and the second was coughing
uncontrollably. The third seemed healthy, but Aisa would have to examine her anyway. The first two women flinched when Aisa set the buckets down.

“My name is Aisa,” she recited in a quiet voice. “I’m not a buyer, and I do not work for the slavers. My friend Sharlee and I wish to help with your sickness and injuries.”

She wet a cloth in the first bucket and handed it to the first woman so she could clean herself. Aisa had learned from experience that people were more likely to trust her if she let them do something for themselves, like wash or eat a bit of food. Some slaves became violent if she offered too much too fast.

“Thank you, lady,” the first woman said.

“Now you, dear.” Sharlee wrung the cloth and gave it to the second woman, and then the third.

“May I see the cut on your hand?” Aisa asked. The first woman’s cut was indeed infected, and Aisa cleaned it with supplies from her pack and bandaged it while the woman sucked in her breath. “Do your best to keep it clean. I’ll check on you later.”

“If no one buys me, you mean,” the woman said sadly.

The second woman coughed hard and spat out a throat full of phlegm. “Why are you here, if you don’t work for the slavers?”

This question Aisa had heard often. She poured some water from the bucket into a cup and crushed a handful of different medicines into it. “I used to be a slave. Now I help where I can.”

“Can you help me escape?” the woman asked boldly. She had greasy brown hair and hard lines around her mouth. “I have a son back home.”

Sharlee shot Aisa a glance. The request pulled at Aisa’s heart. She wanted to say yes, she could help. The unfairness of this place fanned an outrage that swelled her chest
with tears—and made her want to explode. She wanted to beat the guard over the head, take his keys, and let every slave free. But she also knew what would happen if she did. Perhaps two or three slaves might actually escape. The rest would be recaptured and beaten for their trouble. Aisa would be arrested, imprisoned, and probably executed.

It was the suffering that drew her here. She couldn’t look at these people without stopping to help. It was too little, but it was something.

“I know of no way to escape,” she said. “But if you try, I will not stop you. This will help your cough.”

Aisa started to hand the second woman the cup, but she caught Aisa’s wrist. “You say you used to be a slave,” she hissed. “But now that you have your freedom, you won’t help me? Traitor!”

She dashed the cold cup down Aisa’s front with a snarl and turned her back with a clanking of chains. Aisa stood there for a long moment, dress dripping, face flaming. The other slaves either stared or looked carefully away. Sharlee bit her lips. Aisa trembled as tears warred with anger. Perhaps she was a traitor. But how dared this woman?

After a few deep breaths, Aisa sighed and took up her packs and the buckets, intending to move on to the next group of slaves. For a moment, she remembered the little blossom falling beneath her scissors. Sometimes a small sacrifice must be made in order to help the whole, and sometimes that sacrifice was her own self.

Sharlee touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry, honey. You’re only trying to help.”

“We’ll check her again later,” Aisa decided. “Come on.”

They worked together, along with a too-tiny group of priests from the temple of Grick. Some slaves accepted aid
gratefully, some barely noticed her presence, others raged and snarled at her. The unfairness of the place continued to press at her, but Aisa knew if she didn’t do it, these people would suffer, so she kept at it. Sharlee stayed with her the entire time, and for that, Aisa was grateful. It was good to have more female friends. Kalessa was a wonderful sister, but sometimes it was like befriending a pile of swords and needles, and it felt nice to be with someone a little less . . . prickly. And while her hands were filled with work, her head remained empty of screams.

“So. How are things with your friends, if you don’t mind some motherly prying?” Sharlee asked while they refilled the buckets at the well outside.

Why was everyone asking this today? Aisa’s thoughts rushed back to the rooming house and the argument with Danr. A guilty flush came over her. “Er . . . fine.” Aisa pretended to check her pack for burdock. “We are well.”

Sharlee’s lined face softened. “I’m so sorry.”

“What?”

“This is me you’re talking to.” Sharlee hoisted a dripping bucket from the well. “You don’t need to lie, honey. Not between us women. What happened? Was it something to do with Danr and the Battle of the Twist?”

“Ssss!” Aisa glanced around while Sharlee poured water over their hands to clean them. “Not here!”

“Honestly! You’re heroes, all of you! I don’t know why you want to keep so quiet about it.
I
figured out who you really were. Do you think no one else will?”

Aisa scrubbed her skin in the cold water. “Some may see us as heroes, yes, and an equal number wish us dead. Best just to keep quiet. Besides, I do not—Danr does not—wish for the attention.”

“Of course, honey.” Sharlee sent the bucket back down
the windlass. “But what
happened
today? I can see you’re upset. Tell Auntie Sharlee, and you’ll feel better. Is it your young man?”

Aisa could not keep another guilty look from crossing her face. Wearing a scarf for so many years had gotten her out of the habit of disguising her expression. Sharlee noticed.

“Maybe I can help,” she said. “What happened?”

The screams came back. Aisa looked down at her hands. For a moment, they were covered with blood. Then the blood vanished. She shook her head at Sharlee. If she wasn’t going to talk about it to Kalessa or Danr himself, she certainly wasn’t going to talk to Sharlee, a woman she barely knew. “It is nothing. I am fine.”

Liar.

“Well, that’s good, then.” Sharlee patted Aisa’s shoulder and let the subject drop, to Aisa’s relief. “Are you hungry, honey? I’m absolutely starved.”