The Invisible Hands - Part 1: Gambit (29 page)

“Look, Thenoklon,” the master said, “that's him. He's yours. You're sixteen now, and this will be your first slave. Remember what I told you. Slaves need a stern hand and firm guidance, or they wouldn't be slaves. It's your duty to take care of him. It's his duty to obey you without asking questions.”

“Yes, Father,” Thenoklon assented, almost in a bored way.

“You,” the master addressed Lexyntas. “You are now a part of Mennio household. My son is your master. He will be your only master, after I hand you over to him. You should consider yourself lucky, and I fully expect you to be grateful for the honor we bestow upon you in allowing you to serve him.”

He paused for effect.

24
“I make it a point to explain to each and every new slave personally what the consequences of disobedience or dereliction of duty are. The Mennio kinship has always prided itself in being both clement and just to those of a lower social rank. But the Gods have put us in different stations for a reason. You are a slave. Sooner or later you will misbe— have. It's inevitable.”

He made a sign to the two slaves standing by the wall. Without a word they came up to Lexyntas, who startled as one began to lift his tunic. Involuntarily he began to resist, but he caught himself just in time and let the slave pull of the garment. Still confused, Lexyntas now stood in his loincloth, facing the master and his son who both looked on impassively as each slave took one of his wrists and tied it to an opposing pillar. They tightened the ropes, so that his arms were spread out.

“Now,” the master resumed, “don't be alarmed. You have done nothing wrong. Yet. This is just a lesson to teach you what will happen if you transgress.”

Lexyntas could hear someone move behind him, and looked over his shoulder. One of the slaves was coming at him with a whip. He looked at the master, apprehension mingled with fury.

“Believe me,” Thenocras said, “this is a clemency.”

He made another sign. The whip descended with a cracking noise on Lexyntas's exposed back, making him arch his body forward, standing on the tip of his toes, and tighten all his muscles until they stood out. For a split second he felt just a caress, then a searing pain spread diagonally over his back where the lash had landed. He felt tepid, moist drops trickle down. His face broke out in a sweat and contorted with rage and pain.

“You can't comprehend it yet, being a slave, but later you will come to understand, maybe even appreciate, the wisdom of what has just happened to you. Whenever you are tempted to be disobedient, to be 24
neglectful of your duties, or, even worse, to be disrespectful to your master, think back to this very moment. Don't think your betters are enjoying this. On the contrary. Having to discipline you incapacitates you, and thus it deprives us of your services. It is we who suffer the most. Now, remember, your first offense, whatever its nature, will be punished with five lashes, administered far harder than this one was.

Just five, because we are lenient. Even so it will probably make you useless to us for several days. But, as I said, the Mennio kinship prides itself on being just. So, as a further sign of our clemency, this lash of the whip, which was meant to teach you the consequences of bad behavior, will be subtracted from your first punishment and consequently you will receive only four lashes, instead of five. Be warned: if you haven't learned your lesson by then and mended your ways, you will suffer further and harder consequences.”

He looked at his son.

“He's all yours. Remind yourself often that excessive softness will just breed contempt in him. He won't thank you. He will only despise you for it. Make him respect you.”

Thenocras stood up and was about to leave the room.

“What's he called?” Thenoklon asked.

“Whatever you want to call him,” his father replied without looking back.

A slave closed the door behind him.

Thenoklon walked up to Lexyntas and looked at him as if he was studying a hitherto unknown, peculiar animal species.

“What were you called?” he asked.

“Lexyntas,” came the answer through clenched teeth.

Thenoklon backhanded him in the face.

“Again.”

24
“Lexyntas.”

Another blow, this time landing on his mouth.

“Lexyntas, Master,” a nearby slave whispered.

“Again,” Thenoklon repeated without raising his voice.

“Lexyntas, Master,” Lexyntas mumbled, a thin trickle of blood dripping out of the left corner of his lips.

“You're learning already. Good. Well, Lexyntas will do as well as any other name.” The fat boy turned to one of the slaves. “Untie him.”

While they did so, Thenoklon kept studying his new possession.

Lexyntas, still panting, saw the grubby, ashen sheen on his new master's skin. He also noticed a whiff of rank aroma surrounding the boy.

“Turn around,” Thenoklon ordered.

Lexyntas winced as he felt a finger run over the wound. His young master whistled.

“Nasty. But not too bad, I suppose. We'll go to my rooms. I'll show you where you will sleep, and I will have your back taken care of. I won't get much use out of you this first day, I reckon.”

Lexyntas turned back and glared at him without speaking a word.

Thenoklon laughed mirthlessly.

“Don't look at me like that, Lexyntas. I understand you don't want to be here. Guess what, I don't want you to be here either. I didn't want a slave for my birthday. I wanted a horse. But here we are.”

“Then why didn't you ask for one?” Lexyntas rasped, trying to ignore his pain. He was genuinely curious, rather than trying to be defiant.

Thenoklon, ignoring the impertinence, smirked.

24
“Oh, but I did. Father said I wasn't ready for the responsibility of taking care of such a noble creature,” he said. “Or maybe it was just because a good horse is far more expensive than you are.”

Riathona laid down the parchment and looked out of her window into the garden.

The letter had been addressed to Bur Deynarr, her husband. She had broken the seal that told her it was a missive from senator and old commander Nectall Tembar without a second thought. Then she had read the document several times over, until she knew it almost by heart, word for word. Riathona swore by memorizing information. It was the only way, in her opinion, to make something truly yours. She believed it allowed her to not only recall important facts at will, as well as poetry and choice literature, but she was also convinced that her mind kept processing all the little pieces of information, evaluating them and putting them into a broader context. The results were often astounding, sometimes even amounting to an epiphany.

The content of this letter was clear, though a lot had to be gathered from between the lines. The first, openly admitted objective was a fact-finding operation under the guise of a trade mission. What was the military strength of the newly formed domain of the barbarian prince?

24
Could he count on the loyalty of his troops? Was his grip upon his territory stable? What were his aims? Purely defensive, or did he have a broader vision? Could he be induced into a coalition? Under what conditions?

A very important point: could he be trusted? The House of Tanahkos had the reputation of being ruthless. Were they treacherous as well? What impact would the endemic power struggle of the family have on their efforts to overcome a common enemy? Were they intelligent enough to postpone their internal quarrels and work together?

Under the leadership of Rhonoma?

However, the far-sighted old commanders had a further objective.

What about after the war? The question lay hidden in the at first sight reasonable reference to the prince's trustworthiness. Riathona understood that the old commanders wished to know whether the youngest Tanahkos would be prepared to exhaust his resources in the coming struggle against Lorsanthia, enough to make it inevitable that he would slip from the position of an ally of the Rhonoman Influence into that of a client princeling. In which case it would be worth backing him, if and when he made a bid for the throne of Ximerion.

Riathona sighed. It would take her several evenings to prepare Bur for this delicate mission.

The cost of the whole enterprise would be considerable, though not excessive. A Rhonoman noble, certainly not one of prefectorial, soon to be senatorial, rank, could not be seen to be directly involved in trade. However, it was accepted practice to have financial interests in trading firms, as long as they were discreet. She had enough connections, she decided, to manage a commercial venture from behind the scenes. The trip would be profitable, one way or another.

Her ruminations were interrupted by the characteristic rattling knock of her husband. She bade him enter, and with his first words he pierced her heart with an icicle.

25
“I was thinking, dear, that this expedition would be an excellent educational experience for Yorn. He would be the only one of his generation to have come in direct contact with the barbarian kingdom.

What do you think?”

The worst of it was that he was right. Before her mind's eye she saw all the dangers, all the mishaps that could befall her precious, only son. And it couldn't be avoided. The advantage of being an expert by virtue of first hand experience with an important possible ally was in— calculable. It would give him an edge, an almost guaranteed place in all deliberations, any committee that would have to do with foreign relations or warfare. Over time, it could very well lead to a seat in the directorate.

She loved Bur for thinking about it. She hated him for it as well.

And for being right. But there was of course no escaping it. Yorn had to go with his father.

“You are right,” she managed to say with a thin smile. “You're taking Antybion as well.”

Maurch was thirty-three, and a full knight-lieutenant in the eighteenth company of the Eternals. As such he commanded a quarter— 25
company. They had said it was as high as he could hope to rise, given his birth.

That was perfectly all right with Maurch. It was more than he had ever hoped for. His parents were simple farmers, but, as knight-lieutenant of the Eternals, nowadays he stood on a par with the local lord.

The same lord he had humbly taken his cap off for as a young man, and whom he had greeted, mumbling, head bowed down. Physical prowess, combined with a sharp mind and a keen sense for army politics had seen to his steady rise through the ranks. He had made a name for himself as a taciturn, trustworthy man who kept to himself. It was probably one of the reasons, if not the main reason, he had been singled out for this assignment.

If he had been on a regular mission, he would be wearing heavy armor, and so would his horse. When he charged at the head of his quarter-company the enemy had the impression that a wall of steel was advancing on them, threatening to crush them by its sheer weight.

Now he was wearing a leather outfit, and so were the men of his detachment of a hundred and fifty Eternals. The main reason was that they were out of their territory, Lorsanthia, and the High Command didn't want to ruffle any feathers, not even those of the puny city states. Neither was heavy armor necessary for chasing the few remaining Trachian rebels.

One of his patrols had made an interesting discovery, and now he was riding on a narrow path through the woods. They came to a clearing with a single cabin. The little group rode on and left the path, guided by the patrol sergeant. After a while the unmistakable stench of putrefying flesh reached Maurch's nostrils. He ignored it. His horse balked at the smell, but his well-trained war steed needed just some gentle goading on. Finally they dismounted where three soldiers waited for them, their noses covered by whatever piece of cloth they had been able to find. One had simply torn off a sleeve of his shirt.

25
Accompanied by just the sergeant, Maurch went over to the source of the foul odor: a shallow grave, partly dug up.

The corpse was unrecognizable. Its pants had been cut roughly.

“The remains are male,” the sergeant said, touching what must once have been genitalia with the tip of his sword. “The Gods may know what those are,” he added, indicating two iron rods, held by almost fleshless hands, the emaciated arms crossed over the chest.