The Plains of Kallanash (25 page)

“So we’re under the open plains?” Trimon said.

“As best I can tell,” Gantor answered. “So if there are people living out here
– they’re barbarians.”

“Gods!” said Trimon.

“Well, we always hoped to encounter the barbarians again,” Hurst said cheerfully. “I propose we pack up here, and move on. Let’s see what’s down there, shall we?”

“It must be nice to feel you’ve nothing left worth living for,” Gantor murmured. Hurst just grinned at him.

But just as they came close to the light, they found another gate, and this time there was no opening it. There was an alcove, and a groove where the lever should go, but the lever itself was missing. They could see the light emanating from a room off the tunnel, they could even hear distant voices and metallic banging sounds, sometimes, but there was no way past the gate. Trimon and Walst spent a long time poking the groove with knives and swords to see if they could effect a lever, but without luck. After three weeks, they had reached the end of the road.

It was fortunate they had access to a camp cave, where they retreated when even Trimon had given up hope of opening the gate. Trimon and Walst hurled themselves onto the benches in exhausted despair, but Hurst and Gantor walked slowly round, taking stock.

“What do you think?” Hurst asked.

“There’s probably enough food here for
– oh, six weeks or maybe a little more…” Gantor began.

“If we’re careful,” Trimon said dryly.

“Yes, if we’re careful. Water is unlimited. Torches – there aren’t many here, so we’ll need to ration them, but we’ll get daylight from the Godstower entrance opposite, and we can sleep in the dark. Pity the moon’s well past full now.”

“We don’t need much light at all,” added Hurst. “Only for cooking and eating.”

“And pissing and shitting,” Walst said.

“True enough,” Gantor said. “So we can light a torch periodically, when we have to. What we’ll be most short of is fuel for the fire,” and he waved at a small heap of dried dung, “but we don’t need the warmth
– it’s a comfortable temperature down here. So I propose we light a fire for cooking and washing – oh, every three days or so. That should last us.”

“Until the food runs out,” Trimon said.

“Yes, pessimist. But if we’re still here then, we can spin the food out a bit longer. Water’s more important, and we’ve plenty of that.”

“If we’re still here then. Is there any way we’re
not
going to be still here?”

“We know people come through here from time to time,” Gantor said calmly. “All we have to do is wait. When someone comes, we jump them, and get them to open up for us. Simple.”

“In three weeks, we’ve seen just one group come through. How can you be sure anyone’s going to come in the next six weeks or so?”

“Because these tunnels are a major investment of time and resources,” Gantor replied. “They’re in good repair, they’re well stocked and obviously restocked from time to time, which is presumably through the Godstowers
– can you imagine how many people scattered along the route are involved in that? And all without anybody knowing anything about it. There’s very little dust around, few cobwebs and no rats – well, not in our part of the tunnels, anyway.” They had all heard scratching noises and splashing from the water course below them. “And these caves are ready for large groups – there are enough blankets here for up to twenty people, assuming one folded to lie on and another as a covering. This is a large and efficient operation. So, they must be conveying large amounts of – something. People or goods or both. The real question is
why
.”

They were all silent for a while.

Then Hurst said, “If we are in barbarian territory, they must be dealing with them.
Someone
from the Karningplain is in dealings with the barbarians.”

“The Slaves,” said Walst. “It was the Slave who sent Mia off to die
– or not,” he added hastily, seeing Hurst’s expression.

“And only the Slaves
– and the Voices and the Servants – have the organisation to do this,” said Hurst, quietly. “The tunnels need builders, obviously, but taking Karningholders, moving people and whatever else in quantity through here, that needs organisation, and only the Slaves and their kind have the power to do that.”

“And again,” Gantor said, “the real question is why.”

Mia’s new quarters turned out to be a room marginally smaller than her largest wardrobe at home. It had a tiny bed, low to the ground, a lumpy mattress, an even lumpier pillow and three blankets. On a shelf above it were clothes
– rough homespun wool gowns like Runa’s, ankle length, some short cotton undergowns, and a pile of sacking aprons. Being underground, there was no window. The room’s most precious feature, however, was a door – ill-fitting, spiky with splinters, but blessedly equipped with a bolt to secure it, and Mia, from the outside world.

It was an outside world become unimaginably hostile. Growing up in the surety of the Karnings, Mia’s future was mapped out for her almost from birth. There were few options. Those with talented hands or minds could build careers for themselves, those with greater devotion could become Slaves, but Mia had no great skills or unusual religious zeal. She had always known what she wanted to do
– become a Karningholder and have children – and once she qualified as a Higher that path became a certainty.

Now all of that was swept away. Mia had not thought to ask questions of Bulraney, and perhaps he wouldn’t have answered anyway, but she soon found her new co-workers in the kitchens more than willing to enlighten her. Gleefully they told her that she was now outside the Karningplain altogether, on the vast open space of the Plains of Kallanash.

“Are you the Vahsi, then?” she’d asked, but they just laughed.

“You can call us that if you want,” they chortled.

She was living amongst the barbarians, the monsters of her nurse’s childhood stories. It was odd that they spoke Kashinorian, with much the same accent that she heard in uneducated Karningers. The Vahsi, she’d read, had their own language, but it had never been written down. Perhaps it had been lost over time.

The kitchen workers explained in gloating detail that all women young enough were kept for the sexual pleasure of the barbarian men
– warriors, they called them. She learned a new word – whore. She was a whore now. And she discovered that the loss of her baby was not the worst of her grief, for it seemed that the effects of the poison were permanent. She had lost the possibility of ever bearing a child.

So whenever she was allowed, she retreated to her tiny room and locked the door and lay down on the bed to nurse her sorrow. It was too deep a grief for tears, she found. Or perhaps she was numb from the onslaught of evil things happening to her, and yet to happen. But there was anger, too, slowly building day by day, as she thought about everything she had experienced since that fateful day when the Slave had called to her and sent her to this doom. Why? That was the question most in her mind. Why, in the name of all the Gods, had he done such a thing to her?

There were seven workers in the kitchens besides herself. Two were old women, older than Runa even, grey and bent and withered, constantly muttering together as they stirred pots or chopped vegetables. One was a man of much her own age, simple minded, who did much of the heavy lifting. The other four were all former warriors, no longer able to fight. One had lost an arm, one a leg, one had half his face burned off and the fourth limped badly and wheezed a great deal. They were surly and brusque, for it seemed that being a warrior was an occupation of high status here, a status which they had lost and were now confined to this hot, smoky, smelly basement.

So they amused themselves by making lecherous remarks about her. Her modestly sized breasts, it appeared, were a source of particular sorrow to them, although it was a point of contention amongst them that her overall smallness might increase a man’s pleasure, especially if he were on the large size himself. They suggested more than once that a comparison of their attributes might be in order, to settle the matter of which of them would enjoy her the most.

Mia soon found that any reaction on her part only encouraged them to even more lewdness, and they never actually touched her, so she learned to ignore them. When they got bored with discussing her, they spent many hours comparing their exploits on the battlefield – the enemies they had killed, the women raped, the horses and weapons stolen. Mia didn’t believe the half of it, but the subject was easier to listen to.

Her duties were not onerous. She helped to wash vegetables for the endless stews, to measure grains for the gruel, to mix the strange flour that produced the hard bread. At first, she worked only an hour or two in the morning and then again in the afternoon, but as she grew stronger she worked all day, as the others did, with a break for the stillness. That, too, was odd. Why should these barbarians from the wilderness have the same custom as in the Karnings? Perhaps it was no odder than anything else about them. At least it gave her an hour or two to shut herself into the peaceful solitude of her room.

Her strength increased quickly. The food was not exotic, but it was filling and nourishing, with plenty of meat. She began to regain some of the flesh she had lost when she was ill. They soon learned when she was strong enough to fetch water, and had her running backwards and forwards to the primitive well at one end of the cavern which housed the kitchen. She was not trusted with a knife, nor was she allowed to help them serve food to the crowds noisily eating in the canteen on the floor above. The sight of her might inflame the men, she was told.

She passed three weeks in the kitchens, doing what she was told, keeping out of trouble, finding out what she could. She knew that all the new women were ‘assigned’ to a post. If they were lucky, it would be in the Commander’s House, with just the Commander himself and five Captains to take care of. It was less fortunate to be assigned to the Section House, where the ordinary warriors lived. The very unlucky were sent to Supplies, an unpleasant and anarchic place, if the stories were to be believed, where there were even more men to deal with. The kitchen workers speculated on her likely fate, but she didn’t much care; she couldn’t see much difference in any of the options. Slavery was still slavery, however many men were involved.

She began to think about escape, but her tentative questions drew some discouraging answers. She was twenty miles from the border, she learned. The tunnels could not be accessed from this side, and only the guides who brought newcomers knew how to open the gates. The horses were guarded day and night by warriors. Even if she could get a horse, the compound above ground was surrounded by a high wall, both gates guarded. And the plains were home to ferocious predators – wild dogs, lions, leopards, poisonous snakes and spiders and more – not to mention treacherous swamps. It seemed impossible.

From time to time people came down from Bulraney’s domain up in the sky to fetch food or drink for the great ones who lived up there. Usually it was warriors who did the fetching, and she recognised Kellan and his silent friend, but sometimes it was a woman, wearing rather better gowns than her own, and with the short hair that all the women seemed to favour here. But one day she had a shock.

“Mista? Mista!” And she set down her water jug and raced across the kitchen, hurling herself into her friend’s arms. Mista seemed just as pleased to see Mia, and both women cried a little at first.

“I’m so relieved to see you,” Mista said, sniffing slightly. “Are you all right? You were so ill
– such an evil spirit you had! I thought you would die!”

“Not yet, as you see. But how are you? You look well, despite the hair!”

“Oh, everyone has it like this here. It’s more practical, it takes no time to dry out – when I can get enough hot water to wash it, that is. And I’m well. They take care of us here.”

She blushed a little, so Mia thought it best to get it over with. “You’ve been assigned?”

“Yes. I’m here in the Commanders’ House at the moment. I look after the Captains, me and another woman. The Commander has his own woman. What about you?”

“I wasn’t fit enough to be assigned, so they sent me down here. But
– is it awful?”

“It’s not so bad, really. I mean
– it was part of my job at home, so it isn’t that different. They just don’t wash as often here. But you… It’ll be hard for you. You and Hurst—”

“No point talking about that,” Mia said briskly, feeling the sting of tears beginning. “What about the others?”

“I don’t know, I’ve no idea what happened to them. They wanted to split us up, I think. If you get assigned here, then I’ll probably get moved on.”

“Hey, get back to work, you two!” shouted one of the old women. “No hanging about gossiping! And you,” she said, glaring at Mista, “get back upstairs.”

“I’d better go,” said Mista. “By the way, I have a new name…”

“Out!” shrieked the old woman, bearing down on her with a ladle.

Mista beat a rapid retreat, and Mia didn’t hear what name she’d been given. She turned back to her work and began energetically scrubbing vegetables, but when she had locked herself in her room that afternoon for the stillness, she cried and cried.

As the days passed, and then the weeks, she began to nurture a faint hope that Bulraney had forgotten about her, and that she might not be assigned at all. But one day Kellan appeared in the kitchen, and her heart sank when he waved her over to him. He had brought a gown for her.

“Here, put this on.”

“Why?” she said, although she took it anyway, for it was fine wool, a simple fabric but an elegant style. Almost it reminded her of Tella, who had owned one or two like it.

“Warlord’s here,” Kellan replied. “Be quick.”

Mia could see the surprised faces of the other kitchen workers, and wondered whether this was good news or bad. She wasn’t going to agonise over it, however. There was probably no good news in this place.

The gown was a little big for her, and she had to hold up the hem to avoid tripping over it. It looked somewhat incongruous with the piece of sacking from an apron she had fashioned as a headscarf, but her silk scarves had been lost long since.

Kellan led her, as before, up the stairs, with the same man following behind, both of them silent the whole way. By the time she reached the top of the stairs, she had realised that this might be her only opportunity to express her opinion on anything. If she were assigned, wherever it turned out to be, she would have no choice but to go and that would be the end of it. If she was to register a protest, it would have to be here and now. So this time she didn’t wait to be pushed, but strode forward into the room.

She realised at once that the atmosphere was different. She could identify it, too. She had seen the same state of alert tension when she walked into the great hall to hear petitions, or when she surprised a group of the servants relaxing when they should have been working. It was the atmosphere of subordinates in the presence of their superior.

There were more men in the room today, but there was no slouching, no idle chatter, and no one spoke when she arrived. Bulraney sat in his throne, but he seemed less comfortable in it today, sitting bolt upright.

“Ah! Here she is,” he said, with rather forced friendliness. “Come in, my dear.”

She was already in, standing only a few feet away from him, so she stayed where she was.

“What have you done with your hair?” he added, eyes narrowing. “Let’s see what you’re covering up.”

When she made no move to remove the sacking, he jerked his head at Kellan, who stepped forward to remove it. He struggled with the knots, but eventually he got it undone, and her hair was revealed. It was plaited on top of her head, so after a quick look at Bulraney, Kellan methodically unwrapped it until it fell loose down her back. Mia stood perfectly still the whole time.

“Well now, that’s better,” Bulraney said in an unnaturally cheerful tone. “You see what I mean? She’s a bit on the skinny side, but the hair is pretty. And she’s a Karningholder, right enough, see? Tattoos on both hands.”

Mia could see now who he was talking to
– the Warlord, she supposed. He was standing in front of a group of men to one side of the room. Compared to Bulraney he seemed slender, with trimmed hair and beard. He was tall and, while he wasn’t over muscled, he wore a sword on his back, and smaller, curved scabbards on either hip, every inch the professional soldier. His clothes were marginally better quality than the others wore, and he had an air of accustomed authority. His face was weather-beaten, like all of them, but there was something more forbidding about him. Grim-faced, he watched her unsmilingly. Mia shivered. This was not good news.

“Now then, Cassia,” Bulraney went on, “it’s time for you to be assigned. You understand what that means? Good, good,” he continued, without waiting for a response, which was just as well, for she had not planned to make one. “We haven’t yet decided where to send you
– well, not Supplies, obviously, and I don’t see you at the Section House, realistically, it doesn’t seem like your sort of place, does it? But one of the Commanders’ Houses, perhaps… Or even…” He flapped a hand vaguely towards the Warlord.

He was babbling, she realised. He was nervous. Was that comforting? Not really.

“But we haven’t decided,” he rushed on. “So – you can choose, you know. Or at least, you can ask. Do you have any preference, my dear? No?”

“Yes,” she said, and was amused to see his jaw drop open. “My preference is for none of these.”

Several of the men around the room glanced at the Warlord, but he was expressionless, without the hint of a smile. No one laughed. Bulraney went red in the face.