Authors: Carol Berg
Transformation (2 page)
The slave merchant was horrified. “But, Your Highness, he’s worth at least sixty!”
The Prince gave the man such a look of strained patience as would make a sensible person check his back for daggers. “I’m reducing it fifty because he’s damaged. With scars on his back I’ll have to keep him better clothed. But I’m giving you ten extra because he can read and write. Is it not fair?”
The slave merchant recognized his defeat—and his danger—and prostrated himself. “Of course, Your Highness. Fair and wise as always. Twenty zenars.” I had a feeling the merchant was going to have an unpleasant surprise ready for whatever well-meaning friend had notified the Prince that a literate slave was up at auction.
The Prince was in company with two other young men. Those two were dressed like gaudy birds, in bright-colored silks and satins with gold linked belts, and carried daggers and swords so ornately wrought and crusted with jewels that the things would be absolutely useless. From the soft look of the pair and the way their eyes were set so close together, I wondered if they could figure out what to do with weapons. The Prince himself, lean and long-limbed, wore a sleeveless shirt of white silk, dun-colored doeskin breeches, tall boots, and a white fur cloak that could only be the pelt of the silver Makhara bear, the finest and rarest fur in the world. His red hair was caught in a single braid on the right side of his head—the Derzhi warrior’s braid—and he wore few adornments: arm rings of beaten gold and a single gold earring set with a diamond that was likely worth more than all his foppish companions’ baubles put together.
The Prince slapped the arm of one of his finely dressed companions. “Pay the man, Vanye. And why don’t you bring the creature along? Except for the scars, he’s a league more handsome than you. He’ll look well in my chambers, don’t you think?”
The pockmarked young lordling in blue satin and cock feathers dropped his receding jaw in horrified astonishment. Well he might. With a single phrase, his prince had banished Lord Vanye from Derzhi society forever. It was not the humiliating public comment on his physical shortcomings that had done it, but the fact he was named a slave handler: a job ranking just above those who tend dead bodies before they’re burned and just below those who skin animals. As the Prince turned his back and strolled out of the gate, the chinless man pulled out his purse and threw the coins at the feet of the slave merchant, looking as if he had just eaten a green dakhfruit. It was astounding how proficiently Aleksander could destroy a friend, insult a reputable merchant, and cheat an influential baron in a short five minutes.
In the way of slaves, I looked no further to the future than the next hour. Rather than spending an entire day chained to the wall of the slave market in the dismal weather, I had the prospect of clothes and shelter almost immediately. Not a dreadful result. Far from my worst day on the auction block.
But as was to happen frequently in the ensuing months, I was to reap the consequences of Prince Aleksander’s carelessness. The furious slave merchant said he had no time to replace the choke-collar, arm chains, and hobbles that were designed to make delicate female slave buyers feel secure, and he refused to supply so much as a loincloth to cover me. My journey across the crowded, cosmopolitan city, naked in the freezing rain, hobbling frantically behind Lord Vanye’s horse to keep from being dragged, ranked with the more ridiculous events of my long captivity.
As for the chinless lord ... well, having one’s body in the control of a man who sees himself grossly ill-used is not the way to improve on a miserable situation. And when the man thinks himself clever, but is not, matters can get much worse. Instead of delivering me straight to the Prince’s slave master, Lord Vanye took me to the palace forge and ordered the smith to mark me with the royal seal ... on the face.
What breath I had left was sucked away in horror. On the day of their capture, all slaves were branded with a crossed circle, but it was always on the shoulder, as I had been, or on the thigh. Never on the face.
“Is he a runaway, then?” asked the smith. “Prince Aleksander don’t brand none but runaways in that fashion. Don’t like the ugliness, even in those for the mines.”
“No, I’m only—” I tried to protest, but Vanye shut off my cry with an iron bar he’d been fondling since we’d entered the smithy.
“See the lash marks on his back, and how we’ve had to chain him up like a wild dog? Of course he’s a runaway.”
“He’s an Ezzarian. Durgan says—”
“Are you afraid of groveling filth like this? The only magic that’s going to happen here is when I turn you into a tongueless gelding for disobedience. Now, do it.”
Vanye’s blow to my head had left me groggy, but I soon wished that he had hit me harder. Claiming long experience with the Prince’s whims, the uncertain blacksmith used only his smallest iron to sear the seal of the Derzhi royal house on my left cheekbone. The larger iron would have exposed bone and teeth, creating enough damage that sepsis would eat away what was left of healthy tissue. But, at the moment, gratitude was not in my mind.
And so I was delivered to the Emperor’s Summer Palace in the middle of winter, deposited on the straw-covered floor of the slave house, shivering, nauseated, and half out of my head.
The burly slave master, a bearded, flat-faced Manganar who called himself Durgan, looked down at me in puzzlement. “What’s this? I got word of a new house slave for the Prince’s service, not a runaway fit for nothing but the mines.”
I was certainly in no condition to explain Vanye’s pitiful attempt at revenge, his clever plan to ruin the Prince’s bargain.
“This is the only new one bought today. Lord Vanye said—” The smith’s lad who had dragged me across the courtyard almost swallowed his tongue when Durgan grabbed his throat.
“Demonfire! Vanye! Smith burned the Prince’s new slave on the word of a dolt not clever enough to open his pants to piss?” The slave master looked like he wanted to put his head through a brick wall. “Tell your master Smith he don’t ever, ever in this world mark a slave but the word comes from the Prince’s own mouth or from me. I was told to get this one cleaned and sent up to serve supper. Just look at him!”
I could not have been a happy sight. My stomach emptied itself again at this mere hint of food.
“At least master was careful with the branding,” stammered the boy, backing toward the door. “Not too damaged, is he?”
“I wouldn’t set great hopes for living much past fourteen if I were you. Be off with you. I’ve work to do.”
Half an hour later I was climbing the back stairs of Aleksander’s palace carrying a monstrously heavy tray filled with a platter of peeled fruit, cinnamon-dusted pastries, a round of stinking Azhaki cheese, and an urn of scalding nazrheel; their tea that smelled like burning hay. Every few steps I had to stop and let my muddled head clear, my churning stomach settle, and the throbbing firestorm in my cheek subside.
I was dressed in a plain white sleeveless tunic that reached from shoulders to knees, a concession to the Prince’s distaste for seeing open wounds or excessive scars. The Derzhi usually kept their male house slaves in fenzai—short, loose pantaloons—and no shirt. It was some remnant of their desert heritage, singularly inappropriate and unpleasant for those of us held captive in the mountainous northern regions of the Empire. The tunic was not much warmer, but felt slightly more modest at least.
Strangely enough, the slave master’s biggest dilemma had been my hair. I had no beard—Ezzarians just don’t produce them like most races. But, unlike the usual custom in Derzhi slave houses, the Baron’s daughter had commanded my hair be left long. Durgan wanted it off, but was afraid that would leave the burn marks on my face too prominent and expose the swollen, bloody lump where Vanye had laid the iron bar. So instead, he had me tie it loosely to one side in the Derzhi style—not braided, of course; only blooded warriors wore it braided—hoping it would cover Vanye’s folly. He also put salve on the burn, a gesture I did not mistake for kindness. The slave master was praying to see the next sunrise.
“Ah, supper!” said the Prince as I walked through the gold-leaf doors and into a sumptuous sitting room. I bowed—awkward with the tray—and congratulated myself when I managed to straighten up again without passing out. There were seven or eight people in the room. Three men and two women were seated on cushions around a low table playing ulyat, a Derzhi gambling game that involved painted stones and wooden pegs and not a few blood feuds. I studiously did not look at anyone as I set the tray on another low table surrounded by blue and red silk cushions. The slave master had been very specific about keeping my eyes down. I wasn’t sure if it was a household rule or just a way to keep my swollen, seeping cheek out of view.
“Look, all of you. I’ve got myself a new slave. An Ezzarian who can read.”
“Impossible ...” There were titterings and a repetition of the standard remarks.
“Quite accomplished, I hear. Perhaps even some royal Ezzarian blood in him.”
“A barbarian sorcerer! I’ve never seen one of them. Will you lend him out?” asked a low-voiced woman with more on her mind than food.
“Ah, Tarina, why do you ask it? What pleasure would you find in such a scrawny fellow, all dark hair and dark eyes?”
“Though nowhere near your own stature, my lord, he looks quite fit. If his face is pleasing, I could be tempted ... when your eye wanders, as it seems to do constantly. Will Lydia allow such dallying when you are married?”
“Now you’ve done it. I will certainly not lend him to anyone who reminds me of the sharp-tongued she-wolf. Come take your pleasure with my food, for you will surely not get my slave.”
I very much disliked being the center of such sparring. As I had discovered again so recently with the Baron’s daughter, it was more dangerous than serving a warrior on the front lines of the Empire. I bowed and mumbled. “If that’s all ...”
“Speak up,” said the Prince. “How can you read if you can’t speak clearly? And no, that is certainly not all. We must let Tarina see what she’s missing.” Before I could be properly afraid, a hand reached under my chin and jerked it up. By the time my eyes could focus after the nauseatingly sudden movement of my head, they were looking straight into the hot amber gaze of Prince Aleksander. “Get Durgan!”
Someone scurried past us, hearing the unrefusable menace in the Prince’s voice. I was held immobile by the iron hand under my chin. He had me stretched up on my toes, and I was sorely afraid I might be sick again from the position and the mingled scents of heavy perfumes, cinnamon, and the rank tea and half-rotted goat’s cheese the Derzhi so prized.
Durgan’s account of the afternoon’s events was somewhat muffled by the carpet under his mouth. Complete prostration was perhaps a bit overdramatic in such a private setting, but the slave master was fighting for his life. When the tale was done, the Prince released his grip and shoved me aside. I knelt down and crossed my hands on my breast as would be expected, encouraging my stomach to return to its proper venue.
Ezzarian Seers teach that in nature’s pause before disaster strikes, a discerning listener will hear the clicking of the victim’s bones. On this occasion a stone could have heard them. When the Prince gave the order summoning Lord Vanye, the bone rattling was as noisy as an earthquake.
I was sent outside the palace gates to await the young lord. The night was freezing, and I had no cloak or shoes. But neither the gate guard’s bonfire nor the blazing torches on the wall could have warmed the chill inside me. Perhaps the Prince thought it would unsettle his chinless friend to see me, though as I led the gray-faced young man through the gates, I doubted my presence had anything to do with his terror. He knew he was done for.
The Prince met us in the front courtyard of the palace. He wore his white fur cloak and gave his hand to Lord Vanye as the trembling man dismounted. “You see I sent this slave outside to greet you ... freely, with no concern that he might run away. You’ve done me quite a service, Vanye.” The young lordling gaped stupidly at the Prince, who laughed, took the young man’s arm, and strolled toward the kitchen courtyards and workshops. “Come, I want to thank you for it.”
Though he laughed uncertainly—more of a squeak than a laugh—Lord Vanye could not have been easy. In addition to two torchbearers and two attendants, there were four liveried soldiers following him and the cheerfully chattering Prince. The soldiers shoved me after them. I wrapped my arms about myself, silently cursing winter and royalty and my life.
Dread and surety gnawed at my gut as we stepped inside the smithy, the heat of the thundering flames searing my cheek anew until the very air quivered with the burning outlines of the falcon and the lion that I would wear to my grave. The smith stood ready.
Vanye tried to pull away as they strapped him to the post, but he was not half strong enough. Then he began to beg, his pockmarked face a pasty gray. “Aleksander ... Your Highness. You must understand. My father ... the disgrace ... handling slaves ...” When the smith pulled the largest of his glowing irons from the fire, the gibbering turned to a low wailing.
I would not watch it. I had been very close to howling two short hours earlier, and the smith had been careful with me. I closed my eyes ... so I was not at all prepared when the burly smith crammed a heavy iron handle into my hand.
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