Lynn Flewelling - Shadows Return

At his order, one of the slave market men came with a bunch of keys and opened the cage. Alec cowered back, but it did no good. His new owner gave orders to a pair of muscular servants. They entered the cage and cut the ropes around his legs, then roughly hauled him up by the arms.

“Come along, or my men will carry you out by force,” Yhakobin advised.

Alec’s legs burned as the blood returned to limbs too long bound. Even so, the urge to fight or run was strong. Alec hated feeling so helpless, but the memory of one of Seregil’s early lessons came back, calming him a little.

Pick your fights carefully, talí.

So he feigned resignation, hanging his head as he shuffled out, but all the while surreptitiously glancing around for a way to run.

“I think we can dispense with this, as well.” Yhakobin reached behind Alec’s head and released the branks, then lifted the apparatus from his head. “The slavers can’t tell the ’faie with power from those without. You’re no wizard.”

“Then what do you want with me?”

Without the slightest change of expression, Yhakobin struck him across the mouth so hard it snapped Alec’s head sideways.

“Your first lesson, young Alec, is to address me with respect. Your second awaits outside. Cover him, Ahmol.”

One of the older servants shook out a plain cloak and wrapped it around Alec, covering his bound hands.

Yhakobin turned to leave and the larger servants took Alec firmly by the shoulders and steered him to follow. Alec kept his head down, peering around from behind the cover of his dirty, unbound hair, looking for Seregil as they passed more of the cages, but there was no sign of him.

Night had fallen and the market crowd was even thicker. Even if he did manage to get loose, he was barefoot, weaponless, and practically naked. His fair skin and hair would be like a banner here, not to mention the fresh brands.

Everywhere he looked, Alec saw people in the same miserable situation, caged, chained, on display, or being dragged along behind Zengati traders or Plenimaran masters. Most of the slaves appeared to be from the Three Lands, but he saw a few ’faie among them, branked and bound, their eyes vague.

It was colder now, and the rounded street cobbles hurt his feet. Still unsteady, he tripped and would have fallen more than once if his guards hadn’t held him so tightly. He stubbed his toes painfully and was limping by the time they dragged him to the edge of another large square.

“Here is a lesson every slave that comes through Riga is given.” Yhakobin pointed to a line of half-naked wretches chained by the neck along a stone wall. Each one had a placard around his or her neck, and most had a bloody, bandaged stump where a hand or foot or arm had been.

“Slaves who run lose a foot.” He nodded at a bone-pale boy with no feet at all. “That one has run twice, as you can see. He’ll be hanged in a few days. Those who steal lose a finger or hand. I’m sure you can guess the rest.”

He had his men lead Alec to a dispirited-looking woman chained near the end. She had all her limbs, but at Yhakobin’s sharp order she opened her mouth wide, showing Alec the blackened wound where her tongue had been cut out.

“That is the penalty for speaking back to your master,” Yhakobin warned. “I do hope you’ll keep that in mind. I have no use for your tongue, and will happily have it out if it offends me again. Do you understand?”

Alec swallowed hard against the fresh bile rising in his throat, then said as humbly as he could manage, “Yes, Ilban, I understand.”

Whatever role you play, play it to the hilt, Seregil’s voice whispered in the back of his mind. Alec embraced all the fear and horror he’d been battling and let it show in his face.

“Very good.” Yhakobin patted his shoulder. “Show me the proper respect, and you will find me a kind master.”

They stopped next at what appeared to be a blacksmith’s shop. It was warmer inside, at least. The smith greeted Alec’s owner with a respectful bow, then motioned for Alec to kneel beside an anvil at the center of the shop. When he pretended not to understand, he was compelled to obey with a few rough shoves and a kick to the back of his knees.

Yhakobin took a thin, silvery-looking circlet from his robes and gave it to the smith. A collar, Alec realized, just as the golden torque the other slave wore must be a sign of his station.

The silver collar had a gap in it, with pierced flanges on both ends. The smith bent it out wide enough to place it around Alec’s neck, then forced his head to the anvil. One of Yhakobin’s men held Alec down while the smith fitted a copper rivet through the holes, set the tip of a blunt chisel against it, and struck it a single sharp blow with his hammer, so hard it jolted Alec’s head against the iron.

“Sit up.” Yhakobin slipped a finger under the collar and gave it a small tug. “Not too tight, is it? Have you nothing to say to me?”

“It’s not too tight-Ilban,” Alec managed, hating the cold weight of the metal against his skin just as much as the fetters on his wrists.

“The brands mark you as a slave, and every Plenimaran knows where to look. This collar marks you as my property, and it won’t come off as easily as it went on. Keep that in mind as you dart those sharp eyes of yours around, looking for your chance to run.”

Alec colored guiltily and Yhakobin laughed. “You do have spirit, don’t you? Quite wasted on me, I’m afraid.”

At his order the men marched Alec out to a waiting carriage. It was small, but well made, and decorated with inlay and polished woods. The glow of the brass lanterns set beside the driver’s bench shone on the glossy flanks of a pair of Silmai blacks harnessed to it. This Yhakobin must be a lord of considerable wealth.

The liveried footman jumped down to open the door. Yhakobin climbed in and sat down on a seat covered in tufted red leather. Alec’s guards shoved him inside and he was made to kneel at his new master’s feet. The driver whipped up the horses and they set off through the darkness. Yhakobin took some papers from a pocket under the window and perused them, ignoring Alec as if he’d ceased to exist.

Alec seized the opportunity to study Yhakobin more closely. Like the carriage, the man’s clothing and fine shoes spoke of wealth. Seregil had taught him to look beyond first impressions, however, and Yhakobin’s hands told another story. In addition to the ink stains, the man had a scattering of small white scars on the backs of his hands-the sort of marks common among smiths and chandlers. Or wizards, he added silently. He tried to remember what the necromancer’s hands had looked like, but his memories of them were vague now, overlaid by the torment he’d known in their grasp.

“Where are we going…Ilban?” he ventured at last.

Yhakobin didn’t even look up. “Home. Be quiet now.”

Alec gritted his teeth and pondered jumping from the moving vehicle while Yhakobin wasn’t looking. But he was still manacled and at too much of a disadvantage. He wasn’t going to risk losing a foot this early in the game. Instead, he contented himself with staring out the window. His low vantage point cut off most of the useful view; he caught only the impression of tall buildings and narrow streets, then an orderly line of trees, interspersed with lamp poles, which suggested a park. After that there was little to see except the rising moon.

The road grew bumpier and Alec was hard-pressed to keep his balance. One hard jolt threw him against Yhakobin’s knees. The man righted him and ruffled his hair, as if Alec were a hound.

“What’s this?” He pushed the hair back from Alec’s left ear and examined the blue-stained dragon bite on the lobe.