Shadow Blade, page 16
His hand brushed cold iron and he moved swiftly up the rungs of a ladder in the stone wall. At the top he paused and listened, pushing up a circular iron cover when he was sure no one was there.
He climbed through the opening and found himself in a narrow space between the back wall of the chapel and the palace proper. Just where he’d planned to pop up. He slid the cover back into place without a sound and shivered in the chill night air. Beside him, an unlit torch hung in a sconce on the palace’s granite wall. He twisted it to the right and watched as a section of granite slid back and aside.
It was a tight fit, but turning sideways, The Watcher angled his broad shoulders through and shoved the rock wall back into place.
He set off at once, slipping noiselessly through the hidden passageways of the palace, praying to Nishi no one else was using them that night. He wound through the corridors—his rib throbbing now, making it hard to breathe—heading for his chambers. A few minutes later, he slid aside a bookcase and crept into his bedchamber, hand on the dagger tucked under his shirt.
His quarters were, of course, empty. No one, not even the arrogant Captain Bauti, would enter without his permission. Fear wasn’t a great motivator, but it made a wonderful deterrent.
He wasted no time changing into his Pushtani robes and stowing the assassin’s cloak in a secret compartment behind a second bookcase. He’d built this one himself, needing somewhere to store his Denari Lai things that no one could find. It had taken him a year of chiseling and chipping and building as quietly as he could, but now that small cabinet held his daggers, poisons, clothing, and everything else associated with being Denari Lai.
Even the crystals.
He reached for the velvet purse holding the three stones, but stopped when someone knocked on his outer door. Closing the hidden cabinet with a subtle snick sound, The Watcher straightened his Pushtani attire and moved through the bedroom door into his sitting area. He stood, facing the door, waiting.
When they knocked again, The Watcher moved forward.
“I’m coming,” he called. “Be patient.”
He pulled the carved wooden door aside to find Neffin, Renard, and Celani outside, all dressed in their wedding attire, wearing shadows on their faces.
Celani stepped forward, trying to peer into The Watcher’s chambers. The Watcher let him look—he’d see nothing but a drab sitting area with modest décor, as was fitting The Watcher’s station.
“We come bearing dire news,” said the general, running a hand over the salt-and-pepper stubble on his head. “His Majesty the King has died.”
“And Princess Makari is missing,” Renard added.
The Watcher let his hand fly to his mouth in mock surprise, and placed the other hand on the door, as if he might faint.
“May The Five help us,” he muttered, motioning for the men to come inside. They stood fast. “What is the matter, my lords?”
The three ministers exchanged worried looks, and Celani held out a scroll with a broken wax seal.
“This is the king’s decree, signed by his hand, and affixed with his seal, naming who he wished would assume the role of ‘Protector of Pushtan’ until Makari assumes her place on the throne.”
The Watcher did not move to take the scroll. He’d been there when the king signed it, so he knew exactly what it said.
“If there is anything I can do to assist you in those duties, General, please—”
“It doesn’t name me as Protector,” Celani said, his words taking on a knife-edged sharpness. “It names you.”
The Watcher opened his mouth and let it hang that way, feigning a lack of words. He channeled just the slightest thread of magic and painted his face a paler white than it normally was.
“Me? But, I am no ruler, sirs. I am just a humble servant of the crown. I don’t even come from noble blood.”
The three men stood, looking at him, waiting for instructions. He looked Celani in the eye and gave him a weak smile.
“Well then. I will need to rely on the exceptional talents of the Royal Council.” He managed to sift most of the sarcasm from his voice. “What would you recommend, General?”
A few minutes later, he’d given the orders to lock down the city, clear the palace of all who did not work or live there, and recall Captain Bauti and the Royal Guard to see to palace security. He told the men to convene the council so they could discuss the king’s funeral arrangements, as well as tend to other crucial business to keep the kingdom alive until Makari was found.
“Thank you, My Lords, for your sound advice and steadfast loyalty to the crown and the nation. Together, we will guide Pushtan through this crisis and see it set on stable ground again. I will see you all in an hour.”
They turned to go, but Celani paused and gave him a cautious look.
“Captain Bauti will want to lead the search for Makari himself,” the general said. “But his place is here, protecting you.”
“I understand completely, General Celani. I will see to it the captain is properly utilized.”
Celani studied him a moment, as if trying to decipher some hidden meaning in his words, then sketched a slight bow.
“The king chose well,” he said. “In an hour then, Minister.”
And Samaran Tan watched him march off down the hall.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The last rays of sunlight smeared the sky over the western foothills like a bloodstain, red and orange and the black of scab, as if night had slashed the sky with a dagger, leaving its wound to fester.
Pachat followed the line of slaves chained in front of him like a giant snake of flesh and iron. Their breath steamed in front of their faces, and sweat froze into sparkling diamonds on their exposed skin. Behind him, Joppish trudged along, huffing and wheezing as phlegm clogged his chest and nose.
“Back to the tunnels at night?” he whined. “How much work do they think they can get from men who are already exhausted and sick? We spent twelve hours down there already today.”
A guard bellowed for them to stop talking, and Pachat shushed the younger man.
“We’ll find out when we get there,” he whispered. “Anyone who’s sick won’t have to work. The masters never go down with us anyway. Too dangerous for elite Pushtani soldiers like themselves.”
That drew a chuckle from the men around him, and in turn a crack of the whip from the nearest master.
When they reached the opening to the shaft, though, Cargil was waiting, his face only slightly lighter than the bleeding dusk sky behind him. He stood outside the shaft opening, hands on hips, feet wide. He wore a long sword at his belt, which Pachat had only seen one other time, and then for ceremonial reasons.
“Something’s wrong,” muttered Mishi, a younger man with a hunched back and a limp in his left knee. “Cargil never misses his evening wine and wenches.”
A nervous murmur filtered through their group as they drew to a stop in front of the master.
For a long, almost torturous moment, Cargil simply stood, staring at them. Or glaring, more accurately. Joppish started to shiver, his teeth chattering and his knees knocking. Cargil marched up to him and delivered a backhand to Joppish’s jaw that sent him reeling.
“Did I give you leave to move, Nishi’iti shit-pile?”
Joppish struggled to his feet, shaking his head. Cargil knocked him down again, this time with a cross to his temple.
“I didn’t give you permission to get back up, either!”
Pachat looked from Joppish to the other men, but all stood with eyes downcast. All but one—the Wanao Lai. He’d joined their work crew three days earlier, after an older man had passed away in the abandoned shaft. No one had noticed the old man’s death for an hour. The Wanao Lai—Jingsho was his name—had replaced him within the day, dressed in miner’s rags.
He hadn’t said more than a few words to Pachat since, all benign and work-related, as if their former conversation had never happened. Now he stood straight, staring at Cargil with hate boiling from his eyes. If Cargil noticed, he said nothing.
The slave master walked away from Joppish’s crumpled form and paced back and forth in front of their group. He stopped in front of Pachat, standing almost nose to nose with him. Pachat averted his eyes.
“You see, now, this repulsive pig of a slave knows how to show respect to his betters. You could all learn a lesson from this one.”
He started away from Pachat, but wheeled without warning and punched him in the gut. Pachat doubled over and fell to his knees, gasping for air. When Cargil stood over him, he stayed down, eyes locked on the dirt before him.
“You want some news of your lover, slave?” Pachat’s heart leapt, but he fought down his excitement and kept his eyes on the ground. “Well it seems there’s been some trouble in Dar Tallus, trouble stirred up by savage Nishi’itis like your bitch of a woman.
“I suppose I should start by telling you all that a Denari Lai heathen killed our king. Abadas is dead.”
Every pair of eyes snapped to Cargil at that moment, and while Pachat expected to see smiles or at least grins of satisfaction, he saw only shock and fear. Fear of the reprisal that would no doubt come their way soon.
“And Princess Makari appears to have been kidnaped by the assassin, who was masquerading as her betrothed. He killed a priest and at least four brave Royal Guardsmen, too.
“What kind of cowardly act was this? Are you Nishi’itis so craven that you need to kill from the shadows?”
Pachat’s stomach clenched when Jingsho opened his mouth.
“Says the man whose army steals women and children and makes them into slaves because his own people are too fat—”
A slaver behind him cracked his whip across Jingsho’s bare back, making the Wanao Lai cry out, though perhaps more in shock than in pain. He whirled to face the man, but a second master clubbed him in the small of his back. Jingsho fell face-first and lay writhing in the dirt.
Cargil clucked his tongue and kicked the Wanao Lai in the head, then faced the group.
“Since it was your countrymen who killed our ruler and stole his lovely daughter, all of you will pay the price. Tonight, you will work until midnight, when my men will bring you back to observe me punishing every other Nishi’iti dog in the camp. Our whips will sing in Nishi’iti blood tonight, and you’ll watch it all. I might even make you do the whipping.
“Then, when that is done, all of you will sleep under the light of the moon, with no blankets, no shirts, and no fires.”
“We’ll freeze to death,” one man said. “Who will work the mines?”
Cargil shrugged. “I’m sure the Pushtani Army will be making a trip or two into your lands to find replacements. Soon. General Celani will replace all of you in a week, and provide my men with women to keep them company.”
He turned to go, but stopped and looked back over his shoulder at Pachat.
“Oh, I almost forgot, the precious Kendshi.” He grinned from ear to ear, his face twisted and shadowed. “You won’t be hearing from her again. The assassin cut her down, too. She got off easily—she deserved a good raping first, the little whore.”
Pachat thought he heard his heart shattering. He fell forward on his face, his nose smashing into the cold, solid ground, blood mixing with his tears as the ground swallowed them both. He knew he should be sobbing, crying in great convulsions, but all he could manage were a few tears. His body went numb, as if every emotion drained from him with the tears and blood, hiding in the hard ground where no one could see.
He had no idea how long he lay there before Jingsho kneeled beside him, hand warm on his shoulder. The black leather boots of a slaver appeared before his eyes, and the sound of a whip cracked the frigid air. Pachat had no idea whether or not it struck him, and he didn’t care.
“It’s time to get up, friend,” the Wanao Lai whispered. “There’s work to be done. In the tunnel.”
Pachat ignored him, willing the slave master to whip him, hoping for physical pain to wash away the ache in his soul.
“Hurry now,” Jingsho urged, voice soft but urgent. “We must get to work. In the tunnel. You remember, right? Near the collapse.”
The collapse. That spurred memories, something in Pachat’s mind, lighting a fire in his heart. The hidden cache. Weapons.
Revenge.
He turned his head enough to watch Cargil’s form slip into his tent, where no doubt a whore and a wineskin awaited. Probably a Nishi’iti slave woman, knowing Cargil. She would suffer tonight, as the master took his revenge on her body.
And she would die, just like Kendshi.
Pachat put his hands on the ground and shoved himself up, vaulting to his feet. The remaining slaver eyed him with suspicion, but Pachat ignored him, turning to Jingsho.
“You’re right. We have work to do. Let’s get to it.”
An hour later, all but Jingsho were armed and armored, Pachat donning lightweight boiled leather plates, hefting a curved sword in his hands. Most of the slaves held spears or short swords, and Jingsho went through basic instructions on how to use them. Since all Nishi’iti men served a two-year tour in the Army, though, only the two youngest—Joppish and another boy—had never done so before.
When the training ended, Pachat looked over his crew, now his squad, and shook his head. Even armed, they didn’t look like much, and most were sick or injured or weak.
“We need more men,” he told Jingsho.
The Wanao Lai nodded and jogged up the tunnel. A few minutes later, he returned with ten more men, most new and thus healthy.
“I told them we’d found a major vein and needed more men to extract the gold.” The soldier grinned, teeth white in the flickering torchlight. “I left one man further up the tunnel to watch for slavers.”
Pachat nodded and addressed the newcomers.
“Did Cargil tell you the news?”
All ten nodded, eyes wide at seeing slaves with weapons.
“Then you know that tonight, every Nishi’iti slave will be punished for something they did not do. Cargil and his thugs will rape our women, murder our children, and retaliate a hundred-fold for the death of their King.
“But as you see, Nishi did not forsake us. The Wanao Lai brought us weapons and armor enough to stop Cargil’s evil, and to strike the chains from our own ankles. No longer will we shiver while they have fire, starve while they glut themselves, or work while they beat us. Once we’ve broken free, you can return home if you want, back to your families and villages. That’s what I mean to do.
“But Jingsho says there is something here for those of you looking for Pushtani blood, or with no one left to go home to. Jingsho is Wanao Lai, and he promises reinforcements if we take this fight to the Pushtani Army.”
That brought a buzz of murmurs from the new men, and Pachat’s crew joined right in. He felt their excitement flowing like a river through the tunnel. A river that soon would flood.
He quieted them by raising his hands and went on.
“But for right now, let’s focus on the task at hand: saving the Nishi’itis here. We may not be elite soldiers, but we are Nishi’iti, and we go with our God. Nishi calls for justice, and we will give it to him!”
A cheer went up from the miners, and Pachat felt a twist in his stomach. He could well be sending every one of these men to their death if the Pushtanis managed to rally.
“There are enough weapons here for every slave to take up arms,” Jingsho said, stepping forward. “We will need every slave if we’re going to destroy Cargil and the evil that is this camp. We will start as a breeze, but end as a whirlwind, destroying all that stands in our path.”
“Do you have a plan, then?” one man asked.
Jingsho grinned. “Of course.”
An instant later, a scrawny Nishi’iti boy sprinted down the tunnel, huffing as he slid to a stop in front of Jingsho.
“They’re coming,” he said. “Four slavers. They heard the cheer and got suspicious.”
Everyone, even Jingsho, looked at Pachat, awaiting instructions. Footsteps sounded in the tunnel, growing louder, followed by the clink of metal. Pachat hesitated, seeing the simple, good people before him, all armed but none soldiers.
He knew most of them, and wondered how many would die this night. He wondered if any would actually make it back to Nishi’iti.
“Pachat,” Jingsho said, “now is not the time for hesitation.”
As the footsteps neared the tunnel’s bend, Pachat made up his mind.
“Our salvation starts now.”
He charged around the corner, all twenty miners close behind, screaming in their native tongue. In a matter of seconds they overwhelmed the startled slave masters. None even had a chance to cry out before steel found them.
It ended as quickly as it had begun, only Joppish needing to be dragged from the bloody body of a slaver as he hacked and chopped with his short sword at the man’s lifeless form.
The new men went back and armed themselves, and when they were ready, they marched to the mouth of the tunnel and stopped.
Pachat turned to the boy who had warned them.
“I want you to remain with the weapons. We will send slaves to you as we find them. It’s your job to get them armed and send them back out to fight. If you see any slavers coming, follow that tunnel at a run. It’ll take you home. Tell everyone what has happened here tonight. Let our people know it’s time to fight.”
The boy nodded and ran back down. Jingsho looked at Pachat, an approving smile on his lips.
“See, natural leadership,” he said. Behind him, the rest of the men nodded in agreement.
Pachat shook his head, but felt pride swelling in his heart. Not pride in himself, but pride in his people, pride in the Nishi’iti spirit that, despite years of oppression and cruelty, had not broken.
“Where do we start?” Joppish asked.
Pachat took a deep breath and let it out slowly. A third crew stood outside another tunnel a hundred paces away, two slavers whipping one man while the others watched.
