Shadow Blade, page 23
Then the Chargh Lai was gone and Tan stopped his prayer.
He rose and put the stones back in their hiding place. He knew what he had to do, as much as he didn’t like it. He had to find them himself.
Which meant taking to the streets again.
His feet ached just thinking about it.
Chapter Thirty
The fourth day of the rebellion dawned clear and cold in the foothills, silver sunlight spreading across the land and turning frost into sparkling diamonds, like the mines had spewed forth their own gems without a single slave lifting a pick or hefting a shovel.
Cargil had finally died the night before, his screams tapering first to sobs, then to whimpers, then to silence.
His had been a slow and agonizing death, one that left Pachat feeling sorry for the man in the end, and disgusted at how quickly good men and women turned into unholy monsters when revenge was an open door before them. Almost every miner and slave in the camp, even some who weren’t Nishi’iti, had gotten their licks in. The Slave Master died missing fingers, toes, an ear, his tongue, and numerous other body parts, not to mention the ones Fooshi had taken that first night.
No one deserved to die that way, not even someone as horrible and evil as Cargil. It had turned Pachat’s stomach, but when he’d tried to stop it, Jingsho had intervened. The slaves needed this, he’d said. They deserved a chance at revenge, and would turn on Pachat if he denied them that much.
Now Pachat wished he’d ignored the Wanao Lai, for by allowing the slaver’s gruesome death, he’d taken part in the killing. He went to bed at night wishing he could wash the blood from his hands, blood that he knew would return the next day should the horrors continue.
They gathered now outside the once-abandoned tunnel, huddled together against the morning chill, breath steaming in front of their faces. Nearly 300 strong now, having been joined by slaves from nearby camps, people they’d not even known existed until a Wanao Lai soldier led them in the previous morning. Even using the now empty tents of the Pushtanis, they’d barely had enough shelter for them all, and now they gathered, waiting for word from Pachat, their reluctant leader.
Pachat glanced over his shoulder at the gaping darkness of the tunnel behind him. No one had been allowed inside since the first night of the uprising, Jingsho appointing ten slaves to guard it and keep people out. The weapons were gone, and he said he feared people leaving before the fight was done.
Even Pachat—the supposed leader of this rebellion—had not been allowed inside, though he’d gotten close enough to hear voices filtering out through the twists and turns.
A tense buzz filtered through the gathered throng as his people—his army as Jingsho had called them—anticipated word on going home. They all knew that the tunnel behind Pachat led to Nishi’iti, to freedom and the possibility of seeing their families again. Frankly, he was shocked none had broken for the opening yet, though some eyed it longingly, clearly eager to be gone from the land of their long-suffered hardships.
Jingsho stepped up beside him, his breath warm on Pachat’s ear.
“Are you ready?”
Pachat shrugged. “Do I have a choice?”
He knew what the Wanao Lai wanted him to say, what their instructions were from their homeland. Word from their emperor, passed through the Wanao Lai, was simple and yet devastating. It would break their hearts, and cost many their lives.
“Nishi always gives us choices,” Jingsho whispered. “It’s up to us to make the right ones when the time comes.”
Taking a deep breath, Pachat nodded and raised his hands for silence. The other slaves stopped their mumbling and listened.
“My friends! We stand here before God and the world free men and women, cut loose from our bonds, standing astride the chests of our one-time masters, knee-deep in their blood. We are no longer slaves!”
A cheer went up, but Pachat’s heart didn’t lift like he’d thought it would. Using words provided by the Wanao Lai didn’t seem natural to him, like he was a puppet whose mouth was worked by the fingers of yet another master. Still, he went on as he’d been instructed.
“Behind me sits your road home, a chance to return to Nishi’iti and live again as free people of the One True God. Taking that tunnel means never again hearing the sound of a slaver’s voice, never feeling the cut of their whip or the thud of their boots on our bodies. That tunnel leads to freedom and safety, but before you take it, I ask you to consider this.
“We already know we were not the only slave camps in these foothills. We found one another with the help of our Wanao Lai brothers, and in doing so, strengthened our numbers and our position. Even now a company of armed Pushtani Army soldiers marches toward us, bent on returning us to a life of slavery. If a company doesn’t work, they’ll send a platoon, after that a battalion if needed.”
Some in the crowd looked at one another now, fear and uncertainty on their faces for the first time since ripping their freedom from the iron grip of their captors.
“So it’s understandable that we all want to run through that tunnel and flee back to safety. Nishi sees this in our hearts and understands. He thinks no man or woman a coward for wanting to do so. None.
“It is our actions, not our thoughts, that define us to our God, and now he asks that our actions take a different route, one of his choosing rather than our own.”
He paused to gather his thoughts. This would be the tough part. Jingsho put his hand on Pachat’s shoulder to steady him, so Pachat gathered his strength and continued.
“Just as our two camps were unaware of one another, so are there other slave camps in these foothills that don’t know of us. These are fellow Nishi’itis, held against their will much as we were, forced to labor in dangerous conditions, treated with cruelty and violence, held down, and stepped on by brutal and uncaring captors. There are dozens like Cargil out there, countrymen, all with their boots on the necks of our fellow Nishi’itis.
“Now our God asks us to help him free them. True, we could all flee into that tunnel and save ourselves, but Nishi and our emperor, Rinshai ho Nishi, ask us to delay our return to freedom and comfort. They ask us to march east and south, freeing slaves as we come upon them, sweeping like an ocean tide across Pushtan in a wave of righteous outrage and holy power.
“Our God and our Emperor ask us to take this fight to the Pushtanis until every last Nishi’iti slave is able to run down this tunnel to freedom, or better yet, to walk back across the border without fear of pursuit or harm because our oppressors are too broken to follow. God asks us to free our people, so how can we turn our backs?”
The last part lacked the conviction he’d hoped to infuse into it, and the crowd’s reaction was lukewarm at best. A few clapped, one or two cheered, but most looked frightened, ready to flee. These weren’t soldiers or Wanao Lai. They were farmers and shop owners, millers and bakers. They were straw soldiers holding weapons, waiting for the enemy’s fire arrows to set them ablaze.
“But we’re just slaves,” said one man from the front row. “How can we stand against trained Pushtani soldiers?”
Jingsho eased Pachat aside before he could answer and spoke to the crowd.
“We have brought help.”
Out of the tunnel stepped a handful of men, perhaps a dozen, all dressed in the gray-and-black camouflage uniforms of the Wanao Lai, Suzaht in the lead. Bristling with weapons, they all carried themselves with the same cool confidence as Jingsho and Suzaht, appearing both outwardly calm and wound tight as bear traps at the same time. They fanned out behind their leader, arms crossed over their chests, and surveyed they assembled slaves.
Pachat gave Jingsho an irritated glare. The Wanao Lai had failed to mention this part of his plans, and Pachat didn’t like being deceived.
“A dozen soldiers?” shouted one slave from the front row. “Even the mighty Wanao Lai will need more than twelve men to accomplish what you propose. We’re talking about an entire Battalion of Pushtanis!”
Suzaht took Jingsho’s place and stared out across the assembled slaves and rebels, his eyes shining with pride.
“But we have almost three-hundred men, all of whom will be trained by these dozen elite warriors. Surely what we have, when trained, will be able to face a company of Pushtanis. And our numbers will grow as we move camp to camp, scooping up more courageous men like yourselves, all of whom are being trained by Wanao Lai as we speak.”
“Where is the Nishi’iti Army, then?” shouted another man, this time somewhere in the middle. “Why don’t they come to our aid?”
Suzaht smiled, an expression that made Pachat want to vomit.
“All in due time, friend! The Army prepares to help us, but as you know, our military is small, and built mostly for defense. They cannot hope to defeat our enemy here without significant help from loyal Nishi’itis already behind enemy lines. Us.”
Pachat surveyed the assembled crowd, finding only a few looks of skepticism. These men and women, he realized, had been abused and trampled on for so long now they were willing to listen to anyone who told them what they wanted to hear: that revenge was theirs for the taking.
As Suzaht and Jingsho went on answering questions from the rebels, Pachat felt less and less important, his misgivings about the whole thing making him feel like an outsider to the people he was supposed to lead.
He stepped back behind the Wanao Lai and slowly worked his way around to the back of the throng of slaves. When no one was looking, he slipped away and sulked back to his tent.
He knew what he needed to do. These men would take their justice—or their revenge, since the line between them was razor-thin—here, where their most egregious abuses had been inflicted. Here they would free friends and loved ones, kill the men who’d hurt them, and set fire to a realm that had oppressed them for year after year.
But Pachat had no one here to free, no one at all, and his justice was south, where Kendshi had died. He knew his road led there, and was one he must travel alone.
He pulled a rough wool blanket from his bed, spread it on the floor, and put his clothing in the middle of it. He would need to find food to take along, but the kitchen tent was on the way south out of camp, so he’d stop when he left.
He bundled his things, tied the blanket closed, and hefted it over his shoulder when the tent flap opened and Joppish stepped inside. The rail-thin slave had done well in the fighting, proving capable with a spear, but his split lip had reopened, and he walked with a limp. He paused in the doorway, then stepped inside and let the flap drop.
“What’s this?”
“This war is not for me,” Pachat told him. “I must find the man who killed Kendshi and spill his blood. Only when he bleeds to death at my feet can I go home.”
“I’ll go with you then. You can’t do this alone, Pachat.”
Pachat hugged the wiry man, patting the back of his head as if he were a child.
“I have to. And this is likely a one-way trip, my friend. The chances I’ll live are thin.” Joppish pushed back and started to object, but Pachat silenced him. “Your place is here. Your wife is in one of these mines, Joppish. Find her and take her home.”
Joppish wiped at his hook-nose and sniffled, turning away. But he nodded.
Pachat stepped past him to the door, then paused. “Don’t let them lose sight of home, Joppish. These Wanao Lai have their own reasons, their own agendas in the war they’re starting. A nation cannot survive on warriors alone. It will need farmers, smiths, tinkers, tailors, coopers, and more.
“That’s who we are. We’re not Wanao Lai, and we never will be. That’s not Nishi’s path for all of us.”
And with that, he slipped out the door.
Chapter Thirty-One
Ashai brushed a cobweb from his face, wiping the sticky lattice on his shirt as he paced the confined space of the wine cellar. His hand shook, the tremor climbing up his arm and into his shoulder and neck. He reached the back wall, shelved and lined with bottles and casks, in four steps, then wheeled about and paced back toward the narrow flight of steps they’d come down an hour earlier.
“You’re going to wear a ditch into the floor,” Bauti griped. The big captain sat on a keg of ale, looking like he could use a mug of the stuff. “Sit down and wait.”
Ashai ignored him. Bauti could never understand what he was going through, how his body and soul ached for the touch of Nishi’s gift, a gift he needed. Depended on. Bauti could not feel the tremors and convulsing muscles that came from the gaping, dark chasm that formed the void where God’s power once lived.
It was something one who’d never held magic’s power then lost it couldn’t understand.
So Ashai paced the room again, trying to ignore the growing weakness flooding through him. His mind wandered back several years, to a mountain slope in northern Nishi’iti, overlooking the tumbled ruins of an ancient temple. He remembered a shiner, with his glowing, silver eyes and crazed look, and he shuddered. The one-time Denari Lai had gone astray and been cut off from Nishi’s gift, so he’d sought it in back alley magic, and that magic, while temporarily powerful, left an even larger hole in one’s soul than Nishi’s power, abusing the body and destroying the mind.
He’d killed the shiner, as was his assignment all those years ago. Killed him with pity in his heart. He could not let himself become that man, but if he couldn’t renew his power without being discovered, he might not have a choice, at least not an acceptable one. He had to protect Makari, no matter the cost.
“It’s been an hour.” The princess stood in the shadows at the back corner of the tiny room, wrapped in the same cheap wool robe, her eyes piercing through the dim light, sweeping past Ashai to light upon her captain. Her lifelong guardian. “They should be here.”
Bauti smirked. “If they haven’t already sold us out to that lecherous Tan. These are criminals, highness. Thieves, cutthroats, purse lifters. Hardly trustworthy people.”
“They’re all we have right now,” Ashai reminded him. Bauti shot him a reproachful glare. “The palace staff is compromised, including your Royal Guard, and anywhere we go, people are looking for us. The Sixth Guild is our only hope of escaping the city alive.”
“He knows that.” Makari still did not look at Ashai, keeping her eyes on Bauti instead. Her cold aloofness sliced at Ashai’s heart, but he knew he deserved it. “The captain’s never been known for his patience.”
She offered Bauti a smile to prove she meant it in jest. Bauti barely grinned in return.
“It’s not patience bothering me now,” he grumbled. “It’s sneaking around and running away. I should be in the palace, running my sword through Tan’s traitorous heart. This dishonorable shadowy stuff is for spies and assassins.”
His eyes swept over Ashai, but the assassin refused to let the man see him flinch.
“They’ll be here soon,” he said, pausing his repeated treks across the dirt floor. “Tisk wasn’t lying. And the Sixth Guild has more to gain by helping you than by turning you in. They know they can trust Makari to live up to her word and pay whatever debt she has to them. But Tan would simply lie to their faces and send the Army to kill them.”
“Typical assassin.” Bauti didn’t look at Ashai this time.
Makari shook her head at him, though, a gesture Ashai caught out of the corner of his eye that he wasn’t meant to see. It made his heart leap with hope. She was defending him, so maybe he hadn’t completely lost her yet.
Tisk had run across them as they snuck through the streets on the west side of the city, telling them word had gotten out about their location and that they needed to move quickly. The boy led them east, into a wealthier part of the city, and stashed them in the cellar before trotting off to bring help.
“I’ll be back,” he’d told them. “Sit tight. No one will look for you here.”
Ashai had to agree—the hiding place was quite clever. So far, they’d stuck to poorer parts of town, where hiding was easy and shadows more common. Moving to a well-lit, less risky part of the city went against their established pattern, and would take time for Tan or the Royal Guard to figure out.
The wine cellar belonged to a wealthy merchant named Ulwood who sold fine spices and flavorings from around the world. He was a stout man, who apparently owed the Sixth Guild a great deal, for he never flinched when Tisk told him to shelter three fugitives and keep them hidden at all costs.
Now that merchant slept in the house above them, his snores occasionally slipping down to the cellar as he kept his equally portly wife awake with his rumblings.
“Are you sure I can’t just kill Tan and take her back to the palace?” Bauti asked. Ashai was surprised at the almost friendly tone he took with him.
“You could try, but even I had a hard time fighting him, and I had the same training he did. Besides, even if you killed him, the Denari Lai would just send more and more until the princess was dead. We … they never give up, and they never fail. It is God’s will.”
Bauti rose and stretched, a move as much of impatience as discomfort. “So we’re supposed to stay on the run for the rest of our lives? Why keep her alive if she can never lead her people?”
Ashai had thought this through hours earlier and knew what he had to do.
“No, I need to reach the Chargh Lai and convince him to let Makari live. If I can show him her heart is pure, there’s a chance he’ll change his mind.”
“I’ve never known a zealot to be swayed by reasoned argument,” Bauti stated. “What if you cannot convince him?”
This was the part Ashai didn’t like to think about. It would be his final betrayal, the one that would end with his eternal suffering.
“Then I’ll have to kill him.”
A heavy silence fell over the room, like a blanket soaked in oil, as all three found themselves lost in their own thoughts. Then footsteps thudded on the upstairs floor and the silence became tense.
