Servants of the Sands, page 24
This particular machago strode at the head of the line without looking back, evidently confident that the double chains made escape impossible and rebellion too costly. A few of the slaves bore a bruise or a whip cut, mute testimony that they’d tried one or both already. For all that they outnumbered the machago—fifteen slaves was an unusually large number—they’d clearly been cowed into obedience. Very likely the machago used threats of retaliation against loved ones, or false promises of easy service if they cooperated.
Oruen had already begun trying to stem the tide. He’d negotiated a compact with Water’s End that raised southern taxes on northern-sourced slaves, required registration of all northern-born slaves with the hayrar before sale, and tightened scrutiny of machago lines leaving Bright Bay.
It was a canny move. The enduring reality of the north to south slave trade revolved around money, taking little to no regard of kingdom laws, mad or sane. Machagos would always be around to buy out bad debts and haul the offender south to work off the price. Petty crimes were as often rewarded with an involuntary trip south as with a more legal hearing before a northern magistrate.
It wasn’t normally permanent. Slaves worked off their purchase price and went home again with nothing more than a small brand by way of reminder. It was a reasonable alternative to northern-style jails, in Allonin’s opinion, but it did have a darker side. Less-honorable machagos tended to kick hard-to-sell slaves over to pit merchants—Allonin’s cover persona during his years of searching the katha villages. Few came out of that service alive.
Especially dishonorable machagos in search of easy money preyed on children for the katha villages. Allonin always made a point of destroying those men whenever he found them, even before he’d met Tanavin.
Legitimate machago lines, however, steered well clear of the katha village trade, and he’d spent enough time in Water’s End to know the difference at a glance. This machago was properly registered and bonded, and the line held only adult men, no children, so Allonin saw no reason to interfere, or even to care.
He walked past the chain of northern fools without looking at them, careful to keep his attitude neutral and his movements casual. As he drew near to the head of the line, a voice, barely loud enough to carry, said: “Allo?”
The machago seemed not to hear. Allonin slowed his step, cursing himself for a fool.
“Allo.” The voice held wakening hope now.
Allonin looked sideways and back, into a grimy face and bright green eyes. A mop of auburn hair straggled around the man’s face and shoulders in rain-slick rat-tails, and a livid bruise marked one side of his broad face. His worn boots were in better shape than his ripped, mud-soaked clothing. He’d obviously been ferocious about trying to escape. This wasn’t a cover to get him through the Horn without drawing teyanain attention.
Lamb. Damnit. So he was in Bright Bay. Why? Did the Water’s End hayrar decide to get involved in northern politics after all? And what the hells is he doing in a machago line? Shadow is going to be pissed.
“Help,” Lamb mouthed, eyes narrow, stare intense.
Now Allonin had a reason to interfere: Another promise, made years ago, had just fallen due. Was it a coincidence? Lamb’s greatest talent was a propensity for landing in trouble, and getting himself right back out again; but double-chained was a hard noose to slip.
Was Kalla’s reach so devious and so long these days that she’d managed to trick a machago into picking Lamb up, of all people? Hard to believe. Harder to see this situation as pure coincidence.
Allonin gave Lamb a scant, blank-faced nod, then put his gaze forward again and paced his steps to draw level with the man at the head of the line.
“Machago,” he said, matching paces.
The tall, heavyset man spared him an indifferent glance. His features, under the wide brim of his rain hat, displayed a muddied mix of bloodlines, and his eyes seemed too small for the breadth of his face. His left ear bore a deep notch, and his right ear hung with a dozen variously sized, plain silver rings. His big-knuckled hands were bare of jewelry.
Allonin said, “Your line here. Where is it from?”
“Bright Bay, mostly,” the man said. “Fools owing money to the wrong person. The usual story.”
“Is this line entirely spoken for?”
The man squinted, interest awakening, as Allonin had expected. Illicit trailside dealing would put money directly into his pocket, countering the loss in profit from the recent tax increase.
“Depends. Which one?” The accent largely came from the west, at a guess, but was as mixed as the man’s features. He could have been from anywhere.
“Third back.”
The machago shook his head, not bothering to look. “Nar. That one’s taken. Personal matter. Already paid for.”
Allonin let that rest for a few steps, as though considering; looked back and forth along the trail, checking for oncoming passerby. The nearby road was empty save for themselves. A southbound group was barely visible cresting a ridge ahead, and nobody was coming along behind.
“Who’s the claimant, machago?”
The man slanted a sardonic glance sideways. “That’s paid for, too,” he said. “Enough that I won’t breach it. What’s the interest?”
Allonin shrugged. “He’s a handsome one,” he said. “I like the green-eyed redheads, myself. Hard to find that particular shade.”
“Couple other handsome ones in the line. Take another look.”
“I’ll do that,” Allonin said, and let himself drift back along the line, ignoring Lamb’s beseeching glance, studying each in turn. One boy, three back from Lamb, caught his attention, and he examined the despair-etched features thoughtfully, noting the similarities to and differences from Lamb’s face. Then he caught up with the machago again. “How much for the sixth one back?”
The machago glanced over his shoulder, frowning, searching the faces, then shook his head. “You’ve a gift for picking the ones as ain’t available,” he said. “How’s about the eighth back? He’s a sturdy sort.”
Allonin made a show of considering, then sighed. “He wasn’t hard on the eyes,” he admitted. “How much?”
“Two rounds. Gold.”
“Seems high,” Allonin said.
“High! Hardly.” The machago spit to one side. “I’m being generous. You know the rules well as I do. I’ve got to cover myself for a missing slave, don’t I? That’s bribe money out of my pocket.”
“He’s still not worth two. I’ll give you a half round.”
The machago studied Allonin’s face for a moment. “One and a half,” he said grudgingly.
“One.”
The man sighed noisily. “Done. You want him now?”
Allonin made a show of considering the question. “How broke-in is he?”
The man shook his head with a snort, and spit to one side by way of answer. So the indicated slave, like Lamb, was far from docile. Allonin suspected he could have pushed for a lower price and won after all, but done was done, and money wasn’t the point.
“Hm. Where are you stopping tonight?”
“Next way-stop.”
Allonin chewed on the inside of his cheek, then said, “May as well wait, then. No reason for me to be saddled with a runner down the trail. I’ll take him at the way stop and break him in tonight, so he won’t try taking off on me.”
“Extra half for transport,” the man said promptly. “Advance pay.”
Allonin sighed, reaching for his money pouch. “I still like the first two I asked about,” he said as he counted out a handful of gold bits, letting several uncut gold rounds fall into the hand farthest from the machago as though by accident, then hastily—and clumsily—tucking the money back into the pouch. “They’ve a better build for my tastes.”
It might just take that flash of wealth and a bit of extra prodding. The machago could have been warned not to make it too easy. This couldn’t be a coincidence.
“One ain’t enough for you?” The machago snorted and hawked another gob of spit. “In any case, like I said, them two are already good as bound. Hayrar himself ain’t got the gold to top their price, I’m thinking, so don’t bother with an offer.”
Allonin made a regretful sound and glanced back over his shoulder at the chain of slaves. No guards, which meant that this machago was either scrambling to build his own reputation, or so important that nobody in their right minds would try anything. But new machagos tended to take on risky jobs nobody else would dare, in the hopes of earning a powerful patron. This man didn’t—quite—read like an experienced machago.
Allonin weighed possibilities and options along with the coins in his hand. A hot itch spidered down his spine again: clear indicator that an athain was watching this exchange, and wanted him to know that. Damnit.
“You paying, or changing your mind?” the machago asked sharply. “Not keen on having this conversation just here, you know, with them allays watching and listening like a wife as won’t go away.” He cast a fast, nervous glance up and around: stared at something high above to their right for a moment, then jerked his gaze back to the ground, shuddering.
Allonin exhaled, relieved. The machago was most definitely not an ally of the teyanain, which had been the uncertain feather in the balance. Killing him shouldn’t upset the watchers, if it was handled with a minimum of mess and fuss.
“Changing my mind,” Allonin said, relieved. He flattened his unoccupied hand and whipped it sideways into the man’s throat. Cartilage cracked under the blow. He’d practiced this move on countless hard squashes, and the reality was nauseatingly similar... except for that knobbly scraping moment.
He’d done it right. The machago pitched backward, hands scrabbling at his chest, trying to scream even as his knees gave way. The heavy thud of the man hitting the ground and the prolonged, thrashing gargle of his death brought heads up in a startled wave all along the chain. Only Lamb showed no surprise, his grin as bright as his eyes.
Allonin dropped the coins back into his belt pouch as he watched the man die. Waiting was respectful and smart. It indicated respect for the man who had, after all, been doing a perfectly legal job, and smart in that it gave the teyanain time to make their displeasure known if they intended to interfere. The slave line stood quiet as though largely too stunned to know what to do. Some stared, some turned aside with hands over their ears.
When the machago’s body fell still, Allonin murmured a brief gratitude to the Sun-Lord, then knelt to retrieve the shackle-striker. Habit dictated a swift search of the body. He set the machago’s coin purse aside, more interested in the oilcloth-covered packet resting under the man’s shirt. He tucked the packet carefully away into his pack. He’d look at it later, in dry air.
Nothing else of interest turned up. Allonin rolled the machago’s body to the side of the trail and left it there, mostly hidden from sight behind a large rock.
He went down the line of slaves, checking for previous brands. He didn’t want to turn a repeat offender loose, as he had enough trouble on his hands already. But they were all unmarked. First-time fools, then; all men, and minor offenses at worst. Safe enough to cut them loose.
He knocked the pin from each cuff and wrenched the metal bands open enough to slide free, but left the cuffs on Lamb and the boy who’d been third back from him with a quiet command to stay put.
Finished, he motioned the freed slaves to gather around. They stared at him with grey, worried expressions.
“Thank you,” one of them said: then, cautiously, “Lord?”
“No,” Allonin said. “You never saw me, do you understand? Your machago died of a snakebite, and you all set yourselves free.”
They nodded, their expressions shifting to expectant now.
“Now go home. Whatever debt got you into this line—go home and resolve it. And don’t be so fucking stupid in the future.”
They exchanged a series of rapid, haunted glances. “S’e,” the one who’d spoken before said. “We’re tired. And hungry. And—”
“I don’t care,” Allonin said flatly. “Get moving. If you stay here, you’re dead.”
Their eyes widened. Although he hadn’t meant it as a direct threat, more as a statement of reality, he let them think the worst of him. It worked. They shuffled into motion, some walking, some staggering uncertainly, some nearly sprinting.
He watched them go until the last of them was at least past hearing range, if not sight, then turned back to the two remaining men. They stood shoulder to shoulder, the younger one white as Horn salt and shaking badly, Lamb grinning as though he considered the entire episode to be a highly amusing adventure.
Allonin folded his arms and stared Lamb down until that grin faltered into a more appropriate expression. “You owe me,” he said then.
Lamb dropped his gaze to the ground, sobering. “Thank you, Allo.”
“That’s a handful of piss in a sandstorm,” Allonin said. “You’re mine, Lamb. You and your friend here. I can see that you know one another. Who is he?”
Lamb said nothing, not looking up; his entire body reflected a closed off reluctance. The boy shifted his weight from one foot to the other, frowning, flickering rapid, uneasy glances about. Lamb put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, fingers digging in briefly, stilling the boy’s restlessness.
“Lamb.”
Lamb raised his head to meet Allonin’s stare directly. “He’s my brother.”
Allonin squinted at the boy skeptically, checking bone structure, eyes, nose, and ears. There were enough differences to make him wary of accepting Lamb’s claim. “No, he’s not,” Allonin said. “Try again.”
“Half-brother. Same mother, different father. His name’s Tenny.”
That was—barely—possible. “You told me your mother was killed in the Purge,” Allonin said. “That timeline doesn’t match up, Lamb.”
“I never said when during the Purge she was killed, Allo,” Lamb said, raking his hands through his wet hair, pulling it away from his face. He closed a fist around the tail created at the back of his neck as if about to tie it off, then sighed in exasperation and dropped his hand. “I’ve noticed that southerners tend to think it ended a lot sooner than it actually did.” His expression hardened. “And can we not talk about this as though Tenny isn’t even here? Not to mention that we’re standing on a Horn road, in the rain, within spitting distance of a corpse?”
“Fair enough,” Allonin conceded. “We’ll pick this up later. But before we move on, I want an oath out of you. Both of you. You’re in my service until I damn well decide you’ve worked this one off.”
Tenny raised an indignant glare to Allonin. “I serve only—” he began.
Lamb rammed an elbow sideways into Tenny’s ribs. “Shut it.” Then, to Allonin: “Time or term, not open ended.”
Tenny bent sideways, clutching his bruised ribs, grunting. Allonin ignored him. “Two years or three jobs. Each.”
“One and two.”
Tenny straightened, wincing, his face set in a harshly resentful expression, and seemed about to speak: Lamb raised a finger, warning, and the boy subsided.
Allonin shook his head. “I’m not bargaining down on this one, Lamb. I’m being generous enough as it is. I’m in a hurry, and you’re not in a position to give me anything I want.”
Lamb’s mouth creased into a sardonic smile. “I could give you him for a night,” he said, nudging his shoulder against Tenny’s. “Since you like green eyes so well.”
Allonin aimed a thoughtful, head-to-toe survey over the young man, as if seriously considering the notion. The boy’s sullen expression shifted to wide-eyed panic, and Lamb’s relaxed amusement faded into alarmed watchfulness.
“Don’t make offers like that, Lamb,” Allonin told him stonily. “Not even as a joke. Not even to me.”
“Two and three,” Lamb said in a muted voice. “Each.”
“You know how things work, so you’re in charge of your brother,” Allonin said. “Make sure he understands consequences. Right now, in front of me, make sure he understands.”
Lamb bit his lip, then nodded. “Things are different in the south,” he told Tenny.
“I’d noticed,” Tenny muttered, scowling.
“You don’t talk, Tenny, that’s rule one. You don’t argue. You’re deaf and dumb unless you and I are alone and you’re positive nobody’s listening.”
Tenny opened his mouth, indignant once more. Lamb raised a warning finger.
“Rule One,” Lamb said emphatically. “I’m trying to keep you alive here. Shut it. Let me do all the talking until I say you know enough to say good morning around these people without causing a fight, understood?”
Tenny shut his mouth, glaring at his brother.
“Rule Two: we’re in his service now. He owns us. You do what he says, no matter what.” He paused, then repeated: “He owns us, Tenny. It won’t be forever, but right now you act like it will be, like you think like you’re stuck with him as your owner for the rest of your life. You don’t ever question that fact. Don’t think in terms of ‘One day this will be over.’ You’re in this for the rest of your life. He owns us. He owns you.”
Tenny’s face mottled with outrage. His lips pressed tightly together, and his stare at Lamb should have melted the older man on the spot.
“Rule Three: Always remember Rule One. That’s it.” Lamb looked back at Allonin, eyebrows quirking. “I think he understands now, lord.”
“I suspect he does,” Allonin said, dryly amused. “You explained that very clearly.”
“I’ve been through this before,” Lamb said, grimacing. “I’d hoped to avoid a repeat experience.”
“You? Not likely. You should have stayed north, if that was the goal.” Allonin wrenched the shackles from their wrists, dropped the cuffs atop the machago’s body, then picked up the coin purse and tossed it to Lamb. He left the machago’s whip, daggers and knives in place, as a gift to the teyanain.
