Chapter 1: Chapter 1

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

Slave

 

 

Of all the things Petrah dreamed he would become, a freeman wasn’t one of them. He was a slave of Kanmar, and he’d be a slave until the end. That much was certain.

When he thought about it, slavery was the only life he knew.

He’d woken up in a field of a wealthy merchant on a hot summer’s morning, thick with the scent of barley, with no recollection of the past. They’d arrested him for stealing bread and cheese from the merchant’s farmhouse. The magistrate had shown no mercy, even though Petrah’s only crime was filling his belly, even though he was but a child, eleven at the time.

And now, four years after that terrible day, the City of Kanmar owned Petrah.

The city slaves did the most backbreaking work, watched over relentlessly by the slave masters. To misstep was to earn the whip, and Petrah had seen many whipped over the years.

But in the quiet moments, he dreamed.

Not of freedom. Not that.

But of small things.

A cool breeze by the river. The smell of tall grass in the morning. The taste of ripe prots with juice running down the arm.

But freedom?

No, his life was to serve the slave masters, the Draadi. He would suffer the trials of servitude. He would thank San when he bedded down for the evening that he’d lived yet another day. Sleep was his freedom. Until he awoke, the night was his, and no one could take that away.

Not even the Draadi.

The thing about sleep was that it was fleeting. Dawn always brought the start of another merciless day of heat and labor. The promise that a mishap was but a breath away. A mishap that could cost him his life.

Or someone else’s.

Like today.

#

The savage snap of the whip split the air the instant before it struck flesh.

Petrah winced as the slave tied up to the post in the middle of the large stone quarry cried out. He barely knew the man, but he knew his name was Aggren, and that he was being whipped because of Petrah.

Not all of it was Petrah’s fault.

Sure, Petrah had tripped and fallen on the march to the quarry, disrupting the flow of the hundred-slave column and earning the ire of the slave masters.

Aggren had acted on his own, breaking the nose of the nasty-tempered Draad who’d kicked Petrah while he was on the ground. Petrah would have endured the beating; it wasn’t his first. He might have limped for a few days, wheezed from the tender ribs, but he would have healed in time.

But Aggren?

No, the man’s life was forfeit, and for what? To come to the aid of a fifteen-year-old nobody?

Now, Aggren was on display for the throng of city slaves to witness in the blistering heat of the quarry where they toiled. Petrah tasted their foul perspiration on his tongue. Their rankness filled the shimmering air, his own no doubt a part of it. He was accustomed to the odor of unwashed bodies, but today’s heat proved particularly suffocating.

The slaves would learn the consequence of Aggren’s actions, and Aggren would lose his life in exchange.

He’s going to die for nothing, Petrah thought.

Would anyone remember the man’s death on the morrow?

Or would they forget, as they always did?

The Draadi made the slaves bunch together in the late-afternoon heat and face the impending execution as witnesses to their possible future. Petrah packed in with the sorry lot of them—gaunt men and women, broken spirits, right around one-hundred-twenty at last count.

The slave masters tied Aggren up to the tee-shaped post by cords of leather. They pulled his arms taut to either side by his wrists so that every part of him was exposed to the onlookers. Spools of brown hair fell to his sweat-slicked shoulders.

When the Draadi announced his punishment, it knocked the breath from Petrah’s lungs.

Aggren would receive an unthinkable twenty lashes, then disembowelment. The slaves had similar reactions to Petrah’s: tremors, fearful murmurings, eyes searching among themselves for solace, but finding the same quivering lips, hands over mouths, head shakes and quiet sobs. Death wasn’t foreign by any means, but even this was barbaric.

Just to teach us a lesson. As if we’ve not had enough.

Another crack of the whip and mournful cry from Aggren, and Petrah flinched again.

At eight lashes, Aggren’s lathered back was a crisscross of angry lacerations. If the gods were good, he’d pass out before the Draadi gutted him.

The slave master whom Aggren assaulted stood to the side of the post, watching the flogging with a self-satisfied smile, even though his nose was broken, even though blood pooled beneath his eyes, soon to turn black. He was the same slave master who’d kicked Petrah, a hateful creature who took pleasure in the pain of others.

A Draad named Meska.

Aggren groaned, head drooping.

You should have let Meska beat me senseless. Now look at you!

The whip struck Aggren again, and Petrah turned away. He couldn’t stand to watch anymore.

I’ll show them justice. I’ll make them pay.

He clenched his fists as the stink of sweat and rage filled him. The slave masters watched the whipping while laughing at Aggren’s misfortune. Two more joined their brethren, leaving a platter of half-eaten grapes, cured meats and bread on a stone table.

Petrah eyed the food.

Wouldn’t it be something if he robbed them of their meal?

He imagined the saltiness of the meat, the aroma of wheat in the bread, the squish of fruit in his mouth. He could stand at their abandoned table and devour everything on it just as they devoured Aggren’s misery. Or take what he could grab and share it with the others. The slaves would riot and scramble over each other. They’d fight one another for scraps, forcing the Draadi to stop. He’d save Aggren’s life.

No, it would just stall the inevitable.

Unless he did something drastic.

Like incite the slaves to rebellion. Or encourage them to attack their masters. One-hundred-twenty against a handful of armed Draadi.

Or, or. . .

Why not flee? The Draadi couldn’t catch them all. They could flee the quarry, run to the river, and swim to the opposite bank. Some would drown, others get caught, a few slain. They could take their chances.

Would it be worth it?

Petrah saw only sluggish, miserable souls around him. This sorry lot couldn’t do anything, even if whipped to action.

No, there would be no rebellion today.

He doubted there would ever be such a thing.

On impulse, and without regard to his own safety, he moved behind the congregation of slaves, hidden from the Draadi enthralled by Aggren’s misfortune. He threaded his way to the table with the food.

What are you doing?

He was quick to answer his own question: taking from them.

Petrah would take from the masters, just as they took from him.

He chose the bread, not because it was his first choice, but because it was the smartest choice. The heady scent of the salted beef would give him away for sure, and the grapes were too fragile and might burst. The loaf of bread was soft, cloven in half. He could take one half, leave the other, and conceal his trophy within the folds of his tunic.

Which is exactly what he did.

With the bread secured, he melded in with the slaves. A few odd looks, nothing more. His act of thievery was a tiny victory against his oppressors.

For you, Aggren.

Aggren hung limply from his bindings now. Meska lifted the man’s chin and slapped his face. Aggren thankfully remained unconscious. Meska cursed, but it didn’t stop him from drawing his knife.

Petrah shut his eyes, but his ears caught the wet slash of the blade. The cheers of the Draadi confirmed the deed.

The slaver’s gong resonated shortly after in the dry air, signaling an end to the brutal day. Petrah fell in line with the other slaves, careful to hide his prize from prying eyes. Aggren’s death hung heavily on his tongue, like iron.

Even as regret seeped into his thoughts for his brash stupidity, Petrah tightened his grip on his tunic. It wasn’t like he could undo his action.

Stay invisible.

His old cellmate, Antelle, had often warned him to keep his head down. If they don’t notice you, they don’t bother you. And if they don’t bother you, you live to see another day.

It was a shame what those heathens had done to Antelle, just as it was a shame what they had done to Aggren. Was San, the God of Shadows, that cruel?

The Draadi marched the slaves single-file out of the quarry onto the dirt-packed streets of Kanmar. The slave masters wore simple beige tunics, leather sandals, heavy leather belts and the notorious crimson sashes running diagonally over their chests. In contrast, the slaves were barefoot and grimed, and wore linen tunics tied about the waist. Black, triangular tattoos marked their ankles as the property of Kanmar. From what Petrah heard, no amount of scrubbing could ever remove them.

The city itself was an array of temples, homes and public buildings, mostly constructed of stone or mud bricks, which came in plentiful supply from the surrounding desert.

Dusk cast long shadows across the great outer wall, a towering line of limestone and granite blocks silhouetted against the saffron sky, punctuated by pylons and watchtowers. The Temple of Nahn greeted them from the south with its nine minarets and grand rotunda, the one piece of beauty Petrah could always appreciate.

The haggard lot wended through the most rundown section of the city with nothing but the sound of their bare feet on the hard ground.

This was their ritual of misery.

This was the endless cycle that blended one day’s march to the next.

A skinny dog crossed ahead of them. Petrah envied the animal, free to go about its business.

They passed a beggar in rags next, who sat beside the road. He was with an emaciated young girl who couldn’t have been over eight. Petrah had seen the pair many times and assumed them father and daughter. He paid little attention to them on most days. They’d remain silent like statues, the smart thing to do in the presence of Draadi.

Today, Petrah looked at the girl, really looked at her.

Her copper-toned face was so withdrawn, her arms so thin, it was as if she hadn’t eaten a morsel in weeks. At least Petrah had daily rations.

For a moment, their eyes met.

She glanced at him from beneath filthy burnt-umber bangs with large bright eyes filled with desperation. A dingy cord of once-white beads threaded around her throat, telling him she was of Mumooni descent, a race of westerners from the mountains not well received by the Ter-jurah of Kanmar, who looked down upon foreigners.

His hand instinctively squeezed the small mound of bread hidden within his tunic. He’d meant to share his bounty with his cellmates, but at least they’d eat tonight.

The girl, however . . .

Petrah gingerly removed the bread. With a flick of the wrist, he tossed it toward the girl.

The girl scampered on all fours to fetch it. The move earned several looks from the slaves in front of Petrah, but it was cut short by a Draad, an ugly man with scars and boils on his face and a double-sash over his tunic, signifying his rank as the element leader.

“Hold the line!”

The Draad strode up to the girl. The father tried to intervene, but the slave master pushed him away and snatched the bread from the girl. “Where did you get this?”

She simply looked up at him.

“I said, where did you get this?”

When she didn’t answer, he backhanded her across the face.

“What about you, old man?”

The man’s eyes flew wide, but he didn’t dare speak.

Petrah started to step away from the line, but his cellmate Tan restrained him and shook his head.

Tan was right: Petrah had done enough stupid things this day.

One more would earn him a hole out in the desert, next to Aggren.

The Draad turned to the slaves. “Who did this? Tell me, and you’ll have double rations for a week. I’ll even throw in the bread.”

Petrah expected at least one person to betray him. His bravado fled his body, leaving his cheeks flushed, then cold. He waited for a fellow slave to call him out and accuse him of the crime. Even with their evening rations, the small bit of bread would be a feast. Surely, someone wanted to not go hungry tonight.

But no one called him out. Perhaps Aggren’s death was enough for today.

“Fine, stay silent. Half rations until somebody confesses. We’ll see how that suits you rats.” The Draad ordered the column forward.

Petrah fluffed his tunic as he resumed his march. If they found crumbs on his person, he was finished.

Then Aggren’s sacrifice will have been for naught.

The slaves entered a cavernous opening dug into the bedrock like a colony of ants. It led to the Denrethi pits, the labyrinth of tunnels and holding cells built to house the city slaves. The catacombs were extensive, going on for miles according to some, a warren of cells rumored to have enough capacity to hold double the current count of occupants. The Draadi charged with staying on watch overnight had a cozy nook on the northeast side, past the supply cells. Not that Petrah got to visit the space. Nor did he care to.

Iron sconces lined the roughly-hewn rock walls of the pits, holding lit brands. The burn of pitch did little to mask the stench of excrement and rot of decaying food. Petrah was used to sleeping in fetid conditions, but he never could get used to that first hit of foul air. No wonder the Draadi on shift were always in an unpleasant mood. They had to breathe the same air as the residents.

The procession turned right at the second tunnel intersection.

A waiting group of slaves wearing black cords of rope cinched about their waists opened cell doors for the marchers. They were the Jabah, an elevated segment of the slave population, tasked with maintaining the pits and granted liberties not allowed for those like Petrah, who wore the red. Unlike the exalted scarlet sashes of the slave masters, the dingy-red cords of the lowest slaves were a reminder that they would pay their lives in blood.

By fours, the slaves broke away from the column and entered their respective windowless holding cells. Metal grates, embedded in the rock, formed the tunnel-facing divide, sectioning the tiny cells off from the main traffic. Each cramped cell contained four cots of straw and linen, touching end-to-end, and a refuse bucket and accompanying mound of straw in the center for cleaning up. The cells were otherwise bare. Petrah angled his body when he slept. Knocking over the bucket with his feet happened only once, and poor Tan had been the one to receive the ill-fated gift.

The number four was unlucky in Terjurmehan culture because it was one beyond the sacred number three. Petrah didn’t mind it, though. There were far worse things to consider than the number of wretches sharing their quarters with you.

One of the Jabah signaled to Petrah and his cellmates, and the four entered their cell.

As soon as they were in, the Jabahn locked the metal door and moved on to the next cell. The sweet fragrance of hay was a welcome delight, but it couldn’t overpower the putrid air.

Petrah plopped down onto his cot, exhausted. The act of sitting sent pinpricks of pain up his side from where Meska had kicked him.

I’m lucky nothing got broken.

But next time . . .

A tray of pungent cheese and old nuuma nuts waited for him and his companions, half the usual amount, as promised by the element leader.

Petrah poured himself a mug of oily water from the clay jug at the foot of his cot. His cellmates did the same. They ate, save for Petrah, whose stomach was in knots over Aggren. Petrah might not have been responsible for his death, but the man’s blood was on his hands, and it would always be.

Slaves continued to file past the cell before disappearing down the corridor. Bringing up the rear were three Draadi. They looked into each cell, making sure the residents were where they belonged.

Before Petrah could avert his gaze, Meska made eye contact.

The Draad pulled his knife from his belt and slapped the blade against the cell bars. The metal rang. It was the knife he’d used to gut Aggren, still smeared with the slave’s blood and flecks of viscera. Petrah swore he could smell it.

“I know it was you who took the bread. Confess, and I’ll go easy.” When Petrah said nothing, Meska said, “Oh, acting all coy, are you? Thought you might get away with tossing the evidence? Thought I wouldn’t notice?”

Now Petrah was certain he could smell the blood. He hoped Meska would leave him alone, but it wasn’t in the stars this evening.

“Have it your way, thief. Unlock the door.”

A Jabahn unlocked the cell door.

Although Petrah had dusted the crumbs from his tunic, he couldn’t be sure he’d done a thorough job.

He tensed as Meska entered the cell.

The slave master’s breath reeked like sewer piss. Shorter than Petrah by a foot, he was muscular like the fighting dogs the Draadi wagered for sport and coin, particularly in the neck. Aggren had made fine work of his face, leaving a horrendously crooked broken nose, the bridge almost a full inch to the left, and dark bruising under the eyes. Aggren might be gone from this world, but Meska would remember him whenever he glanced at his ugly reflection.

Meska licked his lips, thirsty for more blood. “Go on now, thief, strip.”

Petrah removed his tunic, trying not to let the slave master see him tremble.

Meska gave it a good shake and looked for evidence among the strands of hay littering the stone floor. Petrah held his breath, waiting for the Draad to rise victoriously with evidence in hand. He didn’t.

Instead, he spat on the ground after it became obvious not a crumb was to be found.

Without warning, he punched Petrah in the gut.

Petrah doubled over. Sparks of flame danced across his watering eyes.

“Next time, you won’t be so lucky. Next time, I’ll gouge out those pretty blue eyes. You’ll never see bread again. Now get dressed.”

By the time Petrah had his tunic on, Meska was gone and the cell was locked. Petrah slumped against the stone wall. His ribs throbbed.

His cellmate, Kruush, shook his big, round head. “I swear, boy, you’re going to get us killed. Have you no wits about you?”

“He didn’t find anything, did he?” It hurt Petrah to even speak.

“That’s beside the point. What happened to that slave today—”

“His name was Aggren.”

“That could have happened to you. It could have happened to us. But you weren’t thinking, were you?”

Petrah didn’t want to admit his theft was foolish beyond words, but Kruush missed the point. The girl on the street was the victim—not him, not Kruush, not the others.

All you had to do was toss the bread to her, and you couldn’t even get that right.

“Kruush is spot on,” Tan said. “What happens to one of us could happen to all of us. And what was that bit about trying to step out of the line? If I hadn’t stopped you, then what?”

Then I’d be dead too.

But Petrah wouldn’t concede and admit fault. Maybe it was the pain, but he spoke his mind. “I won’t apologize for what I did. If I had to do it again, I would.”

“You’re a stubborn runt,” Kruush said. His hazel eyes softened. “That said, I saw what you did, even if it was the most foolish thing I’d seen in a long time.”

“I will take that as a thank you,” Petrah said. “And yes, it was foolish. Tan, I don’t know what I was thinking. That poor girl, though . . .”

Tan’s ever-cheerful and often mischievous smile worked its way to the surface, like a ray of sunlight. “I saw you snatch the bread. That was gutsy. Or was it stupid? I can’t decide.”

“More like stupid,” Petrah said. “I wanted to spite Meska and his comrades.”

“And you would have too . . . if you’d held on to it. What were you planning on doing with that bread, anyway?”

“I would have shared it with you fine gentlemen, of course.” Now it was Petrah’s turn to smile.

Tan grinned in return. “See, Kruush, and you were of the mind to give him a thrashing.”

Kruush snorted. “More than a thrashing. We’re at half rations now, thank you very much. Petrah, I don’t care if you’ve been here longer than Tan or me. I’ve endured almost two summers in this hellhole, and I can tell you that stealing bread to spite a Draad is a sure way to follow in the path of your dead friend. You’re how old, sixteen, seventeen?”

“Fifteen.”

“Gods, is that all? You’re barely weaned off your mom’s tit. I was born in 3348. Do the math. That’s almost forty years ago. Trust me when I say I know a thing or two.”

“More like one thing,” Tan said with a smirk.

“Was I talking to you?” Kruush frowned. “Listen, Petrah, and listen well. I want my old life back. I was happy being a smuggler, and good at it too. I want to live long enough to survive this place, you hear me? I’m a slave today, but tomorrow is a different day.”

“You’ll still be a slave,” Petrah said, returning to his dark mood. “We all will. I’m here because they accused me of stealing from a scullery. You’re here because you got caught selling Korinian religious artifacts. Tan’s here because he got caught in bed with the daughter of a high-ranking official of the Fist party.”

“A very beautiful daughter,” Tan said. “You would have bedded her too. But, please, do go on.”

“The point is, we’re all here because we did something, whether or not we believe it was wrong. Even Jow-quu.”

Their fourth cellmate, Jow-quu, a man of infrequent words, nodded. “It’s true.”

Petrah went on. “So we best get used to this life, because the only place out from here is the afterlife.”

Kruush puckered his brow. “I disagree, but enough bickering.” He crunched on a mouthful of nuuma nuts, then pointed at Petrah’s untouched cheese. “For a food thief, you’re not very good at eating.”

“I’m not hungry,” Petrah said.

“You’re already painfully thin. Or are all of you Northerners like that?”

“Better than being short and stocky like you Ter-jurah,” Petrah said.

Kruush wrinkled his nose. “Keep thinking that. Tell him, Tan.”

“I don’t think he’s that different from us,” Tan said between bites. “How do you know he’s a Northerner, anyway? He could very well be Terjurmehan like us.”

“You were a hired hand for a desert tribe. You’ve never met a Northerner?”

“Are their women as beautiful as ours?”

Kruush rolled his eyes. “I’ve traded with them. I know what I know. Petrah’s different from us. Look at him. He’s taller, thinner, lighter-skinned.”

“His eyes are different too,” Tan said. “They’re blue like the sky.”

“Exactly! Who among our people has blue eyes? No one!”  

Petrah shrugged. “It still doesn’t mean I’m from the north.”

“Then we’ll ask Jow-quu,” Tan said. “Jow, do you think Petrah’s from the Northern Kingdom?”

Jow-quu struggled to come up with a response. He blinked several times, but his mouth fumbled to form the words.

“Jow, you don’t have to answer,” Petrah said. “Right, gentlemen?”

Kruush exhaled. “Right. That damned sprushah we drink every morning will get us all in the end, I swear. Makes you forget things. I say we stop drinking it.”

“We can’t do that,” Tan said. “They watch us. Besides, we couldn’t work without it. It gives us energy and kills our hunger.”

“And kills our minds too,” Kruush said with a scowl. “Jow’s been here ten years, and look at him. No offense, Jow.”

Jow-quu smiled. “It’s all right.”

“But I’m curious,” Kruush said to Petrah. “Why does it affect us and not you?”

Petrah could never understand why sprushah had no effect on him. It was ironic the memories of the past four years were as sharp as a Draad’s blade, but everything before that was as dark as a moonless night. He remembered just snippets of his past, or what he thought was his past, mostly through dreams.

Years of glimpsing fragments.

Of a woman he called Mama, who told him to hide, run and get away and never be found. No concept of who he was or where he came from.

Except for his age. That he was sure of.

He had a memory in the back of his mind of his mother telling him he’d been born the night of the summer solstice, and that he was special because of it.

You are more precious than anyone else to me, she’d said. And not just because you’re my son. You’re going to change the world, I know it.

Her words . . . her voice—they seemed so real.

Had he dreamed them?

They’re real to me.

Maybe that was enough.

“I don’t know,” Petrah said. It was as truthful as any answer.

Kruush held up the last of his nuuma nuts. “It’s sad how things just slip from memory. Take pujin. I remember how it tastes, how it smells, but for the life of me, I can’t remember the name of my favorite tavern where they serve it. A few more years of being here, and I won’t even remember the taste or smell.”

Tan poked a fingernail between his teeth. “I’ve had pujin. It’s mouthwatering good, best washed down with a draught of frothy ale. Too bad we’ll never see the inside of a tavern again.”

“Says who?”

“Says anyone with common sense.”

Kruush glanced over his shoulder, then lowered his voice. “I disagree. We will see the inside of a tavern again.”

“What are you getting at?”

“You know what.”

Tan stifled a laugh. “I see the sprushah hasn’t killed off your imagination.”

Kruush popped the nut into his mouth. “Not at all.”

Petrah didn’t like this silly talk about escape. If the Draadi caught wind of it, Petrah and his cellmates would get strung up and flayed open. Death was the only escape from slavery, but Petrah didn’t feel like arguing, not with his ribs growing more tender by the breath.

Jow-quu spoke up after a spell, his kind eyes not matching the troubled expression on his lips. “Petrah?”

“Yeah, Jow.”

“I’m sorry about what that Draad did to you. You didn’t deserve it. You’re a”—he closed his eyes for a moment and blinked—“a good person.”

“So are you. Kruush and Tan as well. We’re all family here. We mustn’t forget that, even if the sprushah claims everything else, even if we dream up silly notions.”

Kruush bobbed his head. “Aye. We’re all we’ve got in this cursed place.”

It wasn’t long after that the night bells rang and the torches were snuffed, save for the few the Draadi needed for their patrols.

Petrah lay on his cot, careful to not put pressure on his tender ribs. Meska had done quite the job on him, but he would heal in time. There was no telling if the same could be said of Meska’s godawful mess of a face.

Aggren fixed you good, you cur. You’ll wake up every morning and remember him.

Petrah tried to hold on to the satisfaction, but he kept hearing the whip snap, kept seeing the rivulets of blood, kept thinking about Meska’s wicked smile.

Why, Aggren? You made your mark, but at what cost?

Petrah stared up at the shadowed bedrock. His thoughts went from Aggren and his violent end to the girl in the street who’d been denied one good meal.

Our lives are theirs. It’s a matter of time before we’re all slaughtered.

He had always known this, but after today, it became painfully apparent.

Petrah tried to imagine himself in a field filled with the perfume of freshly harvested wheat and the stars above, alone with only the chirp of cicadas to keep him company.

It didn’t work.

All he could think of was the beggar’s daughter and the desperation in her eyes.

Don’t worry, he promised her. Tomorrow, I’ll steal you an entire loaf.

Sleep slowly took him, melding wishful thinking into troubled slumber.