Baturya paced impatiently as the monk prayed. The monk had not resumed his assault once the poison had worn off, but had immediately informed them that he needed to consult with the divine. And so they were once more waiting for the monk to finish his endless chanting.
“This is bullshit,” he complained. “I shouldn’t have to justify my very existence. Not to the gods or anyone else.”
“Technically, the mendicants worship the divine rather than any particular god,” Jazirqe said helpfully.
“What difference does it make?”
“A pretty significant one, but not one that I can really explain,” Jaz admitted. “It’s like the difference between drinking one particular brand of wine because you like how it tastes and being a true connoisseur. Their ultimate goal is to reconcile all of the gods’ conflicting aspects into a central dogma that--”
“Wow, that’s very interesting,” Baty interrupted. “What does that have to do with him trying to kill me?”
Jaz shrugged. “I think that if he was really trying to kill you, you’d be dead,” she admitted. “I’ve been around enough immortals to know that we’re little more than paper dolls to them. Don’t get cocky just because you’re technically at the fifth Reformation.”
“It’s true. A single water walker could kill Gyre and the rest of us without much effort,” Ita agreed. “I believe that he was not attacking you so much as testing you.”
“The greatest way to see through deception is the crucible of combat,” the monk said, looking up from his prayers. “Despite your aura, I sense little malice in you. Anger and frustration and impatience, as I might expect from any boy your age, but little true malice. It is curious that you have absorbed so much hatred and negative emotion without being tainted by it in your own soul.”
“Why is it any of your business to begin with?” Baturya challenged. “Do you challenge every stranger whose cultivation you do not approve of?”
“Yes,” the monk admitted. “Or I would, but few make a point of revealing it to me while I am in communication with the divine as you did. You are fortunate that I am relatively flexible on this matter, as many of my brothers would be unwilling to make an exception for you despite your circumstances. The orthodox path is broad, and we have little tolerance for those who choose unorthodoxy.”
“I did not choose--”
“Those who do choose unorthodoxy have a narrow path which we may tolerate,” the monk continued. “You do not walk one of those paths, and yet you have not stepped into forbidden territory either. You represent a new school which is as yet innocent of the atrocities which have condemned the majority of unorthodoxy.”
The monk scratched behind his ear, a surprisingly human gesture, and sighed.
“It would be easier if I simply condemn you,” he said, his frustration evident in his tone.
“I’ve done nothing wrong but survive!” Baturya protested.
“Yes. What a terrible crime you have committed,” the monk agreed. He sighed again. “I suppose I must grant you parole, for now at least. More than that, I must render you aid to keep you from stepping onto one of the many forbidden paths.”
“What if I don’t want your help?” Baturya challenged.
“Then I will rescind my parole,” the monk said flatly. “Unfortunately, the only help I can think to give is to guide you to a proper master, one who walks the unorthodoxy in the open light of the divine. His path is not yours, but perhaps he can serve as a guide.”
“I do not accept masters, and I pick my own teachers,” Baturya protested. “I will not be sold again.”
“Baturya, we should accept,” Gyre interrupted. “Remember what happened the last time you rejected an offer like this out of hand.”
Baturya frowned, but reluctantly backed down. “I will meet this person,” he agreed reluctantly.
The monk chuckled. “Oh, this shall be interesting. Come now, we have a hundred leagues to travel and mountains to climb.”
~~~~~~~~~~
Juri swung the hammer, taking some satisfaction in the solid reverberations of his body on the connection with the wedge and the way the rock split apart. The stonemason nodded in approval before repositioning the wedge for the next blow. Slowly, the boulder was taking shape, becoming the block that the mason wanted.
“You’re good at this,” the mason said. “Strong and accurate. And it looks like you could do this all day.”
Juri just grunted at the praise. “Does that mean I get a raise?”
“Quite the opposite, it means that the foreman will work you for every penny of your contract,” the mason chuckled. “But you’ll eat well and be taken care of, so long as you don’t go causing problems. Everyone is a little nervous having a cultivator as a criminal slave.”
“I didn’t hurt anyone. My crime was one of passion, but I didn’t hurt anyone,” Juri said, repeating the cover story. He scratched at the iron collar around his neck. “I just want to do my time and earn back my citizenship.”
“Five years might seem like a long time, lad, but it will pass by quickly. Just stay out of trouble, and stay away from the town women. Some of them might be willing to ignore the collar you’re wearing in favor of those muscles and handsome face, but having a child you can’t support will just add to your--”
“I know the law. Half my wages, pittance that they are, go to any child. Two children get two thirds. Three get four fifths. Don’t worry. I’ve learned my lesson,” Juri said, and he swung the hammer. The boulder cracked and a splinter flew off, and the block within continued to take shape.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
The crime he had been convicted of was not murder or kidnapping, but theft. A significant theft from a temple to one of the fertility goddesses, supposedly as a way of wooing the daughter of an important official. It was all very embarrassing to himself and the temple and everyone involved. Yet every time he thought of it he could only chuckle.
He didn’t really understand the purpose of his present circumstance, but he had little doubt that the Whisperers put him exactly where they wanted him. Why they wanted a trained operative to pose as a quarry slave was beyond his knowledge, presently, but he figured they’d have a reason.
Besides, he didn’t very much mind the work. It was monotonous, but better than the farm he had been born on. Better than being beaten by his father when he was in his cups. Better than the strict discipline of the Orders, which had driven him half insane. He didn’t much like the thought of spending fifteen years in this position, but he had a suspicion that something would happen to cut his time short.
It took an hour for the rough shaping of the stone, and they moved on to the next boulder that had been broken off the cliff face. The fine shaping would be done by more experienced masons. He was just the muscle.
The sound of hammers and chisels echoed through the quarry for the rest of the day as Juri and his instructor worked. Sixty men worked in the quarry, only about a third of which were the slaves who mostly performed the menial tasks of transporting the finished product out of the quarry into the pile for the carters to deliver to the building sight. Petty criminals and debtors like he was supposed to be.
The masons themselves were free men, of course. Very few craftsmen ever fell into true slavery, although a few were occasionally forced by debt and circumstance to indenture themselves.
After a few hours of hard labor, the bell rang, signaling the evening meal and the end of the workday. There were a few hours of daylight left, but they were ahead of their quota and the foreman wasn’t pushing them. Juri helped his instructor as they put away their tools for the night, wrapping them in oiled cloth and putting them under a shelter in case of rain.
He stretched as they moved through the line for for food, feeling the pleasant ache that he had always associated with a day’s hard labor. It was a familiar feeling from his youth, one that he was surprised to find that he enjoyed as an adult. After he had eaten, he would find a corner and cultivate until late into the night.
Such had been his routine. The cultivation helped prevent the ache he felt from turning into a true soreness the next day. In fact, he already felt stronger than when he had arrived at the quarry.
During his cultivation, someone abruptly sat down across from him. He looked up to find an unfamiliar face. Except, after a moment, the face shifted, and he sighed in frustration as he realized who he was dealing with.
“So, is it time to tell me what the hell I’m supposed to be doing? I don’t think that the masons here are hiding treasonous intentions,” Juri said quietly.
“It’s not the quarry we care about. You’re just here to establish a backstory,” the Whisperer confirmed.
“I figured as much,” Juri admitted. “So what’s the real assignment?”
“How are you spending your coin?”
“So far, I’m not. There isn’t anything I need that the masons haven’t provided, except maybe a nice ale on occasion. Anyway, I’m on slave wages, so I’ve only got sixteen pennies to my name.”
“Good,” the spy said. “You’re going to save it up for the next two weeks, then one evening you’re going to make a trip into town for that ale you’ve got a craving for. You’re going to meet a man named Ovuz. Tall man, like you. Dark hair, wears it in a ponytail. Nose used to be hawkish before it got broken a few times. You’re not going to approach him. You’re going to complain about how little the quarry is paying you in his hearing. You’re going to lament that about the quality of their food and the lack of the fairer sex. And if he approaches you with an opportunity, you’re going to use your judgment. If it’s morally questionable, you’re going to ask for time to consider it rather than accepting or refusing outright.”
Juri nodded. It was all simple enough. “What sort of business is Ovuz in?”
“He dabbles. There are a few things he might approach you with. Or he might take his time and look into your cover story. He might not take the bait at all. If he doesn’t, don’t push the matter. He’s a small fish in a large pond, but the school he swims with has our attention.”
Juri nodded again. “If he doesn’t take the bait, what’s next?”
The Whisperer shrugged. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. See you around, Juri. I’ll be watching.”
A sudden wind blew dust that made Juri look away, and by the time he returned his gaze the spy was gone. He sighed. Of course he’d drawn one of the dramatic handlers. Sighing, he cleared his mind and went back to cycling his ki through his aching muscles.
~~~~~~~~~
The snoring of the fat man kept Unoro awake. He didn’t know how the other captives slept. He didn’t understand how the man himself could sleep with all the noise he was making.
There were seven of them in the hold. Three women, the rest men, they were the lucky ones who had successfully pleaded their case that they were worth a ransom. The slaves were on the other ship, headed south. Outside the empire, where they would be sold as slaves under a foreign Law.
His imprisonment had not been pleasant, not compared to the comfort of the cabin which he had occupied before, but at least it had distracted him from his grief. He still thought of Kasbel, but they were pleasant memories in comparison to the misery he was suffering. He had discovered one thing in captivity that he had not been certain of before; he very much still wanted to live.
Deciding that he would not receive a successful slumber anytime soon, he rose and took the opportunity to look out the porthole. He had come to love the brilliant night sky reflected upon the sea during the first part of his journey, and looking at it now helped him cope with his present circumstance.
The worst was simply not knowing what would become of him. He told himself repeatedly that the Makavians would ransom him, or that the letters of credit he held were enough motivation for the pirates to return him to Empire soil. They might leave him destitute, but he was literate and could find a job as a clerk for the Law or some local official while he sent word to his true employers regarding the outcome of his mission.
But there was a darker alternative to what might become of him. One that he could not avoid thinking about. Just as he was not a man built for violence, neither was he built for hard labor. Yet there was every possibility that he would be condemned to exactly that for no other crime than having been aboard the wrong ship.
He sighed and tried to take in the beauty of the sea at night through the narrow porthole that provided air and light to the prisoners. The moon was near full, and the stars were out in brilliance, and--
Something moved in front of the moon. At first he thought it was a seabird flying at night, but as it grew larger and he got a sense of distance, it took a familiar shape. One that was impossible.
Something large, perhaps the size of a person, was flying towards the pirate ship. His veins went cold as the tales of immortals, which he had never believed in, leapt to the front of his mind.
The flying object moved out of sight from the porthole, and Unoro shook his head, trying to tell him that it was simply his tired and distressed mind playing tricks on him. He returned to the place on the deck that he called his bed and tried to ignore the feeling of awe and dread that he felt – not to mention the fat man’s snores.
Perhaps twenty minutes passed before the door to the hold slammed open. Two pirates, one with a lantern, studied the prisoners they had rudely awoken for a moment, before one pointed at Unoro.
“You,” the pirate said. “Somebody important wants to talk with you.”