44. The Lord of the Slaves

Dashvara awoke to the sound of hooves in the courtyard. He went back to sleep and dreamed that he was a child again, running through the grass, away from the Dungeon with his sister Fayrah and brother Showag. It was a winter day with a gray, windless sky. Feathery snowflakes were sliding to the ground, and for fun, Dashvara asked Fayrah to sing a traditional song to keep the snow falling. Maloven’s voice reprimanded him: ‘You must be the worthy son of your father, Dashvara of Xalya. Xalyas do not walk: they ride.’ He emerged from the dream with these absurd words in his head.

“He arrived earlier than expected,” a voice whispered. “Is it him?”

A hand gently shook his shoulder. Dashvara opened his eyes and saw silver eyes. He was startled for a second, since he didn’t recognize them. Then he sighed with relief as he remembered where he was.

“Wassag?”

“Get up, young man,” he murmured. “His Eminence wants to see you.”

A shiver ran through Dashvara.

“Me?”

Wassag shrugged.

“Yes, you. You are Dashvara of Xalya, aren’t you?”

Dashvara met the amused gaze of the captain, sitting on his pallet. He guessed that it was him who had “denounced” him. He suppressed a grunt and dressed with slow movements: he had no desire to see this thief. Really no desire at all… He saw an impatient glint in Wassag’s eyes but did not hurry. Let His Eminence be patient. Let’s just say it’s not right to snap a man out of his dreams so abruptly, Wass. He smiled, finally finished buckling his belt, and followed the guard outside. The sky was already beginning to turn blue.

“Wasn’t he supposed to arrive tomorrow?” he asked.

Wassag shrugged again.

“Let’s say that’s what I was told, but His Eminence’s business doesn’t always last that long.”

Dashvara wondered if Wassag knew more about that “business”. Maybe Atasiag wasn’t keeping his guardians informed. Maybe they didn’t even know he was a member of the Dream Brotherhood. Dashvara couldn’t find out without betraying himself by asking prying questions.

Wassag led him to the main door and into a stately living room with sofas, a fireplace, and carpets. He led him to a set of wide stairs, but he didn’t climb them: he stopped at a large door nearby and knocked a few times. Several seconds passed before he heard a loud knock followed by a clearing of the throat.

“Come in.”

This room was unmistakably a library: the shelves were full of books, notebooks, scrolls, and scattered pieces of paper. At a desk near a lit candelabra, a medium-sized human with an ordinary face was carefully rolling up a scroll. He looked up when Dashvara and Wassag stopped a few steps away. His brown eyes sparkled.

“Perfect. Wassag, can you take this to Legitimate Shaag Yordark?”

The dark-haired man hastened to take the paper scroll.

“He must be getting ready to go to the Council,” Cobra added. “Today there is a special meeting. Hurry up. And get Yorlen here.”

“Yes, Eminence,” Wassag answered. And he left the library with haste.

Dashvara thought he saw approval in the thief’s eyes and barely concealed his revulsion. If Cobra really expected him to behave as slavishly as Wassag, he could always dream on. Atasiag Peykat stood up. He was dressed in a purple sash and a long white tunic with pleats and gold embroidery. He reminded him a bit of Nanda with his necklaces, but more refined.

“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, Philosopher?” the snake whispered.

Dashvara shuddered: it felt strange to hear the nickname his brothers gave him in this man’s mouth. The man’s lips were not smiling, but his eyes were. He clasped his hands behind his back.

“Why are you still wearing the Doomed belt?”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow as he looked down at his white belt.

“We weren’t given new belts.”

“Mm. You will all receive uniforms wearing the insignia of my house,” Cobra promised. “Come closer.”

Dashvara frowned and took two steps forward. He had dozens of questions he was burning to ask, but he couldn’t figure out which one was the most pressing until he finally asked:

“Where is my sister?”

Atasiag raised an eyebrow.

“I think,” he sighed, “that you haven’t quite figured out how things work here yet. The Contract, Philosopher: the Contract. Tell me about it.”

Dashvara scanned him for a few seconds before exhaling and muttering:

“I voluntarily lend my services to the man who hires me, and I swear never to act against his wishes. Have I acted against your wishes by asking you about my sister, snake?”

A dangerous glint passed through Atasiag Peykat’s eyes.

“Continue.”

Dashvara stiffened even more, but he continued, thinking that perhaps it was a test:

“I will not betray my master or my master’s allies, and I will treat anyone I come in contact with strictly according to social conditions, whether that person is known to me or not—”

“Here we are,” Atasiag interrupted him. “Strictly according to social conditions. Who am I to you, Philosopher? The Contract says it.”

Dashvara finally understood what this viper was up to. He hesitated, and Cobra stared him down.

“Pride aside, Philosopher. Who am I to you?”

Dashvara made a throaty sound before letting out:

“My master.”

He wished he could see satisfaction in Atasiag’s expression so that he could despise him more, but Atasiag simply nodded calmly.

“Well. Since I am your master, either you call me ‘Master’ or you call me ‘Eminence’. And, above all, you speak to me with respect. An unsubmissive slave loses much of his value on the market, Philosopher. And this does not suit you or me. Forget how you used to live at the Border: in Titiaka, we don’t allow slaves to break discipline. And with a troop of Xalya warriors like yours, I must suppress them more than anyone else,” he murmured eloquently. “Is that clear?”

He understood Atasiag’s cautious reasons, but they did not seem any less aberrant.

“Yes, master.” That he was his master was a fact, but from there to calling him Eminence was a big difference.

Atasiag smiled and crossed his arms.

“Continue with the Contract.”

If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

Dashvara breathed in and continued:

“In case of treason, fault, or negligence on my part or on the part of one of my companions, I ask and demand that the due punishment be applied and I swear not to try—”

Atasiag clicked his tongue.

“I ask and demand that the due punishment be applied, whatever its nature,” he corrected him. “You have not learned it well. Repeat it.”

Dashvara felt that his head was beginning to heat up like boiling water. He repeated and finished:

“And I swear not to try to evade the aforementioned nor to interfere in the case where the fault is not mine. Which, I suppose, means that, if you claim to kill me, I must stay put to make it easy for you, right?”

Atasiag sighed patiently.

“Right. In case you don’t know, any boss has the right of life and death over his workers. Now, everything depends on you. If you fulfill my wishes, I won’t be your killer but your benefactor.” He smiled. “Come on, don’t take it so personally. In Titiaka, the workers live better than many free men. I will take care of you like little kings. Now you are part of the family of this house, and I will trust you and your people if you, in turn, show me respect and devotion. Review the Contract regularly so you don’t forget it, mm?”

Dashvara muttered through his teeth and felt the greatest amazement of his life when Atasiag grabbed him by the beard and pulled on it to lower his head.

“Get rid of that pride, Philosopher, or I will have to tame you as others do with rebels.”

He let go of him. Dashvara had been about to rush on him to strangle him. He barely managed to stop himself.

“You’re not making it easy for me, Eminent Snake,” he growled. “If you pull on my beard again, I’ll gouge out your eyes.”

“Keep it up, and in a few days, you’ll all be back at the Border. Is this what you want?” Dashvara did not answer. “Be patient, Philosopher. Don’t choke on your dignity. Around here, the more rebellious the worker is, the more he suffocates. And the more loyal he is, the better he lives. I am a merchant and a magistrate, not an enlightened person like your friends Rowyn and Azune. I am a landlord, and things being what they are, that seems right to me. Think about it, the Diumcili system is less hypocritical and healthier than that of the Dazbonians, who enslave their people without telling them they are slaves and without even taking care of them like we do here. I ask only for loyalty and good behavior, and in return, I pledge, as any master would, to take care of you and your people.” He smiled and added, “If you want freedom, Philosopher, you’re going to have to earn it the hard way.”

Dashvara pulled himself together.

“Okay, Eminence. Let’s make peace. I’ll treat you as Wassag does, and you explain to me what my brothers and I should do. What is the plan?”

Atasiag raised an eyebrow.

“The plan? Your plan is simple: follow my orders. The idea of taking you did not come from me, but since you are here, you owe me the same obedience as any other slave. For the time being, you will perform various tasks, depending on my needs. Perhaps some… domestic tasks.”

Dashvara didn’t know if he should feel relieved or disappointed.

“Are we going to clean your house, Eminence?”

Atasiag smiled, and his eyes turned to a spot behind Dashvara. Dashvara realized that Yorlen, the purple-haired elf, was near the door. He had probably been there for quite some time.

“You are not going to clean my house,” Atasiag Peykat replied, “but that of some of my friends. Figuratively speaking, of course.”

Dashvara was not sure how to interpret those words.

“You mean we have to liquidate them?”

Atasiag laughed.

“No! You savage, you. When I say they’re friends, I mean they’re friends, allies, or people whose support can be useful. But don’t worry about that right now. Today you have the day off. Yorlen,” he called. “Get the tailor to come. I want every Xalya to have two uniforms. An official one and a more discreet one, for everyday life,” he explained to Dashvara. As the elf nodded silently, Atasiag smiled, “I want you to wear the Red Dragon with pride. And I want this to be your only pride.” He ignored Dashvara’s sigh. “Yorlen, send them to the baths as soon as the tailor is done. And have the barber come by, too. After eating, pick four of them, including this man, and give them a little tour around the city, mm? Then you’ll do the same with four others, and so on.”

Yorlen nodded, and Dashvara understood that Atasiag was sending them away. He protested:

“Eminence, since we are here, I would like to—”

“The tone is improving,” Atasiag interrupted him approvingly. “And now withdraw, Philosopher. I’ll call on you again one of these days. With me, people learn to be patient. In the meantime, get to know Titiaka, behave yourself, and don’t cause me any trouble, understand?” His smile wrung a pout of contempt from Dashvara. Damn walking snake…

He strode out of the library in front of Yorlen and didn’t turn back to him until he got to the kitchen, where the Xalyas were all already having lunch.

“Hey, Yorlen,” he said. “You don’t call him Eminence, and he doesn’t seem to mind. How come?”

The purple-haired elf gave a half-smile and suddenly opened his mouth, showing his severed tongue. Dashvara swallowed.

“Oh. I understand now. Did Atasiag do this to you?”

Yorlen shook his head energetically and walked away; he silently greeted Uncle Serl, and after giving Dashvara a friendly smile, he came out of the kitchen with a warm bun in his teeth. He most likely left to find the tailor.

So that this one adorns us even more…

Dashvara sat down at the table with a sigh. The racket was almost as great as it had been the day before. His brothers had never been known for their discretion, especially Makarva and the Triplets: Zamoy was commenting on the new poem Miflin was reciting, and Miflin was indignant at the inhuman autopsy the Baldy was performing on his creation. Dashvara smiled when Makarva stepped in as a fake mediator: they had sometimes suggested that he be called the Diplomatic Jester, but he refused to take on the role, arguing that it was too much responsibility for a sensitive man like him.

He looked at Lumon, then at Sashava, then at Zorvun. And he addressed them all with an expression that meant something like: “It went better than I expected”. Honestly, it had gone nor well nor badly. Atasiag had merely clarified the status of the Xalyas once and for all. They agreed to serve him as slaves in exchange for a promise of freedom. Like any other slave, in the end.

Trying to calm down, Dashvara helped himself to breakfast with a grim certainty: by leaving Compassion, the Xalyas’ overall situation had not changed in the least. They were still locked in a cage with deadly nails, except that this time the federates were surrounding them much more closely.

“I can’t believe it!” Makarva suddenly exclaimed. “Dashvara has a fly on his toast and he hasn’t even realized it yet.”

Dashvara chased the fly away.

“See?” he growled. “I told you they would follow us.”

“They love you, Dash. They would follow you to the farthest reaches of the Pilgrim Ocean. You are their spiritual guide.”

“Yes, I think they have already proclaimed me Lord of the Flies. The problem is that they don’t even obey me when I order them to go away.”

Makarva shook his head with a smile and commented in Oy’vat more seriously:

“You’re not just the lord of the flies, Dash. Remember?”

Dashvara huffed.

“Right. I am also the lord of twenty-two slaves. Is that what you want to tell me, Mak? What a wonderful lord who takes such good care of his people.” His friend frowned at his bitter tone. Dashvara chuckled. “Bah, nonsense! Except for the Triplets, I’m the youngest of you all. How can you still think I have more right to call myself lord of the steppe than you?”

Several Xalyas had fallen silent, and Zorvun was listening to the conversation, looking grim. Makarva gave a shrug, and Dashvara perceived a deep sincerity when, despite a discreet mocking smile on his lips, he answered:

“Well, I mean it, Dash. I mean it.”

Dashvara didn’t know whether to feel flattered or exasperated. It made no sense that his friend, who knew him so well, would think that…

“I think so too, Dash,” Atok interjected.

“So do I!” Zamoy supported.

Stunned, Dashvara saw most of them confirm out loud or with simple nods; even Tsu gave his approval. When he noticed the mysterious smiles on Lumon’s and the captain’s faces, he suppressed the roar rising in his throat. He felt as if his best friends had suddenly dropped all their bags on his shoulders. He glanced at the whole table, swallowed, and didn’t know how to respond to this strange show of loyalty that he hadn’t earned.

Hooray, just what you needed. Now you’re going to feel even more responsible if Atasiag doesn’t get us out of here before we all get gray hair. But, anyway, you were already feeling responsible, admit it.

Makarva pulled him out of his thoughts.

“What do you think, Dash? Are you going to accept once and for all and without grumbling that you are the lord of the Xalyas? We’ll be more loyal than your flies,” he promised.

Dashvara stared at him, turned to the captain, and shrugged.

“All right, you asked for it. Personally, I think it’s ridiculous.”

“Our lord said we were ridiculous!” Makarva translated for the whole table. “And if he says so, then we are.”

“We’ll live with it,” Zamoy assured. “Anyway, I’ve got no shame anymore. And Miflin even less. Kodarah?”

“I just said farewell to it,” the Hairy swore.

They laughed, and Dashvara shook his head, smiling. Damn Xalyas. They always got what they wanted. He swatted away a fly and continued eating.

He was finishing his second slice of bread when Zorvun walked around the table and put a hand on his shoulder.

“I still feel the same way, son: I’m proud of you.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“You’re the real lord here, Captain,” he mumbled. “Or tell me it wasn’t you who asked Makarva to bring up the subject, huh?”

An amused glint danced in Captain Zorvun’s dark eyes.

“I assure you I didn’t say anything to him. But, obviously, I wasn’t the only one who thought it was time for you to understand. You were raised to be a lord, Dashvara, and you will be,” he whispered. “Even if your people are only a handful of slaves, as you say.”

The captain walked away, and Dashvara followed him with his eyes, both moved and frustrated. Inwardly, he still couldn’t see the logic: okay, he had been raised to be a lord. And a certain arrogance inside him told him that this committed him to do his duty without protest. The words that Maloven had spoken in his dream came back to him: ‘You must be the worthy son of your father, Dashvara of Xalya. Xalyas do not walk: they ride.’ That was wonderful, but… did the captain realize how distressing it was to be proclaimed lord of the Xalyas in such a precarious situation as theirs? What the hell, of course he did. It was simply a strategic move to raise the morale of the Xalyas. Dashvara smiled inwardly. There were times when Captain Zorvun could be more of a makarver than Makarva.