Horace was dreaming the familiar dream again.
“Hold on!” he shouted over his shoulder as he pushed through the crowd.
Everywhere people were jostling, shoving, and yelling as they pressed toward the gates. Men, women, and children—the entire population of the Trade Quarter—were all trying to get out at once. He squeezed Sari's hand as he looked back.
“We're going to make it out,” he told her.
The terror was plain in her wide blue eyes. That same fear was reflected in every face around them as word of the plague's arrival spread throughout the port town of Tines. The crowd was edging toward a riot, and his family was stuck in the center of it.
Josef squealed in his mother's other arm. “Fes-ti-val, daddy! Go to fes-ti-val!”
Horace tried to smile, but it was difficult with the anxiety governing his thoughts. “It's not a festival, Josef. We're going on a trip.”
“Trip, trip!” the boy shouted as he started to squirm. “Want to get down! I can walk!”
Sari hugged the boy tighter. “Not yet, darling. We have to get out of the city.”
She looked into Horace's eyes, and he redoubled his efforts to get them through the throng. Yet after ten minutes he was forced to concede that they weren't getting anywhere. He couldn't even see the walls yet, and he was beginning to fear that the nearest gates had been closed.
They wouldn't do that. It would sentence thousands of people to die.
Horace stood up on his toes. The air was humid from the press of bodies. Some people were shoving each other. Curses and threats rose above the din of the crowd. He had to get his family out. Then his gaze strayed to the cliffs overlooking the town—the pale cliffs of Tines—and he knew where they had to go.
“Come on!” he shouted as he ducked past a bearded man struggling under a heavy sack.
“Horace!” Sari yelled, but he didn't stop to explain.
He pulled her and Josef out of the street, into the shelter of a dim alleyway. The buildings on either side crowded out the sky. Horace knew the general direction they needed to go, but they'd have to hurry. They passed an old couple helping each other down the refuse-cluttered alley. When the old man coughed into his hand, Horace held his breath and hauled Sari along faster.
He almost fell to his knees and kissed the ground when they reached the waterfront, and at the same time he wanted to slap himself. As a shipwright, escaping Tines on an outgoing vessel should have been his first thought. He scanned the many berths, and a sinking sensation pooled in his gut at the sight of so many ships that had already put out to sea, their billowing sails waving good-bye. Flames danced at several spots on the piers where other vessels had been put to the torch. He could guess why. Signs of plague onboard. While soldiers in city livery set another ship alight, clusters of sailors crowded the boardwalk, shouting and waving their fists, no doubt as terrified as he was at the idea of being stranded here.
“Horace, do you think we'll find anyone to take us on?” Sari asked.
“I think I know someone who will.”
“Boats!” Josef screamed with joy. “Boats, daddy!”
“That's right, my boy. We're going to ride on a ship.”
Squeezing Sari's hand, Horace led them along the quay. Fishermen were hauling their belongings aboard their shallow craft in preparation to depart. Horace kept moving with long strides, trusting his instincts. Calbert would take them, if he was still at port.
A weight lifted off Horace's chest as he sighted a familiar yellow mast at the end of the waterfront. The Sea Spray was still nestled in her berth. Horace had spent two weeks refitting the merchant frigate, and during that time he had gotten to know her crew. He hoped they remembered him fondly. He pulled harder on Sari's hand to urge her along while Josef continued to yell “Boats!” at the top of his lungs.
They passed a gang of sailors loading barrels onto the Spray. Captain Calbert stood on the ship's waist, exhorting them to work faster.
Horace raised his free hand. “Captain! Captain Calbert!”
The middle-aged sea captain squinted in their direction. He held up a finger to the marine standing beside him with a loaded crossbow. Horace stopped in his tracks and gathered Sari behind him. “Captain, it's me. Horace Delrosa.”
A smile creased the captain's lips. “Shipwright! I'd ask what you're doing down here at a time like this, and with that pretty lass who must be the wife you've been telling us about, but I think mayhap I can guess.”
“We need passage out of Tines.”
Calbert climbed down from the ship. “Aye. I can fathom that much, but there's orders come down from his lordship saying that any ship that takes on townsfolk as passengers will be set alight.”
Horace looked to the burning hulks along the waterfront, proof that it was no idle threat. Shouts arose as the two-masted schooner in the next berth was set on fire. Horace tightened his grip on Sari's hand as a melee erupted between the sailors and soldiers not more than thirty paces from where they stood. “Please, captain. They've shut the gates. I can't keep my family here. It's not safe.”
The captain shook his head. “I understand what you're going through, but that don't change the weather, if you take my meaning.”
“Captain,” he said. “I don't have much money, but if you'll take my family to your next port, I'll serve as your ship's carpenter for a year without wages.”
“I'd like to help, son, but—”
“I'm begging you, sir. If I'm serving on your ship, that makes me crew, so no laws are broken. My wife can wash and cook, too.”
Calbert sighed as the flames climbed up the neighboring schooner's sleek sides. “All right. I can't leave you behind to face this unholy mess. Get on board.”
Horace clapped a hand on the captain's arm before leading Sari and Josef up the gangplank. Sailors hustled across the deck carrying tackle and provisions, hauling on lines, and scrambling through the rigging. Horace pulled his wife into a spot of relative calm beside the forecastle ladder and hugged her close. Josef pulled on his hair, eager to see the goings on. All the anxiety Horace had held pent up came out in a long breath.
“We made it,” Sari whispered.
“Aye. Soon we'll be underway.”
“Where will we go?”
Horace turned to the railing. Distant noise echoed from the city. Above the fortified walls, the white cliffs sparkled in the afternoon light. He could see the shipyards past the breakwater. In the huge dry dock beside the warehouses and port offices sat his latest creation, a four-masted ship-of-the-line. “It doesn't matter. We're safe.”
Josef wriggled free of Sari's grasp and ran across the middeck. Horace laughed as his wife chased after the little hellion and shaded his eyes for a better view of Tines. The town was in shambles. Come nightfall, those still trapped inside the walls would realize their fate, and then things would get truly ugly. He tried not to think of all the friends he was leaving behind—the men of his work crew and their families. The only saving grace was that both his and Sari's parents were already gone, so they would be spared this nightmare. His family was safe, and all he could do was pray for those left behind.
* * * *
The opening door woke him.
Horace jerked upright as two soldiers entered his cell. By the light coming down the narrow window chute, he guessed it must be morning. He didn't resist when the soldiers indicated he should come with them.
They escorted him back to the open court inside the house. After spending the night underground, the sun felt wonderful on his face. They went outside to the street where the commander sat astride his steed talking to the older man. The rest of the soldiers were assembled behind their leader, but there was no sign of the villagers.
After a few moments, the commander finished his conversation, and the company got underway. Horace was famished, but his thirst was even worse. He thought about using gestures to ask one of the soldiers for a drink, but they weren't wearing their field kits. No waterskins or packs; just armor, weapons, and shields. Like they were marching into battle. That got his attention.
The streets were packed with people, mainly commoners carrying produce and driving domesticated goats and oxen. There were few horses, making the commander stick out. People moved aside for him, or perhaps it was the multitude of spears marching behind him. The company paused at an intersection of broad avenues as a pair of palanquins with gauzy silk curtains crossed in front of them. The men bearing them were naked save for breechclouts and sandals. Their oiled limbs gleamed in the morning light. Horace noticed that each bearer also wore an iron collar. He hadn't made the connection at the townhouse between the old man and his muscular bodyguards, but now it was clear.
Slaves.
Slavery wasn't unknown. The practice had been legal centuries ago under the old Nimean Empire, but many of the western nations outlawed it after they broke free of the imperial yoke. Yet slavery was evidently still alive and well here in the east. He couldn't help but imagine what it would feel like to wear a metal collar.
The company entered a large open square. The buildings facing the plaza were grander than most of the others Horace had seen so far, but the palace directly across from where he stood was by far the most ostentatious. Though not very tall—three stories at most—it sprawled across the entire length of the square with a double row of columns supporting an impressive entablature that reminded Horace of classic imperial architecture with eastern accents.
At the center of the square, hundreds of workers struggled with a rope-and-pulley crane to erect a stone statue. Horace couldn't tell what it was going to be, but based on the four massive legs rising from the base, the final product would be gigantic. A small crowd watched the construction, but most of the people seemed to be here on some kind of business. Merchants hawked their wares from tents and wooden stands to shoppers passing by. The clamor echoed off the brick and stone walls.
The company made their way through the teeming masses to face a line of soldiers guarding the entrance of the grand palace. The commander dismounted to present a small clay tablet, and the soldiers waved them through.
Beyond the arcade of columns, two tall bronze doors stood open. Stone statues flanked the entrance. The effigies were bizarre, having human heads with long, curled beards on lion bodies. They were also quite old by the look of them.
Through the doors they passed into a long atrium. Rectangular skylights open to the heavens illuminated the chamber. The walls were covered in vibrant paintings depicting a procession of people bringing various goods—sheaves of wheat, fruit baskets, even a herd of sheep—to a huge building that Horace initially took for a palace. Yet he soon realized it was a temple. There, men in yellow vestments took the spoils and placed them on a burning altar, where the smoke from the offerings was inhaled by a row of towering men and women on tall thrones. A great sun dominated the sky above the tableau.
Horace would have liked to study the drawings, but his escorts pressed onward. They climbed a broad staircase to the second floor and entered an antechamber where a group of people waited—men in crisp white shirts and kilts with necklaces of gold and lapis lazuli; the women in colorful gowns, some of them so sheer Horace had to stop himself from staring. Before he could make a fool of himself, he was ushered through another doorway into a more spacious chamber.
Chill air met him at the threshold, like he had stepped out into a frosty autumn evening in southern Arnos. Horace froze while the sweat from the day's heat cooled on his face. A high ceiling and large windows along the far wall made the room feel open, as if they had gone outside onto a shaded veranda, but the breeze was not enough to explain the sudden drop in temperature.
It has to be my mind playing tricks. Maybe I've suffered some kind of heat exhaustion.
Shivering slightly, he followed his escort farther into the chamber. The floor was pale hardwood, polished to a high sheen. Three men sat on cushioned divans, with sentries and slaves posted along the walls. The man seated in the middle had a gray mustache and beard, both trimmed and brushed neatly, but his head was completely bald. He wore a brocaded shirt with gold stitching that couldn't disguise his stocky build and a long skirt down to his ankles—all in black silk. Wide pads flared out from his round shoulders like wings. The man sitting on the left was also bald, but his gleaming scalp was stamped with several tattoos in carmine ink, the most notable being a sunburst over his forehead. His robes were golden yellow with ivory buttons down the front and tied with a white slash. The third man was the youngest of the group, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years of age, but he already had a full mustache. Of the three, he was the only one who still sported a full head of hair, pulled back in an oiled queue. The young man's eyes were a light—almost clear—shade of brown.
The commander bowed. The older man greeted him with a nod and indicated a spot on the floor beside them. A slave scurried over with a cushion, and the commander sat down with his ankles crossed. No one offered Horace a cushion. He stood while the seated men talked. From time to time they glanced in his direction. At first he ignored them. Yet, as the minutes passed, he began to resent this treatment. After the commander described, with emphatic gestures, a terrible storm with thunder and lightning, the eldest man spoke at some length to the one in yellow robes. When he was finished, the robed man turned to Horace and shocked him by speaking in fluent, if slightly stilted, Arnossi.
“What is your name?”
Horace hadn't heard his native tongue spoken since the wreck. He fumbled with a response before answering, “I'm Horace. Who is—?”
Yellow Robe spoke to the elder before Horace could get out his question. The older man replied, and then Yellow Robe said, “You are part of the Arnossi fleet sent from Ah-vice, yes?”
The man had an odd pronunciation of Avice, but Horace understood him well enough. “Yes. Where am I?”
Yellow Robe cut him off with another question. “How does your nation intend to invade the land of the black earth?”
“What's that?”
“The empire which you call Akeshia.”
“Who are you? And how do you come to speak Arnossi? No one else around here seems to.”
“I am Nasir et'Alamune-Amur, counselor to Lord Isiratu.” He nodded to the elder man in the center seat. “I serve as a translator as well as his lordship's spiritual guide.”
“So why am I here?” Horace asked. “What do you plan on doing with me?”
Nasir turned his head as the older man spoke, and then said, “Lord Isiratu requires that you draw a map of all the invader strongholds in Etonia and along the northern shore of the Great Sea from Miktonas to—”
Horace hardly listened to what the man was saying. “My ship sank off the coast five days ago. Do you know if anyone else survived?”
Nasir frowned, which pulled the bare skin of his scalp taut. “Lord Isiratu requires—”
“Damn you!” Horace stepped between the two soldiers guarding him. “Tell me if anyone else survived!”
Nasir licked his lips with a narrow tongue, and Lord Isiratu spoke rapidly. Horace noticed the younger man watching him intently with his light eyes. The youth hadn't said anything up to this point, but he must be important if he was sitting here with the lord.
“Please,” Horace said to the youth. “All I want is to know if any of my countrymen survived.”
The others stopped talking and looked to the young man. Then Lord Isiratu nodded with a short grunt. Nasir said, “One other foreigner was found on the beach, but he died not long after.”
Horace sighed. So that was it. He was alone. Without preamble, he sat down on the floor, hunched over his folded legs. The four seated men gazed at him in astonishment. The commander, his face turning crimson, reached for his sword, but a terse word from the lord stopped him.
Nasir cleared his throat. “Lord Isiratu wishes to know why you addressed his heir.” He nodded to the youth. “Lord Ubar.”
“I didn't know what else to do. He just seemed…I don't know. Decent.”
The young man spoke to his father, and then Lord Isiratu rattled off several long sentences in a gruff voice, ending with a slashing hand gesture. Nasir looked to Horace. “My lord repeats his request that you divulge the locations and strengths of your invader strongholds.”
“Are you a fucking parrot?” Horace asked.
“Pardon?”
“Never mind. Tell your lord I have no information. I don't know of any strongholds in this part of the world because we never made landfall on account of the storm.”
Horace frowned as Nasir translated. Lord Isiratu was staring at him, eyes narrowed, his mouth bent into an impatient frown. Horace met the intensity of the lord's gaze without blinking. “And furthermore, tell his lordship that even if I did know these things, I wouldn't tell him for all the gold in the world. Now, if you're going to kill me, just get it over with.”
The commander said something, and Nasir replied, but Horace was focused on Lord Isiratu. Their gazes locked in a battle of wills. Horace squinted, digging in. He'd be damned before he stooped to cowering before this foreign satrap. Yet within moments he felt a strange pressure across his forehead, stretching from temple to temple. He started to reach up to touch it when another spot began to throb behind his left ear. Together they hurt like the worst headache he'd ever had in his life. He ground his teeth together and tried to ignore the pain, but it only increased. Then he saw a peculiar expression on Isiratu's face, as if he were looking at someplace far away in the distance even though their gazes were still entangled. It was unsettling, and a strange thought crossed Horace's mind.
He's doing this to me.
Horace was ready to discard the thought. Yet it might also explain the coolness of this chamber. Magic.
No. No. That's crazy. There's no such thing—
However, the more the pressure in his head grew, the more he began to believe it might be true. The lord was affecting him without touching him. A chill ran through Horace that had nothing to do with the temperature.
He's touching me with Light-be-damned sorcery.
He'd heard tales of eastern witchery, but experiencing it firsthand was a far different matter. It made him feel dirty inside, like he'd been cut open and soaked in a vat of festering slime. Everyone else had fallen silent. His eyes held captive, Horace couldn't see anything except Isiratu's face, rigid with effort. Horace tried to move, to break the contact, but his body didn't respond. He was trapped as the pressure in his head increased. Any moment the lord would break him, and he suspected he wouldn't enjoy what happened afterward. A growl clawed its way up Horace's throat, but then something caught his attention. A fold of skin in the corner of the lord's mouth was widening. In less time than it took to draw a breath, it split open into a raw, red crevice. A bead of blood welled from the cut. Horace watched it dribble down the lord's chin. Then something popped in the back of his head. A torrent of anger, lying just beneath the surface of his emotions, flared up inside him. He hated these people, especially this haughty aristocrat with his unholy powers. All of a sudden, Horace's arms and legs were free of the eerie paralysis. He leapt without thinking, diving toward the lord with both hands extended.
Isiratu's eyes widened, but he seemed too shocked to even raise his arms in defense. The soldiers failed to react in time to stop Horace, but something intervened as he closed his fingers around the stocky lord's throat. Cold and hard as iron, it clamped Horace around the middle like a vise and tried to pull him away, but he shook it off. Droplets of blood flew from Lord Isiratu's flabby face as Horace's first punch landed with a wet smack. The nobleman fell backward, and Horace fell onto top of him to continue his assault, swinging both fists. Then a gaggle of men piled on them, and the melee devolved into a jumble of flailing arms and legs.
Horace was hauled off Lord Isiratu and dropped on his back. His right cheek hurt from where someone had kicked him, and he was sure he had bruises down his back and sides. There was no sign of what had grabbed him, but his tunic was wet around the middle.
He started to get back up, ready to renew the fight, until a dozen spears and swords were leveled at him. A shudder wracked his body as the powerful impulse to kill receded, leaving him weak and confused. The soldiers and bodyguards looked ready to murder him out of hand. The commander was on his feet with sword drawn, his face red and angry. Nasir and Lord Isiratu looked aghast, like they had just seen the Prophet dancing naked with their daughters. But the young lordling appeared neither shocked nor upset. Instead, his expression appeared curious.
A slave brought a linen cloth for Isiratu, who wiped his face as he shouted something that Horace assumed were the orders for his execution. The soldiers closed in around Horace. He curled up to protect himself, but they merely picked him up and carried him out of the chamber.
Lord Isiratu's fierce gaze followed him out.