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4
~~*~~
SUCH
HAD been the breadth and depth of the old slave’s suffering that he did not
question what he had to know was a suicide mission. He merely nodded, then
stood to clear the table.
“Leave
the dishes,” ordered Otoro. “I will clean them. Go and get your belongings and
get back here.”
This
the old man did. Otoro heard the door close. He washed the dishes and big stock
pot, then went to the study, where he lifted a small seamless hatch in the
floor of an empty closet.
The
hatch was thin and deep and contained a fine fennaca bow, which he pulled out. He reached inside again and
brought up a small gold-blue oval that shimmered unnaturally in the gloom, then
one more time for a small wooden box. He closed the hatch and backed out as he
heard the front door close.
“Back
here!” he yelled.
The
old man appeared at the door of the study. He carried a small duffel bag, the
same type all slaves were given, barely large enough for a change of clothes.
He stared at Otoro, waiting.
“Skip
the cellar,” said Otoro. “Put your shit in the second bedroom and get back
here.”
The
old man disappeared. Otoro sat at the desk. There was a second chair in the
corner; Firr Rourn returned and sat in it after Otoro ordered him to. He stared
at the bow and at the glowing oval ball and the box, all of which were
displayed on the desktop.
“You
are still a man, aren’t you?” demanded Otoro, glaring.
Firr
looked up. He nodded.
“Then
act like one. In this house you do not need to wait for me to order you about
like some simpering dog. I have no patience for it.”
“I
haven’t seen a fennaca bow in ages,” said Firr after a brief moment of quiet.
“And—” he pointed—“what’s that?”
“That’s
better,” said Otoro. “That? It’s an aecxal
egg. Inside it is an Arrowsparrow.”
The
old man’s brow furrowed. He stood and came close, staring.
“It
almost looks like a sea horse egg. It’s too large, though …”
“It
once was a sea horse egg. A Mathematician altered its basic function.”
Firr
Rourn didn’t ask permission; he gently lifted it and studied it up close. Otoro
sensed a slow dawn of strength and confidence return to his spirit. There was
sharpness to the Portmaster, and a swift, penetrating intelligence. Otoro had
sensed them earlier; they were unmistakably present now.
“Arrowsparrow?”
asked Firr, putting it down as softly as he had lifted it.
“A
means to communicate with the Mathematician.”
“A
Mathematician who dares defy the Lord Emperor?”
“A
king.”
That
was enough to snap his attention away from the egg. The air of the room became
tense and expectant.
“A
king.”
Otoro
waited for the inevitable question.
Firr
glanced at him with a visage of shackled hope and trembling fear. “What … is
this king’s name?”
“Conor
Kieran Faramond Benedictus the First.”
Firr
inhaled sharply.
~~*~~
He
let the old man soak that in, which he did over the course of five minutes of
solid silence. His eyes were wide, and he stared at his hands after sitting
once more. Otoro watched him steadily.
“He
lives,” Firr breathed. “He … he lives
…”
“As
does his kingdom.”
He
jerked his chin up. “Kingdom?”
“Mutineers,”
reported Otoro. “They fled with him when he fled Vanerrincourt, or joined him
on the way.”
“On
the way where? The Lord Emperor rules all.”
“There
is a world beyond the Eastern Edge and beyond the reach of the Black Coffin.
Since you’re Vanerrincourtian, you would know that is where he was born. That
is where he returned.”
Another
long stretch of silence followed.
“I’ll
use the Arrowsparrow later,” said Otoro, standing. “I just wanted you to see it
and the bow so you’d believe me. Examine them all you want.”
He
left the room and the old man to his thoughts.
~~*~~
He
was reading in the kitchen when Firr appeared under the doorjamb. It was well
into the night, almost forperodt.
Otoro had thought he had fallen asleep. But it was apparent that he hadn’t
slept at all.
“Butcher,”
said Firr quietly, staring.
Otoro
put his book down, stared back.
“That’s
what they call you. Butcher. The Tracluse. Your comrades.”
Otoro
waited.
“They
say you’re a demon, that even demons fear you.”
“And
what do slaves say?”
Firr’s
countenance darkened. “Are you mocking me?”
“No.”
The
Portmaster hesitated. “They—we—I—believe in a reckoning. We pray for it every
day, every minute of every day, every second …”
“A
reckoning.”
Firr
stood braced in the dark under the doorjamb.
“And
Otoro the Butcher … well, he’s near the top of the list of those to be reckoned
with, isn’t he?”
The
old man didn’t answer. Instead he asked: “Why?”
What
amazed Otoro was that the question wasn’t asked accusingly or angrily.
“Why
am I a butcher? Why am I an executioner? Is that your why?”
Firr
waited.
Otoro
stood and approached him. Firr watched him steadily as he loomed overhead. If
he felt fear, he didn’t show it.
“You
and yours see me as a life-taker,” said Otoro just beneath a growl. “You have
no idea what life really is.”
He
pushed angrily past him.
“We
have much to do, and little time,” he said without looking back. “I suggest you
rest, free man. Rest and take in fully these days. They very likely will be the
final ones of your life.”
~~*~~
Firr
had prepared breakfast by sunrise. Otoro, entering the kitchen, rubbed his
eyes. “I take it you didn’t sleep.”
Firr
sat at the table, his plate half empty. “Your name carries weight,” he grunted
after shaking his head. “I kowtowed at the market and dropped it. The eggs are
fresh, not even a day old—which I’ve never seen before. There’s thick bacon,
too, and warm bread …”
“You
went to the market? It was open at this hour?”
Firr
scooped eggs into his mouth. “It opens early for the slaves of high-ranking
Tracluse like you. Low-ranking Tracluse and their slaves come later. The slaves
of the high-rankers are long gone by then.”
“You
take foolish chances wandering out of the house, especially these days. Did you
not listen to me yesterday?”
“I
listened,” said Firr with an edge in his voice. “If I be a man, then those
foolish chances are mine, and I will take them with all reasonable calculation.
Or were you blowing Tracluse smoke up my ass?”
Otoro
glared, then sat across from him and dug in. The eggs were excellent; so too
the bacon.
“Where’d
you learn to cook?” he asked after taking a sip of siddehaf.
“I
didn’t,” answered Firr. “My wife did all the cooking. I’d talk to her as she
prepared food. I remember what she did.” He looked down at his plate sadly.
“Let
me know the next time you step out. It is not a demand, but a simple request,
as an equal concerned for the safety of another. You say you dropped my name?”
Firr
nodded.
“Continue
to do so—please.”
At
“please” the anger in the Portmaster’s eyes began to fade away.
“Tell
them—please—that you are bound to me,” continued Otoro. “I’ll give you
identification to confirm it. They’ll be far less likely to murder you if they
know you belong to me. Do that much, Firr Rourn the Free Man.”
Firr
nodded again, then gave a dismissive grunt and went back to eating.
“I’m
not Tracluse,” said Otoro.
“I
know,” answered Firr without looking up. “It’s unbelievable, that. But I know
it now.”
~~*~~
Firr
held the aecxal egg in his hand once
more, examined it.
“I
can’t believe he’s alive. I just can’t accept it.”
“The
king?”
Firr
gritted his teeth. A pained smile formed on his lips.
“That
reckoning you slaves pray for,” said Otoro, “it’s coming. The king is going to
deliver it.”
“I
met him,” Firr said quietly. “The Sly Devil had just given him the throne. I
was at his coronation. There was a ball. I’ll never forget the day my wife and
I got an invitation to it. We weren’t part of the Court’s inner circle, not
even close. But the new king … he didn’t care about circles. We stood in the
receiving line for two hours. I met his fiance first.” He laughed breathlessly.
“What a beauty! My goodness! I gave her a bow, and then went to bow to him, but
he insisted on shaking my hand—shaking my hand! A king taking a commoner’s
hand! And then he said to me—I’ll never forget it—‘You remind me of a priest I
knew a long time ago.’ I stuttered something like, ‘Sire—?’ He then told me a
story about how, when he was very young, he was homeless and alone. A holy
man—a priest from the world beyond the Eastern Edge, from the world he went
back to, the one you told me he’s returning from—had taken him in, had fed him
and encouraged him. I looked just like him, apparently. He said he thought of
him all the time. He was the soul of grace, the new king. I honestly felt like
he and I could have been friends. Me, a Portmaster, friends with the King of
Vanerrincourt!” He laughed again. It was not a happy sound. “My God,” he
croaked, tears welling up and spilling down his face, “my God … how I wish I
could’ve served in his new kingdom! Such a man! I can’t imagine the loyalty he
inspires! Oh, how cruel is this existence!”
“You
are serving in his kingdom,” said
Otoro. “You are now. I serve him, and you are in my household, which means you
serve him now too. The king accepts no slaves, and neither do I. Be the free
man you are, and you too can count yourself a citizen of the Saeire Insu.”
“Saeire
Insu?”
“Saeire
Insu.”
Firr’s
face registered alarm. “He named his kingdom … with a Galarragian phrase?”
“Galarragians
number many among his mutineers.”
“I
see.”
“Do
you?” said Otoro, glaring.
“Many
Vanerrincourtians died in wars with that shithole country,” growled Firr.
“Judge me for my patriotism, and I shall judge you for your ignorance.”
The
challenging glint in Otoro’s eyes softened. He grinned. Firr’s hot glare cooled
as well, but only after a minute of considered quiet. “ ‘The Ten Fingers of
Insurrection,’ ” he said.
“How
is it you know Galarragian?”
“I
was a Portmaster. Knowing many languages was part of the job.”
“Know
Zephyr?”
“Some.
There are Zephyrs with him?”
“And
Neptonians, and Junites, and Galens, and Arrows and Pyrrhos and four others,
including your hated Galarragians and beloved countrymen.”
Firr’s
stare turned to awe. “What are his numbers?”
“I
don’t know,” said Otoro, shaking his head. “Maybe two hundred fifty of a
thousand.”
The
Portmaster nodded contemplatively. He’d completely forgotten about the glowing aecxal egg in his hands. “Mutineers
indeed!”
His
face fell. “But even with those numbers he stands no chance, no chance at all!”
“Perhaps,”
said Otoro. “Perhaps. But whatever chance he has, we can increase it, even if
by the width of a baby’s hair. Crack that egg.”
Firr
looked at it, then brought it down on the hard desktop. The sound it made was
just like a normal egg, but instead of runny yolk issuing from it, fingers of
odd, sparkling yellow light did.
“Let
it go,” said Otoro.
Firr
let the egg go.
It
went to roll off the desk, but the light halted its progress and held it in
place. The gloom of the room was vanquished for a few moments, and then the
light dissolved, disappeared.
Standing
on the desk in the middle of dissolving eggshells was a small bird, royal blue
and bright yellow. It glanced up at Otoro and gave a friendly tweet.
Firr
gawked.
“Arrowsparrow,”
said Otoro, letting it hop on his index finger. “This is how I’ve communicated
with the Saeire Insu all these years.”
Firr
looked up. “Does the king know—?”
“Know
what?”
“Know
that you are …”
“An
executioner?”
The
old man nodded.
Otoro
thought he would feel anger. He didn’t. Instead he felt something entirely
surprising: relief.
~~*~~
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