Knite

“We’re here,” Roche said, dismounting. He had a bad habit of stating the obvious when he was nervous.

Sanas climbed off her horse to join him, careful to avoid dirtying anything but the soles of her shoes. She lay a supportive hand on his shoulder. “And we’ve brought their doom with us.”

“We’re here,” he repeated.

We stood some distance from the gates. However long ago I’d last seen Halor, the city hadn't changed enough for my memories to tell me it had. It was still an overload of color, every known hue represented in its eclectic architecture. There was no purposeful order to the place, no design, just a mashup of aesthetic fancies fruitlessly warring for supremacy. Only the blue walls surrounding the city, its singular gate, and the blue tower stood apart, unchanged and constant. And why would it? Merkusian himself had built it for Lorail, imbuing all the protection his power could gift.

“Let’s go,” I said, stepping forward. Sanas locked arms with Roche, urging him to follow.

We joined the back of a ragged line of travelers that stretched out from the gate. Hundreds of carts and horses and people stood before us. Men hauled baggage, drove the carts, or went about other menial tasks. Giggling girls played silly games. Women sat atop the carts or stood in groups, chatting while young boys stood meekly beside them, ready to serve in whatever capacity was required of them. Surprisingly, I saw a few idle men speckled among the crowd, seemingly without a party, their necks bare of a collar and their souls free of bondage.

“There are men in Halor who aren’t slaves?” I asked. Sanas nudged Roche. He jostled out of his reverie, glancing at her before he turned to me. “You and Helena made it seem there were no free men left in Halor but rebels.”

“There are, but never for long enough to matter,” he said. “If they try to leave the island, someone from Admin would find some reason or other to renew their slavery. I hear this is happening more frequently at the gates of the inner cities. Recent times have seen many choose to brave the wild lands in an effort to find and join the rebels. Even those who remain behind city walls find themselves rebranded as slaves sooner or later. Few Halorians willingly suffer the presence of a free man without trying to trap them back into servitude. With the laws here being what they are, it isn't difficult to claim a free man as property.”

Upon entry into the city, a wistful Roche led us to our destination. It was perfect. Discreet. The colorful dome-shaped roof and curved walls just about flamboyant enough to blend in.

“I start tonight,” I said. We’d settled in the ready-furnished hall, the only other room besides the kitchen and three bedchambers.

“How?” Roche asked, lounging on a chair. He seemed more himself, the bitter memories of his tortured childhood receding once he’d escaped the familiar streets of Halor.

“By infiltrating the criminal underworld,” I said.

Sanas, who was perusing a bookcase in the corner of the room, looked over her shoulder. “Why? I imagine there’s very little crime here.”

“You’d be surprised,” Roche said. “Slavery is a business like any other—a prosperous one at that. Crime is sure to exist wherever there is wealth and rules on how to obtain it. You’re mistaken if you think poverty the only source of crime.”

“Tonight, I move,” I said.

Roche frowned. “You did it again.”

“Did what?” Sanas asked.

“Said ‘I’ instead of we,” Roche said.

I shook my head. “If you were in your right mind and Sanas had any skill in subterfuge, we could've done the work of three.”

Roche looked away, ashamed. “I’ll have to overcome my trepidation sooner or later. Better now when the cost of failure is lower.”

“Very well,” I said. “Prepare yourself. In three turns, we move.”

Eight slaves were boxed into a crate atop a horse-drawn wagon. I could hardly believe they fit. My souleyes saw through the glut of matrixes disguising them, saw them painfully squeezed together, saw the grimaces in each and every one of their faces. Only those touched by evil could treat a living being so cruelly. My souleyes proved me true.

“Their approaching,” I said, voice unmuffled by my painted mask. “Four, including the driver.”

“Must I wear this?” Roche ran a hand over his face, unable to touch the immaterial painting I’d covered his face in. “My tunnels are enough to hide me.”

“Why take the risk? Your tunnels only work on those you know to tunnel. What if you are seen from afar?”

“No one can escape your souleyes.”

“Roche.”

“Fine, fine.”

Without another word, hood up and his face a pool of darkness, Roche dashed out of the side alley. The driver noticed him first. She pulled on the reins of the horses, the shudder of the cart as it lurched to a stop alerting those in the back.

Roche froze the driver into inaction, his many tunnels subtly coaxing forth an irrational fear. Knowing he would play with his victim, I threw up a Zephyr barrier to stop her screams from inviting unwanted guests.

The other three stood rooted in the back of the wagon, waiting for me, each with a sword in hand. I threw myself at them. They swung in unison. I weaved past their swords, cutting deep into the backs of their ankles as I passed. They collapsed. One fell off the wagon. Of the two who remained, one whimpered and the other kept swinging from where she fell. I kicked her blade away, then stabbed daggers through her palms and into the wood of the crate, deep enough to hold fast but not so deep as to harm any of the slaves inside. Surprising me, she thrashed against the bonds, more angry than scared, more in rage than in pain. I would save her for last. Just as layers of rock and earth purify groundwater, hardened layers of the soul purify fear.

The first was adequate. Nothing more. Still, I savored every bite. Piece by piece, I nibbled on her fear, taking with it some of her sensus. When I was done, I leaned over the side of the wagon. The one who fell there was silent by then. Hearing me devour a soul had filled her with enough fear to paralyze.

“Can I have one of them,” Roche said, smiling. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I think I can do better.”

I looked at where he pointed. Thin ribbons of flesh hung off of the driver’s mutilated body. Blood pooled at her feet, soaking into the wood of the footrest, dripping down onto the road, and filling the spaces between the cobbles as it spread. I turned towards the trapped woman.

“Much appreciated, Lord,” Roche said, jumping off the wagon.

My second was markedly better. Full and rich and deep. Not the best—nowhere near the best—but good. After we were done, Roche let the slaves out of the crate. They were a poor sight, mere skeletons covered in tight, dry, dirty suits of skin. He wanted to help them. I didn’t mind so long as he knew he would do so alone. In the end, pity won over fear and he threw the bodies of the dead Halorians off the wagon before driving the slaves away.

“They’ll be dead before dawn,” I said to him when he returned.

“Maybe,” he said. I shook my head, remembering a time when hope made me a fool. There’s no more stubborn a sort than those who latch on to hope or love. In the end, hope is probability's bitch, fed scraps from the table when her owner is full. And love…love is evil’s favorite tool, a perfect trap for those who have been trapped by it.

The rest of the night was fruitless. On the second, several more fell to us. On the third, worried our escapades would be noticed and planned against, I used my souleyes to limit our targets. Only on the fourth did we find who I was looking for.

“No killing,” I said. Roche seemed ready to ask why. I smiled when he didn’t, pleased with his restraint.

“Capture and interrogate?” he asked instead.

“Only if reason fails to prevail.”

I walked out of the recess we were pressed against. Much like the four before, The cart slowed to a stop.

“State your business,” said the dainty woman in the driver's seat. She did not raise her voice. In the dead of night, there was no need.

The woman who sat beside her stirred. She raised her head. “Why the delay?”

Her companion pointed at me. “There’s some fool trying to steal our merchandise.”

“Admin?”

“I don’t think so. She’s not wearing their uniform.”

The larger woman, tall and lean and fit and with a bundle of dirty blonde hair looped around her head, climbed off the cart and approached me, coming to stand just about close enough she could reach my neck with her sword. Telling, since her hand rested on its pommel. “Move, or be moved.”

“Are you leaving the city?” I asked. Both women jolted in shock. They hadn't expected a man’s voice.

The woman’s hand went from resting on the pommel to wrapping around the handle. “How dare you, a man, think to—”

“You may dispense with the fake outrage,” I said. “I know you to be rebels.”

The large woman looked about, searching and finding nothing. “What trick are you playing?” The sword slid out. It was both silent and loud, quiet and bright. “Where is your master?”

“I have no master, only those I am master to.”

“Funny,” she scoffed.

I gestured behind her. “Like Roche over there, who’s taken it upon himself to incapacitate your friend.”

The fighter twisted round, finding her companion frozen. The indent of a line on her neck was the only sign of the wire Roche held across her throat. Reaper arts swelled beneath the skin of the warrior's legs and she made to take a step forward. The line dug deeper, calling forth droplets of blood. Roche smiled as if to encourage or enrage the woman into action. She never completed the step.

“I assume you are heading out of the city,” I said.

The warrior sighed and resheathed her sword. “You two aren’t slaves.”

“We might be," Roche said, the mockery in his tone seeking to goad her into the conflict he so desired.

“You are too good a Telum to be a slave.”

“I don’t know whether to be proud or disappointed.” He was lying. He did know. He’d been too good for too long to find her statement a source of pride.

The tall godling half turned to me, putting me into view while still keeping an eye on her companion. “What is it you want?”

“An introduction,” I said.

“To whom?”

“Your leader, of course.”

She shook her head.

“You don’t have much of a choice in the matter.”

“I think I do.”

I took out my twin blades, calm and without hurry. “Well then, let me dissuade you of that notion.”

“So when you said criminal underworld…?” Sil asked.

“What better way to bring Halor to ruin than to catalyze the revolution,” I said.

Roche rubbed his hands together. “Oh, the anarchy, how sweet it’ll be.”

We left the cart at the edge of the forest, under a large beech tree and hidden by a pile of branches and leaves; the roads were too dangerous to take and the dense forest didn’t allow for traveling with the cart. Besides, there were no roads that led to where we were heading. From the memory I took, the rebel leader was in a town they’d erected deep in the western forest and far from any known settlements.

“We’re nearly there,” Brifel called back to us. She and the petite Faber, Fillo, were at the head of our group, walking on either side of the slaves who sat slumped on horses.

“After two days trekking through this damn forest, this town of yours better have decent amenities,” Sil said.

It didn’t. The town was poor. I suppose, taking into consideration it was composed of slaves, for them, it might've been rich. Dozens of shacks made of rough, untreated, unevenly cut wood were constructed around a miracle of a building—how something so tall and so badly built could remain standing was a mystery to me. Ragged men busied themselves in the light of early dawn, chopping trees, skinning animals, or practicing their arts.

We headed towards the main building. The flat, beaten earth around the town was a welcome change from the bumpy, sloping terrain of the forest.

Fillo left us at the door, closing it behind us. Brifel led us down a hallway deeper into the building, past several dead torches and side doors, and eventually to a double door that ended the space. She came to a stand, pausing.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Roche asked.

Brifal sighed, then knocked on the door.

“Come in,” called a voice.

A carpet, almost as large as the room itself, covered the packed-earth floor. Maps, letters, matrix templates, drawings, and an assortment of other documents were piled on the only table and pinned to all four walls. Behind the table was a chair. A woman sat facing away from us and holding a parchment up to the light coming from the back window.

“I take it the trip was a success?” She asked.

“Hard to tell,” Brifal said.

“How so?” The woman turned to face us. Our eyes met. She froze, the parchment still held high enough to partially hide her bare breasts. “Oh.”

I smiled. “It’s good to see you again…Captain Jule.”