“Lucky,” Kerren repeated.
David and Stev laughed from across the room.
“Kitchen duty,” David got out, by way of explanation. “Kerren was assigned to me, and I was transferred to the kitchen.” He gave a theatrical groan. “It’s the price for being too competent. Stev’d never get transferred there. He’s barely capable enough not to have himself killed.”
Stev whacked his detractor soundly with a pillow.
“Stev’s good at what he does,” Darin insisted, jumping to his new friend’s defense.
“See?” Stev said to David. “I’ve got support.”
“Aye, and you need it.” David chuckled. “But I’m teasing
him, Darin. He’s a better slave than most. Stupider than most as well.”
“Has to be,” Kerren muttered. “He’s always smiling.” He rolled onto his elbows. “I’d trade places with you any day.”
Darin laughed. “No way.”
“I’ll second it.”
Across the room, Stev laughed. Kerren picked up his pillow. They had half an hour before they’d need to sleep, and he and Darin used the time as any children might. Darin almost forgot where he was, and why; it had been a long time since he could play this way.
But in the morning, he remembered.
The slaves were summoned en masse, with the exception of the kitchen staff. Korven sent the word around, and Stev frowned upon receiving it. It was rare that he frowned, and Darin felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
“Come on,” Stev said shortly. “We’d best be quick; summons or no, we’ll still be expected to finish what we’ve started here.” He set the rag and bucket neatly away in one comer and gripped Darin’s shoulder firmly. “The masters’ll be there; maybe all of them. Remember what Korven taught you and don’t make any mistakes.”
Frightened, Darin nodded. “Why are they calling us?”
Stev looked down at Darin and shook his head. “It’s that time, Darin. In a week or two, they’ll blood the stones.”
“Blood the—you mean sacrifices?”
“Yes and no,” Stev replied. “The brown stains on the flagstones in the courtyard are blood. They spill it in the grooves of the house crest.” His frown deepened. “They don’t usually choose among the house slaves; we’re trained enough to be of some value.”
From somewhere in memory, Stev’s words returned to Darin:
We could be on stone duty
. He thought he understood now. If they chose him, though, his blood wouldn’t flow for them; it was frozen in his veins.
Together they walked to the main hall in unnatural silence. They joined a slowly growing group of slaves. Darin saw Kerren standing beside David. Kerren smiled uneasily.
“I thought the kitchen staff—”
“Shhh.”
He silenced himself, but the knots in his stomach grew.
In silence they waited. Just as the tension seemed to become
unbearable, the large doors of the sitting room opened. Darin knew them well; he’d cleaned them every other day for seven weeks.
Instantly, the slaves fell in one neat motion to rest upon their knees.
Lord Vellen, Lord Damion, and a young girl entered the hall. Vellen was dressed in the black and red of the Karnari and moved like a shadow. Lord Damion chose instead the blue, black, and silver of his house. Of the two, the elder looked more finely accoutred, but the young lord carried himself more strongly.
The girl, on the other hand, wore a pale green dress. She must be of House Damion, Darin reasoned, but not even the house crest was in evidence upon her clothing. One fine, silver strand cut the line of her throat and sparkled in the sunlight. Her hair, like Lord Vellen’s, was pale and wintry; her eyes, like his, were icy blue. But her face was softer and sweeter, rounded where his was sharp, and her lips were turned up in a friendly smile.
Darin hadn’t seen her before. In fact, since his arrival, he had not seen any of the masters. He stared down at his feet.
“House mistress.”
Korven separated herself from the ranks of the slaves and dropped to her knees in front of Lord Damion.
“Lord Damion.” Her forehead touched the ground an inch away from the black leather of his boots.
“You’ve taken the newer slaves well into hand. I’m pleased with their progress.”
“Thank you, lord. How may we serve?”
“Lady Cynthia wishes to acquire a new maid. Are there any among these that might be suitable?”
Korven didn’t raise her head. “Yes, lord.”
“Ah, good. You may rise.”
“Thank you, lord.”
“Father?” The Lady Cynthia’s voice was high and sweet.
“Might I not choose my own?”
Lord Damion frowned. “The house mistress knows the abilities of the slaves she directs, Cynthia. Would it not be best to leave the decision to her?”
Cynthia frowned, but even the frown was delicate and pretty. “But Father, would you not trust my decision over that of a slave?”
Lord Damion’s answering frown had none of the delicacy of his daughter’s. “Cynthia.”
“Please?” Without waiting for an answer, she began to approach the ranks of the gathered slaves. “Do rise,” she said softly.
Darin began to move, and Stev, from behind, grabbed the back of his tunic. He stopped, noticing that a few of the others had also started to obey.
Silence reigned as Cynthia turned back to her father.
“Very well,” the older man replied. “Rise.” His curt word unfolded the slaves’ legs, where her pretty ones had not.
Darin glanced furtively back at his mentor, who gave him a tight-lipped shake of the head. Darin turned and did not look back again.
Cynthia’s skirts rustled against the floor as she approached. The slaves stared straight ahead, standing as tall and still as they were able. She walked casually, stopping occasionally to look more carefully at one person or another. Her footsteps, light and ladylike, could scarce be heard, although no one spoke.
At last she stopped in front of Darin. He didn’t have to look up to meet her eyes; she was only an inch or two taller than he. And perhaps a season or two older; it was hard to tell.
“What of this one?”
Korven came quickly to stand at her side. “He’s young, lady, and he’s just started with the cleaning staff.”
“Oh. Does he do his tasks well?”
“Yes, lady.”
“That’s encouraging to hear.” She smiled, her cheeks dimpling as she met Darin’s eyes.
“Has he any training in serving the nobility?” Lord Damion asked. Korven looked almost grateful.
“No, lord. By your orders, he was assigned to cleaning.”
“Very well. Cynthia?”
She ignored her father. Darin wondered how she dared. From where he stood he could see the lines that were etching themselves into the lord’s brow.
“What is your name, boy?”
“I—I don’t have a name,” Darin said.
She smiled. “But you must have a name. Weren’t you born with one?”
“I’m a—a slave, lady.” He felt his knees falter and dearly wished that the lord had not given the order to rise.
“Cynthia.” Lord Damion’s word was more of a curse than a name.
“Yes, father?”
“Enough.”
But she still didn’t stop. Darin began to tremble.
“Tell me your name,” she said, lowering her voice. “If I’m to have a new maid, hadn’t I better have something to call him?”
He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
“Tell me your name. Now.”
“Lady, I—”
“That’s an order. Do you know what happens to slaves who disobey orders?”
Darin wasn’t sure if the tension in the hall was just his. He began to sweat as her lips turned down into a dangerous frown.
“Your name.”
He wanted to turn back to Stev, but didn’t dare—not when she was so close. He looked down and saw that his hands were trembling visibly.
“D-Darin.”
He heard the collective intake of breath. It came from all around. In panic, he looked back to see that Stev’s eyes were closed. He wheeled around again.
Cynthia’s smile was the smile of a cat.
And Darin knew how a mouse felt. It didn’t help to know that the look of anger upon Lord Damion’s face was not directed at him.
“House mistress,” Lord Damion said, the word grating through clenched teeth. “Take this slave to the slavemaster.”
“At once, lord.” She reached out to catch Darin by the shoulder; he felt her hands trembling, although they looked steady.
“And tell him to wait upon my instruction before meting out punishment.”
“Yes, lord.”
“Cynthia, I will speak with you
now
. Your request for a new slave is denied.”
Darin didn’t hear her reply. He went with Korven. Only once did he dare to glance back, searching the crowd until he caught sight of Kerren’s pale face.
“I’m sorry.”
Darin bit back a cry of pain as Stev tended to his back. The warm, wet cloth stung the open strips that the whip had torn out of his flesh.
“I should have thought to warn you.”
Tears squeezed themselves out of Darin’s eyes. He reached out and felt another hand take his.
“Darin?” It was Kerren.
Darin tried to nod, gulping as Stev continued to clean him.
“It’s a game,” Stev murmured, “a game that the younger nobles will play. It doesn’t often get anywhere.” He looked down at the mess of Darin’s back and sighed. “I’ve seen worse punishments. But they were on broader backs.”
Darin wanted to close his eyes, but every time he did, he saw the grim smile of the slavemaster and felt his own fear well up as he stood there, naked, and was bid to turn around. The first three strokes cut the air at his sides, making him jump. That was bad enough—the fear.
But the whip was worse. Not for anything could he imagine enduring that again.
“They didn’t kill you,” Stev continued.
Darin hated the slight edge of surprise and curiosity in the words.
“And the lord almost chastised his daughter in front of the slaves.”
“Are you finished yet?” Kerren asked, letting his voice show the fear and annoyance that Darin’s didn’t have strength for.
“Not yet, Ker. Be patient.”
Kerren nearly shouted back. “You’re hurting him.”
“It’s all right,” Darin whispered, still very much aware that Kerren gripped his hand. “He needs to do it.” It helped, to be able to say what he only half believed.
Clean the wounds, or there’ll be infection. If the lord didn’t see fit to kill the slave, he’ll be furious if he dies now.
“That’s right.” Stev nodded. “I’m sorry. It’s just that most of us were born to the life; most of us understand the games better.”
Kerren’s hand tightened fiercely, and for a moment Darin wished that David were awake. Maybe he was, though. No one could sleep through the noise Darin made.
“I wonder at it, though. Why didn’t they kill you? Ah, well. Best not to question luck.”
Lady Cynthia was furious. The fine, high lines of her cheeks were stained with a red that was ugly and unbecoming to her station.
“You do realize that the slaves are laughing behind my back,
don’t you?” She threw her hands in the air; a bracelet jangled against the taut muscles of her wrist as if it were hitting steel.
Lord Damion continued to read the document that had been placed on his desk in the morning.
“Father, are you listening?”
“Yes, dear,” he replied, flipping a page.
“What’s so special about that slave anyway? He’s obviously not worthy of the house—he named himself in front of us!” She took a deep breath and her toe skirted the rug. She was old enough now that dignity mattered a little; she stopped herself from stomping her feet.
“Nothing is special about a slave.”
Her face froze for a moment.
Her father looked up.
Lord Vellen entered the room. He was garbed as high priest, a swirl of red and black around the winter of his skin, robes for everyday Church use. He bowed in the direction of his father, a low bow, but not too low.
“Ah, Vellen.” Lord Damion nodded. The documents that had been studied so earnestly were set aside. “Have we been arguing this long?”
“My duties today were shortened, Father.” He turned and smiled brittlely at Cynthia. “Sister.”
She clenched her hands and walked over to the beveled glass of the study’s bay window. Sunlight caught and framed her small, slender figure. It set off the warmer hue of the dress that she wore; she looked like a peach flower in bloom.
Vellen smiled sardonically.
“Vellen.” She smiled as well. In this they were indeed of the same blood; neither smile reached the eye of the wearer.
“Lord Damion and I have matters of import to discuss, Cynthia. I fear you would find them tedious. Why don’t you get ready for the dinner party that you’ve planned for this eve?”
“Vellen.” She curtsied, the gesture insulting as only a sibling could make it. “You are not Lord Damion yet. You can’t just walk in and interrupt my discussion with Father.”
“Little sister, I am not Lord Damion yet, but I
am
High Priest and leader of the Karnari. Go.”
To that she had no response. She turned stiffly, walked to the door, and then wheeled. “Lord Damion,” she said formally.
“Cynthia?”
“As the life of the slave is not mine to claim, might I claim his service for the evening?”
“The eve—ah, yes, the dinner gathering.” He frowned.
“Cynthia, the house mistress made it clear that he is not fit for formal duties. Should you desire it, I can change his allocation to allow for this in the future.”
She frowned and began to speak.
“No.” Lord Damion lifted a tired hand. “What you choose as a personal slave is your own business, but a gathering of nobles, young though they are, is house business. I will not have the house embarrassed by an untrained slave.”