Over and over again he cursed himself for being enough of a fool to undertake the sea voyage to Golgarn. He was the titular leader of the expedition; he and his fellow passengers on the Freedom had timed their departure to take advantage of the last of the southerly summer trade winds, before autumn turned the current near the Skeleton Coast deadly. They had taken to the sea ultimately seeking tolerance of their gentle religious sect in Golgarn, which was a state that espoused no particular faith. They had survived the sinking of their vessel only to find themselves prisoners of the people who had helped them ashore—the people they had thought were rescuers.
Their captors had not been completely unkind to them; there had been no rape of the women from the sundered ship, as far has he could tell, no beatings or abuse. They had been bound and blindfolded after being given water and food, and allowed to relieve themselves, though the harshness of the summer in the desert, the roughness of their transport, and the general conditions could not help but add to their collective misery. The leader of the slave traders had even asserted that two seasons of olive picking, were it done dutifully and well, would buy their freedom. Evrit was not addled enough to believe the word of a slaver, but at least it had given the women and children hope. Ever since their vessel had lost course on its way to Golgarn and had struck the savage reef at the outskirts of the Skeleton Coast, Evrit had believed it was just a matter of time before death took his family. Their survival had thus far not proved to be a better lot than death would have been.
In the distance he heard a horn blast, once, long and sustained, then again, three times short. Evrit could feel the men in the wagon around him sit up or go rigid; they had heard it as well.
Around them their captors began to shout to one another, calling out in a tongue he did not understand. There was panic in their voices.
“What’s—happening?” the man next to him murmured.
The ground beneath the wagon began to rumble. Evrit recognized the sound.
“Horses,” he whispered. “Many of them.”
The wagons slowed, the creaking giving way to the sound of thundering hooves muted by the sandy roadway.
One of the captives began praying aloud; the others joined in quietly as the vibrations of the oncoming horses whipped up the grit of the desert against their skin.
Evrit tried to sort out the maelstrom of sounds that followed. It seemed to him that some of their captors had tried to run, abandoning the wagons and fleeing on horseback, but were quickly pursued by other horsemen greatly outnumbering them. The din around them made it clear that the wagons themselves had been surrounded, and from the shouting of commands, he could tell they had been taken into the custody of a military entity, though what it was he could not be certain.
Finally, after a long time of noise and confusion, he heard a carriage roll to a stop beside the wagons, and a door open amid the sounds of protocol. He listened intently, trying to catch the words, but they, too, were in a tongue he did not recognize.
At last a command was uttered, and someone leapt into the wagon, causing it to shudder violently. A moment later, he felt hands gently removing his blindfold.
At first he thought he might have lost his sight entirely; the world around his eyes, freed from their bandage, was dark, but after a moment they adjusted and he could see a soldier, dressed in dark red cloth studded with leather strips, releasing the eyes of the rest of the captives in the wagon.
Evrit looked around quickly, desperately, and caught sight of his eldest son, who sat across from him, staring wildly back at him. He nodded encouragingly, then looked behind him.
Standing in the midst of the four wagons was a swarthy man with heavy features, dressed in loose white robes with a heavy neckpiece inlaid in gold. The robes were embroidered with the symbol of a sword and the sun. He was giving orders to what appeared to be an entire cohort of mounted soldiers, similar in skin texture and features to their leader, some of whom rode between the wagons while others released the eyes of the captives or passed out water.
A wineskin was offered to him and he drank gratefully, his hands still bound, then looked around for Selac, finding him in a nearby wagon. Evrit bowed his head in relief, whispering a prayer of thanks for their rescue.
Finally the man in the robes waved the soldier he was conferring with away, then turned and addressed the captives in the common tongue of the maritime trade.
“I am Talquist, regent of Sorbold and emperor presumptive. I welcome you to my lands, and apologize for any mistreatment you may have suffered at the hands of my subjects. The ringleader has been executed, and the rest of these renegade slavers are now in the custody of my army.”
Evrit exhaled in relief and flashed a slight smile at both of his sons to reassure them.
“You will be continuing on with the my caravan now, so that my soldiers can protect you,” the regent continued. “In a moment, you should all be freed from your blindfolds if you are not already. If anyone is in need of water, tell the soldier attending to your wagon. Who among you is the leader?”
For a moment there was silence. Then Evrit found his voice.
“Our—our expedition had no real leader, m’lord,” he said, his voice cracking. “But I signed the bill of lading when we set sail on the Freedom.”
The regent turned in his direction and walked over to the wagon, smiling agreeably.
“The Freedom, did you say? A fine ship. I have sent cargo aboard her many times. Did she founder?”
“Yes, m’lord, I’m sorry to say, against a reef. We came ashore at the Skeleton Coast, but were taken prisoner by the men whom you have captured.”
“Well, on behalf of my nation, I apologize. They had no right to do that.” The regent gave another command to the soldiers, who in turn broke off into four groups of two and mounted the wagons, preparing to drive them on. Then he started back toward the carriage from which he had descended.
“Er—m’lord?” Evrit called nervously, compelled by the looks of shock on the faces of his fellow captives.
The regent stopped and turned around. “Yes?”
“Might—might we have our hands unbound?”
The regent considered for a moment, then walked back to the wagon and stood next to Evrit, regarding him thoughtfully.
“The woman in the green skirt—she is your wife, is she not?” he asked finally.
“Ye—yes,” stammered Evrit.
The regent nodded. “Would you like her brought to sit beside you?”
“Yes, yes, m’lord,” Evrit said gratefully.
The regent placed his hand on the wagon slat, and leaned closer in toward Evrit. “I fear I may have unintentionally misled you. You see, the slavers who took you captive had no right to do so, because all slave captures are specifically sanctioned and controlled by the Crown—in other words, me,” he said pleasantly. “And while these miscreants probably would have sold you to an olive farmer or the owner of an apple orchard, I have much better use for you men—in the salt mines of Nicosi. You look like a strong lot. You should survive awhile. The women we will put to work in the linen factories, the children will labor in the palace as chimney sweeps and cleaning the sewers while they are small enough to fit.”
The regent turned and headed back to his carriage, pausing long enough to call to the captain of his guard.