‘He tried, you mean. I sent the fool away.’
She was clearly stunned into silence.
Udinaas half turned with a dismissive wave of one hand. ‘I sent Menandore away, too. They tried using me like a coin, something to be passed back and forth. But I know all about coins. I’ve smelled the burning stench of their touch.’ He glanced back at her again. ‘And if I am a coin, then I belong to no-one. Borrowed, occasionally. Wagered, often. Possessed? Never for long.’
‘T’orrud Segul-’
‘Find someone else.’
‘You have been chosen, you damned fool!’ She started forward suddenly, tearing at her own threadbare slave’s tunic. Cloth ripped, fluttered on the hot wind like the tattered fragments of some imperial flag. She was naked, reaching out to drag Udinaas round, arms encircling his neck-
His push sent her sprawling onto the hard, stony ground. ‘I’m done with rapes,’ he said in a low, grating voice. ‘Besides, I told you we have company. You clearly didn’t completely understand me-’ And he walked past her, walked straight towards the serpent that was Seren Pedac.
She woke with a calloused hand closed about her throat. Stared up into glittering eyes in the gloom.
She could feel him trembling above her, his weight pinning her down, and he lowered his face to hers, then, wiry beard bristling along her cheek, brought his mouth to her right ear, and began whispering.
‘I have been expecting something like that, Seren Pedac, lor some time. Thus, you had my admiration… of your restraint. Too bad, then, it didn’t last.’
She was having trouble breathing; the hand wrapping her throat was an iron band.
‘I meant what I said about rapes, Acquitor. If you ever do that again, I will kill you. Do you understand me?’
She managed a nod, and she could see now, in his face, the full measure of the betrayal he was feeling, the appalling hurt. That she would so abuse him.
‘Think nothing of me,’ Udinaas continued, ‘if that suits the miserable little hole you live in, Seren Pedac. It’s what wiped away your restraint in the first place, after all. But I have had goddesses use me. And gods try to. And now a scrawny witch I once lusted after, who dreams her version of tyranny is preferable to everyone else’s. I was a slave-I am used to being used, remember? But-and listen carefully, woman-1 am a slave no longer-’
Fear Sengar’s voice came down from above them. ‘Release her throat, Udinaas. That which you feel at the back of your own neck is the tip of my sword-and yes, that trickle of blood belongs to you. The Acquitor is Betrothed to Trull Sengar. She is under my protection. Release her now, or die.’
The hand gripping her throat loosened, lifted clear-
And Fear Sengar had one hand in the slave’s hair, was tearing him back, flinging him onto the ground, the sword hissing in a lurid blur-
‘NO!’ Seren Pedac shrieked, clawing across to throw herself down onto Udinaas. ‘No, Fear! Do not touch him!’
‘Acquitor-’
Others awake now, rising on all sides-
‘Do not hurt him!’ I have done enough of that this night, ‘Fear Sengar-Udinaas, he had that right-‘Oh, Errant save me-‘He had that right,’ she repeated, her throat feeling torn on the inside from that first shriek. ‘I-listen, don’t, Fear, you don’t understand. I… I did something. Something terrible. Please…’ she was sitting up now, speaking to everyone, ‘please, this is my fault.’
Udinaas pushed her weight to one side, and she scraped an elbow raw as he clambered free. ‘Make it day again, Silchas Ruin,’ he said.
‘The night-’
‘Make it day again, damn you! Enough sleep-let’s move on. Now!’
To Seren Pedac’s astonishment, the sky began to lighten once more. What? How?
Udinaas was at his bedroll, fighting to draw it together, stuff it into his pack. She saw tears glittering on his weathered cheeks.
Oh, what have 1 done. Udinaas-
‘You understand too much,’ Clip said in that lilting, offhand tone of his. ‘Did you hear me, Udinaas?’
‘Go fuck yourself,’ the slave muttered.
Silchas Ruin said, ‘Leave him, Clip. He is but a child among us. And he will play his childish games.’
Ashes drifting down to bury her soul, Seren Pedac turned away from all of them. No, the child is me. Still. Always.
Udinaas…
Twelve paces away, Kettle sat, legs drawn under her, and held hands with Wither, ghost of an Andii, and there was neither warmth nor chill in that grip. She stared at the others as the light slowly burgeoned to begin a new day.
‘What they do to each other,’ she whispered.
Wither’s hand tightened around hers. ‘It is what it is to live, child.’
She thought about that, then. The ghost’s words, the weariness in the tone, and, after a long time, she finally nodded.
Yes, this is what it is to live.
It made all that she knew was coming a little easier to bear.
In the litter-scattered streets of Drene, the smell of old smoke was bitter in the air. Black smears adorned building walls. Crockery, smashing down from toppled carts, had flung pieces everywhere, as if the sky the night before had rained glazed sherds. Bloodstained cloth, shredded and torn remnants of tunics and shirts, were blackening under the hot sun. Just beyond the lone table where sat Venitt Sathad, the chaos of the riot that had ignited the previous day’s dusk was visible on all sides.
The proprietor of the kiosk bar limped back out from the shadowed alcove that served as kitchen and storehouse, bearing a splintered tray with another dusty bottle of Bluerose wine. The stunned look in the old man’s eyes had yet to retreat, giving his motions an oddly disarticulated look as he set the bottle down on Venitt Sathad’s table, bowed, then backed away.
The few figures that had passed by on the concourse this morning had each paused in their furtive passage to stare at Venitt-not because, he knew, he was in any way memorable or imposing, but because in sitting here, eating a light breakfast and now drinking expensive wine, the servant of Rautos Hivanar presented a scene of civil repose. Such a scene now jarred, now struck those who had weathered the chaos of the night before, as if lit with its very own madness.
A hundred versions clouded the riot’s beginning. A money-lender’s arrest. A meal overcharged and an argument that got out of hand. A sudden shortage of this or that. Two Patriotist spies beating someone, and then being set upon by twenty bystanders. Perhaps none of these things had occurred; perhaps they all had.
The riot had destroyed half the market on this side of the city. It had then spilled into the slums northwest of the docks, where, judging from the smoke, it raged on unchecked.
The garrison had set out into the streets to conduct a brutal campaign of pacification that was indiscriminate at first, but eventually found focus in a savage assault on the poorest people of Drene. At times in the past, the poor-being true victims-had been easily cowed by a few dozen cracked skulls. But not this time. They had had enough, and they had fought back.
In this morning’s air, Venitt Sathad could still smell the shock-sharper by far than the smoke, colder than any bundle of bloody cloth that might still contain pieces of human meat-the shock of guards screaming with fatal wounds, of armoured bullies being cornered then torn apart by frenzied mobs. The shock, finally, of the city garrison’s ignoble retreat to the barracks.
They had been under strength, of course. Too many out with Bivatt in the campaign against the Awl. And they had been arrogant, emboldened by centuries of precedent. And that arrogance had blinded them to what had been happening out there, to what was about to happen.