The Istarans had embraced the change with startling speed. After only a decade and a half, the realm’s mines and quarries now ran from the toil of bought men, and most noble households boasted a small army of unpaid laborers. The city of Aldhaven became a trading center for those who sold flesh, and when the fights returned to the empire’s Arenas-though only as shows, not the bloody melees of old-the gladiators were all slaves. The last few nay-sayers fell silent when Beldinas outlined the laws the slavers must observe: gone were the days of lash and yoke; those who mistreated slaves would be punished with enslavement themselves. And slaves could gain their freedom by joining the church, vowing eternal servitude to the gods. Only a handful chose that end, but it was enough make those who opposed slavery relent.
These days, it was almost as if Istar had never known any other way. Every city had its market, every merchant caravan contained at least a short line of chained heretics. And the Istarans who were free grew fat and rich off the toil of those who were not.
Cathan leaned back against the wall of the tunnel, putting a hand over his eyes. His head hurt. The world felt like it had been knocked loose around him. The others watched him, curious, expectant.
“So the imperial decree is that slavery is … good?” he asked.
“In this case,” said Wentha.
“For the redeemable,” noted Rath.
“Until they repent,” Tancred added.
He had no words, could only stand there, shaking his head in disbelief. It was all he could do to keep from crying out in fury. The worst part of it, by far, was that the whole thing made a sickening kind of sense. Wasn’t it better to spare the lives of those not beyond deliverance, and to give them another chance? Wasn’t this way more humane, as long as the slaves weren’t maltreated?
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Idar. His face was grim, dark, his voice soft and low. “I can see it in your eyes. And yes, being a slave is better than death … but not by much. I know-I was one, for a while. I surrendered, after the rest of my family resisted and died on the Hammer’s blades. They took me prisoner, sold me … I worked three years mining salt at Attrika. Three years without seeing the sun, toiling every day before I escaped. They didn’t whip me, they kept me fed, but the humiliation …” He stopped, his face twitching. “There were times I prayed for death. Some did the deed themselves, or for others. A good swing of a pick, or a sharp stone to the temple, and it was all over. But I didn’t have the courage. I’m glad to be alive, but if I had the choice again, I’d pick sword over shackles.”
“It gets worse,” Wentha added. “With a punishment people see as merciful, the church has fewer problems with expanding its definitions of heresy.”
“Even those who worship the gods of light, but not in the prescribed ways, are suspect,” Tancred noted. “When we get back to the Temple, go to the Solio Febalas, the Hall of Sacrilege, and ask the Kingpriest to show you Fan-ka-tso.”
“All it takes these days,” said Rath, his words dripping with venom, “is one dark thought in the wrong place, and the Araifas have you arrested and sold before the day is out.”
“Wait,” Cathan said. “The who?”
“Six years ago,” Wentha said. “There was a scandal at court. One of the hierarchs, it turned out, was the thrall of a coven of Sargonnites. They were using him to get close to the Kingpriest. There was even an assassination attempt in the offing, but the hierarch was caught before he could do anything. The Hammer hunted down the Sargonnites, but Beldinas wasn’t satisfied.”
“Evil thoughts are as evil deeds,” said Rath, his voice a singsong mockery of the Lightbringer’s. “Only the thoughts stay hidden.”
“So he created the Araifas, the Thought-Readers,” finished Wentha. “They are Majereans, skilled at reading the thoughts of others. They move in secret, among clergy and laity alike. No one knows their real identities.”
“And when they catch you harboring thoughts against the church …” Tancred’s voice trailed off.
Cathan swayed a moment, then sat down as a wave of dizziness overtook him. He looked up at the others. “You’re lying,” he said, without conviction. “You must be lying. This has to be a trick, a mistake.”
“No,” said Idar. “It isn’t. If you’d ever felt the Araifas rooting through your mind, you’d believe what your sister tells you. That’s why we stay here, Twice-Born. That’s why your kin help us … because the only thing that frightens us more than what the Kingpriest has already done is what he might do yet.”
He stopped, his eyes flicking toward Wentha and her sons. In the corner of his vision, Cathan saw his sister’s head dip once. Idar leaned closer, his face as grave death. Cathan knew at once what the man would say, but held his breath anyway, not wanting to believe it.
“And that,” said Idar, in a voice barely more than a breath, “is why we must bring him down.”
Chapter 10
I should never have come back, Cathan thought. I should never have left the cave.
It had been safe there. His life had been quiet and free of confusion. Now everything he thought he knew was wrong. If only the damned scholar hadn’t come … if only he hadn’t listened to Fistandantilus … if only he’d insisted on remaining behind. If only he’d been content, long ago, to follow the Kingpriest’s orders and never question him, like most of the empire did.
But he had listened, he had left, he had questioned, and it had led him here, to this dark, close tunnel far beneath a place where men bought and sold other men, and did so in the name of the gods. Here, to where the sister he’d always adored was plotting against the man who once had been his best friend, his lord in body and spirit. Here, to where nothing made any sense any more.
Wentha’s brow was furrowed, her eyes intense. Tancred and Rath looked at the floor, but she met Cathan’s gaze easily, a hint of challenge there. Idar and Gabbro and the other rebels barely existed for him.
Cathan-” she began, but he cut her off.
“When were you planning to tell me about this?”
There was more anger in his voice than he’d expected, a lash he didn’t know was there. She flinched beneath his words, and Rath looked up, wary and protective. Tancred looked like he would have been happiest if the floor split open and swallowed him.
“When we got to the Lordcity,” Wentha replied. She reached out to touch his arm, stopped when he pulled back. “We only came out here to meet with Idar, for a few moments. We would have been back in the palace now, if you hadn’t followed us.”
“I’m taking an awful risk here, Twice-Born,” said Idar. “I’m trusting you not to tell His Holiness about us, about this place, because your sister insists you’re a good man.”
“You’re also hoping I’ll help you,” Cathan snarled.
The ruffian nodded. “Yes.”
“We mean to abduct him,” said Wentha. “To show him the pain he’s caused, without his sycophants and advisors there to pour poison in his ear and call it honey. We want to make him reconsider and repent, not to harm him.”
Cathan glanced at the others, saw the way they looked at one another, and knew they didn’t all share that sentiment. Many of Idar’s men would be more than happy to see Beldinas dead-on their own swords, if possible. Gabbro’s eyes burned at the prospect.
“And if he doesn’t repent?” he asked. “What then?”
Wentha shook her head. “We’ll… we’ll deal with that if it happens.”