Chorik laughed, but in his eyes was disappointment. His attempt to impress had failed. I felt terrible for having been the cause of that, and I bowed my head in shame.
~ You're right, of course ~ he said. ~ Foolish of me. To call them civilised when they're not even beholden to the Laws ~
~ Slavery is too good for these people ~ my master's companion said.
~ Belek Aspa, you're a man of impressive conviction ~ Chorik declared, leading him away. ~ Let us talk more on the subject ~
If there was anything more to be said, Chorik never had the chance to say it, because at that instant an arrow punched into his back and thrust its bloody tip through the centre of his chest.
Nobody reacted for a moment. There was only shock. Chorik had a surprised look on his face, and while he held it the rest of us were frozen, as if waiting to see what he would do next. Then he burped, and blood flowed over his lips. He tipped forward into the pool, and as he fell the shrieking began and the men panicked. Another Gurta, one of Chorik's friends from the wagon, was shot through the forehead as he clambered out of the water.
Then people were running everywhere. I was knocked aside, my zhuk falling to the floor with a discordant jangle of protest. As I gathered it up I heard the whip of more arrows, and one thudded into the rail of the balcony, close to my face. I screamed and recoiled, crashing into Aila who, like me, was caught between running away and trying to protect her instrument.
She clutched at me for safety as we heard our masters swear and curse and howl in fear, their voices high and raw. Our whole lives we had never seen a Gurta terrified. We had seen them in wild anger and deep despair; we saw them argue and bicker often. But to see them afraid? It cracked the foundations of our world.
~ Get up! ~ I said, scrambling to my feet and bringing Aila with me. ~ Run! ~
The men were scattering, heading for the inn or the wagons. The gazebo they left behind was defiled with corpses, the waters red. Several Gurta and one of the elder slaves lay impaled by arrows, their blood flowing steadily into the gaps between the floorboards.
We were the last to leave. The other slaves had been quicker, fleeing at the first signs of the attack. But as we went in pursuit of our masters, not knowing where else to go, we saw a dozen riders on crayl-back come racing out from behind the inn. Eskaran riders. The Gurta fled in all directions, shielding their heads with their hands, but they were easily outpaced.
We stumbled to a halt a half-dozen spans from the gazebo as they cut our masters down with swords. I felt my knees go weak. Some of the slaves were trying to put themselves between their kinfolk and the Gurta, making shields of their bodies. The soldiers pulled them aside and then slaughtered those they were protecting.
I tugged on Aila's arm, turning her away from that awful sight. As I did, I glimpsed a white face looking out at us from the undergrowth that surrounded the gazebo. It was the one who had criticised my playing. There was no other direction to go, so I ran towards him, and Aila came with me. He saw us coming, scowled and disappeared.
We ran into the undergrowth, searching for him. I didn't know what else to do. Our master was dead, and I couldn't think straight. I still saw his face, the surprise in his pale blue eyes, the arrow jutting from his chest. Someone had to look after us, protect us, keep us safe. Only the master he called Belek Aspa could do that now.
I dodged recklessly through the stems and branches and giant puffballs, panting, tugging Aila behind me. The Administrator was not where I thought he'd be, but I assumed it was my mistake. Why wouldn't he wait for us? He knew we were in trouble.
I saw movement to my left, and pushed through a tangle of vines in pursuit. But it was not a Gurta face that looked back at me.
He had his sword drawn, scrambling to a halt at the bottom of a small slope. His armour was hide and metal, alien and unfamiliar. He was thickset and stocky, features wide, black-bearded. An Eskaran soldier.
We stared at him, half-hidden in the vines, paralysed by the sight.
He relaxed. Sheathed his sword and knelt down.
'Just little girls,' he said, his voice deep and burred. 'Come on. Don't be afraid.'
The words made no sense to me, but his tone was reassuring. I was wary, not ready to trust him; and yet there was something about him that made me feel strangely secure. His hulking presence, the cadence of the words. An echo of the past.
Aila tugged at me, but I didn't go.
'Come on,' he said again, reaching his hand out. He wasn't approaching us, concerned that we would shy away and run. 'I'm a friend. You want to come home, hmm? Want to go home?'
Aila tugged again, but I just kept staring at him. Then I let go of Aila's hand, and I stepped out of the cover of the vines, and walked over to the soldier.
I didn't know why at the time, but I understood later. It was because he looked like my father. I've wondered since whether I would have done the same if it had been a clean-shaven, slender man who'd found us. I've wondered what my life would have been like if I hadn't gone to him.
'That's a good girl,' he said, gathering me gently within the circle of one big arm. I pressed myself into the crook of his shoulder, pushing my hands and cheek against his chest. The smell of sweat and hide and man. Gurta didn't smell that way; they were always perfumed and scrubbed. But I breathed it in, and it awakened memories, hazy sensations of comfort and sanctuary.
I looked back at Aila, who was still hovering where I left her. The soldier reached his other arm to her. She turned tail and fled. I cried out, and moved to run after her; but the soldier's arm tightened, and I couldn't go anywhere.
'Oh no,' he said, but it was with the benevolent strictness of a parent. 'I'm not letting go of you.'
I struggled and wept but he just held me, surrounding me with his arms, and it wasn't long before I was still. I sobbed and he held onto me and I knew I'd made a choice, but I didn't yet grasp the consequences. They were too much for a little girl to think about. He made me feel safe. That was enough.
He covered my eyes as he led me back. I knew what was beyond the hot dark of his hand. Blood. Death. The end of the slim, pale masters. What lay in the future, I wasn't sure. But I surrendered myself to it. I was powerless, as I had always been.
They captured eleven Eskaran slaves, all young like me. There were no Gurta. The men were all dead and I saw no sign of the women, but I knew what had become of them. They drank their poison vials rather than let the Eskarans take them. Elegant and dignified to the end.
Aila was not among the slaves. I hoped that she had found the Administrator who had been unimpressed by my music. He would protect her, I told myself. At least, that was what I believed then.
Maybe she did, maybe she didn't. I never saw her again.
40
Mama and Papa were kissing by the stove again. They had a game they used to play, in which he would creep up behind her while she was cooking, grab her round the waist and bite her neck, all the while making snarling noises like a monster. She would laugh in delight and pretend to fend him off.
Chada and I looked at each other across the table and wrinkled our noses in amused disgust. Papa often pretended to be a monster. He was a burly, hairy man who seemed impossibly huge to my five-year-old eyes. Dark hair, dark beard, dark eyes, dark complexion. In contrast, my mother was small, slender, light-skinned, her hair a wavy fall of tawny brown. Her voice was tiny bells and trickling water, my father's the rumble of the earth.
'Go and sit down,' she told him. 'It'll be ready in a moment.'
He nibbled her ear and she squealed and hit him with a wooden spoon. Chada and I laughed as he hurried over to the table with his hands over his head, mumming fear.