There was magic in the world, once. And her fellow Collegiates would never believe it.
*
On the road to Porta Rabi, only the slaves travelled first class. The Solarnese rug merchant had not been able to conclude his business in time, and so the Collegium delegation were obliged to set out beside the Spider-kinden slaver and her merchandise. She rode beneath a parasol in a howdah atop a burly, plodding beetle, while her stock in trade sat in a covered wagon drawn behind her. They had shade, they had water, and they were always fed first.The guards rode on footboards alongside the trailer, exposed to the sun and dust. Only after a day into the journey did Che realize that these guards were also slaves.
'Why don't they escape?' she asked. 'Why not free the others and escape?'
Trallo gave her the look he reserved for mad foreigners. 'Why should they? They've got it good: get fed, even get money. Only thing they ain't got is freedom, and that's an overvalued commodity.'
He had secured them a rattling automotive in which to make the trip, together with a pair of Solarnese to serve as driver and guard. The machine was broad-wheeled, all wooden save for the steam engine and its casing. Most of its open rear was loaded with coal and waterskins to quench the automotive's constant hunger and thirst. The academics and the Vekken were crammed into whatever space remained. A smaller beetle scurried behind them, so loaded with their luggage that only bags and legs could be seen of it. They kept pace easily with the slaver and her bulky animal, giving them plenty of time to reflect on the flesh trade.
The guards were Solarnese, as were most of the slaves within the wagon. All were debtors, petty criminals or the plain unlucky. Their patient, uncomplaining presence made Che feel wretched. It was not just that slavery was outlawed in Collegium: it was that she herself had been where they were now. True, slaves of the Wasps were treated worse, for the Wasp slave corps cared little for the physical condition of its stock and more for head count, but slavery was slavery. Che was watching a crime taking place here, and she knew she should make some protest, but there was nothing she could do. She seemed to be the only one who cared. Praeda and Berjek studiously ignored the whole slave party, and Mannerly Gorget had a speculative look in his eye. He leant over the side of the automotive thoughtfully but, when Che challenged him on it, he shrugged his rounded shoulders.
'They do things differently here,' he said. 'I mean, yes, I know it's wrong. Morally wrong and economically unsound. I've been to all the same lectures as you. Only we of Collegium are rather the exceptions, because most of the world is quite happy about it. And you haven't had the trouble with servants that I've had. Sometimes I do wonder whether the Spiders have the right idea.'
Che clambered forward to where one of the Solarnese stood beside the simple levers that controlled the machine. She was a lean, scarred woman with her hair cut very short. Her counterpart, a solidly built man, stood behind, ready with the next waterskin when it was needed. They both carried slender, curved Solarnese swords, and the driver also had a winch-crossbow slung across her back. She gave Che a wary nod when the Beetle girl reached her. The heat from the engine only added to the heat of the day.
'This is a desolate place,' Che said, trying anything for conversation.
The woman shrugged lopsidedly. 'This is the edge of the Nem,' she replied, one hand taking in a landscape that was merely scrub-covered hills and dust-filled air as far east as the eye could see. 'This is friendly. Go east and you'll know what harsh means.' There must have been a sudden change in the tone of the engine that Che had not detected, for the woman now turned from her levers and rattled a hopper of coal down into the furnace, shouting at her colleague for more water. I should help, Che thought, and then recalled, I can't. She had lost all sense of how things worked. She would only get it wrong, yet not be able to see why.
*
The road between Ostrander and Porta Rabi was like a string of three pearls, each pearl a water stop. The first was a great stinking steam-powered pump with a caravanserai enclosed by a palisade wall. The second was an oasis, where the land fell down almost sheer towards a sheen of dark water, fringed with an absurd riot of ferns and horsetails. Trallo's party were not the first to take advantage of it. As they drew near, with evening visible already in the sky to the east, they spied two pitched tents, one gleaming white and the other painted in jagged patterns. Trallo hopped aloft and flew ahead, his arms out to indicate peace, to see who they would be spending the night with. By the time the slaver's entourage had coaxed her huge beast to the water's edge, there was a welcome ready, of sorts. Che saw two handfuls of hard-looking men and women with weapons to hand, but lowered. They were waiting to see if this was a trick, if they would have to fight. It was an insight into Trallo's world, for all his smiles and banter. The caravan life was clearly an uncertain one.
There were a good eight Dragonfly-kinden there, reminding them how close they were to Princep Exilla, with its piracy and violence. They had long-hafted swords and recurved bows, and they wore loose clothes with cuirasses of leather and painted wood on top. Their faces were tattooed into scowls.
Beside them was a smaller knot of armoured men. They wore dark metal, with helms that hid their faces, and their shimmering tabards showed a dark hand prominent on a dark field. Iron Glove Cartel, Che remembered. There were only three of them, but their facelessness, their stillness, gave them a greater air of menace than the posturing Dragonflies. Che found her attention coming back to them over and over, as though their very presence was a secret she could not read.
The Spider slaver was helped down from her mount, giving both groups an impartial nod. Trallo flitted over to instruct his two hirelings where to pitch camp.
'Once we're all set up,' he said, 'we'll pitch torch-posts around everyone, get us a fence. We're about as far from home as you can get on this road, so I don't think anybody minds cosying up.'
'What are they here for?' Che asked him. The Dragonflies and the Iron Glove men had gone into one of the tents, leaving a single painted warrior standing watch outside.
'Not that they exactly told me,' the Fly said, 'but it's the weapons trade. I hear the Monarch of Princep doesn't like the Gloves and won't deal with them. They make the best kit, though, so all the little chiefs are falling over themselves to set up deals like this. No need to say, we've none of us seen any of this.' Wake up!
Che did. She started awake in the tent, shocked out of a deep sleep to utter wakefulness by the urgent command. Her eyes were already penetrating the dark without her summoning the Art. She sat up.
The others lay crammed around her. Praeda Rakespear was a sloping, blanket-covered form to one side, and the Solarnese teamster was curled up on the other, knees drawn up almost to her chin.
Wake up!
'I-' She stopped the words, realizing the voice was inside her, not in her ears. She formed the name in her mind, as tentatively as touching a wound. Achaeos?
Get up! Now! The voice inside her was harsh, impatient. She stumbled to her feet, shaking off her blankets like a landslide, colliding with the tent pole. Her hand found her scabbarded sword by instinct.
The voice was urgent. Now!
I'm going mad. She slung her grey cloak over her nightshirt and blundered from the tent, hearing the Solarnese woman cursing sleepily behind her.