Black Mike was scrutinizing Strongwind with a more intrigued and markedly less hostile glare. He rubbed his throat where the king’s fingers had throttled him. “You’re a fighter, I’ll grant you that, but what do you want with me? Why did you come asking after Black Mike?”
“I want to get out of this place. I want to break the backs of these slobbering ogre lords. I want to see our people free to live, to go where they will, not as slaves of brutes who can barely remember the symbols of their own civilization. The woman I talked to suggested you might have some of the same desires.”
“Those are dangerous words in Winterheim,” Black Mike said, shaking his head. “You’re not the first man to think them-all of us have done the same-but you should know that anyone who’s tried to act on them in the past has ended up dead, quickly and unpleasantly. What makes you think you’d be any different?”
“As you said, I’m a fighter, but I’m not a fool. I want to find other men, fighters like me, and see what we can do together. I might be able to help-I’ve got a position in the house of an ogress noblewoman.”
“There’s lots of slaves in houses like that,” Black Mike snorted. “Most of them are pretty well tamed. Who is your mistress?”
“Thraid Dimmarkull-the lady Thraid Dimmarkull,” Strongwind replied. He hoped that the name would carry some meaning, but he was surprised by the grunts of appreciation from some of the men and saw a couple exchange nudges in the ribs or mutters of coarse humor.
“Now that is interesting,” said Black Mike, “and unique.”
“Why?’ asked the king.
“I guess you’re too new here to know what’s going on. You’ll be interested to hear that you’re serving the king’s own private whore.”
Grimwar Bane was running out of patience. His wife had been watching him like a hawk these past few days, and he had been unable to so much as get a message to Thraid. Yesterday, he had been obliged to inspect the treasury and as a result a splendid opportunity-six whole hours, when his wife was distracted by the training of temple acolytes-had been wasted.
Now, again, Stariz was off to the temple, and he knew she would be busy for most of the day. Though he had not communicated with his mistress, he was determined to take advantage of this chance and surprise her with a visit. He left the palace for a stroll and quickly turned around the corner into the Slaves’ Way. Certain that no one was looking, he pushed through the secret door, lit the lamp, and descended the long spiral of stairs toward the terrace level. His feet drummed on the stones, a pounding cadence that bore him farther and farther downward.
Finally, panting for breath and covered with sweat, he arrived at the terminus of the secret passage. Here discretion demanded that he be careful, so he settled for a thumping knock on the panel, knowing that he was the only one who usually came to her this way. Nothing happened for several seconds, so in his growing agitation he knocked again, harder.
He was just preparing for his third signal, which in all likelihood would have knocked the door from its hinges, when the portal was pulled open to reveal Wandcourt looking at him, his eyes wide with surprse.
“Your Majesty!” said the slave, bowing deeply. “Forgive me. We were not expecting you!”
The king bulled eagerly through the door, through the room beyond and out into the apartment’s main chamber. “My lady!” he called in a hoarse whisper, “I have come to you!”
“Er, Sire,” Wandcourt said, hesitantly.
The king was busy looking around, realizing that there was no sign of Thraid Dimmarkull. He turned his attention to the elder human.
“What is it? Where is she? Speak man!”
“Not here, Your Majesty-though she will be terribly distressed to learn that she missed your visit. She has taken the new slave, Whalebone, to the Nobles’ Market.”
“She took that slave out in the city?” demanded the king, appalled.
Surely he had insisted that she keep him out of sight! Hadn’t he? He growled softly, realizing that, perhaps, he had failed to make that point clear. No doubt Stariz would soon learn of the slave king’s whereabouts. Still, the fellow wasn’t here now, and that might be a good thing. Discretion, Grimwar Bane knew, was still important.
“Did she cloak him, hide him under a robe or something?” the ogre monarch asked hopefully.
“Not exactly, my lord king,” explained Brinda, who had emerged from the kitchen to stand at her husband’s side. “That is, I think she wanted to, well, show him off.”
10
Karyl Drago ber Glacierheim was an immense ogre, even by the standards of that immense race. Indeed, it had been said by others of his kind that he was too big-as if such a thing was possible in an ogre warrior. It was not in his fighting ability that his size was viewed as a liability. On the contrary, Karyl’s prowess with his great, stone-headed club was legendary. He easily twirled around a weapon that a normal ogre would have trouble lifting from the ground. He had never been defeated in combat, not by human slaves, thanoi foes, or ogre opponents. Once he had broken the neck of an ice bear in an arena contest, just for the sport of it.
Unfortunately, the strength of his musculature and his grace with that mighty club were not matched by a sense of ease in the presence of other ogres, nor, most notably, did he possess even the rudimentary manners needed to master the confines and rituals of Noble Winterheim.
Karyl Drago had been born and raised in the remote outpost of Glacierheim, where by the time of adulthood his reputation as the barony’s pre-eminent warrior was well established. Even there, in that mannerless, practically barbaric community, his lack of social graces had marked him as an outcast.
At the drunken brawls that passed for the baron’s celebrations, no one wanted to sit next to Karyl Drago. Not only did he take up enough bench space for any two normal ogres, but he jealously and aggressively reached for every scrap of food, every tankard of beverage, that came within reach. Since his arms were as correspondingly huge as the rest of him, this inevitably resulted in a scouring of the banquet table that left very few tidbits for the other ogres in the immediate area.
Any attempt to redress this matter would inevitably provoke the great brute to violence, and no one-or two or even three-wanted to face up to Karyl Drago when he was enraged. Also futile was the effort undertaken by the baron himself to speak to the ogre after such incidents. Drago would willingly agree to behave himself next time, and he certainly meant those words, yet he would just as certainly forget his promises when once again subjected to the temptations of roast bear haunch or seasoned warqat.
When the baron’s daughter, Stariz ber Glacierheim, had been summoned to the royal capital by the former king, Grimtruth Bane, as a suitable match for his son, Grimwar, the baron had sent a score of warriors from his own garrison as an honor guard to accompany Stariz to Winterheim and to stay with her in the city. He took a great deal of pleasure in assigning Karyl Drago to this detachment.
Drago’s own reactions to this move were straightforward. He did as he was ordered, of course, and indeed he looked forward to life in Winterheim, which was widely known as the center of all ogre culture in Icereach. In fact, Drago had a secret fascination with all things gold and knew that Winterheim was the greatest magnet for gold in the world-at least, in all the world that was the Icereach. There he hoped to find some pretty toys that he could gather to himself and cherish.
As for the soon-to-be queen Stariz, with her mysterious rituals and undeniable influence with the Willful One, she frightened him, just as she frightened almost everyone else. In fact, there were rumors that her own father found her to be such an ominous presence that he had vigorously sought the match with the king and had agreed to a surprisingly miniscule dowry-a few silver mines and a hundred human slaves-in order to ensure that she would be shipped off to the capital.