“That’s what I’m saying,” Aric answered. “You have to say that sort of thing in low tones, because you never know who’s listening. And you’re a human. Now take that fear and multiply it by a dozen, and you have the way a half-elf feels all the time. It’s not safe for anyone to express that sort of opinion, but it’s even less so for me. Look, none of us can change the world. If it changes on its own, if this thing with Kalak helps spur that change, that’s great. But no individual or group of individuals is going to do it. On Athas, we’re born into a certain place in the world, and that’s where we stay.”
Gitch finished chewing a bite of grilled aprig and wiped his lips with his fingers. “Do you really feel that way, Aric? How sad.”
“I do, Gitch. And will, unless I witness something that changes my mind. Twenty years now I’ve been waiting. Nothing yet.”
Gitch was a big man, almost elf-sized, although sitting next to Ruhm would make anyone look small. He worked at a livery stable, and always seemed coated in reddish dust. The smell of kanks and other creatures clung to him, as if contained in that same dust. “I hope to own the stable someday,” he said. “That’s a change of status.”
“I own my own shop,” Aric countered. And yes, I do need for my customers—the satisfied ones, at any rate—to tell others about my work. That’s a risk I have to take in order to keep the business coming in. But if they can do it without mentioning my name, I like that best of all.”
“Perhaps,” Gitch said. “I’ll drink to that, too.” The others at the table went quiet, drinking their ale, or wine in Kenif’s case, chewing their meat. Aric was sorry that he had spoiled the celebratory mood. He knew, and he suspected they all did, that no matter how much fun tonight, in the morning they would all get up and spend another day in service to those who were wealthier and more powerful than they.
On Athas, that was the best one could hope for. And it wasn’t good to spend too much time dwelling on the worst.
Someone was pounding on the shop’s front door. Aric sat up in bed and the room tilted crazily out from under him. He put his hands against the mattress to steady himself. His head ached, and when he thought it was safe to put his feet on the floor—that pounding continued—his vision swam.
“Coming!” he called. He gained his feet, started for the door. His left foot kicked Ruhm’s outflung hand. “Sorry,” he muttered. Ruhm just grunted and shifted, his eyes never so much as blinking open. Aric walked past him, through the door. The shop stayed so warm that he slept in the nude, and he wondered momentarily if he should cover up. But bending over to pick up clothing from the floor would certainly be dizzying, perhaps even make him fall down or get sick. He decided to see who was trying to knock his door off its hinges, then worry about getting dressed.
“I said I’m coming!”
“Hurry it along, then!” a deep voice replied.
Aric unlatched the door and swung it wide. A pair of goliaths stood on the other side, dressed in the colorful uniform of the Shadow Guard, Nibenay’s elite palace guard. Tall hats with insect leglike appendages sticking out at the sides made the goliaths appear even bigger than they were.
“You are Aric, the smith?” one of them asked.
Aric swallowed. Suddenly he was very awake indeed, and conscious of his nudity. “Yes …”
“He wants to see you.”
“He who?” Even as he asked it, Aric was afraid he knew the answer. Anxiety gripped him, curling his toes against the hard floor.
“The Shadow King.”
“Better put something on,” the other soldier said.
“Wh-why does he want to see me?”
“We didn’t ask,” the first soldier said. “He sends us on missions, we don’t ask questions. Now he calls for you. I were you, I would get dressed and come.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
“But …” Aric didn’t know what to ask first. He didn’t want to see the Shadow King. He never had, although of course he had heard tales about him. He especially didn’t want to be escorted into the Naggaramakam. Free citizens didn’t come out of there alive. “I … just a minute.” He closed the door. The soldiers shifted position on the other side. He heard the shuffle of their feet, the creak of leather, the clinking of weapons.
Could he escape out the back? Not for long, he decided. He had some coins left, so if he got out of the city he could survive for a little while. But sooner or later, he would have to work again, and he knew only the one trade. If he made it to Tyr or Draj, could he open another shop of his own? No, better to dress and find out what the Shadow King wanted with him. Maybe he just wanted a sword. Tunsall of Thrace might have told him how happy Rieve was with hers. That was probably it.
“What’s going on?” Ruhm asked him. He had managed to rouse himself, and sat on the floor where he had been sleeping.
Aric pulled on fresh clothing, started to wrap a krama around his head. “Nibenay wants to see me.”
“Nibenay, Nibenay?”
“There’s more than one? Of course. There are soldiers outside waiting to take me to him.”
“What you done, Aric?”
“I don’t know. Nothing. Perhaps someone heard us talking last night, reported me. I don’t know.” He messed up with the krama, and the whole thing collapsed when he tried to tuck the last bit of the long scarf. He had to start over, his hands shaking so much he could barely manage. Finally Ruhm stood and helped him.
“Probably nothing,” he said.
“You think so?”
“Don’t know,” Ruhm admitted. “He never summoned me.”
“These soldiers outside, they’re goliaths. Perhaps you could speak with them.”
“Because their bond with a goliath they never met will outweigh loyalty to their king?”
“Yeah, I guess that was foolish,” Aric said. “I’m just … I’m scared, Ruhm.”
“You’re done,” Ruhm said, patting his shoulder.
“Thanks.”
“About being scared? I would be too.”
“That’s a big help.”
Ruhm clasped Aric’s hand tightly. “Don’t think you done nothing wrong. You had, would come inside.”
“You’re probably right, Ruhm.”
“So see you later on.”
“Plan on it. And if I don’t come back, the shop is yours.”
Aric released his friend’s hand and crossed through the shop again. The goliaths still waited by the door. “I’m ready,” Aric told them.
“We go,” the first one said. The other one was taciturn even by half-giant standards. Ruhm was one of the most talkative goliaths Aric had ever met, and he used words as sparingly as if they were gold.
The two huge soldiers flanked him as they started down Nibenay’s morning streets at a brisk walk. People dodged out of their way, eyeing Aric as if he had already been sentenced to death or to a short, brutal life in the gladiatorial arena.
For all he knew, he had.
“Are we going to the palace?” he asked, thinking, Please, say no!
“No.”
“Where, then?”
“Temple of the King’s Law.”
That was nearly as bad. People weren’t necessarily put to death just for walking through the doors. But Djena, the High Consort of the King’s Law, seemed always to be looking for new faces to occupy her dungeons, and new slaves to join her ranks.
He doubted they would answer, but he had to ask. “Am I … am I in some kind of trouble?”
“Don’t know,” the soldier said. “Don’t care.”