"What's that?"
"Before they settled down for the night, they were marching north."
"North!" Beka exclaimed softly. "The Mycenian border can't be more than fifty miles from here, and not a single Plenimaran city in between. If they're going to all the trouble to take that many prisoners, why on earth aren't they taking them south where they could use them?"
She rested a hand on Steb's rigid shoulder.
"Still, it makes our task easier. We planned to turn north along the coast anyway. We'll trail them, haunt them, by the gods, and watch for a chance to grab Mirn and Gilly!"
41
The guards handled Alec with superstitious care after Gossol's sacrifice, but they clearly blamed him for the death of their "soldier brother."
Ashnazai came less often, too, although he still paid occasional visits in the middle of the night. Starting up out of some nightmare, Alec would smell the man's unclean odor in the darkness, feel the touch of cold fingers on his skin as Ashnazai plunged him into another punishing miasma of torment.
Locked alone in his tiny dark cabin, Alec grew increasingly despondent. He'd searched in vain for some means of escape, even if it meant throwing himself overboard, but there was none. Left with nothing to do, he slept a great deal, but his dreams were full of violence and omens. The dream of the headless arrow came far more often now, sometimes twice in one day.
Under such desperate conditions, he grew to look forward to his daily walk on deck with Mardus.
Despite his chilling revelation at the ceremony, Mardus continued to treat him with a strange sort of solicitude, as if he enjoyed Alec's company.
At midmorning each day Alec was given a cloak and escorted above under guard. Fair weather or foul, Mardus would be waiting for him, ready to hold forth on whatever subject had taken his fancy that day. To Alec's considerable surprise, Mardus was a remarkably intelligent, well-spoken man, with interests as broad and varied as Seregil's. He was as likely to launch into a discussion of Plenimaran war tactics or a detailed comparison of Plenimaran and Skalan musical conventions, although his discourses often took a darker turn.
"Torture is an undervalued art form," he remarked as they strolled up and down with Vargul Ashnazai one brisk morning. "Most people assume that if you cause enough pain you will achieve your end. While this may be true in some cases, I've always found that outright brutality is often counterproductive. Consider your own recent experience, Alec. Without drawing so much as a drop of blood, we were able to extract every scrap of information from you."
"Necromancy is a subtle art," Ashnazai interjected smugly.
"It can be," Mardus amended dryly, "although «subtle» is hardly how I'd describe many of the necromantic procedures I have witnessed. But to return to the subject at hand, I assure you that had it not been for the prohibition against shedding blood, I could have accomplished the same result without such an extraordinary expenditure of magic."
Giving Alec a poisonous smile, Ashnazai asked, "I am curious, my lord, as to what your method would have been?"
Mardus clasped his hands behind him, considering the question as coolly as if Ashnazai had asked what he thought the price of grain would be this year. "I often begin with the genitals. While the blood loss is negligible, the pain and emotional anguish are exquisite. Once that level of pain is established, the prisoner is usually quite easy to manipulate. In Alec's case, I could leave him still fit for the slave markets. Only a fool would destroy such a pretty creature unnecessarily."
Trapped at sea in such company, Alec nearly succumbed to despair. By day he was the toy of his executioners. By night the muffled cries that sometimes came up from the hold below increased his sense of helplessness. The few times he dreamed of better days with Seregil or his father only made things worse when he woke up. Lying in the darkness, he would try to recall the smell of their rooms at the Cockerel or the color of Beka's eyes.
Mostly, however, he thought of Seregil and cursed Mardus for the seeds of doubt he'd planted.
"He didn't abandon me. He didn't!" he whispered into the darkness one night when his spirits were at their lowest. He forced himself to recall his friend's grin when Alec had mastered a new skill, the delight Seregil took in tormenting Thero, the grip of Seregil's hand when he'd pulled him back from the edge of the cliff after the ambush below Cirna.
And the way he'd looked that night at the Street of Lights. Alec suddenly remembered the guilty pleasure he'd felt that evening, and later at the casual touch of Seregil's hand resting on his shoulder or the back of his neck.
His cheeks went warm now at the memory of that touch.
It was too painful to think of, now that he'd never feel it again.
"Stop it!" he hissed aloud. "He could come. He could be following right now!"
But not even Micum could track a ship across water.
Foundering in his own misery, Alec pulled the thin blanket around himself and tried to recall fragments of conversation he and Seregil had shared, just to imagine a friendly voice. He dreamed of him that night, although he couldn't recall any particulars when he awoke. But something had come back to him, nonetheless. Seated on the bunk that morning, he chewed his breakfast thoughtfully, summoning various lessons Seregil had instilled in him over the long months of their acquaintance.
Everyone on board considered him powerless, a prisoner of little consequence beyond whatever fate Mardus had in store for him. It was time to put aside fear and begin to pay attention, real attention, to what was going on around him, and then to ask questions—small, inconsequential ones at first—as he tested the water. After all, he wouldn't die any faster for at least trying.
Learn and live, Seregil's voice whispered approvingly at the back of his mind.
The soldiers' newfound wariness of him made it slightly easier to talk to them, though Alec quickly discovered that all that mattered to them was their unswerving loyalty to Mardus, a fact which made any overtures to them pointless. But he did learn that they were making for some point on the northwestern coast of Plenimar.
Later that same morning he made more of an effort at conversation with Mardus during their daily walk, allowing himself to be drawn into a discussion of archery.
The next day they spoke of wines and poisons.
Mardus seemed pleasantly surprised and began sending for him more frequently.
On the fifth day following Gossol's sacrifice, Tildus came for him at sunset.
The bearded captain said nothing, but Alec didn't like the smug, secret smile Tildus gave him as they went above.
On deck Alec saw with alarm that the ritual space had been prepared again. A line of soldiers held torches to illuminate the freshly laid square of canvas where Irtuk Beshar was already bent over the bowl and crown. Beside her, Vargul
Ashnazai stood ready with the stone ax.
Thero was there, too, standing next to Mardus as slack-jawed as ever. All eyes seemed to turn to Alec as he approached.
"O Illior," he whispered hoarsely, feeling his knees go weak. Mardus had had some change of heart, his god had sent different instructions, Alec's questioning had led him into some fatal misstep.
Tildus gripped his arm more tightly and muttered, "Easy, man child. Not your time yet!"
"Good evening, Alec!" Mardus said, smiling as he swept a hand toward the eastern horizon. "Look there, can you make out the coastline in the distance?"
"Yes," Alec replied, a fresh coil of apprehension running up his back at the sight.
"That is Plenimar, our destination. Seriamaius has been kind, guiding us so smoothly along our course. And now it is time for the second act of preparation."
As Alec watched with mounting dread, ten men and women were dragged up on deck by the black-clad marines.