“Dammit!” he growled to himself as he turned and started down the steps to the wall walk. “I miss all the fun. Papa goes off to chop Ehleen rebels and I have to stay here and command the hall garrison. What the hell does he think his castellan is for?”
Neeka had never been happier than during the brief—too brief—years of her apprenticeship under Master Lokos. Once arrived at his home/shop and shown the small room wherein lay her trunk, she quickly changed into her own clothing, bundled up the expensive, gaudy outfit in which she had left the bordello and asked leave to return the garments to their rightful owner, but Master Lokos discouraged this, saying that, as Djoy Skriffen was known to be a grudge holder, it were best that Neeka never again place herself anywhere near the evil woman’s grasp. He sent a servant boy, instead.
About a week later, ugly Iktis strolled into the shop. Master Lokos greeted the known pimp and professional ruffian coldly for the benefit of the two other apprentices and the non-Ehleen customers. He invented an errand to take Neeka through the back storerooms and into the living quarters; shortly, he and Iktis joined her.
When Iktis was seated and sipping at honeyed wine, the master inquired, “What of the barbarian dunghill, does she know you are here? You take far too many chances, friend Ahkiles. You’d be of no use to us dead, you know.”
The pocky man smiled toothlessly. “You’re as apprehensive as ever, old man. All my life has been the taking of one risk after another; that’s the life of a warrior … or a conspirator. But your fears are wasted this time. Herself sent me here.”
“Really? Why, pray tell?” snapped Lokos. “Are you to be her scout? Is she planning a second abduction from under my very roof? If so, she’d better have more than four bravos.”
Iktis waved a hand placatingly. “No, no, Lokos, nothing like that. Djoy Skriffen is cold, cunning and a plethora of other adjectives as well, most of them highly uncomplimentary, but she’s too shrewd to butt against stone walls, she recognizes and accepts this defeat.”
“No, I was to buy a quarter-leetrah of Blue Water for the bitch’s chronic biliousness and then find a chance to tell Neeka that herself holds no ill will against her. Of course, she has no idea how news of the kidnapping really was disseminated. She’s come to the conclusion that Fahlkop’s accomplices broke under torture.”
“And so that precious pair did,” Lokos shrugged, “but we already knew most of what they said.”
Iktis nodded and went on. “Anyhow, Lady Whale wishes Neeka to know that, whenever she tires of you and this kind of work, she will find a warm welcome at the whorehouse.”
Neeka’s mother, father and siblings had been swept off in one of the fevers which ravaged most cities every hot summer, and she had been reared by relatives who had lavished precious little love or affection on her and, with daughters of their own to provide for, had married her off to the first man willing to accept a minuscule dowry. In the house of Master Lokos, she had her first taste of true, familial affection, for the master and his plump, jolly wife customarily treated apprentices like the sons and daughters they had never had.
Many craft masters used their apprentices for servants and household drudges, but Lokos was a wealthy man, employed a large retinue of servants and saw to it that every minute his apprentices were not eating, sleeping or devoting to duties in shop, workrooms or garden, they were reading his extensive collection of works on pharmacology, human and animal physiology, differing theories respecting the treatment of wounds, injuries and illnesses, horticulture of herbs and a vast array of other interrelated subjects. Some of the better books had been written by Master Lokos himself.
There were four apprentices, all male, when Neeka first arrived. Kohmos, the eldest, was really a journeyman in all but name as he had less than two months until the end of his contract. Djahn, though but a year older than Neeka, was already into the sixth year of his apprenticeship. Zindaros, at fourteen, and Sbaidos, at thirteen, were both still in their first year.
The male apprentices had their quarters in a small attic dormitory, but Neeka’s room was close by the master’s suite. The only other resident on the same level was a man who filled two highly exacting niches in the household—majordomo and head cook—and who called himself Koominon. Neeka had quickly noted that the master treated this mere upper servant as an equal, as he did the outwardly disreputable pimp, Iktis.
It was not until many months later that she came to know the reasons for these and many other discrepancies in the behavior of Lokos, for the master was wisely very closemouthed with any save sworn members of the Heritage Society—ee Klirohnolimeea.
Djordj had advised Neeka not to get involved in Lokos’ known radical political activities, but the girl had no choice. Her master, assuming that since the Society had helped her she would welcome a membership, informed her long after the fact that he had sponsored her for and she had finally been accepted in the Society for the Preservation of Our Ehleen Heritage.
“After all, child, you are a kath’ahrohs—which may not mean much in Kehnooryos Mahkehdohnya where most folk are, but means very much here, where increasingly few are not to some extent mongrelized with the so-called Kindred and other strains of barbarian. Of the over eight thousand souls listed as permanent residents of Esmithpolisport, only some fourscore are kath’ahrohs, Neeka. I am not, God help me, nor is my dear wife. Indeed, no one in this house is save only you and Koominon.”
“Is Koominon a member?” asked Neeka.
Lokos had smiled and nodded. “Koominon is one of the founders of our chapter in this thoheekahtohn, and a life member of the advising Council. The poor man has suffered more, and even more unjustly, than have you under the barbarians, Neeka. He has been cruelly bereft of hereditary lands and position, family and … and more.”
Lokos and Koominon led the way to Neeka’s first meeting of ee Klirohnohmeea through a disreputable district of shanties and hovels to a large building of weathered gray granite. Portions of the walls had evidently been knocked down long ago and had been rebuilt in cheap brick. Entrance was effected through a tiny door set into a pair of larger doors. Within, Lokos lit a small lamp he carried and Neeka saw that the building—whatever the purpose for which it may have been built—was now a warehouse.
The first three columns supporting the high, vaulted, soot-encrusted ceiling were roughly fashioned of brick, but the next two, despite the dim, flaring light of the lamp and layer on layer of dirt, could be seen to be of fine, red-veined marble. And the floor beneath their feet, in those places where shifting of heavy cases had scraped away the filth of ages, was of a delicate gray-green stone.
At her questioning look, Lokos spoke. “When the barbarians conquered this city, over two hundred years ago, this was a palace, the seat of the hereditary lords of the city, lands and port. Lord Graikos Pahpahthohpoolos fought the barbarian hordes street by bloody street after the city walls were breached, and he and his brave men made their last stand here. So fiercely did they fight that the barbarians finally brought up siege engines to knock down the walls. The palace, when at long last conquered, all its defenders massacred, was too damaged for habitation, and it sat vacant, tenanted only by ghosts and vermin, for many years; then, as the usurper Esmiths had improved the harbor and trade increased, rough repairs were effected and this noble edifice was converted to a warehouse.”