Winterheim

5

You lost him? The King of Suderhold goes out for a stroll in his own palace, and you cannot follow where he goes?” The queen’s tone was deceptively gentle, but she felt the growl rumbling in her throat, a menacing indication of her rising displeasure.

“Please, your highness!” cried Garnet Drake, kneeling abjectly, speaking in the direction of the floor. “There was nothing I could do-he followed the trollop’s slave only for a short time, then their paths diverged. Naturally, I chose to keep your husband in sight.”

“Not very effectively, it would seem,” Stariz noted in a calm, unemotional tone. She was pleased to see the film of sweat beading on Drake’s brow.

“Well, he turned into a narrow lane then made great haste. I followed him as closely as I dared, all the way to the Slaves’ Way!” The man’s voice was growing shrill, tremulous. “When I got there he was gone! There was no one within a hundred paces in either direction, though I raced back and forth with great urgency. It was as though he vanished into thin air! I suspect sorcery, your majesty-sorcery of black and sinister import!”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Stariz snorted, controlling her mounting anger only with the greatest difficulty.

She felt an urge to reach out and wring this useless wretch’s neck-indeed, the act would give her no small measure of satisfaction. Her chief spy was not entirely useless-indeed, his loyalty had been proven many times over, and if she were to dispose of him, she would have a headache replacing him.

Instead, she squinted then murmured a prayer-a minor entreaty, really, to the power of her awe-inspiring god. Immediately the human cried out, clasping his hands to his face, looking up at her with fear and horror in his eyes. He gagged, turning to the side, retching messily onto the floor.

The queen stood still, unmoved as she watched boils emerge from the skin of his hands and his face-sores, she knew, that were erupting all over his body. Each welt grew quickly, festering and bubbling beneath the man’s pale skin.

“Please … Highness … I beg you!” groaned Garnet, rolling in his own mess, thrashing and kicking. He choked, gagging and croaking as he strained to draw each agonizing breath.

Still she made no move but watched emotionlessly as the boils blossomed angrily then burst, one by one, to leave bloody sores. The spy groaned in agony, but each movement caused him even greater agony. After a while he lay rigid, staring at her in a mixture of horror and awe.

Five minutes later he was breathing a little more easily, sobbing abjectly, covered in sweat and specked with the blood that had marked his oozing sores. Slowly, he pushed himself to his knees and wiped a bloody palm across his face to smear away his tears. He would be disgusting to look at for a few days, but Stariz was satisfied, even pleased by the lesson she had taught him.

“Next time I trust you will be more diligent,” she declared, and he nodded mutely.

She gestured at the vomit and blood on the floor, wrinkling her piglike nose in distaste. “Clean this up,” she ordered, “and get yourself into some clean clothes. I want you to show me this place where the king of Suderhold disappeared.”

Stariz placed no credence in Garnet’s suggestion that the king had vanished through magical means. She herself controlled the most powerful magic in Winterheim, and there was none who would dare work such power in the face of her displeasure. She would not detect any spell casting nor residue of magic.

However, she had hopes that, with careful search, she might be able to discover a secret door.

Strongwind Whalebone and the three ogres of his escort walked in silence for a long time, at first climbing a wide, circling ramp that ascended steadily, then moving onto a stairway that spiraled about the center of a long, vertical shaft. Twice they paused to rest, and each time the lord and the two guards took drinks of water from a cask that sat, apparently for that purpose, on the landing. Strongwind was so thirsty that he would have had no qualms accepting the dipper from the guard who had just swilled from it, but in neither instance was refreshment offered to the slave.

Throughout these halls they encountered other slaves, humans walking with their eyes downcast, dressed in plain garments of brown wool. These people quickly moved out of the way as the party approached, and one woman cowered abjectly when one of the guards raised a fist to hasten her out of the way. None of them was chained, Strongwind noticed, and for the most part they seemed to be moving about on simple errands without any direct supervision or restraint.

Finally the group emerged into a straight corridor, once more on a level floor. They passed a room where pots clanged and tantalizing odors-baking bread and steamed fish prominent among them-suggested a kitchen. Several times they passed groups of men and women, all of whom stood to the side and bowed politely as Lord Forlane passed. These slaves, too, kept their eyes downcast, though the human king noticed several of them sneaking glances at him after the ogre nobleman had passed.

Strongwind returned the looks surreptitiously and made a few observations: While none of the humans were exactly fat, they did not seem emaciated either. Unlike the slaves on the lower levels, they wore garments of dyed wool, and their clothes-as well as faces, hair, and beards-seemed relatively clean. They made a contrast to the miserable wretches the king had seen laboring at the capstans in the harbor. He suspected these were some of the advantages of being enslaved in the higher levels of the ogre fortress.

Finally, the lord arrived at a broad door upon which he knocked once then pushed open. He led Strongwind into an anteroom lit brightly with oil lamps. Several humans were at work here cleaning some long tables and, in one corner, sewing patches on a several old leather cloaks.

“Tildy!” roared Forlane. “Where’s Tildy Trew?”

“Keep your boots on, your greatness!” came a peeved reply from one of the many doorways leading off of this large chamber. A moment later a stout, round-cheeked woman emerged to glare impatiently at the noble ogre. “Well? Don’t you know we’ve got to get the king’s welcome feast together? What do you want now?”

Strongwind was startled at the slave’s temerity-in his own castle, a servant who spoke thus might be subjected to a rebuke, even a slap. Lord Forlane chuckled agreeably, despite the stern frown on the woman’s features.

“This one is to be present at the feast for inspection by the court. The king wants you to get him cleaned up, dressed for the occasion, and so forth.”

“Oh, great,” muttered Tildy Trew, squinting up at Strongwind. He had the impression that she was nearsighted. “Did you just come in on the ship?”

“Er, yes,” he replied.

“Well, all right. Not as if I have any choice in the matter.” She addressed the ogre lord. “You can tell the king that I’ll do my best-though I can’t say he’s given me much to work with!”

As the ogre lord, still chuckling, turned to leave, Strongwind noticed that the Tildy was in fact somewhat younger than he had first suspected. Her clean, round face was unlined, and her hair was a rich dark brown, like good, fertile soil. She was much shorter than him, shorter even than Moreen he thought, and her green eyes glinted with something that might be good humor.

“All right, get undressed,” she declared, as soon as the door had closed behind Forlane.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Gotta look you over for wounds, you know. Heal you up if you need it.” She spun about and shouted, her voice as keen as the cry of a hawk. “Sherris! Draw a hot bath for our guest, here! Looks like we’ll have to comb some lice out!”

Strongwind heard water pouring in another room as the command was obeyed. He shook his head-lice? On the King of Guilderglow? Anything was possible, he conceded, as Tildy took his hand and tugged him toward the adjacent room.

Besides, a bath didn’t sound bad … not bad at all.

“Grimwie?”

He hated it when she called him that, but he was too comfortable, too satisfied to raise an objection. Instead he merely sighed and settled more deeply into the pile of furs that was Thraid’s mattress.

“I saw you brought a slave back on Goldwing. Didn’t you?”

“Mmpphh” he said.

“He looked like a good one, I thought, not like so many of these humans, dirty and scrawny and all. He looked strong, and he was tall … like you wouldn’t be ashamed for people to see him, say, in your house. I was wondering something.”

Another sigh. The king hoped she was about done talking-he really wanted to sleep.

“Grimwie, my king?” She kept going. Her hands were moving now, another unwelcome distraction.

“What is it, my cuddle?” He tried to sound patient, lacking the energy to endure one of her pouts. “What is it that you were wondering?”

“Well, you know that my house slave, Wandcourt, is getting old. Why, he and Brinda tell me that their children have had children somewhere back around the Moongarden. Perhaps you noticed when you followed him-he’s not as spry as he used to be. I think he would sleep half the day away if I didn’t invent things for him to do, so I thought I should have a younger slave, one to help Wandcourt with the chores … someone who is a little more capable, who is strong and would look acceptable in my livery.”

“You want the human I brought back from Dracoheim?” Grimwar was immediately unhappy with the idea, though he wasn’t exactly sure why. “I don’t think he’s right for a house slave, my sweet. He was a wild man, attacked a whole company of my guards, killed more than a few. No, he’s quite dangerous-too dangerous for a house slave. Maybe the Seagate crew for him. With a back like that, he could do the pulling of two men.”

The king was lying. In fact, he had considered the prisoner for a slave in his own house-there was a presence and dignity about the fellow that seemed beyond the typical human. Of course, the King of the Highlanders would have to face a different fate soon enough. Stariz had made her intentions clear regarding his death at the Autumnblight feast, and-since she had the clear will of Gonnas on her side-the king was not prepared to dispute her on that matter. Until then, however …

“Well, after he’s tamed, I mean,” Thraid pressed. “In fact, I could help tame him. Certainly Wandcourt and Brinda would be a good influence-they’re about as perfect as slaves can be.”

“I thought you told me they were getting too old,” the king retorted.

“Well, besides that. I mean, they’ve always been loyal. And discreet-you know how important that is! This new slave would be just perfect. I got a good look at him that night when you had him paraded off the ship.”

Grimwar reflected, remembering the argument that had erupted between Stariz and himself when they had discussed the slave’s fate. He knew that she sorely wanted to kill him to slake her craving for vengeance over the disaster at Dracoheim. This prisoner was the only tangible remnant of those reckless saboteurs. Certainly he was doomed, eventually … but maybe there was some way the king could get some use out of him before he was killed.

Indeed, what better way to keep him out of the way and to gain Thraid’s gratitude than to temporarily give him to his mistress? It would make Thraid happy, and that always led to pleasant consequences. Indeed, her playful fingers were no longer annoying him.

“All right, Cuddle,” he said breezily. “I will send him to you, and you can look him over. Then you can decide if you really want him.”

“Oh, Grimwie, thank you!” she declared, rolling over to give him a kiss on his jowly cheek.

“Enough talk,” he said, reaching for her with both arms. “Time for me to get what I really want.”

“Can I have a little privacy?” Strongwind asked, longingly eyeing the stone bathtub filled with steaming water. The lice he hadn’t even noticed before were now starting itch, and he was ready, even anxious, to disrobe, soak, and clean up.

“Privacy? You’re a slave!” Tildy Trew snorted indignantly. “It won’t be anything I haven’t seen before. You think I don’t know my way around with the lads?” she asked, glaring at him with her fists planted on her pleasantly rounded hips. “It’s my job to see that you get cleaned up proper-I should think you’d show a little more gratitude. Take those bruises, now!”

“What?”

She was pointing at his wrists, where the shackles had enclosed him, and he grimaced to see the purple-yellow marks that extended halfway up his arms. “That’s where I was chained!” he growled.

“Of course,” she said, “and an unsightly blotch you’ve got from it. Now, if you’ll let me take care of you, I’ll see them salved and slimed so that you’ll be whole again before you know it.”

Strongwind tried to decide what to do. He had never had another human being speak to him like this-although he had to admit that Moreen had come close on a few occasions-and he felt his temper rising. Tildy Trew was trying to take care of him, under awkward conditions imposed by their mutual enslavement, and he could not lose sight of the fact that he had many real and dangerous enemies here. It did not make sense to add to the list of his foes one who might otherwise be neutral.

He sighed in resignation and shrugged out of his clothes, turning his back to her and slipping into the tub as quickly as possible. Unfortuately, the water was so hot that a very gradual immersion was all he could manage.

Acutely aware of his undignified position, he turned his head to find Tildy examining him with sparkling eyes and a wide grin. That was all it took-ignoring the near scalding heat of the bath, he slid over the edge of the stone tub and sank into the water up to his chin.

“Hmmm,” she said. “Comb a few tangles out of that beard, trim the hair a bit, and you might have some promise. We’ll have to deal with those bruises, though-an ugly lot on your back, as well.”

“That’s where they had me strapped over the bench,” Strongwind informed her, trying to sound haughty but far, far too comfortable to pull it off.

“It looks as if you’ve already felt the lash a few times,” she remarked, her tone softer and sadder than before. “What did you do to bring that on yourself?”

“I bloodied the nose of an ogre who tried to push me around,” he replied, with some measure of pride.

She clucked in what sounded like sincere concern. “Best you learn to let them do that when the brutes are of a mind to. Otherwise, you won’t last long around here.”

“I don’t know if I want to last,” he answered sourly. “Tell me, what about all these slaves? It seems to me that we humans outnumber the ogres here in Winterheim.”

“Oh, we do … by at least two to one in Highlanders alone. There are hundreds of Arktos here as well,” Tildy said, “maybe more.”

“Has there ever been talk of … well, of revolt?”

There was a long silence, and Strongwind finally looked up. He was startled to see Tildy’s pert face white with anger, her lips compressed into a thin line. She shook off the hand that he placed on her arm.

“Don’t even think about that!” she hissed, looking around frantically. Strongwind had been careful to speak when they couldn’t be overheard, so he was taken aback by her reaction.

“Why not?” he demanded softly, meeting her eyes with his own scowl. “Has every memory of freedom been driven out of you people?”

He was surprised again when her eyes abruptly swam with tears. Strongwind waited for her to regain her composure.

“I don’t want to make you cry,” he said finally. “I just got here. I don’t understand this place, not at all, but I thought that I understood Highlanders, and the Arktos as well. I would expect them to be working against their captors!”

When she looked at him, her eyes were dry and her tone level but serious. “It’s the queen!” she said. “She has ways of knowing when someone is planning trouble. There was a man, Redd Dearman, who tried to incite a little resistance a few years back. He was discreet about it and careful-but they came for him in the night. He perished on the altar at Autumnblight, but not before the queen made an example of him that every slave in Winterheim would remember. Even the children-the little ones-were forced to come and watch!”

“I would think that’s all the more reason to revolt,” Strongwind said. “How can people live under such tyranny and cruelty?”

“We make do,” Tildy said, looking at him earnestly. “There are some who would make trouble-like Black Mike, who works in the royal kitchen. I have heard of him, and that means others have, too. It will only be a matter of time before the queen’s attention falls upon him. More’s the pity.”

“Who is this Black Mike? How is he making trouble?” The Highlander king asked, trying to disguise the eagerness in his voice.

“Quietly, so far,” Tildy said. “I shouldn’t even tell you-but he is trying to recruit slaves, men and women for a secret purpose. I don’t know what size group he has formed, but I know that the danger to him and to many others is real.” She took Strongwind’s brawny forearms in her small hands. “Tell me that you’ll stay away, that you won’t give the queen any excuse to single you out.”

“Hmmpf, I’ve always been good at taking care of myself-”

“Until you got captured and enslaved!” she retorted pointedly.

He stiffened. “I have no regrets about that. I made a sacrifice to help a friend, the woman I still mourn, who made an even greater sacrifice. If this is to be my fate, I can only hope to meet it with the same courage that she met her own.”

“I’m sorry,” Tildy said quickly. “At least heed my words enough to be careful-please!”

Strongwind Whalebone nodded. “I will not do anything rash,” he promised. “Nor will I endanger others, but I do intend to keep my eyes open.”

She nodded seriously, then dumped some soap and water over his head, scrubbing fiercely. She surprised him by turning and shouting toward the door of the bathing room.

“Hey, Barkstone!” Tildy called, so loudly that the king winced.

“What is it, beautiful?” asked a man, sticking his head in the door. His accent was familiar. He was of the Highlander clans near the king’s own fortress of Guilderglow. Strongwind could tell that, though he couldn’t tell much more because soap was dripping down over his eyes.

“Blondie here doesn’t think I know anything about the lads, he doesn’t. Told me so himself!” Tildy was indignant again. “Thought maybe you could tell him about us in the Moongarden, that time?”

“Ah, Tildy-those memories will last my lifetime and keep me warm though I live through a thousand winters, but it wouldn’t be very gentlemanly for me to speak about them, now would it?”

“I tell you, he doesn’t believe me!” declared the woman.

“Who is he?” asked Barkstone, coming forward.

“Someone just came in on the galley, as fresh as you were yourself nine years ago, when the ogres plucked you off the coast.”

“Sorry to hear that, my friend,” said the slave man. “We’ve a life here, but it’s a pale imitation o’ freedom.”

“I agree,” Strongwind replied, brushing aside the soap and looking up. He was startled as the man, whom he didn’t recognize, took a step backward then dropped to one knee and bowed.

“Your Majesty!” cried Barkstone. “I canna believe that they took you!”

“Majesty?” Tildy Trew said crossly. “Nobody tells me anything.” She glared at Strongwind, and he merely shrugged modestly. “Who are you anyway?”

“This is Strongwind Whalebone, Lord of Guilderglow and king of all the Highlands!” declared Barkstone.

“No kidding!” Tildy threw another bucket of water over him. “I’d better clean him up real good,” she said, her eyes still twinkling.