Dace pouted. “You’re really not making this easy for us.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Well, you are,” Dace explained. “Sort of. Well... maybe not you personally, but it’s what you represent.”
“You are not making any sense, Dacendaran,” Brak said impatiently.
“Well, you know that when we created the Harshini we gave the te Ortyn line the ability to channel our combined power, just in case we ever needed it? Then we made the Harshini afraid of killing so that they couldn’t turn on us. But where we really mucked up was by giving them a conscience. Not you, of course, but the rest of them. It’s really proving to be rather awkward.”
“How is that awkward?” Brak asked, ignoring the god’s assertion that he was not burdened with a conscience. This was the God of Thieves. He probably meant it as a compliment.
“It makes them worry, don’t you see? Korandellen is going gray worrying if the demon child is a force for good or evil. We don’t care. We just want Xaphista gone. Zeggie thinks that Korandellen sent you to find her, hoping that if you don’t like what you find, you’ll destroy her.”
Brak didn’t answer immediately, aware that there was more than a grain of truth in Dacendaran’s concern.
“So you decided to help?”
Dace nodded, brightening a little. “I’m looking out for her. I don’t think she’s evil. Actually, she’s kind of sweet. She’s not a thief, of course, but no human is perfect.”
“I’m not going to kill her, Dace. Korandellen asked me to take her to Sanctuary, that’s all.”
“But you can’t!” Dace pleaded. “Suppose he doesn’t like her?”
“Korandellen is Harshini. He likes everyone. He can’t help it. That’s why they hired me, remember? And I don’t have a conscience, according to you.”
The God of Thieves thought that over for a moment before nodding brightly. “Well, that’s all right then. When do we leave?”
Brak was not entirely pleased with the idea that Dace had invited himself along. “Were you serious about the trouble brewing among the miners?”
“I’m the God of Thieves, not Liars. Of course it’s true.”
“Then we’ll use that for our cover. When they make their move, we’ll make ours.”
“What about Tarja?”
“What about him? I’m only concerned about R’shiel. Right now, she’s the most important person in the whole world.”
“Kalianah will be mad at you if you don’t bring him along.”
“I can deal with Kalianah.”
Dace looked skeptical. “Well, I still wouldn’t risk it, if I were you.”
“Your concern is touching, Divine One.”
The god scowled at him. “You know, Brak, sometimes I think you don’t hold the gods in very high esteem.”
“Whatever gave you that idea?” he asked.
chapter 38
Tarja dumped the load of vegetable scraps and other unidentifiable matter into the back of the mule-drawn wagon, forcing himself not to gag. They collected the garbage from the Inn of the Hopeless and the other stores in Grimfield whenever the mood took Lycren rather than on any set schedule. Since it was nearly a month since the last time Lycren had felt in the mood, the leavings had had plenty of time to ferment into an odoriferous, cockroach-infested sludge. Tarja swung the heavy barrel down to the ground and glanced up, feeling himself being watched. A young, fair-haired lad stood near the cellar doors watching him with interest. Tarja wondered about the boy. He seemed to turn up in the most unusual places.
“Get a move on, Tarja!” Lycren called.
Tarja glared at the boy as he straightened up. He hated being stared at. Anger, buried deep inside for survival, threatened to surface again. Only once had he made the mistake of letting it show. The lashing he had received as a consequence had done little to humble him, but it had taught him to control his temper. The pain had not bothered him nearly so much as the knowledge that he had let a fool provoke him.
As they moved out of the tavern yard and headed for the smithy farther down the lane, Tarja wondered about the boy. It was not inconceivable that he had contacts in the rebellion. The Grimfield was full of convicted heathens, both real and imagined. Had they sent the boy to spy on him? To confirm that he was still alive? He wondered sometimes how well his fellow rebels had listened to what he had tried to teach them, the foremost of which was never, ever, let a traitor go unpunished. Tarja had spent the winter half-expecting a knife in the back, every time he found himself in a crowd of prisoners. Lycren saw to it that he was segregated for the most part, but at meal times in particular he knew how much danger he was in. It was with mild surprise that Tarja realized how long he had survived in this place. He had not expected to live through the journey here.
Tarja’s thoughts turned to the rebels he had left behind. Old Padric, worn out and weary from years of fighting against impossible odds. Mandah, with her ardent faith in the gods. Ghari, so young and passionate. Where was he now? Still fighting? Killed in a skirmish with the Defenders? Or maybe he had given up and returned to his mother’s farm in the Lowlands. Was he one of the names on Joyhinia’s infamous list? Tarja seethed with frustration as he thought of the rebels. He was doing nothing here. He was not likely to either, collecting the garbage and emptying the privies of the garrison town. Each day he spent here in the Grimfield ate a little more out of his store of hope. Tarja knew he would have to do something before it was all gone.
One of the few advantages – possibly the only one – of being assigned to the garbage patrol was that Tarja was allowed to bathe daily, unlike the miners, who were only allowed the privilege once a week. Being allowed to wash away the stink of rotting food and other despicable decaying matter was the only thing that made his work detail tolerable. Many a time he had wished Wilem had sent him to the mines, where he could have taken out his anger with a sledgehammer on the rock face. He shivered in the chill of the dusk, his skin covered in goose pimples from the icy water, as he rubbed himself briskly with the scrap of rough cloth he used as a towel and glanced up at the sky. Angry gray clouds stained red and bloody flocked around the sun as it cowered behind the foothills until it could finally escape into the night. As he dressed in his rough prison uniform, Tarja glanced at Zac, who was attempting to dry his shaggy head with a saturated towel.
“It’ll rain again tonight,” he remarked.
“S’pose,” Zac agreed.
In almost two months, he could not recall Zac putting more than two words together at a time. The big, taciturn murderer was a good companion for a man who wished to answer no questions. Together they walked to the gate where Fohli, Lycren’s corporal, waited for them. He locked the gate behind them and escorted the prisoners across the compound to the kitchens. The garbage detail was always fed last, and out of habit, Tarja and Zac sank down onto the ground to wait their turn at a meal. The compound was busy in the dusk as the prisoners from the mines and the various workhouses were fed in shuffling lines. Tarja watched them idly, not paying attention to anyone in particular, until he spied R’shiel walking purposefully across the compound toward the kitchens, her gray shawl clutched tight around her shoulders against the cold.
The sight of R’shiel reminded Tarja even more painfully of the mess they had made of their lives. She did not belong here in the Grimfield among the dregs of Medalon, spared a life as a barracks
