Two tharuks were gesticulating by the tool pile. Tomaaz wandered through the milling slaves, until his enhanced sense allowed him to hear what the tharuks were saying, then he sat down to finish eating.
“This saw blade is broken,” said a tall gangly tharuk.
“Probably old.”
“No, it’s new. From our raid last week.”
“You sure?”
“Look. See notches on handle? This is saw eighteen. A new one.” The tharuks leaned in, examining the saw handle. “Wasn’t broken two days ago.”
“Where’s the rest of blade?” the other tharuk asked, rummaging through the saw pile and searching the nearby ground.
“Missing,” Gangly said in a rough undertone. He scanned the slaves. “One of them might have it.”
“No. They numlocked. We’ll check the mines. Don’t want Zens’ reward.”
“I checked. It’s not there.”
“We look again. This morning.” The tharuk scratched the matted fur on its neck. “Then we check the slaves.”
“Don’t tell 568,” said Gangly.
“Course not.”
Now they were looking for the boy and the blade. Tomaaz had to return the blade or all the slaves would be at risk. No, he couldn’t. Ma hadn’t sawn all the way through Maazini’s chain yet. He swallowed down the tasteless pap, kept his eyes lowered, and shuffled over to get his spade to feed the beast.
A crack sounded in the air and a whip struck him. He staggered, pain blooming across his back.
568 glared at him. “No! Not feeding beast today. Zens says feed beast later.”
Latrine duty first, then. If he was lucky, the stench of the sewage would stop him from being linked to the boy. Shards, his back stung. Cool air nipped at his skin. The whip must’ve broken the fabric. Tomaaz dragged his shovel, shoulders slumped.
As they filed past the water station, Burnt Face was towering over a short tharuk, 216. “Gone? What you mean, gone?” Burnt Face growled.
“I counted them. One is missing,” 216 said.
“When you count waterskins last time?” Burnt Face’s red eyes gleamed.
“Uh, th-three days ago.” 216 cowered.
Burnt Face’s scar contorted with anger. The tharuk slashed out, leaving three bloody gashes in 216’s forehead.
“Count skins every day,” Burnt Face roared. “Take 216 to Zens.”
Two burly tharuks dragged the screeching underling away.
It was his fault. He’d had to steal that waterskin to keep Ma alive. That poor tharuk. Hang on. These beasts enslaved people and killed them. He sneaked a glance at the retreating tharuks, who were dragging 216 inside a metal door between two deep fissures. So that’s where Zens was.
568 cracked his whip, herding the slaves to the latrines.
The slave crews settled into digging ditches again. The lash wound on Tomaaz’s back burnt every time he bent to dig. He’d maintained his position at the head of each ditch he worked on, lucky to be the slave that let sewage flood the ditches. By being careful, he’d saved a few lives while he’d been here. His thoughts flitted to the boy with Ma.
“Maazini, how’s the boy?”
“In pain, but remarkably brave.”
He was glad he’d found Maazini. All of this would be worth it, if they could free him.
A tharuk ran into the latrine area, panting, and reported to 568. “The small male is not there,” it said. “I searched the flesh pile. It is gone.”
568 turned to Burnt Face, barking, “Gather the guards.”
Burnt Face brought most of the tharuks from each crew toward the latrine Tomaaz was working on, leaving only the overseers to guard the ditch diggers.
Now would be the perfect time for a slave rebellion. They were all armed with shovels and outnumbered the tharuks. Tomaaz sighed. Numlocked slaves weren’t capable of rebellion. He threw another shovelful of dirt out of the trench.
The tharuk group gathered in front of 568.
“Small male human is missing. Not on flesh pile. Not in sleeping hut. Where is it?”
His troops shook their heads, shifting from foot to foot.
“Something is wrong,” snarled 568. “Did one of you eat it?”
Tomaaz’s flesh crawled. Tharuks ate people?
The underlings shook their heads again. “Not eat humans,” one said. “Commander Zens kills us if we eat them.”
“No humans.” 568 nodded. “Waterskin is missing. Anything else?” His red eyes scrutinized the tharuk guards.
Tomaaz kept digging, tossing dirt. The slaves were oblivious. At the crack of an overseer’s whip in the next trench, Tomaaz forced himself to breathe steadily, and tossed another spadeful of dirt.
“Tell me!” 568 barked. “Or straight to Zens.”
“A blanket, sir,” a tharuk muttered. “Missing from the hut. Two days ago.”
“Anything else?” 568 thundered, claws extended.
They knew about the blanket, the boy, the waterskin …
“A saw snapped. Half blade is missing.”
“What?” 568 roared, wheeling to grab the beast’s leather tunic. “When?”
“184 was with me,” the tharuk gibbered.
Tharuk 184 spoke up. “Found out this morning. Just checked the mines. Still missing.”
They’d discovered every single thing he’d taken. Who would have known this ramshackle valley was so organized? Tomaaz’s breath hissed as he worked. His scent would be on the boy’s bed. The boy’s scent would be all over him. Could a tracker find his trail or had he masked it? Only one way to be sure.
Tomaaz was nearly at the end of the ditch. A few more shovelfuls and he’d hit the latrine pit. He tossed another spade of dirt. He dared a quick glance around. No tharuks were watching. He tossed out two shovels of dirt in rapid succession.
“We have tharuk traitor,” 568 said, “or slave spy. Get a tracker!” it bellowed.
A tharuk ran off to the main valley.
“Report back,” 568 barked at two burly tharuks. “What happened to 216?”
“Zens took a hand,” one answered.
“Good. Keeps you all honest.” It laughed. “If tracker not find
