CHAPTER 7
B ack at the pumping house, Books sat in the communal sleeping area while he surveyed the maps from the real estate library. His head throbbed, his body ached, and fresh scabs threatened to reopen every time he moved. He drank from a jug of apple juice, wishing for apple brandy instead. Amaranthe must have said something to the others, for nobody ever offered him alcohol or left any out.
He stole a couple of pillows from Maldynado’s sleeping area, the only one in the tiny room that had such luxuries. Maldynado had procured a straw bed, sheets, and furs for himself. Perhaps Books should have done the same. Even without injuries, he was getting too old to sleep on the floor. More than once, Amaranthe had offered him the closet-sized caretaker’s room, which had actual furnishings: a washout, a hammock, and a clothes trunk. She probably would not mind sleeping on the floor, but he would feel like an ungentlemanly lout if he accepted the trade.
Besides, Sicarius had oozed disapproval at the idea, something about leaders not sharing quarters with the lowly peons they led. He, of course, slept elsewhere. Books did not know where, nor did he care.
Before they parted ways, he had made the mistake of thanking Sicarius for helping him in the library. Sicarius’s version of “you’re welcome” had been a lecture on inattentiveness and the foolishness of divulging information to strangers. It was not as if Books had told Vonsha any great secrets. He had been too busy blurting inanities.
Would he ever see her again? If Vonsha was a warrior caste woman, the enforcers would have taken her home and brought in a doctor. He should have found out where she lived so he could check up. Maybe he could go under the guise of sharing the maps with her.
The maps he was supposed to be studying. He grabbed paper and a pencil to make notes, but Basilard walked in before Books made much progress. He carried skewers of meat, and the scent of rosemary wafted in with him.
Basilard frowned at the candles, the map, and the fact Books was not lying down.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Books said. “Are you sharing that?”
Basilard handed him the skewers, which bulged with grilled lamb, onion, and carrots. Books’s mouth watered before he sank his teeth in. Basilard sat cross-legged on the other side of the maps.
“Thank you.” Books wiped juices from his chin and wondered if he should say more.
Though Basilard did not make him as uncomfortable as Sicarius, he had not spent much time with the man and did not fancy he shared any interests with a former pit fighter. Still, the fact that he could cook made Books wonder what depths might lie beneath his silent facade.
Basilard pointed at Irator’s Tooth Valley on the map and flicked a few hand signs: Headwater city?
“Uhm. What?”
Water, Basilard signed, then pointed at the city and raised his eyebrows.
“Does that water feed the city? Is that what you’re asking?”
Basilard nodded.
“Ah, you need more verbs in your language.”
A wistful expression crossed Basilard’s face. Hunting signs.
“The language is only for hunting?”
Yes. Basilard mimicked parting reeds, peering at prey, and lifting a finger to his lips.
“A hand code developed for use on the hunt when silence is required,” Books said, “but nothing more. I see. You could always add to it, and we’d learn. The Kyatt Islands have a sign language like that; it’s used by deaf people.”
Basilard cocked his head as Books spoke, then tapped a thoughtful finger to his lips.
“To answer your original question, no, the city gets its water from the Tork River, which originates…” Books stopped.
Basilard was shaking his head. He grabbed a pencil and scribbled for a few minutes. Books read the note and learned the details of Amaranthe’s suspicions about the aqueduct.
“That’s…interesting.” Books tapped the map. “But this river flows past fifty miles north of the city. It empties into the Maiden Lake, the first in the Chain Lakes of which we are a part.” He waved in the general direction of their body of water.
Basilard traced the river with a finger, as if to double-check. He signed, Supply city, then shrugged.
“It could supply the city if the infrastructure was there?”
Basilard nodded. He touched his chest and pointed to the valley in the mountains.
“You’ve been there?”
A nod.
“And seen the river?”
Yes. Basilard stretched his arms wide.
“And it’s large. Where are you from, Basilard?” Books should have asked long before. He had always found the scars off-putting and never bothered to converse with the man outside of work.
Basilard pointed into the mountains north of the pass.
“Mangdoria?”
Yes.
“Really. An offshoot of the Kendorians. When my people conquered their way inland hundreds of years ago, the natives who weren’t assimilated, went east and north while the Kendorians went south, right? And it wasn’t race that determined the distinction, but religion. Your people believe in one god, a benevolent deity that says pacifism is preferable to war.” Books eyed the scars crisscrossing Basilard’s shaven head.
Basilard looked away. Sadness, or maybe guilt, lurked in his blue eyes.
Best to shift back to the problem. “But you decided to come here at one point, and you passed through the mountains and saw this river.”
Snared, Basilard signed.
“You were? By slavers?”
Yes.
“Ah, but you’re free now. Why not go home?”
Basilard hesitated, then shook his head.
“Nothing to return to? No family?”
Another head shake. He lifted his hands, hesitated, then tapped his chest and signed. Female.
“You have a wife?”
No. Dead. Small female.
“ Daughter? “ Books stared. When Basilard nodded, Books went on: “Why? Why wouldn’t you go back? How old is she?”
Basilard closed his eyes for a moment, and Books wondered how long he had been a slave. Had there been owners before Larocka? So much for the practice being outlawed in the empire.
Ten, Basilard signed. Yes, ten now.
“Don’t you want to see her again?” Thoughts of Enis flooded Books’s mind. What he wouldn’t give to see his son again… To live those fatal moments over and this time save Enis. How could Basilard not return to a daughter?
See her, yes, Basilard sighed. Her see me…no.
“Why?”
Basilard pointed to the sky, then to his scars, then shook his head sadly.
Books puzzled over his meaning. Basilard scrawled on the page: God requires peace.
Understanding dawned, and Books frowned, thinking of what the man must be going through. “Your people are pacifists, but you’ve killed.”
Basilard’s chin drooped to his chest.
“A lot.” Books raked his fingers through his hair, thinking of what he knew of the Mangdorian religion. Hell. They believed in an eternal hell for those who committed acts of violence. He wondered if Amaranthe knew Basilard’s story. He remembered how she had swayed Basilard to let them go from the cell in Larocka’s basement
