room, enjoying the luxury of privacy he never experienced before in his life.
Nevertheless, despite the shared bed and the shortened night, Tammuz slept deeply. Turning toward En- hedu, he saw that she’d pushed the blanket down during her sleep, exposing her breasts to the morning light.
En-hedu, conscious of his gaze, closed her eyes and turned away. She didn’t try to cover herself. She said nothing, simply lay there, waiting for him to take her. Be patient. Trella’s advice echoed in his mind. He pushed himself up off the bed and dressed before speaking.
“The chamber pot is there. I have to wake the customers. Kuri is never much help in the mornings.”
She sat up in bed, and once again he found himself looking at her body. In the light he could see scars and lingering bruises from her former master. He must have enjoyed hurting her. No one should be beaten like that. To carry bruises for so long… her old master must be a savage, worse than any barbarian.
Tammuz remembered the countless beatings he’d had growing up.
Like all boys, he expected to be beaten, and not only by his father. The older boys took advantage of the younger, the same as the strong took advantage of the weak. He’d learned that fact of life early. When he’d grown old enough to steal, he’d received a few more beatings, this time by his victims, until he learned not to get caught.
But even the worst of these chastisements left no scars on his body more punishment than for the pleasure of inflicting pain. Then he’d joined Eskkar’s men as a stable boy. He worked with horses before, knew their ways, and made himself useful to the soldiers. A few weeks later Tammuz begged his way onto the captain of the guard’s first expedition against the Alur Meriki. Tammuz remembered how thrilled he’d been when Eskkar asked if he wanted to care for the horses.
Now he’d grown into manhood, and, crippled or not, no one would beat him again. The knife he wore every moment of the day insured that. When Kuri fi rst saw him fumbling with the blade, the former soldier showed him how to use it. How to hold it, how to move with it, how to strike and counterstrike, how to retreat, and the parts of the body where a thrust would do the most damage. Most of all, Kuri taught him how to read his opponent’s eyes, and how to wait for the right moment to strike. Be patient. Trella and Kuri apparently shared the same beliefs.
As Kuri explained, a knife fight often turned into a bloody affair for both combatants, and even the victor could bleed out. Practice hard now, the old man advised, and stay alive later. Since he’d taken over the alehouse, Tammuz spent an hour or more each day practicing, handling the knife, moving and thrusting with it. He found he had to work extra hard to compensate for his nearly useless left arm.
The patrons helped instruct him. Some had plenty of experience handling a knife, and their nimble hands and feet moved far quicker than the aging Kuri could ever do. Tammuz felt the strength and coordination of his right arm grow each day, and the quickness of his feet soon made up for his weak left arm. Those who frequented the alehouse took notice of his growing skill. No one considered him a boy anymore.
Putting such thoughts aside, he unbarred the bedroom door. Tammuz worked his way through the inn’s only other room, using his foot to nudge those still sleeping awake. Kuri, snoring loudly, slept against the door, the sword at his side. Each morning Tammuz had to wake the old soldier. Depending on how much Kuri had drunk the night before, getting him awake could be a chore.
“Get up, Kuri. It’s past dawn.”
By the time he had the old man on his feet, the other patrons had reached the door, mumbling and shuffling out into the lane, shielding their eyes from the already bright morning sun, to relieve themselves against the nearby walls. Tammuz turned to find En-hedu standing beside him and looking about.
“Is there food here for your breakfast, master?”
There might be, but nothing he would offer to her. He shook his head, and reached into his pouch. “Take this to the market, and buy enough for the three of us,” he said, handing her a few copper coins. “Kuri, go with her, and keep her safe. Make sure everyone knows who she is.”
Once those living and working nearby knew she belonged to him, she’d be safe enough. In a day or so, she could go about on her own.
While they were gone, Tammuz spoke with two men who still remained inside, men who preferred not to be seen in daylight, men being hunted by their victims or by the captain of the guard’s men. Fortunately, most of the guards knew Kuri had soldiered with Gatus. That friendship usually kept any members of the watch outside, though once, while looking for a murderer, they pushed their way inside. Luckily for Tammuz, the killer had already left. The guards’ leader had looked about at the poor furnishings, spat on the floor, and left.
Tammuz told the two men what they owed for food, ale, and use of the floor to sleep. One who had the coins paid up; the other left to earn it, by whatever means he could. He knew better than to come back empty-handed. If desperate men needed a safe place to stay, they would have to pay for it, and how they got their copper didn’t concern Tammuz.
Nevertheless, all of his customers had received one warning: no killing. Murderers would not be protected. Even Tammuz couldn’t chance harboring a killer, exposing himself to the villagers’ wrath for anyone who violated the customs by concealing such an offender.
That task done, Tammuz checked the ale supply, first to make sure none of the guests had tapped the big clay jars during the night, and then to see how much more he needed to buy. His stock needed frequent replenishing. That meant a trip to the market this morning for at least two more jars.
En-hedu returned, carrying a basket that smelled of fresh bread, with Kuri limping behind. The three went into Tammuz’s room to eat their breakfast bread and sausage, and sip well-watered ale from crudely carved cups. When they finished, Tammuz gave Kuri some silver coins, and told him to buy more ale.
Kuri left, grabbing two new customers to accompany him and carry back the filled jars. A free mug of ale would pay for their labor.
En-hedu swept the bread crumbs into the basket, then faced Tammuz across the table. “What should I do, master?”
A good question, one that needed discussing, but one he couldn’t talk about here, not with the door open and men hanging about. “Come, let’s go for a walk.”
Fortunately, during the mornings, usually nothing much happened at the alehouse, and Kuri could take care of the few customers that came. At dusk, things got busy, and Tammuz knew En-hedu would be useful serving the customers.
Once in the lane, she moved to his left side and took his hand without saying a word. He led the way down the lane. Her touch affected him, and the vision of her naked breasts flashed into his thoughts. By the time he got the sight out of his mind, they’d traversed two lanes, and reached the lane where Korthac resided.
Tammuz slowed his pace. “That’s where Korthac is staying,” he said, pointing to the inn a few dozen paces ahead. A bored guard stood at the door, a sword at his waist. “The Egyptian won’t stay in this place much longer. He’ll be moving to a fine house, away from common folk.”
“Lady Trella said only Korthac’s men lived inside, except for the innkeeper,” En-hedu said.
The guard didn’t even look up as they passed. They kept going, and soon they reached the river gate. Turning south, they walked in silence until the walls of Akkad slipped behind them, and the fresh air of the farms cleared their lungs. A flat rock near the river gave them a place to sit.
“You want to learn about this Korthac?” En-hedu pulled her knees up and held them with her arms.
“Yes. Lady Trella wants to know what he’s planning.” Tammuz told her everything he knew about Korthac, his tight control of his men, the way he kept them apart from the rest of Akkad.
“We should find out where his new house will be,” she said. “Perhaps I can help. It would be good to keep watch on his new home, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, but they’d soon notice anyone hanging about all day.”
“Yes… but if I were selling something or other, like any street vendor, no one would notice me.”
He looked at her. A woman normally didn’t make such suggestions to a man, let alone a slave to her master. But she wasn’t merely a slave. Trella had urged him to listen to her, which meant Trella believed in her wits.
“And if I set up my cart before they moved in, no one would suspect anything.” She shifted on the rock, to look straight into his eyes. “This is something I can do, Tammuz. A slave has to earn her keep. It’s what any servant would do for her master.”
“And at night, you could return to the alehouse,” he mused, “to help with the serving. Once it grew dark, I could keep watch on Korthac’s home from any of the rooftops.” He touched her hand. “You would do this?”
