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“The methods of magic are different where I come from,” Nathan said guardedly. “I was taught by the Sisters of the Light. The gift is the gift, and my Han is my own. Ildakar seems to have another approach to things.”
“Right now you have no Han whatsoever,” Maxim said with a capricious snicker. “But we will use your help if we can find a way. Perhaps when it is time, we’ll have you corral the new arrivals.”
Nathan glanced down from the top of the pyramid, saw the empty spell-inscribed corrals on the platform below. “You mean the slaves?”
“We may as well use the new ones,” Thora said.
“We will need only a dozen or so to work the traditional spell and restore the shroud temporarily,” Maxim said. “That’s all we require for now. The major working will take much more preparation, but there’s no need to be rash.”
“Twelve of the new slaves?” The answer pounded in front of Nathan’s mind, but he refused to accept it. “You intend to sacrifice them.”
Maxim peered down into the rune-etched mirror bowl that rested in an armillary stand in the middle of the pyramid platform. “Magic comes at a cost, and blood pays the price. We will use the lives of those expendable people to preserve our city.”
“Why do you object, hmmm?” Andre asked. “We may as well use raw slaves instead of well-established workers. Why waste time and effort training them? We’ll shed their blood and pour it into the rune cauldron, which will reflect its magic in a spiraling web of Han that creates our shroud.”
Nathan’s nostrils flared. “So, in order to camouflage your city, you must slay innocent people.”
“Only a dozen for now, and they aren’t even citizens of Ildakar.” Maxim gave a wistful smile. “Ah, you should have seen the terrible cost when we petrified Utros’s army. We had to sacrifice nearly a third of our citizenry, virtually all of the lower classes! It took centuries to rebuild the population to a stable level.” He cracked his knuckles. “But it worked. Ildakar is preserved, while the horrendous enemy army is nothing more than statues.”
“Except for Ulrich,” Nathan muttered.
The wizard commander dismissed it. “With hundreds of thousands of soldiers out there, we can accept one or two exceptions without growing too concerned.”
As he looked at the apparatus, Nathan thought he now understood the purpose of the basins and the coated troughs that fed into spell-forms, patterns woven into the pyramid itself. “And is it necessary?”
The fleshmancer frowned. “I have worked hard on your behalf, Nathan. You asked me to understand your problem and you begged me to learn how to restore your gift.” He narrowed his eyes. “Are you going to be afraid of that cost, too?”
Nathan felt torn, as a chill ran down his spine. In order to regain his gift, what exactly would he be willing to sacrifice? The magic had defined him for so long. His gift of prophecy had led to his imprisonment by the Sisters for a thousand years, but the magic was even more a part of him. He had learned how to live his life, to be the person he wanted to be before his gift had unraveled. Was Nathan willing to sacrifice the core of his being in order to have that again? After the selka attack aboard the Wavewalker, when the gift had abandoned him, Nathan had discovered how to defend himself, how to be himself. Was it so important to go back to something he had already learned how to live without?
Andre blew air through his lips. “Don’t look so disturbed, Nathan. I simply meant to give you food for thought. I am confident you’ll soon have your powers back, and you’ll be a true wizard of Ildakar.” He grinned, showing off his bright teeth. “The shroud will cover the city, and everything will once again be right with the world.”
CHAPTER 39
Bannon had nothing in common with Amos and his companions; he realized that now, and he doubted they would ever follow through on their assurances of helping Ian. He thought of the bright and heady times on Chiriya Island with his childhood friend … and yes, he truly meant friend. He and Ian had so much laughter together, so much fun. Until the day the Norukai had taken him captive in their secret cove.
Ian—even the scarred and embittered champion in the combat pits—still must have that spark of friendship deep within the young man’s heart, if Bannon could just find it. But for that, he needed help from important people in Ildakar. Neither Nicci nor Nathan could demand the freedom of a slave—particularly not a renowned champion. Bannon had to keep trying.
And that brought him back to Amos, Jed, and Brock. He felt as trapped as any of the prisoners in the training pits.
Looking at Bannon, Amos quirked his dark lips in an unpleasant smile. “If you need our help with the champion, come with us. We’re going to find Chief Handler Ivan. He’ll be delighted to hear your request.”
Bannon felt a thrill of unrealistic hope. “Truly?” He knew not to believe Amos’s motives, but for someone with no hope whatsoever, even a false hope was worth clinging to. He remembered his bright image of the world, his dream of a place where people helped one another, where bloodshed and darkness were washed away by kindness and good hearts.
A false and ridiculous picture, he knew. Nicci had made that very clear when she forced him to see that his nostalgia was merely a scab that covered festering memories. But now he had scars instead of wounds, and he had become a much stronger person.
He needed that strength now. For Ian. “Yes, I’ll go with you.” Ivan intimidated him, but he would make his case.
“You won’t be disappointed,” Jed said, and his two companions reflected the same sharp smile. Bannon was aware that as an ungifted swordsman he would always be the butt of their jokes. They had no respect for him, and he had little respect for them. But for the same reasons that Nathan was forced to spend time with Fleshmancer Andre, Bannon needed these three—at least until he found more worthy friends.
They descended to the lower levels of the city, ignoring the bustle of business in the streets, the slaves and merchants who brought goods up to where the gifted nobles lived. “Are we going back to the combat arena?” he asked. “I’ve seen the cages where the chief handler’s animals are held.”
“No, today he’ll be in the market,” Jed said. “Just follow us.”
Bannon pictured a colorful and vibrant bazaar in one of the numerous squares with fountains and performance stands, unlike the slave market that seemed stained with years of blood and pain. He imagined farmers who harvested their crops from the dense terrace gardens, using every scrap of fertile land in Ildakar. He pictured vintners offering bottles of wine, olive sellers with great clay urns mounded high with black and green olives, glistening with brine.
But that was not at all where they took him.
Instead, chatting among themselves and snickering about things that meant nothing to Bannon, they made their way toward open areas with warehouse-sized buildings and large corrals. He heard the miserable lowing and animal groans even before he smelled the stench. The air was thick with the clotted smells of manure, urine, buckets of shed blood, and bestial fear.
“Chief Handler Ivan always comes to the yaxen butcher yards at midweek,” Amos explained. “He gets a good price for the entrails and the waste scraps for his animals before the rest is rendered down and fed to the slaves.”
Bannon felt ill.
Drivers led plodding yaxen down the wide streets toward the corrals. The big, shaggy animals shuffled along in misery. He could hear the panicked cries of the beasts as they were led into the butcher houses. The yaxen looked at him with eerily humanlike faces, sagging mouths and stubby horns protruding from their foreheads. Their large dark eyes were wet with terror. He felt they were begging him to save them, but he could do nothing.
From inside a wooden building the size of a barn, he heard the sounds of slaughter, the wet hard thump of mallets, then the hacking of blades and saws. The wooden planks of the butcher house walls had numerous gaps and knotholes that allowed glimpses of the death inside.
A burly shirtless man wearing a blood-spattered
apron over his large stomach strolled out of the doorway. The scarf across his mouth was covered with red speckles. In his left hand he held a heavy iron-tipped mallet. He strode into the corral, grabbed one of the yaxen, and tugged it by the horns. The beast struggled, but the butcher’s biceps bulged as he hauled the animal inside the dark doorway to its noisy and hopeless death.
Bannon saw Chief Handler Ivan standing at the outer corral fence, wearing his distinctive panther-skin jerkin. He dickered with a clerk who wore the business robes of an esteemed nobleman, though his clothes were likewise spattered with fresh blood. After Ivan handed coins to the man, slaves came forward, wrestling barrels full of glistening organs, entrails, and scraps of fatty hide.
Ivan directed the sullen slaves toward a cart, careful not to approach the mess. He chastised them as they jostled one of the overfull barrels. “Don’t soil my garment. I don’t want to kill another sand panther so I can have a replacement hide.” A rope of yaxen tripe flopped out against the slats.
Bannon winced as he heard a loud, wet crack from inside the butcher house, followed by a sound like something heavy being tumbled to the ground. Then more terrified sounds filled the silence.
Amos waved. “Chief Handler, we’ve come to see you on behalf of our friend.”
Ivan turned away from the clerk with a dismissive gesture. When he noticed Bannon, his expression showed little interest, only a frown. “I’ve seen him before. Why does he interest me?”
“I-I think maybe you can help me,” Bannon said.
“Help you?” The chief handler laughed with all the humor of a cruel man seeing an old woman trip and fall. “You have to convince me you’re not worthless before I’d consider even listening to you. Maybe you can play with my animals.” He smiled as the idea occurred to him. “Can you fight? You could work with my apprentice handlers.”
“I can fight,” Bannon said defiantly. He wished he had brought Sturdy with him. “But I’m here to talk to you about the combat arena. My friend Ian—the champion. We grew up together, but he was captured by—”
As he saw three hideous figures approaching, the words dried up in Bannon’s throat, like delicate blossoms in a drought. Captain Kor and two Norukai companions strolled to the slaughter area, wearing their gray-scaled vests.
