Crimson Fury (Magic of Isskasala Book 2) Page 5

  No one came to any harm in the first few minutes, so he began to eat. The silence in the hall was broken only by the sound of chewing and gulping. Darai kept his eyes down unless he reached for more food. The meal was the richest he’d ever had, but sat uneasily in his belly from the moment he rose from his chair to make way for the women.

  He wanted to run it off, but all he could do was to lie on his bed and press his hands to his engorged stomach. He felt like a pig fattened up for the slaughter. Never again. He swore to the Mother of all Gods to limit his eating. Rice, cassava, and water, that would be his diet. He felt his eyelids becoming heavier and wondered if the cynics were right. Maybe the sorcerers had laced the food with something. Nothing that would kill, he was sure of that. He’d watched the magic as it leaked from the girl’s body and knew the sorcerers wouldn’t risk the same occurring now.

  No, nothing deadly, but something to keep them all subdued. He couldn’t be less of a risk to them than he was now. He gave a groan of discomfort and slipped off to sleep.

  CHAPTER 8

  In spite of Tabia’s assurances, he didn’t ask the guards for anything. Gradually the sorcerers supplied the harvested ones with books, and the children had lessons in the courtyard with a teacher. Many of the men and women attended the lessons as well, sitting back in groups against the walls. Many, Darai included, couldn’t read, but were eager to learn, if only to break the monotony.

  To his embarrassment, the children learned more quickly, and the sorcerers rewarded those who did with a break from the pens to tour the guild building, often in the company of Tabia and her golden-haired assistant, Isobel.

  Of all the sorcerers and sorceresses, many of whom came at least once to see the harvested ones, Tabia was the one Darai saw the most often. To his surprise, she could speak Chaqian and Azlim as well as Mindossan, Kalili and Iljoskan and seemed at ease with them all. She spent a good deal of her days in the pens, talking to the harvested ones in low reassuring tones, or loud companionable banter.

  Darai readily admitted to himself that she was the antithesis of everything he’d believed of the sorcerers, especially one of the assembly. He’d have expected arrogance, like Middle—he never did learn the man’s name. Though he did see arrogance in her bearing, she didn’t seem as wrapped in her belief in personal omnipotence as Middle. He thought she was troubled by the people kept penned in. More than once when he was the only one looking, he saw her frown and her mouth tighten.

  He was sitting against the wall one day, about a month after his arrival. The numbers in the pens had almost doubled, but remained static for the last week or so. He was drenched in sweat from a particularly vigorous run and was surprised when Tabia flopped down beside him, her arms empty of her writing board and still without a staff. He’d never seen her with one and found the fact very curious. He considered that perhaps she was a bureaucrat, rather than a sorcerer, and held her position though her knowledge of languages, rather than her magic prowess.

  “Darai, right?”

  “Yes, sorcerer.” He wiped his brow with the hem of his shirt and promptly felt embarrassed for doing so. He pushed the emotion away; he owed none of the sorcerers any consideration, even if they seemed willing to give it to him. Still, he dropped his shirt and pulled it self-consciously into place.

  “Oh these pens are hot, aren’t they?” She fanned her face with her hand and rested her head back against the wall. “Do you have enough water?”

  Jugs occupied each of the tables in the pens and barring those knocked over by exuberant children, were kept topped up by servants in loose cream cotton kaftans embroidered with gold.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” he replied, wary of just why she’d singled him out. He looked at her eyes while she glanced at a child running past, looking for guile but seeing only amusement. Turning, he saw with surprise that Tabia was watching the little boy, Jali, who had shared Darai’s wagon. He seemed to have settled into life in the guild as if he’d been born to it. Of all the children, Jali had probably spent the most amount of time away from the pens, often in the company of Ezeji or Wutango.

  Jali stopped and grinned at Tabia, waving to her before he ran off.

  “It’s easier for some to adjust than others,” Tabia commented.

  “Some have more freedom,” Darai said dryly, “and some of us just want to go home.” He found himself lowering his eyes as she looked directly at him.

  When initially she didn’t speak, he frowned and looked up at her. She was looking thoughtfully at him and when he met her gaze, she nodded.

  “You’re right.”

  “I can go home?” he asked hopefully and pressed his hands against the ground, ready to rise then and there and leave.

  He saw her face fill with regret and sagged.

  “No.” She shook her head. “But I can try to find a way for you to have more freedom. Would that at least be a little bit better?” She tilted her head to the side, her eyebrow quirking upward.

  He shrugged sullenly. “Is there a point?”

  “Is there not?” she countered.

  He raised his eyes to scan the harvested ones reclining against the walls, walking around the courtyard, running, laughing, weeping. Eventually, they’d all be sucked dry, leaving nothing but a husk. Freedom now wouldn’t change that, unless it offered an avenue for escape. Perhaps that small possibility would be worth humouring the sorceress.

  “Yes, I suppose there is,” he said, pretending to concede the point. “Thank you, it’s most kind of you to take an interest. I . . . we appreciate it. So, what did you have in mind?” He held his breath, wondering if he was being too bold, but she smiled, apparently fooled by his false gratitude.

  She watched a group of women across the courtyard for a few moments. Darai followed her gaze and did the same. The women he recognised, not personally, but for the type they were—country women, used to working from dawn until dusk, sewing, cooking, toiling in the fields. Here, they sat idly fanning themselves, looking heartily bored.

  Tabia turned back to him slowly. “I’m not sure, but I have some ideas.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The monotony returned and with it, storm clouds. They lay heavy and low over the city, holding in the heat like a blanket. As evening fell, the air became muggy and oppressive, adding to the discomfort and monotony of existence in the pens. As a light drizzle began to fall, two sorcerers led the children inside with the promise of stories and games.

  The men and woman, now in the practice of mingling between their pens, opened the gate between the two and groups formed, some reclining near the door to watch the rain. Others held books to read to themselves or to others. One couple who seemed to have formed a particular bond curled up together on his small bed and threw the covers over themselves.

  Darai picked up his pillow and sat it up against the bed head, then flopped down against it. Placing his hands behind his head, he sighed, and half closed his eyes. Beyond the door, he heard the rain begin to fall in earnest, thrumming onto the ground in a soothing rhythm. Within ten minutes, he suspected he’d heard more rain fall than Nageso received in half a year. It poured so hard it elicited half-heard comments of amazement from those gathered near the door.

  Shutting them out, Darai focused on the sound of the rain, imagining it falling on the hut in Nageso. Rain this hard would probably find its way through the mud and daub roof, creating leaks. He could all but hear his grandmother shrieking and see his mother running to gather pots and pans, whatever she could find, to place under the drips. His father would be frowning, shaking his fist at the roof, the gods, the ancestral spirits, and blaming them all for the repair work he’d have to undertake. Darai’s younger siblings would probably all sneak out of the hut to play in the rain and the mud.

  Darai smiled before a flash of red replaced the image of his filthy brothers and sisters. At first, he thought he’d dreamed it, but as he opened his eyes fully, he knew he hadn’t been asleep. He sat up, lowering his hands to either si
de of him, on top of the bedspread. He’d seen enough of magic for it to not surprise him, but he was wary. If a sorcerer was doing magic in the pens, Darai wanted to know why, or if it was directed at him.

  But he saw no sorcerers bar one leaning indolently against the door leading from the pens into the rest of the guild. The man had his face turned toward one of the soldiers and he laughed, listening to the soldier’s lowered voice. No, he was not the source of the magic.

  Sure he’d been dreaming after all, Darai sat back against his pillow a moment before the flash repeated. Seeing it from the corner of his eye, his head whipped around, trying to catch a glimpse before it was gone.

  He needn’t have bothered; the glow of magic danced vividly, flowing and moving in waves silhouetting a young woman sitting against the opposite wall. Listening to an older man reading, she seemed oblivious, as did the two young women seated beside her.

  From across the room, Darai saw her lips part slightly, her face enraptured by the story. She’d tied her black hair in two braids, which fell across each shoulder. Her dark skin was glossy and flawless. If not for the magic surrounding her, Darai would have found her captivating.

  Instead, he felt the blood draining out of his face and tried to look away. The magic ebbed and waned around her, sometimes all but disappearing before surging out a finger-width from her skin. It both terrified and fascinated him at the same time. A glance at the sorcerer showed he either hadn’t noticed or wasn’t interested. Perhaps he simply couldn’t see it? No one else in the pens seemed to be staring at the woman. A quick look proved that, and his eyes soon returned to her.

  He had to close his eyes eventually to break his gaze and kept them shut tight. Should he tell the sorcerer? What would he do anyway? Perhaps Sorcerer Tabia? He was torn, unable even to guess what the guild would do to the woman if they knew. He was equally at a loss to explain why no one else had even noticed the magic.

  “Why were you staring at me?” She Her voice was soft, but his eyes shot open. He saw the nimbus of magic around the woman before her face looking down at him. Briefly, he wondered how she’d got so close without him hearing.

  He worked himself up onto his elbow. “The magic,” he replied rubbing his eye with his free hand, “You have it . . . all around you.”

  Her response was instant. “So do you.”

  “No, no.” He shook his head. “I don’t just mean the harvested . . . ”

  “Neither do I.” She sat down on the side of his bed, her hands in her lap. “It’s all around you, like . . . ”

  “An aura?”

  “Yes, one of the children has the same. I didn’t know I did, though.” A muscle in her face twitched and he heard her gulp. “When you stared at me, I thought . . . ” She trailed off, looking as though she had more to say, but didn’t dare to put it into words.

  “You thought what?” Darai prompted gently.

  “I thought you were a sorcerer.”

  Her admission startled Darai. “Why would I be in here, then?” he whispered.

  The woman’s mouth opened and closed as if the question confounded her as well. “I wasn’t sure. Perhaps they put you in here to choose who goes first to have their magic taken out? Or to see that we don’t escape.”

  “I’m not a sorcerer,” he assured her. He heard her soft sigh of relief and asked, “So why do we have magic around us and the rest don’t?” He didn’t expect her to know the answer and wasn’t surprised to see her shake her head.

  “I don’t know. Do you think it’s bad?”

  He reached out a tentative hand and tried to touch the magic surrounding her. It felt warm to his fingertips, but benign. It tickled his skin gently, like touching fur.

  “I don’t think so. I don’t think anyone else can see it.” He considered what it might mean, but came no closer to an answer. He lowered his hand. “I don’t think we should tell anyone, just in case.”

  “Oh no,” she agreed. “My name is Adina.” She held out her hand and Darai accepted.

  “Darai.”

  When their hands met in a shake, the magic crackled and flared for a heartbeat, then faded until Darai could only see hers. Her skin was soft and warm; he knew he felt more now than just her magic. She was already to him at least what the girl in the wagon had been. A kindred spirit—a fellow harvested one—and one with a shared secret they had to keep, if only to keep themselves alive for a while longer.

  He already felt protective toward her. When he found a way to escape, he’d take Adina with him, regardless of the cost. The more he thought about it, he realised escaping in daytime would be the easiest option. The doors between the pens were open and people came and went through the guild doors for much of the day. If they could slip out and find somewhere to hide to await nightfall, they might stand a chance of leaving undetected.

  “Are you all right?”

  He realised he hadn’t spoken for a while and still held her hand in his. Releasing it, he whispered, “I was just thinking about . . . Look, you should get back to your bed. Can we talk tomorrow?” Here, in the silence, anyone could have overheard their entire conversation. In the courtyard, with the children running about, surrounded by noise, they could speak in greater safety.

  He could feel her hesitate and thought she was going to decline, but she agreed, “All right. You know where to find me.” He saw her white teeth flash in a smile before she rose and slipped off into the night.

  Troubled by the implications of the magic aura, Darai tossed and turned for a long while, before finally falling back to sleep.

  CHAPTER 10

  Tabia’s teeth clicked together as she bit off an angry retort. She wanted to grind them as Benassi met her gaze, unwavering, his smug smile arching his lips.

  To her satisfaction, he looked away first, but it lasted no more than an instant as Benassi spoke. “I’m sure you all agree with me, the harvested ones are little more than animals, they can’t . . . ”

  “They’re people,” Tabia said, sitting forward in her chair, “some of them about to overflow with magic. They’re entitled to all consideration . . . ”

  Benassi turned back to her, interrupting smoothly, “Due all the consideration of a jug full of water. I’ve suggested more than once that women are too sensitive to sit on the assembly.” He let that hang in the air for a moment before adding, “We brought these vessels to the guild for their magic, not to for a holiday or for us to give them the run of Dassane. If Sorcerer Tabia cannot remember this,” he continued, spreading his arms to address the other members of the assembly, “then perhaps we should—”

  “Ay! I know why they’re here, Sorcerer Benassi,” Tabia replied, determined to keep calm. “What I don’t understand is why you can’t fathom such a simple concept. Maybe I spoke too quickly?”

  He gave her a withering look, which she ignored.

  “Those people we’ve brought here against their wills.” She held up a finger as Benassi made to interrupt again. Speaking coldly, she went on, “Against their wills. The pens are small . . . ”

  “Oh now come on! A dozen sorcerers were put out of their quarters to make way for them.”

  A throat cleared loudly and all the eyes in the room turned to Sevele, the head of the assembly in spite of not being the most powerful sorcerer. The strength of his will could all but knock them all flat. In spite of his having not long passed a century of years, when he spoke they all listened.

  “When I was a boy in southern Mindossa, my mother—the Mother of all Gods keep her spirit safe—taught me that it was inappropriate to interrupt a woman. Assemblyman Benassi, you will let her speak or be expelled.”

  “My apologies,” Benassi muttered with insincerity.

  Tabia couldn’t resist shooting Benassi a triumphant look, before she resumed her rhetoric. “While twelve sorcerers were displaced for those we harvested, they made room for over four hundred men, women, and children. The pens are hot. How many of you have actually been in there?” She scanned the te
n faces around the oval table and none answered in the affirmative.

  “You have?” Assemblyman Feko asked, scratching his chin as he looked at her from across the table with his small eyes above a hawk nose.

  “Yes, I’ve spent a great deal of time in there, speaking to the harvested ones and trying to make them as comfortable as possible.”

  “You believe they need more,” Sevele commented. “Benassi is correct that they are not here for their comfort.”

  “No, they’re here for their safety, and ours,” Tabia said, “but if you just took the time . . . ”

  “This is not an inn, Tabia,” Sevele added.

  Now it was Benassi who gave Tabia the triumphant look.

  “I know that Assemblyman Sevele.” She struggled to keep her voice civil, “I’m not asking for a taproom.” She paused as Feko laughed and even Benassi snorted his amusement. “All I want is for small groups to be allowed to leave the pens, in company and bindings if you wish it, to go out of the guildhall for . . . an hour. Would that kill us?”

  “No,” Sevele agreed, “it may do far worse.”

  “Oh for the love of Zuleso!” Tabia threw up her hands in frustration.

  “Don’t invoke your foreign gods here,” Benassi snapped in obvious disgust, “it is enough that—”

  “No, it’s not,” Tabia retorted, not caring in the least what he was about to say. For a gathering of otherwise intelligent and powerful members of the sorcerers’ guild, on some days they did a good imitation of a crèche. “Thanks to us, there’s a good number of Iljoskans in the pens.”