Chapter Two

Adryngar didn’t like Sulen.

It was the capital city of Vloss, and like most of the cities of the country’s desert heartland, it was filled with monumental ancient stone structures, vast open plazas, and people of every stripe. In ancient times, the Vloss had been a nomadic people, herding their slaves unendingly across the sands in search of resources and, supposedly, enlightenment. That part of the culture was largely gone. Now much of the population of the desert was crammed into cities, and armies were sent out to do the roaming. To Adryngar, Sulen was decadence and despair.

His quarters were excellent, though—a small suite of luxurious rooms in a palace built for some long-forgotten ruler, now used for housing high-ranking officers on leave. Not that he spent much time in them. He hadn’t been here in six months. He’d been off on campaign in the southern jungles, putting down a slave revolt. Revolts annoyed him. If you didn’t want to be a slave, sign up for the army and earn your freedom. And if you weren’t good enough for the army, you weren’t good enough to be free. It was that simple. There was no need to waste soldiers’ time and lives putting on a show.

Adryngar opened up his wardrobe, a structure of rich brown wood, inlaid with horses in some pale stone, that somehow managed to be light and airy. It was perfectly arranged by function, as usual. He kept telling the head servant not to bother straightening out the clothes, but the obsequious little man insisted that it was necessary for the palace to maintain its appearance, which included every nook and cranny of the place. Adryngar didn’t see why anyone would ever want to go poking around in the wardrobe of an old general that only opened up the thing a couple of times a year, but it wasn’t worth the trouble to try and explain his point.

He pulled out his dress uniform, a multilayered thing of black silks and fine horse leather with the stylized flame of the Vloss Empire in bright red on the chest. Imposing thing, but he didn’t understand why anyone would design a military uniform to be so damn uncomfortable.

He shoved his battered, dusty kit bag out of the way before laying the uniform out on the thickly blanketed bed and examining it for wear. There was none, of course. He had gotten some blood on it during his last stay here, but there was now no sign of the stain.

He still had several hours before he had to get ready for the reception. He didn’t feel like unpacking his kit, so he decided to take care of business. His boots had been completely wrecked in the muddy jungles over the last few months, and he needed new ones. He needed new clothes as a whole. Everything he had brought on campaign was on the verge of falling apart. He also wanted to get his armor checked over by an expert smith. He trusted the armourers who traveled with the army, but they were overworked, and it never hurt to get a second opinion. But the boots were most important. A soldier without proper footwear was just a man with a weapon. He would take care of that first.

He changed out of his fatigues into some civilian clothes he found in the wardrobe. They were pleasantly cool, despite being four layers thick. Expensive, but tasteful. Whoever had procured these rooms and clothes for him however many years ago had known what they were doing. He felt naked without armor, but he didn’t want to attract undue attention, so he compromised by sticking a knife into a sewn pocket on the inside of each boot and wearing a traditional carved dagger openly on his tooled belt. He was pretty sure that carrying knives was fashionable, so no one would question it.

He exited his rooms through a carved wooden door and paused for a few moments to take in the tiny courtyard, one of several in the palace. A man of Ienian descent he didn’t recognize was reading in a wicker chair by the shallow reflecting pool, shaded by a variety of pleasant-smelling tropical plants that sprouted from beds set in the pale stone floor of the courtyard in a lush spray of green. The man looked up and inclined his head in greeting. Adryngar returned the gesture. Recognizes me. Civvy clothes, never worn, staying in the palace. Military.

Adryngar left the palace and found himself on a side street. Earthen and stone buildings rose several stories on either side, leaning against each other for support. This had been a rich part of the city centuries ago, but it was rather poor now. A casualty of Sulen’s chaotic economy.

He walked until he got to a main street, lined with beggars cowering in the shade of buildings and milling with locals wrapped in fraying robes, and took a few seconds to get his bearings. He wasn’t far from the artisans’ quarter. A ten minute walk would take him to a good cobbler he knew. The streets were crowded, but people got out of his way. He had never been inconspicuous.

It was a blisteringly hot day with no hint of a breeze. The teetering two- and three-story buildings shaded the streets somewhat, though, and Adryngar was mostly just glad to be rid of the oppressive humidity of the jungles. He had grown up in the desert, working a tiny mine with a few dozen other slaves. Heat was a fact of life, but wet air was foreign and intolerable.

He located the cobbler’s shop without much trouble, despite not having visited it in a year. It was near a slave market, as most things were in this city, and Adryngar remembered which one. He had been taken there when his owner died and all the slaves from the estate had been sold. Adryngar had been fifteen, several years younger than most slaves who opted to enlist in the army to earn their freedom, but he had been determined not to be a slave for any longer than he absolutely had to be.

Adryngar wondered about that sometimes. Thirty years and he still hadn’t left the army, though his freedom’s price had been only two years of service. Technically he wasn’t a slave, but he certainly didn’t have the freedom to just quit whenever he felt like it. His teenage self would have been horrified. But as Adryngar saw it, this was the best option. He was a good commander, and could keep casualties very low. Leaving the army and becoming a malcontent or a miner or a farmer would help no one. But if he stayed with the army, who knew how many soldiers he could save?

The cobbler recognized him. People tended to. He was rather distinctive-looking even without the permanently upright stance he had acquired in the army. The burly Turok dropped the shoe he was working on and immediately took Adryngar’s order for a pair of water-resistant knee boots in soldier’s black and a pair of light desert boots, also in black, both with hidden pockets for knives. Adryngar’s current pair of desert boots didn’t need to be replaced immediately, but they were showing definite signs of wear, and there wasn’t anything quite like losing a boot in the deserts of Vloss. If the sand didn’t burn a man’s foot with heat and file off a few layers of skin, hidden rocks would trip him, and deep in the dunes losing footing could mean serious injury. The cobbler said he still had Adryngar’s patterns on file, so there was no need for new measurements. Adryngar thanked him and gave him several coins for the inconvenience, with the mutual understanding that the boots would be done before anything else.

Adryngar had expected the visit to the cobbler’s to take much longer than it had, so he had left his armor back in his rooms. Some officers would have sent a slave to deliver the armor to a smith with instructions, but when it came to his equipment, he didn’t take chances, even small ones. The odds that a smith with a reputation to uphold would take advantage of a clueless slave overseeing were poor, but Adryngar had no intention of letting things slide this late in his career. So he made his way back toward the palace.

On his way there he ran into a massively built green-skinned Turok who stood straighter than most of the buildings in Sulen and whose yellow eyes seemed to have a perpetual glare. Adryngar punched him in the shoulder lightly. “What brings you here, Captain?”

Drozgol returned the punch. “I’m supposed to check on you, General. Vakov told me to make sure you weren’t getting in any fights.”

“That was a one-time thing. And he deserved it.”

They started walking back toward the palace. “I’m sure. Regardless, you’ve got a security force tailing you whenever you leave the palace.”

Adryngar glanced casually around and caught sight of the Iene he had seen in the courtyard back at his quarters across the street. Shit. I’m getting old. “Thanks. Any idea who ordered it?”

“No. If Vakov knows, he’s doing a good job of faking it. The Iene really is an officer, though, so I’m thinking high up. Someone wants you to stay out of trouble.”

Adryngar nodded slowly, considering. He eventually dismissed the problem. It wasn’t really surprising, given his history, and he couldn’t solve it without more information. “So what are your plans for your leave?”

Drozgol laughed. “I’m astonished you have to ask. I’m going to visit every last brothel in this shithole.”

“A noble goal. What’s your position on joining me for a drink after I deal with some business?”

“Can’t. Vakov said you have to go to a reception tonight, and showing up drunk isn’t going to score you any points with the nobles.”

Adryngar sighed. “Vakov seems to know more about my stay here than I do.”

“He was a noble. Knowing everything about everybody is just habit for him. He’s not bad for a snot-nosed kid, you know.”

“Especially for a noble snot-nosed kid. I could do with a little less crazy, but it could have been worse.”

Vakov was the bastard son of a mid-ranking lady and a low-ranking lord. He had the misfortune of resembling his father greatly, and his mother had packed him off to serve the army at a young age. Vakov had grown up with a cold bloodlust and a calculated resentment of all things noble, and had joined the army properly at eighteen to get away from his people permanently. As a noble, he had gotten a free pass through most of training and had simply been deposited in Adryngar’s army, much to the general’s annoyance, and wasn’t much good in a fight. But he was an astounding surgeon, if a disturbingly curious and experimental one, and he had a better understanding of politics and noble customs and traditions than anyone else that Adryngar knew. His knowledge of strategy was also increasing rapidly. Adryngar thought he would make a good mid-ranking officer. Nothing at the top of command, but Vakov was very useful in command of a small force.

Drozgol was a Turok, one of the more respected races that made up the Empire. Adryngar had met Drozgol in training, and after saving each other’s lives a few times, they had become close friends. Droz believed firmly in keeping the mood of war light, and was always the first to offer a witty comment, a tendency which had gotten him flogged more than once. Despite being a very competent strategist, he was quite content with his position as a cavalry officer. He had no desire to advance further and miss out on combat, and his comparatively high rank meant that he was still in a position to impact the course of a campaign.

They arrived at the palace and headed for Adryngar’s quarters. Drozgol examined a delicately carved wooden screen and whistled at the sight of the bed. “I can see why you don’t slum it at the barracks with the rest of us.”

“I did my time there. Besides, I’m not as young as I was. I’m not necessarily up for wild parties these days.”

There was a brief but painfully awkward silence as they both remembered that Adryngar’s generous helping of human blood meant that he had a substantially shorter lifespan than most of the rest of the army.

“You’ve still got time left,” Drozgol said finally. “Another couple decades if you play your cards right.”

Adryngar laughed as he started removing his armor from his kit. “I sincerely hope not. Thirty years with you is far more than enough for me.”

“I’ll remember you said that next time you need me to pull your ass out of the fire.”

“Do. At this point, a nice burn scar can only improve my face.”

“Don’t count on it. Have you seen Talek lately?”

“Who?”

“That colonel from the far west. He’s Araninian, poor sod. Must be one of the only ones left. His burn got infected and it’s taken over half his face.”

Adryngar paused with his mail shirt halfway out of his bag. “Ouch.”

“Yeah. I’m glad the only scars I have are from arrows.”

“You’ve got more than arrow scars. What about that fire lizard in training?”

“Are you kidding? That healed up perfectly. You can’t even see the mark now.”

“Damn. You really don’t appreciate your luck enough, you know.”

“You know, Turok women love scars. They’d be all over you.”

“Forgive me, but big green cat-eye women with fangs like knives aren’t exactly what I was looking for.”

“Take what you can get. Anyone else will take one look at you and flee.”

“Excellent point. I might have to join you for part of your brothel rampage.”

There was a knock on the door. Drozgol opened it, and a skeletally thin young man with paper-white skin and long, intricately carved ears stepped in and bowed to each of them in turn.

Adryngar had long since given up telling Vakov to relax. Nobles, especially low-ranking ones, never let down their facades of politeness. “Good to see you, Private.”

“I bring you warning, my lord.”

Drozgol looked up sharply.

“Warning?” Adryngar said in surprise. We’re in Sulen, it can only be a Vloss. Shit, who have I offended recently?

“Not of danger, my lord. Only of a potentially awkward situation.”

“I’m listening.”

“Tonight’s reception is to be hosted by the Lord Mayor of Sulen, Tashas Kyrbat, at his private villa.” Vakov evidently expected this news to be received with interest.

“I’m not following,” Adryngar said when it became clear that Vakov thought he had delivered all the appropriate information.

Vakov looked exasperated. “The Lord Mayor Kyrbat has a very low opinion of the military freedom program, and of slaves in general. He believes that slaves are inherently unworthy, regardless of any accomplishments, and he is very vocal.”

Drozgol sat in one of the graceful wooden chairs and frowned. “So you’re saying he’s not going to be pleasant to the general.”

“Exactly. My lord will not be able to avoid him entirely, but after the initial greetings, I would find a way to remove myself from the situation.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“The entertainment tonight will be blood sport of some kind.”

Adryngar nodded. He had expected that. Probably a drugged slave or two for nobles to try their hand at in single combat with blunted weapons.

“Thank you, Vakov. Anyone else I should look out for?”

“I do not recognize many of the names on the guest list. There are several other nobles with exceptionally poor opinions of army slaves, but Kyrbat is the most outspoken. The Imperial Regent will be there as representative of the Emperor.”

“Good.” Adryngar was thankful for that. The Regent was the de facto head of the Vloss Empire, the highest ranking noble in the whole mess. He certainly didn’t know her well, but he had made her acquaintance at another reception about ten years before. She had proved surprisingly pleasant, given the usual disdain for slaves common to nobles, and at every social occasion Adryngar had been forced to attend since, she had helped him out by making conversation whenever he had found himself ostracized and introducing him to people he could get along with.

“I thought my lord would appreciate the news. Have a pleasant evening.” Vakov bowed and made to leave.

“You can stay if you don’t have anything better to do,” Adryngar offered. “The water here is cold.”

Vakov looked surprised but grateful. Adryngar poured water from a colorful ceramic pitcher, and the three of them talked for another hour, after which Adryngar admitted that he had a little more business to take care of. Vakov left for the barracks, but Drozgol accompanied him and recommended a good armourer.

They both watched the smith check Adryngar’s blued steel over carefully. The woman found a few spots of rust under the articulation straps on the underside of the pauldrons, and more around the rivets on the cuirass and inside the helmet. She removed the rust with steel wool and replaced the straps, which were getting rather worn. The long blued mail shirt also had some rust spots, but the armourer told them that her apprentice took care of that sort of thing, and he was out making deliveries, so they would have to come back the next day. Adryngar agreed, paid her for the maintenance, and took the plate back with him to the palace.

“I can’t believe you wear all this,” Drozgol said, examining the suit. He hefted one of the vambraces with one hand, feeling the substantial weight. “It’s probably why you’re short.”

“It’s saved me a number of injuries,” Adryngar said. “I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

“You should get your sword checked at a weaponsmith while you’re on leave.”

“I agree. My old one used to work next to that armourer, but he seems to have closed up shop. Do you know a good one?”

“Sure. I’ll show you tomorrow. I need to get my kit checked up too. My shield’s rotten at the base from all that bloody jungle water.”

“You don’t even use your shield. Mine’s intact, thankfully. But I still want to get it examined.”

“I’ve got two hands. Might as well put something pointy in each. But it’s still good to have. And really? You barely need your shield with all that shit you wear.”

“Laugh all you like. If you had worn that shit, you wouldn’t have half the scars you do.”

“The key is not getting hit. I’m a proper fighter and get hit less than you do, so my leather’s all I need. People might slip through occasionally, but I can hit them back, unlike you.”

The banter continued until Adryngar couldn’t put off the reception another minute. Drozgol wished him good luck and left.

Adryngar changed into his dress uniform, which itched just as fiercely as it always did. He noticed with surprise a mirror in a corner, which hadn’t been there the last time he came back from campaign. He examined himself. The uniform might be impressive, but Vloss nobles would ignore that. They would only see his face, and the glaring evidence of human ancestry there. He might have the gray skin, red eyes, and sharp canine teeth of a low-purity Mondralian, but he had hair—shaved down to almost nothing, but still, hair was not found on any species of Fey other than the second-class Araninians—the bone structure of a human, wrinkles, and his ears were only lightly pointed.

And then, of course, there were the scars. He traced them. One on his right temple, one vertically across his mouth on the right side, and one stretching from above his hairline on the left, down through his eyebrow and across the bridge of his nose to end below his right cheekbone, nearly touching the mouth scar. They still gave him headaches occasionally, but nothing crippling. He knew he had been extremely lucky, but he could’ve gone for a little more luck. Other people were injured by sharp metal that left thin scars, but no. He had to run into the one group of idiots who used a ritual stone axe that ripped apart the flesh, leaving thick atrophic cicatrices. Amateurs.

He gave the long scar one last annoyed prod and left for the reception.

The private residence of Lord Mayor Tashas Kyrbat of Sulen was a beautiful thing. Adryngar preferred the old palace he was staying in, with its pale stone, slim arches, and hidden courtyards, but the villa was still spectacular. It was three stories tall, horseshoe-shaped, and built of the red stone common to ancient monuments, but in a modern style, without any fortifications. It was a solid building, though, its thick columns and walls intricately carved with scenes from history and epics alike. The walled estate included a lush garden, a grandiose display of wealth in a desert city. There was a fountain in the center of the garden that the guests were apparently meant to drink from, judging by the tables full of glasses set up around it. Everything was brightly and dramatically lit in the night by well-placed braziers and torches. House slaves padded around serving guests, their bare feet whispering across mosaic floors. It was meant to impress, and it impressed the hell out of Adryngar.

He entered through the front gate behind a group of high-ranking lords and their ladies. Adryngar had difficulty adjusting his perception back to Vloss after time abroad. To an outsider, Vloss nobles were emaciated, snow-pale creatures with hairless, blue-veined skin and strange ideas in fashion. They all were either ritually blinded or covered their eyes with ornately decorated masks. Vloss nobles all had to be pure Mondralian, and one of the hallmarks of the Mondralian race of Fey was that every individual was capable of using the Song to some extent. Once they came of age, Vloss proved their purity by removing their ability to see conventionally and relying purely on perceiving the world through the Song. Looking at sewn-up eyelids always made Adryngar shiver.

A slave gave Adryngar a glass of aengi, a fine alcohol that was common at high society parties in Sulen because it was served cold. As the night grew cooler, warmer drinks would be made available. Adryngar sipped from the glass and steeled himself before going to greet the Lord Mayor Kyrbat.

The mayor was half a foot taller than Adryngar and dressed in clothes that had probably cost more than Adryngar’s entire military earnings. He was blinded rather than masked, which indicated proficiency with the Song and therefore high status within the nobility. He turned to look at Adryngar and bared his teeth in a cold smile that looked more like an expression of pain. “General. How glad I am that you have come.”

“Thank you for your hospitality, sir,” Adryngar said with a smile that was as polite as he could make it. “The refreshments are excellent.”

“For a man of your taste, sewage would have sufficed, I think.”

Adryngar hadn’t expected that. Nobles could be cruel, but they were usually sneaky about it, weaving clever little traps with their words rather than going straight in the way normal people did. Kyrbat’s bluntness was refreshing, but also disturbing in that the usual solution of a punch in the mouth probably wasn’t the best idea. Thankfully, Kyrbat continued, not leaving Adryngar an opening to reply.

“You will enjoy tonight’s entertainment, I think. Make yourself comfortable.” The Lord Mayor swept off to speak with other guests, leaving Adryngar disconcerted.

Adryngar spotted the Imperial Regent, swathed in high-necked robes of black and crimson, speaking to a group of highly interested lords. That’s right, she’s not married. He didn’t want to go running to her just yet. There were other people at this party. One of them had to be open to talking to him.

He had just seen a small group of non-noble officers talking to each other and begun to make his way toward them when someone spoke to him from behind. He turned to find a small masked nobleman in blue robes.

“May I introduce myself?” the noble asked in a high, breathy voice. Adryngar noticed the man was sweating profusely. High on something. Shiversticks, maybe? An idiot. “I am Baron Lerat Sel. I wanted to congratulate you on your victory in the south.” Sel... shit. This was the husband of Vakov’s mother. Adryngar didn’t know what Sel could want, but he doubted it was anything good.

“Thank you, sir. It’s an honor to make your acquaintance.”

“The honor is mine.” Sel leaned forward conspiratorially. “It has come to my attention that there is a certain soldier in your army... A boy of nineteen. Vakov. Vakov Sel.”

Adryngar nodded. He didn’t want to know, but he didn’t want to tell Sel to go fuck himself either.

“He is heir to my property should he leave the army. But he is no son of mine, but the product of a gross union between my wife and a scum-sucking farmer. I have no proof, but I know.”

“No disrespect, sir, but my recruits’ parentage is of no concern to me.”

“It is now,” Sel insisted. “I will make it very worth your while to ensure he does not return from your next campaign. Please. The house of Sel must not be sullied by that depraved peasant.”

“Absolutely not,” Adryngar said calmly. “Vakov’s a decent soldier, and I never waste a soldier.”

Sel bristled. “You will do as I command, slave!”

“The general is not a slave,” came a cool voice from behind Adryngar.

Sel froze and somehow went a few shades paler. “My lady. Er, Regent.”

“Lerat Sel.” The Regent swept up to him, her sumptuous robes flaring. “I would suggest you seek other company.” The baron of Sel bowed deeply, his long nose nearly touching the ground, and retreated.

The Regent turned to look at Adryngar. His own eyes hurt as he looked at her stitched-up lids, heavily tattooed. It really was hard to get over that. “It will be an interesting night for you. Kyrbat appears to have invited every pro-slavery advocate in Sulen.”

“I got some warning, my lady.”

“Yes, from this Vakov Sel. Do you believe he is truly a bastard?”

Adryngar didn’t bother to ask how she knew who had informed him. “Yes. He doesn’t look a thing like either of his supposed parents or his siblings.”

“Interesting. I will have to have a conversation with Baroness Sel. Bloodline falsification is a rather serious crime.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. Vakov has absolutely no intention of leaving the army.”

“He intends to die in service? Admirable.”

“He’s a good soldier.”

“I heard. Thank you for not accepting Lerat’s offer. Vakov is still formally recognized as a Sel, and his death would have to be stringently investigated. There is a group of officers by the fountain who would happily speak with you. Good luck.” She left without waiting for a reply.

Adryngar was making his way toward the fountain when Kyrbat made an announcement. “If my distinguished guests would please make their way to the back garden, tonight’s entertainment can begin.”

Adryngar followed the rest of the crowd through the center of the villa to the back of the house. The center of the horseshoe, between the villa’s two wings, was simply an open expanse of light sand. The guests gathered around the house, leaving the space open for whatever sport was going to take place. Adryngar waited with the rest of them.

Kyrbat waited for the crowd to go quiet before speaking. “Tonight’s festivities will begin with a celebration of our history: a game of jourtah atnube.” The crowd exclaimed almost as one. This game was rare and expensive.

Adryngar drank half of his aengi in one gulp. Shit. He didn’t want to be here for this. Jourtah atnube was one of the most violent of the ancient slave blood sports. It was fairly simple. A slave would be tied down and given a drug to slow the flow of blood. Two participants from the crowd would be given blunt daggers and then attempt to remove as many of the slave’s bones as possible before it died. The game was rare both because it was hugely expensive, as it usually involved the deaths of at least five slaves to make it a proper competition between nobles, and because it had been outlawed in many cities as excessively cruel and wasteful. Sulen was not one of those cities.

There were a few other people in the crowd who didn’t look pleased. Apart from all the non-nobles present—the group of officers in particular looked extremely uncomfortable—a number of slave rights activists looked deeply unhappy. Adryngar caught a glimpse of the Imperial Regent across the sand. She looked mildly irritated.

“Six thousand years ago, the Mondralians descended from the heavens to walk this earth,” Kyrbat said grandly. “They settled Vloss, their hand stretching across the land, bringing peace and justice. But they found others here—the Rhysians. They were conquered easily.”

The first slave was led out of the villa. It was a naked Rhysian male. Rhysians had green or bluish skin and brilliantly colored eyes that sat too high in their skull. And they were tall, taller even than Turoks. The green-skinned slave, tattooed in black, looked quite relaxed. He doesn’t know. Emperor, doesn’t he see? Then the handler tied him to four stakes in the sand and produced the distinctive purple heart-slowing poison of jourtah atnube, and the screaming began.

Two volunteers stepped forward, both male. They stripped to the waist, as was custom, and received their carved bone daggers. They waited a few minutes for the poison to take effect, and the games began. The crowd roared, placing bets, making suggestions, shouting encouragement.

Adryngar forced himself to watch. He wasn’t a squeamish man by any stretch of the imagination, but jourtah atnube was disgusting. But he didn’t want to lose face in front of the nobles. The first pair did quite well, removing forty-one bones. Adryngar finished his aengi and slipped his free hand into his pocket to disguise the fact that his nails were digging trenches in his palm. That could have been me if I hadn’t joined the army, he thought, looking at the body. Or Droz. Or just about anyone I know. A jittery house slave, clearly entertaining similar thoughts, refilled his glass from a gracefully etched silver decanter.

“The Mondralians were followed by scavengers, who came from their own heaven, wanting to feed on our leavings. We enslaved these Araninians, and for thousands of years we tolerated their impurity. Two hundred years ago, that tolerance was ended, and now we are very nearly free of them.”

The second slave was dragged out, an Araninian female. She was kicking and screaming, and the sight of the disemboweled corpse of the first slave being carried away served only to redouble her efforts. It took some time to force-feed her the poison.

Araninians were rare now. Most of them had been slaughtered in the Purge, two hundred years before. The remainder were forbidden to breed. They still did, of course, but it was legal for slaveowners to kill unwanted children younger than a year old, and some rulers extended that to pregnant Araninian women, so the race was nearly extinct. They looked almost like humans, even down to the hair, but with the long, pointed ears, sharp canines, and glimmering eyes of a Fey.

The second pair of volunteers did not do as well as the first, with a score of only seventeen. One of them had cut too deeply when removing a rib and had cut open a lung, causing the slave to asphyxiate quickly.

“Three thousand years ago, we encountered the Turoks. They were powerful foes, but we defeated them. We were merciful. We made them all but free, even granted some of them honors. They think themselves nearly equal to us. But we know better.”

The third slave was a Turok female. Turoks were tall and broad as a rule, with skin in various shades of green, skeletal noses, and fiercely slanted eyes with slit pupils. The slave was struggling much more successfully than the Araninian had, actually escaping the grip of her two handlers long enough to start sprinting away until one of the handlers snapped his whip across her ankle. She tripped, skidded across the sand, and started scrambling back to her feet almost before she had fallen, but it was too late. The third pair scored twenty-five, their efforts hampered by the slave’s considerable struggling.

Adryngar finished his second glass of aengi. He could feel blood running down his pocketed hand now. Shit. Someone was going to notice if he kept that up, but he couldn’t force himself to release the grip for more than a few seconds.

“Then we met the Yadan, the ancient enemies of the Turoks, in lands far to the west. They held their mages in esteem, refused to bind them in any way.” Kyrbat shook his head in disgust. “Once we corrected them and killed the free mages, they submitted to us easily, and have since been productive subjects of the Empire.”

The Yadan slave was brought out, a male, tall, slim, blue-skinned, and pitiful. The Yadan looked a lot like Turoks, but they didn’t have the thousands of years of fighting culture. They valued art, honest work, and knowledge. No match for the Vloss, really, not once the mages had been taken care of. The slave was sobbing, begging the handlers to reconsider. Adryngar felt a wave of sick horror. Don’t you understand? They don’t care, you can’t make them care. If you want to get away, you have to fight. Why aren’t you fighting?

The Yadan bled out quickly, despite the poison, leaving his murderers with a score of twenty-nine. Adryngar was surprised to find that he was biting his tongue with one sharp canine, the taste of iron filling his mouth. He took a drink of aengi, the blood from his mouth invisible in the dark liquid.

“We found the Ienes to the north and south, living in trees and jungles and mountains. They fought us for many years, their cruelty matched only by their success. But we prevailed, and in our mercy we even let many of them remain free.”

Many Ienes had fled far north and south to escape the Vloss, in truth, and it would have been a waste of resources to ferret them out. Vloss historians didn’t mention that, but anyone with a military background could see what had happened if they got enough information. Adryngar, for his part, had flatly refused to believe that the Vloss would be merciful enough to let anyone go without even collecting oath from them. Still, even with so many of the Ienes vanished into uncharted wilderness, those who had remained formed a large part of the Empire.

The Iene slave was a female, short and thin, with golden eyes and long, clever fingers. She was silent, walking calmly to the stakes. Adryngar was shocked, until he saw the woman’s eyes flick to the stakes. Oh. The Iene suddenly dropped to the ground, yanked out a stake, and lunged at the nearest handler with it. She missed, and the handler hit her hard in the head before tying both of her hands to one stake. At least she tried.

Adryngar finished his third drink as the score of thirty-two was announced. His hand was starting to hurt. He focused on the pain, trying to quell his rising anger and nausea. Don’t talk. Don’t look at anyone, damn it. They’re just slaves. It’s their fault for not joining the army. They could’ve enlisted, earned their freedom, but they stayed in servitude instead. The house slave filled his glass again, her hand shaking.

“And then, from the east, across the ocean, came a race of animals. They were not Fey at all, had precious little Song about them, yet they walked on two legs and spoke like men, demanding to be treated equally.” Kyrbat’s astonishment and anger were plain. “We laughed in their faces, and they became slaves, every last one. And so the humans, too, fell under the Empire, as low as they could be.”

Finally the sixth and final slave was led out. He was struggling fiercely, but as the crowd got a look at him, everyone went deathly silent. Adryngar’s view of the slave was blocked by the handler. He noticed a few people steal glances at him and look away quickly. What... He looked at the Regent across the sand for a hint. She looked oddly stiff, her lips pressed together tightly. Then the slave made a violent break for it, and Adryngar saw. What the fuck?

The slave was made up to look like him. Gray skin, stubble, false red eyes on the eyelids, and scars, all painted on. It was crude but unmistakable. Oh shit. Oh, son of a bitch. He couldn’t ignore it. It could not possibly be a caricature of anyone else. Then he noticed that the slave was also a eunuch. Oh, come on! That’s just juvenile. Nobles were supposed to be more subtle than this. Couldn’t Kyrbat have tried to have him assassinated like a normal noble? He could have dealt with that. People had tried it before. He was getting good at spotting assassins, damn it.

The crowd was silent, waiting for his reaction. He could laugh. He could just laugh, pretend it was a joke, like he and Kyrbat were friends. That would be the best solution. He made eye contact, such as it was, with Kyrbat, standing in the sand. The Lord Mayor of Sulen smiled at him, a long, slow smile. Adryngar smiled back.

Then he flung his glass of aengi. It smashed into Kyrbat’s face, disorienting him. Adryngar closed the distance between them in a couple of long strides, and proceeded to beat the living shit out of him.