Skies by Kevin L. Nielsen Page A

smothered in herbs with a mug of fine honey mead,” one of the guards said. His companions laughed.
    “How about a nice, roaring fire to go wid it!” More voices joined in with the first.
    “And half a gatheriu turning on a spit.”
    “Tubers and fruit.”
    “Wine!”
    When Gavin didn’t say anything or move on, the laughter died off jaggedly, filling the air with a heavy, piercing silence.
    “Off with you, then,” the first speaker said at last, tugging at a strap on his metal armor.
    “I lead the Rahuli people,” Gavin said in a slow, deliberate voice. “Your prisoner was mine first. I captured him. If he is to die tomorrow, I have questions that need answering before he’s no longer able.”
    The man swallowed and glanced at his companions, obviously unnerved by Gavin’s calm tone. Gavin took a step forward. Two of the guards stepped back and reached for the swords at their belts. Another licked his lips nervously.
    “He’s one of the mystics,” the lip-licker whispered to the first guard. “I’d be doing what he says.”
    Gavin gave his best Warlord glare and the man folded.
    “Alright, sir, alright. You can go in, but be out again ‘afore long, alright?”
    Gavin nodded. It was a sharp, perfunctory gesture—a simple acknowledgment of understanding rather than a mark of deference or equality between them. Gavin could thank Kaiden for that little trick.
    Gavin stepped into the room and paused just inside the doorway. Just like the outside windows, bars of thick, black iron cut the room in half. The space it created was further subdivided into three smaller chambers, each containing only a simple bed made of wood and a chamber pot. A lantern hung from the wall inside each of the end chambers. They cast twin pools of light over the occupant of the middle one.
    Samsin knelt on the floor with his back to the barred, metal door, posture rigid and upright, knees bent before him with his hips resting on his heels. His half-folded arms rested before him on top of his legs, palms up and resting on his knees. He still wore the simple rags he’d worn at the trial earlier. The lamp light made the bruises on his face appear almost black and mottled, like the pattern of a sandtiger’s pelt right before the seasons changed.
    “I thought you would come before the end, Gavin.”
    Gavin almost jumped, but was able to restrain himself. He didn’t think Samsin had noticed him. Besides that, how did Samsin know it was him? The Orinai hadn’t turned around to look his direction.
    “You remind me a little of him—you know, Nikanor,” Samsin continued. “Neither of you know anything about politics. Achk, this language really is quite barbarous, you know.”
    Gavin stepped further into the room.
    “What do you mean?”
    “My language has much better words,” Samsin said in a soft, highly accented voice. “It has music to it, an ability to make the sounds themselves mean almost as much as the words.”
    “That’s not what I meant.”
    “I know.” Samsin took in a deep breath and held it for a long moment, letting the silence stretch until Gavin almost said something again, but Samsin breathed out after a moment and continued. “You should not have come here. It was not a wise move.”
    “Well, I’m here already. The damage is done.”
    Samsin shook his head and scratched behind one ear. “You are right. It is done. The Sisters will find this place anyway. What does it matter if you’re alive then or not?”
    Gavin pushed down the irritation that rose within him. “What is this place, anyway?”
    “A monument to one man’s ideals.” Samsin sat down on the bed. “In more exact terms, it appears to be a haven for runaway slaves and the remains of Nikanor’s plantation workers.”
    Gavin’s brow furrowed. “How did they get this all built so quickly?”
    “I heard one of them telling another that they’d been here for years, some of them at least. That fool, Nikanor, had been sending them up here