The Empire Stone by Chris Bunch Page B

sworn you wretches had learned that lesson well by now.”
    The blond man nodded to two men, also finely dressed, beside him, obviously officers. “Help the baggage up, and assist her in getting dressed. I’ll decide whether we transfer her to my ship or if she would be more comfortable where she is.”
    He turned his attention to Zaimis. “Don’t be frightened, girl. I sought you for your ransom, not for your body. You’ll not be harmed — at least not if your master is quick to reward me for saving your life.”
    Zaimis’s eunuch Libat capered forward, beaming as if he’d had his manhood restored. The man leered at Zaimis, who turned away, sobbing bitterly. The man laughed, saw Peirol, and came toward him, as if expecting applause.
    Peirol’s mind said he was stupid, this would undoubtedly be his death, but his fingers were too quick, sliding behind his buckle, and tossing, underhand, a twin to that dart that had half-blinded the serpent. It flashed into the side of the eunuch’s throat. Libat screamed rage, plucked it out, and lifted his sword. Then he looked very surprised as the poison worked quickly. He touched his throat, gaped three or four times, and went down.
    There were half a dozen swords at Peirol’s guts, and the blond man had a pistol aimed, very steadily, between his eyes. “That was a nasty surprise,” he said, after seeing Peirol remained still. “Have you any more of those devices about you?”
    “No,” Peirol said. He hadn’t time to hide another dart.
    The man kicked the eunuch’s body. “We
do
despise a traitor, don’t we?” He didn’t seem to require an answer. “Dwarf, listen well. I’m going to allow what you did, for I had no wish to reward this one who told us of his mistress and her value. A faithless servant deserves nothing but death.
    “But do you have any ideas of continuing your no doubt quite noble pastime of revenge? If so, your value to me is slight, even though the not-man told us you had certain marketable skills, so I’ll toss you overside now.”
    “No,” Peirol said, tiredly. “I’m through with blood.”
    The blond man lost interest in Peirol, snapped orders to his men.
    And so Peirol of the Moorlands became a slave.

5
O F M ARKETS AND M ADMEN
    By the time Peirol reached the slave market at Beshkirs, he knew quite a bit more than he had, more than he wanted. He was now the property — and his mind roiled at the word — of Kanen of the Sporades, one of the Beshkirian warlords. He was precisely named.
    Beshkirs, a pariah nation of slavers, thieves, fences, and pirates, had existed for half a millennium as a city-state without a real government. Instead, all its services, from garbage collection to war, were put out to the lowest bidder, and the winner’s performance was reviewed annually by the city’s property-holders. If unsatisfactory, the contract was rebid, and the former contractee subject to trial by ordeal if his performance had been overly incompetent or corrupt.
    Beshkirs had half a dozen naval lords. Kanen was regarded as one of the boldest — witnessed by his having taken a few of his galleys out before the campaign season, while storms still raged — and luckiest, considering how Zaimis’s eunuch had found his ships beached for the night and led them to the
Petrel.
    “Campaigning season?” Peirol asked.
    “When we earn our keep,” a captor said. “Taking merchantmen, mostly, from the Manoleon Peninsula.”
    “But this year, we’ll likely earn it and more,” another added. “We’ll likely sail against the Sarissans, since they’ve been cuttin’ into our gelt and the richies can’t abide that for long.”
    The other men looked frightened. Peirol asked what were the “Sarissans,” and was told to be silent; mere mention of them might bring them from nowhere.
    Peirol asked if the black ships of Beshkirs were the ones that had sacked Thyone centuries ago. One seaman guessed that Beshkirs had stolen that tale to further