Chunk 14
Hey, I wrote today! Go me! The bad news is I'm only a bit over 25K, so I need to write about 5K per day for the next five days if I want to finish. Ack! [flail] Thanksgiving must've come later in the month this year; I was a bit farther along this year when I left to go to Reno, than I was last year, but I'm farther behind now than I was when I got home last year. :( Damn. I'm past the point where I'm sure I can do this, but I'm going to give it a shot, so we'll see. [crossed fingers] I did a bit over 3K today, so that's a nice warm-up. I'll keep telling myself that....



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There were many tactics used in war which weren't strictly honorable, but winning the war as quickly as possible meant bringing as many of your own men as you could back home, alive and missing as few pieces as possible. If the commanders had to make some hard choices and take some dishonor onto themselves to make that happen, that was still their duty and part of what made warfare such a cursed business.

But that didn't mean a man had to admire the ones on the other side who did it to them. Luka could respect the men on his own side who burned crops or fouled wells -- or spied on the enemy. Or at least appreciate them, even if "respect" was going a step too far. But enemies were still enemies and moreso when they went sneaking and lying. He respected the men on the other side who faced him openly with a sword or a spear. He hated them and did his best to kill them, of course, but he could still respect them as warriors fighting for their own people, and all the more if they were skilled.

Spies, though, they were different. Luka had to acknowledge that they were necessary, but that didn't make it right, or honorable, or admirable.

Luka brushed crumbs off his hands and went to help load the packs and get ready to ride. He ignored his "master" and so long as Roscha didn't require any bowing or grovelling, Luka thought they could maybe scrape by together, at least long enough to get this thing with the gods done and get back to finding Tochi. That didn't mean he had to like the man, though.



They rode along at a walk and stopped periodically to let the horses drink or graze, and Roscha paused to speak with any travellers who were willing to rest for a few moments and exchange news.

With the journey settled into routine, Roscha informed Luka that he needed to learn Pilen, the Molani tongue, and proceded to drill him on words for their gear and supplies, the horses and their gear, things they passed, and anything else he could think of. Luka had never had much of a gift for languages, but he had to agree that it'd be useful to learn to speak the tongue of the land they were travelling to. He had a few words already, mostly profanity, plus enough to question prisoners -- "How many men?" "How many horses?" "How many archers?" "Where?" -- and enough to understand most of the answers. (That'd been where he'd picked up the swear words.)

By the time they made camp near a pond, in company with a small squad of Molani horse-archers, Luka could pick out a few words here and there when Roscha chatted with the soldiers. It was just enough to be frustrating.

They picketed the horses in a patch of dry grass, and Roscha bade Luka to lay out their blankets and fetch water and firewood from beneath the few scrubby trees while he went himself to see what food he could trade. Luka's first impulse was to suggest a few activities Roscha could indulge in by himself while Luka watched, but he stifled it. Molani law was on Roscha's side, and there were plenty of men nearby who'd be happy to help him enforce it. And Luka would be happy enough if they could add some variety to their travel provisions.

He nodded and turned his hand to setting up their small camp to one side of where the soldiers had lain their blankets. He felt some relief that Roscha hadn't asked to fully join the others; Luka was tense enough being near so many enemies without having to sleep surrounded by them.

He was hauling a leather bucket of water from the pond when one of the horse archers stepped in front of him and said something. Luka didn't understand any of the words, so he just shrugged and stepped around the man blocking his way.

That obviously wasn't the response the man had hoped for, though, because he barked an order using some of the same words, plus a few others, louder this time.

Luka said, "I don't understand," in Ruvori and shrugged again, exaggerating the motion that time and adding a facial expression that clearly appended "you idiot" to the end of his statement. It occurred to him that it probably wasn't the smartest thing he'd done recently, but it was done and besides, the man was an idiot if he thought speaking more loudly would get his point across any more clearly.

The soldier scowled at Luka and punched him in the shoulder, making most of the water slosh out of his bucket. Luka muttered a curse and turned to go back to the pon. He reminded himself that he didn't know what the Molani did to a slave who raised a hand to a freeman. He did know what the Ruvori did -- the freeman or a member of his family was allowed to flog the offending slave, and could go on as long as he liked if he were willing to pay for the hire of another slave to perform his tasks if he were injured too badly to do them himself, or to buy another slave of the same quality and skills if he were killed.

That was enough for Luka to keep his fists to himself when the Molani ass smacked him on the back of the head, then yanked him back around by one arm to face him.

"What the fuck do you want?" Luka snapped. He dropped his now completely empty bucket and just stood there glaring, his fists clenched and his stance ready to attack or defend, despite the voice running through his head reminding him that doing either would be a very bad decision.

The archer shouted something at him and swung his fist backhanded, obviously intending to crack Luka across the face with it. Luka took a step back and to the side, an easy dodge.

A snarl and a punch. Luka parried it off his forearm and sidestepped.

The horse archer was getting angry, which of course made his attacks that much wilder and easier to defend against. Luka was grinning -- it was entertaining making this idiot look like an idiot -- but at the same time he felt a thread of worry squirming up his spine. He glanced around over the idiot's shoulder, looking for anyone who might be coming near. If any of his friends wandered over, it'd probably be bad; even if they didn't decide to help him with the slippery Ruvori, he'd likely fight harder to keep from looking like an idiot in front of them.

If Roscha wandered over, that'd be better; he'd probably put a stop to whatever was going on, but Luka didn't like the idea of needing that lying bastard to save him. And the idiot archer might demand Luka be punished anyway, for the crime of not understanding whatever the fuck had been said to him.

Duck, dodge, parry, dodge.

The archer was panting hard and sweating by the time their back-and-forthing was noticed. Roscha was with the two other archers who came jogging over to see what was going on, and he ran the last few lengths faster. He shouted, "What's wrong?" in Pilen.

The archer babbled something that sounded angry and aggrieved. Luka understood the question, so he answered too. "I've no idea," he said, after the idiot had run down. "He said something and I didn't understand. I told him I didn't understand but he didn't understand what I said. Anyone with a brain in his skull would've understood from his own lack of understanding that I hadn't understood him, but apparently that sort of thought is too deep for your idiot friend here. He tried to hit me and I dodged and we've been dancing ever since."

When Roscha turned to speak to the soldier once more, Luka had no idea what most of his words meant -- he only understood "Ruvori" and "slave" and weirdly enough "torch" -- but found that he could get a general sense of what Roscha was saying by watching him and listening to his tones. Roscha sighed heavily and started to talk, sounding both apologetic and companionable, and using expansive gestures and facial expressions. He pointed at Luka once and threw up his hands, his eyes rolling in a "What can you do?" way. He sympathized and agreed, said something funny that made the other two soldiers laugh and even the idiot grin, then made some sort of earnest promise.

By the time he was done, the three horse archers were striding off, apparently satisfied by... whatever. Even the idiot was joking and seemed well enough pleased.

It was amazing Roscha had needed any help to get away from Halvic Silver. He had a honeyed tongue and had been able to talk himself out of pretty much any situation since that first near-hanging.

Roscha watched the soldiers until they were out of earshot, then turned back to Luka and said, "Go get more water, then build a fire near our blankets. I'd been thinking of sharing a fire with the others tonight, but I think it'd be better if we stayed apart. I explained that you didn't speak enough of the language to be useful to anyone who doesn't speak your barbarian tongue--" Roscha gave him an ironic grin, which Luka just glared at, "--and promised to teach you a few useful commands and responses. I think that'd be a good idea, just to prevent this sort of thing in the future."

He didn't wait for an acknowledgement, but just turned and headed back toward their pile of saddlebags. Luke rolled his eyes toward the sky and went to fetch more water.

Roscha sent him to water the horses next, while he himself put together dinner in their small tin kettle. He'd traded some of their dried mince for some mushrooms and a double handful of fresh cherries. Both went into the stew, with some more of the mince and some crumbled journey bread, with a pinch of salt and enough water to soften it all. It would've been better with some garlic and pepper, but it was good enough for Luka to down his own share and scrape the kettle with his fingers before washing it.

After eating, Luka learned that the idiot had wanted him to bring water over to the soldier's fire, but he'd used an idiom Roscha said came from the southwestern region of the empire, so Luka hadn't had a prayer of understanding him.

"Don't worry about that," Roscha said, making a throwing-away gesture with one hand. "I told them I'd teach you some useful commands, but I also said I'd be teaching you Carali Pilen and if they insisted on babbling along in that rustic tongue of theirs, they could do their own cursed chores."

Luka grunted and stared down at the fire. He wanted to say thanks because he knew the insistence that anyone who wanted to command him speak a language he had some hope of understanding was more consideration than many owners gave their slaves, but the thought of thanking Roscha for being a good master still burned his gut, so he said nothing.

Roscha poked another stick into the fire, then said, "Luka?" and waited until Luka had looked up at him. Roscha held his gaze, all humor gone from his expression, and said, "I know this is difficult, but you have to understand your place now. If you'd struck back at Tollo, I'd have had to whip you at the very least, and he could have demanded your death. He'd have made an enemy of me, but still, he could have."

"I know better than to strike a freeman," Luka snarled.

"And a good thing. But Molani slaves behave a little differently than Ruvori slaves, and you need to know the difference."

Luka glared at him. "Why? Why do I need to know anything. You took me as your slave and saved my life, I understand that. I saved yours before, so now we're even. Set me free and let me go on my way. This--" he slapped one hand on his chest where the carved symbol still stung, "--doesn't show unless I'm bathing or fucking, so who would know?"

Roscha glared right back. "We have a task," he began, but Luka cut him off."

"Pig shit. If I'm truly 'fated' to do whatever it is to stop that god of yours, then I'll do it no matter what. A man can't hide from his fate. So you can go play at intrigue back in your capital, I can go find Tochi, and whatever I do, I'll help you put down your god. Maybe Tochi's supposed to help me do it -- who knows?"

"Your goddess seemed to think we needed to stay together," Roscha pointed out. "I'm not going with you, so you need to stay with me. And no, I can't just turn you loose. You're obviously Ruvori, and in case you've forgotten, we just defeated you in a war."

Luka spat a curse at him, but Roscha ignored him and kept going.

"You'd be harassed and killed more quickly as a free Ruvori running loose in the empire than you would travelling as my slave. If someone managed to subdue you rather than kill you outright, they might well make you their slave. Much as you might think you hate me now, you'd have a much worse time of it with anyone else. At least I...." He paused, as though searching for a word. Finally he said, "I owe you my life. That means taking care of you as well as I can, for so long as we both live."

That just-- Luka tried to fit that thought into his mind and failed. It stuck out at too many angles.

"So, you mean to say that because I saved your life, you've enslaved me and mean to keep me, forever, so that you can look after me, for my own good?" Luka stared at Roscha, wondering just where he'd misunderstood because that simply couldn't be the long and short of it.

Roscha sighed and rubbed his jaw. "More or less," he said. He sounded rueful. Luka thought he should've sounded downright ashamed, because that was the most asinine thing he'd ever heard.

"It's a matter of circumstances," Roscha explained. "Normally, no, the whole enslavement thing wouldn't have entered into it. But under the circumstances it was the only thing I could do. There was no other way to keep you alive. The Patriarch commanded that all the Ruvori men be killed, every one, and the only exception was the hundred male slaves. And even that didn't stick."

"I understand that," Luka said. He was proud of himself -- his voice only grated a little. "But that was then. Now is now and here is here -- we're not in Ruvor any longer and who's to know I was in Parakovac for the seige? There are villages, towns, other cities even, with Ruvori men, and that Patriarch didn't command that all of them be killed." He paused, then looked up and frowned. "He didn't, did he?"

Roscha shook his head. "No. Not that I know of, anyway. And if he'd tried to order the slaughter of every Ruvori man in the world, I'm sure I'd have heard."

Luka gave him a sharp look, but Roscha looked perfectly serious. Which was... worse in a way than if he'd been making a joke.

"Do you think he would? Or that he might? He missed at least two of us and maybe more. If--" Luka paused and thought. Of course. "If there's truly a prophecied fate involved, then his god would have known, no? That must be why he commanded the slaughter -- he knew one of us was fated to thwart his god's plans of conquest."

Roscha nodded. "Clearly so," he agreed. "And he might well try if he thinks he can get away with it. Frankly, I don't think he can. Baruno is the single most influential god, but he's not the only one, nor is his temple all-powerful within the Empire. The generals would never allow that kind of wholesale slaughter of an entire people, or even half of an entire people. The emperor would never allow it. It'll be bad enough when word spreads about Parakovac; any city we beseige in the future will fight that much harder to fend off the same fate."

Luka stayed silent for a few moments, then said, "You're very practical."

"Yes. I am."

"That wasn't meant to be praise."

"I know." Roscha shrugged. "I can't help how I am. It serves. Better than wailing and gnashing my teeth and agonizing over the shame or horror of a thing. I can't do anything about that, but I can try to make things work on a practical level. It's easier to convince a man to change his mind if you show him where the benefit is in it for him."

"Cold bastard," Luka muttered.

"That's Master Cold Bastard to you," Roscha said, and the amusement was back in his eyes. Luka was in no mood to appreciate it, but Roscha pushed on anyway.

"Whenever there's any chance at all of us being overheard, you'll call me 'Master.' Or if you're in my favor, you may call me 'Father.' You can assume you're in my favor unless I've just chastised you for something."

"Father?" Luka blinked and tried to steer his mind back around to slave manners.

"I told you, you're my family now." Luka must have still looked confused, so Roscha said, "Molani slaves are members of their owners family, legally and morally. That's why the priests didn't kill you -- you're a Molani now, whether you like it or no. Since I'm your master, you may call me 'Father' or 'Sire.' I wouldn't recommend calling my father 'Grandsire,' however." The grin was back full on.

Luka smirked back at him and asked, "How about 'Gramp?' That's what I called my father's father until he died."

"Try it some time and find out," Roscha suggested.