angienano

Chunk 2

Sun, 09 Nov 2008 10:33:04 GMT

Wow, I got off the ship and just crashed. :( And I don't mean only sleeping a lot, although I've been doing that too. It's like all my energy and enthusiasm and writing-fu just flowed out and ran into the gutter. I'm a little short of halfway to where I should be right now, wordcount-wise. I know I can catch up; the trick is whether the oomph will kick in soon enough. [crossed fingers]

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"And so you're taking care of him in return. Good, that's properly done."

"Not everyone agrees, Father." And Arden told him how the priest of Baruno had come in and ordered all the men slaughtered.

The Emperor scowled and said, "Petty of him. A man in his position should be able to compromise around the edges. Bad enough we had to kill all the others -- there'll be repercussions from that for generations. But every last one -- except for yours, and I agree that they'll likely agitate to have him killed as well. I'll have to speak to Ripavo about that, make sure he knows when enough is enough."

Arden went down to one knee, bringing the water up to his chin. "Father, there is more." And he told him about the encounter with Ashti, and the fight between Baruno and Dereno, and Dereno's scolding. "So the Revered Lord really isn't Ripavo anymore. That is, I assume he's in there somewhere, but Baruno is riding him like a horse, and also some few others, and he plans to mount you next. Ashti and Dereno were both very clear about that."

Emperor Solan reached out and gripped Arden's chin, tipping his face up so he could stare straight into his eyes.

"You were never a deceitful boy, except in my service. You do not appear drunk or drugged."

Arden stayed silent. He knew very well how difficult it was to digest such news, even when he'd witnessed the gods' workings himself.

"An invasion from another direction," was what the Emperor finally said. "I'll give the gods due worship and respect, and spend freely to build them fine temples and monuments, but I'll not surrender my own person, not even to Baruno's service." He let go of Arden's jaw and sat back on his bench once more, but not in his previous, relaxed posture. "Was there any sign before a god takes over a person?"

"Not particularly," Arden admitted. "Ashti's priestess looked startled for a moment, then she took on Ashti's aspect. I wasn't watching when Baruno or Dereno took over the others. But clearly the god doesn't have to fully manifest his aspect, or it would be obvious that he's riding his priest, and whoever else he's taken."

"We need more wisdom than we have, then. Go find your aunt. Explain what's happened and bring her back here. I'll call for a few others and we'll have a council and decide what's to be done about this."

"Yes, Father." Arden bowed again and backed away a few steps before turning and leaving the water.

The same two slaves dried him off and dressed him, then he headed off through the marble halls of the Palace once more, Luka trailing behind.

Arden's Aunt Geralia had a fine house of her own, despite having official quarters befitting the second ranking priestess of Orlana the All-Giving. Arden tried the temple first and was rewarded when a middle-aged priestess in bright yellow with a gold-embroidered rising sun on the front of her skirt smiled recognition and offered to tell the Lady Geralia he was there.

"I hope she's not busy with something... prayerful, a ceremony or something," Luka whispered. "Your emperor seemed rather in a hurry, or at least expecting everyone else to be in a hurry."

"Your emperor too now," Arden reminded him in a like whisper. "And Aunt Geralia spends far more time going over accounts and checking for collected rents than she does praying."

Luka gave him a confused look, but before Arden could explain, the priestess returned and gestured for them to follow her down a hall and up a flight of narrow steps. She tapped on a door, then entered and said, "Your nephew, highness," and slipped away.

Sure enough, Aunt Geralia's desk was dominated by a counting board and a bewildering array of variously colored markers, with stacks of parchment around the edges and a slab of damp clay and a stylus conveniently beside her right hand. Long habit had Arden reading her notes upside down while he bowed to her, but it was only a comparison of time and interest payments on a property in--

"Enough of that, you sneaky little ferret!" His aunt's hand smeared the clay smooth before he could make out any more. Despite her harsh words, there was a wry fondness in her voice. "As if I'd leave anything sensitive out once you'd been announced."

Arden gave her a boyish grin and kissed the palm of her hand, ignoring the clay. "My apologies, Aunt Gerra. I have to keep in practice, though."

"Oh, as though I'd be fooled by that one!" She took her hand back and smacked him lightly upside the head. Arden carefully did not look at Luka; the man was probably smirking and Arden would rather not notice and be forced to punish him.

Instead he said, "No, I didn't imagine you would be, but I had to try. I'm afraid I've come to coax you away from your lair, though. My father requests that you attend him at your earliest convenience."

Geralia snorted. "I suppose that means immediately and at a run."

"Perhaps not quite running," said Arden, with a half bow.

"Well, he can wait while I put things in order," she said, and began to note the positions of the markers on her board on the slab of damp clay with swift efficiency. "What's this about, do you know?"

Arden lowered his voice, despite the fact that they were as safe from unfriendly ears as they were ever likely to get within the city, and said, "I'm afraid I've discovered a plot among the Immortals. Baruno thinks to do away with all the other gods and have their worshippers for himself."

Geralia stopped what she was doing and glared up at him. "You're crazed," she said flatly. "Or drunk."

"I wish I were -- it would be much simpler to remedy." Arden shrugged and spread his hands. "In the last month I've met Ashti of the Roads manifested, as near as I am to you. And Baruno, and Dereno."

His aunt scowled, her forehead lined with thought. "Are you sure you're not mistaken? Some priests will claim a manifestation to make a point, or borrow some extra authority."

"No, I'm sure," insisted Arden. "Ashti granted me a gift -- us, actually, since Luka was there too -- he's rather the point of it all, in fact. We can see things the gods have touched. They glow, sort of. Not like a fire, but more like a firefly. But more."

"And not the same color," put in Luka. "It's warmer, more orange, like a flame coming directly off of glowing coals."

Chunk 1

Tue, 04 Nov 2008 07:21:27 GMT

Hey, NaNo 2008, here we go. :D

I've been writing but haven't posted before now because I haven't felt like packing everything up at however much before midnight, lugging it down three decks to where I can get a signal (usually, sometimes, intermittently) and then fighting with the internet on the ship's end and the blown server on NaNo's end, to try to get a count in before midnight. Ick. So I'm just posting what I've got right now -- which is more than I need for Day Three, go me -- and I probably won't post here again until the night of the 5th, at which point I'll be home and once again using my desktop-sweet-desktop and our DSL connection. [hugs DSL connection]

For anyone who hasn't heard, I'm continuing with Swords and Shadows this year. This chunk below wraps up Chapter Seven and is about half of Chapter Eight, I think. The first six and a half chapters are still here if you want a refresher.

Please note that when I wrote about the first thousand words of this, I was horribly seasick. :P I take no responsibility for any glitches or stupidity in that chunk -- I'm just covering my eyes and promising to fix it in revision. [wry smile]

[This is my tenth cruise, by the way, and I've never been seasick before. :/ I already had a bit of the flu, though, and with my stomach already delicate, 65 mph winds (instant hurricane -- just add rain!) were enough to set me off. That's definitely an experience I never want to repeat. :( ]

Anyway, here we go -- enjoy!

Angie

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Chapter Seven, Cont.

They were at least a league on their way, past dawn-gilded fields and farmsteads, before either of them had recovered enough of their wits from where the touch of the god had scattered them to say a word.

"It's frustrating," said Roscha wryly, "how the gods seem to be willing to talk to us to tell us we're being idiots and shoo us along on or way, but are unwilling to tell us exactly what we're supposed to do, much less how."

"In that, they're much like other masters," Luka muttered.

Roscha shot him a pained look. "As to that, I've been thinking I've not handled this as well as I might have."

Luka restrained himself from commenting, and Roscha continued, "I understand that this is difficult for you, and I've tried to be as... as un-masterly as I could, to give you time to adjust. But now I think I've done you a disservice. We're home, or nearly, and you'll be expected to behave like a proper slave or be punished. You need to learn a lot, and quickly, and it's going to be more difficult than if I'd insisted earlier and gave you the time of the journey here to practice and make mistakes and take correction less harshly."

Luka felt his jaw clenching, but again bit back the words that wanted to escape. Apparently Roscha was regretting not being a harsher master, for Luka's own good? He could think of a few comments to make to that, but he was likely to regret voicing any of them, particularly if Roscha had decided it was time to turn into a disiplinarian.

He saw Roscha watch him for a moment, then sigh. "You need to understand that while I have a certain amount of latitude, there are laws and rules I can't break without consequences to both of us. Your being so obviously Ruvori just makes it more likely that the people around us will be watching, and looking forward to seeing how well I've 'tamed' you. You're a member of a conquered race and you'll be expected to act like it, which means more scrutiny and less tolerance than even other slaves get."

"So why don't you just kill me and be done with it?" Luka snarled. "If it's going to be so much trouble for you, why are we here?"

They stared at one another for a moment before Roscha looked away, and to Luka it felt as though they'd been trying to hear each other's thoughts

Although maybe it'd be just as helpful to be able to sift through his own thoughts, to make some sense out of the mess in his head. Luka had always thought, when he'd bothered thinking about it at all, that he'd rather die than be a slave. It hadn't been something he'd pondered over much, since whenever there was such a strong, decisive victory that slaves would be taken in the first place, it was usual for all the losing soldiers to be put to death anyway. No sense leaving an angry, resentful, conquered people with the skilled warriors it would need to strike back later. Killing all the soldiers meant a generation of peace at least, and when the next crop of angry boys grew into men, they'd have a hard time finding anyone among their own people to train them in the ways of war.

In previous wars, Luka had always fought with the army and had known that losing would most likely mean death, whether in battle or after.

And with the seige.... Well, Parakovac had never fallen and Luka'd had no reason to think it would this time. Treachery from inside had never occurred to him, much less that he'd have aided in it, however unknowing.

He pushed that thought away; there was no sense poking at it.

He should have died, though, whether in combat or as a soldier or on the order of the Molani god. Instead, there he was, riding down a road toward the Molani capital, alive and a slave. And although he knew he should prefer death, should be wishing he'd died with honor rather than having been left alive to scrape and fetch and grovel for a Molani prince -- and not just any one, but the one who'd brought down his city -- he found he couldn't, not truly.

He didn't want to be dead. Part of him knew that for a failing of honor, but he couldn't help wanting to live, wanting to survive. He might gain his freedom again and be able to take some measure of vengeance.

And he still had tasks to do. Even if his first instinct was to curse the gods and bid them run their own errands, there was still a chance of finding Tochi and winning him back from the Molani who'd taken him. That was worth living for.

He still hated Roscha, though.

"If you want to think of it as pretending, if that would make it easier, then you can do that," Roscha said finally. "I know you resent me, likely even hate me. I'd likely hate you if you'd brought down my city and caused the slaughter of every man I knew."

Roscha sounded stiff while making the allowance, and Luka wondered how it could be such a great admission. Surely any man would feel the same. He wasn't the one who'd been behaving strangely.

In some ways, it would've been much easier if Roscha had simply behaved like the sneering conqueror, jeering at Luka's earlier gullibility and current subservience. This Roscha, though, trying to be "understanding" was completely incomprehensible. Luka didn't know how to react to him. And it was maddening to have so little to fight against.

"If you concealed how much Pilen you understand," Roscha went on, "that would likely help. If people think you are ignorant and even somewhat stupid, they might make some allowances. Much moreso than if they perceive that you're disrespectful."

Oh, that would be a great help, Luka thought with a scowl. Play the clown, be jeered at for a simpleton. Yes, of course, much preferable.

"But however you manage it, you need to behave properly when there are others around. And once we get to Cara, we'll need to assume there are always others around, or that there might be at any moment," Roscha went on, completely oblivious to Luka's inner fuming, or perhaps merely ignoring it.

"There are passages and spy-holes, some merely concealed and some actually secret, all over the Palace. I know where many of them are, but I've never assumed I know them all. Most of the other older buildings have them as well, so you'll need to assume that we may be constantly watched.

"You'll need to walk two paces behind me and keep your head down. You're allowed to look around, of course, enough not to run into things and certainly to avoid running into people, and to be able to anticipate when I'm going to be starting and stopping and turning and such. But don't look a free man in the eye unless he gives you leave. You need only kneel before a free man if you're commanded, or if we're approaching a lord in state. Throne, carpet, flautists -- you'll recognize it. Although if you're ever in doubt about approaching someone, kneel; it's not always necessary but it's never wrong.

"Any man?" Luka asked, interrupting. "How about that farmer over there with the pigs -- should I hop off of my horse and go on my knees in the mud?"

Roscha gave him a wry smile. "Well, no. I was speaking generally of nobles and officials. And those of some station within the temples. A common farmer or crafter has the right to demand you kneel if you approach him, particularly if you're asking for something, but if you're just walking by you may ignore him."

"What if he steps in front of me and demands I kneel?" Luka knew he was acting surly, but he also wanted to know where the boundaries were if some lout who was feeling a bit too full of the fall of Parakovac decided to have some fun at the expense of an enemy slave.

"If he...?" Roscha frowned. "I've never seen that happen. But then, I'm not a slave so I suppose I might not have." He pondered for a moment, then said, "For now, if it happens just kneel for him then be on your way. If he persists in annoying you, then tell him your master is Prince Arden and he'll not be pleased to have you delayed about your tasks. If that doesn't deter him, just get away without hurting anyone and I'll handle the matter.

"When we get home, I'll ask one or two of the senior slaves if that sort of thing ever happens and what you can do about it. You've stirred my curiosity."

"I'm please to've been able to provide a few moments' amusement," Luka muttered.

Roscha sighed. "That's exactly the sort of comment you can not make once we're home," he said, sounding exasperated. "Or if you absolutely can not contain yourself, at least confine it to Ruvori, and hope that no one near understands it, and have something innocuous ready to say in Pilen if someone commands you to repeat your remark."

"That should be amusing at least," Luka said with a wicked smile.

"Be aware that if you're caught insulting someone who does happen to speak Ruvori, I'll be very happy to thrash you for it should they demand it, which they likely will. This is going to be difficult enough without you strewing about grease for the hornets."

"Yes, Master."

Roscha sighed once more. "We're both going to end up banished for this, aren't we?"

"I never wanted to come here in the first place," Luka muttered.

Despite their sniping back and forth, Roscha managed to get through quite a lot of Molani slave behavior by the time they approached the gates of Cara. Luka paid more attention than he let on; despite his jeering, he would rather not end up getting thrashed if he could help it. He'd decided to play his part and stay out of trouble, but that didn't stop him from jabbing Roscha while they went on, especially while they were on the road with no one in earshot.

Nearer to the city, however, they joined a throng of other travellers -- on horseback, in wagons and on foot -- all approaching the northeast gate through the suburb of Crescent Shore. Roscha said that it'd started out as a village around the fort which guarded the causeway entrance, and had built up over the centuries. There were such settlements around all the causeway gates on the mainland side, although Crescent Shore was the largest and busiest because of its position. The roads north and east both gave onto the Crescent Shore road, and for the last three leagues the road was in good repair and paved, wide enough for ten horses to pass abreast.

Despite that, it was still crowded. They approached at mid-morning and Roscha said the worst of the morning traffic had passed, but to Luka it was still more people than he'd seen on the move at one time short of a battlefield in full charge.

It took them until well after the noon hour to traverse those last leagues. Their best pace was a walk, but most of the time they simply stood, waiting for those ahead of them to move so they could guide their horses forward a few steps.

While they shuffled ahead a slow step at a time, vendors took advantage of the captive audience and hawked their wares from under the horses' very hooves. When the sun was directly over their heads, Roscha purchased eel sausages from one vendor, fried onion slices from another and beer in cheap, unfired mugs from a third, and that was their lunch.

"When you finish the beer, save the mug and drop it on the causeway as we pass over," Roscha said. "It's just clay. It'll add a bit to the roadway and save the repair crews some trouble next spring."

The raw clay gave the beer a dusty flavor, but Luka was thirsty enough not to care overmuch. And he had to admit the idea of the travellers paying an extra mite to buy their beer in mugs which would become part of the road -- essentially paying for the privilege of helping keep the imperial roadways maintained -- got him to smirking in reluctant admiration. Only the Molani would think of that.

And he couldn't even think of exactly which Molani had engineered the scheme. He couldn't quite imagine the Emperor making a proclamation about beer mugs sold on the street, nor whoever their engineer in charge of maintaining the imperial roads might be. Maybe the vendors thought it up themselves, as a way of selling beer to people who were moving and might be a block or two away by the time they finished drinking? (Although certainly not at noon-time.)

"Were there ever bins to collect the empty mugs?" he called over to Roscha.

He got a grin and a nod in return. "For a while, yes. But then the Brewers' Guild just had to send slaves to empty the bins and take the shards to a yard where the Imperial Road Works collected them, then sent their own slaves to strew the crushed shards along the road. An engineering journeyman in my grandfather's day suggested removing the bins and letting folk drop the mugs wherever they happened to be when they were empty so feet, hooves and wheels could trod them down into the road's surface. They still have to add gravel periodically, but it's a great savings. The journeyman was promoted to master for the suggestion, and his master got a noble title.

"Isn't that always the way of it?"

"Since the dawn of all things" Roscha agreed, "When Doro and Boro made the world, of earth and water, and it was given to the gods to rule. The one who does the work never gets but a single coin."

It had the sound of a proverb. Luka had never heard it, but it rang true anyway. Certainly King Misac hadn't offered to divide Tevaric among the heroes of the battle which had conquered it. And for that matter, no one had offered Parakovac to Roscha, despite his having brought about its fall through his own efforts. Those who stood back and commanded "Do thus," were the ones who were rewarded when "thus" was done.

Well, Luka had a "thus" to do, and he didn't care a smashed shard who was rewarded when it was done. He only wanted it to be done, so he could be about his own "thus," finding Tochi and winning him free from the man who held him. For all Luka cared, Roscha as his "master" could take whatever reward came to one who saved the world from a power-mad god. To Luka, it was just a distraction.

Chapter Eight

In the hours it took to get through Crescent Shore, Arden had time to go over quite a lot of slave protocol with Luka, both things he'd said before and new things he thought the man should know. He could never be sure how much Luka had absorbed, though, or -- just as important -- how much of it he'd obey when the time came. Luka wasn't a stupid man, Arden had seen plenty of proof of that in the weeks he'd known him, so he should be able to see where necessity lay. But he was also a proud, angry man and Arden wasn't sure the pride and anger wouldn't overwhelm his wisdom at exactly the wrong time and get them both into trouble.

All he could do was hope the wisdom prevailed, and that Luka would save the snapping and teasing for himself, and for times when they were alone, more or less.

At the gatehouse leading from the gate plaza into the fortified tunnel and onto the causeway, the road narrowed from ten horses wide to only five. Traffic was directed by a senior slave of Imperial Commerce, who had two squads of cavalry and two of spearmen under his direction, as well as dozens of lesser slaves who served as his eyes and hands, dashing about through the crowds issuing priority tags to those who wished to travel through, clearing the way for overly large wagons or parties, or particularly urgent travellers, and making sure nothing piled up on either end of the causeway for too long.

Of course, what was "too long" was subject solely to the judgement of the senior traffic slave, who commanded his small but vital fief with an iron will and was intimidated by no one short of Arden's imperial father, and at times Arden wouldn't even swear to that.

Arden's status as both a royal prince and a courier got him a high priority tag. He and Luka queued up to the north side of the plaza behind a blue-painted rope held by half a dozen Commerce slaves, while two regiments of cavalry galloped out the causeway gate like a shining silver river, taking up the entire width of the road by themselves. Arden recognized Duke Sedano's troops and raised a hand to a couple of officers he knew, although none of them noticed him in the crowd to salute back.

A blue flag was flying from the top of the gatehouse to signal the slaves on the other end to send blue-priority traffic from the city side immediately after the cavalry. When the cavalry had passed, the slaves on their side holding the blue ropes trotted forward to make an open path for Arden and other important (or at least long-awaiting) travellers in the blue group from the mainland side, and they passed by other blue priority travellers going the other way on their own side of the road.

Luka gave Arden a bemused look when they finally took their turn in the tunnel. "How long until the people revolt and hang the traffic slaves from the city walls?"

"They did it already," Arden said. "It was... thirty-some years ago now. A drover with a load of bricks or some such thing had been waiting for two and a half days and snapped. He pulled out a bow and killed the senior traffic slave. Others rose up and started killing the others. They were executed, of course, but they'd killed or badly wounded everyone who had any skill at managing the traffic here; nothing went in or out over this causeway at faster than a very slow crawl for the better part of a week, which was how long it took the twenty slaves they dragged over from the other causeway gates to straighten everything out and work out the best routine. I'm told it's a bit different for every gate, but don't ask me why. Before it was all over with, the people who'd been cheering on the murderers were shitting on their graves."

Luka laughed and shook his head. "Molani are crazy."

"Keep that in mind next time you think you can get away with something," Arden jabbed back.

He got back a silent glower, but the "silent" part gave him some hope.

They passed through the gate tunnel on the island side and then out into the hot noon sun once more. Arden tossed his blue clay tag into a bin and headed down the inward traffic lane to the edge of the gateway plaza, past lines and clusters of travellers with business on the mainland. One out of the plaza, he turned southwest for Palace Street. After having two different gods nagging at him, and a third trying to stop him, he wanted to get Luka into his father's presence as soon as possible.
====================
"So, do you have a plan?" asked Luka. "Something beyond introducing me to your father and having the shining force of my cheerful personality drive away all evil influences."

The "subdued" state didn't last long with him apparently, although Arden had had plenty of opportunity to note it during their journey.

"That's essentially it for a first step," he admitted. "I want to report what happened so he'll be aware of the danger. I imagine he'll want to consult with some of the senior priests, and even if he doesn't, I certainly do. If I'm going to have random gods popping up and nagging at me, I want to have some idea of what's going on and what it all means."

"I suppose that'll do for a start," Luka admitted. "I don't have any better plan, at any rate. The gods seem to be sure I'll know what to do when the time comes, so we can only hope they're correct."

"I usually prefer to let fate unwind in its own way and not give it too much thought," Arden agreed. "Having to try to figure out what you're bound to do is enough to give anyone a headache."

After some zigging about to line things up properly around buildings which had been too grand and important to knock down during the last remaking of the city, Palace Street ran directly south, in the direction the sun passed, toward the imperial Palace. It was straight and broad, except for two places where more grand, important buildings stuck out into it. It rather spoiled the look of it all, but luckily there was enough space for traffic to pass so the fault was only aesthetic.

It'd be a gauge of how power had shifted, though, if the mansion of Baron Chepano, or the Temple of Orlana Dawning, were ever cleared away to straighten the street.

Come to think of it, Arden realized as they rode past the temple, if Baruno has his way, the sun goddess's temple will see the wreckers sooner rather than later.

The Imperial Palace on its rise was an impressive sight to anyone first-come to the city, with its boundary walls of gold-colored granite and the walls of the building itself faced in white and green marble, both kept clean and polished. The windows were framed in gold and the balconies above railed in silver, at least on the front. The Palace had been rebuilt more often than any other building on the island; whether after having sunk into the swampy soil earlier on, or having been knocked down when some emperor or another had a whim to change it, and the funds and leisure to indulge himself.

The multiple sinkings and dismantlings, both complete and partial, had built up a sturdy mound of rock and packed earth around the Palace, with the result that it was the most solid place in Cara. The boundary wall was impressive to look at, yes, but would also be hell to beseige, assuming an enemy could get catapults and such over the causeways in the first place.

And as he'd mentioned to Luka, there were many secret ways within the building, and beneath it too. Some had been built for purpose, while others were simply there, left over from rebuilding and reworking and previous incarnations of the building. It was almost as though there were a ghost-building existing in the same space as the living one.

On that day, though, Arden took Luka in through the main gate, then around to leave their horses at the stable. Varit, one of the senior stable slaves, bid Arden welcome home and shooed him and Luka off, assuring him that his animals would be cared for and his things taken to his suite before he arrived there himself. It was likely true, since the possibility of their moving quickly through the Palace without being stopped was laughable.

Sure enough, at the east door, a small gang of slaves bowed and called greetings and blessings upon them while hustling them into one of the small bathing chambers to one side. They were stripped and settled onto wooden stools in the humid, tiled room and scrubbed with warm, scented water. Arden had been feeling dirty enough for long enough not to begrudge the time spent too badly. He had a short whispered conference with the head greeting slave, letting him know their plans so arrangements would be made for them.

Luka was smart enough to keep his mouth shut and go along, for which Arden was grateful. But when the slaves had removed his leather vest and his shirt, they fluttered around and made much of his scar. Luka scowled at their chatter, which was doubtless too fast and too prettily accented for him to understand.

"They're saying that you've been honored in the old way," Arden explained in low-voiced Ruvori. "The salted mark is hardly ever given these days, so they're speculating about what great deed you could have performed to have merited it."

Luka snorted and said, "Such honor I could have gone my whole life without. Are you going to tell them how I earned it, bound and bloody on my back?"

Arden looked away from Luka for a few moments, wishing he could lift the man's bitterness. He understood it, but it brought neither of them anything good or useful. The world was as it was, and neither of them could change the past.

Finally he said, "Yes, I'll tell them how you earned it," and he changed to Pilen and told the greeting slaves about how he'd been taken by an enemy mob who'd been determined to hang him, and how Luka had confronted them and driven them off, with only a boy-apprentice to help him. He made the mob sound much larger and more fierce than it was, but that was the way of tales after all.

He deliberately used some simple words Luka would understand, so he'd know which take Arden was telling.

The slaves were suitably impressed and did nearly as much bowing and obeisance to Luka as they did to Arden.

"There," Arden murmured. "The slaves all gossip like a tree full of redbirds. Before the evening meal, every slave in the palace will know who you are and what service you rendered me. And by midnight all their masters will know as well."

"Do you expect me to thank you for that?" Luka grated. "It never occurred to you that I don't want to be known as a man who aided the spy who brought down my city?"

"I know you far to well to expect anything close to thanks from you," Arden said, letting some of his exasperation show. "But unless you've lived in a palace, you've no idea what sort of pecking order and hierarchy thousands of slaves can come up with among themselves. As a new slave, and a Ruvori at that, you'd have been near the bottom of the personal slaves, and whenever you were away from me you'd have been bowing and scraping to them to be allowed to take a single step. Now you're a hero -- remember that they're Molani slaves -- and they know you've a salt mark. That gives you status among them, and your life will be much easier.

"And no," he added before Luka could say a word, "I don't expect you to thank me for that either."

They were dried with soft cloths and their hair combed, then appropriate clothing brought. Arden recognized some of his own clothes, fetched with haste from his rooms by some running slave through the narrow servants' passages, but for Luka, one of the bath slaves sized him up by eye and brought some plainer clothing, pants and a shirt and vest, with light indoor sandals, from the stores kept in the next room for appropriately clothing visitors who had nothing fit to be seen in. It wouldn't do for the Emperor or his courtiers to have to gaze upon poorly dressed folk. Only the most dire emergency would justify anyone going directly into the imperial presence in sweat and stains.

When they were dressed, they were given buns filled with spiced meat -- steamed buns rather than baked or fried, so there'd be fewer crumbs to sweep up after them. -- and sent on their way, with a slave before them to clear the path. Arden managed to persuade the young man not to call out his name every six steps as they went along the main corridors.

"Have they planned how many bites we'll take and how many times we'll chew before swallowing?" Luka asked in a low voice. He was trying to sound sarcastic but Arden recognized some of the shock common to visitors thrust into the Palace mechanisms head-first.

"It wouldn't surprise me," Arden said with a quick grin.

In the ante-chamber outside the Emperor's rooms, another pair of slaves wiped their hands with a moistened cloth -- doubtless having been told through some magical form of slave communication that they'd been eating on the way -- and brushed their clothing for invisible crumbs.

While they were getting their final going-over, Arden murmured, "Father will have just finished a meal and will be relaxing in the bath. This will be casual, which I'm just as happy about. I'd have hated to have to explain about a conspiracy of gods in front of the full court."

Luka just nodded, and then a chamber slave threw open the carved and painted double doors to the imperial bathing chamber and announced, "His Royal Highness, Prince Arden Solanus Molano," then slipped to one side.

Arden straightened his spine and strode through the door, praying the Luka would follow the correct two paces behind and to the left.

He stopped halfway between the door and the edge of the mosaicked bath, then went down on one knee and bowed. He didn't breathe until he saw Luka out of the corner of one eye, copying him.

"Arden," his father said, "come in here and let me have a look at you."

"Yes, Father." Arden bowed his head once more, then stood and held out his hands so two slaves could remove the clothing two others had put on him only a few minutes earlier. When he was naked, he stepped into the hot pool and waded over in toward the Emperor, who was seated on a sponge-padded bench on the far side. He held his arms up once more and turned slowly, giving his father a good look, while stealing a look or two of his own.

His Imperial Majesty was a short man in his late sixties. He was still sturdy, with muscles like iron beneath his sagging, age-spotted skin. The top of his head was bald, and the curly fringe around it was a mixture of silver and white. His face was square like Arden's, with heavy features and sharp eyes. No one ever took this man for a fool, at least not more than once.

"No new scars," commented the Emperor. "I hear I've this new slave of yours to thank for that." He jabbed a blunt finger at Luka, who had thankfully remained on his knees on the uncomfortable tile near the door.

"Yes, Father." Arden wasn't at all surprised that his father had already heard what there was to hear from the slaves' grapevine; that'd been another reason he'd told the greeting slaves -- to save some time once he was in his father's presence. Also, the old man liked to be on top of things and tended to be in a better mood if he'd heard at least some of one's news through his spies.

Chunk 17

Sat, 01 Dec 2007 07:08:06 GMT

Well, it's not midnight yet but I know I'm not going to do much more than this. It's just a few hundred words and completely pathetic, but hey, the boys are moving again. :) And we're at a decent stopping point, which is better than leaving you all in the middle of a paragraph, right?

I really ran out of steam a few days ago and I have no idea why. Alea and I were talking about trying again in January, so we'll see what happens then. I have some writing committments for December that I'm actually looking forward to, so that's good.

So, for a temporary wrap....

==============

Roscha hauled himself to his knees and Luka stepped over and pulled him up the rest of the way out of reflex. Luka was still staring at the glowing god, his second in less than a month and if it kept up he was going to find himself becoming a pious man.

Dereno planted the head of his hammer on the floor and leaned on the shaft with both hands so he could stare down at Luka. "And why are you still here? You could have been in Cara by now, dealing with this outrage."

Luka froze, pinned into place for a moment by the force of the god's direct attention. Then he shook off the glamour and stared right back. "Because going any faster would have killed or lamed our horses and left us walking, and we wouldn't have gotten here for another month at least, if we'd made it at all."

The god drew himself up and scowled. "Have you never learned any manners, boy?"

"Ahh...." Luka found himself unable to bring forth any actual words from his mouth, for the first time in his memory.

"I apologize for him," Roscha said quickly. Luka felt a heavy hand on his shoulder and Roscha swayed against him. "He's -- we're both -- rather shocked, which I hope you can understand, holy Dereno." Roscha dipped into an awkward bow and dragged Luka down with him, although for Luka it ended up more like a squat since he was supporting most of Roscha's weight as well as his own.

Dereno's fuming black gaze turned to Roscha, which gave Luka a chance to blink a few times and collect his fleeing thoughts.

"You'd do well to apologize for yourself, boy," Dereno said with a snort. "You're the one making the decisions here. What is your excuse for ambling along as though you hadn't a care?"

"Uhh, revered sir, the horses--"

Dereno cut Roscha off with an impatient gesture. "And you didn't take advantage of the courier stations, why?"

"Uhh, they're for official business. I mean, I've never--"

Dereno drew himself up and bellowed, "And if saving your emperor isn't official business then just how do you define it?"

"Uhhh...."

Luka couldn't help smirking. He straightened up, hauling Roscha along with him, and patted him on the shoulder. "My master obviously failed to comprehend the immediacy of the situation," he said.

"This is on both of you." Dereno glared back at Luka, and he felt himself wilting once more. "And don't think you can get away with sass and disrespect just because he's the responsible one. Since he owns you, you're counted as wealth, which means you're under my hand. Don't push me, Ruvori."

Luka ducked his head and had to fight not to fall to his knees. It helped when Dereno snapped, "Well? Why are still loafing here? Off with you!"

Luka and Roscha dragged each other outside and found their horses tacked and loaded. They were cantering down the road before the sun was fully up over the horizon.

Chunk 16

Thu, 29 Nov 2007 08:03:55 GMT

Less tonight than last night. At least I finished Chapter Six and got a good start on Chapter Seven. Enjoy. :)

=============

Luka made a startled exclamation into Arden's mouth, then let go of his arm and reached up to grip his hair hard before attacking back.

They grappled for dominance, with a little less violence but a lot more passion.

So far as Arden was thinking at all, he was sure he'd win that battle. They were matched fairly evenly when it came to brawling but on this particular battlefield, Arden was sure he was the leader in experience, by several orders of magnitude. The Ruvori were moralizing prigs who stoned, strangled or drowned men who lay with other men. Luka's desires obviously leaned in that direction, but any actual experience he'd had would have been fast, furtive, and weighed down with shame, and likely engaged in with another man just as hesitant and just as inexperienced.

Arden, on the other hand, had been exploring men's bodies and learning how to give and take pleasure from someone who was made the same way he was ever since his cock first stiffened.

What he hadn't considered, though, was the possibility that he simply wanted Luka more than Luka wanted him, and what that would do to the power balance.

Or maybe he'd just underestimated Luka's experience. That was always possible too.

What happened was that Luka took control, shoved a knee between Arden's thighs and a hand between his cheeks, while fucking his mouth with a tongue that felt like it was sucking out Arden's brain. Some unknowable number of heartbeats later Arden was spasming against Luka's body and moaning into his mouth while making a hot, sticky mess in his trousers.

Arden went limp against the floor, panting hard. He squeezed his eyes closed and imagined Luka grinning down at him while rubbing himself and unfastening his own trousers in preparation for taking his turn at pleasure. Arden knew it was just a phantom in his mind, though, and sure enough the next thing he felt was an abrupt wave of chill over his sweat-dampened skin.

He looked up and saw Luka stalking over to a corner, where he leaned both hands against the wall and rested his forehead on the hewn granite.

The tension was obvious in the curve of Luka's spine. The muscles were deeply shadowed in the flicker of candlelight, and shifted slowly in and out with long breaths.

Arden wasn't in the habit of leaving a partner wanting. It was rude, for one thing, and for another it was unlikely to get him a repeat encounter. He found enough energy to haul himself to his feet and walk over behind Luka.

He laid a hand on Luka's shoulder but Luka spun around and smacked it off.

A hateful stare bored into Arden's eyes and Luka spat, "Don't touch me! If you want another go then find yourself a whore!"

Arden took a quick step back, then stopped. A rush of sympathy and fondness filled him, and he said gently, "Not me. For you."

Luka just stared at him with a confused scowl. Arden decided to just show him.

He went down to one knee and nuzzled the stiff bulge in Luka's trousers. He heard Luka suck in a sharp breath, but the other man didn't move and Arden took that as approval, or at least aquiescence.

The cord at Luka's waist loosened easily and Arden slid the cloth down over the swollen cock. When he let go, the loose pants dropped to the floor. He leaned in once more and licked the head just peeking out of its sheath, then slid his tongue down the shaft, inhaling Luka's musky scent.

Luka's hips twitched and his shaft swelled to its full extent, brushing Arden's cheek. He cupped Luka's balls with one hand, leaned in and kissed them both, then brushed a row of kisses back up his cock to the tip.

"Roscha...." Luka's voice moaned out, long and low, and his hands twined in Arden's curls. Arden smiled and took the head of Luka's cock into his mouth with a hard suck. Luka's voice soared up in pitch, as though he were singing Arden's name. Well, his assumed name. The one he'd used for some weeks. Close enough.

Arden let his lips slide down farther and take in more of Luka's cock. He sucked in short pulses, first in an even rhythm and then randomly. He spider-walked his hand behind Luka's balls to the spot just before his entrance, then rubbed there with two knuckles.

Luka's hips jerked hard and his hands clenched around two fistfulls of Arden's hair. One more long, hard suck and Luka climaxed into Arden's mouth.

The strong taste and familiar feel was enough to get Arden's cock feeling interested once more, but he pushed the thought aside. Once this was done, he doubted Luka would be up for anything more. Arden had no problem admitting out loud that Luka was a strong, handsome man, and one he desired. Luka would need to think about it, and likely agonize for a while, before coming to the same conclusion about Arden. Or even Roscha.

Maybe particularly Roscha.

Chapter Seven

Luka awoke next to Roscha the next morning and immediately rolled off the bed. He pulled his clothes on as quickly and silently as he could, then slipped out the door and went in search of bread and beer; that sounded like the proper sort of thing for a slave to do for his master, and it gave Luka an excuse to be as far away from Roscha as he could practically get, at least for a while.

One of the black-tunicked brothers was laying small rounds of warm bread on the hearth in the common room. The bread was soft and fresh, not just old rocklike loaves warmed over coals; the dough must've been prepared the night before, and the bakehouse fired up well before dawn. Luka approved.

He grabbed one of the rounds and sat on one of the long benches to eat it. A good slave wouldn't disturb his master while he was sleeping, right? He'd been given no orders about when Roscha wanted to leave, so waking him early would be wrong.

That piece of logic completed, he leaned against the rough plank table and took another bite of his bread.

He didn't really want to think about the previous night, but he had no idea what had happened. Or rather, he did what had happened, in the sense of what, but he was completely confused as to why it'd happened or what it meant.

Roscha grabbing him and kissing him and rubbing off on him for his own pleasure -- that made sense. He'd expected that and more the whole time they'd been travelling. The only thing surprising there was that he hadn't been fucked again yet.

But the other -- that made no sense at all, and Luka had come to realize that things he didn't understand could get him into trouble, even get him killed from what Roscha had said and Luka believed him.

So why? Why bother? Why go down on his knees to Luka, to his slave, and pleasure him with his mouth like a whore or a woman or a twink? That was a position of weakness, of shame if anyone saw him. It was something one did only if one had to, if the other was stronger or more forceful or perhaps as a promised trade, for reciprocation later or in exchange for fucking the other man or something, but not for nothing. The one who knelt, whether to suck or be fucked, was the twink, the girl-man, and no one took that role willingly or happily.

Except Roscha had. He'd had no reason at all to do it. He'd already had his own pleasure, and as Luka's master -- his owner -- he could do whatever he wanted, including killing Luka with his own hands or ordering another to do it and no one would stop him or even comment. Roscha had all the power, so why?

It had to be some sort of trick. Some play to get Luka's guard down, to get his sympathy or gratitude. He'd been shouting about wanting Luka to behave like a proper slave and then suddenly they were kissing; it had to be a strategy to get Luka to bend to him. Maybe he thought that if he could seduce Luka -- literally! -- he'd be easier to manage and command, like a woman bending to her lover's will after some sweet talk and gifts.

Except Roscha had taken the woman's part so once again it made no sense.

There had to be something behind it but Luka had no idea what it might be. There was something he wasn't seeing, wasn't getting, and that made him nervous and angry both. He felt like Roscha was making a fool of him somehow, just because he couldn't think of any other explanation.

Except that wasn't an explanation, it was just an assumption because nothing else fit.

Fuck.

Luka finished his bread and went back to get another one for Roscha. He picked up a clay vessel from a table near the beer vat and dipped it full. When he turned to go back to their room with Roscha's breakfast, though, he saw the man himself -- his master -- walking toward him.

Roscha grinned at him and took the beer, slugged down about half of it in a dozen quick swallows, then handed the vessel back to Luka. He took the bread and said, "We need to leave soon, so eat all you want now," before biting into the round.

Luka moved away back to the bench and sat. The bread had filled him well enough; last night's plate had been piled high with roasted hen and carrots and greens and more bread and he'd polished it clean. By the time he was done with the bear, Roscha had finished his bread. He commanded the brother by the hearth to see that their things were taken out and their horses tacked and loaded, then gestured for Luka to follow him.

Roscha led the way outside and across the yard, to Dereno's temple. The building was squat and stolid, heavy with carved stone and ponderous satisfaction. Inside, more carvings high on the walls near the ceiling showed miners extracting ore, smelters processing it into metal in huge, mounded ovens, and smiths working the metal into tools and weapons and jewelry. Below those carvings, the walls were painted with scenes of commerce, trade and wealth and comfort. A larger figure which was probably meant to be Dereno himself distributed wealth from his hands to smaller people gathered around him.

There was no explanation in the pictures as to why he gave so much more to the rich and noble, but Luka wasn't really surprised.

Roscha fished around in his purse and pressed six silver coins -- Molani lunars -- into Luka's hand. He leaned over and whispered, "You give five of them to Dereno, in the ore bucket there." He pointed to an elaborately worked silver bucket the size of the beer vat in the hostel. It was trimmed with gold filigree and set with rough-cut gems in a way no ore bucket ever had been.

Luka stepped up to the bucket, to one side of the altar, and tossed five of the coins in, one at a time. They clinked on what was obviously a heap of similar coins, although the bucket was set too high for Luka to actually see inside. He looked back at Roscha, who tugged him to the front of the altar, on the center of the wall, beside the bucket, and the knelt. Luka copied him.

Roscha murmured a prayer to Dereno, offering praise for his generosity and asking his blessing on their mission. Luka's attention wandered and he looked around the room some more.

The was a doorway to one side which doubtless led to the inner sanctuary, where only the priests would go and where the private, more sacred altar would be. The outer room, as with every temple Luka had ever visited, was open to anyone who cared to come in and pray and hopefully make a gift to the god, which would be spent by the god's priests, who were always eager to be helpful to their holy patron.

That early in the morning there was only one other person present, a brother in a black tunic with white trim. He was sweeping the floor and had a polishing cloth tucked into his belt. The brother was a youngish man, a few years short of Luka's age so far as he could tell, and seemed completely absorbed in his task, or perhaps still half asleep, until he suddenly stopped and straightened.

Luka could see every muscle in the young man's body go stiff, then he dropped his broom and turned. He glowed; every exposed span of skin shone with light but without glaring. Luka could see him with perfect clarity but at the same time the light filled his eyes.

The glowing brother stared hard at Luka, then his face took on a look of outrage and he stalked toward the altar, drawing a silver-headed hammer with one hand.

Shit!

Luka smacked Roscha on the shoulder with one hand, then got a grip and dragged him away, ignoring his protests at his interrupted prayer.

"Never mind that, look! What do we do?" Luka waved toward the brother and his raised hammer. Roscha wouldn't be executed for fighting back -- or would he, in the brother's own temple? -- but would it do any good when the man was obviously god-taken?

Roscha swore and called, "Dereno, help us!" Luka wasn't sure if it was just more swearing or an actual request, but either way he echoed it.

The brother swung his hammer at Luka, who ducked. Roscha grabbed the man's arm, but a quick shake tossed a good four lengths away. The hammer swung again and Luka dove to one side, then did a quick roll back onto his feet.

Laws or no, fighting back didn't seem terribly effective. After the previous night, he knew exactly how strong Roscha was and the brother had tossed him aside like a troublesome puppy.

Luka dodged and ducked and managed to avoid being hit by that hammer, but he knew he'd tire eventually and he suspected the brother wouldn't. Roscha got up behind the man and tried to pin his arms, but the brother shook him off balance, then did a quick forward bend and threw him to the floor. Luka saw Roscha's eyes glaze over and he went limp for a moment.

Just as Luka was trying to decide whether simply running out of the temple and as far away as he could get would be of any use, another glowing figure strode in through the front door he'd been eyeing as an exit. The man was tall and strong, with grey-streaked hair and the hugely muscled arms and shoulders of a miner or a smith. He wore a leather smith's apron and carried a hammer as long as his arm, with a head to it the size of a boot.

"Not in my house!" he bellowed. His voice was deep and resonant and filled the whole world with anger. "Out! Now! And leave my people alone or you'll find out what it is to be my enemy!"

The brother sneered at the newcomer and retorted, "You're my enemy already, you grimy fool." His own voice was slightly higher but just as carrying and rich.

"Out!" Rage shook the stone building and the second man swung his huge hammer. It passed straight through the younger man and didn't appear to do any damage, but its target stiffened, lost his glow, and collapsed to the floor, just a man again.

Chunk 15

Wed, 28 Nov 2007 08:09:31 GMT

OK, I've been stuck and this is a really lousy time to be stuck. :/ I managed to break 30K words, which is where I should've been at this time last night, if I wanted to have any hope at all of hitting 50K on time. I'm really doubting I'm going to make the deadline, but I'll keep pushing and see how far I can get. [sigh]

=================

Luka thought about addressing the Molani emperor as "Gramp" and decided to save it for some time when he'd become weary of life. Or perhaps for a time when he was travelling in some foreign land, several months' travel distant, and sending a message back.

He was as close to relaxing as he'd come since the seige had begun, until Roscha banked the fire and lay down on one of the blankets, then pulled the other one over him and patted the space next to him, obviously expecting Luka to come sleep near him. Luka scowled, but before he could object, Roscha said, "You need to be near me. Their water skins are full of beer and they've been drinking it all day. If we're obviously together, they'll leave you alone."

Once it'd been brought to his attention, it was obvious that the soldiers across the clearing were nowhere near settling down for the night. They were as raucus as any he'd ever camped with and clearly enjoying their drink. It wouldn't have been a problem if he'd been a free man; he could handle any six amorous drunks, or even a shamed and murderous drunk.

But he couldn't fight back. And right then he felt as much like an owned piece of flesh as any slave in a mine with an iron collar around his throat.

The night air was too cold to be comfortable without a blanket, and it would get worse as the night lengthened. Luka settled down next to Roscha, tense and angry but not foolish enough to insist on freezing just to be contrary. Roscha's arm settled around his waist and Luka had to clench his hands together to stop himself from throwing it off.

"If you need to visit the trench in the night," Roscha whispered, "wake me and I'll go with you."

Luka squeezed his eyes closed and growled, "Yes, Master."

Chapter Six

Twenty days later they rode down out of the Ulder Pass and entered the capital province of Pilenem. The eastern border was only another five easy days' ride from the city and Arden felt a knot between his shoulderblades loosening.

He knew there was no rational reason to relax at that point; if anything, the closer they got to Cara, the closer they got to the seat of Baruno's temple and his Patriarch's reach. Despite all his travels, though, this land was most familiar and he allowed his guard down enough to smile a little at the neat spread of fields and woods and hamlets extending from the base of the mountains.

If Arden felt at home here, though, he knew Luka would not. Ruvor was jagged and rocky, cut with rivers and spotted with small, hanging pastures. It was herding country if it was anything, with some mining and quarrying here and there; most of Ruvor's wealth came from Parakovac Ruvor's position as a trading hub. The land was harsh to look at, though, and it bred a harsh-looking people. Ruvor's wild cliffs and peaks were echoed in Luka's narrow, sharp-featured face.

Arden's own face, smooth and square, reflected Pilenem's softer, tamed landscape. The uneven fields, squashed in among one another wherever there was a bit of space, looked chaotic enough, but their straight lines, even corners and gentle swells and hollows spoke of many centuries of carving and cultivation. There was hardly a rock larger than a man's head to be found in the whole province, once one got out of the surrounding mountains, unless it'd been chiselled and toted and fitted into a wall somewhere.

The Molani liked order and were determined to bring it to their world. And Arden had to admit that the definition of what was "theirs" was a fluid thing, easily expandable as opportunity presented itself.

It wasn't what Luka was accustomed to, though, and coming in as a slave wasn't the best way to come to appreciate Imperial customs. Arden knew Luka had been making an effort to control himself in a difficult situation, and Arden had given him as much freedom as he could. As they'd drawn closer to the capital, though, they'd spent less and less time alone, and when they were with others Luka had to behave with some minimal propriety. Arden had only so much freedom himself; if he -- or Luka while wearing his mark -- attracted too much critical attention, Arden would have to rein him in. Public attention would demand public discipline, and Arden knew that if he were forced to it, he'd lose what few gains he'd made with Luka, and might lose him for good.

Well, that'd been enough to tighten his shoulders up again. Luka gave Arden, riding quiet and competent to his left, a quick look.

He still held himself like a warrior rather than a slave. He was too confident, too solid, too aggressive even when completely still. He'd learned to keep his gaze down around free men, but managed to give the impression that he was watching everything out of the corner of his eye, taking everything in and ready to respond in a heartbeat. Which was, of course, proper for a warrior.

There was only one position Arden could imagine Luka fitting into for any length of time, much less the rest of his life. Unfortunately it required a degree of trust which would be foolish at that point.

The Torchbearers were bodyguard-slaves, strong and sharp and dangerous. They were the only Molani slaves allowed to go armed and only a complete fool would harrass an imperial prince's Torchbearer.

It would be a perfect place for Luka, but Arden would be responsible for his every action. With Luka's current attitude, that would be a disaster, even if he didn't dash off at the first opportunity.

And he likely would, whether or not he knew where to start looking for Tochi. Arden had very deliberately kept any information about Yarro, including his name, from Luka for just that reason; if he knew where to go he was certain to hare off at the earliest opportunity, trusting in his "fate" to take care of the larger problem while he chased down his apprentice.

But fate involved everyone and everything, and Arden's own better judgement told him that ignoring Baruno would be foolish, no matter what else or who else had to be left to take care of themselves for a time. Arden's own actions were part of whatever fate was written, so he felt confident that acting as he thought best and hauling Luka along would work out just as well.

Arden hoped Luka would... well, at least stop hating him one day. He knew that forcibly keeping Luka by his side wouldn't make that day come any sooner. But letting him go to be killed by a pack of brigands, or by some drunken fool who was a little too enthusiastic about celebrating the victory at Parakovac, wasn't an acceptable alternative either. Luka was his responsibility now, and his death would go down on Arden's tally, to be explained at the threshold of the dead.

"It's very full," Luka commented. He distracted Arden from his musings, which was likely a favor more than anything else, considering where his thoughts had been taking him.

Arden looked out over the countryside, still some ways below them, and cocked his head. "Not really," he said. "A few villages, some lone cottages, some mills, shrines, a fortress off to the north. Most of the land is open, though. There were far more people within shouting distance anywhere in Parakovac than there are as far as we can see from here."

"You're exaggerating, but that's not what I meant." Luka sounded impatient, and waved a hand across the vista before them. "It's full. It's all used. Everywhere you look, someone owns it and uses it. People are everywhere, or signs of their work. Where do you go to take a deep breath or be alone?"

Arden blinked and raised an eyebrow at Luka. "This, from a man who lived in a city?"

Luka shook his head. "It's different. A city is supposed to be full. But it's surrounded by land that's just land. This -- if there's a city in the middle, it would feel like all the people around it were pressing in." He scowled and shook his head. "I can't explain any better than that, but it's oppressive."

The explanation hadn't helped much. Arden said, "Well, Cara's surrounded by lake so maybe that'll help."

"I'd heard that," Luka said, sounding curious. "Did they truly build it on boats?"

Arden grinned and shook his head. "There were a lot of boats -- still are -- but no. There was a pitiful little bit of swamp, only slightly less wet than the lake itself, out in the center of Lake Doraven when my ancestors arrived. The locals weren't terribly friendly so my tribe boated out to the swampy bit to camp. They went back and forth over time, bringing dirt and rocks to build it up and make it fit to hold huts out of the water. They built the first causeway from the shore out to the island by dumping rocks and dirt into the water.

"If you read between the lines in the chronicles, it was a miserable existence for the first generations there, but it was secure, which nowhere else in the area was. The locals laughed and jeered, until King Erren led an army out and conquered the nearest band of them. Erren's army rowed away back to his island with all their gold and silver, most of their food and half their children to raise as slaves."

"Taught them a lesson." Luka's voice was low and neutral.

Arden remembered exactly who his audience was and sighed. This was the heart of the Molani Empire and Luka would have to get used to it. No one was going to tip-toe around him. He decided to just keep going and said, "They kept building the island, both extending the land and putting up more structures -- a fine stone fortress, temples, storehouses. They imported marble and added smooth, white faces to the more important buildings."

Luka smirked. "And how long before it all started sinking into the lake?"

Arden laughed and gave him a rueful shrug. "Less than ten years after the fortress was completed. King Erren didn't care. He said it just gave them a chance to build bigger and better, as they learned more about stone construction, or brought in stone masons from the outside. They'd been a scruffy band of horse-lords before they settled and they had a lot to learn about building a civilization, or building much of anything."

"Their good fortune to get multiple chances to practice. Most people have to wait for a fire or an earthquake."

"I'm sure the gods were looking out for us even then."

The sun was approaching the horizon, even though night came a little later on the plain than it did up in the mountains. Before it was fully dark, though, Arden saw flickering lights from a pair of torches set near the road. There was a temple to Dereno with a hostelry catering mainly to traders and their caravans, but it was open to common travellers as well. Its position just below the busiest pass through the Daro Uldrem mountain range ensured it was always busy, and grateful travellers who'd just crossed, or hopeful travellers who planned to soon, contributed offerings to Dereno with an open hand.

Arden had stayed there many times and knew the road in the dark, rain and fog. A short time later he led Luka in through the gates and hailed one of the black-tunicked brothers sweeping the expanse of yard. The brown stripe around each sleeve and just above the hem of the young man's tunic indicated his low status in the temple as surely as did his menial task, which he abandoned gladly to trot over and greet the two of them.

"Highness! Welcome!" The brother bowed low, then held their horses while they dismounted. "I'll find a place for them in the stable."

There were at least a dozen horses tied to the fence, which wasn't the best way for a horse to spend the night. Arden was happy to take advantage of his rank and the brother's expectation of a generous donation before he left, even if it meant a pair of merchant horses would be ousted from their more comfortable accommodations to make room.

Luka laid a hand on one of the saddlebags and tilted his head at Arden in inquiry. Arden shook his head and said, "Brother Malen will make sure our packs find their way to my room. Come on."

He led the way into the hostel and three more brothers swarmed around him, bowing and greeting and offering compliments and choices of food. Arden always spent some time in the common room, talking and listening. Mostly listening. He doubted Luka would enjoy the experience, though, so he said, "Show my slave to the room; he'll look after my things." In Ruvori, he told Luka, "Go with the brother. You can spend the evening in the room. I'll have food sent to you."

Luka looked dubious but went without making a fuss. Arden made his selection from the limited offerings and ordered the same taken to Luka, then settled down among the merchants and beast tenders and caravan guards. The tenders and guards would bed down right there in the common room, along with the less prosperous of the merchants, after drinking all the beer they could hold. The two master merchants drank wine and would have small, private rooms like the one Arden was always given.

He greeted the masters and sat down at their round table in the front corner. Neither recognized him, but they'd noted the fuss made by the brothers when he'd entered and were willing enough to welcome him into their company. Arden introduced himself with his given name and patronymic -- Arden Solanus -- and both men were canny enough to figure out exactly who he was, and to know that he didn't care for either formality or business opportunities that evening.

Talk turned -- or possibly returned -- immediately to the Ruvori war, as Arden had expected. One of the merchants had just arrived from the Parakovac seige, where he'd led a caravan of provisions for the army and was bringing back a heavy load of the loot he'd been paid for most of it.

"So, are you going or coming, Solanus?" asked the older of the two merchants, a sturdy sun-darkened man named Berelen Teponus Borelo.

"I'm coming, actually. I left Parakovac twenty-two days ago."

"How went the seige at that time?" asked the other merchant, a wiry man with sharp, intelligent eyes named Ilem Shevorus Jaleno.

"We won," said Arden casually. "We effectively took the city the day before I left, and it was just a matter of rounding up a few pockets of resistance."

"Excellent news!" Jaleno's smile widened. "It seems I concluded my business and got out just in time. I left six days before you did."

Borelo swallowed a mouthful of wine and said, "Good news, yes. Although I was on my way out -- is there still need for basic foodstuffs? Was a gate captured or some such thing, or was the enemy starved out?"

"I heard there was some treachery from within," Arden said. He took a small sip of his own wine and shrugged. "But yes, they were well on their way to starving at the time, so I'm sure you'll find eager buyers for whatever food you bring."

"Excellent." Borelo poured a bit of his own wine onto the floor to share his good fortune with the gods.

Arden's own opinion was that Borelo was unlikely to have so much good fortune as that. The army would still be buying food but the starving Ruvori had been looted of anything they might have used to pay the inflated prices Borelo appeared to be imagining. Arden's own imagination saw any vaguely presentable Ruvori woman trading her body for whatever scraps she could get. He hoped Borelo was in a lusty mood by the time he traversed the mountain pass and the winding rock gorges of Ruvor to get to the city.

"I'm sure you'll make a fine profit," was what he actually said. "Did you offer a gift to Murano before you left?" The god of travellers and messages was Ruvori Ashti's Molani cousin, or however the gods tracked such things.

"Oh, certainly, certainly." Borelo waved a dismissive hand. "One always does. But I took quite a nice gift to Baruno as well. Baruno All-Seeing surely watches the roads as well as Murano, yes? The head of my House declared gifts to Baruno before we travel and we've had considerable good fortune from it."

"Interesting." Arden's shoulders had tensed at Baruno's name, but he kept his expression only mildly concerned. "I'd never heard that the merchants especially looked to Baruno before."

"Not traditionally, no," Borelo admitted. "But Master Arnano was taken with a malicious growth in his gut." His eyes brightened, either out of excitement over telling the tale to one who'd not yet heard it or at the thought of a Rival house losing a wise and shrewd leader, Arden couldn't tell.

"It is said that his House gifted Merciful Zelena, as well as Murano. A priestess of Zelena came and blessed him and he was relieved of his pain for a time, but the growth remained. His slaves were baking the funeral breads when a priest of Baruno came to their house. He had the slaves carry Master Arnano's bed into the garden, under the moon, then called upon the power of Baruno to heal him. The growth shrank and vanished before all their eyes, or so I heard. My uncle was there to give respect to the House and witnessed it himself. We've gifted Baruno since that day, whenever we begin a journey or a venture, or are in need."

"All have heard of it," agreed Jaleno. "Baruno is minded to grant blessings, and those who are wise remember him."

Arden let a look of surprise cross his face. "All the time? I've never heard of so benevolent a god, nor one so busy."

Borelo scowled. "Disrespect!" he snapped. He leaned forward as though to deliver a lecture, then stopped. Arden tilted his head and waited politely, but Borelo appeared to have remembered to whom he was speaking. All he said was, "Your highness is pleased to make a joke."

Jaleno glanced between Arden and his companion. "It does indeed seem wonderous and odd, but it is true. A priest of Baruno blessed the youngest wife of Baron Drojen at her labor. The poor man has only had daughters in all his years, but two boy babies were born to him that day."

"Good fortune indeed." Arden sipped his wine smiled. "And I'm sure Drojen will be happy enough when his many daughters grow old enough to begin bringing him bridegild."

Both merchants nodded and drank in agreement. "Very true," said Jaleno. "It is a grand thing to have many sons, but not so grand to buy them wives."

"My third boy has settled down with the nephew of Voleno, the master mason," commented Borelo. He was still more subdued than he'd been before Arden had come close to mocking Baruno, but was willing to speak once more. "I'll admit under the sun that I'm hoping it lasts. My first is eyeing a fourth wife. I've told him any more brides must come out of his own purse, but he's a stubborn man and headstrong. If it contracts for her and then comes to me with his palm up, I swear I'll send him to our Gicard house and let him languish with the rustics and their goats until I'm dead."

The discussion wandered down the familiar (to anyone who ever listened to the elder men) paths of the thoughtless, selfish, disrespectful young, and how the world was decaying because sons thought about themselves before their families and cetera. Arden kept smiling and nodding and tuned them out. They'd retire to bed before long and he'd be able to mix with the more common sort of men at the larger tables. He was eager to find out just how far this new admiration for Baruno had spread.

By the time Arden made his way back to his room, candle in hand, it was late enough that just about everyone else in the hostel was passed out deep in drink. His own habit was to take sips when his companions were gulping, and to eat some bread as he went, so he was only mildly fuzz-headed.

He opened the door and stepped in and a blade swished past his nose.

Arden ducked away with a snarled curse, and another curse answered him from inside. He held up the candle and saw Luka standing in the middle of the floor -- the cleared floor, with the bed turned up on its side and leaning against the far wall and the single chair perched on top of the small table in one corner -- crouched down with one sword poised over his head and the other extended and pointing toward Arden's heart. His chest was bare, sweat-shined and expanding with his heavy breaths, and his expression was a blend of shock, aggression and dismay.

When the sword pointing at him swung down to the floor, Arden took another step inside and closed the door behind him. He wanted to plant both fists on his hips to accompany a proper glare but he was still holding the candle and the table was no longer beside the door, so instead he just stared hard at Luka and hissed, "Just what were you thinking?"

Luka's expression skewed sharply in the direction of aggression and he snapped back, "Practicing."

Arden muttered a curse invoking witness of Sheviti, the Ruvori god of children and fools, and snapped, "Give me those." Without giving Luka even a moment to think about refusing, Arden stepped right up to him until they were practically chest-to-chest and took the swords out of his hands. He turned his back on Luka and stowed the swords back in their sheaths and shoved the sheaths through the flap of his pack, where they'd been since he'd bought them. When he turned around, Luka was standing where he'd been before, his fists clenched and his lips tight.

"Do you have any idea what would have happened if anyone else had walked in here?" Arden asked. The thought was only now hitting him and he had to struggle to keep his voice low and calm.

"If they had any intelligence, they'd have apologized and retreated," Luka retorted.

Arden cursed again and strode back to Luka until he was glaring right up into his eyes. He let all his fury show and Luka actually backed up two steps before he stopped and glared back.

"No!" Arden said, his whisper low but harsh. "They'd have come to tell me that my slave had threatened them with a sword, if that blade had come anywhere near as close to them as it did to me, and they'd have told me in front of dozens of men in the common room, where it would have been impossible to talk around. And I would have had to strangle you before them all because not only would you have attacked someone but you'd have attacked them with a weapon and it wouldn't have mattered whether it was a free man or another slave or a twice-cursed cat, you are a slave and you are not allowed to wield a weapon! I told you that and I did not say it for the joy of hearing my own voice!"

Luka opened his mouth -- to snap something defiant, Arden was sure -- then muttered a curse and looked away.

"No, you do not get to go sulk in a corner." Arden reached up and grabbed Luka's chin and forced him to look back and meet Arden's glare. "I've put up with your temper and attitude because I know you've had a difficult time, but your ass-headed stubbornness is going to get you killed and I'm not going to allow that. If you're determined to suicide you can wait until our task is complete and then do it yourself like a man, but you're not going to die of Sheviti-damned stupidity, not while I'm here to thump some sense into you!" He smacked his fist down on the mark on Luka's chest for emphasis. He was nearly healed and he knew it didn't hurt anymore, but it was a pointed gesture.

Luka smacked his hand away and snarled, "Don't touch me!"

"I'll touch you if I please!" Arden was ready to beat the wall in with his head. This had gone on too long and it was clear one of them needed a good thrashing -- either Luka for his unslavish attitude or Arden himself for allowing it to continue this long. Arden grabbed Luka's wrist and then thumped him again in the same spot.

Luka gave a wordless grunt and grabbed Arden around the waist. He shifted his weight and when Arden tried to back up he found that Luka had hooked an ankle behind his own and his balance vanished. They both thumped to the floor, Luka on top and with his newly-freed fist pulled back.

Arden wrapped his legs around Luka's hips and twisted. Luka was taller but Arden was heavier and with the right leverage he flipped him easily. Luka pushed him back, then twisted sharply at the waist and slammed his elbow into Arden's jaw. Arden grunted in pain and shook his head, trying to clear it and get his bearings once more.

They rolled again and then Luka was on top. He planted a knee in Arden's gut and the air whooshed out of him.

Luka leaned back and stared down at Arden, as though trying to figure out whether he was up to striking back. Arden was, and decided to be helpful by demonstrating. His fist sank into Luka's stomach and they rolled again.

Arden was sure someone would have been pounding on their door if the hostel didn't serve such fine wine to its wealthiest guests, and so much beer to everyone else. The stone floor was cold and unyielding, but the thumps of blows, grunts of pain, and occasional bangs and thuds as they rolled into a piece of furniture or the pile of saddlebags would've drawn angry protests from anyone sleeping lightly, so it was just as well no one was.

The two of them finally ended up on their sides, having grappled each other to a draw, neither able to move unless the other let loose a tightly-grasping fist or released a twined leg. They panted hard in each other's faces, still glaring their anger, when Arden became suddenly very much aware of Luka's bare chest pressed against his shirt. He could feel the sweat soaking through.

Without a single rational thought in his head, Arden attacked him again, this time with an angry kiss.

Chunk 14

Mon, 26 Nov 2007 08:03:38 GMT

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....

================

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.

Chunk 13

Mon, 19 Nov 2007 08:10:50 GMT

It's been a few days and I'm now almost 8,000 words behind pace [flail] but I'm up at my mom's and I'm not writing as much as I'd like. I also have spotty access to the internet; Mom has a wireless hub but unfortunately it only works when it feels like it. Sometimes unplugging it and plugging it back in, with or without rebooting my laptop, will help. But then again, sometimes it doesn't. :/ I'm piggybacking off a neighbor's unsecured wireless right now because I haven't been able to get Mom's wireless to work all day. No clue how long this will stay open.

Anyway, keep a set of virtual fingers crossed for me. :)

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They mounted their horses and continued to the gate. The Molani guards set to the watch called a challenge, and Arden responded with his full name.

The senior sentry gave him a quick bow, but gave Luka a dubious look. "Highness, we've been ordered not to allow any Ruvori to leave."

Arden gave him sharp glance. "This man is my slave, and therefore Molani."

The sentry bowed lower and even more quickly while waving them through.

There was little traffic on the roads and they made good time, alternately trotting and walking the horses. They encountered a few men approaching the city -- couriers riding or running. The runners would have come from the frontiers, or from some outpost at the back of beyond, across country or over faint tracks where there were no courier posts for changes of horse. A very fit man,dressed lightly and not burdened with gear, could beat a horse over a stretch of twenty miles or longer. A horse was good for carrying equipment and for saving the traveller's energy, but for speed over longer distances, they were only the preferred choice in relays, when a fresh mount could be had at regular intervals.

The mounted couriers were likely from the capital, keeping the emperor apprised of the war and sending back information and the occasional instructions. Arden's father was intelligent enough not to jostle a trusted general's arm, but larger political concerns could demand the alteration of plans and goals.

The foot couriers were the ones Arden wished he could question. They ran past without looking up at him, wearing only loincloths and sweat, and carrying only water skins and the sealed ivory tubes containing their messages. There were only two of them, but there weren't so many men fit to be a running courier and the outposts where they were stationed didn't send them with trivial notes. Whatever those two carried must be important, and Arden's sharply curious nose -- the craving to know things, which had led him into the courier corps and the smaller company of spies in the first place -- turned to follow the message tubes as they passed.

Later. He'd find out what was going on some other time. Or maybe he wouldn't, but there was no help for it.

The road wound through sheer rock canyons and barren hills, all silver, grey and ink-black under the night sky. The cool air was refreshing, keeping men and horses both from heating to discomfort.

When the stars proclaimed it to be near the middle of the night, they came to a crossroads. Arden took the southwest branch, toward Cara. He glanced up the northwest branch, wondering whether Yarro and Tochi had taken that turning however long before. No sense wondering now, though.

As though on cue, Luka broke the silence they'd ridden in for the previous several hours to nod toward the signpost and ask, "Does the man who took Tochi live in Cara, then?"

Arden blinked in surprise and gave Luka a hard look. It hadn't occurred to him that Luka wouldn't have understood where they were bound or why.

"No," he answered. He met Luka's stormy scowl with one of his own and asked, "Were you asleep back at Ashti's temple? Or could you not hear what she said?" And... he hadn't thought of that. It was quite possible that the goddess had spoken for his ears only."

"Of course I heard," Luka retorted. "But--"

"But what?" Arden waved him to silence with an abrupt gesture. "She's a goddess, Luka. She's your goddess, in fact, although the fact that she's not mine doesn't make me any more likely to defy her. She commanded and we obey -- we're going to Cara to try to prevent Baruno from taking over the emperor. And in fact, it's apparently your task rather than mine. I'm just going along to keep you from getting killed on the way and help you any way I can." His voice had slid into sharp sarcasm by the end. He was worried for Tochi himself and could only imagine Luka was much moreso, but what kind of idiot even imagined they'd defy a goddess's direct command?

"But--!" This time Luka cut himself off and looked down, his head bent between tense, hunched shoulders. Arden felt an urge to reach out and touch him, just lightly, for comfort, but stifled it. He knew better than to think any comfort from him would be welcome just then.

"What am I supposed to do?" Luka finally asked. The worry and frustration and fear in his voice softened Arden's mood even more.

"I don't know," he said. "I suppose it'll be clear when the time comes."

I hope.

Chapter Five

Luka hadn't done much riding since his army days but he managed to stay on the horse until Roscha finally called a halt, in a barren spot which had the virtue of being flat and bounded by a trickle of a stream, far enough from the road that they wouldn't be seen by anyone passing. Luka slid off his horse and was able to keep himself from going the rest of the way to the ground, but only by a determined exercise of will.

He unsaddled his horse, hoping Roscha didn't expect him, as the slave, to take care of his as well. He had precious little fat on him as a reserve and hadn't eaten anything in more than a day -- nearly two, come to think of it, since the damned Molani had taken the city by treachery.

The thought brought the bitter anger flowing through Luka's veins and he turned his mind away from it. He led his horse over to the water, gave vague notice to Roscha seeing to his own mount, then flopped down on his belly next to the stream to drink, right beside his horse.

Once his thirst was satisfied, lying right there to sleep sounded like an excellent plan. Luka couldn't quite summon the energy to focus his eyes, much less haul himself to his feet. The air was cold but his blanket was far away, with the saddlebags. Too far away. He crossed his arms and pillowed his head on them.

"Luka? Luka!"

A hand gripped his shoulder and shook. Luka muttered something he hoped sounded threatening and sank back down toward sleep.

More hands gripped him under his arms and heaved, then yanked him over into a sitting position. One arm held him up while the other vanished for a moment, then a splash of icy water drenched his face. His eyes snapped open and he yelled, flailing at whatever, but his arms wouldn't move. Eventually the voice penetrated his ears again.

"...something to eat, then we'll wrap you up and you can sleep. Come on, there we go...."

Luka felt himself levered up to his feet. The word "eat" had sounded like a vaguely decent idea and his legs stiffened enough to hold him up, with help. He felt himself walked a few paces away, then settled down on a blanket. An onion appeared in his hand, then a slab of cheese in the other.

Food. He knew what to do with that, and if he hadn't, his pinched stomach was eager to remind him. He ate in eager bites, from one hand and then the other, until both were empty.

"...hadn't eaten in a while. Sorry, I should've remembered sooner; we could've eaten while we rode."

The voice flowed past but Luka paid scant attention. His hand found a roll of bread. When he took a bite he found there was a sausage inside. That was far more interesting than any words at the moment.

"...some good time, though, and we should be far enough ahead of anyone coming after us. Anyone we couldn't handle, at least. Between the two of us we could fight off a few men if we had to -- once you've had some sleep at least -- and any larger group will be going more slowly."

Luka finished his sausage roll and licked his fingers. Sleeping sounded good. He'd been doing that earlier before someone had bothered him, but food was a good enough reason to rouse him so he wouldn't thrash whoever'd done it. The food was gone, though, and his stomach was content. Sleep next.

Hands urged him to lie down on the blanket. The air was still cold and there was a wind sucking what little warmth he had. Another body lay behind him, draped an arm around him to pull him close, then bundled a second blanket over top. Much better. Luka slept.

The shoulder-shake that woke Luka up was much less tentative than he was used to, but then he rarely slept longer than he'd intended. He swatted at the hand on him and muttered something to Tochi about getting him a... then remembered.

He rolled over and let out an involuntary grunt at the ache in his thighs. He was strong and healthy, but obviously sword work was different from riding, especially long hours of riding with no rest stops.

Roscha handed him a water skin and another bread roll, which Luka fervently hoped contained sausage. A bite proved that it did, and he was almost ready to forgive the man.

Almost.

A glance at the shadows told him that it was near noon, although he didn't remember which way they'd turned off the road, so he wasn't sure if it was a couple of hours before or a couple of hours after. Either way, Roscha would probably want to continue on soon. And if he didn't, Luka did. The sooner they finished with this plot against the Molani emperor and satisfied Ashti, the sooner they could get back to searching for Tochi.

Luka tore a bite off the sausage roll and chewed, his jaw tight and angry. He understood why Roscha had abandoned Tochi, and that it wasn't the Molani's fault that a goddess had interrupted their plans. To give him a little credit, Luka had to admit that he'd seemed upset by it, and he'd certainly looked and sounded angry when he'd found that that friend of his hadn't gotten Tochi after all.

Of course, if his friend had chosen Tochi then he'd have been dead. The other man, the one who'd actually chosen Tochi for his slave, had at least been smart enough to leave the palace right away. Even if he weren't the kindest master to his slaves, he had a good sense of how to keep and protect his property, and that was a good thing in this case.

It was, wasn't it?

Had Roscha been angry because his friend hadn't got Tochi, or because that other man had?

Luka could think of a couple of reasons why he might not want to know the answer to that question. Not just then, at any rate. No matter what the situation was, there was nothing he could do about it and giving himself nightmares over it, or adding weight to the guilt already perching on his back, wouldn't help Tochi and might distract Luka and delay the completion of this task for the goddess.

Trying to forget about Tochi didn't work, so instead Luka focused his thoughts on the problem of the Molani god and how to stop him. He had no idea how to thwart a god and knowing that some other god believed that he could and would didn't reassure him much.

Why him in particular? What made him the one person to prevent this god from conquering the world? The only thing he could think of which set him apart from others was his skill with the two swords, but you couldn't kill a god with a sword, or even two swords. And at any rate, gods didn't come into the world to act for themselves directly; so Luka had always heard and so Ashti had confirmed. The gods acted through mortal agents.

So they'd be acting against the god's agents, then. That seemed reasonable. But if they were going to stop some mortal from doing something, then again, why him? If some corrupt priest needed killing then why couldn't someone else do it?

Although perhaps the priest wasn't properly corrupt. If he was doing as his god commanded, then that was proper so far as it went. Not corrupt, then. A priest who had the misfortune to be sworn to the wrong god. Put in those words, it was regrettable; the man was behaving rightly, doing what he'd sworn to do, but it was still Luka's task to stop him. If they could do it without killing him then that would be well, but if not then they'd do what was needed. This was war of a sort and each man served his own side as well as he could.

Luka finished his sausage roll and watched Roscha saddling the horses.

War made things different. What was right and honorable depended on which side a man served. Luka had always looked down on spies, but he'd benefitted from the information they brought back more than once. And sabotaging an enemy's defenses, or burning his crops or poisoning his water were all time-honored tactics. Luka had never done such a thing himself, and would have found it difficult to do so and still feel as though he'd kept his honor, but they were always done and he'd appreciated the results, even if he hadn't cared to think to hard about how they'd been achieved.

Chunk 12

Thu, 15 Nov 2007 06:37:11 GMT

Very short chunk tonight -- my apologies but I was dashing around like mad today and I'm exhausted right now so I'm going to post what I've got and then go fall into bed. I'll be travelling tomorrow, going to visit my mom for Thanksgiving, so I have no idea whether tomorrow will be any better. In between my e-mail binging every eighty seconds today, I did some really great work with Alea so now I actually know where I'm going; once I have some more time to write and the energy to keep my eyes focused, I should be able to get some things done. So thanks to Alea, and thanks to the rest of you for your patience. {{{}}}

============

His mouth opened several times, like a babe searching for a teat, until finally he managed to say, "Lady, I beg pardon, but what do we do?" The goddess turned and glared at him, despite the fact that she'd been staring right at him the entire time. He didn't know how it had happened, but only that it had.

The goddess sighed and took on an aspect of impatience. "Put down Baruno, little prince. He has horded power and bartered it into more, multiplying his influence on the mortal Earth like a moneylender redoubling his coin. He has accumulated enough to manifest upon a mortal, as I have upon this my servant.

"But Baruno remains. This is...." Ashti paused, as though searching for words. Perhaps she was puzzling out how to explain the unknowable affairs of the gods to a mere mortal, but Arden got the feeling that there was something she was reluctant to say.

"This is costly," is what she finally chose. "I cannot remain for long without expending a great deal of... of influence. I must leave soon. Baruno remains. He stays, inhabiting his mortal host continuously. Rather than influencing through dreams and portents, or even through commands, he controls directly. It focuses his influence, allowing him to make frugal use of what he has. And mark well, little prince -- what he has is more than any other god, enough to manifest four times over already, and still he craves more. He would starve us all and rule this world with his own hands."

"Who?" Arden dared to ask. "Who has he inhabited?"

"You can puzzle out whom he has already inhabited for yourself if you think on it. I will tell you something much more valuable -- that the one he seeks next is your emperor."

Arden felt a frigid shiver move up his spine, and while his shocked mind sorted through everything the goddess had piled on his shoulders, she reached out with two fingers and gently but firmly touched both his and Luka's eyes, simultaneously, in the impossible way of deities. She said, "Do not delay and do not fail" and then... left.

The priestess was herself once more, with smooth, pale skin over harsh features, her hair loose around her shoulders, and a body which seemed more a captive of the earth, and which clearly never did much walking despite the goddess she served.

Her eyes rolled up in her head and she pitched forward. Arden scrambled to catch her and the two younger priestesses hurried to her side. Their eyes were huge and round with shock and awe, but they lifted the older priestess up easily and carried her away without undue fuss.

Arden had wanted to ask more questions -- surely a priestess would know more, could fill in some of the gaps, pits, canyons in his knowledge of the gods and their workings -- but the three women had disappeared through a silk-draped arch and he dared not follow.

Besides, Ashti had specifically said they should not delay. Arden had never had much to do with the gods but disobeying a direct command from one didn't strike him as the act of a wise man, nor of one who wished to live a long and peaceful life.

Of course, his life wasn't likely to be either long or peaceful if he set out to thwart the motions of the most powerful god of the empire.

He turned to bid Luka follow him, but he stopped and stared. Luka was staring back at him. Their eyes met and they stared into each other for a handful of heartbeats.

Arden said, "Your eyes -- they glow."

Luka swallowed hard. "As do yours." He blinked and Arden blinked back at him. The glow remained.

"It's the touch of the goddess," Arden said. He looked around the room, a quick scan for anything which might appear different.

The statue of Ashti's eyes glowed too. So did one of the pins holding the shoulders of her gown together, and two of the gems in her sandals.

Luka said, "There," and pointed back toward the door they'd come in through. Arden looked and saw that there was a row of symbols glowing across the lintel.

"We can see things the goddess has touched," Luka whispered.

There was no one near to hear, but Arden whispered back, "Or made. Or written. That could be useful but I think we need to leave now." He headed for the door and Luka followed. He kept an eye on the writing on the lintel as he passed, part of him expecting it to flare or move or speak, but it only glowed and he was just as happy to have it so.

Wow, It's Evening Already

Wed, 14 Nov 2007 02:21:40 GMT

Just dashing in to say that I've been busy -- I just posted a column at Romancing the Blog (my first one!) -- and I haven't gotten back to the boys yet today. Unless I feel particularly inspired later this evening (right now I'm heading downstairs for some dinner and to spend some time with my incredibly tolerant husband) tonight's NaNo chunk is likely to be a bit thin. At any rate, I'm still trying to figure out what more Ashti can tell them without giving it all away. [duck]

Back later, although probably not with as much as I've been posting the last few days. :/

[ETA: Or... let's make that tomorrow. :/ I fell asleep after dinner and just woke up a bit ago. Not going to make it tonight. Sorry! /EDIT]

Angie

Chunk 11

Tue, 13 Nov 2007 08:05:17 GMT

A bit closer, although not quite caught up yet. Until the counter-widget catches up, I'm at 19,547. And hey, our first actual fantasy scene is in this chunk! :D

==========

Arden gathered up the clothing into a bundle, tucked the sheathed swords under his arm, and followed the soldier out into the main room. Luka was still squatted down near the fireplace, staring at something in his hand.

"I got your clothes," Arden said. "Bought them off of a looter. And these." He rattled the swords and their wooden sheaths clacked together. Luka spun around to stare, and flailed around to find his balance.

"My swords--!"

My swords," Arden corrected, "at least for a while. I hope you understand if I don't give them to you right away. I'd like to think that you'll retain enough of your sense not to kill me in my sleep so long as I'm the only one who knows where to look for Tochi, but it's hard for a newly enslaved man to settle down and accept his lot and I'm not going to gamble my life on your being sensible about it. If you give me a reason to trust you for more than a few hours, I'll let you have them. It'll be handy to have a companion on the road who can fight.

"For now, though, we'll have to count on your looking fierce to frighten off any bandits."

Luka threw him a hateful look, which was no more than Arden had expected.

Arden turned and headed out to the horses, asking over his shoulder, "What did you find there?"

Luka started to follow him, then stopped said, "It's mine."

Arden just tilted his head, a silent reminder, before turning to stow the clothing in Luka's empty saddlebag.

Luka grimaced and turned away, not quite turning his back on his "master" but turning his shoulder at least. Finally he paced forward, slowly, his steps obviously reluctant. "It's the Tevarion badge. My fourth grandfather won the right to it at the Battle of Tevaric -- the king honored eight men as 'Tevarion' after the battle, for their valor." He paused and gave Arden a quick look, then opened his hand and held out the badge. He didn't extend his arm fully, as though ready to snatch it back if he thought Arden would try to take the badge away from him.

Arden knew any number of men who'd have taken it just for that, as a lesson. That would've been stupid under the circumstances, and Arden wasn't stupid. He examined the thing in the dim moonlight but didn't try to take it, even to see it better.

It was of metal, what looked like polished steel. Definitely not gold nor silver. It was engraved with a device comprised of a ram's head and a tower, with a pair of swords crossed beneath, their blades pointed up. The badge was pierced around with holes, as though it were intended to be sewn onto a cloak, or a leather coat, or even laced into a shirt of mail. It was worn and plain and had clearly never been fine, even when new. No delicate metals nor brittle enamel work for this; it was meant to be worn in combat, to take a beating along with a man's armor.

He nodded and said, "You may keep it. You might want to hide it in your boot, though, or someplace similar. You never know what's going to happen on the road, and if your horse gets swept away in a river or slips over a cliff or some such thing, I don't want you to kill yourself chasing after it."

Luka snorted and looked away, but he did stuff the badge into his boot.

They looked around for a few more minutes, but there was nothing worth salvaging and Arden could see Luka getting more tense by the minute as they searched through the wreckage of his family's home and living. Finally Arden said, "There's nothing else here. Let's go," and they left.

It took four more stops to get Arden outfitted, although not as much money as it had for Luka. Clothes were cheap and he ended up with two changes of sturdy clothing for travel, and one set of finer clothing, in case he needed to impress anyone.

Clothes were cheap enough, in fact, that he could have gotten whatever he wanted for free, if he'd been willing to root through shops and homes himself looking for it. That kind of grab-scrabble looting had always been something common soldiers did, though, not officers and certainly not royal officers. Common troops scrambled for used shirts and dishes while noble officers pointed a finger at a building; both said "Mine" but one of them got a lot more for it and with much less effort.

Arden had no interest in acquiring property in Parakovac Ruvor, however. All he wanted was clothing to fit. He was broad-shouldered and thick-thighed, even for a Molani, and most clothing made to fit a Ruvori man would tear as soon as he bent or flexed, assuming he could force himself into it at all. It was faster to bargain with troops who were approximately his size, rather than go sorting through the rubble himself.

Their last stop was at a temple of Ashti. The Ruvori goddess protected travellers and it was never a waste of time to get some divine favor at the start of a long and rough journey.

Of course, she was a Ruvori goddess.

No one had set up any Molani temples yet, though, and since their purpose in travelling was to find a Ruvori boy, Arden hoped she might overlook the blood in his veins and help them along for Tochi's sake, and Luka's.

Most men had enough brains not to desecrate a temple, no matter how rich the pickings might seem. If it needed to be done, it was for the arch-priests to do -- hopefully someone better at his job than the one screeching blasphemy back at the palace. At any rate, one who could be sure in his own mind that his own god would protect him from the wrath of the god whose shrine was being looted. Most gods disapproved of shrine-looting on principle, so it helped if your god actively despised the local god for some reason.

Arden didn't know of any god who was feuding with Ashti of the Roads, nor did he know of any god who favored him enough for it to matter in any case. He entered with his head bowed in respect, stepping over the bodies of a pair of soldiers who'd obviously been mistaken about the eagerness of their own gods to protect them. The two men were clearly Molani, but Arden felt no pity for them. They'd been stupid and the singed, blackened patches on their bodies showed what it'd gained them.

A pair of priestesses knelt to either side of the altar on a dias at the back of the room. Or maybe they were acolytes; Arden didn't know enough about their regalia to tell. A middle-aged woman (who must have been a priestess -- surely anyone who was still an acolyte at that age would have been urged or even shoved toward another line of work by now) looked him up and down, then lifted her head in a proud tilt and glared down her nose at him. "Molani," she said. "Ashti allows you entrance so we must allow it as well. What is your business here?"

Arden gave her a respectful nod and kept his voice light. "Lady, we are setting out on a journey and seek Ashti's blessing."

The priestess's lips tightened in to a thin line and the light from the oil lamps gave her eyes an angry glitter. "Very well." She paused, then scowled and murmured, "Have you incense?"

"I fear we do not." Temples made a good deal of their income from selling small items for sacrifice and worship, and Arden prepared to be gouged badly.

"One silver kas. Or a lunar, if that's all you have."

Arden handed over a silver coin without argument and received in return a stick of incense. He held it carefully so as not to break it, and walked up toward the altar. He heard whispered voices behind him, first the woman, then Luka. Whether she wanted to comfort him in his slavery or chastise him for not fighting to the death, Luka was a grown man and could deal with her himself. Arden had a goddess to speak with.

He bowed low before the dias, then climbed the four steps, one for each direction the roads travelled. The statue of Ashti rose up to the high ceiling, clad in fine-hammered gold and garbed in old-fashioned travel robes of coarse cloth, but with gold and silver and polished gems at the pins and buckles. Her sandals were of woven straw set with gems in gold.

A trough of sand surrounded the statue in a semi-circle. Arden knelt on the smooth-polished wood of the floor, lit his incense stick on the glowing tip of a much shorter one, and stuck it into the sand. It gave out a stream of sweet smoke, rich and pungent. It swirled around his head and filled his nostrils, and encouraged him to close his eyes.

Footsteps approached, a lighter set which paused several paces away, and a heavier set which approached, then knelt next to him. A few moments later, the thick smell of incense grew even heavier; the priestess must have given Luka a stick of his own. She could well afford it, since she'd charged Arden enough for a good pound of the stuff.

Arden felt a spinning sensation and reached forward to grab on to the edge of the sand trough. His eyes flew open and he saw that the priestess was standing near him, facing him, swaying.

Then she changed, and only part of it was the glow coming off her skin.

Her hair, loose before, was now plaited back. Her skin was weather-roughened and her face showed lines etched by the harsh sun. Her body was slender, but wiry and strong-looking, as though she had walked thousands of miles in her lifetime and was ready to walk thousands more. She pointed at Arden and said, "Little prince." Her voice filled the whole world.

Arden managed to croak out, "Sacred lady." He shifted around until he faced her, then bowed until his forehead bumped the floor.

"You have taken on a task," she said, "which will serve your people as well as my own. I charge you to complete it, and to succeed."

That... was confusing. Arden dared to look up through his eyelashes, hoping for some clue as to what in all the hells she was speaking of. "Lady," he said, keeping his tone as humble as he could, "we seek a boy who was taken from the city. I don't understand."

"That one," said Ashti, sounding impatient. She pointed an imperious finger over Arden's shoulder. At Luka. "You have taken that one as your own. You have made him yours and so his fate is yours. He is yours to protect, as is his task."

"He has a task?" Arden knew he sounded like an idiot, but he couldn't help it. He heard Luka make some unintelligible noise behind him and took some comfort from the fact that the other man seemed just as overawed as he felt himself.

"Heed me!" the goddess commanded. "Your Baruno thinks to rule your empire himself. He thinks to hold all the lands the moon sees under his hand, so he urges your father to conquer all the lands the moon touches. He dreams of pulling down all other temples, leaving only his altars for sacrifice and worship. He thinks to starve all other gods into oblivion and have the world for his own.

"We will not allow him to have his way unopposed, but we cannot act in the mortal plane of ourselves, no moreso than he can. He acts through mortal agents, and so must we. That man--" and the finger jabbed out once more, pointing at Luka, as if Arden were likely to forget which man they were talking about, "--is fated to oppose Baruno, who has already tried to have him killed. His task is to thwart Baruno's dreams of conquest. Your task is to protect him while he does it, and aid him along his way."

Arden's mind swirled with confusion. He had no idea what she was talking about. Gods saw the world as if from a height, from horizon to broad horizon, and clearly could forget that mortals saw only one tiny part of it at one time. It was all fine to command that they "thwart Baruno," but some hint of how to go about it would be helpful.

Chunk 10

Mon, 12 Nov 2007 08:04:47 GMT

I'm still catching up -- less than a thousand words behind pace now, yay. :) In case the counter-widget is still sluggish, I'm up to 17,421.

============

Luka moved forward into the doorway as far as he could without touching Roscha. He was conscious of every draft on his bare skin, of every eye they'd passed, but he was doing his best to put his personal shame aside and concentrate on more immediate matters. Right now that was finding Tochi, if he'd understood Roscha correctly. If he hadn't been lying again for his own purposes.

He looked over Roscha's shoulder into the small room, but the only person inside was another foreigner, a younger man with around twenty-five years, with curly hair like Roscha's but a dark gold instead of black.

What he didn't see was Tochi, or anyone else for that matter.

The younger man said, "Wait, what?"

Luka realized that Roscha'd been speaking Ruvori at about the same time Roscha did; he threw his hands up in frustration and babbled something -- presumably the same questions -- in Pilen.

The young man shook his head at Roscha, looking both sad and angry, and said something back. He made a quick, angry gesture at a spot on the stone floor. Luka pushed past Roscha to look, ignoring his nakedness in his need for information. The patch of floor looked freshly scrubbed, but whoever'd cleaned it hadn't done a good job; the quick cleaning had left remnants of blood in the cracks between the stones.

Luka's stomach lurched and a clear picture flashed into his mind of the same priests going into that room and this boy -- hardly older than Tochi himself -- not being fast enough, or strong enough, or clever enough to stop them. Or just not having the rank to enforce his will, as Roscha did. Whatever it'd been, though, they were too late.

They were still babbling back and forth and Luka didn't care to strain to listen, when it would only give him a few words here and there anyway.

Roscha turned and slammed his fist into the wall, then jerked it back with a curse. Luckily there'd been a thickly-woven woolen hanging on the wall, but there was still stone under it and the fool would be fortunate if he hadn't broken something in his hand.

Luka felt the same impulse, but he controlled it. He wanted to smash something, but he didn't. He wanted to strangle Roscha and be done with it, but he didn't do that either.

His heart had been slashed and battered and jerked a dozen different ways. He'd wanted to kill someone and wanted to die and wanted to do both. Now he just wanted nothing. He was exhausted -- not in his body but in his soul -- and wanted nothing more than to sit down and rest, or better yet to lie down and sleep. Sleeping forever sounded like the most desirable thing in the world. He couldn't think any longer and could hardly even feel anything.

Then Roscha grabbed his shoulder and shook him. "It wasn't Tochi! That bastard Yarro got him first before Bayon could just to spite me, but he might've done us a favor. Come on!"

And they were off again, running through the corridors. Luka tried to stir up hope in his heart once more, but there didn't seem to be any there to find.

Chapter Four

Duke Yarro's rooms were back near Arden's own -- clearly the better wing of the palace, where those of higher rank had been put -- but at least he knew how to get back this time. He counted doors and pounded on the fourth. He was about to just barge in when a slave opened the door.

"Where's Yarro?" Arden took a step forward, then another, forcing the slave to back up and let him in. He did so without complaining, and Arden quickly saw why.

The room was a mess of scattered clothing and small items, and a pair of half-packed wicker boxes.

The slave said, "I'm sorry, Master--" but Arden cut him off.

"He's leaving? When?"

"He's gone, Master. I'm sorry." The slave bowed low, his shoulders bent and tense as though bracing for a blow. "He took only a saddlebag and ordered that the rest of his things be brought after him."

"Did he take his slave with him? The new one, the one he got in the victory ritual?"

"Yes, Master." The slave nodded eagerly, seeming happy to be able to answer in the affirmative. "He took only that one. He left me behind to see to his things."

Arden eyed the slave up and down. He seemed to be in good health and reasonably content. He wasn't cringing and had only a couple of old bruises. "You belong to Yarro?"

The slave bowed again and said, "Yes, Master."

That was... actually good news. Arden had first assumed the slave belonged to Pormano, or to one of his staff commanders, assigned to serve the guests and tend to the conquered palace. If he belonged to Yarro, though, that said something about how Yarro handled his slaves. If he trusted this one to pack his belongings and travel home with him, however far that was, then that meant he had some assurance that the fellow wouldn't steal it all and run in the opposite direction. Yarro might be a crown-polishing ass but he wasn't such a fool as to trust a beaten, resentful slave with his property unsupervised.

He was also smart enough to leave the palace as soon as he had his new slave. His habit of encroaching upon his betters might well have earned him some gossip about what was coming, and he'd been smart enough to act upon it. Yarro might be a repulsive suck-up but he wasn't stupid.

This slave seemed dutiful and trustworthy, and anyone with any sense treated such a slave well. Arden had no delusions that Tochi would be similarly dutiful, but if Yarro didn't make a habit of brutalizing his slaves for the sport of it, Arden had hope that they could still find Tochi alive and reasonably sound.

He turned and left, hauling Luka along by one arm. His own room was just a few doors down and he was determined to follow Yarro as quickly as possible.

Luka came along without protest, which was worrying but Arden didn't have time to poke him about it just then. While they walked, he said, "Yarro took Tochi and left before the priests got to him. He's still alive, and we're going to go after him. Yarro's an ass and it'll probably cost me half the treasury to buy Tochi back, but I'll try. At any rate, it looks like Yarro's smart enough to protect his property so he'll likely be fine."

Arden hauled Luka into his room and made a quick survey. He started stripping off his borrowed finery; he'd leave it in the room and let the palace slaves sort out what went where. He tapped Luka on the shoulder, then pointed to a wooden chest. "Find yourself something to wear in there, then go find a slave and arrange for two travelling packs. I'll get money and we'll find second-hand clothing easily enough in this city, but we need to leave as quickly as we can."

He eyed Luka, then reached up with his uninjured hand and tipped the man's chin down, forcing him to look at him. "If you have any thoughts of being stubborn, remember we're going after Tochi. I liked the boy too, but this is mainly for you. If you slack off just to spite me, Yarro will have that much more of a start on us."

Luka glared down at him, then gave him a sharp nod and went to root through the chest.

Good enough. Arden finished stripping and tossed everything on the bed, then pushed in next to Luka and started grabbing clothing out of the chest. "Hurry up, anything will do for now."

Luka snarled something and jerked on a pair of breeches. He was moving faster, though, and that was good enough.

The feast had quieted down noticeably by the time the two of them rode out with packs full of travel food, the clothes on their backs and a purse full of silver drawn from Pormano's steward. The man had whined about expenses but Arden was an imperial prince. Even if he hadn't been, as an army spy -- or rather, a courier, which was how most folk knew him -- he was empowered to draw reasonable amounts for expenses, since most of his official duties involved travelling.

Arden had made sure Luka got the slightly more sluggish-looking of the two horses. He still didn't trust the man, although he'd been subdued enough since they'd left Bayon. That could just be shock, though. Arden had seen it in other men who'd been through other wars. It was useful enough for now -- better to have to prod him now and then than to have to tie him to his horse and watch him all the time -- but it could break at any moment.

He hoped that no matter what else happened, Luka would want to find Tochi, and that that'd keep him cooperative no matter what his mood. Luka didn't know Yarro, didn't know where the man lived or where they were going, so he was dependent on Arden if he ever wanted to see the boy again. Arden was counting on that to keep him docile. Relatively docile.

Arden had asked around while Luka was seeing to their provisions, and he'd found that Yarro had also demanded an extra horse. He'd arrived riding one of his own, with his slave on a donkey. He'd put Tochi on a horse, though, which meant he intended to go faster than a donkey was capable of -- hoping to outrun the priests, no doubt.

Taking a boat would've been faster yet, at least for the first part of the journey, but he hadn't so Arden and Luka were following, riding slowly through the raucous, revelling city toward the south gate.

The looting had blocked a number of streets, as had the drunken celebrations. They couldn't move any faster than a walk, and there were times when they'd have been able to slip by on foot but had to turn back because of the horses, which was particularly frustrating. Eventually they found themselves riding along the south wall, down a familiar street

Arden thought for a moment, then leaned near to Luka and asked, "If you like, we can stop at your house and see if there's anything left you might want to have." He kept his voice low and neutral; seeing the place torn up, especially if any bodies remained, would likely be painful for Luka, and the man was already in an odd state.

Luka glared at him, then glanced over his shoulder at the familiar gate and nodded. They dismounted and led their horses into the courtyard.

There were a few bodies crumpled near the walls, probably hauled over to get them out of the way. Some bulky items of furniture had been discarded with them, and between that and the high walls, the pale moonlight left them in shapeless shadow, nearly unidentifiable if one didn't look too carefully.

Luka sucked in a breath, then looked away and headed inside.

Arden followed him but didn't touch anything. There didn't seem to be much left, but he heard some low rustling and a muttered curse from the bedroom he'd spent two nights in. Luka was on his knees near the hearth and appeared to be trying to pry up one of the bricks with his bare fingers. Arden left him to it and slipped into the bedroom.

A scruffy-looking man, a common soldier by his dress and equipment, was rooting through a chest in a corner. Some clothing had been tossed onto the bed, along with a few ornaments and a small clay icon of some sort.

The man snarled over his shoulder, "I got here first, boy, so move on!"

Arden smirked at the man's back. "Maybe you'd care to sell a few things? Easier than rooting through the trash."

The man gave him a wary look, then a greedy smile. "Depends what you want. There ain't much, but it's in decent shape."

"What've you found?" Arden asked. He figured that if nothing else, the clothes would fit Luka and be familiar.

"Clothes and trinkets," the soldier said. "And these. Too damn long an' too light for their length -- figures the Ruvori don't know how to make a decent sword, that's why they lost -- but I figure they'd make nice trophies. You want one of 'em?"

Luka's swords! Arden stifled a grin and said, "You're right, they're not very well designed, but they'd look well on my wall. I'd want the set, though -- one on either side of the fireplace would look good in my hall back home."

"Well...." The man bit his lip, obviously trying to look doubtful and canny. "I'd really like ta have one for myself, but if you'd insist on the pair, I could let you have 'em for twelve lunars."

Arden rolled his eyes, secure in the knowledge that the soldier wouldn't be able to see him in the dark. Luka's swords were worth at least three hundred, but this ignorant lout could only imagine using one of them the way he used his own short sword, stabbing from behind a shield. From that angle, of course they were rubbish.

He said, "That's high," and frowned. "How about if you throw in the clothes, then? I'll give you twelve for all those clothes on the bed, plus the swords. You can keep the trinkets, peddle them to someone else."

"Done!" The soldier tossed the swords onto the bed and held out his hand.

Arden opened his pouch and counted out twelve silver coins. "There you go. Enough to drink on and likely rent someone's new slave woman for the night."

"Right you are," said the man. He pocketed his bounty, coins and trinkets both, with a huge grin and tossed Arden a salute before swaggering out in search of wine and a woman.

Chunk 9

Sun, 11 Nov 2007 08:05:05 GMT

I discovered tonight, right after posting my numbers, that I had my NaNo account set to the wrong timezone; it was an hour east. [facepalm] I was wondering why my graph looked off, duh. It's fixed now, although today's numbers are still registered to tomorrow (which is today right now, but anyway), but at least it should start registering correctly tomorrow night. All this time I've been scrambling for midnight and NaNo thought it was one. I'd just been figuring I was late a lot, that the site was slow or whatever. :P Anyway.... Good day today; I made up some more slack. :)

[EDIT: Dammit, the counter's off again. It looks like it takes a while for the correct number to get down the pipeline or something. :/ I'm actually up to 15,039. /EDIT]

============
"I don't suppose mentioning that I'm the only reason you're alive now would help?" he asked over his shoulder.

Luka made a contemptuous-sounding grunt from behind his gag. You didn't thank a man for saving your life when he just wanted you as a fuck-toy.

"I didn't think so," Roscha said, standing up with some items in his hands. "Having you be properly grateful would've been the easiest solution, though, so I had to try."

He sat back down beside Luka and set a small wooden box on the covered basket next to the bed. "Listen, then."

Roscha had a small but sharp looking knife in one hand and Luka made it a point to give anyone with a weapon at least some fraction of his attention. Was Roscha going to kill him now after all? That didn't make any sense, but then none of this cursed situation made sense.

"When the Temple of Baruno -- the Patriarch, that is, speaking Baruno's wishes -- urged war on Ruvor, he said that the god demanded it" Roscha explained, speaking quickly. "That there was some evil being plotted here, something foul which would bring darkness and plague upon the world if it succeeded. The Patriarch said so, claimed that Baruno had come to him in a vision and revealed it. I'm not sure how much faith the Emperor had in the prophecy, but he was happy enough to have an excuse to come make a try for your city. Running an empire takes a constant flow of wealth and this city is very rich."

Luka had heard some tale of a divine curse but had discounted it as either false gossip or merely an excuse the Molani were spreading. He still thought so; gods hardly ever involved themselves directly in mortal affairs, certainly not in the heart of civilization.

Those who were meant to tend to the divine needs and speak for the gods, however, were very likely to take advantage of their position, and try to manipulate events to their own advantage. This Patriarch, or perhaps the Emperor himself, had seen a pile of gold sitting to the east and decided to come take it, with the stamp of the Molani moon god to cast a veil over their greed.

"That was all fine and nothing new, although hard on your folks, I'll admit," Roscha continued. "But Baruno demanded that all of the Ruvori men be killed."

Wait, all? All? They never did that, even the Molani never did that. They were brutally efficient at getting what they wanted but how did it benefit them to slaughter all of the Ruvori men? They were in the habit of taking slaves in appalling numbers, and a slave was valuable, could be used or sold. Killing valuable slaves was like casting money into the sea.

And at least a slave could have some hope of escape, or even of being freed, as a reward for some deed or at his owner's death. Some Molani freed their slaves when they died, hoping they'd be grateful, and offer prayers and sacrifices to beg the gods to show mercy on the departed soul.

Suddenly his own slavery seemed to be a slightly lesser evil, despite his earlier thoughts of preferring death. Of course, if Luka could die after killing Roscha himself, he'd still do it. But that was personal, that was just himself. The Molani had really killed all of the Ruvori men?

Luka had been overwhelmed defending his school and his students. He'd seen some of his boys fall but had assumed they'd been subdued, knocked down, enslaved like himself. He'd been beaten senseless and carried away to the palace, for the Molani give-away feast, and had assumed the others had been similarly... distributed. But killed? All of them? He was still having a hard time comprehending the overwhelming bulk of the slaughter, of fitting it into his imagination, but what shreds of the image had so far managed to force their way in were gouging bloody shreds out of his soul.

Luka could see that Roscha was upset by it as well. Or by something, at least. Impatience, puzzlement and a hint of fear flowed across his face, bringing an urgent cast to his features.

"We were supposed to kill all of you." Roscha glanced up at the door, then spoke more quickly. "But one hundred were saved, for the duke's victory ritual. It was just... what one does, and I suppose we couldn't believe that Baruno truly meant that every single one must be killed." He lowered his voice and went on in a harsh whisper, as though he feared someone crouching outside the door to listen, "You saved my life and I'll not ignore that obligation. I made sure you were one of the hundred. We were told the one hundred most beautiful men in the city and you--" He cut himself off and closed his eyes for a moment, his jaw working on some words he was determined to swallow.

Roscha shifted on the bed and straddled Luka's hips so he was sitting on him. For an instant Luka was afraid he was going to be raped again, but there was nothing sexual in Roscha's demeanor when he went on. "But one of Baruno's arch-priests objected. I left him arguing with the duke but he'll likely win one way or the other. They'll kill all the men left in the hall first, then they'll come for those who'd been taken out. We have to do this and you must cooperate." Roscha's lips quirked in a sideways smirk. "I know you must want a chance to kill me yourself. This is the only way you'll get it. Survive and bide your time! Follow me and we'll save your life, so you can decide later what to do with it."

He didn't wait for Luka to acknowledge him, but took the small knife and stabbed the tip of it into Luka's chest, into the thick muscle over his heart, then began to carve.

Luka made a loud, pained noise, the bellow startled out of him. He clenched his teeth on the stick in his mouth, grateful for it for the first time that day, and lay there with his eyes clenched shut, determined to stay silent. Roscha kept talking while he worked.

"This hasn't been necessary since my grandfather's day," he whispered, "but that priest is going to be a bastard for the rules and rituals, so we're doing it. Taking you before witnesses should have been enough, and would have been any other time. But he obviously hadn't even thought of it, or was disregarding it if he had. So we're doing this up properly and no one will be able to dispute it."

Roscha was slicing Luka's flesh open in short strokes -- stab, carve, stab, carve -- and Luka was panting with the sharp, tearing pain of it. He could feel blood trickling down the side of his chest and hoped the bed cover was ruined with it.

"There." Roscha wiped the blade off on the covers and dropped it, then picked up the box. He opened it, licked his fingertip and dipped it in, bringing it out covered with crushed, white crystals. "This is going to hurt," he warned, before smearing the salt into whatever design he'd carved.

Luka couldn't prevent the scream from escaping, nor cut it off once he'd begun. The pain went all the way through him and he'd no strength left for fighting it off.

"I'm sorry," Roscha murmured. He kept going, though, rubbing salt into every part of the wound. "This will make sure it scars, so it'll always show. It's permanent. Some people do this with a hot iron, but that's barbaric. Even if it weren't, I haven't got a hot iron. That's faster, I'll grant. And might hurt less, since it's over with all at once. But this is older, more likely to hold up to a challenge. I'm sorry, I know it hurts. We have to or they'll kill you. Hang on, I'm nearly done."

The man was babbling and Luka could almost believe that what he was doing bothered him, if he hadn't been focused on the pain exploding in his chest. He thrashed and jerked, but Roscha's weight kept him pinned in place for the torture. One more thing to hate him for.

"There. We'll have to wait a while before rinsing it out. That'll help keep foul spirits out of it anyway -- they fear salt."

Luka was lost in a dark fog of pain. He struggled to leave it but it huddled around him and clung. He hardly noticed that Roscha had the knife again and was cutting him loose, freeing his wrists from the bedpost and removing the stick from his mouth.

"You nearly bit that in half," Roscha murmured. "I'm sorry. We're almost done. I've accepted you as my slave, now you need to accept me as your master. I need you to do this, Luka. You need to do this." Roscha tugged him off the bed and Luka's legs collapsed under him, spilling him to the floor. They were still numb and aching, fighting for supremacy with his sliced-up chest.

He heard a cluster of footsteps and loud voices out in the corridor. Roscha must have heard them too because he grabbed Luka by the arms and hauled him up into a kneeling position. He left him there swaying and tore at the laces on his breeches. For the second time that night, Luka was threatened with another man's cock, but this time it was much closer, bobbing right in front of his face.

"Luka!" Roscha hissed at him. "You have to do it! They'll kill you if you don't accept me!"

A fist pounded on the door and a hesitant voice called out, quickly drowned out by a much harsher one. They spoke Pilen, and Luka had never learned more than a few words of the Molani language, but he could guess they were demanding entry.

Roscha ignored them. "Luka, please!"

His "master" sounded near desperate and Luka fought for some clarity of mind, pushing the pain back enough to think, if only shallowly. He considered just ignoring them all and letting them kill him. Then it would be over. Everything he knew was gone -- his school, his students. His mother and sister had been handed over to some other Molani bastards and were likely lying somewhere covered in foreign spunk. Even if he escaped, he'd never find them. Tochi was dead, and the other boys who'd looked to him for teaching and protection. He'd failed them all.

Whoever it was outside had become impatient and the door slammed open, much as it had when Roscha had come thundering in. Only this time there were more of them. Luka saw one of the slaves who'd hauled him in earlier, and a man in fine grey robes, and two more in grey livery who held longknives already stained with blood.

On the other hand, he could get some revenge before dying. Roscha wanted his mouth -- Luka could give it to him, and do his best to unman him before the priests killed him. He'd have company on the road to the next world.

Although there'd be plenty of company already, from what Roscha had told him, even without adding one more.

The Molani babbled back and forth, Roscha and the priests finally shouting at each other. The one in robes bellowed a command and the two with the knives strode forward.

Roscha pushed between them and Luka, blocking them with his body. "Luka, do it!" His eyes whipped around the room as though searching for something, then he shook Luka by the shoulders and hissed, "Tochi's alive!"

Luka's head snapped up and he stared at him.

"I made sure he was chosen! I pointed a friend at him, a man who'd treat him gently. He's alive and we can find him, buy him if you like. Don't leave him alone!"

Fuck. Roscha was probably lying. He just wanted Luka for himself and he'd proven that lies came easily to his tongue.

But what if he wasn't?

A dark-stained hand tried to pull Roscha away from Luka. Roscha turned and snapped something short and imperious-sounding at him and the hand was jerked back. The two priests were determined, though, and shoved around, Roscha. One had his knife drawn back.

Fuck. He couldn't take the chance.

Luka grabbed at Roscha's hips and yanked him forward, took his limp cock in his mouth and sucked.

He'd hardly had time to get a flavor of him, sweaty and musky, before Roscha pulled away and shoved the priests back. He snarled something at the one in the robes, something about family. He pointed back at Luka, and said that he was Molani now.

Luka stared at Roscha's back, his eyes widened in horror and anger. What the fuck had they done?

He looked down at his chest for the first time and saw that Roscha had carved an M over his heart, with a linked S and A. M for Molani? That was his wonderful idea, to convince them that Luka had become a Molani? What, did every man who wanted to be a Molani citizen -- and Luka knew there were many clamoring for what they saw as a great privilege -- have to suck a royal cock?

The two priests with the knives were looking back and forth between Roscha and their leader in the robes.

Roscha invoked the name of their emperor somehow. The priest sneered at him, but eventually backed away. There was a final exchange of threats, then the priests turned and went away.

The door closed behind them and Luka felt a wave of relief. No matter what he'd been thinking earlier, he didn't want to be cut down by some holy thug with a knife.

Roscha waited only a few moments, long enough for the footsteps out in the corridor to fade away, then hauled Luka to his feet. "We have to go," he said, yanking Luka toward the door. "And you have to come with me. If I leave you here, they might come back and if I'm gone they're likely to kill you anyway and apologize to my father after. Come."

Luka balked and yanked back. He said, "I'm not going out there naked!" His mouth was still stiff and stinging and it came out a slur, but Roscha obviously understood.

"You're a slave, no one gives a fuck if you're naked! We have to get to Bayon and tell him what works before they kill Tochi!"

That-- was different. Luka grimaced but followed, letting himself be yanked along by one arm.

They ran along the hall until they came across a pair of slaves on some errand. Roscha stopped them and spat a question. One shrugged but the other pointed back the way they'd come and babbled some instructions. Luka recognized a "right" and "left" repeated a few times, before Roscha swore and yanked him away again, running faster.

Three corridors and five turns later, Roscha banged on a door, then burst in. "Where is he? Do you have salt? I should've brought -- where is he?"

Chunk 8

Sat, 10 Nov 2007 08:04:17 GMT

The counter-thingy's still fritzed up, but the NaNo site has theirs out and they're working, so I'm switching over. The third-party ones were cool but at least these show the right number. [wry smile] I got a bit over the daily goal today, so I'm a bit closer to being caught up, yay.

[EDIT: Aaaand, the official NaNo counters are not working. [headdesk] The speedometer one is still stuck on day before yesterday's total, but this one is stuck on yesterday's number. Bother. Anyway, today's total was 12,479. :/ /EDIT]
==============

That did it. Conversation ceased and almost everyone in the room turned to look at the grey-robed man near the door. The few exceptions were men still busy with their new slaves and Arden supposed they could be forgiven for not noticing even a good, echoing bellow.

Unfortunately, he doubted that forgiveness was on the arch-priest's mind. Fortunately for the men still going at it, the arch-priest had another target in mind; all he'd wanted with the shout was an audience.

Sure enough, the priest strode through the room, taking a straight path and letting others shift out of his way. The fact that everyone did, in a room full of nobles and conquering war heroes, was testament to the current supremacy of Baruno's temple, and specifically its Holy Patriarch.

The man swept up to the head table, pointed an accusing finger at Duke Pormano, and proclaimed, "Blasphemer!"

Pormano gave the priest a shallow bow, his expression calm and grave. He had to have been expecting this, which didn't surprise Arden at all. It was an old and cherished custom that when an enemy resisted, when the Molani defeated them they slaughtered all the warriors and enslaved everyone else. It gave enemies of the empire an excellent reason to surrender, or to just go along with whatever suggestions the imperial emmisaries might make so that it never came to war at all.

Slaves comprised a large portion of the loot from any conquest, and the common soldiers' pay was a pittance. They were given rations, basic clothing, equipment, shelter -- a few coins for beer were considered adequate, aside from the fact that their commanders couldn't afford to field their troops if they had to pay as well as support them all. The soldiers looked forward to looting the conquered, which gave them an excellent reason to fight hard and win.

It had been so for a millenium or more, and yet for some reason the Patriarch of Baruno's temple had declared that the god wanted all the Ruvori men killed. All male Ruvori with more than twelve years were to be put to the sword, so said the Patriarch. And the Emperor had agreed, more or less, with little enthusiasm; he'd known it would be an unpopular decree with the men, and the Empire rested on the backs of its soldiers.

But it had been done nevertheless. Almost.

An exception had been made for one hundred Ruvori men, those claimed (or to be claimed) that night. A handful of high-ranked men whose tasks were complete had been told to find "the hundred most beautiful men in the city" and send them to the palace. After all, one must be civilized, and surely out of nearly a million souls, the moon god could spare one hundred.

Apparently not. Or at least his priest was annoyed on his behalf.

"These men were to be put to the sword for Baruno! It was agreed! You have broken an oath made to a god and it will bring your doom!"

The arch-priest was clearly trying for a good thunder-and-death impression, but Arden wasn't overly impressed. He didn't recognize the man, which meant he wasn't from the capital. Likely some provincial prelate sent to tramp behind the army and sit out the boredom of the seige. Even the smallest temples in the poorest quarters of the capital city were choice positions, to be fought over and schemed after by the most ambitious priests and priestesses. The Patriarchs could afford to be choosy and unless this one was the brother-in-law or bastard son of Baruno's Patriarch, he'd never celebrate in one of Cara's temples.

Skilled orator or not, he was still angry and might have enough real power to spread it around.

The duke said, "It was agreed that mighty and benevolent Baruno would not miss this small handful of souls, after the stones of the city ran red with blood in his honor for the last two days and nights." He stood with his neck slightly bent to honor Baruno's priest, but his voice was firm; there was no hint of either submission or shame in him.

"It is not for you to decide!" bellowed the arch-priest. "All-seeing Baruno knows of your perfidy and will crush you for your willful disobedience! These vermin will be killed!"

Arden winced. No subtlety in that one.

Pormano straightened up and stared down his long nose at the priest. "I do not take shouted orders from rude underlings who forget their place," he spat.

The priest glared right back at him. "The orders come from Baruno through the sacred voice of the Holy Patriarch, and you will take them no matter what messenger delivers them!"

The room stood silent while everyone watched the battle of wills at the head of the room. Even the men who'd been fucking their slaves had either finished, or finally caught on and stopped to watch. Arden caught himself squeezing his wine cup hard enough to flex the tough horn; if the angry little priest had his way, he'd lose Luka despite everything. The thought had him clenching his jaw as well as his fists.

He owed a debt to Luka and if he failed to honor it, the gods would make him pay for it. That could cause a man trouble all the way to the pyre, and if the gods were in a particularly droll mood, that could be a very short trip.

Even aside from that, he didn't want to see Luka killed. He was a good man, strong and honorable, a man who took his duties to heart. He held himself to a high standard and demanded the same of his students, and was a powerful enough leader to make them scramble to avoid disappointing him. Arden had seen that during his days guesting in the man's house, and such a man would be an asset to anyone. If Arden could tame him -- not break him but bring him around to accepting his new situation -- he'd be a fine addition to Arden's household and to the imperial familia.

And... that was it.

Arden slugged down the last of his wine and set the glass down on a nearby table. He took a few silent steps backward until he was out of the main aisle of the room, then slipped away, leaving the general and the arch-priest to their snarling dog-fight behind him.

Chapter Three

Luka lay naked across what he assumed was Roscha's bed, or at least the bed of some courtier who'd been slaughtered when the fucking Molani had taken the castle.

The two slaves had hauled him away after Roscha'd finished with him, and he still cringed at the thought of it. The humiliation had been worse than the pain; he could hardly remember ever having wanted that foul misbreed of a diseased goat to touch him, but now he'd be satisfied if only he had a chance to break the bastard's neck before he died.

For now, though, he was secured too well to move much. The slaves had carried him away from the hall to the room without untying him, leaving his wrists lashed to his ankles and the stick in his mouth. He could taste blood from the corners of his lips and the cord was tight enough that it was abrading a pair of raw furrows in each cheek.

They'd manhandled him like a baby or a dog, lifting and turning him while they washed him and combed his hair. One of them rubbed some ointment into the worst of his cuts and scrapes, muttering about how it was disgraceful that his Highness had had to take a slave who looked like he'd been in a wineshop brawl.

Luka had tried to head-butt him out of sheer fury, as he had with Roscha earlier, but the slaves were nimble and obviously accustomed to dealing with other slaves who were in a temper. They slapped and pinched him on parts which were already bruised, where the pain would be greatest for the least amount of effort. Despite that, the pain wasn't enough to notice, especially when he had greater injuries to distract him, but he got tired of struggling to strike back and never landing a blow, so he finally settled back to fuming and glaring.

It really wasn't the slaves he was angry with anyway. They were slaves, bound to do what they were told or be punished. It was their master whose guts he wanted to see spilling across the floor. That lying, traitorous ball of shit!

The slaves had finished cleaning him up, then with dire warnings of further punishment, had untied him. It was just as well he hadn't had any plans for making a break for freedom because after having been bound in a kneeling position for most of the day, his arms and legs both were numb and cramping. Which sounded like a contradiction but they managed it anyway.

They'd laid him out on the bed and re-bound his wrists to one of the bedposts. He'd half expected to be tied spread out, to make raping him again easier, but perhaps Roscha didn't want a mere slave taking up his entire bed.

Whatever the reason, they'd left him free to kick but still gagged, and were trimming his nails when the door swung open and smacked into the wall. Roscha strode in and barked, "Out!" The slaves gathered their tools in half a moment and scurried away, closing the door behind them more quietly.

Roscha. Luka squirmed on the bed, his weakened and aching muscles tensing in his instinctive struggle to get up and get his hands around the liar's throat. Roscha ignored any possible threat, though, and sat down on the bed next to Luka.

He leaned over, bracing his hands on either side of Luka's head, as though he were going to kiss him, which was impossible with the damned stick still in his mouth. Roscha stared down at him, his eyes intense, and said, "You have to listen, we don't have much time."

What? Luka was the man's fucking slave -- literally -- and they had their entire lives to hate one another. What was he talking about?

"I'm going to leave that thing in for now because I need you listening, not cursing me." Roscha touched Luka's cheek gently with one finger, along the line of one of the tough cords but not near enough to cause any more pain. Luka jerked his head away and snarled. He'd be damned if he'd take pity from the likes of a Molani, especially this one.

Roscha sighed and got up, moving across the room to dig around in a chest.

Chunk 7

Fri, 09 Nov 2007 08:03:35 GMT

[ETA: for some reason my counter-thingy isn't registering properly. :/ I'm actually up at 10,685.

Angie, poking the counter with a stick /ETA]
=============

The commander of the naval forces, whose deeds included the sacking of two port cities which had tried to relieve the blocade of Parakovac Ruvor, chose a young man. He took him without any excess brutality, taking a minute to stretch him first; from what Arden had heard about Commander Aeran and his chiefest captains, there was little personal hatred toward the Ruvori. He'd likely set his new slave to mending ropes and climbing masts and whatever all else sailors did on shipboard, and the boy would be a Molani officer by the next war.

Two more of Arden's older brothers made their choices; both were close enough to the throne to want women.

The heir to the kingdom of Voberen, an allied state which would be part of the Empire within a generation, chose women. There was no rule about it there, but the Voberi copied Molani customs and fashions in a desperate attempt to remain only allies.

One more brother, the seventeenth and just two years older than Arden, took a man.

Finally. Arden rose from his seat while Pormano told how he'd slipped into the city and found the eastern gate which had been badly damaged by catapults earlier. The real damage hadn't shown from the outside, but inside one of the towers had been near collapse, shored up by timbers, with more timber reinforcing the lintel stones over the gate itself. Arden had carried a report back out to Pormano himself, then risked his own life yet again by re-entering to further sabotage the gate. He'd killed the sentries and fired the supporting timbers, the fire itself being the signal for the catapults -- brought back to that side of the wall from where they'd been bombarding the southern gate -- to renew their attack. The gate and its tower had both collapses in less than an hour and the attacking soldiers had poured through.

Pormano was taking his time describing it all, though, so Arden ignored him and walked over to the slave kneeling under the sconces. Like all the male slaves, the man was gagged with a thick stick held in his mouth with a loop of cord, but his dark eyes blazed hatred and Arden had an excellent idea of what he'd be saying if he could speak.

Arden brushed the man's long hair back off his forehead and opened his mouth to say something reassuring, but the slave lurched forward and head-butted him in the gut. Arden went sprawling on his ass and the room erupted in laughter and hoots.

Fuck. Aside from pissing him off, that made things a lot harder.

He hopped up to his feet and backhanded the slave with his fist. The man flopped over backward, the way he was bound wrists-to-ankles leaving him flailing on his back like a beetle, exposed and vulnerable. Angry noises came from behind the stick but Arden ignored them. He pushed the slave's thighs apart and straddled him, jamming one knee in his belly hard enough to knock the wind out of him. That should give him some time.

He reached down and grabbed a fistful of hair, yanking the slave's head up close. "Luka!" It was a harsh whisper, low but intense. He didn't know whether anyone within earshot spoke the Ruvori tongue but he couldn't affored to be overheard. "For Tris's sake, calm down! I'm trying to save your ungrateful neck but you have to cooperate!"

The head in his hand gave a jerky shake and something which doubtless began as a curse came out a garbled growl.

"Relax!" For the sake of the watching crowd, Arden slapped him again. He tried to pull the blow as much as he could, but it still jerked Luka's head. "I have to take you. I have to, and it has to be public and after your little show of rebellion it'll have to look harsh."

Luka shook his head again, his whole body jerking in rejection, trying to buck Arden off.

Arden punched him in the gut and leaned in closer. "If you get rid of me you'll get someone else, someone who doesn't give two shits about you and will be eager to show the crowd that he can handle the big Ruvori stud. He'll tear you up until you're lying in a pool of blood. He might even invite his friends to help break you in when he's done. You're all being given out for free here, as prizes; no one will be out any money if he decides to kill you to make a show, and polish his reputation as a big, tough conqueror of the enemy."

He reached down and shoved two fingers roughly into Luka's body. "You saved my life and I'm trying to repay that as well as I can, but you have to help."

After one jerk when his ass was invaded, Luka went still. His eyes still poured out hate, but he stopped fighting and Arden could feel him trying to relax. Some of the tension left his own shoulders; that was the hardest part, getting Luka to accept his situation, right now and in public. The rest wasn't going to be easy either, but he'd been worried about right now and right now would work.

Arden looked over his shoulder and waved a hand at someone sitting nearby at one of the tables. Everyone close enough to see made jokes and called advice, but the man sitting nearest handed him a dish of olive oil. There wasn't much left after having bread dipped into it all evening, but it was better than nothing.

He slicked his fingers and kept stretching Luka out. Then he slicked his cock and pushed inside. Luka didn't make a sound, but Arden could see his jaw clench and his eyes squeeze shut. "Sorry," he whispered.

The crowd's attention had long since turned to the next man to be rewarded, save for a few nearby who preferred to watch the show right beside them. Arden made sure it was a good show, with exaggerated movements that looked rougher than they were and growled curses and insults. He hoped Luka didn't understand Pilen, but he was afraid most Ruvori likely new at least a few of the words he was using. That couldn't be helped, though, and was just one more thing to make up for later.

The stick in Luka's mouth prevented any kissing and Arden wouldn't have chanced it just then anyway. He'd likely have pulled back a bloody stump of a tongue if he'd tried, warning to behave or no.

He wanted very much to kiss Luka, though, and had since he'd first seen the man beating back the crowd. He was a swordsmaster unlike anyone Arden had ever seen, and his strong, swift motions, in complete control of the two blurring swords, had captured his attention so strongly, it'd taken a minute for him to tear his gaze away and grab up a torch to help.

That night when they'd shared a bed, he'd watched Luka come in at dawn and undress in the weak glow from the high, narrow window. He'd felt a pang of disappointment when the man had climbed into bed still wearing his shirt and breeches, even though he'd done the same himself. The way he moved, the easy strength, promised a solid, lithe body and Arden had lain there for most of the night imagining what it would look like, how it would feel under his hands and lips.

He'd wondered too whether Luka would like his own shorter, stockier body. He knew the Ruvori mocked the Imperials as squat, ugly toads, but that was the war speaking. They also had a strong taboo against men laying with other men, but he'd seen a spark of interest in Luka's eyes anyway, quickly but imperfectly concealed.

The fact that there was no wife to share the big bed, that Tochi had babbled on about sending Luka's mother and sister to safety but had mentioned no wife nor children, had given Arden... not hope, because Luka was a Ruvori and there couldn't be anything between them, but it'd given him food for his fantasies.

What he was doing just then had never been a particular fantasy of his. He'd dreamed of strong, welcoming arms and passionate kisses and bites. This soulless fucking with a man who despised him was so far from his dreams, he had a hard time keeping his cock stiff.

A round of cheers echoed through the room; the ritual was going on and another slave had been taken. He tried to imagine what it was like for Luka, not only being fucked by an enemy himself but hearing it happen to other men and women of his city. Arden scowled and tried to hurry; the sooner he finished the sooner he could get Luka out of there.

He leaned down and buried his face in Luka's shoulder, both hands winding into his long, smooth hair. The man's scent surrounded him, familiar from their two nights sharing a bed, and that helped push back the room and the ritual. He focused on just the two of them, on the strong, muscled body beneath him and the slick pressure squeezing his cock, and eventually Arden spurted inside him with a low grunt and a sigh.

He lay there panting for a few moments, his lips pressed against Luka's chest -- not kissing, only touching -- then he pulled out and climbed to his feet. He fastened his breeches and looked around for a slave. There were slaves standing quietly around the room; some had served the meal and more had slipped inside once the ritual had begun, household slaves the Molani had brought with them. Arden caught one's eye with a wave, then held up two fingers. The man nodded and came over with a companion. Both of them bowed and awaited instructions.

Arden gestured down at Luka and said, "Take him to my room. Clean him up and make sure he's secure, but don't hurt him. He's damaged enough as it is; it'll be a month before these marks fade and he's presentable."

The slaves nodded and chorused, "Yes, Master."

Arden tapped the older of the two slaves on the forehead and added, "And I'll remember you. If I find any additional marks on him when I get back, I'll whip you both."

"Yes, Master!" The older slave nodded more vigorously and bowed low, dragging the other down with him.

Arden nodded and strolled off, as though he'd nothing more to occupy his mind than finding a cup of wine.

He did find the wine, but he was searching for Bayon. The ritual had gone through nearly a third of the men in the room and the place was a chaotic surge of bodies. He wandered over toward the fireplace where Tochi had been kneeling. He'd pointed Bayon in the boy's direction, hoping he'd choose him. Bayon was a good man and had never been harsh toward a slave unless pushed to it.

The way Luka pushed tonight, he thought wryly. After being attacked and knocked down, it wouldn't have been out of line to haul the idiot up for a public whipping, and he was sure there'd be at least a few that evening. The Ruvori were understandably unhappy and that taboo of theirs made it likely that at least a few of them would prefer death to being fucked by another man -- a hated, conquering enemy man -- before a jeering crowd. Luka was a reasonable sort; his experience in a previous war had given him a strong grasp of the practical realities of surviving and Arden had counted on that. He doubted they were all like him, though, and there were sure to be a few deaths that night, and more slaves whipped near to it.

Bayon wasn't one to go that far unless he had to, though, and Arden had prayed Tochi would be as reasonable as his master. Former master.

Actually, more reasonable would be good. That head-butt had been stupid, although not really a shock.

When he'd made his way across the room, exchanging greetings -- some hearty and teasing, others fawning and flattering -- with other men as he passed, he saw that Tochi was gone. He didn't see either him or Bayon anywhere and he hoped they'd already finished and left.

Arden leaned against a table and drank his wine, pondering how soon he could leave. He should stay for a while at least, watch who was speaking with whom and update himself on where the internal factions and alliances were. Most of the true rulers of the Empire were back home, safe in the capital and awaiting news, but all the men in this room had earned a victory and would have power for a while. Some of them would be clever enough to keep it and would become new players in the game of politics. Arden's expertise was information and he needed to know what was going on, especially after having been away and out of communication for so long.

He was watching a small cluster of nobles from Gicard across the room and feeling some minor disappointment that Bayon was not among them when the main doors of the hall slammed open and one of the arch-priests of Baruno stormed in. The doors should have made a thunderous bang and stopped all conversation, drawing attention to the priest, and that was obviously what the man had intended. The atmosphere in the room was so raucously loud, however, that only the few people seated nearest Duke Pormano could even hear the recitation of deeds any more.

Arden saw the priest's face turn red with anger and probably a certain amount of embarassment at having his grand entrance go unnoticed. The man drew himself up and bellowed, "Blasphemy!" in a carrying voice trained to fill a cathedral.

Chunk 6

Thu, 08 Nov 2007 08:07:12 GMT

Bother. I meant to write more tonight but I fell asleep right after dinner and woke up about fifteen minutes ago. I banged out a bit more, but then midnight hit. I finished the paragraph before posting, though, so you wouldn't have to remember half a sentence until tomorrow night. :)

=============

[scene break]

Duke Pormano, supreme commander of the armies which had conquered Ruvor and the ranking Imperial in the place, threw excellent victory celebrations. To the man's credit, he'd had more practice at it than anyone else Arden knew of. The duke was a brilliant strategist and tactician both, and an inspiring leader.

Effective, Arden thought. That's what it sums up to -- the man gets the job done, whatever it is about him that lets him do it. That's why he's there, in that place, and he's welcome to it.

Arden was more comfortable when he could focus on one task at a time. Even if it were the sort of task where a mistake was likely to get him killed. Even if it were the sort of task where he occasionally did absolutely nothing wrong save being in the wrong place when some terrified little man finally collapsed under the weight of his fears and decided he needed to kill someone.

Even then, Arden preferred his own life and would happily kill anyone who suggested he might want to take Pormano's place.

Of course, that very attitude contributed quite a lot to his continued health. As his father's twenty-second son -- by a lawful wife rather than a slave, unlike quite a lot of his elder brothers, but not a particularly favored wife -- his chances of ever taking the throne were remote at best. Which hadn't stopped a number of low-ranking sons farther up the family tree from trying, mind. Any ruling family which lasted more than a generation had to be able to learn from history and the Molanos were particularly good at it. Arden was scrutinized constantly from his twelfth birthday on, under guard day and night, his contacts limited and his messages studied and censored.

He'd been strongly encouraged toward men from the first time his cock had hardened, and it'd been no hardship for him to go along with the encouragement. A man who'd lain with another man was banned from the imperial throne, and the public taking of a male lover was the traditional method by which double-digit imperial sons gracefully took themselves out of the competition. Arden had known from a young age that he wanted no part of the throne hunt and had been happy to bow out.

The Imperium, like commanding an array of armies, required not only attention to infinite details and the ability to put off sleep indefinitely, but also the ability to depend upon others -- many others, sometimes of unknown competency -- to perform vital tasks quickly and well. Having to rely on other people, on strangers, in order to fulfill his own tasks drove Arden distracted. He much preferred to rely only on himself, his own skills and his wit.

Such a man could never be a good ruler and well Arden knew it, so he was content with a lesser role in life. Whichever one of his brothers inherited from their father, he was welcome to it and Arden would happily pledge loyalty to him.

But Pormano did know how to arrange a victory celebration. Normally Arden would be drinking and enjoying himself along with everyone else -- even if he had had to borrow clothing fit to be seen in, since his own role in the war had precluded much in the way of baggage -- but that night he was just wishing they'd get on with it.

He was fairly sure he'd get his choice of slave. He might not be a general but he was a prince and the order of choosing was by rank and status. He knew he was going to have a fight on his hands, though, and not just physically. It was going to be grim for a while -- he hoped only for a while -- and he was impatient to get on with it.

Food followed drink and Arden, seated at the head table, picked at the offerings. Pormano had imported the best of everything into the seige-starved city, along with skilled cooks and bakers. Beef and mutton, boar and swan, eels and oysters, along with an array of spiced fruits and pickled vegetables passed by, accompanied by more wine. The slaves, all of whom had been starving for much longer than the length of an evening, looked on from the circumference of the room while their conquerors feasted. Arden had never cared about that before, nor even particularly thought about it, but this time he felt a pang of empathy for one particular slave.

By the time Pormano stood and began to speak, praising everyone in the room (the slaves didn't count) for their courage and might and guile, and thanking them all for their assistance in winning the recent war, Arden was tapping both feet under the table and thinking, All right, come on, get on with it....

Finally. Pormano, as the highest-ranked man there (purely circumstantial -- back home he'd defer to Arden and the five of his brothers who were present), chose first. He modestly declined to recite his deeds, which everyone there knew anyway, and chose a pair of beautiful women with flowing black hair and sharp, kitten faces. Since he was conducting the selection ritual himself, he couldn't take them immediately; he brought them up to kneel near his seat at the high table.

Next was Arden's second eldest brother, who'd commanded a thousand cavalry and defeated the last desperate sortie on the part of the city's defenders. Everyone listened to Pormano's recitation of his deeds, occasionally banging a fist on the table. Prince Veren also chose women; he was definitely within reach of the throne and hadn't been allowed any intimate contact with a man since his twelfth birthday. And damn little casual contact either. All his body servants were women, as well as his personal physician and surgeon.

Veren made his choices, one woman near his own age but still beautiful and with a knowing look in her eye, and another young enough to be his daughter. He knotted a scarf in his colors around the neck of the younger woman, then went over to the older. He unlaced his breeches, pushed her down and plunged into her, accompanied by a chorused roar of approval from around the room.

Chunk 5

Wed, 07 Nov 2007 08:01:37 GMT

Well, that sucks. [glances up at estimated completion date] Looks like I need to speed up a bit. [laugh/flail]

=============

Luka decided to jump right into the fray. "Hello again, Halvic Silver. Hung any more lost farmers today?"

Halvic turned red and sputtered. "That man is a spy!" he shouted. "And you are a traitor for harboring him!"

Luka looked up and searched the heavens for patience, making his movements over-large and easy to see from down in the street. "He is a sheep farmer, Halvic. An idiot from the country who thought he could come to Ruvor and find his brother on the first street corner. They likely don't even have street corners in whatever village he's from."

A scatter of laughter ran through the crowd and Luka grinned back. Laughing was better than growling. Entertained was better than angry. If they could see the humor, they'd likely forget they'd come to kill a man. Show Roscha as a bumbling idiot who knew nothing beyond his own pasture back home and they'd see how harmless he was, something beneath them, too insignificant to be a danger. It wasn't kind to Roscha, perhaps, but Luka wagered the man would rather have people laugh at him and let him go than respect him enough to murder him.

Halvic glared death up at Luka and shouted, "You have weapons! Give them to us to fight the Molani!"

Luka's prayer for patience was purely internal and more sincere this time. "I have no swords long enough to reach the Molani from the tops of the walls. Do you plan to lead an attack outside the walls, on the ground?"

The challenge made Halvic shrink back some, and Luka snorted. He hadn't thought so. Halvic muttered something Luka couldn't hear to the men near him, then shouted up once more.

"You have food! You're a hoarder of food while people are starving! We'll break down your gate and take it!"

That was getting serious and Luka's jaw clenched when an angry growl spread through the crowd. He shifted his stance to ensure they were all looking at him, glared down at Halvic and shouted back, "I have some few scraps left, yes, as do most of us. I also have eighteen mouths in here to eat them. You have only yourself and your wife and your two apprentices." He paused for a moment and let the crowd ponder that. Just the thought of being responsible for feeding eighteen people in these times would make some of them back off, and sure enough, a few went quiet and frowned.

He studied Halvic, who was thin but not wasted, and decided to gamble. "If you and yours are truly starving, Halvic, I will share with you. We will come in and search my house and bring all my food into a pile. Then we will search your house and bring all of your food into the same pile. We will divide all the food twenty-two ways. I will take eighteen parts for my house and you will take four parts for your house. We will all have the same amount, then, for each person. I think that is fair. What do you say?"

Halvic blanched and took a step back. He still looked angry but he looked more frightened than anything else.

Thought so.

Luka sneered down at him, letting his scorn show. "If you don't think that's fair then I have nothing more to say to you, Halvic Silver. I have students to teach." He moved away from the wall, out of sight of the crowd below but he paused to listen.

It didn't sound like Halvic's friends were very happy with him. Luka didn't know whether Halvic had any great store of food, but his refusal to agree to the plan had suggested that Halvic himself believed he had more than Luka did, considering food for each person. If the rest of Halvic's mob decided they wanted to search Halvic's house for themselves and check, Luka wasn't going to stop them.

He felt sorry for a moment, for the man's wife and the two apprentices if not for the smith himself. But they were Halvic's responsibilities. Luka had seventeen students who were his own responsibility -- and Roscha while he stayed -- and he'd learned long ago where the line between "mine" and "not mine" lay.

There was some angry talk and shouting from outside the wall for a few minutes, then it moved away. Still angry and still shouting but away from Luka's school. Good enough.

Luka climbed down the ladder and gave a reassuring smile and nod to the anxious faces looking up at him. "It was nothing," he said easily. "The storm has turned and is moving over to rain on Halvic Silver's house. Back to your lessons, all of you." He shooed them off, the younger ones to their studying and the older ones to sparring around the edges of the courtyard. Tochi waited for him, still holding the two pairs of swords.

"What were we doing?" Luka asked with a grin as he took his weapons.

"I was beating you into the dirt, Master," Tochi answered with a wicked grin of his own.

"You think so, do you?" Luka glanced over Tochi's shoulder to the shaded spot where Roscha still sat and watched. Their eyes met for a moment, but the energy that'd built up in Luka's blood while he spoke to Halvic's mob and wondered whether they'd have to repel an attack buoyed his spirit and kept him from his earlier stumbling distraction.

Luka called, "Ho!" and attacked. Tochi yelped and their swords met in a flurry of clacks and they were on again.

Chapter Two

Prince Arden Solanus Molano strode through the halls of the defeated Ruvori king's palace, uncomfortable in his borrowed feasting clothes but determined to focus on his task for the night. He owed a debt and he expected to spend most of his life paying it, starting that evening.

Not that the burden was likely to be all that arduous. At least, not after the one whom he owed realized that this was the best possible outcome and resigned himself to his new situation. He was a strong man, though, and submission would not come easily or quickly.

Outside, the soldiers and sailors who had helped win this last battle which had conquered the Ruvori were drunk and celebrating and were already engaged in their own final conquest of the defeated people. Common spoils -- money and other portable goods -- were free for whoever was quickest to grab, with the lower officers to ensure that none of the soldiers got too occupied with their greed before the task of conquest was completed. Real property -- land and buildings -- were given as gifts and rewards to the officers, most of them noble, along with a few chosen commoners who'd served with god-inspired courage. Arden approved; it encouraged the others to let them see that dreams of glory and riches sometimes were fulfilled for men of their lowly station.

Slaves, though -- there was a ritual for slaves.

They were already breaking it more than Arden liked, and he wasn't alone. The Patriarch of Baruno, the single most powerful priest in the Empire, had persuaded Arden's Imperial father to wage this war against the Ruvori. He'd promised both the blessings of the moon god who watched over the world by day and by night, and the more tangible support of his wealthy temple, with political support and favors promised for the future. Emperor Solan hadn't been difficult to persuade, either, once he and his close advisors had worked out a plan which had a decent chance of success. Ruvor was a wealthy kingdom, and the city of Parakovac Ruvor's place at the juncture of three major trading routes had made it wealthy beyond the dreams of mortals.

The Patriarch had insisted that all the men be killed, though, and that had caused a lot of grumbling. The tradition was to take slaves, and a good deal of the wealth of conquest came from enslaving the defeated populace. Soldiers were killed, either in battle or after, but that still left most of the people and in a crafting and trading city like Parakovac Ruvor, it also left most of the men. Strong male slaves were valuable and having to kill them all was an outrage.

But the Patriarch had insisted that the god Baruno demanded it and Arden's father had agreed, more or less.

A few exceptions had been made, however, and Arden had ensured that two particular men had been included in those exceptions.

Arden entered the great hall and looked around, examining the faces of the captives. There were about three hundred slaves kneeling around the perimeter wall. All were naked and most were clearly frightened. A few were visibly defiant and Arden was sure that the man he wanted would be one of those.

The women were free, kneeling on their own or huddled together with a friend or two, trying to cover themselves with their hair and hands. The men were bound, on their knees with wrists tied to ankles. They could move -- although the room was full of soldiers and any man who did would likely get a good thump with a spear shaft -- but they could neither sit nor stand and shifting position would only mean flopping over.

There. Arden saw him, head up and shoulders back and glaring fit to singe. One eye was bruised and swollen shut and various other bruises and scabs marred the magnificent body he remembered. The man had obviously fought, but Arden would have expected no less of him.

"Highness," said a man behind him.

Arden turned to see a friend giving him a tight smile and a shallow bow. "Lord Bayon." Baron Tallen Lucenus Bayon was from the Gicard region of the empire. They'd been independent barbarians until as recently as Bayon's great-great-grandfather's lifetime and they were still uneasy about slavery. Bayon's position demanded that he keep at least a few, however, and he would have to have another tonight whether he wished to or no.

"Hold fast," Arden said, his voice lowered for just the two of them. "Don't let them see you're discomforted."

"I know!" Bayon's answering whisper was harsh, but Arden took no offense, knowing how tense the other man was.

"I know," Bayon repeated, a little more softly. "I'm sorry. This is just...." He waved one hand at the naked slaves around the room and scowled, his distaste obvious.

Arden shrugged. "We do what we have to. This is just part of the game and we do our best with it." He'd been looking over the rest of the slaves and finally found another familiar face. He glanced up at his friend and thought for a moment, then said, "You should take a man -- that way you only have to have one."

Bayon looked a question at him and Arden said, "There are only a few, so as to avoid bruising the Holy Patriarch's feelings too deeply. The emperor decided we may choose two women but only one man, to help prevent argument, and to stretch the dish to serve all of the diners." He gave Bayon a wry smile and shrugged. "It's something. Take a man; you'll have only one more soul weighing down your own."

Bayon gave him a sharp look, then sighed and nodded. "I suppose. A man will be harder to manage, though."

"The burdens of victory," Arden said. "I'm sure you'll manage. And if you'll take my advice, I'd recommend that young one over there." He nodded across the room, toward a young man kneeling beside one of the fireplaces. "There, with the two women on one side and the five on the other?"

"Oh?" Bayon looked the boy over. "Why him in particular?"

Arden shrugged once more. "He just gives the impression of having a... a naturally sunny disposition. He hates us all, of course. They all do. But once he settles into his situation, I'll wager he'll be easy enough to live with."

"If you say so." Bayon looked dubious but nodded. "I'll bow to your superior expertise and long experience in the matter."

It was clearly meant to sting a bit, but Arden merely nodded in return. It was true enough.

"And yet you were eyeing the big brute under the sconces," a new voice said, oily and insinuating.

Arden stiffened and glared down his nose at the man who sidled up next to them. Duke Yarro's comradely smile was always ready for those he believed could help him, whether that help might be of the tangible in business or politics, or the more ephemeral social sort of help which came from being seen with the wealthy, powerful or popular. His loyalty shifted with the strongest wind and Arden despised him.

"Yarro," he said. It was an abrupt greeting and just short of insulting.

Yarro's jaw clenched but he swept a deep bow toward Arden, and gave Bayon a nod. "Good evening, your Highness. Lord Bayon." He gave Bayon a patronizing smile and said, "I'm sure his Highness is advising you well, Baron. A younger man, easy to tame with a whip or a rod, would be a good choice. His Highness, though, would be well able to master an agressive stud like that one." He smirked and tilted his head toward Arden's choice, which at the moment he was cursing himself for betraying.

"There's something to be said for a calm, obedient slave," Arden said. He stared hard at the Duke, his displeasure as obvious as he could make it without impolitic rudeness. "I've found that those who require the whip or cane in every case have too crude a touch and lack the true skill of dominating a slave and drawing out his submission."

Yarro flushed and for just an instant he glared right back at Arden. His gaze slid aside, though, and he was immediately smiling once more. "Perhaps you are correct," he said. "I shall take your advice, of course, and try my hand with a 'gentler' slave, and we'll see what comes of it."

He bowed once more and stalked off.

"Rude bastard," Bayon muttered.

"Vindictive bastard," Arden corrected. "I'm afraid I've made a mistake."

Chunk 4

Mon, 05 Nov 2007 08:13:26 GMT

A little ahead yesterday, a little behind today. I might be getting close to the end of Chapter One, though, so that's good. :)

==============

Roscha nodded. "Makes sense I suppose." He shrugged and worked on gnawing off a corner of his bread.

They sat in the sun and ate. The meager meal always quieted the boys down for a few minutes, but they were boys and soon the younger ones were finished eating and chasing each other about the yard. Luka could see that they were neither as quick nor as nimble as they'd been, that the jumps over the water trough to one side were both fewer and lower than before, but the ones swarming around playing -- the littler ones who had between seven and ten or so years -- could forget the rest of the world. Or at least set it aside for a while.

Roscha leaned over so his shoulder bumped Luka's and pointed to a couple of students scrambling up the rough-finished stone toward the catwalk over the gate, ignoring the wooden ladder. "Are they supposed to be doing that?"

Luka felt the warmth of solid muscle pressing against him and remembered staring at those shoulders the night before. He shifted away a little and said, "Not really but they do anyway. I only thrash them for it if they fall."

A snort answered him. "You're definitely a teacher." Roscha grinned at him. His eyes were grey and bright with humor, and the sun-weathered skin beside them crinkled when he smiled.

Luka stood looked around for Tochi, perhaps a bit more urgently than usual. "I have to go to work," he said without looking at Roscha. "You're welcome to watch if you like."

Of course he was -- what, was he going to send the man inside and instruct him not to look out for the rest of the afternoon? He spotted Tochi talking to one of the youngsters and called his name, then tilted his head toward the open area where they sparred.

Tochi nodded and trotted off for the practice swords. By the time he came back, Luka had stripped off his shirt and loosened up a little, although he still felt a tight awareness of their guest. A quick look over his shoulder showed him that Roscha had shifted over to the shade, but was otherwise still sitting on the ground watching, an open, curious expression on his face.

He's a sheep man, Luka reminded himself. He's probably never seen warriors working, not up close. Of course he's curious.

He took his long wooden swords from Tochi. They were polished blackwood, hard and worn, the same swords his father had used. His hands fit the grips without thought, as though the weapons simply extended his arms. He knew exactly where they were, where the edges and points were, at all times, the same way he knew where his own hands and feet were.

Tochi took a stance, one sword held across his chest and the other poised over his shoulder, and waited. Luka nodded, then just attacked without taking a ready position first.

Their swords whirled and swung and rebounded, crack-crack-kacrack. Luka and Tochi both attacked and parry with either sword from instant to instant, circling each other in a cyclone of wood that could and often did crack bones and leave deep bruises.

Luka was aware of the other students watching but he knew they'd stay out of the way, out of respect for both the combatants and the weapons. Beyond that, though, he was aware of a pair of curious grey eyes on him, watching him. He became self-conscious of his body and his movements, of his lack of a shirt even though he always practiced without one when the weather was this hot, and those eyes in the shadow against the wall drew more of his attention until he was hard-pressed to focus on Tochi.

Tochi grinned at him through gritted teeth and went on the offensive.

Luka had collected a bruise on his thigh, another on his upper arm, and a whipping cut across the shoulder where Tochi'd sliced him with the sharp wooden tip of one blade, and had given only a hard crack to the ribs in return. He wondered whether Roscha was watching how his muscles moved, then wrenched his attention back to the fight.

If it were Tochi whose mind was wandering like that, he'd have beaten him into the ground as a lesson. Distraction killed and Luka well knew it.

His pride was saved a similar lesson when one of the boys over the gate called, "Master? There's a mob coming!"

Luka disengaged and stepped back, swords at guard until he was sure Tochi had withdrawn as well, then paused to listen. The low rumble of voices echoed over the wall, along with the occasional shouted oath. He tossed his swords to Tochi and trotted over to the wall and up the ladder. He'd hoped the boy on watch was mistaken, or that the approaching crowd would pass by, but the shouting got louder when he looked over the parapet.

Someone called his name and he searched the crowd. Of course, Halvic the smith scowled up at him.

Chunk 3

Sun, 04 Nov 2007 07:03:38 GMT

Halvic puffed up even more and Luka wondered whether he'd burst right there in the street. No such luck -- that'd be too simple a solution.

"We will do as we see fit!" Halvic bellowed, glancing around at his fellows as though double checking that they were still with him. "This is none of your business!"

A quick glance showed Luka that one or two of the mob were looking doubtful but most were glaring at him just as angrily as the smith. "It is everyone's business when a murderer goes by his house," Luka retorted. "Or a gang of murderers." He took a step back for space and drew his swords, the double shing sound echoed when Tochi did the same. "You leave the fellow with me and I'll see he does no more spying. Go back and see to your own families."

He wasn't really expecting them to do any such thing, and sure enough they didn't. A man with a torch hollered what he doubtless fancied was a war-cry and swung the flaming length at Luka's head.

Luka parried the torch, catching it on the dull back edge of his left sword, then smacked the man across the ear with the flat of his right. The street was chaos around him and he moved around the edge of the melee, swords spinning. He heard Tochi give an enthusiastic whoop and sighed. Have to talk to him about that.

The long knives would've been much better in the crowd if they'd been seriously trying to hurt anyone, or if anyone there had had any serious weaponry. Dampening the enthusiasm of a dozen unruly civilians was very different from taking out a gang of murderous bandits, though, and the flat sides of the long swords were much more useful than the flats of the knives, or even the pommels.

The torch that'd been swung at Luka had gone skittering across the pavement and the erstwhile victim, Roscha, had grabbed it up and was whaling away with it. Luka couldn't really blame him, although he hoped no one was seriously injured. Most of the city men had the sense to stay away from him and keeping enemies out of arm's reach seemed to satisfy Roscha. Good enough.

A minute later the last few amateur hangmen were dashing off, shouting curses and threats over their shoulders. A cheer drifted down from over the gate and Luka looked up to see a row of waving shadows while likely constituted half his students.

"All right, it's over," he called. "Let us in, quick, before they decide to come back with friends."

The gate swung open enough for a man to slip through and Tochi bounced inside, already calling excited boasts to the small group gathered in the courtyard. Roscha was still standing with his torch, peering up the dark street. Still cautious, Luka tapped him lightly on the shoulder with the flat of one sword tip. The man gave a startled exclamation and spun round, swinging the flaming brand in a wide arc.

"Enough! They're gone! Relax, it's just me. Come on, inside. It's safe and we've a bit of broth we'll share." Hot water with a few beans long since boiled to death, but it was warming and enough to fool the belly for a short time.

Roscha looked up and down the street once more, then nodded. He shifted the torch to his left hand and held his right out to Luka. "Thank you."

Luka nodded and clasped hands. Roscha had a firm grip, and the hard, callused hand of a man who did work every day. Roscha nodded back, then stepped through the gate. Luka followed him, and made sure it was well secured before going inside. The half dozen boys who hadn't followed Tochi scampered along, babbling questions and exclamations about the fight, save for the two whose turn it was to keep watch above the gate. It was their watch until midnight and Luka was confident they'd keep to it without reminding, no matter what excitement was going on inside the school.

Roscha had downed his cup of bean broth with expected speed and enthusiasm. The boys had been ready to bombard him with questions all night but Luka could see that the man was swaying with fatigue, with the tension of impending death wearing off and leaving him limp and blinking. He'd chased the boys away and shown Roscha to Luka's own bed, then went out to keep the boys on the gate company.

The city never really went to sleep these days, although Luka couldn't figure out where it found the energy, starving as it was. The night spirits found easy prey, though, however starved, and most of the true horrors of the seige -- the ones caused by those inside at any rate -- had been committed at night. Luka had gotten into the habit of staying up through the dark hours and napping through most of the morning. Tochi went to bed at the midnight watch and was awake in the morning while Luka slept, and he knew to rouse his master if anything threatened the compound. Luka had only had his sleep disturbed half a dozen times in the last months; Tochi had proven his judgement was sound when it came to both waking Luka up and allowing him to sleep, which let Luka sleep all the more soundly.

At dawn, Luka went inside, stripped down to his breeches and shirt and slid into bed as gently as he could so as not to awaken their guest. The other man was still mostly dressed as well. Most folk slept naked but Luka had gotten out of the habit during his years with the army as a young man, when it could be worth a soldier's life to be surprised with a bare ass. When the enemy was near he'd slept in his armor as well.

He supposed that wandering the roads and then the city streets had gotten Roscha out of the habit of stripping as well. It was easy for a man alone to be robbed while asleep, and while being dressed wouldn't stop a thief who didn't mind breaking his skull, it would stop the sneakier type from making off with his clothes, at least.

The bed was wide enough for the wife he'd never bothered to take, so he and Roscha fit without too much nudging. Luka turned his back on the other man in his bed, put the breadth of shoulders on the shadowed silhouette firmly out of his mind, and sank into sleep quickly, another soldier's habit put to good use.

When Tochi came to wake Luka at noon, Roscha was already out of bed. While Luka dressed, Tochi reported a quiet morning, said that their guest had washed himself and his clothes and then settled down to watch Tochi drilling the younger students in the courtyard. He'd been friendly enough whenever the boys had curious questions but otherwise had kept quiet and caused no trouble. Luka nodded acknowledgement and they went back out to the courtyard together.

The main meal, such as it was, was midday, and it took little enough to prepare. The two boys on kitchen roster for the month handed out a palm-size piece of hard bread and a thumb-size lump of dried mutton. Roscha raised an eyebrow but thanked Kova solemnly when he was handed his share. Most of the boys dipped their bread into cups, although a few preferred to gnaw on it dry to make it last longer.

Luka sat down on the hard-packed dirt beside Roscha with his own food. Cleaned up and seen in daylight, the man was roughly handsome, with the dark hair of an easterner but curly rather than straight, and it framed the square face of the western folk. It wasn't common, but neither was it terribly rare. Wars spread blood in more ways than one, and hardly any Ruvori could boast of pure blood.

It had been a long time since he'd had the close company of a man near his own age, and he estimated Roscha to be about that. He was thirty-eight himself and Roscha could be anywhere from his early thirties to his early forties. A little shorter than Luka, he was broader and still fit. He must have been a magnificent man before the seige.

And that line of thought would get him a blackened eye, or even denounced in the square, and wouldn't Halvic Smith be delighted to hand out the stones? Luka doubted Roscha would go so far against a man to whom he owed his life, but the revulsion against men who lay with other men was strong and bitter and one could never tell. He removed both his eyes and his thoughts to other things and asked, "Did you sleep well?"

"Better than I have since I left home," Roscha said, his gaze direct and his voice sincere. "And I owe you once again for sharing your food. I knew you were a brave and honorable man, but you are generous as well."

Luka made a throwing-away motion. "It's little enough. We went on rations as soon as the Molani came over the horizon and we've always kept the store rooms filled. Most of my students go into the army and it's well for them to be accustomed to field rations and to know how to stretch them, so we've always had a lot of... this." He waved his dry bread. "It's served us well through the seige, although the meat is about to run out."

He glanced at Roscha and added, "I'd be grateful if you didn't mention it outside these walls. We've had looters try to break in already looking for weapons. If they knew we had any amount of food left, there'd be no stopping the tide of hungry folk. We've enough for the household but if half the city broke in, it'd be less than a crumb for each -- we'd starve ourselves and no one else would be any less hungry than they are now." He shrugged, regretting but acknowledging the cold reality of it.

Roscha nodded quickly. "I'll stay silent. It'd be a poor repayment to bring the mob to your door after you took me from them."

Luka nodded back his thanks.

They ate in silence for a while, then Roscha glanced over at him and asked, "I've been wondering why you're not with the army now. You're obviously skilled, and your boys. Most are too young but surely the army could use you and the oldest students?"

"My family has always served," Luka said, his voice calm and easy. Many people who asked that question were suspicious or accusing, or ready to jeer at him for cowardice, but Roscha had only sounded curious. "But as I said, most of my boys go for soldiers, and usually officers. I'm of more use here, training dozens of swords, than offering only my two to the army directly.

He took a bite of his mutton and chewed the leathery stuff for a minute, then added, "I served in the war against Chuvo when I was young, and did well enough. So I've the experience and I share it with my students. But my father handed me my first practice swords when I could barely toddle and I'm better as a teacher. Especially now -- with the seige, there's little for the army to do besides man the walls and shoot arrows at any of the Molani fucks who get too enthusiastic. I'm competent with a bow but not expert, so...." He shrugged and took another bite.

Chunk 2

Sat, 03 Nov 2007 07:04:59 GMT

Still didn't get as much as I wanted done today, but more than yesterday. :)

=============

Just as they passed, the man looked up at him and they stared into each other's eyes. Luka felt a jolt of shame go through him -- what was he doing just standing there, watching that pack of fools haul this man off to do who-knew-what to him? And for what? The crime of having no friends in the city? Or the crime of being unable to afford a set of new clothes, bought all at once and matching?

More like the crime of being an easy target when they needed one, when the ones they really hated were outside the walls and out of reach, in the Molani army. Or inside themselves and doubly out of reach; they hated their own fear and the cowardice that implied so they had to attack something, someone. A fearful man did stupid things, he always told his students. This was a lesson come live and trooping past their walls.

Luka stepped out into the street and strode the few steps it took to move around in front of the passing clot of men. He'd spotted the silversmith as the leader, so far as the rumbling gang had one, so he called, "Evening, Halvic Silver. What are you doing there?"

Halvic stopped and the gang came to a stumbling, jostling halt with him a few moments later. One of the men Luka didn't know gave the prisoner a punch to the back of the head, apparently just because he wanted to. Stupid place to punch a man with a bare fist, but about what Luka expected from these idiots.

"Evening, Luka Steel," Halvic retorted, not looking terribly pleased about the interruption. He was willing enough to pause and brag for a bit, though, because he went on with, "We've captured a spy! Right in our midst, sneaking about and spying for the Molani!"

Luka raised both eyebrows, putting on an expression of surprise. "Right here in the open? And you yourself found him?"

Predictably, Halvic puffed out his chest and smirked. "I did! Thought he looked suspicious, creeping about on no particular business and by himself. What honest man just walks the streets at random, staring about at everything and everyone's business? And has no friends to speak for him?"

Luka could have given him a list of possibilities, starting with any visitor in the city on business who found himself with no duties for an hour or two and ending with thousands of people who'd fled inside the walls for refuge, leaving their work outside and separated from friends and family in the crush and chaos. He managed not to roll his eyes, though, and asked, "So what did this man have to say for himself? Surely he had some story to tell?"

Halvic snorted. "Some tale of woe, to be sure. Searching for his brother, he claims. A fine excuse to be sneaking and staring at everyone, to report to his masters."

Not at all a plausible story, Luka thought wryly. He stepped past Halvic and planted himself in front of the prisoner, fists on his hips, near but not quite on the hilts of his two swords. "So who is this brother of yours?" he asked. "And who are you for that matter?"

The man looked him up and down and shrugged. He straightened his shoulders and returned Luka's gaze steadily, but Luka could see his fists trembling. A proud man, then, doing his best not to show his fear.

"My name is Roscha," he said. "I'm looking for my brother Rescha. He looks just like me except he has a scar just here." One hand moved as though to indicate where brother Rescha's scar was, but jerked to a stop, still imprisoned by the hands gripping him. The words had the rhythm of something said many times, though, like a joke said over and over among family and friends. Not really funny but made so by repetition.

"What do you and your brother do? And why look here?"

The man shrugged again. "I look here because the whole tupping world is here! More people in this Tris-abandoned city than I ever thought existed." The man glanced around and then talked faster, as though afraid he'd be cut off before he had a chance to tell his side of things. The men around him were scowling and looking impatient and Luka thought he was likely right.

"We'd been shearing the sheep -- we work for Marka Obrik, south of Cranic -- when we heard there was an army coming. We scoffed but then more strangers came through, fleeing, and all had the same tale. Well, mostly the same," he admitted. "But same enough. They were all coming here and we thought it a good idea. Rescha went ahead with his wife and the children and I took the sheep up to the high pasture. We thought to keep them from feeding the invaders, you know?"

And to keep from losing their sheep, Luka thought. Although if they worked for another man then the sheep weren't theirs. He nodded and asked, "So then what? Where did you plan to meet?"

"Here!" The man waved his arms in frustration, a helpless little flapping of the hands with both his arms held. "I told you, we'd neither of us been anywhere so big before, so we just said we'd meet in Parakovac! I thought I'd just ask if anyone had seen a man who looks like me! We're strangers here, everyone would notice strangers and point the way." He gave a short, barking laugh the sounded half bitter and half hysterical.

"A fool's tale!" snapped Halvic. "What idiot would believe such a thing? Who would think to just come to Parakovac and ask to be shown to his brother?"

"A country fool who'd never been out of his village." Luka let some of his impatience show. This was ridiculous and he was ready to thump Halvic just in principle.

"I've been to Beboj!" the prisoner protested. "To the market there! Twice!"

Luka rolled his eyes, then stared hard at Halvic. "See? The man has never seen more than two hundred people at any one time. He probably thought the city would be, what, two or three times the size? Maybe ten? No spy would be that ignorant, Halvic."

Halvic puffed up and glared right back. "And who are you to judge? This isn't your business."

"So you're going to take him to the barracks, then? Or to the mayor? Or to the king?" Taking him to the army probably wouldn't be bad. A sergeant would likely have the sense to give them all a good clout for wasting his time and send them on their way.

"They're occupied with the affairs of the city and the war, if it has escaped you," retorted Halvic, his voice dripping sarcasm. "We're going to the square to hang him as he deserves."

Oh, for.... "No," Luka said. "You're not." He shifted his hands to his swords and glanced up at Tochi, made sure he did the same. "You've had your fun, Halvic Silver, but you're not hanging a man for his ignorance."

Chunk 1

Fri, 02 Nov 2007 07:07:08 GMT

Like I did last year, I'm posting each day's whatever. The breaks will be wherever I was at midnight and probably won't coincide with any actual scene or chapter breaks, so keep that in mind while you read.

I spent most of today banging out notes and not much time actually writing. I'm actually at a little under a thousand words right now; I'd have quite a bit more if we were allowed to count said notes, alas. :) After last year, though, I'm less uptight about daily wordcounts. I feel good about this one and I think I have more of a handle on where I'm going and how I'm going to get there than I did at this time last year.

This one's a fantasy, although there won't be all that much magic in it. It'll be smutty eventually but probably not for a while. I know, so what else is new? ;)

====================

Swords and Shadows

Chapter One

Luka Tevarion peered down the street into the lengthening twilight and debated one more time going out to look for Tochi. There was no one visible directly outside the walls of his school but he could hear angry shouts and pained screams and the wordless roar of riot drifting by on the evening breeze off Lake Smedevo on the other side of the city.

Tochi was one of his best students, at twenty-six nearly ready for the black and red badge of a swordsmaster; he was spinning death with the two swords and was better than Luka himself with a pair of longknives. Luka had sent him with Luka's sister Lena and their mother to hide in the ossuary vaults, where the bones of the dead rested. He'd heard others talking of sending their women and children there, a few days ago when the last of the granaries in the southern district of the city -- the one only five streets from the school -- had been stormed by starving rioters.

It had sounded like a good notion at the time. There was nothing down there to attract anyone, neither to eat nor to loot, and the vaults were built deep into the bedrock beneath Parakovac Ruvor. The city rose high above the lake on solid cliffs, elevated above its surrounding rough hills and defended by both the landscape and its heavy fortifications. Its place on the shores of the Smedevo and at the juncture of two heavily trafficked rivers put it at the crossroads of the east and foreign armies without number had marched through their lands and even attacked their walls. The city had never fallen, though.

Never before.

And Luka was sure it wouldn't now, not even with the might of the Molani Empire arrayed below its walls and the blue and gold striped sails of their ships blockading it from the water. The Molani had formed, by both wealth and conquest, the greatest empire known since the Age of Heroes, but armies were expensive to maintain, especially in the barren land around a city built on trade, and navies likewise, and Luka was sure the Molani would withdraw their seige before the city fell. He couldn't imagine otherwise.

Neither could he imagine that Tochi had run into trouble on the way to the ossuary vaults, when he had the women with him. The delay had to have been on his way back; anything else was unthinkable.

Up the street echoed the heavy impact of running feet -- too many feet to be Tochi, unless he were being chased, which was all too possible. Luka stepped over the threshold and murmured to the students behind him to close the gate, and bar it if he shouted. If it were Tochi, he wanted to be able to help, but if it were a mob he wanted the courtyard secure.

The glow of torches appeared around the corner, lighting a crush of moving bodies. Out in front, away from the light, a single figure ran, although not fast enough for someone being chased. A few moments later, Tochi trotted up and saluted with a fist to his shoulder.

"They caught some poor bugger!" he called, his voice a mixture of revulsion and excitement. "No one knows him so they've decided he's a spy."

"That's ridiculous," Luka retorted. "The city's packed with stranded travellers and refugees from the villages. There must be ten thousand people no one would know."

Tochi shrugged. "That's too much sense for a mob."

Luka nodded. People were hungry and frightened and angry and any excuse to focus it all on something concrete, someone mortal, would be seized.

It looked like there were about a dozen people in the approaching group. Not quite a mob, then, although more than enough to overwhelm one man, especially if it were some poor farmer or herdsman with no fighting skill beyond a sling or bow. He stepped up onto the narrow curb just outside the school gate and gestured Tochi to stand next to him. Something compelled him to watch the flickering cluster of light and dark and bodies as it approached him.

When they came within a few paces, he was able to recognize a handful of the men. One of the ones with a fierce grip on the supposed spy in their midst was Halvic, a silversmith whose shop was in the next street. A burly carpenter's apprentice had a hold of the prisoner's ragged jerkin from behind, and carrying one of the torches was a brewer whose inn had had neither food nor beer to sell for the past two weeks.

The man they were hauling along was of average height, sturdy and strong looking, with no extra fat on him. That was common enough; in a city under seige, only the very rich who'd started out grossly fat had any extra by the fourth month. The man's clothes were plain and sturdy although well worn. The jerkin might have belonged to a poor craftsman, the shirt to a farmer, the breeches to a soldier. It was impossible to judge his place by the look of him, and that alone would likely have been enough to raise suspicions, with nerves stretched as taut as they were.

He might well be a spy, Luka thought with a mental smirk. He could just as easily be any poor man whose clothes came from a second-hand shop or from a charity bin.

Chunk 16

Fri, 01 Dec 2006 06:36:36 GMT

[Victory! Yaaaay! LOL! Whoa, I can't believe I did it! Especially with ten days of no writing in the middle of the month I was sure I wasn't going to make it! This is awesome! :D

Not that I'm actually done done. I'm about halfway through Chapter Fourteen and there's plenty of story left to go. I have a fest story due, though, so I'm going to work on that and then Christmas is coming so Geordie and Jeff are going to have to go on hiatus for a while. And in all seriousness, most of the frantic-ack! I've been feeling all month has been because this is a complex story and getting moreso as I've gone along and I really haven't had the time to think things through. It's great when plot points and threads just sort of show up on their own but you can only get so far with that and if I want everything to braid together neatly at the end I need to do some thinking and planning. I'll be back, and so will the boys, but probably not until after the New Year. [crossed fingers]]

So, he was going to wait, stop staring at the wall, stop poking his mail and go do something useful. Anything.

[Yes, the scene breaks here. Sorry!]

Geordie spent the rest of the morning packing his office. It was taking a lot longer than he'd thought it would, getting everything sorted and arranged, making sure nothing likely to break was free to rattle around in its carton and by the time he stopped for lunch he was glad he'd started early. He'd been sort of vaguely thinking that he could pack one room the day before the carriers came to do the rest of the unit -- maybe even just the evening before. After all, if they could pack up everything else and haul it away in one day, how long could it take him to do one room?

The answer was quite some time, actually, especially since it turned out that paper was incredibly heavy, at least when it was stacked together in solid blocks. There was a weight limit per container and his storage modules exceeded it by quite a lot. While trying to figure out what to do, he found himself going through their contents, stopping to read and remember projects he'd worked on and articles he'd written, even old files he'd done at university. He'd found the packet of materials he'd used to write his dissertation -- the first original source materials from the twenty-first century he'd ever owned as opposed to getting scanned copies off the net or borrowing facsimiles -- and took it out to the day room to look over while he ate.

It wasn't precisely useful but it was fun and he took a sort of perverse, masochistic pleasure in calling his dissertation up on his reader and going over it while browsing through the source documents. He critiqued himself, harshly and out loud, while scanning his student writing. He'd been so proud of it at the time but now he just winced at the thought that it was publically archived for anyone to read.

The packet contained a haphazard accumulation of pages from collections of comics -- a form of non-animated graphic humor which had been popular in the twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. Unlike most books and magazines, which had value only when intact, or at least with all the pages of each story or article kept together, comics were usually readable and comprehensible (if one had the cultural references) individually, which meant that even when books were found intact they were usually disassembled and sold a page at a time. The practice infuriated most historians and antiquarians, and Geordie was no exception, but the profit for the seller was higher that way.

And he had to admit that as a doctoral candidate on a very small budget, he'd never have been able to acquire the diverse collection he'd used if he'd had to purchase entire books.

His dissertation had been on the subversive use of humor by dissident factions during the period leading up to the Barricade. Certain strains of humor during that time had been particularly harsh, signs of the subtle erosion of morale by those who were trying to tear down the structure of society. Virulent attacks on authority of all kinds -- political and moral and social, the government and the church and the leaders of science and industry -- had stirred up hatred and cynicism and confusion.

The clear goal, Geordie had written, had been to divide the nation into as many bloody shreds as possible, each hating all the others, unable to stand together, much less work together. His prose had been incredibly melodramatic -- the product of an enthusiastic twenty-four-year-old -- but it had won praise and approval from the authorities and he'd won a citizenship award along with his doctoral degree.

Now, though, looking over the comics again for the first time in a number of years, he found himself pausing to study first one and then another.

His discussions with Jeff had him looking at everything through a new and different lens and now he wondered if the goals and purposes he'd so confidently assigned to the artists were truly what they'd meant.

What if they hadn't just been taking wild shots at the foundations of authority and stability? What if he'd been wrong? He hadn't gone so far as to assume an organized conspiracy -- even at twenty-four he hadn't been quite that binary, unlike some other scholars whose work he'd had to refute during his oral defense -- but he'd believed in individual dissidents and even small collections of malcontents or even enemies, foreign nationals, working together to create larger impressions among a target audience. It'd never occurred to him that they all might be wrong, that maybe the purpose hadn't been wanton dissolution of the social connective tissue at all.

What if they'd been serious? Expressing their opinions, certainly, and just as possibly mistaken as correct, but what if they'd been in earnest?

That changed everything, every reading, every interpretation, every assumption of purpose and meaning and connotation.

Geordie pushed his sandwich aside and started spreading the laminated pages out on the table, sorting and stacking them by topic. War, terror, drugs, the president, the church, education, business -- with separate stacks for corporate greed and corporate corruption and political maneuvering by corporations.

Homosexuality -- there was a huge stack of those and now he had to wonder what'd made him focus on them. He ignored the shrinking shame that made him want to curl up and ignore the subject. When he was done sorting, he picked up that stack and went through the cartoons, one at a time.

The one on top showed a young woman leaning over a table, signing a paper that said "Divorce" at the top, with a word balloon saying, "55 hours, just long enough for some fun!" A bridal veil and a wedding cake poked out of a trash bin behind her. The caption said, "Letting gays marry will make straight marriage less meaningful." He'd assumed at the time that it was just a general stab at the high divorce rate of the time but now he wondered. Why specifically fifty-five hours? If a humorist wanted to exaggerate, why not twenty-four, or twelve? Or for that matter fifty or sixty?

And the drawing of the young woman was rather specific as well, in the style of a caricaturist rather than just a generic Pretty Young Woman. Maybe it referred to a real person?

Geordie tried to imagine why anyone would want to get married and then divorce less than three days later. Even aside from the social shame, the bother and expense would certainly prevent it, wouldn't they?

The next one showed two men sitting at a bar. The clock on the wall said 1:38am and there was a collection of empty glasses in front of each of them. One man had drawings on his arms -- tattoos, a kind of permanent body art that had been popular for a few decades back then -- which said, "True Love Forever" in a heart with ribbons and flowers. The name "Jeannie" was drawn inside the heart, but had been crossed out. Below the heart were "Amy," "Debbie," "Mandy," "Tracy," "Arlene" and "Patty," all crossed out, with "Kayla" down near his wrist. The man's word balloon said, "Why do all those gays wanna be able to get married anyway? They're all promiscuous -- no committment!"

And another -- a politician speaking to a throng of people, promising to fight to the death to defend all decent American families from the filthy, corrupting elements who would undermine the morals of society and seduce their children into perversion. The crowd cheered and waved signs, but from the point of view the artist had drawn it was clear that a young man was crouched down behind the podium, his head buried between the politician's legs, out of sight of the audience.

And another, and another... all looking very different from the way Geordie had seen them nine years ago.

He remembered the Family Life class he'd had in high school, and the Parenting unit. They'd been told that supporting your child doesn't always mean being on his side, that you have to correct your child when he's in the wrong and even take sides against him sometimes. That discipline and appropriate punishment when warranted were signs that a parent loved his child and cared what sort of person he would grow up to be, even if the child didn't see things that way at the time. Being a loving and supportive parent didn't always mean indulging your child or agreeing with everything he said or did -- the only parents who let their children do whatever they wanted were the parents who didn't care what happened to those children or how they grew up.

Geordie stared at another cartoon, one mocking the president of the United States, and wondered what actions might be appropriate if he were the father of a president who was doing something clearly wrong. In a government of the people, weren't all the people, every citizen of voting age, responsible for what the government and all its offices did? Responsible the same way a parent was responsible for the children he sired and raised?

It was so clear now that Geordie couldn't believe he hadn't seen it before. As a teenager he'd gone right from one class teaching about parental responsibility and discipline to another which taught that the duty and responsibility of every citizen was to support society and its government, to do their part to form the strong foundation upon which the nation rested. Only traitors and enemies of the nation shook that foundation, like an earthquake shook and damaged the foundation of a building and brought it crumbling down.

The earthquake metaphor sounded right but it clashed with the parental one and looking at them both, Geordie thought he could see exactly how he'd been led blindly off the path. You could make a metaphor say whatever you wanted it to but that didn't mean it was a... an appropriate model for the situation being discussed. Two completely different things were only alike in so many respects and pushing the comparison too far would lead to mistaken assumptions.

Well, of course it would -- he'd had a class about that, too. But the examples used in the critical writing class where they'd studied arguments and fallacies had stayed away from anything really important, or rather the things Geordie was seeing now as important. Politics and assumptions and social control -- it was all there but no one questioned it, no one examined it, everyone was taught very clearly how things were and what was true and what was right and everyone believed it and it wasn't anything to be questioned any more than one would question whether one could breathe water instead of air.

He'd heard someone say once that a fish didn't know anything about water. It was just always there, everywhere the fish went all of its life, taken for granted and never actually seen or felt or thought about.

Geordie didn't know anything about power or control, because they'd always been there all his life and no one had ever talked about them. The world was the way it was and he'd never thought to question it, especially since no one else had either. The controls funneling him into a tight, narrow channel of correct thought and behavior were like water to a fish and just as invisible, until someone came along and pointed out that he was wet.

It wasn't until the next morning until he checked his mail again. He found a letter from Jeff, another brief, "Hi, need to talk, ping me," note. It'd been sent late the night before, or really early that morning, depending on one's point of view. He took his tea over to the couch, made sure the weather was "cloudy" and made the call.

Geordie had to wait a while, only a few seconds but it felt like longer and he was just starting to think he was going to have to leave another message when Jeff's face appeared in the window.

"Hey, Geordie." Jeff managed a smile but he looked tired and frazzled, as though he hadn't slept much, or maybe at all, and hadn't had a shower in a couple of days. "I'm glad you called, we need to talk about some things."

"Hey," Geordie echoed. "Good morning. You look awful."

That got a wry smile out of Jeff, just a momentary flash of white teeth and humor before stress and fatigue took over once more. "Gee, thanks. I'll get a wash before I leave and then some sleep on the train and I'll be fine. I got your letter, though -- everything's moving along, right? No last minute problems?"

"No, nothing," Geordie said with a shrug. "I got sort of distracted packing last night and I... wanted to talk to you about it but I think it'll wait. Elly's gone, though. She resigned her position and her call name's been changed with no forwarding. I never thought to ask her the name of the guy she's marrying and now I can't get ahold of her and they're cutting her off from her work and her friends and I'm really worried but there's nothing I can do and I got kind of angry -- I got to throwing stuff and I broke a few things." He looked away, still ashamed of himself for losing control that way. "It's just, everything's changing and everyone I care about is vanishing and I was sort of worried for a while."

"Hey, I'm really sorry," Jeff said. "Maybe we can try to find her some time. I know what you're going through -- David was my friend too and I've lost others -- but for right now I need you to focus, okay?"

Geordie looked up again and nodded, wondering what was going on. Usually Jeff was ready to listen and talk things out; he'd sort of expected some sympathy but Jeff had just brushed his worries aside and it wasn't like him.

"All right. You said you're packing things yourself?"

"Yes. I mean, some." Geordie nodded, then shook his head. "I'm doing my office. The carriers are packing everything else."

"But you're not done with your office yet, right?"

"No. Like I said, I got distracted and didn't really get much done."

"Good. I was hoping to get there tomorrow some time but I'm going to be running and we'll have to meet at the train station. Just get on the train and then hunt for me -- I usually sit toward the front."

"Umm, all right." It was disappointing but after all, it didn't really matter. They were going to be living in the same house so having to wait one more day wouldn't make a difference. Geordie'd hoped to have Jeff with him the whole time, to show him what to do and how to manage, but he was an intelligent adult and he was sure he could figure out how to negotiate a train station and get on the right train without help if he put his mind to it.

"Good. As soon as we get off, though, I need you to do something. Go get David's cake--" Jeff stopped in mid-sentence and his eyes narrowed slightly. "You do still have it, right? You didn't get rid of it?"

"No." Geordie blinked, wondering what the cake had to do with anything. "I guess I'll end up throwing most of it out. It's a shame but I can't imagine it'd travel very well. If you want a piece, though...?"

Jeff looked relieved and Geordie got another brief grin. "Well, yeah, I'd love a piece. If you could pack a big hunk of it, we can share it on the way. But that's not what I meant." He leaned forward and his gaze got hard and intense. "David was working on something I need to have. It's probably the reason he was taken, or at least part of the reason. They couldn't have known for sure what was going on or they'd have done a drop-in on him; since he got notice in advance it must've been just a suspicion, something vague, but he had a lot of things around his place that he wouldn't have wanted them to find and this one thing in particular.

"I know he was a good friend of yours but I can't imagine he'd spend all night on what he had to know was possibly his last night of freedom making you a cake just for the sake of friendship. There had to be a reason for it and I think that reason is buried in the cake. Could you go look for me now? It's probably in the bottom part, down under that support thing you mentioned."

"Yes! I mean, hang on, I'll go look." Geordie nodded and jumped up off the couch to fetch the cake from storage. He got a knife as well, then brought them both over to the couch and set them on the cushion next to him, so Jeff could watch. He felt around under the frosting until he had a grip on the layer of foam supporting the top, then lifted the whole thing off. It came with a sticky jerk as the frosting tried to hang on and then finally let go. He set the top piece aside, then picked up the knife.

He sliced carefully through the bottom part of the cake, then again. "Are you sure there's something in here?" he asked. "How big is it?"

"Not very big," Jeff said. He was watching intently and nodded encouragement. "Keep going."

Geordie sliced again, and again, quartering it and then cutting the quarters. Finally the knife hit something that didn't want to cut.

"Found it!"

He reached in and dug out a small, sealed glasstic container about the size of his palm and as thick as two fingers. It was a lot heavier than he'd expected for something that size. He wiped cake and smeared icing-goop off of it with his fingers, licking them clean as he went without thinking.

"What is it?" he asked in between wipes.

"What?"

He looked up and caught a very weird expression on Jeff's face.

"Umm, yeah, that's it. Good. Don't open it -- the container's shielded. Stick it into a pocket or something and carry it with you; it won't trigger the detectors."

That didn't answer his question but Geordie nodded anyway. Jeff was really tired and much as he wanted to keep talking for a while, he knew he needed to let him go.

"All right, I'll do that," he said. "You go get some sleep and I'll see you day after tomorrow."

"Guaranteed," Jeff said. "Take care, Geordie." He gave him a tired wave and then vanished.

Chapter 14

That evening there was a party at church so everyone could say goodbye to Geordie and wish him well. The fact that he'd gotten the invitation only two hours before made it a surprise party and he had to scramble to get washed and dressed and arrive on time.

He didn't have many actual friends at church -- no one had been really close except David, but he knew most of the congregation at least a little and he was pleased and a little depressed to see how many people seemed genuinely sad to see him leave. People who'd hardly spoken to him all his life came up and wished him well and said they were going to miss him.

While walking home afterward, Geordie wondered how many of the people who'd shaken his hand that evening would even remember his name in a year or two. He'd attended services with all of them every week, worked with a few of them at the youth club, spoken casually with most of them at the social gatherings the church held each month, but he couldn't say he knew many of them at all well, and honestly he wouldn't miss them for very long and had a hard time believing they'd miss him.

Maybe it was the new cynicism he'd felt growing within him but it seemed more likely that all the, "We'll miss you," and "We'll pray for you," and "We hope you'll be able to come visit," had been more... well, habit, than anything else. Said because it was expected more than because they really meant it.

How many of the things people did and said every day were just that kind of habit, a pattern followed just because it always was rather than because it meant anything real?

But it didn't hurt anything, the other part of his brain argued. Even if the people who'd expressed regret at his leaving hadn't meant it from the depths of their hearts, it'd been nice to hear that he'd be missed anyway. And he had to admit that it'd been good to get away for a few hours. The carriers were coming the next day and he still had to finish the last of his office -- he was pretty sure that just two or three more cartons would do it -- but he'd been tired and stressed and worrying about some really ridiculous little things.

Going to the party had let him relax and taken his mind off the things he had to do and things he was afraid of forgetting and all the things he'd been worrying about even since before he'd known he was moving. Being the center of attention for a while had been nice and Rev. Chien's sermon on community and fellowship had been interesting made him feel like being a member of the group was a pretty good thing, and given him confidence that his new community would be just as welcoming.

Maybe it wasn't all completely true, but it was pleasant and comforting and it didn't do any harm. That had to be worth something.

When he got home, though, there were two men waiting for him outside the door of his unit. They both held out their hands and displayed hologram badges from the Department of Internal Defense.

Geordie took an involuntary step backward, his eyes wide and staring, then he swallowed hard and moved forward once more. "Umm, good evening. I'm sorry, I didn't know you were coming. I was at church."

"Not a problem, Dr. Malcolm," the taller one said. "I'm Agent Reed and this is Agent Black. This is just a routine visit -- we interview all citizens who request relocation. Your order was processed rather quickly; usually we conduct the interview a week or more before the scheduled relocation date."

"Oh, umm, I'm sorry." Geordie hadn't realized this was coming although he was sure one of the files he'd gotten must've mentioned it. "Here, let's go inside. Umm, will this take very long? I'm packing my work room and I still have a few things to take care of yet and the carriers are coming tomorrow...."

"It shouldn't take long at all," said Agent Black. He and Agent Reed stepped inside when Geordie opened the door. They both looked around and they weren't being at all subtle about it although he had no idea what they were looking for. Would a traitor or a terrorist have suspicious items just laying around?

"You're moving to California, correct?" asked Agent Reed. Before Geordie could answer, he said, "The request stated that the move was a requirement of your work."

"Yes. I mean, they didn't order me to go, it was my idea. It was for convenience, really."

"So it wasn't actually a requirement?" That was Agent Black -- the way they alternated speaking made Geordie feel like he was surrounded.

"Well, if you meant that I'd have been completely unable to do my work from here, no, that wasn't the case. But I would have had to travel quite a lot and I'd rather not do that." He spread his hands slightly and shrugged. "It just seemed easier for everyone, and less expensive for the university in the long run, if I travelled once and stayed there instead of going back and forth."

He wasn't about to add that no one he knew or even knew of wanted to have any more contact with their agency than could be helped, and that that was another major reason for not wanted to travel on a regular basis. He wondered how Jeff managed -- he probably had an agent permanently assigned to him. They probably called each other by their first names, and exchanged gifts on their birthdays. The thought made him smile slightly and the two agents exchanged a glance.

"That's still an unusual reason for relocating, Dr. Malcolm," Agent Reed said, his voice flat and uncommunicative. Geordie had no idea what either of them was thinking or whether they were satisfied with his answers. "You've never travelled before. What's changed. You're a historian -- most historians don't travel for their work."

"No, we don't," Geordie agreed. "But I recently was put into contact with someone who's developing a machine that will be invaluable to my work. He agreed to use some items of my choosing during the testing period and I want to be there for that process. I'm not familiar with machinery or how it's developed and tested but I understand that the testing is likely to be drawn out and sporadic, unless everything works perfectly the first time, which I was told is unlikely. It could go on for months or even years."

He tried to be as vague and general as he could without being obvious about it. These were exactly the people Jeff didn't want to know about his new reader but they were asking and he had to tell them something. He hadn't imagined this sort of interview would come up, had never even thought that he might need something to say or even a lie to tell.

"And the thought of leaving your community, your family and friends, didn't bother you?" asked Agent Black.

Geordie stiffened and looked him straight in the eye. These men had to know about David, that he'd been friends with someone who'd been taken, probably by their office after the observers had gotten done with him. And Becky and Elly -- it'd all be in an information file somewhere, cross-referenced with his name as a contact with each of them. They had to have known all that before they'd come; they were just poking him to see if he'd squirm, or cry, or bleed. "No," he said, his voice firm and steady. "I have no close friends here anymore. My sister lives far away and my mother and I are not close. Moving away will be uncomfortable, of course, but my reasons for leaving are important and I'm sure I'll fit in well with my new community, once I settle in. Rev. Chien has promised to speak with my new church office on my behalf and I'm sure they'll be most welcoming."

The two agents exchanged another glance and Agent Black nodded slightly. Agent Reed stepped forward and said, "I'm sure they will. I hope you have a good trip, Dr. Malcolm, and that everything arrives safely." He gave Geordie a sideways smile and said, "When my brother moved the carrier lost all his clothes for almost a year. I suggest you pack at least a week's worth to carry with you on the train."

Geordie blinked at the sudden turn-around. They were finished? Already? That was it?

"Umm, thank you," he said. "I'll remember that."

Agent Reed held out his hand and Geordie returned the gesture without thinking. The agent clasped Geordie's hand in both of his and squeezed his wrist tightly. "You have a good trip, then," he said, then he stepped away and moved toward the door. Agent Black gave him a nod and followed. A moment later they were gone.

Geordie rubbed his wrist absently and stared at the closed door, a bemused expression on his face. That had been, well, weird. A sudden, unannounced visit, questions and pressure and they'd gotten so close to dangerous territory and then suddenly goodbye and they were gone.

He shook his head and went to finish packing. At least Agent Reed had had some good advice about taking plenty of clothes.

Chunk 15

Thu, 30 Nov 2006 08:05:19 GMT

[OK, this is it, the penultimate post. Or at least, penultimate so far as the actual NaNoWriMo challenge goes -- I'm most definitely not going to be finishing the story tomorrow. [wry smile] I might be halfway through, but I might not. I suck at estimating how long a story's going to be so I really don't know. But I made decent progress today, not quite the five thousand words I wanted but I'm over 45K total and that's where I wanted to be. And I really wanted to watch that gingerbread house competition this evening with my husband. [duck/grin] Anyway, unless the roof falls in or something I'm pretty sure I'll make it tomorrow. :D ]

Chapter 12

The next morning ticked by slowly. The fact that Geordie kept checking both the time and his mail queue didn't help matters any, of course. He cut a huge hunk off of David's cake and at it in tiny bites with a mug of tea, making it last as long as possible, which kept him away from his com for nearly half an hour.

He was doomed to skittish boredom until late that afternoon, however, and by the time he heard back, the news flooded in. The first letter was from Prof. Thompson, as expected. And as Geordie had hoped, the man had approved his move. He'd even tacked on some verbage praising Geordie's willingness to put his work ahead of personal concerns, which had him feeling mildly guilty but not enough to last long -- soaring excitement drove any remaining guilt out of his mind and replaced it with plans and lists and hopes for what was to come. Appended to the letter was a set of attachments with approvals and authorizations for the various expenses he'd have to deal with, and a copy of the pending travel request which had been send to the DID.

The second letter was from one of the scavengers to whom he'd expressed an interest and he happily responded with a confirmation and a charge voucher. He pulled up Jeff's address in California and entered it into the "Ship To" field -- that was it, he was sending something that was his to Jeff's home and that made it feel official. He was moving.

He tried pinging Jeff next, making sure the anti-spy thingy was on first, but didn't get an answer. Working, travelling -- Jeff was busy so often and could be hard to get ahold of but soon Geordie wouldn't have to worry about that anymore. He had a sudden image in his mind of just rolling over in bed and slipping an arm around warm, naked shoulders under the covers, of having Jeff always within reach.

A warm rush filled Geordie's body along with a reflexive recoil while pleasure and shame fought each other for control. But this time he didn't give in to the shame because he'd felt something while he and Jeff had been together, while they'd talked, he'd recognized something and maybe it was just his imagination or wishful thinking or a hopeful fantasy but Jeff wasn't like the other men he knew and maybe the difference was the same thing Barbara had seen in Geordie himself?

And that was assuming that what Barbara had perceived had been the... the difference, the twisted attachment -- and even that, the words used for it assumed so many things and Geordie had no idea what to believe anymore. Maybe he was just imagining it, maybe he really was sick and confused and all the things he and Jeff had talked about only applied to-- To what? To politics? To privacy? But how far did that go?

The realization hit him that he and Jeff hadn't really talked about very much that was solid or specific. It'd all been theory, high-level generalities.

All right, so what if there'd been some huge conspiracy -- and that sounded so dramatic, the words put together in just that way -- to lead the United States away from the ideals and values of their forefathers. They'd talked about that, about how it might've been done in very general terms and how they might find out. So assume a conspiracy and that it'd succeeded.

Now what?

If the way things were wasn't how they were supposed to be then what was the world supposed to look like? Geordie wasn't even sure what hethat if they wanted and could manage it and that notion just had Geordie's head spinning. There had to be things which were right and things which were wrong but there also had to be reasons for them. What made something right or wrong? Some actual reason which could stand on its own and didn't depend upon someone you were supposed to obey just saying so?

He tore himself away from the endless spiral and wrote a letter to Jeff. He let him know that everything was working out and that they only needed DID approval for the move.

On second thought, "only" might not be the right word but he left it in anyway, determined to keep his positive mood going for a while this time. The letter was going out in the open so he kept it in the businesslike tone one would usually use for a colleague one had only recently met.

Just before he sent Jeff's letter he got a notification of an incoming ping. He saw the name and groaned but knew he'd have to deal with it eventually.

"Hello, Rev. Chien. I hope you're having a good day?"

The reverend smiled and said, "Hello, Geordie. I just got a notification of your relocation request and wanted to speak with you about it."\

Geordie had a mental image of the man setting a hundred meter sprint record to get to his com. He couldn't have gotten word very long ago -- a few minutes at most?

"Thank you," was what he actually said out loud. "I appreciate that. I know you're very busy, especially at this time of the day."

"It's not often I lose a member of my flock to a move, and one so far away. It's always a shame when the demands of our labors require this kind of a sacrifice."

"Yes, that's true," Geordie lied. "But we do what we have to. I know you had to move when you came here and we all appreciate your willingness. We go where our work is and as a historian I have to follow my source material."

"I'm sure your colleagues are pleased by your dedication," Rev. Chien commented, "but still, it's a pity."

"It's something I've seen coming for a little while now, though," Geordie said. "I've had some time to get used to the idea."

"Yes, Barbara said this had been some time in coming."

Aha. So that was how he'd found out so soon. Geordie knew that his church would be notified that he was leaving so records could be transferred and he could receive any counseling he might need or want but he hadn't thought the news would spread quite that quickly through official channels.

"I do wish you'd confided in me sooner, though," the reverend continued. "I've been concerned about you and knowing the source of your hesitation would have helped me understand the situation."

"I'm sorry," Geordie said, not completely lying this time. "I probably should have mentioned the possibility but at the time it hardly seemed real, if that makes sense. It was a possibility but nowhere near certain and I didn't want to mislead anyone or cause any concern or fuss which might turn out to be unnecessary."

"Understandable, Geordie, and I appreciate that you didn't want to be a bother. But you need to keep in mind that those of us who are here to help you can only do so if we have complete and accurate information." Rev. Chien's voice was gently chiding and Geordie imagined his annoyance must be considerable for it to show even that much.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "Sometimes it's hard to know what's best to do."

"Asking for help is always the right thing. I'd rather be able to reassure you that your concerns are needless than have to made decisions and take actions based on mistaken assumptions I've made. Considerable confusion can result from that."

Confusion -- that's one way of thinking about it, Geordie thought to himself. I suppose being pressured into marrying someone I only sort of vaguely like could be confusing.

Although if he wanted so badly to help....

"There is something, actually," Geordie said. "I've never moved before, at least not like this. When my mother went to senior housing and I changed residences, everything was handled automatically and when my sister married her husband handled her move. I really don't know what to do or whom to call. I'm sure there are dozens of details I haven't even thought of and I have no idea how to even find out what all needs to be done, much less how to do it." He let his very real worry about the necessary logistical arrangements show on his face. "Could you give me some advice? Or tell me where to go or whom to ask?"

"Of course, Geordie," the reverend said. Now that he was back in the position of dispensing advice to someone who knew less than he did, he was smiling and comfortable again. "A packet will be sent to you once approval goes through but there are other resources as well and I'll make sure you get them." He glanced to one side and gestured and a few moments later Geordie saw a mail notification flash to one side of his desk.

"I included some information for first-time travellers as well," Rev. Chien said. "If you've never gone any distance then that can be stressful as well."

"Thank you. If the timing works out the way I've requested then the colleague I'll be working with will be on his way home from a business trip and we'll be travelling together. He travels quite a lot as I understand and knows how it all works but I'm sure any additional information you might have will be welcome. And if the timing doesn't work out and I end up going on my own then I'll definitely be glad to have it."

"Good, good. An escort is always helpful." Rev. Chien nodded his approval. "I'll pray that everything goes smoothly for you. Was there anything else you wanted assistance with? Any concerns? I know it's difficult to leave behind one's family and friends."

"Umm, well, my mother is in senior care, as I mentioned, although to tell the truth she's more active than I am." Geordie smiled and shrugged. "She volunteers for... eight different organizations last time I counted, and she's on a number of committees. She goes out walking with a group several times a week and golfs and swims and has a number of hobbies -- I hardly ever see her, even living in the same town so really, this move won't change very much about our relationship."

"It's a blessing that she's still so active in her mature years," the reverend said, "but it's always a pity when close family members grow apart."

"Yes," Geordie agreed, lying again. "We send letters back and forth fairly frequently and of course we'll continue that and I suppose I'll likely be able to get a family allowance to travel home occasionally for a holiday?"

"Oh, yes, those aren't as difficult to obtain as most people think." Rev. Chien nodded vigorously and Geordie could see him typing a note to himself while speaking. "I'll mention to your new church office that you're interested in travelling to visit with your mother and they'll help you. A letter from your clergy will usually help things go through smoothly."

"Thank you," Geordie said. "I'd like to be able to do that." And it was true. He wasn't close to his mother but they got along well enough and the thought of never being able to see her again in person hadn't been a pleasant one.

"I'm here to help you, as will your new reverend once you've left us. Please remember that, Geordie. You don't have to do these things alone."

After the surprisingly helpful talk with Rev. Chien, Geordie decided that the huge chunk of cake he'd had earlier, no matter how good, probably hadn't been much of a meal so far as nutrition went. He wandered over to the food slot and got an omelette with sausage and cheese and onions, and a small salad to go with it. He played a puzzle game while eating, something requiring just enough concentration to take his mind off of everything else. When he'd finished eating and dumped his dishes he was ready to check his mail again and sure enough there was more.

This one was an official letter with an encryption packet -- a response from the DID about his relocation request. He scanned through it quickly and let out a victorious, "Yes!" when he finally came to the part where they said in so many words that his request had been approved.

He was going!

That was it, it was official and he had permission to get really excited now. The idea made him laugh at himself but really, that was what it sounded like. Everything else had been hinging on this and it'd all been tentative without the government okay.

Attached were the a set of train tickets, an appointment ticket with a licensed carrier to move his belongings (which came with both weight and volume allowances and the additional charges he'd have to pay himself if he exceeded either), and the pamphlet Rev. Chien had mentioned.

He sent another letter to Jeff, in super-secret mode this time so he could let himself go.

"Hey," he said, shifting back and forth in his chair, "I just got the okay from DID and it's all set, I'm going! They even approved the date we wanted so we can travel together and I'll tell you I'm really glad of that 'cause I wasn't looking forward to trying to manage everything on my own the first time. I'd probably have gotten on the wrong train or something and ended up in Florida or sent my bags to Massachusetts or, I don't know, something really stupid just from sheer nerves." He laughed and shook his head. "But it's going and now I can't wait. I've been feeling less and less comfortable here, because of David, yeah, but all the pressure with Barbara and at church -- although Rev. Chien called me a little while ago and after he got done letting me know how annoyed he is that I 'let' him make a fool out of himself trying to marry me off while I was getting ready to leave the state, he was actually helpful. He sent me some info and he said the church out there can help me get back here to visit my mom sometimes so that's good. I mean, we don't exactly have the closest relationship but I do love her and I'm glad I won't be leaving her behind for good.

"But mostly I'm looking forward to being able to see you regularly." He paused and felt his face heating. "I mean, I've never had a whole lot of friends, not people I was really close to, and now David's gone and I've hardly talked to Elly at all recently and I don't know what's going on with her or if she'll still be around, so I guess getting to know you has sort of filled that gap. And now that I say that out loud I guess it sounds a little insulting but I swear I didn't mean it that way."

Geordie looked down and pushed a tense hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, I'm saying this all wrong. But I feel like we've really connected pretty well in the short time since we met and with all the other things that've been happening, I'm glad to be going somewhere else. Maybe a fresh start is exactly what I need, you know? And I'm glad you're going to be a part of it.

"Okay, I'm going to stop now before I say something really stupid but I hope you know what I mean. Give me a call when you can -- I hope everything's going well with you. Talk to you later."

He closed the window and moaned, leaning back in his chair to stare at the ceiling. Well, that was brilliant. Seriously, maybe if you rehearsed you could make even more of an idiot of yourself? It'd take a lot of practice but if you really worked at it...?

Geordie called the carrier company that evening and made a firm appointment for them to pick up his things and gave them Jeff's address in Santa Clarina. The woman he spoke with told him that it would take between ten days and two weeks for his shipment to make it to its destination. He thought that was strange and said so without really thinking about it first, but she was apparently used to the question.

"Even for a full move like this," she said, "one person's load isn't enough to make a full shipment by itself. We have to wait until we have a full load going to the region, or thirty days, whichever comes first. Central California isn't our busiest area but it gets a fair amount of traffic and if everything we have booked goes through, we should be shipping the load the last week of the month."

"All right, that makes sense, thank you." Well, it sort of did....

"We can priority rush your load if you want, but it'll cost quite a lot extra and I can tell you that your employer won't pay for it."

"No, no, that's fine. I was just wondering," he assured her. He felt a little embarassed but reminded himself that he'd never done this before and had no reason to know how it all worked.

"It'll be fine," the woman said with a sympathetic nod. "I'll send you a pamphlet on how to pack for your trip -- it has a lot of great hints and tips on what to keep out to take with you. You'd be surprised how many people pack all their underwear except what they're wearing that day, or pack all the tools they need for their work, and only realize when they get to their destination that they're stuck for two weeks or a month."

Geordie said, "Thanks, that'd be great," while the woman nodded and gestured and another file pinged into his mail queue.

"Not a problem," she said. "If you have any other questions between now and pick-up day, please call me."

Geordie assured her that he would and they closed the call.

The carriers would be packing most of his belongings but he wanted to pack all of his work things himself and the proper cartons and packing fill would be arriving the next day so he could get started. He remembered what the place had looked like when he'd moved in, bare and white and cold, and imagined it looking like that again soon. At least the place he was going to wouldn't be bare and empty.

The next day was group meeting day. He popped in a few minutes early, eager to talk to Elly, but she wasn't there yet. Disappointed, he waved to Patrick and walked over to talk to him about photos he'd found of Olympic curling in a TV Guide that'd been in reasonable shape. Patrick was pleased to hear about it and downright ecstatic when Geordie told him that he'd put them in the mail for the department office to forward to Patrick as soon as he got them assembled and laminated.

"They're not something I can use," he said, "so you're welcome to them."

"I'm surprised you're bothering at all with the tweezer assembly," Patrick commented. "It sounds like you've hit the jackpot with the magnetic media. If it were me I don't think I'd ever touch another piece of disintegrating acid-pulp again."

Geordie smirked and tapped the icon that made his avatar laugh. "First, it's not working yet. Testing hasn't even begun so who knows how long it'll take before it's up and functional? Second, I have some hopes for the media I bought but even once we get readable material off of them, I don't know for sure that there'll be useful data on them. I might end up having to go through dozens or hundreds of the things to find information of interest. It could all be gigs of accounts and tax records for all I know. And third, in my era there was a lot of data that was only on pulp and not electronic at all so I don't think I'm going to throw out the tweezers quite yet."

Patrick's little goball player laughed back and nodded. "That's true, I know. Hey, have you heard from--?"

Before he could finish his question, though, Prof. Thompson popped in and immediately said, "All right, let's get started, then."

Geordie blinked and said, "Wait, Elly's not here yet."

Prof. Thompson's little collection of shapes said, "No, and that's the subject of my first announcement. I've received Dr. Bankroft's notice of resignation. She'll be getting married and she and her fiance wish to begin a family immediately. She's decided to turn her full attention to making a home for her husband and her children to come, and doing more work within her community. I've sent congratulations on behalf of the group and the department, and I hope that the both of you will send personal notes."

The news hit Geordie like a collapsing building. All he could do was stare at the tiny figures on the stage, his mouth open and silent.

"We'll miss Dr. Bancroft, of course," Prof. Thompson was continuing, "but of course her family concerns must come first and I'm sure we all wish her happiness as she enters a new stage of her life."

Happiness? What does happiness have to do with any of this?! Geordie managed to keep his raging purely mental but the anger burning through him clenched his jaw and tightened his hands into fists.

It was outrageous! Bad enough that she was being forced to marry this... spy, this prison guard, but to make her quit her job too? She loved her work and forcing her to stop doing it was ridiculous. Even if they married immediately and a pregnancy started at once, it wasn't as though her job were strenuous -- he'd never heard of a female historian resigning her position because of a child. Leave of absence, sure. But every historian he knew worked mostly if not completely from home, and except for teaching duties -- which were easy enough to defer, for years if necessary -- there was hardly anything that had to be done at a certain time. It was all flexible, deferable, the ultimate in the accommodating career. So what was going on?

He knew, though. They were cutting Elly off from everything her new husband couldn't control, turning her into the perfectly little family-church-community woman. It wasn't just control, it was a punishment, it had to be.

Geordie cursed and threw a stylus across the room. It bounced off the wall and fell to the floor with a completely unsatisfying click. He wanted to smash something, something large and heavy and loud. If his unit had a window he'd probably put a chair through it.

Just as well it didn't, then. But it didn't make him any less angry.

Chapter 13

Geordie tried to call Elly after the meeting but the call bounced with a Name Changed, No Forward message.

He cursed again and stormed out into the day room. He picked up a cushion from the sofa and threw it at the wall. A ceramic picture came down and broke into a pile of shards. He grabbed a tea mug and threw it into the pile after the picture and the cushion, then cursed and sank down into a chair.

It was unbelievable, like something out of a vid or a dream or one of those scare-stories people whispered back and forth, something that showed up in your mailbox with a message attached to forward it to all your friends as a warning. No one actually believed that those things happened, not really. Not to real people, to normal people, to the kind of people you knew.

Everyone knew it'd happened to some people, sure, but it was always the bad ones, the one who'd been weird or sick or just a little "off" all their lives. The ones where, when they'd been taken into care, their co-workers and neighbors all nodded and said, "I knew there was something odd about him." But it was always someone else -- someone else's neighbor or someone else's colleague, a friend of a neighbor's boss's churchmate, someone comfortably distanced from one's real world and the people in it.

But this was the second time in less than two weeks. No, the third, he thought, remembering Becky. Becky, David, now Elly. It was insane!

He went over to the couch, flex-squeezed his ring and called Jeff.

"Come on, come on, answer..." he muttered. "I need you, I really need to talk, come on, answer."

Begging the window to light up with Jeff's face didn't help, though; he still got the away message and an option to leave a message, either voice or text. He left a quick, "Call me, please, soon," and stomped off to get some tea.

He waited as long as he could, sprawled on the couch in front of the com wall, flipping through news, entertainment, discussion, games, research, realviews, education, fiction, civics, more games.... He couldn't stand to watch or play or do anything for more than a few minutes, though, and nothing held him. All he could think about was losing his friends, having all that was comfortable and familiar and friendly in his world fall away, and wait for Jeff to call. He finally drifted off to the low-pitched babbling of some elderly man talking about how wonderful it was that he'd finally managed to win the national sudoku championship, babble, babble, babble, until Geordie relaxed and slept.

The cartons from the carrier company arrived early the next morning and the door chime startled him awake. He stumbled over and opened the door, let the courier haul them in and pressed his thumb to the tablet, then when he was alone again he paced over to the food slot and got some breakfast and a mug of tea, something with a stimulant this time because his usual peppermint just wouldn't do the job.

He felt horrible and thinking about just why he'd been awake so late the previous night didn't make it any better. Jeff had never called -- he'd had the message chime turned all the way up and it'd definitely have woken him -- and now he was starting to worry about him as well. What if something happened to Jeff?

Geordie knew for a fact that if the... well, pretty much anyone knew what he and Jeff had discussed, knew half the things Jeff was into -- and that was without Geordie knowing half the things Jeff was into but just from what he'd seen -- he'd be taken into care in a heartbeat. The ideas they'd discussed, the things they'd done, would all be considered deviant and sick at best, actively unpatriotic and traitorous at worst, and there'd be absolutely no doubt in anyone's mind that action needed to be taken.

What if it'd already been taken in Jeff's case? What if he was gone, his house cleaned out like David's unit?

What if Geordie didn't hear anything at all? Should he still move? But Jeff was the reason he was going -- everyone knew that, even if they didn't know all the reasons. Someone would tell him, surely. His relocation authorization would be revoked and he'd get -- would have gotten -- notification of that. But he hadn't heard anything so that meant he was still going and everything was fine, Jeff had just been busy. He'd gone days without hearing from him before and it didn't necessarily mean anything was wrong.

And for that matter, what did he know about Jeff's habits? He had to keep reminding himself how short a time they'd known each other.

Jeff was fine. Not only because he had to be but because it was the only situation which fit all the facts.

Chunk 14

Wed, 29 Nov 2006 08:07:48 GMT

[I'm back on track, sort of. I'd have liked to completely make up for yesterday's slump and that didn't happen, but at least I managed to stay on track for finishing, from where I was starting this morning. I did over five thousand words today [pantpant] and if I can do the same thing tomorrow and the next day then I'll make it, yay! :D ]

Jeff frowned and stared at some point which appeared to be over Geordie's right shoulder, thinking.

"Although if we do that then it throws off the travel," Geordie murmured. That could be a problem since if they lied about the timetable then he wouldn't be there for the actual testing. Well, not really a problem since Jeff could do it without him, he was sure, but he'd really wanted to be there....

"Wait, you got permission to travel?" Jeff asked, his intense drilling into Geordie like a laser torch.

Geordie nodded and said, "Yes, and it was even Prof. Thompson's idea. He thinks that if I'm there for the testing and all I'll learn enough about the reader to be able to help other faculty once you're marketing units and everyone has one. That, and he said when he was my age he'd have wanted to be there in person -- I think he's one of those people who's not all that comfortable interacting in virtual, you know? I wasn't about to complain, though, because I would love to be there, especially now that David's gone and they're making Elly get married and they've been looking at me and I'm afraid I'm going to--" Nerves and embarassment had him babbling again and he forced himself to shut up. "I'm sorry," he said, burying his face back down in his rigid arms. "It's just, everything's been happening at once and I don't know what to do."

"Damn," Jeff muttered. "All right, no, we'll go with it. You're under too much scrutiny and you don't know how to hide -- I want you somewhere safe."

"I-- all right. I mean, so, now what?" Geordie was babbling again and couldn't help it. He bit his lip, then said, "So, what should I tell him, then? I need a date, and a place to go. And to have the media sent too -- no sense having them shipped here then needing to move them again when I go, right?"

"Right," Jeff agreed. Geordie could see his fingers moving and knew he was bringing up info on his com wall. "I need to think about this. You'll have to send me a letter explaining all this over again and asking for the time and place anyway, something out in the open that the monitors will see, so they won't wonder why you didn't follow up on your meeting with your boss. I'll mail you back with the time and place. I have to talk to some people and make some arrangements first."

Well, that sounded really... vague. Geordie wondered who else Jeff would have to talk to -- his friend Steve, maybe? He seemed to be involved in whatever all else Jeff was doing, at least enough to be a point of contact and in on secret and very illegal technical developments.

Before he could ask, though, Jeff went on to say, "If we're going to do this then it's going to be soon. There's no sense in waiting, especially if they're trying to get a manacle on you. If they move forward on that then it'll be that much harder to get you away; family abandonment, or even breach of promise if we get you out before the ceremony, will get a gang of hunters on your trail and that'd be bad."

Geordie opened his mouth to say that he'd never abandon a family, then closed it again. Would it really be a "family" if he were threatened into it? Even if it were someone he knew, like Barbara, being forced into marriage would make it more a... a roommate. With sexual access maybe but still, that didn't fit what he thought of as a wife and the foundation of a family.

He imagined having children with someone he barely knew, only liked a little and only minimally respected and felt his insides cringe in rejection. And that was if it were Barbara. What if they chose someone for him, the way they had with Elly? Someone he didn't know, someone with a strong will and unshakeable moral views, someone who'd watch him all the time and have no compunction about reporting any possible deviation for his own good and the good of the community? Someone who'd consider him to be a... a patriotic duty, a project more than a husband? He hadn't really thought much about it before but he had to wonder how many marriages were made this way and how the people pressured into them managed for the rest of their lives. The rest of his life -- another fifty years, maybe seventy! It seemed like forever, and to spend every bit of it living with a guard, an informer...?

"Geordie? Geordie!"

Jeff's shout brought Geordie out of his downward spiral with a jolt. "What? I'm sorry, I was just thinking."

Jeff nodded, his eyes sympathetic. "Hey, I won't let anything happen, all right? This is going to work out." Geordie saw one of Jeff's hands twitch and then relax, as though he'd been about to reach out.

"I know, I'm sorry, I'm just not used to thinking about this or being in this kind of a situation. I mean, it was always people who were... bad, or sick, or something. I always thought, always knew that if I was a good person and did my work and didn't hurt anyone and supported the community that I'd be all right. I always thought the only way to get into trouble, real trouble was to do something selfish or wicked or something and I'm trying to figure out what I did wrong and how I got here--"

"Nothing," Jeff said, his voice strong and determined. "You didn't do anything wrong. You woke up is all. You're not a good little zombie trudging along in the patterns they've laid out for you. You're seeing and thinking and there's nothing wrong with that except that the people who want to control everyone don't like it."

"But why?" asked Geordie. He managed to control his voice enough that he didn't wail or whine the question but he felt like it. He was confused and frustrated and wished people would just leave him alone.

"I don't know," said Jeff with a shrug. "I guess they just like power and want as much of it as they can get. They enjoy watching everyone do what they say? I don't care why, though. I'm not going to be a muppet, though, no matter how much they want me to and some day we'll get rid of all the muppeteers and people will be able to think for themselves again. Until that time, though, we have to be smart and sneaky."

Geordie took a deep breath and nodded. "Right. Smart and sneaky."

After they got off, Geordie immediately switched off his anti-spy thingy and wrote a letter to Jeff about his meeting with Prof. Thompson and asking for specifics about time and place. Sending it made him feel better, more hopeful, as though he'd finally figured out this sneaking-and-hiding thing, at least a little.

When he was done he noticed another letter waiting for him. It was from Prof. Parker, Elly's friend, the one who knew Jeff. He clicked it open, wondering what she was writing him about.

He read and as he went his newly-risen spirits sank again. Prof. Thompson had written her to thank her for her assistance to one of his people (Geordie) and, so Geordie assumed, to ensure that names were known and favors acknowledged. Prof. Parker said that she hadn't known Dr. Barnes was so far along in his work as to be ready for testing -- and was there a little annoyance in that statement? -- but she was happy to have been of assistance and would be awaiting with interest for updates on their progress.

Geordie groaned out loud and closed the letter. Then he opened it again and wrote up a reply. He thanked Prof. Parker for connecting him with Dr. Barnes, assured her that he'd let Dr. Barnes know she was interested in his work, and mentioned that they were hoping to keep the news quiet for a while so as to protect their budget for as long as possible.

Prof. Parker was a group leader and he was sure she'd understand that motivation. With any luck she hadn't already dropped the news into her department newsletter or anything like that, and they'd be able to keep Jeff's work under the table for a while longer.

He sighed and sent the letter, with a CC to Jeff. After everything else, he hoped Jeff wouldn't be too upset over this new leak.

When he was done he shut down and went out for a walk. Exercise, cool air and solitude sounded just about perfect right then.

Chapter 11

It was four more days before Geordie heard from Jeff again. During that time he put in bids on the media he wanted, worked on his magazines -- he finished stabilizing everything salvageable in the first crate and got through most of the second, even though his interest in the actual contents had waned -- and supervised a group of kids from the youth club doing fall clean-up at the park. He enjoyed doing things with the teenagers and keeping track of them helped distract his thoughts for a while, but the time spent alone at home was tense, dull and full of racing, distracted thoughts.

Finally he got a letter from Jeff saying just, "Ping me when you're free."

Geordie wondered why Jeff hadn't just pinged him directly but figured it out with a few seconds of thought. Jeff wanted to have a secure talk and it had to be secure from both ends. He always had his anti-spy thingy on but Geordie didn't, so this was Jeff's way of letting Geordie know.

Feeling rather pleased with himself, he flex-squeezed and pinged Jeff.

Jeff answered right away and said, "Hi, Geordie. How's the weather?"

Geordie smiled and said, "Cloudy."

"Great," Jeff said, smiling back. "I knew you'd get it. How've you been?"

"Fine. All right. Well, sort of jumpy, you know? Distracted," Geordie confessed finally. He was a little embarassed to admit it, sure Jeff was used to all this and perfectly comfortable with everything.

"I'm sorry it took so long," Jeff said. He shrugged and gave Geordie a what-can-you-do? smile. "It takes some time to set things up. I have to ask, though -- would you mind actually moving? Not just coming to stay for a while but actually relocating?"

"You mean, moving? Everything?" Geordie glanced around the room and thought about packing and shipping and what he'd be able to sell or donate and what he really wanted to keep and just the thought of actually moving when he'd never even travelled more than thirty miles or so from Northbank.

It'd mean leaving his mother, too. Not that he actually went across town to see her all that often, especially since she was busier than he was and they mostly wrote back and forth. But still, moving would mean he'd hardly see her at all and maybe never again.

"Yes, actually moving." Jeff gave him an intense look and said, "I know it'd be hard, I remember you have family there, but I've been concerned about you and I'd feel better if you were close by. Not that I'm home all the time myself, but still. Moving would give you at least some temporary breathing room -- even though your church will forward your files to the local parish, it'll take our reverand a while to get to know you and decide what's going on and what to do with you. And who knows, you might even meet someone you'd like enough to actually want to marry in that time. At any rate you'd be no worse off than you are now but we'd have some time and you'd be close by."

"Ummm, well, I mean, I'd like that I think. Especially now, it's not like I have any other close friends here. I've always been more of a net-nerd, most of my friends are long-distance so that wouldn't change and it doesn't matter for work." The idea was sounding better, actually. He got an inner shiver every time the lift went past David's floor; nowing that someone he'd lived near, one of his best friends, had been taken away had him worrying that someone would come for him soon. He knew it was a ridiculous worry, or at least that moving wouldn't make the people who'd taken David any less able to take him too. But there was something about the building now that seemed unwelcoming and hostile.

Getting away from Rev. Chien would be a relief as well. He liked the man well enough, had known him for a good fifteen years since Rev. Barker had retired, but this whole marriage thing was getting scary. And Barbara was nice enough but he really didn't want to spend the rest of his life with her and he didn't have enough experience with women -- women as women, in a social setting rather than at work or just casually -- to know how to tell her he definitely wasn't interested without hurting her feelings. Maybe moving away was the cowardly solution but if he was doing it anyway for other reasons he was more than willing to take the bonus along with.

"So you'd be willing? Good, that's great," said Jeff. He sat back, looking slightly more relaxed. "So, do you think your university would go for it? Not that it matters where you are but would they be willing to pay for you to actually move?"

"Ummm." Geordie thought about it, his eyes unfocusing as he sorted through scenarios in his head. "I... might be able to convince Prof. Thompson. Maybe the testing would be in multiple stages? Like, I don't know, if you had to do a test, and if that didn't work it might take you some time to fix whatever was wrong, then do another test, then do some more fixing...? If that were the case then I'd be travelling back and forth a lot, right? And the permissions and all would be a hassle and would draw attention to our office. Moving would cost more right at the start but then I'd be there and they wouldn't have to request travel authorizations over and over. Does that sound reasonable?"

Jeff's smile widened and he nodded. "That's perfect! We'll make a conspirator out of you yet!"

That wasn't exactly a compliment, or at least Geordie wouldn't have thought so a month earlier, but he grinned back and felt like Jeff had just handed him a prize. "Good," he said. "I'll try that then. Prof. Thompson was all for the travelling before so hopefully he'll be just as cooperative about this."

"Excellent. And if he's not then we'll just have to bring you out as often as we can. That's a good story you came up with and we'll use it whether or not it lets you move out here."

"So, umm, where exactly...?" Geordie trailed off, one eyebrow raised but unwilling to ask in so many words. Even now that they were talking about him moving to Jeff's town, it still felt impolite to ask where he lived. It just wasn't something one talked about over the net.

"Ever been to the ocean?" Jeff asked, his eyes bracketed with smile lines. Geordie shook his head and Jeff said, "Well, I think you'll like it anyway. I'm in Santa Clarina, in California, down the coast from where Monterey used to be."

"I've never really travelled," Geordie confessed, "so anywhere would be at least interesting." He opened up a side window and started taking notes. "When do you want me? And... where will I stay? I mean, I'll need a new place but I have no idea how to get one. When my mom moved to the senior facility I was moved here automatically so another family could have our old place and I don't know who to call to move voluntarily."

"Don't worry about it," Jeff said with a slight head-shake. "You can stay with me, we have plenty of room. Santa Clarita is a lot smaller than Northbank and a lot older; it's mostly detached houses, like the one where we spent the night last week. We can clean some boxes out of the spare room and if you bring extra furniture we can wedge it into the basement or the attic or something."

"Oh. Well, all right, if it wouldn't be any trouble." The thought of living with Jeff, of seeing him -- and in person -- every day had Geordie smiling again.

"No trouble," Jeff said, shaking his head again and matching Geordie's smile. "It'll be great to have you around. Here's the address--" and he sent it with a couple of hand gestures, "-- and if we could arrange it for the fourteenth then I should be just finishing with a job in Delaware and I can stop and pick you up and we can travel together." He added in a teasing voice, "That way you won't get lost."

Geordie laughed and said, "That'll be great! I probably would, going all that way!"

"Hey, I told you I'll take care of you. Can't have you vanishing on me now, right?" Jeff leaned forward and rested the palm of his hand on his com wall; Geordie saw it as a life-size hand, fingers outspread, a little distorted from being pressed against the window, as though it were pressed up against an actual glass window.

Geordie felt a flutter in his gut. He stood and took the couple of steps that brought him up in front of his own com wall and he layed his hand up against the image of Jeff's. It just felt like touching the wall, but it felt different at the same time, as though they were togeter, or at least as close as they could get while being, well, now he knew it was about fifteen hundred miles apart.

"I'm looking forward to having you close," Jeff said. It wasn't much, not really, not if you just thought about the words themselves but their gazes were locked together, Geordie couldn't have looked away if the building had been on fire, and he felt a connection that absolutely had to be real. Nothing else could possibly explain the look on Jeff's face if he weren't feeling it too.

"Me too," said Geordie.

Geordie wrote to Prof. Thompson immediately, gave him the specifics and made his argument for moving rather than travelling back and forth. He did it in writing rather than live because this was important and he wanted to organize his thoughts as well as he possibly could.

It occurred to him that it might be easier to get permission to move if he seemed a little reluctant. After all, moving even just across town was a serious step to take and not something your average person looked forward to at all. His sister had moved several states away for the most common reason -- she'd met and fallen in love with a man over the net and although he'd travelled to Northbank for the wedding, they'd moved back to Illinois together to live, since his work on the reclamation project was non-portable. Occasionally someone moved for work-related reasons, as his brother-in-law had; he remembered hearing that the man was originally from Nebraska.

Geordie hoped to make a similar case for himself, but not too strongly. He really could have simply travelled a few times and only the social reflex against requesting travel permits over and over was likely to give him a reason not to. The Archaeology department was accustomed to arranging travel for its staff for History much less so; most contemporary sources were either stored on the net, accessable by mail, or in the case of living witnesses, quite interviewable from a distance. He'd be expected to be nervous about travelling and even moreso about having to deal in person with the DID every time he took a trip. Their department manager would be likewise unaccustomed to it and would likely be on his side.

At least he hoped so.

The truth was that Geordie was looking forward to moving, and moreso the more he thought about it. He had to keep that eagerness from showing, though, because it wasn't normal and anything not normal would raise suspicions and draw questions he wouldn't be able to answer.

So he framed his arguments as well as he could and sent the letter off.

Prof. Thompson,

I've spoken with Dr. Barnes and we worked out more details about the project. Unfortunately I'm not terribly familiar with engineering or how research and development usually goes and it turns out that the testing process is likely to be longer and more drawn-out than I'd originally believed.

The standard working mode is to test something, have it fail, work on fixing or improving it, test it again, have it fail or partially fail, work on it again, test it again, etc. This is normal, or so I understand, but there's not likely to be a single, extended testing period during which I would be doing useful work. Testing and final development will likely stretch out for months and might well take years, which would necessitate a lot of travelling back and forth on my part.

I was dismayed to learn this and I'm reluctant to be the cause of so much complication, expense and extra work for the department. Dr. Barnes proposed an alternate solution, though, and after some thought I believe it would serve all our needs.

I have no remaining close friends locally and my only local family is my mother, whom I rarely see in person because of her many activities. I would be willing to relocate to be near Dr. Barnes's work and if I do move out there he's offered to put me up in his home until I find a new residence for myself. I realize that the expense of such a move would be considerable but it would a one-time cost, and likewise the complications of making arrangements would have to be handled only once.

This would allow me to continue on with my usual research, but be available to Dr. Barnes whenever he was ready for me.

This is the best solution we could come up with, taking the long view of matters. I welcome your advice and any suggestions you might have.

He was rather pleased with it, over all. Businesslike but a bit nervous, willing to make a sacrifice for the team. He hoped Prof. Thompson would agree.

His desk pinged just over two hours later and he put down his tweezers and carefully covered the paper flakes he was working on to go answer. He hadn't expected to hear back from Prof. Thompson so quickly but there was always the chance he'd thought having Geordie move was a fantastic idea. Either that or he thought it was horrible and is calling to explain exactly how big an idiot I am, Geordie thought with a rueful smile.

But it wasn't his group leader -- it was Barbara.

He almost ignored it but then changed his mind. There was no reason to be rude and if he let it go then she'd just think he'd been out or in the bathroom or something like that and she'd keep calling back until he answered. So he sat down at his desk and tapped to answer.

"Hello, Barbara," he said, managing a pleasant smile. "How've you been doing?"

"Fine, thank you," she said, giving him a flirty smile back. "I didn't see you on Monday so I thought I'd call and say hello."

"No, I was with the group out at Liberty Park," he said. "You must've been at Two Bushes Lake with the other group?"

"Yes," she said, her eyes closing in mock horror. "While you were helping rake leaves or whatever you were doing, I was busy fishing Thomas out of the water! I'm surprised we didn't both freeze into huge ice cubes!"

"Oh, no!" Geordie was able to keep himself from laughing, just, but he knew he had a huge grin on his face. "What happened? And why were you the one who had to go in after him?"

She gave him a mock glare for the grin, then said, "Well, it's kind of a long story and since it's almost dinner time I wouldn't want to keep you."

Geordie might be a novice when it came to women and flirting but he knew what that meant. "Why don't we go get something to eat and you can tell me over dinner," he offered, feeling gracious. It was amazing how much the knowledge that he'd likely be fifteen hundred miles away soon helped him relax around this woman.

"That'd be lovely!" Barbara beamed as though she hadn't practically written her own invitation. "Where should we go?"

"Have you ever been to Bernadino's? A friend took me there recently and it's really wonderful. Not for people in a hurry but they use fresh food and cook it right there."

"Oh, that sounds fantastic! I've never heard of it -- where should I meet you?"

Half an hour later, he and Barbara were seated at a tiny table in one corner of the dim restaurant. He hadn't been in this far before, since he and Jeff had taken their food back to Jeff's place, but it was comfortable, if cozy, and there were crackers on the table with a variety of sauces and dips in small bowls.

Barbara's story of just how Thomas had ended up in the lake -- which involved a large tree immediately beside said lake, and a long branch extending over the water which Thomas had insisted to the end that he was sure was dead and had needed pruning -- took the entire waiting time and just as they were laughing together at the end, the server appeared with two steaming plates.

"Oh, this is delicious!" Barbara exclaimed, one hand over her mouth to mask the fact that her first bite was still in it. She swallowed and added, "Apologies but this is so good! How did you find this place? It doesn't look like anything at all from the outside!" She took another bite and closed her eyes, practically humming her pleasure while she chewed.

Geordie chuckled and nodded. "A friend, someone I met through work, was in town and we came here to eat. I've never been here before either and I have no idea how Jeff knew about it, I'm just glad he did."

"I am too! You'll have to thank him for me! Oh, we'll have to come here again, definitely!" she gushed.

And with that perfect opening.... "Well, I don't know if I'm going to have time," he said, injecting an apologetic note into his voice. "I've been working on a project and things are starting to come together and it's looking like I'm going to have to move soon."

"Move?" She looked up and blinked at him. "You mean, actually move where you live? Permanently?"

Geordie nodded. "Yes. The only alternative is a lot of travelling back and forth and, well, you know how that works -- after a point it's just easier to move."

"So... you'd be far away? Too far to visit? I visit my sister in Milbray every month or so...."

She still sounded hopeful so Jeff said, "To the coast." That was vague enough to avoid impoliteness but no matter which coast it was, it was too far for casual visiting.

"Oh," she said. He could almost see the thoughts flashing through her mind while she processed the information. "And you said you've been working on this for a while?"

He nodded.

"So that's why-- I mean, well, that explains it, then." She gave him a sad smile and poked her fork back into her pasta a few times.

Geordie almost said, "Explains what?" but managed to stop himself before being quite that stupid. If that helped then he wasn't going to contradict her. "Yes," he said instead. "I've been working on this project for a while now and I've had great hopes for it. It wouldn't have been fair to, well... to raise any hopes when things were up in the air and I didn't know if I'd be able to follow through."

Barbara reached out and patted his wrist lightly. "I understand. And... I appreciate it, Geordie. Really I do. I mean, I was wondering for a while and I was thinking maybe you didn't like me or maybe something was wrong, and Rev. Chien was insisting you were just shy and awkward and that I needed to be more firm, but I thought it was something else. You're different from other men. Umm, not in a bad way, nothing like that!" she blurted, apparently hearing herself say something that might hurt his feelings and immediately regretting it. "But I didn't think it was just shyness and now I understand.

"I appreciate it, though," she repeated. "I mean, a lot of men would have gone right ahead and had fun, whatever they thought they could get, and then just shrugged and walked away but you're a nicer person than that. I really wish...." She trailed off, leaving it to Geordie to fillin what she didn't say.

It was more than clear and Geordie was more than happy to leave it unsaid. What she had said was disturbing enough -- thinking about what she might've said to Rev. Chien if he'd ever brought himself to tell her straight out that he wasn't interested in her made a chill creep up his spine. She hadn't figured out anything specific, but just knowing that he was "different from other men" was enough to make him very glad he was leaving soon.

He hoped he was leaving soon. He crossed a set of mental fingers in hope that there'd be a letter from Prof. Thompson when he got home, and that it'd be good news.

Chunk 13

Tue, 28 Nov 2006 22:27:58 GMT

[You know you're heading for the end when 2100+ words is panic-inducingly inadequate. [flail] I've been fighting off a flu for a couple of days, probably picked it up at the casino where we went for the buffet on Thanksgiving (don't ask) and yesterday it blossomed wonderfully. When I feel nauseated all I want to do is sleep, that and slug down pink stomach goop. Add in about ten headache pills, a couple of congestion tablets, two mugs of peppermint tea and one bowl of chicken broth and that was my day. Although it is pretty amazing that I still managed to crank out over two thousand words despite it all, it's not enough and I have a feeling I'm going to be sprinting all the way to the finish line. Argh. At least I'm feeling a bit better right now, so....

Anyway, this is yesterday. It ends rather abruptly in the middle of a scene and indeed in the middle of a conversation -- apologies. :/ ]

Chapter 10

Geordie entered the conference room, clicked on a chair and watched his little stick figure walk over and sit down. Prof. Thompson's collection of shapes popped into existence a minute later, nodded and took his place at the head of the virtual table.

"Dr. Malcolm. What can I do for you?"

Down to business, of course. No small talk, no how are you, always maintaining a distance, Geordie thought. "Yes, sir," he said, putting on his "serious professional" demeanor. "I've come across a new source, or rather a new kind of source which promises to be extremely valuable if it develops as expected. I'd like to discuss it with you and get your permission to divert funding in that direction. I don't need any more budget at this point; I'm only requesting authorization to redirect."

Prof. Thompson nodded and said, "Go on."

"Thank you, sir. Through Prof. Ludmilla Parker in Theoretical Engineering, I've come into contact with an engineer who's been working on the problem of recovering magnetic data from extremely old media. He indicated to me that it should be ready for testing soon and he's willing to use media of my choosing for the tests, so long as I supply them. Since media from my era of interest are considered scrap, they're available very cheaply. I've identified three which I believe have the potential to be useful to me in my research, based on where they were found as reported by the sellers and I'd like to acquire them."

The professor's avatar just sat for a few moments, then he asked, "How likely is this experiment to produce anything useful?"

Geordie sighed. Prof. Thompson was an intelligent man but outside his field he was a bit weak. Not that he'd ever admit it, of course. "I don't have any kind of firm estimate," he said, "but even if the tests fail completely the impact on my budget will be negligible." A gesture and a click brought up some notes on expenditures, with a small graphic showing what percentage of his budget for the year would be spent on the hardware if he got all the units he was interested in.

"The periodicals I've been working with are known to be valuable so they're quite expensive. Since the magnetic media are believed to be worthless I can acquire all the units I've determined may be of interest for less than the cost of my last batch of periodicals. Less than a quarter, in fact, and that includes the cost of transport."

Another silence, then, "What about travel expenses?"

"Excuse me?"

"Since you'll be dealing with hardware I assume you'll need to travel to physically meet this engineer. Or were you planning to send the media to him and await the results? That would be more cost effective but if it were my project I'd want to be physically present for this sort of development."

Geordie leaned back in his chair and exhaled. He hadn't even thought of that. He was so used to doing everything remotely, he hadn't considered that this collaboration would give him a reason to work with Jeff, in the same physical location.

He took a breath and said, "Yes, sir, I'd definitely prefer that. I hadn't thought it would be feasible." Which was true enough, even if worded to not give away quite all of his idiocy.

"Well, I think in a case like this arrangements could be made," said Prof. Thompson. "If this development does come through then the potential for new areas of research will be enormous. I'm sure the university will want to acquire several of the units once they're commercially marketed and having someone on the faculty who was involved from their foundation, able to consult and advise other researchers using the new tools, would be quite valuable."

"I agree, sir. And I'd be more than willing to assist wherever I could." Geordie had to work hard to keep his voice low and even. What he actually wanted to do was jump up and run around yelling and waving his arms. Permission to buy the media, support for the new system if (when!) it worked out, permission to travel -- which would be exciting enough in and of itself, even if he weren't going to work with Jeff. He'd come in thinking he'd have to do some arguing just to get permission to redirect a small part of his budget but his supervisor had thrown himself firmly behind the project in a way Geordie'd never expected.

"Very well, then. Check back with your engineer and find out what his time frame looks like. Once we have firm information I'll submit the travel request and we'll get the logistics started. Go ahead and acquire those media, and watch for others. They're cheap enough now that I think it's worth the gamble to stockpile what we can. If this does work out then once the news becomes public the prices will explode."

A gesture had Geordie's avatar nodding. "Yes, sir. And thank you, I'll get to it immediately."

Geordie tried to ping Jeff as soon as he got off with Prof. Thompson, carefully activating his anti-spy thing first, but didn't get an answer. He was disappointed but not enough to completely depress his spirits and in a flurry of productivity he decided to work on his periodicals for a while. After all, they were irreplaceable artifacts and even in the excitement over a potentially huge new source of data, they needed to be preserved.

He worked on the delicate, crumbling jigsaw puzzles through the afternoon then -- flex-squeeze -- tried calling Jeff again. This time he got an answer and a moment later Jeff was smiling at him from the wall opposite the couch.

"Hello, how are you?" he asked. Geordie's answering smile was huge -- he couldn't help it.

"Tired but I got some good work done today," Jeff said. "How about you?"

Geordie could see the tension in his shoulders and tiny lines in his forehead and shifted on the cushion, eager to give him good news. "I spoke with my group leader today and I could hardly believe it -- it all went perfectly! I've never seen him this supportive of, well, anything before! Usually he's cold and grumpy, determined to show you why you're an idiot and he's smarter than you are, you know? And... well, I guess he did it again," he admitted with a laugh, "but I don't mind this time. He agreed that I can divert some of my budget to magnetic media and I've identified three I want to acquire right now. I'm sure there'll be more. He's encouraging me to buy as much as I can, as much as I think has a good chance of being useful because if your reader works then the price is going to get ridiculously high but right now it's ridiculously low. In fact, I think he's going to tell the rest of our department to do the same -- he didn't say so but I think he implied it toward the end. But--"

"Wait, hold on. Geordie!" Jeff interrupted him and Geordie ground to a halt. Jeff looked more tense right now and Geordie had no idea why.

"Yes? What's wrong?"

"You told your group leader that my reader is almost done?"

"Yes, I did." Geordie leaned back into the couch, his hands clenched with worry. "Wasn't I supposed to? I had to get permission for the purchases."

Jeff sighed and scrubbed at his face with one hand. "Geordie, there's a reason I didn't come out and tell you it was almost ready when we first met. When I told you the other day I didn't think you'd be spreading the news all over your university."

Geordie just stared at him. He felt his face heating and shook his head. "I'm... sorry. I didn't know it was a secret. You never said."

"Everything's a secret!" Jeff snapped, then he groaned and leaned back in his chair to stare at the ceiling for a moment. "All right, I'm sorry. I apologize. You're not... you're not used to working like this and I should've been specific. I assumed and that's always stupid. Mea culpa."

"I'm sorry," was all Geordie could think of to say. As happy as he'd been two minutes ago, now he wanted to just close the window and hide in his bed. He felt like an idiot even though he couldn't figure out just how he'd been supposed to know all this ahead of time.

"All right, don't worry about it," Jeff said. He leaned forward and looked at Geordie again and managed a strained smile. "What exactly did you tell him?"

"Just that," Geordie said. He thought back to his conversation with Prof. Thompson. "I said I'd met you through Prof. Parker -- I didn't think mentioning Elly was a good idea, just in case -- and that you'd been working on a method of reading old magnetic media and that you'd be ready for testing soon and were willing to let me select the media to be used for testing. That's all. Just what was relevant to my work and justifying the purchases."

Jeff sighed again. "There's the cost issue though, right? He wants to keep it as quiet as he can so the price doesn't go up?"

Geordie nodded quickly.

"All right, then, that's something. But the word's going to get out soon. The scavengers are going to notice that these hunks of junk are suddenly of interest and they're going to wonder why and they're going to talk about it. We don't have much time now."

"I'm sorry but I still don't understand why that's a problem." Geordie curled up with his arms wrapped around one bent knee. He'd been practically bubbling over with excitement all day and now suddenly he felt like a fool, and the fact that it was Jeff who was upset with him just made it a hundred times worse. They'd only met recently but Geordie felt like they'd become good friends, sharing secrets and interests and time together -- time spent in realspace, not just chatting. What if Jeff decided Geordie wasn't trustworthy and severed the relationship? Bad enough what it'd mean for his research, after all the hope and planning, but he didn't want to lose this new friend, especially withy David gone and Elly so changed.

"Think about all the things we discussed," Jeff said patiently. "If we really are on the wrong path then the people responsible aren't going to want people to know, right?"

"No, of course not."

"Right. And the secret's been safe for, what, centuries? At least for a couple of hundred years because like you said, the information sources are gone. The paper sources decayed and the film dissolved and the magnetic media failed, so there's hardly anything left that can contradict whatever the power block wants us all to believe and I'm sure they have a tight control on whatever survived, assuming they didn't hunt it up and destroy it.

"So now what? Now here we come along with my new method to recover a huge part of that lost data. Do you think they'll be happy to hear about it, the people who are running things? We've been keeping out of the light, staying unnoticed because we know that once they do notice us they'll come down and squash us and we're not strong enough to resist directly."

Well, of course. It all snapped into place and Geordie moaned and buried his head in his arms. He'd been so focused on what it all meant for him, for his research and his work that he'd completely missed the larger implications. He'd been thinking about it all day and it'd never occurred to him what it meant, that Prof. Thompson was doubtless intending to spread the word among the rest of the history faculty.

"I'm sorry," he muttered into his knee. "I'm sorry, I didn't think, I was so happy that it was all going smoothly and I didn't think about anything else."

"I know you are," Jeff said. His voice was low and flat but he didn't sound actively upset anymore; that was something. "I'm sorry too -- I should've made sure you understood. I'm not used to having to spell everything out."

They just sat there, staring at each other in silence for a few moments. Then Geordie asked, "So, what do we do now? I could talk to Prof. Thompson again tomorrow, tell him I was mistaken? That I thought you were farther along than you really were?"

Chunk 12

Mon, 27 Nov 2006 08:09:48 GMT

[Another good writing day. :) Chapter Eight was all one scene, which is weird but it was an important scene so I think that works. All of Chapter Nine is here as well; I just happened to end it at the right time.]

Geordie suppressed the urge to protest and just nodded. "So, are you going home now or do you have someplace else to go?" He stood up and took a few steps away from the couch, then stopped. There was nothing to do, nothing to get. Jeff hadn't brought anything over and had nothing to gather before leaving.

"I'll be travelling for a while longer," Jeff said. He stood up too but just stood there for a moment watching Geordie. He looked away for a moment, then met his eyes again and said, "I'm actually pretty close to having the reader working. Ready for testing, anyway. If there's anything in particular you'd like to try it on, I'd be willing. I'm interested in the mechanism after all -- I don't really care what's being read so if you have anything that'd help you, we could get together and see what happens."

And... that was one more push from a completely unexpected direction. Geordie'd been feeling weird enough, off-balance enough, at the thought of Jeff leaving but hearing that his media reader actually was close to being usable sent his thoughts flying off in a completely new direction.

Or maybe not completely new because it was their best chance to answer some of the questions they'd been talking about over the last couple of days.

Hope and excitement bubbled up inside him and he smiled at Jeff, ideas and possibilities flashing through his mind. "That's-- that's great! Yes! I mean, I don't have anything right now but the diggers are always offering old machines and parts and I get offers for storage media all the time. I'll look around and find a good selection -- if we use memory from a variety of sources then we're more likely to find something useful, don't you think? I mean, it's all useful from the point of view of general research but I mean something useful for us, for the right era. If we could find out...."

He trailed off when Jeff laughed and walked over to give him a quick hug. "You do that," he said. "Find whatever you think we should look at first. It doesn't have to be perfect -- if we don't find exactly what you want immediately then we can try again. Assuming it works the way I think it will then we'll have plenty of time. We can generate enough data that it'll keep a thousand historians going for the next century."

"Of course, but--" Geordie stopped and frowned. "But, maybe we shouldn't? I mean, if we find what we think we'll find, if something did go horribly wrong somewhere along the way then it's not like we can just make this public and start handing data files to random people, right?"

Jeff sighed and shook his head. "No, probably not. But we'll worry about that later, all right? Once we know it works and after we've figured out just what we have then we'll worry about who's going to be doing what and what to release and how and to whom, okay?"

Geordie nodded. "All right. Later."

"Later," Jeff agreed. "I'll be in touch, all right? You take care of yourself and stay out of trouble."

"I'll try."

Chapter 9

Staying out of trouble meant doing what he'd always done and Geordie tried to do that. It was hard and he often found that his thoughts dragged him back to what he and Jeff had talked about. He stayed with his routine as much as he could, though, and really, once Jeff was gone, it wasn't that difficult to keep to his usual activities. There was really nothing else to do, after all. His mind was full of new ideas -- disturbing and frightening and exciting all at once, with potential to go in any direction -- but there wasn't anything to actually do with it all yet, so he just went back to his life.

His next day at the youth club was during a reclamation week, when all the children were brought to an old public building -- this time a medical clinic which had catered to the public assistance buildings nearby -- to help with its renovation.

The heavy structural work -- floors and ceilings, outer walls and interior load-bearing walls, utility circuits and conduits -- had been done already by professionals; what was left was detail and ornamental work. The latter at least probably wouldn't have been done at all if it had had to be paid for, but with the children volunteering the labor, or having it volunteered for them at any rate, and companies looking to fulfill their community obligations donating materials, the clinic would be colorfully and cheerfully (if not very professionally) decorated by the time it reopened.

Rev. Chien divided the children up into six groups, divided by age and sex, and assigned tasks and adult volunteer supervisors. Geordie was set to shepherding the oldest boys, the thirteen-to-seventeen set, who were assigned the task of replacing windows and doors, setting up counters and cupboards, and putting up interior walls.

Most of the boys had done this sort of thing before and were familiar with the tools and machinery used. Even the youngsters had played with building sims and knew the controls and procedures. Geordie set the oldest boys to watching over the youngest, keeping an eye on them but letting them learn to teach by doing it.

Everyone had settled down to their tasks and Geordie was looking forward to spending the rest of the day walking between work areas and being available for questions when one of the girls, a fourteen-year-old with her hair in a plain braid and her face lacking even the minimal makeup most of her age-mates tried to get away with, came up and waited for him to notice her.

"Martha? What can I help you with, honey?"

"Mr. Malcolm?" She clasped her hands behind her back and held her shoulders very straight. He could tell she had a question and that she was expecting to be turned down but was determined to try. "We're muraling the wall in front of the reception desk but the wall's not up yet. I can put it up, I know how because my grandfather showed me and I could use an extruder when I was nine and I've never had an accident and I haven't made any mistakes since I was eleven but Edward won't give me the controller even though he's not using it. But we have the framing up and we can't do anything else until the wall's up and if I do it myself I can lay the base colors down at the same time and that'll give us more time to do a nice job on the detailing so I was wondering if you'd please tell Edward that I can use the extruder?"

Geordie was still making his way through the tangled request when she finished. He was about to say no, of course not, when he stopped and thought about it. His mind had zipped back to its favorite topic again and the question of just why Martha couldn't use the extruder demanded an answer, something besides, Because she's a girl.

He looked her up and down, considering. Martha was a sturdy young woman, at 5'8" only a couple of inches shorter than he was himself. She wasn't mannish but she looked healthy and appeared to take the work seriously, which was more than he could say about most of the kids, male or female. He knew she was an only child and the idea of a handy grandfather with no grandsons teaching a granddaughter how to use tools wasn't too terribly fantastical.

He'd apparently been silent too long because she added, "Or if you could please ask him if he could do our wall? So at least we could start painting?" Her shoulders had slumped just a little, although she held her head high and kept her gaze steadily on his.

"Show me what you've done," he said. "Let's go take a look at the framing."

"Yes, sir," she said. She turned and strode off, a bounce in her step as she led him around the work parties and down a flight of rough stairs to the lobby level.

Eight of the older girls were sitting or leaning on whatever would hold them, talking and primping. Most had their coms out, either talking to friends elsewhere or playing games, he guessed, although he supposed one or two might be doing schoolwork. Barbara was there as well, helping one of the oldest girls do something with her eye makeup.

"Hello, Geordie," she said, turning toward him with a welcoming smile. "Any idea how long before Edward can do our wall?"

Geordie glanced at Martha, who was carefully looking away. "No," he said, "but let's see what we can do to get things expedited." He walked over to the wall framing and examined it. It was going to be a center wall, about fifteen feet wide, with pass-throughs on either side. It would divide the main reception area from the entryway and functioned to partition the larger space rather than to hold anything up.

Despite that, though, whoever had done the framing -- Martha it sounded like, and maybe a few of her friends under her direction? -- had done a good job. The wirework was smooth and even and would support the extruded glasstic without a problem so far as he could tell. Slightly thicker guide-wires had been formed to support the outlines of the mural, something which wasn't usually done but which would let the extruder unit do a lot of the work, as Martha had said. A check of the plans on his com showed that it was in precisely the right place and the dimensions were correct.

"This looks good," he said. "Hang on a minute." He went up two flights to where Eddie McNeill, a sixteen-year-old about Geordie's size, was working with two other boys setting windows into the outer wall.

"Hey, Eddie," he said. Geordie stood back a few paces and scanned the wall, checking out the five windows they'd put in so far. "Looks good. You have, what, about an hour and a half left here?"

"I think so, Mr. Malcolm," said Eddie. He didn't look back at Geordie but kept his eyes on his work, sealing the windowframe carefully with a caulking pen while one of his friends helped hold it in place and the other mixed a fresh batch of the sealer in a hopper.

"Good. Could I have the extruder, then, since you won't be needing it for a while."

"Sure." Eddie waited until he'd gotten to a corner then straightened and fetched the control unit out of his back pocket. "Did Martha go pestering you? I'm sorry about that but I told her I couldn't get to it right away."

"That's fine," Geordie said. "You keep on here and we'll manage downstairs." He waved to Eddie and his crew, then touched the "Follow" control and headed back down. The extruder, a mobile tool about the size of a chair with two main parts, a feeder head and a slurry tank connected by a hose, gave an electronic hum and followed along after him on a combination of tracks and wheeled legs. It negotiated the stairs as quickly as he did and followed him over to where the girls and Barbara waited.

"Martha?" When she bounced over to him, starting to look cautiously excited, he handed her the controller and said, "All right, show me what you're going to do."

Martha gushed, "Thank you, Mr. Malcolm!" at the same time Barbara said, "Geordie?!" He ignored Barbara's hesitant protests and watched Martha. She ran a system diagnostic on the whole unit, then checked the tank, which was close to full. Then she called up the tint inventory on the controller's screen and showed him that there were enough of the tints they needed to lay down the base colors for the mural right into the fabric of the wall -- she knew because she'd checked when she went upstairs the first time.

She picked up the planner unit they'd been given and called up the cartoon of the mural they were going to be painting, then sent the outline to the extruder controller, to the pattern screen. That was pretty good all by itself; he'd never seen any of the boys even call up that screen, which was used mainly by professional decorators and the workers they hired. "See?" she said. "It's easy. The unit does all the work, you just have to tell it what to do." The stylus ticked back and forth between the cartoon and the selection of colors shown on a sidebar, and soon it looked very much like the mural they were going to be painting, in rough outline.

"That's very good, Martha," he said, his voice warm with praise. "Look, though, you can do this when the colors aren't quite what you want." He took the stylus from her and showed her how to use the color blends, clicking through different percentages of the basic tints until the green on two of the trees and the pinky-purple of the banner were closer to the planned colors. "Here, you mix a better blue for the pond."

"Thanks!" She took the stylus back and clicked back and forth until the blue-green was nearly perfect. "There!"

"Perfect," he said. "All right, let's see it work." He took a step back and to one side and stuck his hands into his trouser pockets, far enough away to let her work alone but close enough to keep an eye on what she was doing on the controller.

"Geordie?" Barbara asked, her voice on a slightly more intense note than before. "This really isn't a good idea."

"Why not?" he whispered. "She seems to know what she's doing and it's not like she can get hurt. Let's see how it goes." He cut off her protests by taking a step away, making it clear that his attention was on Martha.

Sure enough, everything went just fine. The wall went up in swathes, the feeder head gliding smoothly across the wires and a layer of glasstic about as thick as Geordie's thumb forming behind it, coating the wires and solidifying at once upon contact with the air. It came out in bright colors, switching from one to the next with only brief pauses. About twenty minutes later, the wall was finished and a beaming Martha shut the unit down.

"Excellent," Geordie said. He gave her a hug and tugged on her braid.

"Thanks!" She was bouncing again, letting out the delighted energy she'd controlled so well while working.

"Well, that's fine for Martha," Barbara said, her voice low but with an annoyed hiss to it, "but what about the other girls? Most of the painting is done now and there isn't enough detail to occupy them. So Martha gets to pretend she's a boy and the other girls get their task done for them?"

Geordie suspected that at least half the girls wouldn't mind at all having their task done for them, but he said, "Look at the wall -- walk around it. The pattern is on both sides so you can set them finishing both sides. There's twice as much detailing to do and that should keep everyone busy, no? And it's better than having them sit around for another two hours doing nothing, which is what would've happened if you'd waited for Eddie."

Barbara scowled, looking annoyed, as though she were still upset and was looking for another reason to justify it. "You could've done the wall yourself," she said. "There was no reason for Martha to do it."

"Except that we're supposed to be teaching the kids, not doing things ourselves," Geordie said, keeping his tone low and patient. "Look, it's not heavy work, it doesn't take any strength and it's not messy, so there's no particular reason for it to be a boy's job. The kids are divided up that way but it's just for convenience. She did it and she did a good job and now you can get the rest of them going. And I remember enough about when I was a kid to know that the detailing is the fun part -- no one likes the big coloring-in parts, so everyone's happy, right?"

Barbara just glared at him and turned away to get the girls working. Her neck was stiff and her hands were tense and Geordie was pretty sure she was still upset with him.

The first thought to pass through his mind was that maybe she'd be less eager to marry him now.

When Geordie got home he checked his mail and found, among other things, a letter from Jeff. He clicked on that first and scanned over the lines quickly.

Geordie,

I hope you had a good day. Travelling is uncomfortable and boring, at least when you've done a lot of it. You can only look out the window for so long before every tree starts looking like every other tree, and all the towns sort of mush into each other. If it weren't for the map display I'd have no idea where I was.

I'm staying with another friend and will probably be here for four or five days. There's a communications hub here that's been having problems with addressing and the software people swear it's a hardware problem although of course they have no idea just precisely what the problem might be. I have some ideas but I'm going to have the thing in pieces all over the floor no matter what it turns out to be so I've got some work to last me a little while.

Let me know how you're doing and maybe we can chat some evening.

Jeff

Geordie grinned and imagined Jeff literally wading through bits and pieces of metal and ceramic and glasstic, hunting through a mountain of tiny parts for the one that wasn't working. He much preferred his own work -- at least it wouldn't send him to a medical center if an earthquake or a clumsy assistant knocked it over.

He typed up a reply and told Jeff about his afternoon with the kids, although he saved the part about Martha (and Barbara) for when they could talk. He had a feeling that would be better for an anti-spy conversation, and in fact had been wondering if he'd done the right thing. He still couldn't think of a logical reason not to let Martha use machinery she clearly knew how to handle, but logic wasn't always the issue.

With any luck he'd be able to talk to Jeff again soon. He needed someone to share all this stuff with.

Geordie'd grabbed a pasta and turkey mix for dinner after writing back to Jeff, then settled down at the com to search through the available antique memory media and see if there was anything promising on offer. Scavengers and archaeologists -- who could be difficult to tell apart at times, especially when the archaeologists were having a hard time getting funding for whatever their area of interest might be -- were pulling things out of the ruins all the time so there was usually a good variety, but he was looking for pieces in good condition, from a specific era, and hopefully from a certain sort of business. Tax and accounting records could be gold mines to the right kind of historian but they wouldn't help Geordie as much as would the small, more personal files that contained letters and journals and other writings by individuals.

One seller had a set of platters he swore were pristine -- which Geordie interpreted to mean no actual cracks or massive gouges -- which had come out of a small server farm in a light commercial area. That one got a flag, as well as another set that came out of a private residence, which was unusual enough to be of interest. Hopefully it hadn't been owned by someone doing some sort of home-based number crunching business. He rejected several sets that came from the sites of large commercial complexes; they were probably business servers for the companies which had owned them, and although there was probably at least some e-mail and such on them which would be of interest, most of it was probably outside the scope of what he was looking for.

A set of media brought up from the ruins of a small company in old San Francisco looked more promising. There were far more units than a company that size was likely to have used for its own internal business, which meant they were probably in the information business themselves. If their customers had been private users rather than other small businesses then this could be a wonderful find, assuming two hundred and some years of immersion in salt water hadn't ruined them beyond Jeff's ability to read.

Geordie crossed a set of mental fingers and flagged that set as well.

He was looking through the description for another set of media that looked iffy when he got a ping from Elly.

After a moment's hesitation he answered. His work window shrank down to palm-size and moved to one side of the wall while the larger com window opened.

"Geordie? Hello, are you busy?" Her voice was light but a bit tight-sounding, and she looked... more resigned than anything else.

"No, not really," he answered. "Just doing some shopping. What've you been doing?"

"Well, actually, I called to tell you I'm getting married." She put on a bright smile that almost looked real.

"You're what? I mean, that's wonderful news! I mean, it is, isn't it?" Geordie found himself stumbling over his words. He didn't remember Elly mentioning even having a gentleman friend in the last, what, two years? Nearly three so far as he could remember. He wondered whether she'd been seeing someone for a while and just hadn't wanted to talk about it or whether she'd met someone recently and fallen right over a cliff into love.

"Of course it is!" She laughed a little too loudly. Rush came trotting over and jumped into her lap and she hung onto him, her face buried in his neck. "I just met him recently," she said, her voice a little muffled. "His name is Ronald Westin and he's an insurance adjustor."

"Oh. Well, good! How did you meet him?" He tried to imagine Elly with an insurance guy. It made about as much sense as him with Barbara. Although to be fair the man could have some interesting hobbies, might even be interested in tech history?

"We were introduced by mutual acquaintances," she said, still not meeting his eyes. "Someone I knew thought Ronald would be perfect for me and introduced us. Once I'd talked to him I just couldn't resist."

"Umm, good. I mean, it sounds like you get along really well." Elly still wasn't looking, at him or at anything else, so Geordie didn't bother to hide his frown. Elly was one of his best friends and he knew her as well as he knew anyone and she was not acting like she was bubbling over with sudden, irresistible love and adoration.

"Well, we don't really have all that much in common on the surface, but after all, half the fun of the journey is discovery, right?" She shrugged and looked up, a smile firmly planted in place. Rush licked her chin and she scratched the top of his head.

Geordie just looked at her, his lips slightly parted but unable to think of anything to say. Because it was clear exactly what was going on.

Elly'd been labelled a troublemaker. Not enough of one to be put into treatment but enough that someone thought she needed to be brought under control, and for a single woman that meant being put into the care of a husband. He could imagine what the Family Health people would've said about her -- gossips, doesn't mind her own business, excitable, hysterical, suspicious. Given to flights of emotional fancy, as women often were, and in need of a steady man to stabilize her and give her children to occupy her time and energy. He'd heard the same words, the same ideas, since he was in school. And really, now that he thought about it, it was amazing that Elly'd gotten away with being single as long as she had. She must be thirty now or close to it, and an unmarried woman of that age was extremely unusual.

She'd apparently managed to slide under the fence up until now but she'd finally been noticed and her social network was Doing Something About It. Whether Family Health had taken a direct interest or simply mentioned the problem to her church office, someone had found her a man, someone strong enough to ground a flighty woman and take no nonsense from her.

He still didn't know what to say.

"I... hope you're happy." For a moment he had the wild idea of marrying her himself. If they claimed a long-standing attachment, it could override whatever arrangements had been made, which after all had to be preliminary at this point. And it would take the pressure off of himself. He liked Elly, they got along well, they were in the same line of work and had very similar interests. One of them would have to move but that wouldn't be an insurmountable problem. With David gone he had very little to hold him to the Northbank locality. He'd have no problem moving and letting Elly keep her own local friends and interests. "Umm, Elly?"

"No," she said. She looked straight at him and shook her head, as though she knew exactly what'd been going through his mind. "No. Thank you, Geordie, honestly. I'm sure I'll be all right. Every woman has to get married and I'll settle down to it. You wish me well and go on with your life."

His jaw clenched and he wanted to protest. Surely they'd both be better off with someone they knew and liked and respected? He wouldn't try to control her, wouldn't try to squash the spirit out of her or turn her into a model wife, the perfect support and helpmate....

And that was why she turned him down. She was being watched and if her husband didn't force her to change then not only would stronger measures be taken against her, but her husband would be disciplined as well. She didn't want him to be torn like that, between "controlling" her or having them both caught up in the cogs of Family Health.

He swallowed hard and nodded. "I do, Elly," he said. "I hope you grow to love him and have a wonderful life."

She nodded but didn't reply out loud. And really, what was there left to say?