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LUCA DROPPED HEAVILY to the roadside and closed his eyes, his pulse loud in his ears. He had found himself in far worse positions than now, but the rolling hills outside Cascais had been taxing, and his head throbbed with every step. Now that they had finally stopped, he wanted only to sleep and try to forget his headache and his new circumstance.
“Supper, you lot.” Frangit banged a ladle against the pot, sending jarring waves through Luca’s skull. “Eat up.”
Luca’s gut felt hollow, but his aching head overwhelmed what appetite he had. Still, he knew he needed food. He’d eaten nothing since the caravan’s seizure and he would face more exertion the next day. He rolled slowly upright and shuffled toward the small cookfire where his new master warmed the meal.
His other new master, the more talkative Benton, was tugging at something in the rear of the wagon. He and his cousin Frangit had finished their business across the continent and were making their way slowly back home, trying to manage a few more coins along the route. They had lost two of their four slaves to illness, leaving them with a weighty cart and two weakened draft slaves. It was less costly, Luca had surmised from snatches of their conversation, to purchase two more slaves of mediocre quality than to sell their remaining goods at the discounted prices of glutted Cascais.
The supper, Luca discovered, was more substantial than the thin gruel of Trader Matteo’s caravan. Each of them received a hot sausage and a handful of dried vegetables, reconstituted in boiling water. Benton and Frangit weren’t careless of their labor, or perhaps they regretted the loss of their ill slaves and the expense of new ones. Regardless, Luca was encouraged at the sight, as well as the fact that neither cousin had lurked over the draft team with threats and a switch.
Perhaps, if he had to endure as a slave...
No. No, he would not remain a slave—at least, not in the hands of strangers. Benton and Frangit would take him to Alham, where he would be rescued by Master Shianan.
So near. So near to freedom and a new life.
A slave beside him with thin ginger-colored hair stared resentfully over his dish at Luca. Luca shifted uncomfortably and looked away, pulling his meal closer to his chest. He’d said little to his new companions on the road, busy with his work and his headache.
His sausage was cooling, and he pushed the rest into his mouth. He wished he knew what had become of Marla and Cole. Cole had thought Marla escaped, but where did that leave her—on the road with no shelter, no food, no protection? Anyone would think her a runaway or valuable property to be stolen and abused. And Cole might go anywhere, might well end up suffering in a salt flat or ore mine.
He finished the last of his tasteless vegetables and pushed his empty plate toward the fire. Hoping desperately they would not want him for further work such as scrubbing the cookware, he crawled toward the wagon and curled himself beneath it, tucked safely behind one of the wheels to blunt any casual kicks to rouse the slaves in the morning. Within seconds he was asleep.
“YOUR HIGHNESS, I DO not know.” General Septime shook his head unhappily. “I had no reason to think it important.”
Torg looked back and forth between the prince-heir and the general. In truth, they had known instantly that something was wrong. Shianan Becknam had never requested leave in all his service, from Torg or Septime or any other. And why should he? He had no family, no home, nothing and no one to visit. His life was his work.
To Torg he had said only, “I’m going to see General Septime about some leave,” and then walked away too quickly for Torg to question—wholly unlike his usual care.
Torg had followed him. “Sir! How long? What are your orders while you’re away?”
But Shianan had not stopped until he reached the general’s office and gestured to Petar that he wanted inside. He did not look at Torg. “I suppose you should hear,” he said to the general’s door. “Come in with me, then.”
Petar held the door for them, and they went inside and saluted.
“I should like to take a leave of absence, sir.” Shianan’s eyes betrayed desperation over his carefully controlled voice. Torg could see it, and he guessed the general could as well.
Septime nodded. “Certainly you can have a few days. When will—”
“Now, sir. Immediately.”
Septime looked surprised. “What about arranging for someone to take over your duties?”
“Captain Torg is more than capable, sir, and with the annual review finished and the Ryuven raids apparently ceased, he can see to things for the time I’m away.”
Septime looked at Torg, but not critically, almost as if he were asking for information. “I am sure the captain is very capable, but there is no harm in taking a day to arrange things.”
The commander glanced away. “It would be better for all concerned, sir, if I were to take a leave of absence now.”
Torg’s stomach clenched. The royal seal and the mercenaries hired to beat Shianan, and Septime’s warning to avoid trouble with the royal house—and Torg’s own memory of orders to let the bastard die in a tragic accident.
Torg could see that Septime was thinking something similar. “Go on then, of course, take some time to yourself. When can we expect you again?”
And a different man had answered, a Shianan Becknam Torg had never before seen. “I have a great deal of leave due me,” he said in a tight voice. “I shall return when I can.” And with a quick salute, he fled before the startled general could question or dismiss him, leaving Septime and Torg both staring at the closed door.
Torg jerked his eyes back to the general. Septime frowned. “Do you know anything about this?”
Torg shook his head. “No, sir. Only what happened at the fights, same as you.”
The general shook his head. “If he’s learned of something else, it would not be prudent to share it. Let’s assume he is removing himself from a potentially awkward situation. Becknam is a good soldier, and he’ll return when he can. In the meantime, please see to his duties, and tell me if you need assistance.”
“Of course, sir.” Captain Torg and General Septime had not spoken of it again.
But now Prince Soren was here in Septime’s own office, asking them where Shianan Becknam had gone.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness, but he didn’t say where he would go. I didn’t think to ask. A man’s leave is his own, after all.”
“When will he return?”
Septime shifted. “I’m not exactly sure, my lord.”
“What?” Prince Soren frowned. “Surely your officers may not take their leave in so slipshod a manner.”
“No, Your Highness. That is, not generally.” Septime’s fingers twitched at his beard. “But Commander Becknam has not been in the habit of taking leave, you see, and as this was a particular case...”
Soren’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
Septime took a careful breath. “He’d done a great deal of work preparing for the review and parade, and then there was that unexpected challenge by the mercenaries out to make a name for themselves. And of course, that business with the Shard and the Court of the High Star was not so long ago. No one could argue the man couldn’t do with a reprieve.”
“But where is he?” Prince Soren looked from Septime to Torg. “If Ryuven were sighted now, how would you contact him?”
Septime sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know, Your Highness.”