25: THE MARAKORI SLUMS
Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Three days since the Crown and Scepter totally failed to protect not one but two Quuros emperors
Ninavis turned to Janel. “Did I sleep with Khored or not?”
Janel held up her hands. “You don’t want me to spoil the surprise, do you?”
“Oh gods,” Ninavis growled. “You are a demon.”
Dorna chortled. “I bet you said that to Khored too.”
Then the old woman ducked as Ninavis swung at her.
Kihrin poured a glass of aris and handed it to Ninavis.
“Thank you,” Nina said. She looked over at Brother Qown and stage-whispered, “Save me.”
Brother Qown smiled as he picked up his journal. Then the smile faded as he looked at it for a moment before closing it again. “I’m going to skip ahead a bit, if you don’t mind. I mean the interesting stuff happens at the tournament.”
“Oh no,” Janel said. “I never did hear about what happened to you while we were training.”
The priest cleared his throat and opened his book again. “Very well.”
Qown’s Turn. Marakori slums, Atrine, Jorat, Quur.
Count Janel, Sir Baramon, and Ninavis spent the next two weeks learning to blend in with the Red Spears and training to pass in the tournaments. Easy enough. Ninavis possessed an undeniable talent for archery, mounted on horseback or otherwise. Sir Baramon, while too old to excel in the tournament itself, proved an excellent coach. Dorna too offered advice to performers. She also managed to unearth every single game of chance to be found anywhere in the camps, walking away with a tidy sum.
But Brother Qown’s services were unneeded.
The priest began visiting the Marakori slums.
Some social mixing occurred between the Joratese and Marakori, but not nearly enough to soften relations between the two groups. The Joratese considered their southern neighbors to be an intruding herd. They also seemed convinced every single Marakori practiced witchcraft in secret, stole babies, summoned demons. The Joratese treated the Marakori accordingly.
Now if the Marakori had banded together for their mutual defense … but the Marakori didn’t even consider themselves Marakori, let alone united.
Most of them lived in hovels built on the bridge, using materials they’d brought with them. Or they purchased materials from whatever enterprising merchant had brought building supplies by the wagonload and traded them for family heirlooms. Most Marakori wouldn’t talk about why they’d left Marakor. When they did, they cursed the Royal Houses and spat to the side.
No one talked about going back home.
“How did you break the arm?” Brother Qown asked a teenage boy as he applied an herb plaster. The boy’s coloring was typical: dark brown skin with dark auburn hair.
The boy didn’t say a thing. He just stared at Brother Qown.
“Damn Agari bastards did it,” his mother spat. “His father’s gone out with my brothers to make it right.”
Brother Qown hesitated. “You mean break their bones too?”
The flat stare she gave the priest suggested he was being naïve. But she just said, “Thank you. We have a hard time finding help these days. Too many people claiming they can cure anything when they’re just peddling grass and river water.”
“Yes, I would imagine that’s a problem.”
“Demons take them. It’s not right. Anyway, I—” She paused, hearing something.
A pot of burning oil crashed through the open window.
The wood caught. The mother started screaming. Brother Qown grabbed the boy by his good arm and started to lead him outside, but as he did, two arrows slammed into the wooden lintel.
They couldn’t go that way.
Fortunately (if it could be called that), the hovel proved less a house than a balanced hill of rubble. The mother (Brother Qown had never learned her name) kicked a hole through the planking, and they all crawled out. Mother and son took off running.
Brother Qown started to follow them.
Started.
He heard a shoe scuff behind him. A sharp pain exploded at the back of his head.
He didn’t remember anything else.
Brother Qown heard voices, shouting.
He kept his eyes closed and pretended to be unconscious.
Really, just one voice. “Have you lost your little mind? You can’t just kill a priest! Do you have any idea what the duke’s men will do when they find out?”
A second voice. “Oh, quit your complaining. He ain’t dead, just knocked around a bit. Tell him how he can’t be going around cutting into our business, and then we’ll send him on his way.”
“No, you idiot. We don’t have any choice now. We’re going to have to—”
Qown heard a rattle, followed by two more. Then a sound like someone dropping a large book.
A second thud followed.
Brother Qown tried to reach Illumination. If he could, he’d be able to see without opening his eyes, without revealing he’d woken. He needed all his concentration. He needed—
A hand tapped Brother Qown on the shoulder.
“Come on, priest,” Ninavis said. “Let’s go.”
Brother Qown opened his eyes.
Ninavis crouched over him. She wore a cloth wrapped around her hair and face—very similar to the bandit mask she’d worn the first day they’d met. A hanging oil lamp cast shadows against the walls of a rough-hewn shack, while the Three Sisters’ light streamed in through the window. Two tough-looking men lay on the ground holding their heads or privates while they moaned.
Brother Qown took her hand and let her pull him to his feet.
“How did you find—”
“Later, holy man. This isn’t safe.” She pushed him out the front door, where the priest saw several more people, two men and a woman, in similar moaning states. Ninavis and Brother Qown made their way back out to the main street, lit by celestial light or the occasional lamp too near a window.
Ninavis led. She wasn’t armed; her bow and arrows had been left behind. Of course, she didn’t need such weapons.
“I don’t understand why those people—”
“Classic scam, priest,” Ninavis said. “They come through selling healing spells to the Marakori, because none of these poor bastards can afford the prices the House D’Mon Blue Houses charge. Which means you were undercutting their profit margins.”
“Were they really physickers—” Brother Qown looked behind him, but Ninavis tugged on his sleeve to keep him focused.
“Don’t be stupid.” She sighed and led him down a back alley. Someone had piled up some boxes and nailed together wood to look like rubbish. Instead, it acted as a ladder. She showed him the way up, which scraps supported weight and which to avoid. Finally, they emerged on a ragged shanty roof. Brother Qown swooned as he realized how close they stood to the edge of the bridge, with an endless drop below them as water poured over Demon Falls.
“Careful now,” she said, taking his arm.
“Where are we going?”
“Just sit here awhile.” She made herself comfortable on the roof, leaning against what might very well have been an impromptu chimney.
Even as she said the words, Brother Qown heard a commotion down on the streets below. A large crowd with torches began to surge through the streets. Conversations drifted their way, including words like healer and he can’t have gone far.
A search party was looking for him.
“Would you like to know the secret of the Diraxon?” Ninavis asked softly.
Qown blinked in surprise. “I … what?”
She must have taken that as a yes, because she continued speaking, her voice so soft that if Qown had been a foot farther away, he’d have heard nothing. “The secret of the Diraxon is that we don’t exist. Not really. We are a clan made up of the rejects and outcasts of every clan. The Diraxon take in the people no one else wants. The babies with cleft palates or ill-omened birthmarks, too many fingers or not enough, club legs or bent spines. Marakori know if they don’t want to keep a babe, they can leave it by the edge of the Kulma Swamp and that child will just … vanish. Claimed by the Diraxon, the ghosts of the Kulma, who raise their foundlings on a steady diet of darkness, death, and vengeance.”
“Oh,” Qown said. He felt a mixture of sadness and revulsion. Sadness for the abandoned children; revulsion for the people who had left them to die. “And then you’re trained to be killers.”
“Yes. Hated, feared, and always, always in high demand.” Ninavis’s gaze was far away. “I left before the Lonezh Hellmarch. I was done with killing. I lost my taste for it. Unfortunately”—she waved a finger at the slums—“these people haven’t figured out what I did: that the rest of the world wants us feuding and fighting. And the Hellmarch just made it worse.”
“I don’t understand, though. The Hellmarch has been over for years.”
“The Hellmarch was just an excuse to target us.” She shrugged. “The perfect opportunity. After all, we started it, didn’t we? So House D’Aramarin opened the gates and then House D’Erinwa swept through entire towns. They snapped up anyone they could find, put them to Murad’s shackles—made them slaves—whether they’d committed crimes or not. Stocking the House D’Knofra plantations with slave labor is a whole lot cheaper than paying farmers for their crops. Profits galore and no sign of it stopping. I bet you metal within twenty years any Marakori born to slave parents will be a slave from the start.”
“Slavery isn’t inherited.” Brother Qown felt sick to his stomach just thinking about the idea.
“Aren’t you adorable? It’s not hard to force the issue. Lots of ways to do it. And it’s so profitable for the Royal Houses. House D’Erinwa sells the slaves. House D’Knofra runs the farms and harvests the crops. That brings in supplies for House D’Kard to turn into useful trade goods. And since House D’Aramarin specializes in transport, they make metal for every shipment that passes through one of their gates. So clans who ran from the Hellmarch start hearing what’s waiting for them if they come back. They go farther north until they’re in Jorat, but Jorat doesn’t want anything to do with them. Then they hear that rumor. You know the one; there’s a whole city at the top of Demon Falls sitting vacant most of the year. So they drag their asses over here and find out it’s not quite as empty as they’d been led to believe. And the Joratese don’t like Marakori, do they? Being invaded by all these refugees, who start fighting each other as soon as they put down roots, just convinces the fine citizens of Atrine their prejudices are justified.”
Brother Qown caught his breath as men walked down the alley where they’d taken shelter. They had torches and clubs, but nothing edged or bladed.
Ninavis put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
As the people looked around, Brother Qown realized the torches made them blind. If Brother Qown and Ninavis didn’t move, the crowd couldn’t see them.
Assuming no one found the ladder.
A man saw it and started to climb, but as he did, Qown heard shouts and hoofbeats. The whole group scattered, racing back out to the main streets as soldiers wearing the duke’s colors raced by, shouting.
“I saw how upset you were,” Ninavis whispered as she watched the men go, “when you saw the duke’s people kill that man on the bridge. I don’t know whether he had it coming, but I know my people deserve better than to be run down like dogs. I shouldn’t have to pretend to be Joratese to be treated right. I don’t think Janel really understands. You do. At least, you’re trying.”
“There must be something we can do. Some way we can convince them to stop fighting each other.”
“Yeah, I’ve been wondering about that,” Ninavis mused. “I used to think it would be impossible. That we Marakori would never give up our feuds, but I’m not so sure anymore. Symbols can be so powerful. All the clans have always known that, but we all had our own special symbols, our own god-kings, to wrap around ourselves and use to feel special. We flocked to those. Hell. The Joratese are really just another Zaibur Basin god-king clan, when you think about it. What we really need is a symbol we can all rally to. Something more than Joratese, Diraxon, Agari, or any of the rest.”
“But what?”
Ninavis shrugged and grinned. “Not sure yet. If you figure anything out, let me know.” She hopped to her feet. “Come on. The mob should be down the street by now. Let’s get you back to the pasture.”