AS HE WALKED ACROSS BARGAINERS’ SQUARE, LOTHARof the House of Fletcher felt his stomach growl. His dark eyes started searching out various food stalls. Soon he smelled freshly fried turkey, and his decision was made. But the stall where it was being cooked had already drawn a crowd. He knew that turkey legs always sold fast at a public execution. Today would be no exception.
When people saw who was coming, some made way. Rudely elbowing the others aside, Lothar glared at the elderly vendor.
“How much?” he demanded.
The vendor recognized Lothar. He immediately smiled-not because he wanted to, but because he realized that it would be in his best interests. The vendor stank of grease and oil. The turkey smell would permeate his clothes, his house, and perhaps even his soul, Lothar guessed.
Using wooden tongs, the vendor fished around in the boiling oil to retrieve a large, dripping leg. With a smile, he held it enticingly before Lothar. As if on command, Lothar’s stomach growled again, louder this time.
“Three kisa,” the vendor announced.
The stall’s proprietor had clearly seen better days. He was missing two front teeth, one ear, and a good deal of his hair. Lothar found himself hoping that none of the vendor’s disappearing facial features had recently found their way into the turkey pot. Trying to stay in Lothar’s good graces, the vendor widened his crooked grin.
“But for the master of Tammerland’s debtors’ prison, I’ll charge only two,” he added wryly.
“Wrong,” Lothar growled back. “For the master of Tammerland’s debtors’ prison, you’ll charge nothing.”
Reaching out, he swiped the turkey leg from the vendor’s grip, tongs and all. He blew on it to cool it, then took a large bite. He found it to his liking. Seasoned drippings ran down his chin, which he daintily wiped with an embroidered handkerchief.
Everyone in the crowd knew better than to protest Lothar’s thievery, so they remained still. Lothar was a powerful man. People on his wrong side could disappear for long periods of time-perhaps forever. He arrogantly pointed the half-eaten leg at the old vendor as though it were some kind of weapon.
“You’d best not protest the price I just paid,” he warned. “If you do, I might have to dust off several outstanding debtors’ warrants in your name. I’m sure you wouldn’t want that, eh?”
Despite the heat rising from his pot, the vendor’s face blanched. He gave Lothar a short, respectful bow.
“No, m’lord,” he answered quietly. “I’m always happy to accommodate one of Tammerland’s most respected officials.”
Answering only with a grunt, Lothar took another bite of turkey, then turned away to find the executioner.
It was midafternoon in Eutracia, and the sun was high. Bargainers’ Square was busy, and the impending execution added to the congestion. Once a hotbed of thieves, whores, drunkenness, and gambling, since the newfound peace, Tammerland’s largest square had become somewhat more respectable.
The prince’s roving Minions had helped to a great degree. Their eyes attentive and their swords always at the ready, a dark-winged patrol narrowly crossed Lothar’s path. Smiling unctuously, he gave them a short but secretly insincere bow. In truth he hated the wandering warriors, for their presence only made his thievery more difficult.
But if one knew where to look, all the vices that had once been sold so openly here could still be had. That pleased Lothar immensely, for vice always brought debt-and it was debt that brought him wealth. Contentedly munching his turkey leg, he crossed the street to stand before a shop window.
The reflection staring back at him was tall, with a hugely fat stomach. Knowing it would only make him appear more obese, he resisted the urge to turn sideways. Taking a deep breath, Lothar pulled his gut in for a moment. But such pretenses had no lasting effect, so he gave up, letting his belly sag over his belt again. In truth, he didn’t care how fat he became. He always bought his women, anyway. Even in the newly upright Bargainers’ Square, rich men never lacked for affection.
No one had ever accused Lothar of handsomeness. The face staring back at him was jowly, and pale from spending so much time indoors. What remained of his dark hair lay slicked down, across his shiny skull. His eyes were brown and his hooked nose long. His breeches, shirt, and waistcoat were of the finest material. Looking down, he could barely see the tips of his shoes for his protruding abdomen. But he knew that they were so brightly shined that his face would have been reflected in their tops. Tossing the ravaged turkey bone into the street, he got his great bulk moving again.
As he neared the executioner’s station, the crowd thickened. He smiled. Despite the new sense of goodwill, there still seemed to be no shortage of those wishing to see their fellow man suffer. Good, he thought. That always makes for more business. Wending his way through the crowd, his mind turned to how he had risen to his position in life, and how he had cleverly used that position to enhance his ever-growing wealth.
Crime adjudication had long been an illicit income source for those who arrested, tried, and punished Eutracia’s criminal element. The late Directorate had tried more than once to wipe out the corruption, but to no avail. Unless the wizards were willing to look into every crime personally-something they hadn’t the time to do-oftentimes only a well-placed bribe determined a person’s guilt or innocence. More often than not, the wealthy went free. With all but one Directorate wizard dead, the situation had worsened.
In most Eutracian towns, whoever administered justice also kept the bulk of the fines and forfeitures. It was a highly flawed system, literally begging thievery and corruption. Trials and punishments were public matters. But the identification, arrest, and imprisonment of the accused were details usually kept secret until then. As a result, town officials quarreled violently over who controlled the various jurisdictions. But Lothar’s situation was unique, in that he alone held sway over every debtor’s warrant in Tammerland. He also decided who did or did not go to debtors’ jail. He profited by every opportunity-sometimes more than once.
Young and seeking work, Lothar had become a debtors’ prison guard. The reigning provost had been old, sodden with liquor, and seemingly unaware of the unexploited chances for profit that his position offered.
But Lothar quickly saw what the old man did not. He saved every kisa he could-enough to eventually bribe the town burgher. Just before the old provost finally died, the crooked burgher awarded Lothar the post. That had been eight years ago, and Lothar’s wealth and stature had grown with each passing Season of New Life.
Other than his meager salary, there were illicit ways he profited from his position. The simplest was outright intimidation, such as he had just applied to the turkey vendor. He knew every shop owner who had outstanding debtors’ warrants filed against him or her. There were so many of them that he had paid for little from his own pocket for nearly five years. The understanding was simple. If they continued to supply him with what he needed, they remained free.
His many prisoners provided the other methods of profit taking. He alone had total control over who went in and who came out. Staying out cost a steep price; getting out commanded an even higher one. Oftentimes a person paid to remain free, only to be imprisoned anyway-especially if he or she had acquaintances that were well off.
Once inside, the prisoners’ relatives and friends would then be asked to contribute funds to secure his or her release, and the warrants would be quashed. Even a prisoner’s general treatment usually depended on yet more bribes, paid in the meantime. As one might imagine, these techniques yielded even greater profits if the internees’ relatives and friends had outstanding debtors’ warrants as well.
And so the vicious cycle went round and round, making Lothar not only wealthy, but feared. Having no wife or children to support helped his ill-gotten gains grow all the faster.
Pushing through the crowd, he wended his way to a small table that had been placed in the street. The town executioner, dressed all in black, sat there looking over some papers.
The fellow’s “civic responsibilities” included such talents as performing hangings, beheadings, slowly drowning victims in the dunking pool, and burning criminals at the stake. The crime determined the punishment. Today’s victim was a convicted horse thief, his crime punishable by a protracted, fatal dunking.
Lothar grinned down at the executioner. Even though the man wore a black hood, Lothar knew him well. Unknown to the spectators, the fellow was also an accomplished torturer.
Branding bare skin, flogging, precisely lopping off limbs and digits, and slowly extracting teeth and fingernails were but a few of the fellow’s favorite techniques. Lothar could attest to the man’s expertise, because on more than one occasion he had employed him for his own reasons. Kisa always flowed far more easily from debtor prisoners’ friends and relatives after watching him work on a loved one for an hour or so.
“Good morning,” Lothar said, being careful not to mention the fellow by name. The executioner looked up grudgingly from his paperwork.
“What’s so good about it, sir?” the hooded man asked. “It’s bleedin’ hot out here today. Dunkings take more time and effort than a quick hanging or beheading. A bleedin’pain in the arse, they are.”
Lothar turned to look at the dunking pool, lying off to one side of the square. The blindfolded horse thief was already tied to the chair. He was being roundly shouted at and pelted with rotten eggs, fruit, and vegetables-yet another custom performed at Eutracian executions. Lothar looked back to the executioner.
“Why complain?” he asked. “At least you’ll earn a fee today. And some extra as well, if you’re smart.” Hoping to put the other man in a more receptive mood, he reached into his pocket and jangled some coins together.
He knew that the executioner would possess the list naming the persons due for execution, and when they were to be killed. Always accompanying that list was another one-the next-of-kin list. Criminals facing execution usually carried unresolved debts; it was simply their nature. Such undisclosed debts might justify swearing out a new warrant or two. By Eutracian law, a recently deceased person’s debts became his relatives’ responsibility.
If Lothar could get the most recent lists, they would provide yet another income source. Not only would they reveal relatives belonging to the same family house, but also those who did not share the same last name-information he might not otherwise have. With the deceased’s debts later transferred to his relatives, after some added research Lothar could then swear out additional warrants. From there the process would go on. He and the executioner had done business this way many times, but usually not on an open street and certainly never just before an execution. He wanted those lists badly, and before it became too late for him to act on them.
“What do you want?” the hooded man asked. “I’m about to start the dunking.”
“You know what I want,” Lothar whispered.
The man in the hood looked around furtively, then back up at the grotesquely fat jailor. His eyes widened behind the hood’s peepholes.
“Now?” the man whispered back. “Are you bleedin’ crazy?”
Lothar looked around again. The crowd anticipating the dunking had grown larger. Some of the vendors had taken their wares afoot, wandering among the eager spectators while shouting out their prices. Curious children had been lifted atop their parents’ shoulders, so that they could better see what was going on. The atmosphere was becoming more carnival-like by the moment. The dunking would start soon. In fact, Lothar was counting on it. Given the rising sense of urgency, the executioner would have to decide quickly.
“I realize the timing isn’t perfect,” Lothar said. “But business is business.”
Removing a leather cinch bag from his trousers’ pocket, he dropped it on the tabletop. It fell heavily, the clinking coins inside providing an enticing tune.
“I understand your concern,” Lothar whispered, “so I have chosen to be generous. That bag holds twice the standard fee. Take it or leave it.”
The executioner thought for a moment. He glanced around again. “Twice as much, you say?” he asked.
“Yes,” Lothar answered. “I suggest you take it. For all I know, the fellow in the dunking chair might be a relative of yours and have outstanding warrants. It wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”
After shuffling through his papers for a moment, the executioner selected two parchments and quickly folded them. He slipped them to Lothar. The leather cinch bag disappeared in a flash.
“Now go away!” he insisted angrily. “I have work to do!”
“By all means,” Lothar said smoothly as he secured the parchments in a waistcoat pocket. After giving the hooded man a slight bow, he again started wending his way through the crowd.
Inordinately pleased with himself, he started walking back toward the debtors’ prison. There was an especially appealing group of new inmates that he wanted to revisit. He had been looking forward to the occasion all day. They were about to provide him with his greatest coup of all time. For among his many other ventures, Lothar was also a slave trader.
As Lothar rounded a corner leading away from Bargainers’ Square, he heard the condemned man scream, followed by the first splash of the dunking chair. If the executioner did his job properly, it would take several hours before the criminal’s lungs completely filled with water. One must never disappoint the masses, he thought.
As Lothar took his fourth step down the side street, the crowd roared.
THROWING HER BLOND HAIR OVER ONE SHOULDER, MALLORYturned to look between the prison door bars. She and the others had been taken two days ago. Escape seemed a distant dream. When they had awakened here, their memories of capture had been a hazy blur. The only reason they knew they were being held in Tammerland’s debtors’ prison was because of the occasional bits of conversation gleaned from passing guards.
The girls were terrified by the leering men. Some guards had gone so far as stopping before the bars to make obscene gestures; others described outright the kinds of things they wanted to do to the girls. Shuddering as much from fear as from the dampness, Mallory retreated deeper into the room to join her friends.
There were eight girls here. Their journey to this place and the reasons for it had been a living nightmare. It had begun months ago, at a place called Fledgling House. The endowed girls were all that remained of a larger group of gifted students. At one time they had been endowed female trainees of the craft. Taught in secret, they had been destined to join a sisterhood of women older than they-the fabled Acolytes of the Redoubt.
These eight remaining girls were the daughters of Redoubt consuls, and their true identities were known only to a few special people. Handpicked at five years of age, each one had been selected for her above-average intelligence and deep wish to learn the craft. Then they were sent to the secret castle called Fledgling House. It lay to the north, near the slopes of the Tolenka Mountains. But with their caretakers dead, the girls had suddenly been forced to fend for themselves. They soon realized that becoming full-fledged acolytes would be almost impossible.
Their nightmare had begun one day during the previous Season of Harvest. The girls had been playing on the Fledgling House lawns when the sky suddenly darkened with strange creatures. An evil-looking man was riding one, his face leering, predatory.
As the awful beasts descended, Duncan-the consul who oversaw their training in the craft-was killed before their eyes. Martha, their loving matron, was sent flying away to Tammerland atop one of the horrible birds. At that time, the girls ranged in age from six to eighteen. Now nineteen, Mallory was the oldest and best trained. Since that fateful day, the others looked to her for leadership.
But she didn’t feel like a leader as she wended her way deeper into the dingy cell. She had gotten the girls this far, only to wind up in a filthy debtors’ prison with no way out.
Mallory was worldly enough to understand that because the jailor did not know their real identities, no one would be coming to pay off their “debts.” She bristled at that lie. They owed nothing to anyone-a fact she would gladly shout to the heavens if only they could escape this place. They were a mere half day’s walk from the royal palace. But because they were locked inside this gruesome prison, the Redoubt might as well be a thousand leagues away.
At first she had briefly considered telling the leering jailor who they were. But then she thought better of it, fearing that it would only worsen their plight. Even Lothar would fear trying to bargain with the Redoubt wizards for their release. His solution might well be to kill them outright, simply to get them off his hands. And so Mallory remained silent about their true identities. But if only she could somehow inform the acolytes or the wizards, she knew that the mystics would tear this place apart to save them.
Because the jailor did not understand the girls’ importance, Mallory had also wondered why he had taken them prisoner in the first place, for they had no debts. But after overhearing the guards she learned the answer. They were to be sold into sexual slavery as soon as Lothar could arrange it. Several of the lecherous guards had as much as said so.
The girls’ memories of their capture at Fledgling House existed only as short, dreamlike snips in time. Some recalled a beautiful-looking man in a glistening white robe. As her own fragmented remembrances resurfaced, Mallory winced, then locked them away again. It was probably best that they could not remember everything, she realized. The entire tale might be too much for the younger girls to bear.
Even so, they all remembered waking up one day in one of the elaborate Fledgling House chambers. No one was about, and the place was stripped of food. Worse, the Season of Crystal was due to arrive. The thirty confused girls realized that if they stayed there, they would starve. So they started walking toward the only other refuge of magic that they knew-the Tammerland Redoubt. If they could reach the Redoubt they would be cared for.
Leaving Fledgling House, they wisely decided to travel alongside the Sippora River’s meandering banks. The journey would take longer that way, but they hoped that they could catch fish as they went, and use the river water for drinking and washing. People in the villages lining the riverbanks would surely help them on their way, Mallory had reasoned.
But as they neared the river they learned that strange aberrances of the craft were afoot. A great gouge had been carved into the earth, wending its way west toward the Tolenka Mountains. The river was boiling, and of no use to them. Living on their wits, they employed their weakening gifts to trap animals for food, and to divine water.
Given the land’s recent decimation, such devices proved inadequate. By the time they joined the last refugee column trudging its way toward Tammerland, twenty-two of the girls had died. Despite the fact that they had been weakened by starvation, Mallory and a few older girls had done their best to bury their friends where they fell.
The fleeing villagers graciously shared what little food they had. As they all traveled south, the girls slowly regained some strength. By the time they entered the capital, much of Tammerland had been mysteriously burned to the ground and newly rebuilt. For the provincial young girls, it was like walking into a dream world. After learning the way to the royal palace, they immediately set off, hoping that their travails were finally over.
Then they had encountered the kindly old tavern keeper who offered to help them. Seeing the disheveled girls walking across Bargainers’ Square, he had beckoned them into his small establishment.“Come in,” he had said.“The place isn’t much. But please sit for a while away from the sun, and have some free rootberryade. It will do you all good before you resume your journeys.”
The tavern was a dark, dirty place, but to the wayward girls it seemed a palace. The old man could tell that they were refugees, as were so many others in the streets these days. Giving them something to drink was the least he could do, he said. The man’s wife was a pleasant woman, with a dark gray bun and a broad white apron. Smiling, she presented the girls with glasses of cold rootberryade. They drank it greedily, then asked for more. That was the last thing they remembered.
Mallory had been the first to awaken on the prison floor. As her mind cleared, she realized that they had all been drugged. She later met Lothar during his first disturbing meeting with them. Soon after that she heard the guards talking. Putting things together, she quickly understood that the old tavern owner, his wife, and Lothar were in league with one another.
As Mallory sadly shook her head she wondered how many other people had suffered this fate. If only she could escape, then find her way to the palace. She could return with the wizards, and that vile jailor would truly suffer.
As she reached the cell’s rear wall, several large rats ran across the floor. The younger girls shrieked, but Mallory didn’t care. A girl named Magdalene raised an arm to employ the craft against the rats, but Mallory quickly reached out to stop her. The look in her eyes meant business.
“No!” she whispered sternly. “You know our agreement! There is to be no craft use until we are ready! We simply cannot afford to tip our hand! Our powers are weak enough already, and we can’t risk draining them further! Whether you like it or not, that includes you!”
Magdalene glared angrily at Mallory before finally lowering her arm. At sixteen Seasons of New Life, she was third oldest among them. Mallory didn’t like Magdalene. For no good reason, Magdalene always thought herself to be special. Worse yet, she was quick to use the craft first and ask questions later. She had been that way in all her classes at Fledgling House. Sometimes Master Duncan had become so frustrated with her that he threatened to expel her and send her back to her father. Rather surprisingly, the threats never seemed to faze Magdalene.
Mallory gave her another harsh look. “Remember-no use of the craft until we are ready,” she repeated.
Offering their support, the other girls gathered closer. Several of them looked at Magdalene with disdain. As usual, Magdalene didn’t seem to care.
“If she tries anything like that again, stop her,” Mallory told the others. Leaving Magdalene to stew in her own juices, Mallory walked over to see how her best friend was doing.
Ariana was seventeen. Ever since their grueling journey started, she had been Mallory’s right arm. Mallory was the most powerful among them. But Ariana was the most learned-especially concerning spell formation.
Master Duncan had often said that in all of Fledgling House, Ariana had no equal in that discipline. Mallory had even overheard Duncan whisper to Martha that when it came to spell writing, Ariana had already surpassed many consuls he had known. It was this same talent that Mallory was counting on.
Ariana was on her knees, facing the cellar’s far wall. She was tall for her age, with long dark hair. She disliked Magdalene even more than Mallory did. Several times during their journey the two girls had nearly come to blows. Looking up from her work, she smiled.
“I heard that browbeating you gave her,” she said. “Good for you.”
Mallory shrugged her shoulders. “I didn’t enjoy it, but someone has to keep her in line.” A faint smile crossed her face. “If I left her to you, only the Afterlife knows what you’d do,” she added, then looked down at Ariana’s work. “How is it going?” she asked.
Ariana dropped the charcoal piece she had found, then stood. She gazed over at Magdalene for a moment. Still seething from the lecture Mallory had given her, Magdalene sneered back. Sighing, Ariana rubbed her face.
“The work is slow,” she answered. She looked around the cramped cell, then back into Mallory’s blue eyes.
“These aren’t the best working conditions, you know,” she added. “Even if I were back at Fledgling House, this spell would be difficult to formulate on my own. And having had nothing substantial to eat since we left the school has not helped our mental or physical abilities,” she added. She shook her head.
“Why am I telling you this?” she asked. “You know these things as well as anyone. But even if I can produce the spell, there’s no telling whether you will be strong enough to work it successfully.”
“I know,” Mallory said. “But it’s all we have.”
Ariana kneeled again and took up her charcoal. The wall before her held esoteric numbers and symbols by the dozens. To Mallory’s surprise, Ariana shook her head, then used one hand to scrub away all her recent formulations. She looked back up at Mallory with tired eyes.
“This latest series is just another dead end,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry, but this is one that Duncan had yet to teach us. So I must figure it out on my own.”
“I understand,” Mallory answered. “But you must hurry! I don’t know how much time we have left.”
Ariana was about to answer when they heard a guard call out. “You!” he shouted.
Standing, Ariana narrowed her eyes. “Me?” she asked.
“No, no!” the guard shouted back. “The pretty blond bitch, standing next to you! Come ’ere!”
Mallory cringed. She didn’t know what he wanted, but she didn’t dare disobey. Summoning up her courage, she walked to the cell door. All the other girls could do was to watch in dread. Ariana gave her a supportive glance.
As Mallory approached the door she became slightly relieved. The guard had brought them something to eat. It wasn’t much-mere bowls of gruel and flasks of water. Neither would provide enough nutrients to significantly augment their gifts. But it would keep them alive another day, and staying alive in this awful place was the first order of business.
As Mallory approached, the smell coming from even such simple food started her stomach growling. The nearer she came, the more the guard leered.
The guard placed the food tray on the floor, then used one hobnailed boot to shove it through the small gap between the barred door and the floor. He hadn’t shaved for days, and smelled of stale liquor. A jagged scar ran down one cheek. His eyes were menacing, predatory.
Mallory bent down to pick up the tray. As she stood with it in her arms, the guard’s left hand shot between the bars. Grabbing Mallory by the neck, he squeezed. The pain was excruciating. She could barely breathe. The guard brought his face nearer.
“Come closer,” he breathed, “or things will only go worse for you.”
Trying to think through the pain, Mallory realized that if she tried to fight him she might drop the tray. Regardless of the food’s quality, they needed it to keep what strength the girls still had remaining. Using the craft against the guard was not an option, because they needed to keep their identities secret until the last moment. She knew that the other girls would desperately want to help her, but she also hoped that they would have the good sense not to try.
Not knowing what else to do, she obeyed. As her face neared the bars she could better smell his stink. His hand tightened around her throat a bit more.
“Hold still, bitch,” he whispered. “Don’t fight me. If you do, I’ll see to it that not one of you eats for a week.” Smiling evilly, he licked his lips.
Mallory felt his other hand slip beneath what remained of her tattered school dress. Trying to control her emotions, she closed her eyes. Some of the other girls in the cell started to cry. As he probed her, she did her best to remember Duncan, Martha, and the good times she had known.
On and on it went, the guard’s dirty fingers violating her in every way he could without being on her side of the door. Finally it was finished.
Mallory opened her eyes, but she held fast, unflinching in her gaze. For the first time in her young life, she truly knew what it was to hate-to hate so much she could kill.
The guard raised his rapacious hand before his face to luxuriate in her scent. Smiling, he finally let her go. Struggling for breath, Mallory took two paces back, nearly dropping the precious tray.
“Such a treasure you are,” the guard said. He looked her up and down lasciviously. “I’ll remember you,” he whispered. “And I’ll be back.”
As she glared at him, Mallory memorized his face. He finally turned and walked down the hall, his heel strikes fading away amid the flickering shadows.
For the others’ sake, Mallory forced back her tears. As she carried the tray into the cell, Ariana touched her on the arm.
“Are you all right?” she whispered.
“No,” Mallory answered softly. “But I will be.” Turning her head, she looked back to the cell door. “Once he’s dead,” she added menacingly. She looked back at Ariana.
“Hurry,” she whispered simply.
Squaring her shoulders, she walked the food to the other girls.