Rhaif glanced right and left to make sure no other gaolers were in this remote corner of the dungeons. “I would speak with you,” he said gruffly, doing his best not to sound conspiratorial.
The man sighed and turned, revealing eyes of a mesmerizing violet—along with a feature unique to the Chaaen. Between his legs was nothing but a tuft of hair and a mutilation. All such men of his order were cut, disfigured into eunuchs. The women were equally marred in their own way, so as to never bear children, to never experience the pleasure of union.
“What do you want?” the Chaaen asked. His voice was calm, showing not the slightest fright, which, considering all he had been through in life, was not surprising. The slight lilt in his voice revealed his Klashean origins.
Rhaif shifted closer to the bars. “Let’s start with your name, so we might know each other better.”
“I am Pratik, chaaen-bound to Rellis im Malsh.”
“And as I understand, your master is also detained here, accused of being a spy for the Southern Klashe.”
Pratik simply stared.
Rhaif, like much of Anvil, had heard of the incarceration of many Klashean traders, brought here to be questioned as spies, which was likely true of most of them. Besides being a major mining port, Anvil had sprouted a score of great alchymical houses, some centuries old, that delved into the design of arcane machines and other geared works. Still, the Southern Klashe far outstripped Anvil’s feeble efforts in such pursuits. Rhaif knew there were just as many, if not more, Hálendiian traders who doubled as infiltrators when they traveled south, seeking to steal knowledge from Klashean establishments. In fact, it was well known in Anvil that the trade in secrets was as important here as its shipment in rock and salt. Coins rolled from north to south and back again. Occasional hands were slapped if there was too much overreach, but in the end, it served all to turn a blind eye upon such clandestine enterprises.
Until now.
Archsheriff Laach had gathered up the Klashean traders for one simple reason: to trap Rhaif in Anvil. Laach could not risk losing the bronze prize stolen from him, especially with the malignant Shrive Wryth clutching the man’s neck. Like Rhaif, the archsheriff knew the northern Crown would offer no refuge for the escaped pair. The only hope for them was to barter for passage to the south. To thwart that, Laach had imprisoned anyone who might strike up such a bargain—both to question them and to keep them locked away from Rhaif.
So, with no other choice, Rhaif had to come to the prison in person to plead his case. Even Laach—bursting with his own high opinion of himself—would never suspect such an attempt.
At least, I hope not.
Pratik finally spoke. “And who are you?” One brow lifted. “Someone I suspect is more than a simple turnkey.”
Rhaif considered how best to answer this. He knew any deception with a Chaaen would likely fail. It was said such men and women knew another’s inner truth with a glance. So, he opted for the truth. “Rhaif hy Albar.”
The only sign of recognition was the lowering of the Chaaen’s one brow. “You risk much, but I fear for little gain. My master will be of little use to you.”
“I didn’t come here for your master.”
Rhaif knew the traders themselves were under much closer watch in the gaol’s upper towers. This was not true for their chaaen-bound, whom most considered little more than slaves. They were barely worthy of note; as such, they had been tossed down into the sparsely guarded dungeons—which suited Rhaif just fine.
Rhaif lifted the heavy circle of iron keys that he had pilfered from the dungeon guardroom. “I came to free you.”
Pratik narrowed his eyes and finally stepped closer. “At what price?”
“To help me escape Anvil in one of your wyndships.”
The prisoner shook his head. “Impossible. Besides, even if I don’t shout and expose you now, my freedom will come eventually. They cannot keep my master for long, not without further offending our emperor. So, as you see, your price is too high.”
“Ah, but that is not all I came to bargain with.” This time Rhaif lifted a brow. “You know what I stole.”
A shrug. “What is rumored that you stole.”
“It is more than a rumor, I assure you.” He let the Chaaen read the truth in his face. “I will take you to her, and if you are dissatisfied, you can turn me in to the archsheriff. But you will not be disappointed. The Klashe will want what I possess, especially with war drums pounding in the distance, with armies gathering at the borders. And who knows? Such a prize may not only earn my freedom—but maybe yours, too.”
Pratik’s eyes narrowed further. The prisoner lifted a hand and fingered the iron ring fused around his neck. His gaze steadied on Rhaif. “Show me.”
Rhaif grinned. It took him a few tries to fit the right key into the lock, but eventually he hauled the door open and tossed a bundle at the naked man. “Put these on quickly.”
Pratik obeyed, slipping on a turnkey’s habiliment that matched his own. Rhaif had stolen it from the same guardroom, where the only gaoler present had been some fat lout snoring at a scarred table.
Rhaif pointed to the half-cloak’s hood. “Pull that high and keep your face low. Let me do the speaking from here.”
With a nod, Pratik tugged the hood over his stubbled head.
Rhaif gave his look a final inspection, then set off. He wanted to be out of here before the next bell, to lose themselves among the gaolers heading home.
He glanced back to Pratik, trying to judge if the Chaaen would betray him, but such men and women were known for their word, not necessarily out of honor, but because any deception had been beaten and whipped out of them long ago.
Rhaif had a hard time swallowing the cruel practices of the Klashe. Their lands were ruled over by a single caste of royalty, known as the imri, which meant godly in their tongue, led by the Imri-Ka, the god-emperor of the Klashe. Only those of his bloodline were allowed to show their faces when abroad in their lands. All other baseborn castes—which numbered in the hundreds—had to remain cloaked from crown to toe, deemed too unworthy for the Father Above to gaze upon them. An admonition that included the Chaaen, who were trained and schooled at Bad’i Chaa, the House of Wisdom.
Where the northern Crown had a half dozen schools, the Bad’i Chaa remained the Southern Klashe’s sole place of learning. It was said the House of Wisdom was a city unto itself. It was divided into nine tiers like the Hálendiian schools, but the House of Wisdom was far crueler. There was also no choice in attending. Young boys and girls were culled from across their lands, from all castes, except the imri. While Hálendiian schools discouraged trysts and unions, demanding purity, the House of Wisdom enforced it beforehand by clipping their firstyears. Worst of all, those who failed to move upward were not simply sent home, but were executed and their bodies burned in the pyres atop the school as both a warning to the tiers below and a sacrifice to the Klashe’s pantheon of gods, who were far more bloodthirsty than those to the north.
As Rhaif reached the stairs leading up from the dungeons, he searched for those years of terror and horror in Pratik’s face, but the man’s features were placid, as if he had accepted such cruelties as a part of life. Then again, the young man had eventually made it through that school, earning the iron collar of alchymy. Other Chaaen bore the silver collar of religion and history. Afterward, those who survived the school were bound in pairs—one wearing iron, the other silver—to one of the imri. The Chaaen served as counselors and advisers to their masters. And sometimes objects of pleasure, as was whispered. In public, ceremonial chains ran from a Chaaen’s neck-collar to his or her master’s ankles. The higher you were ranked among the imri, the more Chaaen were bound to you, the pairs linked from one to another. It was said the Imri-Ka had sixty-six Chaaen chained to him, thirty-three pairs, the same number as their pantheon of gods. Whenever he walked about, he dragged a veritable train behind him.