Текст книги "Dragonfly"
Автор книги: Julia Golding
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the man had said. She would rather die than be a slave. Yes, that was Tashi: the proud princess,
unbroken to the last, his darling, brave girl.
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And she might still be alive.
This thought was a torment because it allowed him a bitter hope. If it was true, then she was
alone somewhere out there, without him. How long would she survive?
He dug his nails into his palm, drawing blood. He was hurting so much inside he had to make his
body suffer. If he hadn't been shackled, he would have hurled himself from the wagon. A big
hand clamped down on his wrist, chain rattling.
"Don't," Gordoc said. "She wouldn't want it."
Ramil turned and buried his face in the giant's shoulder, his body racked with dry sobs.
The next few days passed in a dark blur for Ramil. He was aware of little but his grief as the
chained slaves
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marched north in the wake of the slaver's wagon. Gordoc switched his protection from the
missing Tashi to the immediate needs of Ramil, making sure he drank and ate, keeping him on
his feet when he sank with despair.
Weak slaves met with no mercy. The whip saw to the slow ones; the knife to the feeble. The
slavers were in a hurry to make it to the market in Tigral by the turn of the month so kept up a
punishing pace.
Yelena had been separated from the men and now rode with the other female slaves in the
wagon. The slavers were keen that the women arrived looking presentable, as premiums were
paid for healthy house girls.
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Appearance for the men was less important as most were destined for the mines. A few whip
strokes would make no difference in price. Strength was the main quality prized and the slavers
had high hopes for the big man they had captured, sure he would break all records this year
when put to auction.
They reached Tigral at the end of the second nightmarish week. Ramil barely stirred himself to
look up at the walled garden city rising out of the coastal plain. The Inland Sea curled around the
rose-colored stone of the walls, ships at anchor in the ports. Fergox's palace stood in the center
on the top of an artificial mound, the work of previous generations of slaves. It was painted gold
and twinkled in the sunlight–a palace built primarily for pleasure rather than defense. His wives
lodged here, each with her own pavilion and garden. Lemon and orange trees shaded the broad
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avenues of the rich men's houses. Cherry trees bloomed exuberantly in the courts of the Great
Temple, white petals falling in drifts, covering the bloody gutters that trickled in constant
sacrifice to Holin.
The slaves only glimpsed this other world before they were ushered to the holding pens down
by the port. The women were escorted to a shed but the men were held in the open. The cages
were already full of captives and space was bitterly contested but somehow no one saw fit to
challenge Gordoc for his corner, allowing Ramil and Melletin to sit unmolested at his side. The
pen smelt of unwashed bodies and human waste. Those who had already been here a week
scratched blank-eyed at their scabbed knees, only rousing when the food was poured into the
trough at the entrance. Flies buzzed, settling in clouds on mouths and eyelids.
No longer able to bear his thoughts about Tashi, Ramil turned his mind to his father. Lagan
would weep to see his son here. But Ramil knew that many more Gerfalians would be joining
him in the pens very soon now that their mission to bring the Blue Crescent navy into the war
had ended in disaster.
I've failed them, he thought. My father trusted me to do what was in the best interests of my
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people, but I failed.
And what has my life been about really? Ramil wondered. I've reacted to events, never initiated
any action I can be proud of – except the escape.
He thought about what he had told Tashi when she had been at her lowest ebb. He had said to
her that
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maybe the Goddess had put her there because She wanted her to follow a strange path. They
had been glib words from someone who had not known her depth of suffering. Ramil knew that
his own faith was a sorry affair compared to Tashi's–a lazy belief in some benign Father God, a
creator who had always been on excel ent terms with the ac Burinholts like a jol y old patron.
There was little for him to hold on to now that he had reached his own nadir.
So do I give up? he asked himself. Not listen to my own advice to trust that there is a plan?
If there is a God behind all this, it looks like a pretty rubbish plan to me, his cynical side chipped in.
But what would Tashi want me to do?
No sooner had he framed the question than he knew the answer. She would want him to trust
his God; she would expect him to do his duty. He could not honor her by dying here in the filth
with a whimper.
If this is where I am supposed to be right now, Ramil thought, then I have to find a way to serve
the interests of my people. I don't stop being a prince just because I'm in chains.
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Ramil sat up, the light of battle re-ignited in his eyes.
"Right, Gordoc, Melletin," he said, "we've got work to do."
The river washed Tashi up on a sandbank two miles down from where she had jumped. She was
barely
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alive, her spirit wandering between this world and the Peaceful Gardens of the Mother. But it
appeared the Goddess did not want her company just yet: She sent Tashi back so that the girl
returned to consciousness, coughing and vomiting river water as she lay on her side.
Tashi stayed where she was for a long time, hearing the water chatter by over the stones, and
the night chorus of crickets squeak in the long grass.
She didn't want to think because thinking meant admitting that she'd lost Ramil and her other
friends. She'd left them with the slavers and there was nothing she could do for them–nothing
she could do for herself.
To punish her body for being alive, she sat upright. Her hair hung over her face in pale threads,
the dye washed from it after her dousing in the river.
It's stringy, she thought, and burst into tears. She hugged her body, missing the warmth of Ramil
who had held her to him only hours ago. She touched her lips, trying to recall the feel of his
mouth on hers, but she was cold and bruised, her face swelling out of all recognition since her
passage through the rapids.
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Long slow minutes of darkness passed. Then a horse neighed from the bank. Tashi looked up
and saw Thunder standing there, clearly wondering what she was doing sitting in the wet. She
thought for one wild moment of hope that he might have Ramil on his back, but he was alone,
the picket rope trailing from his bridle. Even so, she was relieved to see a friendly face, if not a
human one. Tashi crawled out of the shallows
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and pulled herself onto the bank. Teeth gently pulled her up by the back of her tattered tunic.
"Thunder!" she said, falling against him when she reached the top. "Thank you."
Her shaking hands explored his back. She touched a saddle and bags, then a bedding roll. Ramil
had not taken them off, which was unexpected because he usually saw to the horse before
himself. She then remembered that he had promised he'd have her supper waiting for her when
she returned from her wash. He must have rushed to start cooking, for once leaving the horse
till later. She took off the blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders, then opened the bags.
They were full of Ramil's gear. The familiar smell of his shirts was heart-rending and wonderful
at the same time.
She slipped out of her own wet things and dressed herself in his spare clothes, closing her eyes
and trying to imagine that he was with her.
"Well, boy, what next?" she asked the horse.
Thunder nudged her with his soft nose, inviting her to mount.
"I'm not as good a rider as Ramil. You'll have to do all the work," she said wearily, hauling herself into the saddle. The slaver had said the river would mash her and he had been right. Every limb
cried out with pain as she moved.
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Thunder trotted smoothly back up the road.
"Which way?" she wondered.
Thunder made up her mind for her. He headed south, smelling the horse pastures on the
desert's edge.
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Tashi slumped over his neck, letting him take her where he wanted.
The miles passed by but Tashi did not notice. She only woke up when she hit the ground. In her
exhaustion, she had fallen asleep and rolled off Thunder's back. He nuzzled her in puzzlement,
wondering what his rider was doing on the road. Groaning, she stood up, her whole body
shaking.
"I've got to sleep," she explained. "This will do as well as anywhere else."
She led him off the side of the track, down a dry ditch and behind a tumbled wall. It was shelter
of a sort, and she could go no further. Thunder stood guard while the pale human slept, her
sleep broken with bad dreams. He heard his master's name on her lips and knew she was
missing him too. He scared off the wild dog that came sniffing around and stamped on a snake
that slithered out of the wall when the sun hit the stones. Still the human foal slept.
The sun was high in the sky when Tashi opened her eyes, though it had turned into a cloudy day
and a damp warm rain was falling. If anything she felt worse now that the numbness had worn
off. Her body was battered and bruised, her spirit too. Only determination kept her moving.
Swathing herself in Ramil's spare cloak, she returned to the road and doggedly set off once
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more.
Over the next couple of days she saw few people, and those she did see galloped past. Tashi did
not want to risk speaking to anyone. The landscape was
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changing. The meadows and fields were giving way to treeless plains. The only things that
flourished here were tough grasses and low scrubby bushes spiked with thorns. Even the road
seemed to peter out, becoming little more than a hint of a track through the waving grass.
Thunder raised his head and let out a whinny of joy: this was his land, the home of the horse. He
darted forward, lengthening his stride, feeling the little human tighten her grip with her knees.
His dark mane rippled behind him, as did hers, streaming gold.
They abandoned themselves to the pleasure of the race, with no idea but to run until their
breath failed them. Tashi had tears on her cheeks as she remembered Ramil shouting to her on
the first ride "Don't you love the speed!" Now she knew what he meant.
This was how the Horse Followers first saw Princess Taoshira racing across their pastures. The
leader of the scouting party called a halt on the ridge and watched silently as the girl and the
blue roan streaked across the grass.
Finally, the horse slowed, tiring after its long canter. The leader signalled his men to move out
and they galloped down the hill to meet the strangers.
Tashi heard the thunder of their hooves before she saw them. She sat up straight in the saddle,
too weary to be afraid. The horsemen made a fearsome spectacle: their dark purple robes
flowing, their swords out.
Well, if they cut me down, at least it will be a swift end, she thought with resignation.
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The leader, a wiry black-skinned man with a gold ring in his earlobe, galloped his men around
her, then drew to a halt, a line of fighters barring her way forward. He pointed his sword at her
throat.
"What does a pale girl do riding on a horse fit for a prince?" he asked in Common.
He had not been fooled by her lack of skill, Tashi thought sadly.
"The horse does belong to a prince, but we have lost him," she replied, trying to hide her
trembling hands under the long cuffs of Ramil's shirt.
"Thunder lets me travel with him for a while."
The man examined the girl closely: she was injured and weak. It would be the work of a moment
to take the mount from her. The horse, as if sensing his thoughts, reared up, almost unseating
Tashi, flailing his hooves in the direction of the leader. It appeared the horse would not be so
easily parted from its rider; this called for a change of tactic.
"Who are you and where are you going?" the man asked imperiously.
"I'm Taoshira, the Fourth Crown Princess, also known as the Blue Crescent Witch, and I'm going
home," she said, beyond caring what they thought of that.
What they thought was that she was joking. Laughter rippled through the line of riders.
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"I like your imagination, girl," the leader said. "Come, you ride with us while I decide what to do with you."
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"That is not your decision, sir. My fate lies in the hands of the Goddess."
He gave her a crooked smile. "Then maybe I'm her instrument." He reached down and took the
picket rope still tied to the bridle. "Follow me."
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Chapter 16
As they rode, Tashi tried to stay awake this time. Falling from the saddle in front of these men
did not seem a good idea: they'd probably just leave her on the ground, taking Thunder with
them.
"What is your name, sir?" she asked the leader.
"Zeliph of the Horse Followers."
"And am I your captive, Zeliph of the Horse Followers?"
"I have not decided. We return to my tent. There you will tell me your true name and your story.
Then I will decide."
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Tashi accepted that there was nothing more she could do. The scouting party travelled over the
featureless steppe with an unerring sense of direction. Once they gave a shout in unison,
greeting a herd of horses galloping free the other way, but they did not stop. By late afternoon,
they approached a collection of white tents pitched by a pool. Beyond lay the first dunes of the
true desert, golden in the setting sun. As Tashi watched, the light changed and they flushed
blood red.
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Zeliph reined in the horses outside the largest tent. Tashi slid stiffly from the saddle and almost
continued going to the ground but caught herself on the stirrup. Zeliph whistled and a young boy
bobbed out of the tent and took the horses.
"He'll be well looked after," Zeliph assured her, seeing Tashi's worried frown.
Tashi hadn't doubted that, but she was thinking if she would ever see Thunder again.
Not bothering to welcome her to his tent, Zeliph took the saddle bags inside and upended them
on the rug. He picked through the shirts as if looking for some clue to his guest's identity.
"Men's clothes, not yours," he said, stating the obvious.
Tashi nodded.
"Did you steal the horse?" he asked bluntly.
"No."
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"But he doesn't belong to you?"
"No." It was clear Thunder was the only thing this man was interested in.
"Then who does he belong to?"
"That's a difficult question." Tashi was feeling lightheaded and very tired.
"May I sit?"
He gave a curt nod.
"I suppose he belongs to Fergox Spearthrower, but Ramil liberated him when we escaped from
Felixholt."
She wondered faintly when was the last time she'd eaten properly. She'd survived on a canteen
of water and scanty rations since her plunge in the river.
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The man was oblivious to his guest's distress.
"Ramil? Ramil ac Burinholt? Zarai's son?"
Tashi nodded. "I'm sorry, but I think I'm going to ... " She didn't complete her sentence, as the 290
world suddenly turned sideways and she passed out on the cushions. Alarmed, Zeliph called his
wife to assist him. Together they carried the unconscious girl into the women's quarters at the
back of the tent.
His wife did not stop berating him. "What were you thinking of?" she scolded. "Questioning the poor child like that? Can't you see she's been through an ordeal?" She flapped him out of the
room and efficiently set about nursing the stranger, stripping off her rags, washing her cuts,
putting ointment on her bruises, and finally burning a feather under her nose to rouse her.
Tashi opened her eyes to see a dark brown pair gazing down on her.
The woman touched her chest. "I'm Larila."
"Tashi," she replied, touching her own chest. She then realized she was naked under her cover.
"Where are my things?"
"I have sent them to be washed."
The girl burst into tears, clutching the blanket to her chest. "Don't do that!
They won't smell of him anymore if you do that."
"It is too late. They have already gone," Larila replied, wondering at this irrational response. Was the child mad?
The girl turned her head to the pillow, her shoulders heaving, and refused to answer more
questions.
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Ramil chose to look upon his situation as a war and plan his strategy accordingly. Sitting in the
filth of the pen, he was in retreat and had to move on to the attack. His greatest and only
strength was that many others shared his predicament. All the slaves penned for the sale the
following day would be potential recruits. There was no advantage in waiting for a better
opportunity because he was unlikely to find one. But he had to allow for some being too fearful
to get involved and others that might see it in their own interests to betray any conspiracy to the
masters. The captives had no weapons but their bare hands and chains. Looking round the slave
market with its guards and whip-bearing overseers, Ramil knew that the first task would be to
break out of the pens and hold a defensible area of the city, before he could get involved in
more ambitious plans. Ramil had already set upon Fergox's palace as his ultimate target. Like a
flea biting a man in armor, Ramil's hope was that he would distract the warlord from his fight
with Gerfal by attacking his soft part underneath.
"Send out the whisper," Ramil told Melletin, "starting with all Brigardians in the pens. Tell them the Dark Prince who escaped Fergox has come to lead them–"
"But you're in the cage with them," Melletin pointed out.
Ramil shrugged. "They don't need to know that. Keep it vague and majestic.
See if the ones who have
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been here longest know who we can trust. There's bound to be a few slave rats among us. We'll
make our move during the sale once we're out of these pens."
Melletin nodded. "And what's the sign?"
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Ramil looked at Gordoc. "Our new masters are so proud of their big man that they haven't
stopped to ask just how strong he is. Gordoc, I've seen you bend bars in Felixholt. Do you think
you could break our chains?"
The giant looked down at the hefty links shackling his hands to the collar around his neck. "I'm
not sure. But I could certainly break that pretty necklace of yours. The bolt's the weak point."
"That will do. With the ring attached to the chain, I'll have a useful weapon to swing at someone.
So the sign is when I take my collar off and attack." Ramil smiled wryly at the ease with which he made that suicidal statement. "We'll only win if we have overwhelming numbers. Everyone has
to join in or this'll be the shortest slave revolt in history."
Under the cover of darkness, Gordoc slipped his stout fingers inside Ramil's collar. It felt like
being throttled, but then the strong man pulled and the collar snapped open. "Thanks," croaked Ramil, rubbing his neck. He then replaced the neck ring, securing the broken hinge with some
cloth ripped from his shirt. "I hope they just think I'm trying to stop it from chafing."
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Gordoc moved silently on to the other men in the pen, starting with Melletin.
All the slaves, bar one, had agreed to join the revolt. The exception, a thin mad-looking man who
was a defrocked priest of Holin, had been too crazy to trust with the secret.
As dawn approached, Ramil gazed at the men crouched around him: his first army. He knew that
he was probably leading most of them to their deaths.
The whole plan had only the barest chance of success. But he made no apology for the attempt.
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"I'd rather die than be a slave," he murmured, thinking of Tashi's desperate plunge into the river.
"What's that, Ram?" rumbled Gordoc.
"We'd rather die than be slaves, wouldn't we, my friend?" Ramil said with more confidence,
knowing that his men were listening.
"That's right." Gordoc laughed. He seemed untroubled by the enormous risk they were about to take. "What about you, my brothers, is that what you think too?"
The men grinned at each other recklessly, eager eyes shining in the darkness of the cage.
"Aye, big man, we're with you and the Dark Prince," said a man from Kandar.
"We'll give Fergox a bloody nose before we're done."
The market began mid morning. In the shade of a pink silk canopy with gold tassels, rich
merchants, farmers, and mine owners lounged on chairs, conveniently close to the block on
which the slaves stood for display. The slaves were hustled from their pens lot by lot. The
majority of those who had already been
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sold waited to one side with their new masters–good news for Ramil because it meant potential
allies were in the open. Finally, it was the turn of Ramil's slave masters to bring out their wares.
They started with the women.
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"Now here's a sweetener to open bidding," the southerner called, prodding a mother carrying a baby onto the block. Ramil made a mental note that he would have to do something to protect
the women and children in the battle that would follow. He murmured to Melletin, who nodded
and passed on the message.
The mother went for a good price to a family needing a wet nurse and was led away. Next onto
the block was Yelena. Rather than treat the block as humiliation, she stared around her with a
scornful look like a queen on her throne. The slaver prodded her with the end of his whip.
"A house girl, fresh caught and spirited, a pretty addition to any household."
Bidding for Yelena was intense. Two merchants had their eyes on her and drove the price up.
The southerner was clearly delighted when he finally closed the bidding at a hundred heralds.
Ramil watched anxiously as she was led from the block to her new master under the canopy. The
merchant pinched her cheek and said something to his neighbor as she glowered at him. Ramil
was relieved to see Yelena being told to wait behind her new master; they would have had little
chance to find her later if she'd been led away now.
The women all sold. It was now the turn of the male
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slaves. Ramil had been hoping to be one of the last so that most of his men would be out of the
pen; instead, he found himself hauled out first. He made a rapid change in plans: he would have
to allow himself to be sold before he gave the signal.
The southerner propelled Ramil up to the block.
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"Another top quality slave, ladies and gentlemen. Strong fighter. Healthy.
Biddable. Suited to be a bodyguard or bath-house attendant."
A lackluster bidding began, not enough to satisfy the man's greed. He ripped open Ramil's shirt
and slapped his well-muscled torso as if he were no more than a side of meat.
"Come, ladies, we can't waste this young man in the mines. Think what a pleasure it will be to
have this lad carry your fan for you when you go visiting.
You'll be the envy of all your friends."
The bidding picked up and Ramil was finally sold to a rich elderly woman in a dress of lurid green
silk. She giggled with her companion when Ramil was pushed before her. After ogling him
closely, she ordered him to wait behind with the other new house slaves.
Ramil made sure he was standing next to Yelena.
"I feel a fool," Yelena muttered, glaring at the velvet back of her new master.
"But what he doesn't know is that he's just bought himself a trained assassin.
He's in for a shock."
"The shock will come sooner than you think, Yelena," Ramil replied, watching the block as more of his men were sold to the mine owners and herded to
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one side. "We're going to kick up a little dust in a minute. Be ready."
Yelena's eyes narrowed. "I'm with you, brother."
The final slave to be brought out of the pen was Gordoc. An excited murmur ran through the
bidders.
"Now, ladies and gentlemen, last but not least, I present to you our greatest prize!" declared the slaver. "As strong as an ox, he'll do the work of ten men."
Gordoc stood up proudly and thumped his chest. The slaver stepped back, delighted that his
catch was playing to the audience.
"Would you like to see how strong I am?" Gordoc roared.
"Yes!" shouted back the merchants, all grinning at this unexpected display.
Slaves rarely gave such good value.
"Then I'll show you." Gordoc glanced at Ramil, who gave him a nod. Gordoc tugged the chain
that looped between his manacled wrists and collar until he had enough slack in his right hand.
He then folded it over his fist. Taking a couple of breaths he began to pull, the muscles bulging in
his arms, veins standing out in his neck as he strained. The crowd shouted encouragement and
cheered until finally the links broke and Gordoc stood there with his hands free, chain dangling
in two pieces. The merchants burst into spontaneous applause which gradually petered out as
they realized they now had a giant man standing in their midst unshackled.
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"Er . . . shall I start the bidding?" quavered the
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slaver, giving Gordoc a wary look. "Who'll give me two hundred heralds?"
At that moment, Ramil ripped off his neck ring and sprinted from behind the merchants. He
vaulted onto the block to be caught up by Gordoc and lifted onto his shoulders. The big man
steadied Ramil's legs so he stood high above everyone. The Prince swung the collar two-handed
in the air.
"Ironfist has shown that we are strong. We'd rather die than be slaves!"
With a head-cracking swoop of the collar, Ramil struck the slaver, dashing him to the ground.
Confusion erupted in all quarters as the men from Ramil's pen swung their collars with deadly
intent. Guards rushed to subdue the ringleaders only to find themselves attacked by slaves on all
sides of the market. Chains were used to throttle guards; soldiers were overwhelmed by the
weight of numbers as men threw themselves on sword arms. Those still in their pens howled
and clashed the bars. Onlookers screamed as they tried to escape the crush. Melletin and his
Brigardian recruits formed a barrier around the slave women with young children, defending
them from the stampede. The rich merchants turned to flee but found a determined-looking
slave girl standing behind them armed with a pole ripped from their canopy.
She cracked one man over the head as he lunged for her. He went down and did not get up
again.
"Stay where you are!" Yelena warned the rest, holding the pole like a staff.
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Two other house girls appeared
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at her shoulder, one carrying a hefty parasol, the other brandishing a copper pan.
A merchant barked an order to his bodyguard to force passage through, but Yelena poked the
man in the ribs with the butt of her pole.
"Are you his slave?"
The bodyguard grunted a "yes," uncertain what to do.
"Then join us, brother. It's your chance to be free."
"Kill the slave filth!" screamed the merchant, thumping his guard on the back.
Yelena pouted, keeping eye contact with the man. "That's not very handsome of him."
"If you don't do your duty, I'll have you flogged!" the merchant spat.
With a roar, the bodyguard spun and knocked his master flat out. The other merchants yelled
and scrambled to escape over the rail that had separated them from the common people, but
Yelena and her girls brought the canopy down on their heads, trapping them beneath.
Ramil had disarmed a guard with his collar and now had a sword to fight with. Hampered by
having to wield it with a loose chain and collar attached to his wrists, he still managed to defeat
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those swarming towards him. His feet slipped in the blood spilt on the cobbles but he fought on.
Injured slaves and overseers groaned on the ground; bodies lay sprawled in the dust.
Ramil fought with desperate efficiency. He knew they had to bring this phase to a close before
the regular soldiers arrived; bells were already tolling the alarm.
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His makeshift slave army would not stand a chance against a disciplined attack.
Finishing off his last assailant, Ramil shouted instructions: 'Gordoc, get some men and build
barricades across the main roads into the market.
Melletin, release the other slaves from the pens! Yelena, put the hostages in the empty cages."
"My pleasure!" she replied, rapidly organizing the slave girls who had gravitated to her during the fight.
Ramil could not help smiling when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw her pinch the cheek of
her master and prod him over to the pen.
Keys were liberated from the fallen slavers and manacles undone. When the bodies had been
piled up, twenty slaves had been killed and thirteen overseers. Saying a prayer for the fallen,
Ramil wiped the sweat from his brow, knowing that they had got off lightly on this first attempt.
Now the challenge was to keep what they had gained and build upon it. The market offered little
in the way of defensive positions. The shed where the women had been housed would do for
the wounded but he couldn't afford to get boxed in. He quickly reconnoitered their situation.
Gordoc was making good progress with the barricades, piling up carts and crates across the
entrance.
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Weapons that had been in the hands of the oppressors now were distributed among the slaves.
For the slave army to survive, he would need discipline and organization.
Already he could see a broad-shouldered slave arguing with Melletin for preventing him from
killing his old master.
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"My friends!" shouted Ramil, jumping back on the block and clanging his sword against a shield.
"Listen to me! Fergox's soldiers will be here very soon and we must make preparations for our
defense."
"Who put you in charge?" growled a stocky man, his face showing the sign of many strokes of
the lash. "We're free. We should take what we can get and run for it!"
"If you do that, they'll hunt you down and you'll be standing back here next week or hanging at a crossroads!" Ramil replied. "They expect us to act like mindless slaves, weak because we act alone, scattering when we come up against opposition. I say we should act like free men and
choose to fight shoulder to shoulder."
Yelena strode forward with a party of girls at her back.
"And free women, Prince," she shouted. "We're with you." She slapped the stocky man on the chest scornfully. "Are you lot so spineless that you'll flee at the first sign of a real fight?"
"You heard the ladies," said Ramil. "Fergox has soldiers, but they only fight because they're paid to do so. Every house in this city has slaves who'll fight for their freedom. We've more allies than
