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did? Might you not also drown out our howls with your own screams and pelt away into the night? And
might not the gruesome sight of six of your comrades' disemboweled corpses lend speed to your feet as
you fled into the desert?
I was beside mat conical tent, sword ready for the killing lunge, when the flaps came open; I thought it
fitting that the nomad chieftain meet his death at my hands, but as I braced to strike, a woman stumbled
out into the firelight. I now thank the gods I was not then the warrior Janos or Maeen were, nor die
warrior I myself became later. I was slow enough in launching my attack to catch myself, and my sword
tip went wide. The chief's concubine, I thought, and then I saw, in the fire flicker, the silver that cuffed
each of her wrists and stretched between. Another poor captured being, destined for slavery.
The woman was young, and she wore the puffed shirt and baggy trousers of a man. Her black hair
dropped in waves to her shoulders. I noticed, as if we were standing in the midday sun and I had a god's
time to appreciate, that she wore gold and the sparkle of gems at her throat. She was also quite beautiful.
"Who are-" we each asked at the same moment, or at least I guessed we did, because the woman
spoke in an unknown tongue. I said something about "rescuers," and she seemed to understand. She
looked beyond me; I turned and saw the rest of our soldiers run into the firelight. Among them was
Cassini. The slaves were on their feet now, and Janos and Maeen moved among them. Maeen had found
keys and was unlocking their chains. Janos preferred the direct approach and used his great blade to pry
the chain links apart.
The woman saw something and walked past me, paying no heed to the bloody sword in my hand She
walked to one of die nomad bodies that lay face up and bent over it. I recognized die man-he was the
band's chieftain. Very deliberately the woman spat in his face, laughed harshly, and said something else in
her own language.
"Janos!" He freed the last of the captives and came to me. He pulled firewood from a pile and tossed it
into the flames; they roared up. The captives seemed bewildered.
Janos tried Trader's Tongue. Only one man seemed to understand, and mat very slightly, so Janos began
motioning, trying to make his signs universal, as he spoke.
"You are free"-casting aside one of the chains-"we must go
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on ... we travel east"-tapping chest and indicating-"you must come with us ... slavers will return ...
tomorrow"-motioning to the other darkness and arcing his hand like the sun rising-"with more men ...
more weapons"- again, the chain, and then fingers spread, spread, spread again, showing numbers.
"Come with us ... you are free."
The men and women looked at each other, hesitant. No one moved Finally, the beautiful woman
stepped forward; she walked up to me and said a word I did not understand. Then she repeated it, this
time in the patois. This time I understood; the word she used was free. She said it with great relish. Then
she turned back to the others and shouted a few sentences. The freed captives found their tongues and
babbled. Then one, then two, then five walked to Janos. The others were suddenly silent. They looked
down at the ground, then sat Janos tried again, but none of them rose. He even seized one man by the
arm and dragged him to his feet. But the man went limp and let himself collapse. Janos was angry,
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seething ... as if he might kill someone ... or as if he might cry.
Maeen broke his building rage. "Sir. Captain Greycloak. It's false dawn. We must be moving."
Janos forced calm. "I should have remembered," he said to the captives. "There were people like you
when I was ... what I was. Men who would rather live in chains than die free."
Then it was as if they did not exist. He shouted us into motion. We must return to our camp and get the
packs onto the asses. The nomads would be back-almost certainly with reinforcements. We must be
gone when they came, deeper into the desert. We looted the camp, leaving only foodstuffs for those who
had decided to remain in slavery. All else we burned. We drove their horses out in a different direction,
hoping to provide a false trail. We dared not take them with us-the nomads might know exactly where
every water source was, but we did not. And we did not want to landmark our direction of flight with a
line of carcasses. Then we marched out. As we moved out of the oasis, in the first red flush of real dawn,
the woman caught up with me and tapped my chest and asked something. It took a moment before I
realized what she wanted to know.
"Amalric," I answered. She touched her own chest.
"Deoce."
Then we went on into the desert, the last flames from the nomads' camp lost in the glare of the rising sun.
CHAPTER TEN
Deoce
DURING THE NEXT few days, Deoce and her companions had cause to regret their rescue. The
desert nights were so cold, our bones ached, and the days so opposite we begged for the comfort of
night. It was impossible to keep the fast pace Janos desired, so we were grateful the slavers had
evidently decided not to follow. And as the sun beat down and the asses bawled their misery, and we
wished for tears enough to weep, we realized only a fool would pursue us. For we were all clearly
doomed, as would be anyone who followed. Still, there were beasts about-although I cannot attest they
were of this world. At night we heard them howling for the wetness of our blood; during the hot day we
could sense them snuffling, just out of view, on our scent.
On the third dusk of our ordeal, Cassini's divining rod finally gave a weak twitch, and we all fell to the
sand and began to scrabble and dig like dogs. I growled with satisfaction like the others when my fingers
found wet sand. I scooped up the wetness and stuffed it into my mouth, sucking eagerly on the grit,
spitting it away when it was dry, and grabbing up another handful. When I was nearly satiated I looked
up, munching on sand as if it were sweet sherbet, and saw Deoce. Her face was filthy, and when she
grinned at me, sand clung to her teeth. She laughed at my own look, and when I laughed back at her own
poor state, she found greater amusement, laughing even louder.
Deoce had a lovely laugh. I can hear it now as I write these words and struggle for descriptive powers.
It wasn't musical or bell-like, or any of those "winds in a sacred grove" comparisons. She laughed from
the toes up, a deep, heartfelt laugh that tickled the spirit of anyone in her company. Soon we were all
laughing,
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