The scattered contents of Hest’s plundered wardrobe littered the floor of his erstwhile stateroom, his garments mingled carelessly with Redding’s. The chest of wine, cheese, sausages and delicacies that Redding had so carefully packed stood open, and the sticky table attested to the enjoyment of its contents. Obviously the Chalcedean had settled in and availed himself of all the room’s comforts. The bedding on Hest’s bunk was rumpled, half dragged to the floor. Redding’s was undisturbed. The shock and loss of his friend’s death swept through him again and he drew a breath, but before he could speak, the Chalcedean spun to confront him. The look on his face drove the breath from Hest’s lungs and he stumbled back a step. ‘Clean it up!’ he barked, and then flung himself, boots and all, onto Redding’s bed and reclined there, eyes half-lidded, face lined with weariness. When Hest just stood, staring at him, he spoke quietly. His scarred lips bulged and stretched with the words. ‘I don’t really have a need for you any more. If you are useful, I may keep you alive. If not …’ His hand lifted and one of his little knives had appeared. He waggled it at Hest and smiled.
Ever since that moment, Hest had lived as the Chalcedean’s slave. He served, not only the assassin, but any Chalcedean who barked an order at him. He was given the lowliest and most disgusting tasks: from emptying chamber-pots overboard to clearing the galley table and washing the dishes. As Hest had scrubbed the blood of slain crewmen off the deck, he had decided he would offer no resistance. He lived hour to hour. Of his fellow prisoners he saw no sign, and heard only their angry shouts and pleas that weakened daily. He ate the leavings from his masters’ meals, and slept below decks in a locker full of spare line and shackles. He was glad not to be lodged with the other prisoners, for he knew that they blamed him for their predicament and would tear him to pieces if they could. His was a solitary existence, despised by the Chalcedeans and reviled by the Traders.
He learned little that he didn’t already know. The ‘impervious’ ships were being built in Jamaillia, and the shipbuilders cared little who paid for them, as long as they paid well. Chalcedeans might be prohibited by the Traders from the Rain Wild River, but their obsession with slaughtering dragons conquered all concerns they might have had. The Chalcedean ‘investors’ had remained hidden on the very ship on which he had travelled up the river. And now, a bribed captain and a Chalcedean crew were taking the vessel up the Rain Wild River, into unexplored territory in the hopes of finding Kelsingra and dragons to butcher.
It was insane. Just because the ship would not be eaten by the river, it could not be assumed that the forgotten city could be found or that the malformed dragons were actually there. And if they did find Kelsingra and the dragons were there, what then? Had any of them ever witnessed the fury of an enraged dragon? When Hest had dared to voice that question, the Chalcedean had stared him down with cold, still eyes. Dread had uncoiled in Hest’s belly and he had steeled himself not to scream as he died. But the man had only said, ‘You have never witnessed the fury of our duke when thwarted. Insanity and impossible missions are to be preferred to disappointing him.’ He cocked his head. ‘Do you think a jewelled box with my son’s hand in it is the worst thing I can imagine?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘You have no idea.’ Falling silent, the assassin had stared out of the window at the passing view of the forested riverbank and Hest had been relieved to resume his menial duties.
Hest knew little about the dragons and even less of Alise’s theories about lost Elderling cities. Time and again he had been interrogated, with stern warnings that lies would bring great pain. He had never lied, being too convinced of the Chalcedean’s utter willingness to punish him for any falsehood. It had been hard to stand and repeat, ‘I do not know,’ to the man’s whispered or shouted questions, but from the beginning, he had known that the truth was his only protection. Any lie he might have invented to please him would surely have tangled around his tongue later.
Over and over, the Chalcedean came back to one thing. ‘Was not this the mission your father sent you on? To retrieve your runaway wife? And did not you tell me she had run off with your slave? So. How were you going to do that? You must know something of how to find the city and the dragons?’
‘No. NO! I don’t. He said I must go to the Rain Wilds, and so I went. I know no more than you do, and probably less. The people I would have spoken to are back in Trehaug, or maybe in the cargo hold of this ship! You should ask them, not me!’
So although the Chalcedean had several times slapped him hard enough to bloody the inside of his cheek, and once back-handed him off a chair, Hest had not suffered any extreme physical hurt or damage. Unlike some of the Trader captives in the hold of the ship. But there was no good to be had of dwelling on that. It was none of his doing, and solely their misfortune. Confined to his gear locker, he had blocked his ears against the sounds of torture. And when he had been ordered to clean up the aftermath, he did only what he was told.
