A Strange Song of Madness (Part 1), Page 3

  Chapter 3

  The cellar was hot and stuffy even in the early morning. Shaol had spent his life waking long before the sun rose and starting the journey to the lake and the three weeks of service to his new Master had not broken his body insistence to be awake as the tanks were pulled under the iron gate.

  The work in the household was nothing like the caravan. There, Shaol would end the day exhausted, his energy spent, his muscles drained. Here, he was used to carry the odd box from the cellar to the house, rarely he would be ordered to follow Mistress around the marketplace as she purchased the heavier items from the stalls. Each week, the water barrels would be delivered and for the morning his body was tested as he hauled the heavy barrels into the water closet under the stairs, but when it was done he was sent to the chair in kitchen where he was given small jobs by Faun, the cook.

  At night, when the others would crawl under their blankets, Shaol would lay on top of his fur blanket and stare at the small grate at the top of the wall and watch the street beyond, trying to still his mind until, finally, something like sleep would take him away from the stone room. His eyes would snap open, after what felt like only a few moments, the others still slept under their blankets, the street beyond the grate was still only lit by the faint street lanterns.

  For the first time in Shaol’s mind would not become silent when he commanded. He thought of the caravan and how the sleds with the empty tanks would be leaving their trails through the silver dirt. Five trees would pass them, one with brown wood and green leaves, the one that was small and sat low to the ground, dense and green, the third had no leaves, but with the sometimes blue, sometimes white flowers, the forth would grow the green fruits that would turn brown and fall to the ground as the time passed, the last had small leaves but long, arms that hung to the ground and that swayed in the wind. Shaol wonder whether the kids had ever noticed the trees, they never talked about them when they gathered in the back of the barracks at the end of the day.

  The walls to the fortress were as large as the kids had said. The Market was on the far side of the stone city from the smooth, black wall, but Shaol was still able to see the top of it towering, high over the rooftops, higher than any man could climb. The fortress stood, large and imposing, just behind but it might as well have been a hundred miles away.

  Though there must be ways in. The fortress needed food, it needed swords, it needed Unders to serve the Masters inside and if those things could enter, so could another. Shaol could find the treasure Friend needed and the kids could leave the city.

  Shaol hated when his mind started to become excited with the thoughts, he hated when he started to wonder about what lay beyond the gate. He missed the caravan and he missed the work, he missed the Old Ones who had lost their minds to the poison thoughts, he missed the fights that would erupt when they became furious, he missed sending them back to their corners.

  The ones around Shaol were not like that. They lay under their blankets and slept in the night, they were not kind to each other but they were not violent and they were not kind to him but they treated him as well as they needed too. It was a type of good but it was not his life, here he was nothing but a thing that sat on a chair while others moved around him.

  The Masters decide what we are and what we do, Shaol remind himself as though he was a kid newly brought to the caravan, but each day seemed to become longer and the chair in the kitchen became harder. Friend was still waiting for him, somewhere in the city, her yellow eyes would be watching for him from the alley near his old Master’s house.

  The street outside was still lit by the lanterns and it would be for sometime. Shaol lifted himself from the floor and stood under the grate. He could feel the cool, fresh night air as he waited for the sun to rise.

  “Can’t sleep again?” said Pysuun as he pulled back his blanket.

  Shaol shook his head.

  “Come on, then,” sighed Pysuun.

  Pysuun stood up and scooped up the blanket and his boots from the floor.

  “Get your clothes,” he commanded.

  Shaol collected his shirt and boots and followed Pysuun to the door. The door clanked as Pysuun unlocked it with the keys, the others stirred but did not wake. The two headed up the tight steps that led from the cellar to the kitchen.

  “You can do the pots now and then the knives,” yawned Pysuun leading the way, “I don’t have enough work for you.”

  “I know,” said Shaol.

  “You need to get over this. It’s been three weeks.”

  “I know.”

  “Get to it then and keep your shirt and boots on,” Pysuun knew it had to be said.

  Shaol pulled on his shirt as Pysuun lay out his blanket on the kitchen floor and pulled on his boots. Shaol never liked the shirt and boots the Unders were forced to wear around the household, the thread of the shirt rubbed against his skin and the boots squashed his toes. Without another word the large, round body of Pysuun disappeared under his blanket, all that Shaol could see of him was the straight, black hair that stuck out from the top of the blanket.

  Shaol pulled on his boots, found a stool and set to washing the pots. Pysuun had done what he could for Shaol, but he seemed to know as well as Shaol that there was no place for the water bearer here.

  As head of the household, Pysuun was charged with the care of the Unders here and gave the directions to others when the Master or Mistress were away and with the position came the heavy burden of being responsible for everything that occurred in the house.

  Shaol had never seen the Master angry in the three weeks since he had joined the house, but the deep scars he had seen across Pysuun’s back showed him that the Masters kept control in their houses in the same way that they did in the barracks.

  The dull blade scrapped the hard filth from the pots. When that was removed, Shaol used a piece of leather to rub away what remained. His arms burned from the labour and he smiled to himself. The kitchen window was black and reflected Shaol in its frame. Somehow, he had become younger in the last weeks. The Master had not cut his hair to the skin like they had in the barracks and now he had short, red, wavy hair. His eyes were no longer a weak grey, they were a bright white and the skin around them had lost their dark rings.

  The deep pain his back had recovered after the weeks of the light work. Sometimes, he hoped his old Master would return and take him back in exchange for the Kaborn runt but then Shaol would become angry with himself and chase the poisonous thoughts from his mind. His old Master did not care what happened to him now.

  The scar on Shaol’s arm itched, Master had burnt the old tattoo of the water bearer from his skin. Next to the mark was a red and green square, the mark of his Master Aksit. This was his life, now, he kept repeating as he scrubbed at the muck on the pots.

  Shaol looked down at the shallow tub of milk in which he washed the pots. When the morning came he would have to empty it into the sewer grates. The fortress behind the black wall would need to get rid of its milk and its waste.

  Shaol ignored the thought and scrubbed harder at the pots, the leather in his hand was becoming black. The milk had become a grey and brown.

  Shaol cleaned until there was only one pot left, the world beyond the window was still dark. Pysuun kicked under the fur blanket, he was murmuring about something. Shaol wondered if the Unders here were attacked by the same poison thoughts that took the minds of the Old Ones he had known. If they did they hid their sourness better than those in the outer city.

  “How are the pots?” asked Pysuun as he pushed off the blanket and sat up.

  “One more.”

  “Good.”

  “What do you dream about?”

  “Nothing,” grumbled Pysuun to himself lying back on the floor and pulling the blanket back over his face.

  Shaol continued to scrub at the last pot and the room became quiet again. After a while, Pysuun pulled the blanket away from his face.

  “Do they treat the boys, badly?” asked Pysuu
n, “in the outer city?”

  “Some are treated very badly, if they don’t find someone to protect them.”

  Pysuun did not respond.

  “You’re not cruel to each other here,” continued Shaol, “the Old Ones in the barracks aren’t as good. The life makes men sour and when it becomes to much they turn on the kids. I did what I could to help them.”

  “Did you ever meet a boy named Horsuun?”

  “We give the kids new names,” said Shaol, “it stops them from thinking about what they’ve lost. Who’s the boy?”

  “My son,” said Pysuun, “they took my family. They separated me from my wife and daughters, but kept me and my son together until we reached Tarlnath. I was brought here, I never found out what happened to Horsuun.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Four years… I think,” said Pysuun struggling with the time, “you?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “I wish I could forget.”

  “Do you ever think of escaping and going home?” asked Shaol.

  “No,” said Pysuun, “what good is that now? It’s already gone.”

  “Would you go home with your son?”

  “In a moment.”

  There was silence between the two as Shaol finished the final pot. He stood and hung it from the hook next to the stove. Shaol always put them in the wrong place and Faun would always rearrange them all after he was done.

  Pysuun was asleep again, his face still visible. He was old with hard lines that cut around the eyes. Shaol took the stone and the knives from the shelf and started to sharpen them as Faun had taught him. The blades scattered the lantern light across the roof as they slid along the smooth surface of the stone.

  The knives were done and placed away. The window was stubbornly black and with the labour done the thoughts came again.

  Maybe Shaol had met Pysuun’s son, maybe it was Cutter or Rag or any of the others boys he had sat with a few weeks earlier. Could Friend take all the kids away from this place? What power did she have to take them but not to get the treasure? Could he help Pysuun? Would Pysuun trust him? Were there others who wanted to go home? Could Friend help them as well? How hard would it be to go over the black wall that towered higher than any man could climb?

  Shaol did not even know a way through the maze of the city to the fortress gate, but if he had others, together they may be able to get into the fortress of the Masters.

  Shaol wanted the sun to come, so that the house would become busy again and distract him from the thoughts that were trying to take his mind, but the sun would not rise because he wanted it too, he could only wait for the day to come.

  Life had been better on the road to the butcher’s hut.

  That was the last thought he was willing to tolerate that night. None of these thoughts were right, they were the thoughts of a kid who was new to the caravan, not one who knew this city and his place in it.

  It was his place to sit and wait until he was needed. He turned the chair and watched the black window and focused his mind on his own reflection. With all his willpower, Shaol made the thoughts quiet and he was at peace again.