As the weeks went by, Gamden was around less and less. He never commented on what the guards wanted with him or where they took him. Their conversation had been more occasional since their falling out in the employment of Master Quenden, of course, but now it was even more scarce. Often, the words they exchanged were nothing more than pleasantries. Arn found himself growing eager and anxious when a few days passed without a visit from Massema. His dark metal cage was so lonely that his muscles clenched until they hurt.
After two days passed without a visit from his friend, Arn began to worry. His visits with Vellek were quiet, uncomfortable affairs—though they did continue—but it was his connection with Massema that sustained him.
She finally arrived on a third day, but stood farther back from his cell than usual.
“What is wrong?” Arn asked, before she even had time to extend her usual pleasantries to him. He rested his hands on the bars, arching the sore muscles of his back. Sleeping on the thin blanket they had provided him was more trying than he cared to admit.
Massema shrugged. “Nothing,” she said.
It was dark enough in the windowless prison corridor that Arn could not see her lying face through the shadows—but her voice was a poor imitation of the deceits of Razaad. “Come closer, then,” Arn said.
“Arn, there’s nothing to be done about it,” she said, quietly. “Leave it alone.”
Arn knew what it was. He grew bitter—then he grew angry. He glanced back at the pool of angry sunlight. It had grown so much smaller over the last few weeks, but now it seemed to push against its boundaries. That thing—that horrible, fiery beast—lurked there, waiting for Arn’s anger.
“I try to keep my head down—to do the work they give me. Usually, I’m helping copy letters with the scribes. I like the work, Arn. I don’t want it to change,” Massema said.
“Then come closer,” Arn insisted.
Massema sighed and stepped forward, closer to the flickering torch between Arn’s cell and his neighbor. Angry red welts saddened the shape of her eyebrow and brown splotches covered her cheek. A small line at her lip was the memory of a broken, bloody bruise. The white linen dress that clung around her upper arms and chest barely concealed the red handprint on her left arm.
Arn closed his eyes, feeling the tears in them. He had given even worse than this, he knew. He remembered Thalla’s bruises—the look of betrayal in her eyes, and in Little Rat’s. He had gone too far—and she had asked for him to fight her. Massema had asked for nothing.
“They’ll get over it eventually,” Massema told him. “I’m still the new girl, owned by the most powerful of the slavers. Eventually they’ll realize I’m not going anywhere…”
“No,” Arn said, forcing himself to look at her injuries. “They’re going to kill you.”
Massema shook her head, but said nothing else.
Jaw clenching and unclenching, Arn paced back into the shadows of his cell. His muscles were not what they had once been, but Vellek had seen to it that Arn’s rations were improved. Now, his meals always included meat—but wilting away in a cell was no way to maintain fitness.
Then Arn strode back to the door of his cell. “Guard!” he shouted.
Massema flinched. “Don’t—” she tried.
“It has to stop, Massema.”
“The guard won’t stop it—he doesn’t have the authority,” she explained. She was starting to cry, folding her arms around her torso.
Arn shook his head. “Not the guard,” he said. But he repeated his call.
Eventually, the man with the metal chain shirt came to see what the fuss was. He glanced at Massema suspiciously, but she stepped aside and kept her head bowed. Turning back to the cell, he ordered Arn to, “Quiet down!”
“I want to see Drowen,” Arn said.
The guard looked at him with narrow eyes. “Drowen is a busy man. You see Vellek now, and he doesn’t work for you, wretch.”
Arn gripped the bars with white knuckles. “Drowen will want to hear me,” he assured the guard. “Or I’ll stop accepting Vellek’s help. You tell him. Tell him to see me or he might as well kill me.”
“Gods, you people…” the guard muttered. He turned and started to shamble off down the corridor.
“Tell him!” Arn bellowed after him. “Tell Drowen!”
By the light of another torch, he saw the guard wave over his shoulder. “We’ll see,” he called back, dismissively.
After he had gone, the blood-stained man in the cell down the corridor rattled the chains that bound him. “Madman—stirring up trouble again! All over your little whore.”
“I’ll rip your tongue out!” Arn roared. “Quiet it.”
The man silenced.
Massema smiled weakly. “I’ve heard worse,” she said. “It’s not a glamorous life we lead, but I’m fine, Arn, really.”
Arn shook his head. She stayed with him for the rest of the hour, before excusing herself to return to her work. She was afforded only a short time each day to eat and take care of personal needs. The guard did not bring Drowen before she left.
After dozing off for a bit of the afternoon, Arn was jolted awake by the sound of heavy bootsteps approaching his cell. A shadow loomed in front of the torch—a burly, tattooed shadow. In a gruff voice, the warlord said, “Arn. Forgot how ugly you were.”
Arn scrambled to his feet, but nearly fell over with dizziness. Composing himself, Arn looked Drowen in the eye. “You want me at my best, don’t you? That’s what’s been going on, with Vellek and these visits you allow.”
A small smile parted Drowen’s lips. Then he pursed them and tipped his head. “Let’s say that’s so.”
“Did you know that the other slaves have beaten her twice now?” Arn asked. His eyes were probing. Drowen was playing a game with Arn—trying to see if his loyalty could be earned. Drowen would have done well on Razaad.
Drowen’s eyebrows arched. “I did not,” he admitted.
It seemed genuine. Of course, if Drowen had revealed his knowledge of the thing, he would have jeopardized any hope he had of Arn’s faith. Arn looked down, collecting his thoughts. He looked back up at Drowen. “You’re going to put a stop to that. Punish those responsible—and have someone protect her from now on,” he told the broad-shouldered man.
This brought mirth to Drowen’s face. “I am?” he asked.
Arn slowly nodded. “You are,” he said. “And you see that one over there—the one with the blood all over his clothes?”
Drowen turned and looked where Arn was pointing. The blood-stained prisoner who constantly haggled Arn was watching warily—now was staring, stunned.
“You’re going to put him in my cell,” Arn said, quietly.
Now Drowen was outright grinning. “Oh, I like you, little nose-less man,” he chuckled. “I’ll do as you say, this time. And I’m also going to give you quarters—a bed.”
Arn had to laugh, slightly, in relief. He couldn’t believe his ears. “You will?”
Drowen’s round, tattoo-scrawled scalped nodded forward. Arn half-expected him to demand they make some sort of pact—as Quenden had asked. But Quenden was a lesser man. Drowen didn’t need to ask Arn to swear not to escape. They had an understanding now. Drowen would meet whatever need Arn thought to fill elsewhere—or he would kill Arn for betraying him. The choice—loyalty or death—had not changed.
Today, Arn had simply become a willing participant of the bargain.
“Unlock that cell,” Drowen ordered, pacing down the corridor. He turned back to Arn. “He was the ruler of this city, by the end. The chief cannibal of the cult. I was saving him for Master Tarro, but I think my master would understand.”
As the keys jangled in the lock of the blood-stained prisoner, the poor man changed his tune. His jeering insults were far gone—his begs of mercy echoed through the dingy hall. They dragged him—thrashing and shrieking—to Arn’s cell and threw him in. When he got a grip on the door, preventing it from closing, Arn snapped his arm.
“I like you loads, nose-less man,” Drowen said, laughing, as Arn broke the prisoner’s jaw against the wall. The warlord wandered away, his mirth echoing behind him. “Someone get that man a proper room!”