The Book of Deacon: Book 02 - The Great Convergence (11 page)

"The wealthy use the word eccentric,"
Desmeres corrected. "Regardless. What it boils down to is this. We
will be leaving within the week. At the end of that time we expect
to hear from every last one of you. There will be no work until
then. Your options are simple. Come to us and agree to do my
employer here a single favor, with a drop of blood in lieu of a
signature on a contract, and you shall have your choice of either a
share of this mine to continue your life here, or enough gold to
start your life elsewhere."

With that, Desmeres opened the door and led
Myranda out.

"You can do the rest of the rationing alone,
workers. The Mistress has grown weary of the tour," Desmeres
instructed.

Myranda and Desmeres marched off toward the
manor. When the others had returned to the task, she turned to
him.

"Now what?" she asked.

"Now we wait. It doesn't usually take more
than three days," Desmeres said.

"Just like that? He'll convince the rest?"
she asked.

"Just like that," he replied.

The next few days were the very definition of
tedium. Aside from a delivery of supplies and a supply caravan that
had to be turned away due to the lack of recent work, the time was
utterly filled with Desmeres tracing out two hundred names on the
pages of a book. On the fourth day, there was a knock on the door.
Desmeres answered it.

"I think . . . I think we've all decided,"
Udo said uncertainly.

Outside there were barely a dozen other
slaves, likely the only others that shared Udo's apathy about life
in general. Desmeres found their names, pricked their fingers, and
rattled off a well practiced speech.

"There will come a time when you will hear a
voice, but not see a face. The voice will remind you of this day,
the day when you were given your freedom in exchange for a favor.
On that day, whether it comes today or in a generation, you will
repay the debt if it is within your power. You will make your sons
and daughters aware of the debt, and instruct them to do the same,
for when you pass on, the debt passes to them. Understood?"
Desmeres said.

This would invariably result in a wide eyed
nod. Those who wished to stay were given a slip of paper entitling
them to a portion of the mine. Those wishing to leave were given a
handful of coins. Gold coins. Then each was given the paper
signifying their debt. In roughly the time it took for a pair of
tired people to sprint to the huts, a second small group came to
collect. The groups grew and compounded in size and enthusiasm as
the promise of freedom and the spark of greed overcame their better
judgment. Strangely, a handful of the freed slaves lingered just
outside the door, faces white as ghosts, dutifully putting to rest
anything that seemed to be the beginnings of a riot. Before the sun
had set on that fourth day, all of the slaves were accounted for.
As night descended, the distant sounds of celebration took the
place of the silence and howling of winds that had marked each
night before.

"Why were those slaves keeping the peace of
their own accord?" Myranda asked, still mystified by how smoothly
the mad enterprise had gone.

"Lain called for the debt to be repaid
immediately," Desmeres explained.

"But . . . how? I didn't see him," Myranda
asked.

"He's an assassin. If he doesn't want to be
seen, he won't be. And when you hear a ghost whisper an order in
your ear and inform you that your life debt needs to be repaid, you
tend to find yourself more eager to please than to find out what
the penalty for failure is," he said.

A few days passed and, now working for
themselves, a fair amount of the workers returned to the mines.
Desmeres traced out a few official looking documents that would
ward off the authorities that might doubt the highly dubious story
the freed men and women would tell. Myranda was left mainly with
boredom and the soul searing images of suffering she'd seen in her
brief time among the enslaved to pass the time. She tried to
imagine Lain in a similar situation, with the added stigma of being
hated by his fellow slaves. A large part of who he was fell into
place. It was not until a full week had passed that the monotony
was broken.

"We need to move, NOW!" Desmeres said,
bursting into the dining room.

"What? Why?" Myranda asked, but Desmeres only
rushed out the door.

The sun was just dropping below the horizon
as Myranda rushed to the wagon her friend had run to. Desmeres had
unhooked two of the horses, and one of them was saddled and
ready.

"We have problems. An old friend of mine is
about to pay us a visit," he said.

"Who?" she asked.

"Arden. He calls himself a bounty hunter, but
head hunter is more appropriate. That tends to be the only part he
brings back. He is one of those 'other agents' I told you about,
the ones who want you as badly as we do and are not so picky about
the state you are in when they receive you. What is worse, he has
an escort. Soldiers. That means he is sanctioned by the military
and will have all of the authority he needs to search this whole
place. We cannot let him see you. More importantly, we cannot let
them see
me
, because even if I wasn't on the 'kill on sight'
list he would put a knife in my back," he said, trying to fit a
saddle onto the second.

"Why?" she asked.

"I have a contact at his place of business
that feeds me the higher profile jobs he gets. If they are worth
it, I put Lain on the trail and claim the reward out from under
him. He knows I’m behind it. I cannot allow him to get his revenge
on the verge of my greatest success," he said.

"Why would he come here?" she asked.

"How should I know? The man is a fool. He can
barely form a sentence. He gets all of his information by finding
someone he suspects knows something and clubbing them until they
tell him. Probably the blasted supply wagons we turned away. I knew
I should have delayed this whole madness until directly following a
filled order," he answered, struggling with an uncooperative
buckle. "The escort has got me worried. They think they are going
to find someone important here. But who? Not that it matters, the
fact is if we don't get out of here now, they are going to find
quite a few very important . . . "

Desmeres' eyes were locked on a faint gray
dust cloud being kicked up by what must have been a half dozen
horses as they approached along the road. The
only
road.

"No. Damn it! We are in the mountains, no
cover for miles! If we run now they will certainly follow, and
there is no way we will outrun chargers on draft horses. We have no
options. Myranda, I hope you have learned your role well, because
when they come here, you are going to have to be
very
convincing," he said rushing to the house.

"But . . . " she said.

"No buts! Confidence and arrogance. I will be
in the basement . . . no, they will look there first . . . the
pantry. Do
not
let them look in the pantry. Good luck, for
both of our sakes. If you fail, Lain will have quite a job ahead of
him," Desmeres called before slipping inside.

Myranda readied herself and entered the
house. She had managed to fool everyone thus far. Besides, this
Arden fellow was a fool. There was no cause for concern. She simply
had to prepare for any questions that they might have. There were
no house servants. That would need to be explained. The slaves were
at rest. That would surely draw curiosity. So long as she had the
answers, this would be simple. At least, that is what Myranda
repeated in her head until the very moment that a harsh knock at
the door came. She rushed to the door, but stopped. No. Alexia
would never open the door herself. She hurried instead to the chair
at the head of the table in the dining room. A second knock came,
more insistent than the last. She ignored it. A third came, shaking
the door on its hinges.

"I am
not
to be disturbed!" she
shouted in a scolding tone.

"Official Alliance Army business," barked a
voice.

"I am not taking visitors today," she
dismissed.

"You! Open this door!" came an order.

"I most certainly will-" Myranda began to
object.

It would appear that the order was not
directed at her, as a massive blow forced the door open. A huge,
heavily armored man stepped aside to reveal the man who had issued
the command. He was not familiar, but his armor was. He was Elite,
and thus one of the few people who might know her on sight. She
wondered for a moment whether this was a good thing or a bad. He
could take her to Trigorah and help her to begin her task in
earnest, or he could identify her for Arden to behead. For now she
would play the character, at least until she was sure she would be
safe. As he stepped inside, Myranda pushed any fear she had aside
and sprang to her feet.

"How
dare
you? With whom do you
suppose you are dealing?" Myranda raged.

The Elite drew his sword and directed it at
her. Myranda stopped short of the blade and conjured what she hoped
was convincing look of anger and disbelief.

"You! You draw your weapon before
me
?
Alexia Adrianna Tesselor?" she fumed.

The Elite's expression changed from one of
anger to one of regret as he quickly sheathed his weapon.

"A thousand pardons, Madam-" he began.

"Mistress!" she corrected.

"Mistress Tesselor. I -" he began again.

"There is no use trying to explain yourself.
There can be no excuse for what you have done. And an Elite, no
less. If you are the best that our army can offer then I weep for
the future. Your sorry hide cheapens my uncle's superbly crafted
armor. Leave this place," Myranda commanded.

"I can't, Mistress. I am under orders from
General Teloran herself. I am to-" he stated hurriedly,
unsuccessfully attempting to avoid interruption.

"Trigorah? My dear boy, I know Trigorah, and
she knows better than to do something as foolish as this," Myranda
said, suddenly getting a thought. "Is she about?"

"No, Mistress, she-" he half answered.

"Then do not speak to me of her orders. Do
you actually expect me to take your word for truth? Show me a writ!
Show me a signed and sealed order for you to force yourself upon my
recently purchased dwelling and physically accost me!" she screamed
with mounting anger.

The Elite scurried off like a struck hound,
grumbling an order to the brute who had forced the door to close
it. Myranda took a deep breath. Her heart was racing. She briefly
marveled at the fact that a simple name was all that was needed to
give her the power to intimidate an Elite, a man who was treated as
a god normally. She turned back to the door when a commotion was
heard outside. The Elite was having a very spirited discussion with
a man who was somehow even larger and stronger looking than the one
standing at attention just outside the doorway. He carried a
thin-handled black halberd with a large bluish crystal set in the
blade. The weapon didn't suit him. It was elegant while everything
else about him seemed to bring new meaning to the word barbaric.
The armor he wore was, to say the least, excessive. There was an
incomplete and rather ill fitting suit of plate mail layered atop a
rancid looking leather under-fitting. As he moved, a chain mail
shirt against his skin revealed that he was at least as foolish as
he was war minded. He turned to the house and began to storm toward
her. This had to be Arden. Myranda prepared herself to deliver
another tirade. The powerful man pushed inside.

"I've already told your idiot partner that I
will not allow so much as a question without a writ," Myranda
said.

The man reached into his bag and pulled out a
scroll of high quality paper sealed with the official crest of the
king pressed into wax. Myranda reluctantly took the paper and broke
the seal. Unrolling it revealed line after line of very official
language detailing all that the holder of the document was
permitted to do. Disturbingly high on the list of permissions was
the right to kill any person or persons who prevented the execution
of duty. She placed the scroll back into the ham-sized hand
extended before her. It was crumpled and stuffed unceremoniously
back into the bag. She made the mistake of looking him in the face.
It would not have been out of place on a bear. Facial hair had
grown wild into a matted beard with a fair accumulation of his last
meal in it. His eyebrows were dense bushy things, connected in the
middle. Peering out from beneath them were a pair of undersized,
enraged eyes.

"Very well. I suppose I can spare a moment or
two," Myranda said in as unconcerned a manner as she could
muster.

"So, you're one o' those Tesselors. What're
you doin' here?" he asked in a gruff voice.

Somehow he seemed to radiate hatred with his
gaze. It was a heroic fight to keep from trembling.

"I am the new owner of this establishment,"
she said.

"What do you want with a bunch a mines for?"
he asked.

"I 'want with a bunch a mines' because my
uncle, the fellow who puts that armor on those soldiers' backs,
grew weary of paying hand over fist for ore he could just as easily
have for free," she said mockingly.

"No one out there is working. Slaves're
supposed ta work," he said.

"As should be clear from the deplorable state
of this house, the previous owner was terrible at managing this
place. I am currently attempting to decide whether or not I will
need to replace all of the workers. Until I decide they are
capable, I do not want to risk one of those idiots collapsing a
shaft or some such," she said.

His weak minded manner of speech made her
feel a bit safer. If his brain was as muddled as his mouth would
make it seem, there was little chance he would see through her
disguise. Any comfort she had taken, though, was lost when he
started poking at her shoulder. He used only two fingers, but the
offending digits combined were thicker than her wrist.