Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [104]
“What use is freedom to a beggar?” the ghost persisted. “The freedom to starve and shiver? When a mighty king conquers his enemies, which is better—that he kill them all or make them his property? The poor man with a beautiful daughter—what use is freedom to either of them? A well-run slave market offers hope all around—to the buyer and seller, and the slaves.”
“Froggin’ hell it does.” Cauvin threw the ghost’s words back at him: “You’ve never been a slave.”
The ghost erupted with hollow laughter. “Not a slave? I was born a slave in a land so far from the Empire that it’s been forgotten ten times over. My father called himself a king—of what, I never knew, but he was afraid of his sons, even the sons of his slaves. He had them killed, except for me. Me, he sold to a friend or an enemy; it scarcely mattered to me. The world had become my enemy. I fought, not for freedom—what use was freedom? I fought to avenge my own shame. Whipped, branded, and whipped again, I was chained and sold a dozen times. Each time I was pulled farther from my birthplace, closer to the Rankan Empire until—when I was about your age—I had a master who brought me to Ranke itself.
“He wasn’t a poor man, my new Rankan master, but he owed more money than he could hope to beg from his rich father. In me—a man who hated everyone and lived for rage—he saw the solution to his problems. They had a special sort of slave in Ranke—they have them elsewhere, too—slaves who fight to the death in public arenas while unwashed crowds cheer and a lucky few grow rich by betting on the winners. My owner promised me freedom if I’d make him rich. He lied, but I made him rich all the same, then I bought my own freedom and slit his throat on my way out of the capital.
“I made my way to Sanctuary to practice what I’d learned from my many masters. This city was mine and I cared for it until that golden-haired Kadakithis showed up at the palace with his priests and his Hounds. In the name of freedom and justice, they hunted my hawks like vermin. They broke me and used the home I’d built to quarter their animals—but did they protect the weak? Did they care for Sanctuary? Look around you—is Sanctuary better without slaves, without Jubal and his hawks? Answer honestly, if you dare.”
Cauvin turned the challenge over in his mind. Only a sheep-shite fool would think life in Sanctuary had improved since Prince Kadakithis left the palace, but Vashanka had just refused to take credit for the city’s fall. “You take too much for yourself, Jubal,” he said, sinking into the stubbornness that got him into trouble more often than not. “Sanctuary’s not a froggin’ cesspool because of you, and if it’s going to change, freedom’s a better place to start than slavery.”
“Are you the one to make those changes? Do you think you are?” Jubal asked, an eerie repetition of Vashanka’s words before the ghost, like the god, vanished.
If there’d been either a ghost or a god. If the damned brick and its damned spell weren’t to blame for everything he’d seen and heard since entering the chamber. And if Lord Molin Torchholder weren’t to blame for the froggin’ brick.
“The geezer’s going to die,” Cauvin swore when he was alone. “That froggin’ pud’s going to die.” But he folded the mask along well-worn creases and tucked it beneath his shirt.
Cauvin was tempted to take the torch and hike out to the redwall ruin to settle things between him and Lord Molin froggin’ Torchholder, then his eyes fell on the weapons. He was angry enough to murder the Torch with his fists, but a froggin’ sword, though, would be more satisfying. Hadn’t the Torch said he’d needed to learn to fight with steel? And he’d spotted just the sword, resting beside its scabbard on a black-lacquered rack in the place of honor among the weapons.
It was an odd-looking sword: half again as long as the swords Sanctuary’s guards carried and faintly green, as if mold had gotten into the metal. If it weren’t sitting alone on the rack, Cauvin would have