Shadows Return - Lynn Flewelling [96]
“You know of a necromancer named Vargûl Ashnazai?”
The name was like a hot poker pressed to Seregil’s heart, linked as it was to memories of blood-streaked walls and severed heads chattering on his mantelpiece, and a hank of Alec’s hair knotted around a dagger, left for him to find. “He was a very memorable man,” he managed at last.
Ilar chuckled at that. “His uncle, Duke Tronin Ashnazai, is a good friend of my master. It was from him that I heard of your adventures against Duke Mardus and his cabal. Duke Tronin had the story from a nobleman who was with Mardus’s entourage. Seems he’d witnessed you killing Mardus, and that Orëska wizard—what was his name, Haba? Ander? Nander, or something like it?”
“Yes,” Seregil whispered. “Something like that.”
“It was most perplexing news, too, as I’d understood that the man was your patron in Rhíminee. Tell me, Haba, do you kill all your friends in the end?”
Seregil sat back and kept his clenched hands pressed to his thighs, biting the inside of his cheek as he forced himself not to lash out. “No, not all of them. And I didn’t kill that necromancer, though I’d have been happy to do the deed. Alec had that honor.”
“Ah. Well perhaps we’d better keep that between us, eh? Oh, and this as well.” He reached into a pocket and took out several long black slivers of what appeared to be broken horn. “Your protégé is a very clever boy in some ways, even if he is quite gullible. I left a spoon within reach and he did exactly as I’d expected, making a lock-picking tool. Earlier he even picked a padlock with a file. You must have been a very good teacher. Not that you’ll need such skills here. But you are neat-handed—a fact I mean to make use of.” He reached into another pocket and passed Seregil a clay oil vial, then propped one foot in Seregil’s lap.
Swallowing another morsel of his pride, Seregil obediently warmed some of the rose-scented oil between his palms and began to massage the offered foot. It was something else he was good at, and though Ilar never took his eyes off Seregil, he relaxed noticeably.
“I think I like this tame new Haba, even if I don’t trust him one little bit.”
“Thank you, Master. The feeling is mutual.”
Ilar slapped him hard on the cheek so fast Seregil didn’t have time to brace himself. He went sprawling and the flask of oil spilled over his lap and the rug.
“You are my property now, Seregil, and you’d do well to remember that. I can do whatever I like with you, even torture and kill you, and no one would lift a hand to protect you. You are of no more worth than a candle or a glove—something to be used and discarded at my whim. What do you think I should do with you?”
Seregil pushed himself up, righted the flask before it could empty, and lifted Ilar’s foot back into his lap. “I wouldn’t be much use to you dead,” he observed, working his thumbs up the arched instep in a way that made Ilar gasp.
“Don’t be too sure of that, Haba.”
They were quiet for a while. Seregil kept his eyes on his work, trying not to choke on the heady aroma of the oil. “What will you do with your freedom when you get it, Master?” he asked, when he sensed from the occasional low moan that Ilar’s mood had improved sufficiently. “Where will you go?”
“Go?” Ilar was resting his head on one hand now, eyes hooded with unabashed pleasure as the massage continued, but the question drew his brows together. “Alec asked me the same thing, you know. So common with new slaves who haven’t come to terms with their situation.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Where would you have me go? Home to Aurënen? Like this, with the brands of shame on my skin forever? Have you ever seen a freedman in Aurënen?”
“Not that I know of,” Seregil admitted, slowly working the stiffness from Ilar’s toes. “But maybe they avoid the baths.”
Ilar snorted softly. “Even without these marks, I doubt I’d be very welcome. I’m certain you told them of my role in your downfall?”
“I didn’t have to.