The Withering Sword

Chapter 10: Poison

XEMYO

Issei, southernmost city of Hassal

They were everywhere. The eyes. Watching her, even though they shouldn’t. An ambassador was too big of an attraction, even to a slave. She hardly noticed the guards who let her party through the city gates, or the wealthy merchants, or even the free poor who flocked on the streets by the dozens. She only saw the slaves.

Gyoto had outlawed slavery generations ago, but they didn’t enforce their ban on the Hassali cities that paid homage to the empire. In fact, some of the land-owners of northern Gyoto, close to Hassal, smuggled slaves across the border to work their farms, and the government did little to prevent it.

The onlookers inspected her and her party with interest, no doubt taking note of the ragged band of outlaws that the soldiers brought with them, bound at wrists and ankles. She’d had a bit of trouble convincing the officers to bring them along instead of executing them. They’d ended up with a compromise: if any trouble arose, the soldiers would slit the outlaws’ throats. They didn’t want to risk her safety by keeping hold of the brigands.

Ahead of them rose the castle, a fortified construction entirely different from the sprawling, comfortable palaces of Gyoto. Xemyo could see the wear on the stone walls, evidence of the hundreds of years it had spent withstanding attacks and the elements. It stood six stories high at the highest tower, taller than any building in Gyoto, and it exuded an air of melancholy grimness. Xemyo didn’t look forward to setting foot inside, but she’d do almost anything to get away from the stares of the slaves.

Heavily-armored guards stopped her at the entrance as she stepped out of her chariot. “Who are you?” said the burly one in the gruff dialect of the southern cities of Hassal.

“Ambassador Xemyo Bhorat of Gyoto,” said Xemyo, pulling herself up straight. “These are the men sworn to protect me and those are their prisoners. They attacked us on the road north.”

“Ambassador?” The guard looked her over with evident distaste. “What’ll you have done with your prisoners?”

“Take them to the castle dungeons. All except for that one.” She pointed to Yarod. “He’s their leader. I’d like to speak with him personally.”

“Leave them here,” said the guard. “We’ll take them to the dungeons.” He spoke as if referring to inanimate objects. Xemyo knew what happened to most prisoners in Hassal. “You may pass, Ambassador.”

A pair of young slave girls came to lead them to the lord’s high hall. Xemyo kept her chin up and avoided looking at the girls. Her men marched dutifully behind her, their footsteps sounding in unison on the cold stone floor. Yarod’s fumbling steps sounded among them, his gait hampered by the loose bindings at his ankles. Tapestries hung on the walls of the hallway depicting fantastical creatures, images of the Hassali gods, and scenes from the heroic legends. Xemyo recognized most of the iconography, having studied every aspect of the culture of Hassal that she could.

The slaves opened the doors to the high hall for them, and let them into a room much less spectacular than anything in the imperial palace in Amrato-feg. Here, a grubby lord dressed in thick, coarse cloths sat at a long battered wooden table on a stone platform that set him marginally higher than the rest of the hall. He had a small, pointed face and a head of greasy brown hair; his fingers, several of them adorned with gold rings, rested on the arms of his carved wooden chair, and three slaves attended him. A handful of other men sat at the table, but Xemyo didn’t spare them more than a glance.

“Ambassador Xemyo Bhorat,” announced one of the slave girls.

“Welcome to Issei, Ambassador,” said Lord Misson in an unpleasantly liquid voice.