91 Alamont Prison Camp

Mateo obeyed the queen's command, no matter how uneasy her instructions made him. He understood her heart, and he couldn't fault the logic of what she was doing. Even so, it was a terrible thing.

Mateo had dispatched word throughout the Tierran military camps: every captive ra'vir being held for interrogation was to be summarily executed. And good riddance. He didn't know if any of them had been involved in poor Tira's murder, but it didn't matter. They were all guilty, and should all die. The oldest one identified was fifteen.

And those didn't even count toward the queen's thousand.

Every time he thought of poor Tomas, Mateo had to close his eyes and draw deep breaths.

When he took river passage to Alamont Reach and handed Destrar Shenro the royal decree, the other man studied it, frowning. “That's a great many slaves, Subcomdar, and I've already sent hundreds up to Corag to work on the mountain road. What am I going to use to tend our fields?”

Mateo spoke more sharply than he intended, but he could not keep the anger back. “Considering what happened to Prince Tomas, would you tell the queen you'd rather keep a few extra farm laborers?”

Shenro courteously handed the order back. “You're right, of course. In fact, I'm glad to get rid of some useless mouths to feed.” He averted his gaze. “I don't envy you your task, Subcomdar. It is a difficult thing.”

As a young recruit, Mateo had listened to the Alamont destrar teach Tierra's military history, but none of the historic struggles and civil wars could compare to the crusades between the Aidenists and Urecari. Mateo showed no hesitation. “I am proud to do whatever my queen commands. Destrar Sazar is sending riverboats to load the captives. They should arrive this afternoon. We'll take the river route as far south as we can, then do a forced march down the Pilgrims' Road.”

Later that day, the fence gates were thrown open, and riders herded the prisoners out of the camp, while men with slate tablets kept a careful tally of them. Driven toward the docks, the Urecari grew increasingly angry and apprehensive.

Shenro watched them with a cold smile. “They think I intend to have my archers shoot them—again.”

Mateo was impatient with him. “Have your bowmen stand back. No need to panic them.”

The destrar reluctantly complied, but the captives did not calm down. Mateo watched them file aboard the wide riverboats. The man with the slateboard muttered to himself, making one mark after another. “You'll need more than a thousand, Subcomdar. Some are sure to die along the way, unless you intend to pamper them.”

Mateo realized the truth of this. It would be a hard trek, and food supplies would need to be reserved for the Tierran soldiers. He looked at individual forlorn Urecari faces, but all compassion faded when he again thought of Tomas. “No, exactly a thousand. Anjine never said they had to be alive when they reach their destination.”

The man with the slateboard shrugged and continued to mark the numbers. A few foolish captives tried to break away and run, but Alamont guards rode them down, beat them severely with whips, and forced them back into line. Right now, every person counted. Subcomdar Hist was already setting up a large temporary holding camp not far from the Ishalem wall. That was as far as they needed to go.

Aboard the first riverboat, Mateo shook the beefy hand of Destrar Sazar, whose beard was an impressive black spray that covered half his barrel chest. The few times Mateo had met the river destrar, Sazar had been full of loud laughter and out-of-tune singing. He had a battered old violin that he scratched more than played. Now, though, Sazar looked offended by thedragging Urecari footsteps as prisoners shuffled across theboarding ramp and onto the decks of his beloved barges. The gruff, hearty man seemed to have lost his sense of humor.

“My father taught me how to captain this boat, and his father plied the currents before him, and so on for generations. We have proud traditions of hauling cargo, but these days I've got far too much human cargo. I don't like trading in goods that weep and wail and beg for mercy.”

“It's the queen's orders.”

The man continued to stare at the slaves being pushed aboard. “My people of the River Reach are as loyal as any other Tierrans. I'll take these captives without complaint. I'm just telling you, I draw no satisfaction from it.”

At the holding camp on barren ground not far from Ishalem, groans of misery rose into the air like odors from a cesspit. On the first night there, Mateo summoned his administrators into a command tent that was pitched as far upwind as possible.

Subcomdar Hist gave his report, though Mateo was supposedly his equal in rank. “We have achieved our goal.” The numbers didn't exactly match up, but no more than fifty Urabans had died on the journey to the camp, and their bodies had been carried along on separate carts and wagons, then piled outside the fences.

The camp administrators looked grimly at each other, not wanting to be the first to express their concerns. Finally, a man from Bora's Bastion said, “Subcomdar, they are starving, sick, and restless. We don't have supplies to feed so many. Do we expect the food to arrive soon? The prisoners grow worse every day.”

“They are Urecari murderers,” groused one of the other men. “Let them starve and rot, for all I care.”

“We won't let them starve,” Mateo said. “And we won't need supplies.” He looked down at Queen Anjine's harsh decree once more. She had set down the words in her own hand. Mateo had studied it over and over again, but the document did not change. He drew a deep breath. “We will carry out our orders without further delay.”