Chapter 5

The women’s clothing fit easily over Mathew’s slight, slender frame, the sheer bulk and graceful folds of the fabric concealing his flat chest and narrow hips, aiding in his disguise. It was certainly different from the low-cut, full-skirted dresses worn by women in his own land—dresses that revealed a broad expanse of snowy—white bosom, of powdered shoulders, dresses whose silken fabric swept the floor and could be raised to show the turn of an ankle.

Fingers trembling, fearing to hear footsteps outside, he hastily drew on the silken, full-cut cotton trousers. Similar to those the men wore, they fit tightly about his ankles. A gauze smock covered his upper body, its sleeves reaching to the elbow. Over this fit a buttoned waistcoat with long sleeves to the wrist, then, over everything—an ankle-length black caftan, and finally a black veil that covered face and head, soft leather slippers for his feet.

Viewing these clothes in the dim moonlight that filtered through his tent, Mathew saw a mental image of himself, running along the beach, his black robes fluttering about him. The goums’ mistake was understandable, perhaps inevitable.

He must look, he thought, like a walking black cocoon—a cocoon concealing a worm doomed to die.

What would happen to him now?

Dressed in the women’s clothing, Mathew huddled inside his tent, not daring to sleep. The young wizard had lived a cloistered life, having spent his childhood and youth in the closed and secret school of the magi, but Mathew knew enough of the ways of men and women to understand that his greatest danger lay in the hours of darkness. He recalled the touch of the man in the palanquin—the jeweled hand stroking his cheek—and his heart sank.

Bitterly he regretted the loss of his magical devices—amulets and charms that could send a man into sweet slumber, spells that would disorient a man, making him think he was somewhere he wasn’t. Mathew could produce them, but that would take time and material: the quill of a raven to write the arcane words, parchment made of sheepskin, blood. . .

Blood. . . He saw John, falling. . .

No! Mathew shut his eyes, driving the gruesome vision from his mind. If he dwelt on that, he would go mad. And it was no use dreaming about magic defenses he didn’t have and couldn’t acquire. To keep himself occupied and hopefully discover some clue about what they planned to do to him, Mathew began going over the words he’d heard people speaking, trying to remember exactly what had been said, trying to translate the phrases.

At first it seemed impossible; the language that he had studied so painstakingly for so many months had vanished from his head. Stubbornly Mathew forced himself to concentrate. He’d understood a few words, enough to know that they thought he was female. “She.” “Her.” And another word. “Virgin.” Yes, Mathew remembered that word clearly, mainly because Kiber had repeated it often, coupling it with that crude gesture. He knew now what the goum had been asking: Have you lain with a man? Mathew couldn’t recall what he had responded, but he guessed that the look of disgust upon his face had been sufficient answer.

A light step sounding outside caused the young wizard to catch his breath in fear. But it was a woman. Parting the tent, peering inside, only her eyes visible above her veil, she thrust a bowl of food into Mathew’s hands, then withdrew.

The wizard’s stomach wrenched at the smell of the stuff—a glob of rice mixed with meat and vegetables. He started to shove the bowl back out, then stopped. This again would call attention to himself. It was impossible to eat. Even if he knew what the meat was, he could never keep it down. Furtively slipping the bowl out of the back of his tent, he dumped the food out into the grass, hoping some animal would come by and eat it before it was discovered in the morning.

This accomplished, he set his mind back to its problem. There had been those words spoken when he was half-conscious. “Red hair.” Yes, they had been talking about his hair, which he knew from his studies would be considered an unusual color among the mostly dark-haired, dark-eyed people of this land. There had been something else. Something to do with his skin. . .

Again, footsteps. These were heavy, booted, and definitely coming this direction. Holding his breath, Mathew waited grimly, almost eagerly. He had decided what to do. The man would almost certainly be wearing a dagger—he had noticed that they all did, carrying one or more tucked into their belts. Mathew would grab the dagger and use it. The wizard had never attacked a man before, and he doubted if he would be able to do much damage to his enemy before the man killed him. At least it would lend his death some semblance of dignity.

The steps came nearer and nearer, then stopped right outside the tent. He heard voices. There were two of them! Mathew swallowed the terrible taste in his mouth and tried to force himself to stop trembling. Soon it would be over—the fear, the pain. Then peace, eternal peace with Promenthas.

The two men, talking to each other, laughing, crouched down. Mathew tensed, ready to spring. But neither man entered the tent. Listening, longing to look outside but not daring to stir, Mathew thought he heard them settling themselves on the ground before his tent. His fear easing, he tried to concentrate on what they were discussing, hoping to discover his fate.

They spoke the language much faster than he was able to understand, however, and at first he caught only about one word in five. Listening closely, sorting out the strange accent, he began to comprehend more and more. The men were reliving the exciting event of the day—the slaughter of the kafir. Hearing them argue over how many of the unbelievers each had slain, and whose victims had died slowest and screamed loudest, Mathew gritted his teeth, fighting a longing to lash out in a rage and anger that surprised him, treading as it did on the heels of his fear.

“The one man, he squealed like a hog when I stuck him. Did you hear? And the two who ran. A fine chase we had, along the shore. The captain himself beheaded the man—a swift, clean stroke. Robbed us of fun, but he—the master—was in a hurry.”

Beheaded! They were talking about John! Mathew wanted to stuff something in his ears, shut out the voices and the memories. But he couldn’t afford the luxury. Grimly he forced himself to keep listening, hoping to discover his fate.

After the murders of the kafir had been discussed, disputed, and enjoyed to the fullest, the goums’ conversation turned to their journey. They were bound for Kich, Mathew managed to make out, catching the name and recognizing it as being one of the major cities in Sardish Jardan. The caravan had made good time today, despite stopping to sport with the kafir, and the goums hoped, if the weather held, to be in Kich within a week. Once there, they would sell their wares, collect their wages, and spend some time indulging in the sins to be found in the rich city.

Sell their wares.

Remarkable hair, unusual color. Soft white skin.

Mathew bit his tongue to keep from crying out. What a fool he’d been, not to have thought of this. The women with their hands bound. . .

A virgin. See to it that she remains one until we reach Kich.

That explained the reason the men were outside. They were guards, responsible for keeping the “wares” undamaged! So that was his fate. He was to be sold as a slave!

Mathew sank back upon the few cushions that had been tossed carelessly into the tent for his use. At least I am in no immediate danger, he thought. If I manage to maintain my disguise, which—considering how segregated the women are being kept from the men—shouldn’t be too difficult, I might well live a while longer, until we reach the slave markets.

He felt no relief at this, only empty and disappointed, and he smiled bitterly. Of course he had secretly been hoping it would all end quickly, this night.

Now he looked forward to nothing but torturous days of constant fear; torturous nights spent lying awake, starting at every footstep. And at the end? What then? He would be placed upon the slave block and sold as a woman, then meet his death—probably a horrible one—at the hands of some defrauded buyer.

Terror, shame, and guilt burst from Mathew’s throat in an anguished cry. Hastily he tried to choke back his tears, wondering if the guards had heard him, afraid that they might come in to find out what was wrong. But he could not help himself, grief and fear overwhelmed him. Stuffing the veil in his mouth to muffle his despairing sobs, the young man rolled over on his stomach, buried his face in the cushions, and wept.

Night, black and empty, came upon the plains: The guards outside Mathew’s tent dozed fitfully. They had heard his choked cries but only glanced at each other with sly grins, each urging the other to creep into the tent and “comfort” the captive. Neither moved to do so, however. Kiber was a good captain, discipline was maintained. The last man who had gained a little private pleasure from the slaves had been dealt with swiftly and severely. One stroke of his captain’s sword and the wretched goum was now a eunuch in the seraglios of Kich.

As for the faint sobs coming from the tent, more than one captive was likely wailing over her fate that night. It was none of their concern. So the guards slept, not overly worried that anyone might slip past them.

Someone did slip by them, however. It was not anyone either goum could have stopped had they been awake. It was not one either could have seen, asleep or awake. The angel, her white, feathery wingtips brushing the ground, stole into the tent with less sound than the soft breeze whispering across the sand. Bending over the weeping Mathew, the angel touched him gently upon the cheek, brushing away his tears even as her own fell fast.

At her soft touch, the young man’s wrenching sobs ceased. He drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep. The angel gazed at him with deep pity and compassion. Slipping back out of the tent, she glanced furtively around her, then swiftly and silently spread her wings and soared into the heavens.