The Gathering Dark (The Kingkiller Duology #1)

Chapter One

763 B.V. 

The manticore was glaring at him, the Mhazareen man could see well enough. Its lion's head roared a breath of fire, gold on sails of ivory. It was then evening, and he had disguised himself in the garb of a Mhazareen slave, equipped with a small saddle hatchet he'd bought for five gelutäis under the skirt he wore secured by a rope. Aside from the skirt and the head covering comprised of twisted goats hair and a fillet of rope, he was bare and largely unaccustomed to the contrast of the cold steel on his exposed skin. It was the guise they'd all worn that night. After he had dressed, he'd repaired to Three Stream's wharf, where the ships were that contained the cargo— musk, camphor, and ambergris.

Arriving at the wharves after being thus disguised, he had fallen in with many dressed in like— some slaves and some not— and marched to their destination. If marched was even the proper word. No, the way the Mhazareen slaves moved was more a sluggard dragging of the feet, though no one stalled, lest they were begging for a lashing. And even those who were not slaves, those like him, imitated their movements, drifting along in a single line down the docks. Whether they were or were not a slave, to any observer they'd appear as such, donned in the mundane wrap-around skirt.

As he passed by the first of the trireme ships, the eyes of the manticores emblazoned on both sails followed his bowed form. It was the Abarakh's blazon, Liege Lord of Mesos, one of seven territories of Ula'ree. There were four vessels in all, containing roughly thirty thousand därikron of cargo, as well as provisions. It was headed for a linear course to Pygmy, though it wouldn't make it out of the harbor that night.

Slaves ahead retrieved barrels, heaving them onto labor-hardened shoulders to be loaded onto Zaja Kaymrikk— the Kemryk Bride. When it was his time, he did like the others and hauled it onto the vessel, the gangplank groaning as he crossed it. The prow stood proudly, pointing to the blood orange sun in the western sky, slipping below the horizon, its reflection in the water like a spilling egg yoke. As the sun said its final farewell, crewmen aboard struck flint and set flame to their torches, and the Mhazareen man began his inspection. It was as Hasarif had said, the Kemryk Bride could hold roughly one-hundred-fifty, but that day she carried mayhap only twenty in the deck crew, as well as near sixty slaves to serve as oarsmen as they were transported.

The Mhazareen man set the barrel down slowly, staring darkly at the quartermaster who stood just as proudly, if not more, than the prow. He observed the slaves from his spot on high, whip coiled at his hip, clad in a loose tunic exposing a dark patch of hair at his chest, and veshti trousers stuffed into knee-high boots. His head was bald, but his beard thick. Gradually, his gaze fell to him and lingered until the Mhazareen man looked away, heading to retrieve another barrel. When the vessel was loaded with wares to be traded in Pygmy— slaves included— they were directed by the quartermaster to the benches. Due to the ship's design, they were unable to see the water and therefore, would have had to row blindly as well as in the dark if they were all truly galley slaves. Fortunately for the Mhazareen man, it wouldn't come to that.

Sitting down and grasping the shaft of the oar that protruded from the gap on the side of the ship, he waited in silence for the command, fingers inching toward where his axe was sheathed.

It was then that he heard a loud crash, jolting up in shock, his head knocking against the low roof overhead. Looking out, he spotted the barrel rolling toward him in time to get out of the way, and a galley slave running for the side of the vessel. The quartermaster barked something as the Mhazareen man watched in mute alarm, and several crewmen sped after the slave, pulling him back before he jumped overboard into the water. The young boy held tight to the balustrade, shrieking in unintelligible Mhazareen, thrashing in the crewmen's grip until he could hold on no longer, and was hurled back onto the deck.