Until this morning, on the Day of the Dead, when the red-haired pvhodian who’d hired him at Lauzen’s inn by the border set out in fog from Morax’s with a slave girl marked for the oak god.
Vargos had converted to the Jaddite faith years ago, but that didn’t mean a man from the northern reaches of the Aldwood couldn’t recognize one who’d been named to the tree. She was of the Inicii herself, sold off to a slave trader, perhaps even from a village or farm near his own. In her eyes, and in the looks given her by some of the men and women at Morax’s, Vargos had read the signs the night before. No one had said a word, but no one had to. He knew what day was coming.
Vargos’s conversion to the sun god’s faith-along with a contentious belief in the holiness of Heladikos, the god’s mortal son-had been a real one, as it happened. He prayed each dawn and at sunset, lit candles at chapels for the Blessed Victims, fasted on the days that called for fasts. And he disapproved now, deeply, of the old ways he’d left behind: the oak god, the corn maiden, the seemingly endless thirst for blood and human hearts eaten raw. But he’d never have dreamt of interfering, and certainly hadn’t done so, the two other times he’d been here at Morax’s, close to the southern godtree on this day.
None of his business, he’d have said, if the thought had even occurred to him or been raised by anyone else. A servant didn’t summon the Imperial army or clergy to halt a pagan sacrifice. Not if he wanted to go on living and working on this road. And what was one girl a year, among all of them? There had been plagues two summers in a row. Death was everywhere in the midst of them.
The red-headed Batiaran hadn’t raised anything at all with Vargos. He’d simply bought the girl-or had her bought for him-and was taking her away to save her life. His choice of her could have been an accident, chance, but it wasn’t, and Vargos knew it.
They’d been planning to stay here two nights, in order not to be travel on this day.
That intention had been in line with what every halfway prudent man on the roads of Sauradia was doing on the Day of the Dead. But late last night, before going up the stairs to his room after the extremely strange capture of the thief, Martinian of Varena had summoned Vargos out to the hallway from his pallet in the servants’ room and told him they’d be leaving tomorrow after all, before sunrise, with the girl.
Vargos, taciturn as he was, had been unable not to repeat, ‘Tomorrow?’
The Rhodian, unexpectedly sober despite all the wine they’d been noisily drinking in the other room, had looked at Vargos for a long moment in the dimly lit corridor. It was difficult to make out his expression behind the full beard, in the shadows. ‘I don’t think it is safe to stay here,’ was all he’d said, speaking Rhodian. ‘After what has happened.’
It wasn’t in the least safe outside, Vargos thought but did not say. He’d considered that the other man might be testing him, or trying to say something without putting it into words. But he hadn’t been prepared for what came next.
‘It is the Day of the Dead tomorrow,’ said Martinian, speaking carefully. ‘I will not make you go with us. You do not owe me that. If you prefer to stay, I will release you freely and hire another man when I can.’
That wouldn’t be tomorrow, Vargos knew. There would be expressions of regret but no one would be free to travel with the artisan tomorrow. Not for a fistful of silver solidi.
No one would have to.
Vargos had made a swift decision or two in his day. He shook his head. ‘You asked for a man to come to the Trakesian border, I recollect. I’ll be ready with the mule before the sun-up prayers. Jad’s light will see us through the day.’
The Batiaran was not a fellow with an easy smile, but he’d smiled briefly then and placed a hand on Vargos’s shoulder before heading up the stairs. He said, ‘Thank you, friend,’ before he went.