Then, during a shift, a workman preparing support timbers broke the tip of his file. With a curse he strode back down the tunnel, seeking a replacement. Kzun picked up the tip; it was no longer than his thumb. Every sleep time for days and days he slowly filed away at the clasps of his ankle-chain. There was always noise in the tunnels, the roaring of underground rivers, the snoring of sleepers whose lungs were caked with dirt and dust. Even so Kzun was careful. Finally, having worked evenly on both clasps, the first gave way. Feverishly Kzun filed the second. This too fell clear. Rising, he made his way back down the tunnel to where the tools were stored. It was quieter here, and a man wearing chains would have been heard by the guards in the small chamber by the shaft. But Kzun was wearing no chains. Selecting a short-handled pick, he hefted it clear of the other tools and padded silently to the guards’ chamber. There were two men inside; they were playing some kind of game, involving bone dice. Taking a deep breath Kzun leapt inside, swinging his pick into the back of the first man – the iron point driving through the rib-cage and bursting from his chest. Releasing the weapon, Kzun drew the dying man’s knife and hurled himself across the table at the second guard. The man surged to his feet, scrabbling for his own knife, but he was too late. Kzun’s weapon punched into his neck, down past the collar-bone and into his heart.
Swiftly Kzun stripped the man, then climbed into his clothes. The boots were too big, and he hurled them aside.
Moving to the shaft, he began to climb the iron rungs set into the stone. The sky was dark above him, and he saw the stars shining clear. A lump came to his throat then. Climbing more slowly, he reached the lip of the shaft and warily looked out. There was a cluster of buildings beyond, where they milled the ore, and a barracks for the guards. Scrambling clear, Kzun walked slowly across the open ground. The smell of horse came to him on the night breeze, and he followed it to a stable.
Stealing a fine horse, he rode from the settlement and out into the clean, sweet air of the mountains.
Returning to his village, he found that no-one recognized him as the young man taken only two years before. He had lost his hair, and his skin and face had the pallor of the recently dead. The teeth on the right side of his mouth had rotted away, and his once powerful body was now wolf-lean.
The Gothir had not come for him. They took no names of the Nadir ‘picked men’, nor had any record of which village they had raided to capture him.
Now Kzun heaved another slab of old stone into place and stepped back from the new wall. It was just under four feet high. A beautiful woman appeared alongside him, carrying a bucket of water in which was a copper ladle. She bowed deeply, and offered him a short scarf of white linen. ‘It is for the head, Lord,’ she said, formally.
‘I thank you,’ he replied, not smiling for fear of showing his ruined teeth. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, as he tied the scarf over his bald head.
‘I am Zhusai, Talisman’s woman.’
‘You are very beautiful, and he is most fortunate.’
She bowed again and offered him a ladle of water. He drank deeply, then passed the bucket to his waiting men. ‘Tell me, how is it that Talisman knows so much of the ways of the Gothir?’
‘He was taken by them as a child,’ answered Zhusai. ‘He was a hostage. He was trained at the Bodacas Academy – as were Quing-chin and Lin-tse.’
‘A janizary. I see. I have heard of them.’
‘He is a great man, Lord.’
‘Only a great man would deserve someone like you,’ he said. ‘I thank you for the scarf.’
With a bow she moved away and Kzun sighed. One of his men made a crude comment, and Kzun rounded on him. ‘Not one more word, Chisk, or I will rip your tongue from your mouth!’