would let him pound the quarry into gory mud.
Straton and his partner, dragging the first unfortunate between them, came up,
full of thanks and victory:’… finally got one, alive. Janni, how’s yours?’
The one he held at crossbow-point was quiet, submissive, a Sanctuarite, he
thought, until Straton lit a torch. Then they saw a slave’s face, dark and arch
like Nisibisi’s were, and Straton’s partner spoke for the first time: ‘That’s
Haught, the slave-bait.’ Critias moved forward, torch in hand. ‘Hello, pretty.
We’d thought you’d run or died. We’ve lots to ask you, puppy, and nothing we’d
rather do tonight …’ As Crit moved in and Janni stepped back, Janni was
conscious that Niko and his prisoner had fallen silent.
Then the slave, amazingly, straightened up and raised its head, reaching within
its jerkin. Janni levered his bow, but the hand came out with a crumpled paper
in it, and this he held forth, saying: ‘She
freed me. She said this says so. Please … I know nothing, but that she’s freed
me …’
Crit snatched the feathered parchment from him, held it squinting in the torch’s
light. ‘That’s right, that’s what it says here.’ He rubbed his jaw; then stepped
forward. The slave flinched, his handsome face turned away. Crit pulled out the
bolts that held him pinned, grunting; no blood followed; Straton’s quarrels
penetrated clothing only; the slave crouched down, unscathed but incapacitated
by his fear. ‘Come as a free man, then, and talk to us. We won’t hurt you, boy.
Talk and you can go.’
Niko, then, intruded, his prisoner beside him, his horse following close behind.