The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 7: Traitors: Section I: Ashtaroth

Ashtaroth: Qemassen: The Palace

Ashtaroth's new body slave, an Erun named Danel, tripped on his way to the cabinet that contained Ashtaroth's medicines. Qanmi had assured Ashtaroth that Danel was at least somewhat experienced, but if that were true, Ashtaroth suspected Danel's previous masters hadn't retained him for his skills at managing a household, or even a room. He had a handsome face that made Ashtaroth think he'd been someone's bed slave—not an especially useful quality, unless you were Aurelius.

The olive wood cabinet creaked when Danel opened it, but Danel didn't even ask where the oil was to tend the hinges, merely fumbled with Qirani's tinctures, clinking glass vials as he searched for the correct one. With no slaves left to teach any of Qanmi's newcomers, people like Danel simply bumbled along like flockless sheep.

Ashtaroth stood from his bed and walked toward the cabinet. He might be bored and lonely, but that didn't mean he had time to waste suffering Danel's incompetence. And unlike everyone else in the palace, whose original slaves would all be returned to them once the interrogations were through, Ashtaroth's Safot was a heap of gnawed bones outside the city walls. Bones couldn't empty his bed pan. The women would be brought back, of course, but half of them were as useless as Danel.

And perhaps, along with Ashtaroth's anger, there was also a hurt lodged inside him, an ache knowing Safot was gone. Ashtaroth had trusted him, had even liked him as much as he was able. What terrible thing had Ashtaroth done that Safot thought kidnapping, mutilation, and suicide an appropriate response?

Ashtaroth sucked on his lower lip.

No, Safot had been a good slave. It was this strange man Zioban that was the trouble. Hima was right about that, at least, and perhaps torturing the slaves would provide the answers she was looking for.

"I'll be ready shortly, Sese," said Danel, a slight bite to his words. The slave's impertinence was another problem entirely.

Ashtaroth reached past Danel's shoulder and snatched the correct vial. "The blue one with the fluted top," he said, an edge to his words. "Just the same as yesterday, and the day before."

"Of course, Sese."

Danel stepped aside and Ashtaroth stalked away from him, toward his papyrus-cluttered table. At least the lack of slaves meant no one was around to insist on cleaning Ashtaroth's papyri.

Ashtaroth emptied two drops of Qirani's decoction into a cup of root tea, swirled it round till the mysterious potion dissolved, then slung it back.

The tea was tepid, but better than scorching his throat. Still, it had been three days of nothing but tepid or too-hot tea, poor food, clumsy dress. Three days since Ashtaroth's father had stripped Hima of her titles, confined Aurelius to his rooms, and ordered the palace slaves imprisoned.

Qemassen had turned eerily quiet, not that Ashtaroth had been out on the streets since the slave attack. Perhaps it was fairer to say that the palace had turned quiet. Bedpans went unemptied, floors were poorly swept (if they were swept at all), fires were tended only rarely, so that at night you never knew if a wrong turn down a corridor might lead you into darkness.

And as the palace struggled to function, Samelqo still lay abed, tended by Qirani eq-Maleq, but barred visitors save for his one-eyed wife. There was no way for Ashtaroth to speak to the heq-Ashqen about his visions, or about the mysterious woman, Dannae. No one but Ashtaroth understood the visions' importance, so no one bothered to grant him access to the heq-Ashqen.

Ashtaroth was alone.

Out in the hallway, women exchanged mumbled words.

Ashtaroth's stomach growled, and he laid his hand on his chest. Eyes closed, he roamed his fingers across his chest, feeling his ribs—too thin, and getting thinner. Every day was like floating on a boat that drifted further and further from the shore, out into an endless ocean.