Rebels of Vulvar (Vulvarian Saga Book 2) Page 3

  “Haela?” I said. “I knew your mother.”

  Haela laughed. She reached out and untied the cord and removed it from my wrists.

  “Sorry, I had to make certain you are the one the Goddess Queens sent,” she said. “Lately, many escaped slaves have been streaming south on the road to join the rebellious slaves in Nisa.”

  “You gave me a scare,” I said, rubbing my wrists. “The agent of the Goddess Queens told me to contact you at your farm.”

  “Did she?” Haela said, shaking her head. “My contacts in Thiva told me to pick you up well north of here and to transport you to the farm.”

  “I would have waited had I known,” I said. “I have walked all day without a break or rations and water.”

  “It’s only an hour to the farm,” Haela said. “I will feed you when we get there. Climb into the back. The rebels patrol the road. You must remain hidden.”

  I climbed up and clambered over the tailgate. There was a wall of canvas grain sacks stacked near the front of the wagon box.

  Haela peered over the tailgate.

  “Climb over the grain sacks and conceal yourself in the space beyond. If a patrol stops us, they will not see you if they look inside. They never climb inside the box for a thorough search.”

  While I situated myself in the space beyond the wall of stacked grain sacks, Haela climbed back onto her seat and took hold of the reins. I felt the gardo turning to head back south on the road. There was only a canvas curtain between me and the driver’s seat.

  “It seems improbable a male from Earth would freely consent to come to Vulvar to serve the Goddess Queens,” Haela said over her shoulder.

  “I did not come for that purpose,” I said. “I have no love in my heart for the Goddess Queens. There is a female warrior the rebels hold captive in Nisa. She is the reason I have come.”

  “You intend to free her?” Haela said with surprise.

  “Yes, or to die in the attempt,” I said. “I love her.”

  “But, what of the mission the Goddess Queens sent you here for?”

  “I will do my best to accomplish it as well,” I said. “But, what the Goddess Queens wish is of only of secondary importance to me. Freeing the female warrior comes first.”

  “I see,” Haela said thoughtfully.

  6

  The City of Nisa

  Bustling, noisy throngs crowded the streets of Nisa. The gate had been open. Though the guards, men who wore the light armor of Vulvarian warriors over bright yellow tunics, had looked me over carefully, none had objected to my entry into the city. Maybe because I was a male and unarmed, or perhaps it was because, as I had heard, the streets of Nisa were open to all escaped male slaves who rallied to the city to unite with Dabar Cooke in the rebellion against the rule of females.

  Curiously, as I examined the crowds going about their business, I noticed two things. The men seemed light-hearted and rowdy. Everywhere there were shouts of greetings among acquaintances, laughter, and slaps on the back. It was as if these males who had been conditioned, many from birth, to regard themselves as ignoble, unworthy creatures fit only to serve females in abject slavery, were reveling in their newfound freedom. All wore tunics in a variety of bright colors, perhaps indicative of their respective kohtuhrees or castes.

  Had Cooke established such a system for males, I wondered? Kohtuhrees heretofore had been reserved on Vulvar for females only. Overall, the males seemed a vibrant, exuberant lot, confident they could accomplish whatever they set their minds to do.

  What I missed in the crowd was the presence of women in the numbers I had once been accustomed to seeing on the streets of Thiva. In that regard, I saw something else I found shocking. Rather than the elegant flowing tunics trimmed in colors representing kohtuhrees, the few women I observed wore drab gray, sleeveless, short-skirted garments terminating some inches above the knee. About their necks, all wore the steel collars of slaves. As the females passed, they moved in a quick, furtive fashion, giving males a wide berth so that they passed in such a way they were never touched. The females walked with their heads down to avoid making eye contact with males.

  How different the scene was from what I’d once experienced on the streets of Thiva. There it had been rare to see men outside of their workplaces, and the lively crowds on the streets were always predominantly composed of proud, confident women.

  As I walked the streets and took it all in, I felt my first stab of conscience. The Goddess Queens had enlisted me to help restore the natural Vulvarian order, to help return these males to slavery, and to empower females to assume once more their dominant societal role. Did committing myself to serve the will of the Goddess Queens and attempting to accomplish their will make me a traitor to my male sex, I pondered? Had I not many times in discussions with my old teacher, Amanuensis, railed against the unfairness of the Vulvarian social order? Why I had often demanded to know, could females not rule without stripping males of every last vestige of their dignity? Had I taken the wrong side of this rebellion, I wondered?

  A woman wearing the drab gray garment and slave collar around her neck passed by me, her head bowed, but cautiously scrutinizing me with a sidelong glance. I realized she was fearful, terrified that I might reach out and molest her in some way. That’s when I realized I was not wrong to pursue the cause of the Goddess Queens. What I saw here in Nisa was not the equality of females and males I had championed in those debates with my old teacher years before. Dabar Cooke and his band of rebels had not revolted in the interest of seeking equality. Instead, they had only inverted the social order where it was males who ruled and females who were subservient. This was not the fairness I had imagined. The system the rebels had installed was every bit as oppressive as the one I had once condemned.

  Wandering in the city, I found myself in the central marketplace. Numerous stalls filled the square that offered fresh vegetables, meat and fish, clothing, and other trinkets. Customers and merchants haggled good-naturedly over prices with plenty of laughter interspersed with the friendly banter. There are no fixed prices on Vulvar. Goods are exchanged, and food purchased using a time-honored system of bargaining over prices. A potential buyer approaches a vendor, points to something, and makes an offer. The merchant then makes a counteroffer at a higher price. The buyer and seller continue the back-and-forth negotiations until they reach a compromise, one in which both are convinced that he have prevailed. That completed the transaction.

  While delicious smelling food was available in abundance throughout the market, and I had money, I was not hungry. Haela had served me a generous meal the night before, and a large bowl of gruel with toasted brown bread for breakfast before I had departed her farm for the city. She had also given me a leather bag filled with silver and copper Vulvarian coins her Thiva contacts had provided for me that I might have the means to pay for lodging and meals as needed. But, as I left the marketplace, I saw something that did interest me, a blacksmith shop.

  Three women wearing heavy leather aprons and gloves were at work in the shop when I entered. They were making swords. With the hammers and tongs that were the stock in trade of the metalsmith, the women worked proto-blades, moving the blocks of glowing metal back and forth between an anvil and a hot coal furnace fueled by bellows. They needed just the right color that indicated the right amount of heat to keep the metal at just the proper flexibility.

  The women shaped the metal while red-hot by slowly and repeatedly hammering and re-heating until it was the length, width, and thickness they wanted. They had to work the sides, edges, and tang into shape, none of which was entirely identical in its characteristics to the others. The sword they all fashioned was the short double-edged Vulvarian sword called the rakir. One of the women looked up at me from her anvil. She thrust the blade into a tub of water, dropped the hammer on the anvil, and pulled off her gloves.

  “What is your business?” the woman said tiredly.

  “I wish to speak with the owner,” I said. “I require
a sword.”

  The woman glanced at a table with a row of finished rakirs upon it, then regarded me again.

  “A male of Nisa takes what he wishes,” she said with bitterness.

  “I do not wish to take anything from you,” I said. “I am not a thief. I will pay, but I want a specific kind of sword. That is why I wish to speak with the shop owner.”

  The woman regarded me with a wry smile.

  “The owner is not here,” she said. “I was once the owner of this smithy. Now, after Dabar Cooke has come, my former slave is the owner, though he spends little time here.”

  She waved a hand at the other women working at the anvils.

  “Now, my sisters and I are his slaves.”

  “I see,” I said. “Perhaps you can help me.”

  “What is it you want?”

  I described to the woman metalsmith the katana. Using a stick, I drew a rough sketch of the sword on the dirt floor of the shop. I gave her all the specifications, including length, width, and the type of hilt to be made and attached to the tang. The woman listened as she squatted beside my crude drawing and inspected it.

  “You wish only a single-edged weapon, like a long knife?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Because I prefer it,” I said. “While I find the rakir awkward to use, I am well versed in the use of the sword I speak of, the katana.”

  “We are working on a contract to supply swords for the Dabar’s warriors,” the woman said, standing up. “The owner will not agree with wasting time fashioning your special sword.”

  “Yet, as you said, the owner does not spend much time here,” I said. “I expect he is interested only in collecting the money for your work.”

  The woman smiled thinly. “Yes, it is as you say.”

  “Then perhaps you could fashion the katana for me, for which I would pay you directly. It would be our secret.”

  “Truthfully, I am now curious about this odd sword,” the woman said. “It would require two days to make it, and perhaps another half day to grind and sharpen the blade.”

  “How much?” I said.

  The woman quoted the price. I removed the money pouch from my belt and took from it the proper number of silver coins, plus one more. These I placed into the woman’s hand.

  “Come back in three days, before the twelfth hour,” the metalsmith said. “I am unacquainted with this sword. There is a degree of trial and error in crafting an unfamiliar design. But, I’m confident I can craft a weapon to your liking.”

  “Excellent,” I said. “I’ll return in three days.”

  * * *

  As I left the blacksmith shop, I noted two furtive men following me. They wore purple tunics with hoods the men oddly used to conceal their faces. Spies, perhaps, I wondered? Probably the Dabar had adopted the precaution of having men like these to keep an eye on any stranger until they had determined the stranger’s intent for entering the city. That did not seem unwise under the circumstances. I made no effort to elude the men, as I was not alarmed by the surveillance. Also, I reasoned, an attempt to evade them might be interpreted as some nefarious intent for which the authorities might arrest me. Besides, I was sure they did not yet realize I knew they were following me, which gave me a particular advantage.

  The seventh hour, the traditional time of the midday meal, was near. I entered a tavern where I hoped to find meat, bread, and a jug of trog, the heady and potent Vulvarian ale fermented from spelta grain. I descended three steps and found myself in a dimly lit room with a low ceiling furnished with the rough wooden tables that were standard on Vulvar. Around many tables, huddled groups of three or four men. It was apparent the men at the tables sat together according to their kohtuhree as all groups wore the same color tunic. The loud, animated conversation continued unabated as I entered, but several of the men regarded me.

  I must have seemed strange to them, clad in the brown tunic of a house slave and wearing a slave’s collar.

  “What do you want?” asked the tavern proprietor, a short, thick, ball-headed man wearing a green tunic and white apron. He sat behind a wooden counter, on which he rested his forearms.

  “I’m new to Nisa,” I said. “I would like to purchase food and drink.”

  Taking a silver coin from my pouch, I tossed it at the proprietor who snatched it expertly from the air. He examined it.

  “Bring me food and drink,” I said.

  I walked to an empty table near the back, where I could see the front door, and sat down. I had hardly settled myself at the table when the door opened, and the two men who had been following me walked in. They scanned the room, allowing their eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. To my surprise, when they saw me, one man strode directly to my table and sat down without the benefit of an invitation. He clutched his hood tightly, keeping his face hidden, as did his associate who remained standing near the door.

  “Hail,” I said.

  “Hail,” the man replied. “You are a stranger in this city.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Who are you, stranger?”

  “I am a man of Thiva,” I said. “As you see, I was once a slave there, but I escaped and made my way to Nisa.”

  “What is your business in Nisa?”

  “I should like to obtain a sword,” I said, “that I may offer it in service of the Dabar.”

  Since I assumed the man a spy, charged with learning why I had come into the city, I had offered what I believed would seem an acceptable, reassuring purpose for my presence in the city.

  “You wear a brown tunic. I see you were a house slave.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Do you possess some useful trade?”

  “Not really,” I said. “Before the Goddess Queens brought me to this world and made me a slave, I was a teacher.”

  “Have you any skill with arms?”

  “Yes, with the sword and the bow,” I said.

  The man nodded, still clutching his hood tight around his face.

  For no good reason, I swiftly snaked a hand across the table, grabbed the hood, and jerked it from the man’s face. To my surprise, I found a bronze mask covered it. It was not unlike the mask I’d learned at university a medieval French king of Jerusalem had worn. Baldwin IV, king during the First Kingdom of Jerusalem, established in the aftermath of the First Crusade, suffered from leprosy. Dubbed the “leper king,” Baldwin wore a silver mask in public to hide the disfigurement caused by the disease.

  The man snatched at the hood and replaced it quickly. I was none the wiser about his appearance. The mask had been formed in the semblance of a male, but expressionless face. He turned his head left and right to see if anyone else in the room might have observed the mask.

  “I like to see who I’m speaking to,” I said without apology.

  “Of course,” the man said with obsequiousness, pulling the hood still closer about his features.

  “How long have you been in Nisa?”

  “I came at the third hour,” I said.

  The tavern proprietor interrupted to place a large jug of trog, crusty brown bread, and to my delight a hot roasted chunk of besalisk, not unlike pork on Earth, before me. I filled my mouth with food and washed it down with trog while the man sat silently. After a time, he spoke again.

  “You have been in Nisa over four hours,” he said. “According to our law, you must present yourself before the Dabar to register before the twelfth hour today.”

  “For what purpose?” I said.

  “For assignment according to the needs of the city,” the man said. “Did you not say you came here to serve the Dabar?”

  I nodded. “It seems odd a Dabar has time to interview every stranger that comes into this city,” I said. “I would have believed he attended to more pressing matters.”

  The man laughed without mirth. “You will not see the Dabar himself, but one of his deputies,” he said.

  “Where must I present myself?”

&nb
sp; “At the Hall of Government,” the man said. “It seems you are fit only for the warriors. Perhaps you will get the sword you seek.”

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  The man reached down and then placed a money pouch on the table.

  “Welcome to Nisa, stranger,” he said. “We are generous folk. I’ll pay for your food and drink.”

  “I’m appreciative, but I’ve already paid, thank you,” I said.

  The proprietor returned with another bottle of ale. As he set it before me, the man in the mask rose and excused himself. He had again welcomed me to Nisa before rejoining his comrade. I didn’t notice until they had exited that the man had left his money pouch behind on the table. I picked up the purse and strode to the door to call after them. But, when I mounted the steps and walked out the door, they were nowhere to be seen. I returned to my table to finish the ale. I knew enough about tavern owners to understand that if I turned the man’s pouch over to the proprietor, the proprietor would pocket the contents and toss the bag in the rubbish. So, it seemed best that I kept it. Looking inside the pouch, I found it held many silver and copper coins. It wasn’t a fortune. It would, however, pay for my sword. And, should I happen to cross paths with the men again, I would return the pouch and coins.

  After finishing the ale, I left the tavern in search of the Hall of Government. It seemed best to get the task of registering behind me to avoid running afoul of the law. Afterward, I planned to spend the rest of the afternoon, trying to locate where the rebels held Idril captive. Later I would seek lodging at an inn for the night, as I didn’t care to walk the two legas back to Haela’s farm.

  After walking for perhaps some fifteen minutes through the graveled, twisted streets of Nisa, I came to a broad avenue, steep and paved with cobblestones. On each side of the road was a stone wall. Ahead I saw the hall, which appeared as an unadorned, rounded formidable fortress of stone.

  By the time I arrived at the entrance, the broad avenue had narrowed to a passageway wide enough only for a single man to pass. The walls on either side had risen to a height of perhaps twenty-five feet. The entrance itself was a small door of iron bars, also only large enough for one man to pass through.