“We have your chain,” said the Attolian, pointing to the gold around my neck.

My slave chain was solid gold, with heavy links in the distinctive double-cuff pattern that distinguished it from any free man’s jewelry. Not quite long enough to pull over my head, it had a plate hanging from it, also gold, stamped with my master’s seal to identify me. Of course I had known I would take it off at some point, but I was suddenly, perversely, unwilling to give it up.

“Only my master may remove it,” I said.

“He isn’t going to know. I thought you would want to be rid of it.”

I’d thought I would, too, but now that the moment had arrived, I didn’t want to hand it over to the Attolian as I had handed over my purse. I suppose I felt that it belonged to me just as much as I had ever belonged to my master. I hesitated, searching for some justification to keep the chain, and said, “No one will give you money for the chain unless you can prove with your own copy of the seal on it that you are my owner. Removing the chain from another man’s slave is a crime.”

“More so than stealing him?” the Attolian asked, incredulously.

“Yes,” I said curtly, dangerously close to being rude. Other shipwrecked sailors, from our own ship and from the others that were burning, were now nearby on the bank. The Attolian needed to stop talking. This was not the place or time to explain that stealing a man’s property was one crime and freeing his slave was another, only the second punishable by death. The first was theft, while the other was disturbing the order of the empire. Slaves are slaves until freed by their masters. I was a runaway slave, not a free man.

Under my breath, I said, “If the chain is found in your possession—if you try to sell the links—you’ll be arrested.”

“Then we should pitch it in the river,” said the Attolian, shifting his bulk until he blocked me from the view of the nearest group of men. He was not completely thickheaded, but he still didn’t understand. I was clearly dressed as a slave, and until I found a change of clothes, whoever saw me would wonder where my chain was. Also, I still hoped to keep some part of the chain’s value if I could.

“That would be a waste of good gold,” I said.

I thought he might pull the chain off, and I braced myself, but he just shook his head, bemused.

“Well, perhaps we have enough to secure a room for the night.” He hefted my small purse in his hand. “Let’s go get dry and see what we think of next.”

He bent to pick up his armor, but I stopped him. “Better leave it for me.”

“It’s only the breast and backplate and the sword,” he said. “I left the rest aboard ship.”

“No matter,” I said. “Better I carry it.”

CHAPTER THREE

Again I played the part of a trusted slave making arrangements for my master. I found a pleasant-looking inn and left the Attolian out in the street while I went in to present my still-soaking person to the innkeeper and spin him a story of our woebegone state. We’d lost our traveling companions—all that was left of our guards was the armor I was carrying. Did he have room for myself and my master, the wealthy son of a foreign merchant family? I regretted that my master’s purse was lost, but he would apply for funds in the morning, trading on his good name with men who knew his father. And if our lost guards appeared, undrowned, we would need accommodations for them as well.

The innkeeper, impressed by the gold around my neck and more than happy to believe my story, agreed to open up his finest room, upstairs where the breeze blew in from the doorway overlooking a private courtyard.

I think the Attolian was surprised by the warmth of our reception.

“They know I am Attolian?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I didn’t think . . .” I didn’t think he could carry off an impersonation of a Mede for very long.

“They are very hospitable,” he said.

“Hospitality is much the same in many countries—and they think you are rich.”

“Ah.” That made sense to him. Money is the same from country to country, too.

When we had dried off and changed into the clean clothes the innkeeper had loaned us, the Attolian wanted to go out. He was eager to exercise his unexpected freedom. I didn’t dare try to dissuade him, very aware that I had been disobedient over the matter of the chain at the river, so I followed him back downstairs, where he wanted me to ask the innkeeper for directions to the part of town where he might find an open wineshop that would serve a late supper.

There was no way to avoid relaying the question, but I added a request for something in our room. The innkeeper, thank the gods, waved toward the people sitting at tables and chairs in the open courtyard behind him. The implication was too obvious for even the Attolian to miss. Not only could we eat there, it would be impolite to refuse.

Bowing to good sense, the Attolian picked a table while the innkeeper bustled away, and gestured to me to sit. I shook my head, hoping he would realize how odd it would look to the other patrons. He looked back at me, puzzled, and opened his mouth. It would draw more attention if we stood talking about it, so I quickly took the stool across from him. A servant brought out two bowls of stewed lamb and a wine bottle with two cups, raising his eyebrows as he served me.

I ate quickly. The Attolian didn’t. He looked idly around at the other occupants of the inn enjoying the night air. I’d made up the story I had and chosen the inn with care in order to avoid anyone from the Anet’s Dream. They would be seeking shelter in a poorer part of town, but several men nearby were off boats that had been damaged and were complaining about the irresponsibility of the captain, blaming him for the fire.

Two more men came, asking the innkeeper for wine before sitting at a nearby table. They, too, were talking about the fire on the river. It was only a matter of time, though, before they started discussing other events. The story of my master’s murder at the hand of his secretary had to have preceded us. That sort of news travels faster than horses, faster than boats. The messengers of the gods carry rumors through the sky the way bees carry pollen and drop them from their wings onto the earth below.

I wasn’t sure that the Attolian could understand the conversations around us, but I wasn’t sure he couldn’t, either. I debated excusing myself—he’d let me go if I said I was returning to our room—and then fleeing the inn, but there was every chance someone would notice me leaving and alert my “master.” In addition, the Attolian had all my money. If I waited until he was asleep, I would have my purse back and the coin in it would buy a set of clothes suitable for a free man. I could leave in the very early morning, telling the innkeeper I was running errands. Unlike trying to sneak away in the night, leaving in the morning would be unexceptional. No one had any cause to doubt my good conduct, and the boat fire would offer me a perfect excuse to be buying more clothes for my master.

The town was at an intersection of one of the emperor’s trade roads and the river, which is why it had been a planned stop on our captain’s route. It offered a much better chance for my escape than any of the sad collections of mud houses I’d seen from our boat over the last few days. I could thank the gods that the boat hadn’t caught fire next to one of those. Once I was dressed as a free man, I could break the links of the slave chain and go to one of the caravan sites on either side of the river to offer my services as a scribe and record keeper. Invisible in the crowd of a caravan, I could make my way out of the empire and only then convert the gold in my chain to coin to live very comfortably. I just wished the Attolian would leave the men talking in the courtyard and go to bed. He didn’t seem tired at all.