Read Online Foreign Devils by John Hornor Jacobs - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John Hornor Jacobs
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Tueton, and some other indistinct, indefinable linguistic spice that had yet to be determined.
Once the hold was loaded and the stevedores skulked back to the shady confines of the nearest saloon and the slaves returned to the hold of the ship, Captain Maskelyne bellowed once more and one of her burly freemen attendants withdrew a snare drum and two sticks and began a rolling beat. From somewhere inside the hold there was a chanting, lè a vini nan ranje ranje ti gason, over and over again in a rhythmic churning and then deep inside the ship a chorus of rich masculine voices answered not in Craulish but in common speech, roll boys roll , and the paddle-wheels began to turn slowly and build speed. Maskelyne gave a bright, echoing yawp as her freemen lascar threw off the hawsers and the Quiberon moved into the waters of the Big Rill and began churning upstream.
‘We are away! We are away, braws!’ she called and yawped again.
That we were.
That evening, with New Damnation miles downriver, Maskelyn had her off-team of slaves come up-deck for air. Some were dusky skinned, some fair, but all wore torcs and rippled with muscles. They were lean, but it took a lot of chow and a lot of tugging oars and lifting cargo to sculpt physiques like that. They found seats on gunwales and some joined us on the flat, wooden expanse of the roof while other slaves moved among them with jugs of water or stronger drink and others passed out hardtack or dry corncakes or dried aurouch. They lolled about, lying down, sitting cross-legged, speaking in soft voices to each other.
‘Fascinating,’ the woman in the brown tweed suit said to her companion in a slightly accented voice that I could not place. ‘I don’t understand why they don’t just jump in the river and swim for it.’
‘Winfried, I can think of two reasons, off-hand,’ her companion said, removing a small tin snuffbox from his jacket and pinching himself a measure. ‘First, they’re all wearing collars.’ He brought his index finger and thumb to his nose and huffed the dark powder deep into his nasal passages. ‘Second, where would they go? We’re in the middle of nowhere.’
Some of the slaves watched us from where they took their rest, murmuring to each other. Maskelyne climbed onto the roof, clutching a bladder skin. She approached one of the older slaves, a bald, dark-skinned man with a rangy physique and wooden plates in his earlobes – an Aegyptian possibly, or Numidian – and presented him with the bladder. He smiled at her and nodded in a queer ceremonial fashion and then took the bladder and drank from it. He handed it back to her and she drank, nodding her head. He took it once more, drank deeply and then spat the liquid into a fine spray in the four directions. Finally, he passed the bladder to the other slaves who then drank as well.
Fisk, who had been silent for a long while, said so that Winfried and her companion could hear, ‘They don’t run because they know, someday, they’ll be free.’
‘Yes, we are aware of the Lex Parens Parialis, even in Malfena Protectorate. However, that hardly seems a reason to stay enslaved, thralls to a simple riverboat queen.’
Fisk shrugged and turned to look at the odd pair. ‘We’re all slaves to something, or someone. Sometimes to masters we don’t even know.’ He pointed to the slaves with his chin. ‘At least they know who they serve.’
The man stood from his chair and approached us, extending his hand toward Fisk.
‘Well met, good sir,’ he said. ‘I am Wasler Lomax and this is—’ He gestured toward his companion. ‘My sisterwife, Winfried.’
Fisk nodded his head in acknowledgement and slowly clasped the man’s forearm and then the woman with the manly name.
‘My name’s Shoestring,’ I said, brusquely grasping their forearms in turn. ‘I mean, Dveng Illys.’
‘Ah, you are dvergar !’ Wasler said, pleasure and excitement spreading across his face. ‘While I’ve seen many of your
Once the hold was loaded and the stevedores skulked back to the shady confines of the nearest saloon and the slaves returned to the hold of the ship, Captain Maskelyne bellowed once more and one of her burly freemen attendants withdrew a snare drum and two sticks and began a rolling beat. From somewhere inside the hold there was a chanting, lè a vini nan ranje ranje ti gason, over and over again in a rhythmic churning and then deep inside the ship a chorus of rich masculine voices answered not in Craulish but in common speech, roll boys roll , and the paddle-wheels began to turn slowly and build speed. Maskelyne gave a bright, echoing yawp as her freemen lascar threw off the hawsers and the Quiberon moved into the waters of the Big Rill and began churning upstream.
‘We are away! We are away, braws!’ she called and yawped again.
That we were.
That evening, with New Damnation miles downriver, Maskelyn had her off-team of slaves come up-deck for air. Some were dusky skinned, some fair, but all wore torcs and rippled with muscles. They were lean, but it took a lot of chow and a lot of tugging oars and lifting cargo to sculpt physiques like that. They found seats on gunwales and some joined us on the flat, wooden expanse of the roof while other slaves moved among them with jugs of water or stronger drink and others passed out hardtack or dry corncakes or dried aurouch. They lolled about, lying down, sitting cross-legged, speaking in soft voices to each other.
‘Fascinating,’ the woman in the brown tweed suit said to her companion in a slightly accented voice that I could not place. ‘I don’t understand why they don’t just jump in the river and swim for it.’
‘Winfried, I can think of two reasons, off-hand,’ her companion said, removing a small tin snuffbox from his jacket and pinching himself a measure. ‘First, they’re all wearing collars.’ He brought his index finger and thumb to his nose and huffed the dark powder deep into his nasal passages. ‘Second, where would they go? We’re in the middle of nowhere.’
Some of the slaves watched us from where they took their rest, murmuring to each other. Maskelyne climbed onto the roof, clutching a bladder skin. She approached one of the older slaves, a bald, dark-skinned man with a rangy physique and wooden plates in his earlobes – an Aegyptian possibly, or Numidian – and presented him with the bladder. He smiled at her and nodded in a queer ceremonial fashion and then took the bladder and drank from it. He handed it back to her and she drank, nodding her head. He took it once more, drank deeply and then spat the liquid into a fine spray in the four directions. Finally, he passed the bladder to the other slaves who then drank as well.
Fisk, who had been silent for a long while, said so that Winfried and her companion could hear, ‘They don’t run because they know, someday, they’ll be free.’
‘Yes, we are aware of the Lex Parens Parialis, even in Malfena Protectorate. However, that hardly seems a reason to stay enslaved, thralls to a simple riverboat queen.’
Fisk shrugged and turned to look at the odd pair. ‘We’re all slaves to something, or someone. Sometimes to masters we don’t even know.’ He pointed to the slaves with his chin. ‘At least they know who they serve.’
The man stood from his chair and approached us, extending his hand toward Fisk.
‘Well met, good sir,’ he said. ‘I am Wasler Lomax and this is—’ He gestured toward his companion. ‘My sisterwife, Winfried.’
Fisk nodded his head in acknowledgement and slowly clasped the man’s forearm and then the woman with the manly name.
‘My name’s Shoestring,’ I said, brusquely grasping their forearms in turn. ‘I mean, Dveng Illys.’
‘Ah, you are dvergar !’ Wasler said, pleasure and excitement spreading across his face. ‘While I’ve seen many of your
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