Restoration (Rai Kirah) by Carol Berg

“We must assume that my Denischkar troops will not arrive from Suzain in time. By my tally we have two hundred sixty warriors, give or take a pittance. If we strip the palace garrison and use the damned Thrid hirelings, we might muster five hundred seventy men. See them ready, Malver.”
    The dark wiry man was about to explode. “But, my lord, that’s nowhere near—”
    “Do not question me, Commander! I said see them ready. We ride for the Hamrasch stronghold in one hour. The Emperor will have his justice, whether his subjects think it fit or no.” Slaves were waiting with Aleksander’s boots, sword belt, and a white cloak, embroidered in gold. A Derzhi prince did not wear the haffai—the all-encompassing desert robe—lest his enemies mistake him for a common man and hold back the ferocity that was his due.
    Malver bowed and withdrew. Behind his back, where no one but I could have seen it, his right hand made the village-bred man’s sign against ill luck.
    The two bearded warriors and the rest of the attendants hovered about Aleksander. “All of you, get out of here and see to your own preparation. I’ll be down when I have my boots on. The assassins will not win this day.”
    I dawdled long enough, cleaning up the broken wax and stack of papers, that only Hessio was left. Aleksander stood stiff and silent while the bodyslave buckled on his weapons and fastened the cloak to brass rings on the shoulders of his leather vest. As the slender man finished his work, he knelt, bending his head toward the blue-veined tiles. Aleksander touched the slave’s shoulder, stopping his obeisance before he could get all the way down. “You’ve done me good service, Hessio. Since I was ten years old, I think.”
    “It is and will ever be my honor to serve you, Your Highness.” The soft, high-pitched voice expressed surprise. Bodyslaves were rarely spoken to. They lived their unending degradation in silence, always gentle and courteous, required to know what needed to be done and to do it with minimal intrusion ... always afraid, for such intimate service lent itself to danger. Naked royalty was prone to irritation.
    “You remember Seyonne, do you not?” An unsettling note charged the Prince’s casual words.
    “Yes, my lord.” The slave’s eyes shot toward me, a hard glance that nearly knocked me off the stool. Hatred. The bitter, unrelenting hatred of one who wore slave rings for one who no longer did so. Aleksander saw it, too, and he nodded ever so slightly. I didn’t understand.
    “Do you know that you are the only man in the palace who also served me in Capharna three years ago?” said the Prince. “The only man in Zhagad, save my cousin Kiril and Captain Sovari, who knew the name of the Ezzarian slave who saved my life or could describe him to another. The only man in all the world who could have heard me tell my wife where my friend Seyonne could be found if she needed him ... and I never breathed that secret to another soul, and she the same.” The hand on Hessio’s shoulder gripped tight. The colorless slave winced and tried to shrink away, but the hand would not allow it. “This is the day for justice, Hessio. And it shall begin here.” With a movement unimaginably quick, the Prince’s knife ripped Hessio’s throat. Skillfully Aleksander pushed the dead slave away, so that the blood pooling darkly on the sand-colored tiles did not stain his white cloak.
    The Prince wiped his knife on Hessio’s garments, and then sheathed it and walked to the window without looking at me. “You disapprove.”
    I resumed breathing and chose my words carefully. “The man who died for me had only one leg. The Hamrasch assassins cut off his hands to make him tell where I was. There is justice and there is mercy, and when I think of Gordain, I can see only one of them.” Of course, none of that had anything to do with the fate of a slave whose manhood had been stolen along with his freedom. The sweet flavor of justice