Thick as Thieves by Megan Whalen Turner

Author:Megan Whalen Turner
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2017-04-07T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVEN

I woke as the sunlight was dimming. A breeze made my skin rise in goose pimples, and I shivered. I opened my eyes to see the Attolian already sitting up, wrapped in a blanket. I began to unroll my own.

“Kamet,” said the Attolian in a low voice, “I am sorry. I hope you will forgive me.”

I looked up at him, speechless. How many times had he apologized to me already? “I’m sorry,” he’d said on the riverside in Ianna-Ir at the very start of my deceit, when I let him believe he had misspoken “after noon” for “after dark.” He’d apologized when it was the Namreen who had sliced open my head, apologized for having only caggi to offer me, apologized for leading us into Koadester. I’d paid little attention, assuming his apologies were the result of habit, not intent. How many times does a slave hear the word “sorry” made meaningless? “I’m sorry, Kamet, but you must fetch another scroll, bottle of wine, set of linen, robe from the tailor. Kamet, I am sorry, but the accounts must be completed by morning. I’m so sorry, but there’s no bed for you. Sorry, Kamet, there’s nothing left for your dinner.” How many times had my master used that word? As many times as I had bowed my head and said, “Yes, master, of course, of course.”

I opened my mouth, and no words came. I didn’t know what to say when “sorry” meant something, what to say to an apology that was so obviously sincere.

I fell back on habit and apologized myself. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I was afraid.”

“I know,” said the Attolian. “I understand. I made a poor slave.” He smiled at the irony, both of us thinking of Koadester.

We sat quietly for a while after that. There was no wood for a fire, and we couldn’t make one anyway as we couldn’t risk being seen. We also couldn’t move out from behind the rock that was hiding us from view. From where he was sitting, the Attolian could watch for new activity at the mine. He said there had been no sign so far that the slavers had been discovered, so we just sat, each picking at our meager handful of dried food, trying to make it last. I noticed the Attolian’s earring was back in his ear. I’d feared that it had fallen from his mouth when I’d kicked him or that he’d swallowed it.

“Is it because they are your enemies that they are so easy to kill?” I asked hesitantly.

The Attolian looked up, and then down again at the sliver of dried meat in his hand as if it were going to crawl away if he didn’t watch it carefully.

“You have seen men die,” he said. “You were not so squeamish about the Namreen.”

“I’ve seen many people die,” I agreed. “I’ve never held a man’s life in my hands.” I looked down at those hands, scraped and very dirty now, but still free of calluses except the one that came from holding a stylus.

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