and from his own impulses to do something about them.
Minutes ago, Kylar had thought he was done. He’d kept his oath to the Wolf. He thought that now he’d be free to go make things right with Elene. But now Terah Graesin was queen. She probably had a contract out on Logan already. The best way to cancel a contract was to cancel the contract-taker. And Terah Graesin deserved canceling. One more kill, and I can change a country. With Logan as king, things can be different. There won’t have to be guilds or guild rats anymore. Elene was still safe in Waeddryn. He could do this in a week and be on his way.
“Look, we have to talk more, but first,” Logan said, “I need to piss, and then I need to figure out what to do about the Khalidorans and this Lae’knaught army.”
“What army?” Kylar asked.
“I just—what do you mean, what army? You have that look in your eye.”
“Those Khalidorans aren’t Khalidorans; the Lae’knaught’ve been wiped out, and we need to get to Cenaria before the Ceuran army does.”
“The Ceuran—what? What?”
Kylar just laughed.
14
Dorian sat in the chute room, balancing the crap pot strapped to his back on the edge of one of the chutes. This was the last pot of the day, and Dorian was sore, exhausted, and grumpy—and he got to spend most of every day in the company of beautiful women. The chute room slave spent every day in this foul room, directing the slaves who brought in all of the Citadel’s human waste and maintaining the sewage chutes, and he was the happiest slave Dorian had ever met. Dorian still gagged every time he opened the door. How the hell could Tobby be chipper?
Aching, Dorian stretched his back as he waited for Tobby to finish with the slave from the guards’ quarters. Tobby pulled two levers, waited for a few moments, and then pulled a chain to the sound of distant clanking, then the man untied the top rope on his pack and Tobby tipped the pot over, sloshing the contents down the chute. A rope attached to the bottom kept the pot from following the sewage down the chute.
After he finished, Tobby walked over to Dorian. “This your last run?”
Dorian yawned and stretched. “Yes, I—” he lost his balance and the weight of the crap pot yanked him backward toward the open maw of a chute. He screamed—and jerked to a stop as Tobby threw himself against Dorian’s knees.
For several moments, it was agony as the weight of the pot pulled against the sinews of his legs and stomach, trying to pull him into oblivion or rip him in half, but as the open-topped pot released its contents down the chute, the pain faded.
Once the pot was empty, Tobby was able to help Dorian out of the chute. “Trying to follow your predecessor, huh?” Tobby asked.
“What?”
Tobby chuckled. “Why’d you figure they needed another eunuch? Last harem carrier did what you just did . . . only I wasn’t so fast that day.”
“Shit,” Dorian said.
Tobby laughed loudly like a braying donkey. Surely the man couldn’t be amused by feces. Dorian began shaking from his brush with death. Good God, it hadn’t even occurred to him to use his Talent.
“Funny thing is,” Tobby said, “he didn’t die from the ride. They killed him.”
“What do you mean? Where does this chute go anyway?”
“Where does this shit go anyway?” Tobby echoed, then laughed again. “Down to the mines. Nearly drops on the heads a them sorry bastards. Soon as Arry fell in the chute, I routed him to one of the safe ones. Would have saved his life, if he had sense.”
“Safe ones?” Dorian asked.
“You don’t know shit, do you?” He punched Dorian in the arm. “Good one, eh? Eh?”
“Funny,” Dorian said, forcing himself to smile ruefully.
“Didn’t see that one coming, did ya?”
“Nope, didn’t see that coming.”
“I got a million of ’em,” Tobby said.
“I bet.” If ever there was a man who deserved his slavery, I’ve met him. “Why are some chutes safe?” Dorian asked.
“These chutes been here hunerds of years. First there was only one chute. At first it was a couple hunerd foot drop, from the bottom of the chute to the bottom of the chasm—well, after a couple hunerd years with twenty thousand folks shooting shit down it, there was no drop at all. Good ol’ Batty Bertold got real nervous, thought an army or the pit slaves themselves might climb up the chute and