Free Foul Tide's Turning by Stephen Hunt Page A

windows. ‘To be more grateful for what is free.’
    ‘You would be well-advised to set me free,’ hissed Cassandra. ‘For if the empire ever discovers I live, they will travel here for me and make a hell of your damn precious forests.’
    ‘You would still be a prisoner, even if you set out today for Vandia on one of your craft. You have not yet learned to discern the bars of your cage. Now, we begin …’
    Lady Cassandra groaned, but picked up the wax tablet and sharp wooden needle needed to compose answers in the tablet’s surface. It wasn’t fair. These savages were tutored from their youngest years in such convoluted mathematical bunk. How did they expect a Vandian to keep up, when her superior education to date had been in subjects that really mattered? If only Doctor Horvak was here. He’d understand this abstract nonsense backwards and forwards, and find a way to make it intelligible. But the gasks didn’t even begin to try … they wanted to humiliate her, to make her doubt her abilities. To keep her a compliant little hostage until she became an old maid, driven insane by captivity and their outlandish, contradictory slave philosophies. At least when the empire made serfs of its barbarian inferiors, the Vandians had the kindness to make it abundantly clear what was required for a slave’s survival. Work. Obedience. Loyalty to your betters in the higher castes. Well, the gasks and the dirty human savages they counted as allies wouldn’t succeed. In Lady Cassandra, these cud-chewing primitives had bitten off far more than they could handle. She had made her mind up. Escape from this dreary perdition was worth any price, up to and including her possible death. Where there was a will, there was a way. And her will was inestimable. Cassandra set her mind to following this lesson, a confusing fug of concepts and expressions she fought her way through. The class went on for hours without a break. But an interruption did finally arrive in the form of an elderly gask. Veneration of the ancestors was one small thing Vandian culture seemed to share with these tree-hugging natives, and Cassandra could tell from the tenor of the hushed conversation that something of import was passing here between Kerge and the elder. Her suspicions were confirmed when the tutorial ended early and Sheplar joined the conversation, his body stiff with a palpable tension quite unlike the gormless, happy-go-lucky mountain barbarian.
    Sheplar walked over and lifted the tablet from Cassandra’s hand, placing it in a pile on the side of the room, making no comment on her progress – or lack of it – during the lesson. Of course, the clownish Rodalian could probably barely count beyond the number of fingers on his hand, and was ill-placed to sit in judgement on any work done here. He marched Cassandra towards the classroom’s exit.
    ‘Where are we going?’
    ‘I wish to accompany Kerge to his people’s council, bumo. And as it is my duty to guard you today, you shall come with us.’
    Cassandra stepped outside. The other pupils scattered across a multiplicity of walkways, travelling home or to whatever tasks they had to attend. ‘What are the gasks’ concerns to you?’
    A rare look of sadness creased Sheplar’s features. ‘Kerge’s father, Khow, was a fine friend. He saved my life many times on our journey to rescue the people your empire stole from Weyland. Anything that concerns his child also concerns me.’
    Cassandra travelled the roped walkway, boards swaying under her feet as she and her jailor followed Kerge and the city elder. She noted the two gask guards trailing carefully behind her, the pair’s weight adding to the path’s rocking. ‘I saw the old gask die on the battlefield during the slave revolt. He died well.’
    ‘With honour, perhaps. But the gasks are ashamed of giving in to their killing furies. His death was not judged well by the standards of his people. For them, Khow’s end was at best a regretful