“That is the penalty for speaking back to your master,” Yhakobin warned. “I do hope you’ll keep that in mind. I have no use for your tongue, and will happily have it out if it offends me again. Do you understand?”

Alec swallowed hard against the fresh bile rising in his throat, then said as humbly as he could manage, “Yes, Ilban, I understand.”

Whatever role you play, play it to the hilt, Seregil’s voice whispered in the back of his mind. Alec embraced all the fear and horror he’d been battling and let it show in his face.

“Very good.” Yhakobin patted his shoulder. “Show me the proper respect, and you will find me a kind master.”

They stopped next at what appeared to be a blacksmith’s shop. It was warmer inside, at least. The smith greeted Alec’s owner with a respectful bow, then motioned for Alec to kneel beside an anvil at the center of the shop. When he pretended not to understand, he was compelled to obey with a few rough shoves and a kick to the back of his knees.

Yhakobin took a thin, silvery-looking circlet from his robes and gave it to the smith. A collar, Alec realized, just as the golden torque the other slave wore must be a sign of his station.

The silver collar had a gap in it, with pierced flanges on both ends. The smith bent it out wide enough to place it around Alec’s neck, then forced his head to the anvil. One of Yhakobin’s men held Alec down while the smith fitted a copper rivet through the holes, set the tip of a blunt chisel against it, and struck it a single sharp blow with his hammer, so hard it jolted Alec’s head against the iron.

“Sit up.” Yhakobin slipped a finger under the collar and gave it a small tug. “Not too tight, is it? Have you nothing to say to me?”

“It’s not too tight-Ilban,” Alec managed, hating the cold weight of the metal against his skin just as much as the fetters on his wrists.

“The brands mark you as a slave, and every Plenimaran knows where to look. This collar marks you as my property, and it won’t come off as easily as it went on. Keep that in mind as you dart those sharp eyes of yours around, looking for your chance to run.”

Alec colored guiltily and Yhakobin laughed. “You do have spirit, don’t you? Quite wasted on me, I’m afraid.”

At his order the men marched Alec out to a waiting carriage. It was small, but well made, and decorated with inlay and polished woods. The glow of the brass lanterns set beside the driver’s bench shone on the glossy flanks of a pair of Silmai blacks harnessed to it. This Yhakobin must be a lord of considerable wealth.

The liveried footman jumped down to open the door. Yhakobin climbed in and sat down on a seat covered in tufted red leather. Alec’s guards shoved him inside and he was made to kneel at his new master’s feet. The driver whipped up the horses and they set off through the darkness. Yhakobin took some papers from a pocket under the window and perused them, ignoring Alec as if he’d ceased to exist.

Alec seized the opportunity to study Yhakobin more closely. Like the carriage, the man’s clothing and fine shoes spoke of wealth. Seregil had taught him to look beyond first impressions, however, and Yhakobin’s hands told another story. In addition to the ink stains, the man had a scattering of small white scars on the backs of his hands-the sort of marks common among smiths and chandlers. Or wizards, he added silently. He tried to remember what the necromancer’s hands had looked like, but his memories of them were vague now, overlaid by the torment he’d known in their grasp.

“Where are we going…Ilban?” he ventured at last.

Yhakobin didn’t even look up. “Home. Be quiet now.”

Alec gritted his teeth and pondered jumping from the moving vehicle while Yhakobin wasn’t looking. But he was still manacled and at too much of a disadvantage. He wasn’t going to risk losing a foot this early in the game. Instead, he contented himself with staring out the window. His low vantage point cut off most of the useful view; he caught only the impression of tall buildings and narrow streets, then an orderly line of trees, interspersed with lamp poles, which suggested a park. After that there was little to see except the rising moon.

The road grew bumpier and Alec was hard-pressed to keep his balance. One hard jolt threw him against Yhakobin’s knees. The man righted him and ruffled his hair, as if Alec were a hound.

“What’s this?” He pushed the hair back from Alec’s left ear and examined the blue-stained dragon bite on the lobe.

“Is it some sort of clan mark?”

“It’s nothing, Ilban,” Alec lied. “Just decoration.”

Yhakobin released his ear and went back to his reading.

Alec twisted his wrists in the manacles, pressing the spanner bar between his wrists. I could strangle him and jump from the coach.

And then what, aside from the broken bones and the lack of clothing? the Seregil in his mind asked wryly.

Before he could come up with a better plan, the carriage took a sharp turn, and then slowed. Alec glimpsed an arched stone gate, then heard the crunch of gravel under the coach wheels. A moment later they came to a stop and the door flew open. Men dragged him out by the spanner bar and hustled him quickly across a walled courtyard and through a low door. From there he was rushed down a narrow servants’ stairway, to a long, dank, brick corridor. They took several turns as Alec looked around frantically, trying to make sense of where he was. The few doors they passed were closed. His guards halted in front of one that looked no different from any other and opened it to reveal a tiny, whitewashed room. One of them took the cloak, leaving him naked again.

Someone spoke curtly behind him; Yhakobin had followed them down here.

He took something from his pocket and palmed it before Alec could see what it was. But when he then touched each of the manacles, they cracked in half and fell to the floor, taking the wretched bar with them.

“Thank you, Ilban.” Alec almost meant it this time.

Yhakobin frowned at the raw skin on Alec’s wrists. “Those fools, risking infection for no reason.”

At his order, the man called Ahmol produced a small pot of salve and rubbed it over the damaged skin.

Yhakobin seemed satisfied. “There, that should heal well. In you go, now.”

They shoved Alec into the room and slammed the heavy door behind him. He heard a bar fall into place and shuddered. Shut in, and helpless again.

“Rest now,” Yhakobin called in to him. “I’ll have food brought down to you.” There was a pause, then he added sternly, “It is customary for a slave to thank his master, Alec.”

That was too much. “I’m no slave, and you’ll never be my master!” Alec yelled, forgetting Seregil’s lessons and the sight of the slave with her tongue cut out as he slammed both fists against the door.

It opened so fast he would have fallen into the corridor if one of the guards hadn’t caught him and locked an arm around his throat. The collar bit into his neck as he was jerked off his feet and shoved face-first against a rough stone wall. Yhakobin was close behind him now, breath warm on Alec’s cheek as he held up a short, thick riding crop.

“I will be lenient this time, since you are new and we are not in public.” Stepping back, he struck Alec hard across the back. It hurt like hell, but didn’t break the skin. Nine more blows followed, then Alec was grabbed by the hair and thrown back into the cell. He came down hard on the stone floor, banging his right elbow painfully and scraping the bandaged burn on his arm. The pain drove him back to his feet. He faced the doorway, braced to fight.

Yhakobin regarded him for a moment, then smiled. “Perhaps it’s a good thing, this strong spirit of yours, though it will not make your life here an easy one.”

“It’s not my choice to be here, Ilban,” Alec snarled, shaking with anger.