Warlords Rising by Honor Raconteur Read Free Book Online

he
would catch other things that were damaged. He would automatically stop to fix
those too. At first the guards poked him hard in the back, not understanding
what he was doing. When they did that, he would turn to them with a look of
absolute confusion plastered on his face and say, “But you want me to fix this
too, right?”
    Having a slave that looked for work to do was inconceivable
to them. They really didn’t know how to react. But it was true that other
things aside from the wall needed fixing, and he was faster than conventional
methods, so they let him do so.
    That was their mistake.
    The people of Rurick got used to seeing him. He was
radically different in appearance from them—it sure wasn’t hard to find him in
a crowd—and the braver ones came to tentatively request his help. It had happened
twice yesterday. Trev’nor would bet his eye teeth that he would be swamped by
requests today, and the guards would likely let him, as the first section of wall
was mostly fixed now.
    A woman that everyone called the Rikkana came with a young
man in tow. Trev’nor had met her twice before, as no one would approach him
without her at their side. She always spoke to the guards first, as protocol
likely demanded.
    “The grill pits are splintering,” she informed them. “We
need this mage.”
    Guard A (as Trev’nor thought of them) jerked his chin at the
young man standing behind her. “Noogre can’t fix them?”
    “Beyond repair,” Noogre replied with a helpless spread of
the hands. “I’d have to rip them out entirely and fix them, and that would take
a solid week. At least. We don’t have enough food laid in for me to do that.”
    Food was very dear to men that worked all day in the suns.
The guards immediately saw his point and gave Trev’nor a grunt that meant, Let’s
go.
    Trev’nor of course started walking, but he greeted them both
politely. “Rikkana, Master Noogre, glad you came to see me.”
    Noogre blinked at him as if a dog had just started talking.
Only the Rikkana, an aged woman with silver hair and years of experience etched
into her face, wasn’t startled. Then again, he’d spoken to her twice yesterday
so of course it wouldn’t surprise her. “Why are you glad?”
    “Because I like to eat.” He grinned at her, a boyishly
charming grin. “I’m still growing, y’know.”
    If he had tried to speak to anyone else, it likely wouldn’t
have worked, as the guards would have shut him down. But this woman was highly
ranked in this society (somehow, he was still figuring out how) and if she
thought it was appropriate to talk to a slave, no one was going to argue with
her about it. “You do not mind the extra work?”
    “I like to work. I was raised to work. If it’s work that
puts food in my belly, I’m all for it.”
    This answer threw everyone listening. They didn’t know what
to make of it. Trev’nor wanted to shake them until they gained some sense. Of
course the magicians did exactly what they were told and nothing more. They had
been trained from birth to obey orders and nothing more. No one learned
initiative that way. They certainly didn’t gain a work ethic.
    Was this whole country full of idiots? Corrupt idiots?
    It took fifteen minutes to walk to where the firepits were.
Trev’nor counted every guard, noting their positions, as he moved. It had
slowly dawned on him that the guards had their own sections of the city they
were in charge of and they didn’t really communicate with each other until the
end of the day. Why they were organized so, he didn’t know, but he had a
feeling that they could really take advantage of this.
    The pits were worse than he had imagined. They were nothing
elaborate—brick structures as long as two troughs with metal grills or spits
hanging over them. They were meant to roast a huge amount of meat at a time,
and from what Trev’nor had seen, it was likely these pits that provided meat
for both slaves and soldiers alike. The amount of meat