A Conspiracy of Kings by Megan Whalen Turner Read Free Book Online

the kitchens. Outside the kitchen he
tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to a path next to the
stables. The path led downhill to more outbuildings and a long, low
barracks for field workers.
    There was a narrow yard with a wellhead and two doors into the
barracks. Ochto pointed me toward the one on the right. I ducked my
head through the low doorway and found a large room lined with
pallets and men dressed in the simplest and coarsest clothing.
    They were all sitting on individual pallets or lying down. Ochto
nudged the one closest to the door. Without comment, the man swept
a small collection of items out of a niche in the wall behind him
and moved to another pallet farther away, the occupant of which
packed up his things and moved as well. This continued down the row
until the youngest in the room, younger by a year or two than
myself, shifted to a pallet that was empty. When Ochto nodded at
me, I sat on my new bed. To the entire barracks, he condemned me
with a single word: man-killer.
    I hunched, pulled my knees up to my chin, and wrapped my arms
around my legs. The room was quiet, the others flicking glances at
me. I ignored them. After years in Sounis’s palaces being
eyed with disgust by my uncle and my own father and courtier after
courtier, I assure you I am unrivaled at pretending not to notice
other people’s glances.
    In time, quiet exchanges began among the field hands. No one met
my eyes, and I didn’t meet theirs, but I sent quick glances
around the room. It appeared to be half the length of the entire
building. To my left was a door that led to the other half of the
barracks, probably with a private room for the overseer in between.
At the opposite end of the sleeping quarters, there was another
door that led outside. There were open spaces in the stone walls
that let in the light but not too much heat.
    We seemed to be waiting, but I had no idea for what until the
door opened again and a husky young man brought in a large pot,
which he set on the floor. Behind him several young boys carried
stacks of wooden bowls and spoons, which they distributed among the
men. When the overseer pointed at me, I rose and served myself some
soup. By the time my bowl was full, the rest of the men had
gathered behind me for their servings. I went back to my new bed
and ate.
    So I became a slave. Before I had been a prisoner, the captured
prince of Sounis. Now, in the eyes of Ochto, sitting on a stool by
the door, slurping his own soup, I was no different than any of the
men around me. My freedom was like my missing tooth, a hole where
something had been that was now gone. I worried at the idea of it,
just as I slid my tongue back and forth across the already healing
hole in my gum. I tasted the last bloody spot and tried to remember
the feel of the tooth that had been there. I had been a free man.
Now I was not.
    After eating, the men carried their bowls and spoons back to the
boys who’d brought them. The soup pot was carried away, and
everyone lay down. I did the same and was surprised to be woken
bleary-eyed by the call to rise. The sun had dropped in the sky.
The worst of the day’s heat had passed, and the men were to
go back to work. I stumbled after the others out of the barracks
and along the path to the fields.
    The baron’s fields rolled down toward the water and
stretched for some miles along the shore behind his megaron. We
hiked between mature grapevines, into folds of land and up again,
climbing rolling hills, until we were walking through olive groves
and came to an undeveloped hillside in the process of being
cultivated for more trees.
    There were piles of rocks by the road, and digging tools. The
slope was being terraced for new planting. Several men headed off
to spots where the waist-high walls were partly built. They were
masons who knew their jobs. Others were ferries, carrying the rocks
to the masons. The rest of us picked up the digging tools and
climbed up the hill or down to shift the dirt. Those