“Don’t make trouble,” a parshwoman said, specifically eyeing Moash. “Don’t fight, or you’ll be killed. Don’t run, or you’ll be beaten. You’re the slaves now.”
Several of the humans—homesteaders, from the looks of it—started weeping. They clutched meager bundles, which parshmen searched through. Moash could read the signs of their loss in their reddened eyes and ragged possessions. The Everstorm had wiped out their farm. They’d come to the big city looking for refuge.
He had nothing on him of value, not any longer, and the parshmen let him go in before the others. He walked into the bunker, feeling a surreal sense of … abandonment? He’d spent the trip here alternately assuming he’d be executed or interrogated. Instead, they’d made a common slave of him? Even in Sadeas’s army, he’d never technically been a slave. Assigned to bridge runs, yes. Sent to die. But he’d never worn the brands on his forehead. He felt at the Bridge Four tattoo under his shirt, on his left shoulder.
The vast, high-ceilinged storm bunker was shaped like a huge stone loaf. Moash ambled through it, hands stuffed in his coat pockets. Huddled groups of people regarded him with hostility, even though he was just another refugee.
He’d always been met with hostility, no matter where he storming went. A youth like him, too big and obviously too confident for a darkeyes, had been considered a threat. He’d joined the caravans to give himself something productive to do, encouraged by his grandparents. They’d been murdered for their kindly ways, and Moash … he’d spent his life putting up with looks like that.
A man on his own, a man you couldn’t control, was dangerous. He was inherently frightening, just because of who he was. And nobody would ever let him in.
Except Bridge Four.
Well, Bridge Four had been a special case, and he’d failed that test. Graves had been right to tell him to cut the patch off. This was who he really was. The man everyone looked at with distrust, pulling their children tight and nodding for him to move along.
He stalked down the middle of the structure, which was so wide it needed pillars to hold up the ceiling. Those rose like trees, Soulcast right into the rock below. The edges of the building were crowded with people, but the center was kept clear and patrolled by armed parshmen. They’d set up stations with wagons as perches, where parshmen were addressing crowds. Moash went over to one.
“In case we missed any,” the parshman shouted, “experienced farmers should report to Bru at the front end of the chamber. He will assign you a plot of land to work. Today, we also need workers to carry water in the city, and more to clear debris from the last storm. I can take twenty of each.”
Men started calling out their willingness, and Moash frowned, leaning toward a man nearby. “They offer us work? Aren’t we slaves?”
“Yeah,” the man said. “Slaves who don’t eat unless they work. They let us choose what we want to do, though it’s not much of a storming choice. One kind of drudgery or another.”
With a start, Moash realized that the man had pale green eyes. Yet he still raised his hand and volunteered to carry water—something that had once been parshman work. Well, that was a sight that couldn’t help but brighten a man’s day. Moash shoved hands back in pockets and continued through the room, checking each of the three stations where parshmen offered jobs.
Something about these parshmen and their perfect Alethi unsettled him. The Voidbringers were what he’d expected, with their alien accents and dramatic powers. But the ordinary parshmen—many of them looked like Parshendi now, with those taller builds—seemed almost as bewildered at their reversal in fortune as the humans were.
Each of the three stations dealt with a different category of labor. The one at the far end was looking for farmers, women with sewing skill, and cobblers. Food, uniforms, boots. The parshmen were preparing for war. Asking around, Moash learned they’d already grabbed the smiths, fletchers, and armorers—and if you were found hiding skill in any of these three, your whole family would be put on half rations.
The middle station was for basic labor. Hauling water, cleaning, cooking food. The last station was the most interesting to Moash. This was for hard labor.
He lingered here, listening to a parshman ask for volunteers to pull wagons of supplies with the army when it marched. Apparently, there weren’t enough chulls to move wagons for what was coming.
Nobody raised their hands for this one. It sounded like ghastly work, not to mention the fact that it would mean marching toward battle.
They’ll need to press the people into this, Moash thought. Maybe they can round up some lighteyes and make them trudge across the rock like beasts of burden. He’d like to see that.
As he left this last station, Moash spotted a group of men with long staffs, leaning against the wall. Sturdy boots, waterskins in holsters tied to their thighs, and a walking kit sewn into the trousers on the other side. He knew from experience what that would carry. A bowl, spoon, cup, thread, needle, patches, and some flint and tinder.
Caravaneers. The long staffs were for slapping chull shells while walking beside them. He’d worn an outfit like that many times, though many of the caravans he’d worked had used parshmen to pull wagons instead of chulls. They were faster.
“Hey,” he said, strolling over to the caravaneers. “Is Guff still around?”
“Guff?” one of the caravaneers said. “Old wheelwright? Half a reed tall? Bad at cussing?”
“That’s him.”
“I think he’s over there,” the young man said, pointing with his staff. “In the tents. But there ain’t work, friend.”
“The shellheads are marching,” Moash said, thumbing over his shoulder. “They’ll need caravaneers.”
“Positions are full,” another of the men said. “There was a fight to see who got those jobs. Everyone else will be pulling wagons. Don’t draw too much attention, or they’ll slap a harness on you. Mark my words.”
They smiled in a friendly way to Moash, and he gave them an old caravaneers’ salute—close enough to a rude gesture that everyone else mistook it—and strode in the direction they’d pointed. Typical. Caravaneers were a big family—and, like a family, prone to squabbling.
The “tents” were really some sections of cloth that had been stretched from the wall to poles driven into buckets of rocks to keep them steady. That made a kind of tunnel along the wall here, and underneath, a lot of older people coughed and sniffled. It was dim, with only the occasional chip on an overturned box giving light.
He picked out the caravaneers by their accents. He asked after Guff—who was one of the men he’d known back in the day—and was allowed to penetrate deeper along the shadowy tent tunnel. Eventually, Moash found old Guff sitting right in the middle of the tunnel, as if to keep people from going farther. He had been sanding a piece of wood—an axle, by the looks of it.
He squinted as Moash stepped up. “Moash?” he said. “Really? What storming storm brought you here?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Moash said, squatting down beside the old man.
“You were on Jam’s caravan,” Guff said. “Off to the Shattered Plains; gave you all up for dead. Wouldn’t have bet a dun chip on you returning.”