Read 2: Servants of the Crossed Arrows for Free Online

caps back on the tins. Bill absently ran his fingers through the long strings of his patchy black beard.
    “So,” Bill said, “what are we going to do?”
    John shrugged. “I suppose we just sit here and wait. If we can look like we lost track of time in conversation, there might be a chance that one of the servants will try to hurry us along and maybe give us some clue.”
    “Yeah, I guess that’s a good idea.” Bill finished drying himself off and then wrapped the towel around his waist. The fluffy white cloth engulfed his emaciated pale body. “I was actually thinking more about what we were going to do in a broader sense. You know, how are we going to live with these people? I mean, we don’t even know the right way to wipe our asses—”
    John cut him short with a raised hand. Out in the hall, he heard floorboards creak, as if someone was approaching or just stepping away from the door. They both sat in silence listening, though John could tell from Bill’s expression that he had no idea what he was listening for.
    There was nothing. It might have just been one of those noises that old buildings made as they settled. Still, it made John instantly aware of how vulnerable they were. How careful they would need to be. They weren’t alone in a shelter anymore. A vast household of servants and guards surrounded them.
    “We have to speak Basawar,” John said softly. “As long as the three of us are here, we’re going to have to remember to only speak in Basawar.”
    “Even when it’s just us?” Bill asked.
    “Always,” John whispered. He couldn’t shake the feeling that someone might be listening to them even now.
    “But I sound like some kind of retard.” Bill scowled. “I mean, it takes me five minutes just to get a sentence out.”
    “You’ll get better with practice,” John spoke the Basawar words carefully.
    “Easy for you to say, Mr. Show-Off,” Bill whispered.
    John refused to respond in English. “Behr, yura’ati vass’atdu Basawar hi.”
    “Du, Jahn,” Bill agreed with all the enthusiasm of a sullen teen.
    “It won’t be so bad after a while,” John told him in Basawar.
    “Wahbai,” Bill responded.
    John might have been offended at being called an asshole if he hadn’t known that it was one of the Basawar words that Bill knew and liked best.
    From outside the door, John heard the creaking sound again, but this time it grew louder until it became the distinct sound of footsteps. A moment later, there came a light rap at the wooden door. John called for the person to enter and four men in sage green shirts, darker green vests, and black pants came in. The servant boy had been dressed in the same manner. Light yellow embroidered symbols of crossed arrows decorated the high straight collars of the men’s shirts.
    Before John offered them more than a greeting, they split into pairs and began grooming Bill and him. The oldest of the servants picked up the tin of goo and began to froth it with one of the smallest of the brushes.
    Meanwhile, two other men began working the fine combs through John’s and Bill’s hair. They weren’t rough, but they weren’t gentle either. John supposed that their manner was professional. Still, he would have been reassured by a little more tenderness. When one of the men jerked several hairs out from inside his nostril, John jerked back, barely suppressing a howl of pain.
    Bill made a terrible choking noise as the same thing was done to him. The servants seemed unmoved. They had probably forced hundreds of other men to cry out under their ministrations. John briefly entertained the thought that their impassive professional expressions matched those that cold-blooded assassins always wore in movies.
    One of the men picked up two of the viciously curved silver picks. John watched him in fascination and slight dread. The man fitted one pick over the other and then selected a small screw that John hadn’t noticed before. He screwed the picks together.