Dark Currents by Lindsay Buroker

people.”
    Basilard cocked his head as Books spoke, then tapped a thoughtful finger to his lips.
    “To answer your original question, no, the city gets its water from the Tork River, which originates…” Books stopped.
    Basilard was shaking his head. He grabbed a pencil and scribbled for a few minutes. Books read the note and learned the details of Amaranthe’s suspicions about the aqueduct.
    “That’s…interesting.” Books tapped the map. “But this river flows past fifty miles north of the city. It empties into the Maiden Lake, the first in the Chain Lakes of which we are a part.” He waved in the general direction of their body of water.
    Basilard traced the river with a finger, as if to double-check. He signed,
Supply city
, then shrugged.
    “It could supply the city if the infrastructure was there?”
    Basilard nodded. He touched his chest and pointed to the valley in the mountains.
    “You’ve been there?”
    A nod.
    “And seen the river?”
    Yes.
Basilard stretched his arms wide.
    “And it’s large. Where are you from, Basilard?” Books should have asked long before. He had always found the scars off-putting and never bothered to converse with the man outside of work.
    Basilard pointed into the mountains north of the pass.
    “Mangdoria?”
    Yes.
    “Really. An offshoot of the Kendorians. When my people conquered their way inland hundreds of years ago, the natives who weren’t assimilated, went east and north while the Kendorians went south, right? And it wasn’t race that determined the distinction, but religion. Your people believe in one god, a benevolent deity that says pacifism is preferable to war.” Books eyed the scars crisscrossing Basilard’s shaven head.
    Basilard looked away. Sadness, or maybe guilt, lurked in his blue eyes.
    Best to shift back to the problem. “But you decided to come here at one point, and you passed through the mountains and saw this river.”
    Snared
, Basilard signed.
    “You were? By slavers?”
    Yes.
    “Ah, but you’re free now. Why not go home?”
    Basilard hesitated, then shook his head.
    “Nothing to return to? No family?”
    Another head shake. He lifted his hands, hesitated, then tapped his chest and signed.
Female.
    “You have a wife?”
    No. Dead. Small female.
    “
Daughter?
“ Books stared. When Basilard nodded, Books went on: “Why? Why wouldn’t you go back? How old is she?”
    Basilard closed his eyes for a moment, and Books wondered how long he had been a slave. Had there been owners before Larocka? So much for the practice being outlawed in the empire.
    Ten
, Basilard signed.
Yes, ten now.
    “Don’t you want to see her again?” Thoughts of Enis flooded Books’s mind. What he wouldn’t give to see his son again… To live those fatal moments over and this time save Enis. How could Basilard
not
return to a daughter?
    See her, yes,
Basilard sighed.
Her see me…no.
    “Why?”
    Basilard pointed to the sky, then to his scars, then shook his head sadly.
    Books puzzled over his meaning. Basilard scrawled on the page:
God requires peace.
    Understanding dawned, and Books frowned, thinking of what the man must be going through. “Your people are pacifists, but you’ve killed.”
    Basilard’s chin drooped to his chest.
    “A lot.” Books raked his fingers through his hair, thinking of what he knew of the Mangdorian religion. Hell. They believed in an eternal hell for those who committed acts of violence. He wondered if Amaranthe knew Basilard’s story. He remembered how she had swayed Basilard to let them go from the cell in Larocka’s basement by seeming to read his persona and voicing his guilt. Had she guessed at some of Basilard’s torment even then? “You had to kill to survive, didn’t you? You had little choice.”
    The pencil wrote:
Always a choice.
    “Death isn’t much of a choice.” Books grabbed the jug and took a deep swig, again missing the days of drinks stronger than apple juice. “You know, you could convert to the