IT DIDN’T QUITE SEEM REAL until they laid hands on him. The old keeper he could probably have fought off rather easily, but these were heavy middle-aged men, stolid and muscled and experienced in their work. ‘Let go of me!’ Wintrow cried angrily. ‘My father is coming to get me. Let go!’ Stupidly, he reflected later. As if simply telling them to let go would make them do it. It was one of the things he was to learn. Words from a slave’s mouth meant nothing. His angry cries were no more intelligible to them than the braying of an ass.
They did things with his arm joints, twisting them so that he stumbled angrily in the direction they wished him to go. He had not quite got over his surprise at being seized when he found himself already pressed firmly up against the tattooist’s block. ‘Be easy,’ one of the men bid him gruffly as he jerked Wintrow’s wrist-shackles tight against a staple. Wintrow jerked back, hoping to pull free before the pin could be set, but he only took skin off his wrists. The pin was already set. As quickly as that they had him, hunched over, wrists chained close to his ankles. One of the men gave him a slight push and he nudged his own head into a leather collar set vertically on the block. The other man gave a quick tug on the leather strap that secured it a hair’s-breadth short of choking him. As long as he didn’t struggle, he could get enough air to breathe. Fettered as he was, it would have been hard to draw a deep breath. The collar about his neck made even his short panting breaths an effort that required attention. They had done it as efficiently as farmhands castrating calves, Wintrow thought foggily. The same expert callousness, the precise use of force. He doubted they were even sweating. ‘Satrap’s sigil,’ one said to the tattooist, and the man nodded and moved a wad of cindin in his cheek.
‘My flesh was not made by me. I will not puncture it to bear jewellery, nor stain my skin, nor embed decoration into my visage. For I am a creation of Sa, made as I am intended to be. My flesh is not mine to write upon.’ He had scarce breath enough to quote the holy writ as a whisper. But he spoke the words and prayed the man would hear them.
The tattooist spat to one side, spittle stained with blood. A hard addict then, one who would indulge in the drug even when his mouth was raw with ulcers. ‘T’ain’t my flesh to mark either,’ he exclaimed with dim humour. ‘It’s the Satrap’s. Now, his sigil I could do blindfolded. You hold still, it goes faster and smarts less.’
‘My father… is coming… to pay for me.’ He fought for air to say these essential words.
‘Your father is too late. Hold still.’
Wintrow had no time to wonder if holding still would be an assent to this blasphemy. The first needle was off target, striking not his cheek but the side of his nose and piercing into the side of his nostril. He yelped and jerked. The tattooist slapped him smartly on the back of the head. ‘Hold still!’ he commanded him gruffly.
Wintrow clenched his eyes shut and set his jaw.
‘Aw, I hate it when they wrinkle up like that,’ the tattooist muttered in disgust. Then he went swiftly to work. A dozen jabs of his needle, a quick swipe at the blood and then the sting of a dye. Green. Another dozen jabs, swipe, sting. It seemed to Wintrow as if each time he took a breath, he was getting less air. He was dizzy, afraid he would faint, and furious with himself for being ashamed. How could fainting shame him? They were the ones doing this to him. And where was his father, how could he be late? Didn’t he know what would happen to his son if he was late?
‘Now leave it alone. Don’t touch it, don’t scratch it, or you’ll just make it hurt worse.’ A distant voice was speaking over a roaring in his ears. ‘He’s done, take him away and bring another.’
Hands tugged at his shackles and his collar, and then he was being strong-armed again, being forced off to somewhere else. He stumbled, half-dazed, taking one deep breath after another. His destination turned out to be a different stall in a different row in a different shed. This could not have happened, he told himself. It could not have happened to him, his father would not have left him to be tattooed and sold. His captors halted him by a pen set aside for new slaves. The five slaves he shared it with each bore a single oozing green tattoo.
His shackles were secured to a pin set in the floor and the men left him there. The moment they let go of his arms, Wintrow lifted his hand to his face. He touched it gingerly, feeling the puffing and seeping of his outraged flesh. A pink-tinged liquid ran slowly down his face and dripped from his chin. He had nothing to blot it.
He stared around at the other slaves. He realized he had not said a word since he had spoken to the tattooist. ‘What happens now?’ he asked dazedly of them.
A tall, skinny youth picked his nose with a dirty finger. ‘We get sold,’ he said sarcastically. ‘And we’re slaves the rest of our lives. Unless you kill someone and get away.’ He was sullenly defiant, but Wintrow heard it was only words. Words were all that were left of his resistance. The others seemed not even to have that much. They stood or sat or leaned, and waited for whatever would happen to them next. Wintrow recognized the state. Severely injured people fell into it. Left to themselves, they would simply sit and stare and sometimes shiver.
‘I can’t believe it,’ Wintrow heard his own voice whisper. ‘I can’t believe Torg didn’t tell my father.’ Then he wondered why he had ever expected that Torg would. What was the matter with him, why had he been so stupid? He’d trusted his fate to a sadistic brutal idiot. Why hadn’t he sent word for his father, why hadn’t he told the keeper the first day? Come to think of it, why had he fled the ship? Had it really been so bad there? At least there had been an end in sight, a two-year wait to his deliverance from his father. Now there was no end to it. And he would not have Vivacia to sustain him. The thought of her brought a terrible pang of loneliness welling up in him. He’d betrayed her, and he’d sent himself into slavery. This was real. He was a slave now. Now and for ever. He curled up in the dirty straw on his side, clasping his knees to his chest. In the distance, he seemed to hear a roaring wind.
Vivacia rocked disconsolately in the placid harbour. It was a lovely day. The sunlight glittered on fabled white Jamaillia City. The winds were from the south today, ameliorating the winter day and the stench of the other slavers anchored alongside her. Not so long now to spring. Farther south, where Ephron had used to take her, fruit trees would be cascades of white or pink blossoms. Somewhere to the south, it was warm and beautiful. But she would be going north, to Chalced.
The banging and sawing from within her were stilled at last; all her modifications for being a slaver were complete. Today would be spent loading the last of the supplies, and tomorrow her human cargo would be ferried out to her. She would sail away from Jamaillia, alone. Wintrow was gone. As soon as she lifted anchor, one or more of the sluggish serpents in the harbour mud below would uncoil and follow her. Serpents would be her companions from now on. Last night, when the rest of the harbour was still, a small one had risen, to slink about among the anchored slavers. When it came to her, it had lifted its head above the water, to gaze at her warily. Something about its stare had closed her throat tight with terror. She had not even been able to call the watch. If Wintrow had been aboard, at least someone would have sensed her fear and come to her. She dragged her thoughts free of him. She’d have to take care of herself now. Loss clawed at her heart. She denied it. She refused it all. It was a lovely day. She listened to the waves slap against her hull as she rocked at anchor. So peaceful.
‘Ship? Vivacia?’
She turned her head slowly and looked back and up. It was Gantry, standing on her foredeck and leaning on the rail to speak to her.
‘Vivacia? Could you stop that, please? It’s unnerving the whole crew. We’re two hands short today; they didn’t come back from liberty. And I think it’s because you’ve frightened them off.’
Frightened. What was so frightening about isolation and loneliness and serpents no one else ever saw?
‘Vivacia? I’m going to have Findow come play his fiddle for you. And I’ve got liberty myself today for a few hours, and I promise you I’ll spend every moment of it looking for Wintrow. I promise you that.’
Did they think that would make her happy? If they found Wintrow and dragged him back to her, forced him to serve her, did they think she would be content and docile? Kyle would believe that. That was how Kyle had brought Wintrow aboard her in the first place. Kyle understood nothing of the willing heart.
‘Vivacia,’ Gantry asked with despair in his voice. ‘Please. Please, can you just stop rocking? The water is smooth as glass today. Every other ship in the harbour is still. Please.’
She felt sorry for Gantry. He was a good mate, and a very able seaman. None of this was his fault. He shouldn’t have to suffer for it.
But then, neither should she.
She made an effort to find her strength. He was a good sailor; she owed him some small explanation. ‘I’m losing myself,’ she began, and then heard how peculiar that sounded. She tried again. ‘It’s not so hard, when I know someone is coming back. But when I don’t, it suddenly gets harder to hold on to who I am. I start thinking… no. Not thinking. Almost like a dream, but we liveships cannot sleep. But it’s like a dream, and in the dream I’m someone else. Something else. And the serpents touch me and that makes it worse.’
The man only looked more worried now. ‘Serpents,’ he repeated doubtfully.
‘Gantry,’ she said in a very faint voice. ‘Gantry, there are serpents here in the harbour. Hiding down at the bottom in the mud.’
He took a deep breath and sighed it out. ‘So you told me before. But, Vivacia, no one else has seen any sign of them. So, I think you might be mistaken.’ He paused, hoping for a response.
She looked away from him. ‘If Wintrow were here, he would feel them. He’d know I wasn’t being foolish.’
‘Well,’ Gantry said reluctantly. ‘I’m afraid he’s not here. And I know that makes you unhappy. And maybe it makes you fearful, just a bit.’ He paused. His voice took on a cajoling tone, as if she were a nervous child. ‘Maybe there are serpents down there. But if there are, what can we do about them? They’re not hurting us. I think we should both just ignore them, don’t you?’
She turned her head to stare at him, but he would not meet her gaze. What did he think of her? That she was imagining serpents? That her grief at Wintrow abandoning her was making her mad? She spoke quietly. ‘I’m not mad, Gantry. It is… hard… for me to be alone like this. But I’m not going insane. Maybe I’m even seeing things more clearly than I used to. Seeing things my own way, not a… Vestrit way.’
Her efforts to explain only confused him. ‘Well. Of course. Uh.’ He looked away from her.
‘Gantry, you’re a good man. I like you.’ She almost didn’t say the words. But then she did. ‘You should get onto a different ship.’
She could smell the sudden fear in his sweat when he spoke to her. ‘Now, what other ship could compare to you?’ he asked her hastily. ‘After sailing aboard you, why would I want to take ship on another?’ False heartiness in his voice.
‘Maybe because you want to live,’ she said in a very low voice. ‘I’ve a very bad feeling about this voyage. A very bad feeling. Especially if I must make it alone.’
‘Don’t talk like that!’ he said roughly, as if she were an unruly hand. Then, in a calmer voice, he offered, ‘You won’t be alone. I’ll be here with you. I’ll go and tell Findow to come fiddle for you, shall I?’
She shrugged. She had tried. She fixed her eyes on the distant spire of the Satrap’s palace.
After a while, he went away.
She had been afraid Captain Tenira would recognize her. She had danced with his son at the Winter Gathering, three years ago. But if the Bingtown Trader saw any resemblance between Athel the sailor and Althea the daughter of Ephron Vestrit, he gave no sign of it. He looked her up and down critically, then shook his head. ‘You’ve the look of a good sailor to you, boy. But I’ve told you. I don’t need another hand. My crew is full.’ He spoke as if that settled the matter.
Althea kept her eyes down. Two days ago she had spotted the Ophelia in the harbour. The sight of the old liveship’s silvery hull and smiling figurehead had moved her with a depth that shocked her. A question or two in the waterfront taverns had given her all the information she needed. The liveship was homeward bound, heading back for Bingtown in a matter of days. In the instant of hearing that, Althea had resolved that one way or another, she would be on board her. She had hung about the docks, watching and waiting for her chance to catch the captain alone. Her plan was simple. She’d first try to hire aboard as a ship’s boy. If that didn’t work, she’d reveal to him who she was and beg for passage home. She didn’t think he’d turn her down. Still, it had taken all her courage to follow Tenira to this waterfront tavern and wait while he dined. She had stood in a corner, waiting until he had finished eating before she approached him. When he set down his fork and leaned back in his chair, she’d placed herself before him. Now she summoned all her courage. ‘Sir, begging your pardon, sir. I’d work for nothing, just for my passage back to Bingtown.’
The captain turned in his chair to face her and crossed his arms on his chest. ‘Why?’ he asked suspiciously.
Althea looked at the tavern floor between her bare feet and bit her lip. Then she looked up at the captain of the liveship Ophelia. ‘Got my wages from the Reaper… at least, I still got part of them. I’d like to get home, sir and give them to my mother.’ Althea swallowed awkwardly. ‘Before they’re all gone. I promised her I’d come home with money, sir, Da being in a bad way. And I been trying to, but the longer I look for a ship back to Bingtown, the more I spend each day.’ She looked back at the floor. ‘Even if you don’t pay me anything, I’d probably get home with more money if I ship now than if I wait around and try for a paying berth.’
‘I see.’ Captain Tenira looked at the plate on the table before him and pushed it casually away. His tongue plucked at something in his back teeth for a moment. ‘Well. That’s admirable. But I’d still be feeding you, I think. And working aboard a liveship isn’t quite the same as any other kind of a vessel. They’re lively in a way that has nothing to do with wind or weather. And Ophelia can be a wilful lady.’
Althea bit her lips to suppress a smile. The Ophelia was one of the oldest liveships, the first generation as it were. She was a blowsy old cog, bawdy and lewd when the mood took her, and patrician and commanding at other times. A wilful lady was the kindest way she had ever heard Ophelia described.
‘Her hands have got to be more than quick and smart,’ Captain Tenira was lecturing. ‘They’ve got to be steady. You can’t be afraid of her or superstitious about her. And you can’t let her bully you either. Ever been aboard a liveship, boy?’
‘A bit,’ Althea admitted. ‘Before I started sailing, I’d go down to the North wall in Bingtown and talk to them sometimes. I like ’em, sir. I’m not afraid of them.’
The captain cleared his throat. In a different voice, he pointed out, ‘And a merchant-vessel is a lot different from a slaughter-ship. We move a lot faster, and we keep a lot cleaner. When the mate tells you to jump, you jump right away. Think you can do that?’
‘Yes sir, I can do that. And I’m clean, and I keep my area clean.’ Althea was nodding like a puppet.
‘Well.’ The captain considered. ‘I still don’t need you, you know. Serving on a liveship is something a lot of men would jump through any hoop to do. You’re stepping into a position I’d have no trouble filling with an older, experienced man.’
‘I know, sir. I appreciate that, sir.’
‘See that you do. I’m a hard master, Athel. You may regret this before we reach Bingtown.’
‘Begging your pardon, sir, but I’d heard that about you. That you was hard, but fair.’ She let her eyes meet his again. ‘I don’t fear to work for a fair man.’
It was just enough honey. The captain almost smiled. ‘Go and report to the mate, then. His name’s Grag Tenira. Tell him I’ve hired you on, and that you want to chip rust on the anchor chain.’
‘Yes sir,’ Althea replied with just enough of a grimace. Chipping rust off the anchor chain was an endless task. Then she reminded herself that even chipping rust off an anchor chain on a liveship was better than any other task she’d ever done aboard the Reaper. ‘Thankee, sir.’
‘Go along then,’ Captain Tenira told her genially. He sat forward in his chair to take up his ale mug and wave it at a passing tavern-boy.
Althea let out a huge sigh of relief as soon as she was on the boardwalk outside. She scarcely felt the chill wind that flowed past her. Tenira hadn’t recognized her, and she now decided it was unlikely he ever would. As lowly ship’s boy, it was unlikely she would be face to face with the captain much. Now that he’d seen her as Athel, he’d probably continue to see her as Athel. She was confident she could get past Grag Tenira as well. Athel the ship’s boy looked nothing like Althea the dance partner. Her heart soared suddenly as she realized she’d done it. She had passage back to Bingtown. And if all she had heard of Captain Tenira was true, she’d gain a few coins on the trip. The man was fair. If he saw her working hard, he’d reward her. She found a smile on her face. Ophelia would be leaving tomorrow. All she had to do was go and get her sea-bag and head down to the ship and find a place to hang a hammock. Tomorrow she’d be on her way home.
And aboard a liveship again. Her heart approached that with mixed feelings. The Ophelia was not the Vivacia. There would be no bond there. On the other hand, Ophelia would not be some dead piece of wood pushed around only by wind and waves. It would be good to be back on board a responsive vessel again. And she’d be glad to see the last of this greasy little town.
She turned her feet towards the run-down inn where she had been staying. She’d board Ophelia tonight and sail tomorrow. There wasn’t time to find Brashen and bid him farewell. She had no idea where he was. Why, for all she knew, he might have shipped out again by now. Besides, what was the point? She’d go her way, he’d go his. That was simply how it was. She had no real connection to the man at all. None at all. She didn’t even know why she was thinking about him. Certainly there was nothing left to say to him. And seeing him again would only bring up difficult words and topics.
The office of the ship’s agent was small and stuffy. The fireplace held a roaring blaze for such a tiny room. It seemed smoky after the fresh windy day outside. Brashen tugged at his collar, then forced his hands to lie still in his lap.
‘I hire for the ship Springeve. That is how much trust the captain places in me. And it is a trust I take gravely. If I send him out with a sloppy man, or a drunk, I can cost the ship time, money and lives. So I am careful whom I hire.’
The agent, a small, balding man, paused to suck at a pipe. He seemed to be waiting for a reply, so Brashen tried to think of one. ‘It’s a heavy responsibility,’ he hazarded.
The agent exhaled a yellowish smoke. The acridity of it bit at Brashen’s eyes and throat but he tried not to show it. All he wanted was the mate’s position they had posted on the bill outside the door. The Springeve was a small, shallow-draught trading-vessel that worked her way up and down the coast between Candletown and Bingtown. The cargo she picked up or let off in each town determined her next port of call. That was how the agent delicately explained it. To Brashen, it sounded suspiciously as if the Springeve worked with the pirates, buying and selling stolen cargoes from other ships. Brashen wasn’t sure he wanted to get involved in that sort of work. Actually, he was damn sure that he didn’t want to do any work at all, of any kind. But he was out of money and almost out of cindin. So he had to work, and this berth was as good as any.
The man was talking again, and Brashen tried to look as if he’d been paying attention.
‘… so we lost him. It was a shame, he’d been with us for years. But, as I’m sure you know…’ he took another long draw from his pipe and breathed it out through his nose. ‘Time and tide wait for no man. Nor does perishable cargo. The Springeve has to sail and we need a new mate. You seem familiar with the waters we’ve discussed. We may not be able to pay you what you think you’re worth.’
‘What could you pay me?’ Brashen asked bluntly. Then he smiled, to try and soften the roughness of the words. His headache had abruptly returned, and if the man breathed smoke in his face one more time, he thought he’d puke.
‘Well.’ The small man bridled a bit at his question. ‘That depends, of course. You’ve your ticket from the Reaper, but nothing to show for the other experience you claim. I’ll need to think about this.’
He meant he hoped someone with more tickets would apply. ‘I see. When will you know if you want me?’ Another question phrased too baldly. Once he had said it, he could hear it, but he seemed unable to govern his words before they came out of his mouth. He smiled at the man again, and hoped his smile was not as sickly as he felt.
‘Possibly by early morning.’
When the man took a draw from his pipe, Brashen bent over and pretended to adjust the cuff of his trousers. He waited until the man breathed out before he straightened up again. There was still a cloud of yellowish fumes waiting for him. He coughed, then cleared his throat. ‘I’ll check back with you then, shall I?’ A knot of anxiety was forming in Brashen’s gut. He’d have to face another day without food, another night sleeping outside. With every day that passed like that, he’d have less of a chance at a decent berth. A hungry, dirty, unshaven man was not what an agent sought for in a ship’s mate.
‘Yes. Do that,’ the agent said absently. He was already shuffling papers on his desk, Brashen dismissed from his mind. ‘And come ready to sail, for if we want you, we shall want you right away. Good day.’
Brashen stood slowly. ‘That is swash. You won’t say if you want me or how much you’ll pay me, but I should be on my toes to leave if you wink at me. I don’t think so.’ You’re being stupid, some rational part of himself was yelling. Shut up, shut up, shut up! But the words were out and he knew he’d only look ignorant as well as rude if he tried to recall them now. He tried to put an arch civility into his tone as he added, ‘Good day to you, sir. I regret we couldn’t do business together.’
The ship’s agent looked both insulted and worried. ‘Wait!’ he exclaimed almost angrily. ‘Wait.’
Brashen halted and turned to him, one eyebrow raised inquiringly.
‘Let’s not be hasty.’ The man’s eyes shifted in indecision. ‘I’ll tell you what we can do. I’m going to talk to the Reaper’s man sometime today. If he says all’s square with you, then we’ll pay you the same wages you had there. That’s fair.’
‘No. It’s not.’ Having adopted a hard-nosed stance, he had no choice but to stick with it. And he didn’t really want the agent to chat with anyone from the Reaper. ‘On the Reaper I was a third. If I sign with the Springeve I’ll be the mate. Not the captain, nor a sailor before the mast. The mate, who is held liable for anything that goes wrong aboard. The Springeve may be a smaller vessel, but it’s a bigger job. The crew on a trader has to be worked harder and faster than the crew on a slaughter-ship. And I’ll wager the Springeve brings in more coin than the Reaper ever did, if she’s worth her salt at all. If I sail as mate on the Springeve I’ll want the same wages the last mate was paid.’
‘But he had years of experience on her!’ the agent squeaked.
‘I’ve years of experience as a mate on the Vivacia, a substantially larger vessel. Come. Pay me what you paid the last man. If you made money with him, I’ll guarantee you’ll make just as much with me.’
The agent sank back into his chair. ‘You’ve the arrogance of a good mate,’ he conceded grudgingly. ‘All right. Come ready to sail, and at mate’s wages. But I warn you, if you show badly, the captain will put you off at the next port, no matter how small it is.’
‘I’ll do you one better, as I’m an honest man and a hard worker,’ Brashen offered. ‘I’ll report to the ship now. If she’s to leave the day after tomorrow, I’ll want at least that much time to be sure all aboard is stowed right, and to make sure the crew understands I’m the mate now. It’ll give the captain a full day to test my mettle. He doesn’t like how I do things, he tells me to walk. Is that fair?’
It was the right time to offer him such a concession. It let the agent save a bit of his pride as he narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, and then nodded. ‘That’s fair. You know where the Springeve ties up?’
Brashen grinned at him. ‘Do I look the sort of man who’d ask for a position aboard a vessel I hadn’t seen? I know where she’s tied. I and my sea-bag will be aboard her, should you change your mind about me. But I don’t think you will.’
‘Well. All right. Good day to you, then.’
‘Good day.’
Brashen left the man’s office, shutting the door firmly behind him. Once outside, he walked briskly down the street, a man with a purpose. He was relieved to find his sea-bag was still in a straw pile behind a livery stable where he had slept last night. Now if that had been stolen, he would have been in a real fix. He opened it and glanced through it quickly, to be sure that nothing had been filched from it. Not that he had much of value in there, but what was his was his. He poked through the bag. His cindin supply was still there. It was dwindling, but it would be enough. He wouldn’t be using it while he was on duty, anyway. He never used cindin on duty. Like as not, he’d set it aside and not even use it while he was aboard. After all, for the years he had been on board the Vivaria, he hadn’t used it at all, not even when he had liberty on-shore.
Thinking of the Vivacia woke a dull pang in him. When he’d lost his place on her, he’d lost a lot. He tried to imagine how things could have been if Ephron Vestrit hadn’t sickened. He knew he’d still be sailing aboard her. Althea, too. The thought of her jabbed him. He didn’t even know where she was in this dirty town. Stupid and stubborn, that was him. There had been no reason, really, to stalk off like that on that night. So she’d said they didn’t even know one another. That was just words, he knew better, she knew better.
She knew him so well she had wanted nothing further to do with him.
He stopped on the street, lowered his sea-bag and took out the remaining cindin. He broke a small piece off the stick and tucked it into his cheek. Not much, just enough to help him look lively until he had a proper meal aboard. Odd, how a couple nights of a near-empty belly could make even hard-tack and salt beef sound good. For a moment the cindin stung, then he shoved it into a better position with his tongue and it was fine. He took a deep breath past the bitterness in his mouth and felt all the world come into a sharper focus. He tossed his sea-bag to his shoulder again and headed toward the docks.
It would be good to have a definite place in the world again. And the Springeve promised to be an interesting ship. As often as he’d been up and down the Inside Passage on the Vivacia they hadn’t done much stopping. Captain Vestrit had done most of his buying to the south of Jamaillia. Brashen had been to a hundred exotic little ports in that part of the world. Now it would be interesting to reacquaint himself with the Pirate Isles. He wondered if anyone would remember him there.
Midday had come and gone, as near as Wintrow could tell. At least, that was what his stomach told him. He touched his face again, then looked at his fingertips. The ooze from the new tattoo felt tacky. He wondered what it looked like. He could see the same green sigil on the faces of the others in the pen with him, but somehow he couldn’t imagine it on his own visage. They were slaves, it was somehow not shocking to see them tattooed. But he was not a slave. It was a mistake. His father was supposed to have come and rescued him. Like a bubble popping, he saw the complete illogic of this. Yesterday, their faces had been as clean as his own. Like him, they were newly come to this status. But somehow he could not yet think of himself as a slave. It was all a great mistake.
For some time, he had been hearing sounds, the murmur of a crowd, voices raised to speak above the din. But no one had come to see them, save a solitary guard making his rounds lethargically.
He cleared his throat. No one turned to look at him. He spoke anyway. ‘Why aren’t there any buyers? At the other pens, there were buyers walking up and down, taking slaves.’
The dirty boy spoke wearily. ‘Then you musta been by map-face pens. They take whatever offer they can get for them, almost. Skilled slaves get bought up by companies that rent them out. They get auctioned so the companies will bid against each other. New slaves,’ he suddenly paused, then cleared his own throat. He was a bit husky as he went on. ‘New slaves like us get auctioned, too. It’s called the mercy law. Sometimes your family or friends will buy you, and then give you your freedom back. I used to think it was pretty funny. Me and my friends used to come down to the auctions, and bid on new slaves. Just to run the money up, watch their brothers or fathers break a sweat.’ He cleared his throat again abruptly and turned back to the corner of the pen. ‘Never thought I’d be here.’
‘Maybe your friends will buy you,’ Wintrow suggested quietly.
‘Whyn’t you shut up before I bust your teeth?’ the boy snarled at him, and Wintrow guessed there would be no family or friends bidding for him. Or any of the others by their looks. One was a woman past her middle years. Her face looked as if she normally smiled, but it had collapsed on itself today. She rocked slightly as she sat in the straw. There were two diffident young men, probably in their middle twenties, dressed in rough farmers’ clothes. They sat beside each other, silent and empty-eyed. Wintrow wondered if they were brothers, or perhaps friends. The other woman in the pen was of an indeterminate age between disillusioned and hard. She sat huddled in a heap, her arms clasping her knees. Her lips made a flat line, her eyes were permanently narrowed. There were disease lesions on her mouth.
The short winter day was nearly over when they came for the slaves. These were men Wintrow had never seen before. They carried short clubs and a length of heavy chain. As each slave was unshackled, he was fastened to it until they had a coffle of new slaves. ‘That way,’ one of the men said. The other didn’t bother with words. He just gave Wintrow a heavy prod with his stick to hasten him along.
Wintrow’s reluctance to be sold on a block like a cow warred with his weariness of the uncertainty of the last few days. At least something definite was happening to him now even if he had no control over it. He held his handfuls of chain and shuffled awkwardly after the others. He looked around as he went, but there was not much to see. Most of the pens they passed were empty now. The crowd noises grew louder, and they suddenly came out into an open courtyard. Slave-sheds ringed it. In the middle was a raised platform with steps going up to it, not unlike a gallows. A crowd of folk stood before it, gaping up at the wares, laughing, drinking, exchanging pleasantries and comments with one another. And buying other humans. Wintrow suddenly smelled spilled beer and the tantalizing smell of fatty, smoked meat. There were food vendors working the crowd. Beyond the platform, Wintrow caught a glimpse of a row of tattoo stands, all quite busy.
A lively market day, he thought to himself. No doubt some folk had woken up early today, looking forward to this. A day in town, seeing friends, dickering for bargains. A stroll to the auction to see what was available in slaves today.
For a time they were kept bunched at the bottom of the steps while the auctioneer finished with the batch on the platform. A few serious buyers pushed through the crowd to view them more closely. Some shouted questions to the handlers, as to age, condition of teeth, past experience. These the handlers repeated to the slave in question, as if they could not hear and understand the buyer themselves. One queried Wintrow’s age. ‘Fourteen,’ he replied quietly.
The buyer made a derogatory noise. ‘I’d have taken him for twelve. Push up his sleeve, let’s see his arm.’ And when the handler complied, ‘Well, there’s a bit of muscle there. What kind of work do you know, boy? Kitchen? Poultry?’
Wintrow cleared his throat. What was he? A slave with good skills was treated better, or so he had been told. He might as well make the most of what cards he did hold. ‘I was in training to be a priest. I’ve worked in orchards. I can do stained-glass. I can read, write and figure. And I’ve been a ship’s boy,’ he added reluctantly.
‘Too full of himself,’ the buyer sneered. He turned away, shaking his head at a companion. ‘He’ll be hard to train. He already thinks he knows too much.’
While he was trying to think of an appropriate reply to that, a jerk on his chain brought him to attention. The others were already climbing the steps and Wintrow staggered up after them. For a few moments, all he could concentrate on was the steep steps and the short chains that linked his ankles. Then he took his place in the row of slaves on the torchlit wooden stage.
‘New slaves, fresh slaves, no bad habits yet, you’ll have to teach them those yourself!’ The auctioneer began his spiel. The crowd responded with half-hearted chuckles. ‘Now here’s what I’ve got, see for yourself, and you decide which one will lead off the bidding. I got a couple of stout hands here, good for farm, field or stable; got a warm-hearted granny here, perfect for keeping an eye on your little ones; got a woman here, seen a bit of hard use but still got some good years in her; and a couple of boys, lively, healthy boys, young enough to be taught anything. Now who wants to open up the bidding? Don’t be shy, you just shout it out and let me know what one’s caught your eye.’ The auctioneer gestured invitingly to the field of faces that looked up eagerly at the merchandise on the platform.
‘Mayvern! The old woman! Three silvers!’ Wintrow found the desperate young woman in the crowd. A daughter perhaps, or a younger friend. The old woman on the platform beside him lifted her hands to her face, covering it as if she were ashamed or afraid to hope. Wintrow thought his heart would break. Then he caught a glimpse of something that made it flip over in his chest instead. His father’s height and fair hair stood out in the crowd like a flag beckoning him to home and safety. He was discussing something with a man behind him.
‘Father!’ he cried out, and saw Kyle Haven’s head turn to the platform in disbelief. He saw Torg beside him, his hand going to his mouth as if in amazement, mimicking his astonishment very well. One of the handlers thudded Wintrow in the ribs with his stick.
‘Be still. Wait your turn,’ he commanded him.
Wintrow scarcely felt the blow or heard the words. All he had eyes for was his father’s face, looking up at him. He seemed so small and far away in that sea of faces. In the gathering dark, Wintrow could not be sure of his expression. He stared down at his father and prayed to Sa. Neither his mind nor his lips shaped any words; it was a simple plea for mercy. He saw his father turn to Torg for a hasty conference of some sort. He wondered if, this late in the day, his father had money left to spend. But he must, or he would have taken what he’d bought and gone back to the ship. Wintrow tried to smile hopefully, but could not quite remember how. What was his father feeling just now? Anger, relief, shame, pity? It didn’t matter, Wintrow decided. His father could not look at him and not buy him. Could he? After all, what would his mother say?
Nothing, if she wasn’t told, Wintrow suddenly realized. Nothing at all, if all she knew was that her son had run away in Jamaillia City.
The auctioneer’s lash slapped the table in front of him. ‘Sold!’ he roared out. ‘For ten silvers, and you are welcome to her, my lady fair. Now. Who wants to open the next bid? Come on, now, there’s some likely slaves up here. Look at the muscle on these field-workers. Spring planting is only a few months away, farmers. Can’t be ready too soon!’
‘Father! Please!’ Wintrow shouted, and then flinched away as the handler jabbed him again.
Slowly, Kyle Haven lifted his hand. ‘Five shards. For the boy.’
The crowd had a general laugh at this insulting bid. One bought a bowl of soup for five copper shards, not a slave. The auctioneer recoiled showily, his hand to his chest. ‘Five shards?’ he asked in mock dismay. ‘Oh, laddie, what did you do to displease papa so? Five shards I’m offered, five shards is where we start. Anyone else interested in this five-shard slave?’
A voice came up from the crowd. ‘Which boy is the one who can read, write and figure?’
Wintrow kept silent, but a guard helpfully replied, ‘He’s the one. Was in training to be a priest. Says he can work stained-glass, too.’
This final claim in such an apparently young boy put the others in doubt. ‘A full copper!’ someone laughingly bid.
‘Two!’
‘Stand up straight,’ the guard bid him and followed this advice with a nudge from his stick.
‘Three,’ his father said sullenly.
‘Four!’ This was from a laughing young man at the edge of the crowd. He and his companions nudged one another and shifted, their gazes going from Wintrow to his father. Wintrow’s heart sank. If his father became aware of their game, there was no telling how he’d react.
‘Two silvers,’ someone called, apparently thinking she could make a quick end of the bidding with a large increase. Two silvers, he was to learn later, was still a low bid for a new and unpromising slave, but it was within the realm of acceptability.
‘Two silvers!’ the auctioneer called out with enthusiasm. ‘Now, my friends and neighbours, we are taking this young man seriously. He reads, writes and figures! Claims to do stained-glass, but we shan’t make much of that, shall we? A useful lad, bound to get bigger as he can’t get smaller; a tractable, trainable boy. Do I hear three?’
He did, and it was not from Wintrow’s father or the hecklers. The bids shot up to five silvers before the real buyers began shaking their heads and turning aside to examine other waiting merchandise. The boys at the edge of the crowd continued bidding until Torg was sent to stand beside them. He scowled at them, but Wintrow clearly saw him offer them a handful of coins to leave off their game. Ah. So that was how it was done and the whole purpose of it.
A few moments later, his father bought him for seven silvers and five whole coppers. Wintrow was unfastened from the coffle, and led forward by his manacles exactly as a cow might be. At the bottom of the steps, he was turned over to Torg. His father had not even come forward to receive him. A tide of uneasiness arose in Wintrow. He held his wrists out to Torg to have the chains removed, but the sailor feigned not to notice them. Instead he inspected Wintrow as if he were indeed just any other slave that his master had just purchased. ‘Stained-glass, eh?’ he scoffed, and got a general laugh from the handlers and other idlers at the base of the auction stage. He gripped the chain between Wintrow’s wrist and dragged him forward. Wintrow was forced to stumble after him, his ankles still hobbled.
‘Take the chains off,’ Wintrow told him as soon as they were free of the crowd.
‘And give you a chance to run again? I don’t think so,’ Torg replied. He was grinning.
‘You didn’t tell my father I was held here, did you? You waited. So I’d be marked like a slave and he’d have to buy me back.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Torg replied genially. He was in fine fettle. ‘Were I you, I think I’d be grateful that your father happened to stay at the auctions this long, and saw you and bought you. We sail tomorrow, you know. Got our full load, he was just thinking to pick up a few last-minute bargains. Got you instead.’
Wintrow shut up. He debated the wisdom of telling his father what Torg had done. Would it sound as if he was whining, would his father even believe him? He searched the faces they passed, looking for his father in the gathering dusk. What expression would he wear? Anger? Relief? Wintrow himself was caught between trepidation and gratitude.
Then he did catch sight of his father’s face. He was far off, and not even looking towards Wintrow and Torg. He appeared to be bidding on the two farmhands who were being sold together. He didn’t even glance at his own son in chains.
‘My father’s over there,’ Wintrow pointed out to Torg. He halted stubbornly. ‘I want to speak to him before we go back to the ship.’
‘Come on,’ Torg grunted cheerfully. ‘I don’t think he wants to speak to you.’ He grinned to himself. ‘In fact, I doubt he thinks you’d make a good first mate any more when he gives the captaincy over to Gantry. I think he fancies me for that job, now.’ He uttered this with great satisfaction, as if he expected Wintrow to be astounded by it.
Wintrow stopped walking. ‘I want to speak to my father, now.’
‘No,’ Torg replied simply. His greater bulk and muscle easily overmatched Wintrow’s resistance. ‘Walk or be dragged, it’s all one to me,’ he assured him. Torg’s eyes were roving, looking over the heads of a cluster of folk standing about. ‘Ah,’ he exclaimed suddenly, and surged forward, hauling Wintrow behind him.
They halted before a tattooist’s block. He was just freeing a dazed woman from the collar while her impatient buyer tugged on her shackles for her to hurry and follow him. The tattooist looked up at Torg and nodded. ‘Kyle Haven’s mark?’ he asked, gesturing at Wintrow affably. Evidently they had been doing a lot of business.
‘Not this one,’ Torg said, to Wintrow’s instant and vast relief. He supposed there was some freedom trinket or sign to purchase here. His father would not be happy about that extra expense either. Wintrow was already wondering if there were not some way to gently abrade or bleach the new tattoo from his face. Painful as that would be, it would be far better than to wear this sign on his face the rest of his life. The sooner he put this misadventure behind him, the better. He had already decided that when his father did decide to speak to him, Wintrow would give him an honest promise to remain aboard the ship and serve him well to the end of his fifteenth year. Perhaps it was time he accepted the role Sa’s will had placed him in. Perhaps this was supposed to be his opportunity to reconcile with his father. The priesthood, after all, was not a place but an attitude. He could find a way to continue his studies aboard the Vivacia. And Vivacia herself was something to look forward to, he found. A small smile began to dawn on his face as he thought of her. Somehow he’d have to make up to her for his desertion, he’d have to convince her that—
Torg grabbed him by the back of his hair and forced his head down into the collar. The tattooist snubbed it tight. Panicked, Wintrow fought it, but only succeeded in strangling himself. Too tight, they’d pulled it too tight. He was going to pass out, even if he tried to just stand still and breathe, he wasn’t getting enough air and he couldn’t even tell them that. Dimly he heard Torg say, ‘Mark him with a sign like this earring. He’s going to be ship’s property. Bet it’s the first time in the history of Jamaillia City that a liveship bought a slave of her own.’