‘My brother is from Ooila,’ Inen said, leading Bueralan up a set of stairs inside his brothel. ‘He’s not my real brother, of course. I was born in Illate. I was taken from there when I was young and sold to his parents. I was lucky, though. My new brother knew what had happened was wrong. He knew it from the start. It was why, when we were old enough, we fled Ooila. It would have been shortly before your failed revolution, I think. Our plan was to start new lives, become new people.’ Inen pushed open the door to a narrow room fitted with a bed and an open metal clothes hanger. ‘But you can never forget that. You carry your childhood wherever you go.’
‘Is that why you came to Zajce then?’ Bueralan walked into the room. At the end, a narrow window looked over the town. ‘Those slave cages looked pretty full.’
‘There are more in them every day.’ Inen huffed, his bells ringing as he did. ‘As for coming to Zajce – well, when I arrived, it still had a reputation of being a sanctuary for slaves.’
‘And your brother?’
‘He thought the same, before he was killed. But enough of that. We open in two hours. I’ll send some food up. Try and get some sleep before if you can. The start of the night is always rough.’
True to his word, food appeared shortly after Inen left. He sent up a tin jug of water as well. Bueralan ate and drank slowly while he stood at the small window, staring over the streets of Zajce. A few hours ago, just the thought of a bed would have been enough to lure him to sleep, but now his mind was on the street in front of him. Bueralan watched as it filled with mercenaries, watched deliveries of food to the slaves, and watched as water was dumped into troughs from the hoses in the towers. The sight reminded him of his childhood, of walking beside his father when he was very young. They’d wander through the slave markets of Ooila, where adults and children were kept behind wire fences; they would be led out in chains when someone wanted to inspect them for purchase.
He did not sleep before his shift began.