She gazed west on the endless waters of the horizon. Twin suns shone brightly, reflecting motes of sparkle from cresting waves. Seagulls soared around her, ever watching for easy prey.
When Mama lay dying, she’d charged Timmilina and her father to take care of each other. Timmilina had kept that promise of her childhood, even though her father hadn’t. She’d tended the gardens that fed them when Father didn’t bother to hunt or fish. She’d woven baskets by the light of the moons and sold them to pay the rent when Father squandered what little he earned on mead and carousing. The carousing Timmilina could stand. The mead, however, made her life miserable. Father became violent when he was in his cups.
From time to time, Timmilina dreamed that someone would marry her even without a dowry. Mama wouldn’t have denied her that. If she could marry, she could leave Father without guilt. But no one wanted her. She was too skinny and too plain.
Timmilina looked over her shoulder to be sure no one watched, then removed her head cloth and pulled the pins from her bun to allow long charcoal tresses to wave freely in the ocean breeze. The mages said that the wind carried the voices of the Heavenlies and the Elva could hear their whispers if they were quiet enough. If anyone needed supernatural guidance, she did. She bowed her head and prayed, then turned her face into the wind and listened.
Pointed ears caught the distant flapping of a sail upon a mast, the gurgle of the sea foam trickling off the rocks, and the downstroke of gulls’ wings. But no chimerical voices spoke.
By the time the suns touched the sea, her skirts were soaked. Her bum grew sore from sitting on rocks. That and the growls from her stomach persuaded her to concede failure. The Heavenlies would not speak to her.
She re-pinned her windblown hair, replaced the head cloth, and stood, hooking her fingers through sandal straps. Her free hand lifted her skirts. In the amber light of suns-set, she retraced her steps down the jetty. The lighthouse bells a mile away tolled the sixth hour. She ran home.
With any luck, Father was still at The Pickled Squid. Candlelight streaming from her shanty’s crooked window dashed all hope of that. For a moment, she froze. Would Father be angry that she’d been gone? Two shadows played upon the inner walls. Perhaps Father would pay less attention to her if he had a guest.
She took a deep breath and entered. Father was glassy-eyed and unsteady on his feet. She’d seen his companion before at The Pickled Squid, but she didn’t know the name of the blotchy-faced, corpulent stranger. She hurried toward the wood-stove. The sooner Father had food in his stomach, the safer she would be.
“Where in Byntar have you been?” Father bellowed.
“At the jetty,” she said.
“You went all the way to the shore and didn’t bring back any fish?” he said in a slurred voice, then belched.
She shook her head, mentally berating herself for not having thought to bring something to placate him.
Father’s hand flew in a blur, delivering a resounding smack to her left cheek. She reeled with the blow. Before she could regain her equilibrium, he grabbed her arm, wrenched it behind her, and then forced her across the room to where he kept his punishing switch.
“Please, Father, no!” she screamed.
Father sat and pinned her over his knee. She writhed against him, but he twisted her arm so hard that she was sure it would break. He lifted her skirts, lowered her bloomers, and bared her buttocks right in front of the stranger.
He switched her with what had to be all his drunken strength. She tried to keep silent during the beating because she knew that protesting only incited him, but she couldn’t suppress her cries of pain.
Father released her arm. Timmilina couldn’t decide what was worse, the pain or the humiliation. While she turned her naked backside away from the stranger and struggled to maneuver wet clothing, Father laughed at her.
The seawater in her bloomers stung like fire on her welted skin. She pushed her damp skirts back down.
Timmilina looked up to find the stranger staring at her. His gaze lingered on her bosom while he licked his lips. “She’ll do nicely, Gil,” he said.
“I should hope so. Prime virgin stock,” Father said. “She’s all yours.”
She whirled around and gaped at her father in disbelief. What was going on? While her head was turned, the stranger clapped rusty iron shackles around her wrists before she knew what happened. She stared at her wrists, then back at her father. “How could you?” she cried. Timmilina lunged for him, but the stranger held her back.
“Don’t resist me, or I’ll have you whipped before the night is out,” the stranger said.
“Please, I haven’t done anything.” Desperation fluttered in her words. “Whatever my father said I did is a lie.”
The stranger’s acrid sweat and breath reeking of mead and peppered mutton filled her nostrils. He shoved her into the table. Strong fingers clamped her neck. Gasping for breath, she pulled at his hand. “You’re not accused of crime yet, girl,” he grunted, “but if you don’t behave, I’ll charge you with disobeying your owner. Now hold still.”
The truth sank in. Father had sold her into slavery. This stranger was now her master. Her puny efforts wouldn’t stop him from strangling her and the man she formerly called Father made no attempt to help. She ceased her resistance.
The stranger released her neck and locked an iron collar in place. She gulped for air. He yanked her leg and closed a shackle around her ankle. His stubbled chin scratched her knee. He locked the last fetter on the other leg.
“Good girl,” he said condescendingly. He gathered up chains and locks, studying her. He joined the manacles behind her back and snapped a padlock between them. Rounding her, he slid his hands down her chemise, cupping her breasts while he smiled a lascivious grin.
Revulsion filled her. She wished she had something in her stomach to vomit on him. Instead, she narrowed her eyes and glared. He locked a chain to the ring in her neck band and yanked. Timmilina lurched forward and landed face first on the dirt floor.
“Never look a freeman in the eyes, you got it?” he barked.
“Yes,” she panted. She tried to stand, but her legs tangled in wet skirts. Both men laughed at her futile efforts.
“That’s a good place for you to stay right now, slave. Catch your breath. After we sign the contracts, I’ll take you to the ITC.”
Timmilina shuddered. The Institute for Training and Correction was an ominous fortress she’d always avoided. She remembered passing it when she was very young. Mama had squeezed her hand and hurried past the crowds that surrounded the public whipping post. Timmilina had seen the tip of a whip just before she heard a crack and a scream. When she asked what was happening, Mama whispered, “That’s where all the bad people are punished.”
Of course, there was more to the stronghold than the simple explanation offered to a young girl. It was the hub of the slave trade: the prison where criminals were processed, the obedience school where everyone from galley drudges to scullery maids were trained, the labor camp for incorrigibles, the market for all manner of restraints and punishment devices.
Timmilina remembered how Mama had cooed soft assurances that she’d never have to go there because she was a good girl. A lump caught in her throat next to the iron collar. Gil Hocar had made Mama a liar and she hated him for it.
Gil signed away his daughter’s freedom for three hundred gold pieces and then claimed magnanimity. “It’s just three short years. Hannon here will teach you what a woman should know.”
Timmilina didn’t look up from the floor. She wouldn’t rebut just so they had excuse to hurt her more, nor would she give them the satisfaction of seeing her tears.
The men scratched quill marks onto the contract and sealed their agreement with an exchange of slaps to each other’s backs. “A pleasure doing business with you, Hannon,” Gil said.
“Yes, let’s have a drink sometime. I need to get this girl down to the ITC, but maybe tomorrow?”
“Firs
t one’s on me.” Gil shook the sack of coins he’d just acquired.
It sliced her to the core that they were so jovial and mundane, talking about her like she wasn’t sprawled helpless beneath them.
Meaty hands grabbed the chain attached to her neck band and pulled. She scrambled her legs to try to relieve the pressure on her throat. Choking, she stood. Damp skirts were muddy from contact with the dirt floor. Her face had to be just as filthy, but she couldn’t wipe it with her hands bound behind her back. Careful to avoid the stranger’s gaze, she tried to win some favor with courtesy. “Thank you, Master Hannon,” she said.
He backhanded her right cheek. “Who said you could use my name, wench?”
Timmilina barely kept herself from falling again as she staggered with the impact. Her eyes filled with tears. Yet, the pain in her cheek was nothing compared to the ice gripping her soul. “I—I’m sorry,” she whimpered.
“Good. You call me ‘Master’. If someone asks who owns you, tell them Master Hannon Jonpur—never the first name without the last. I’m not some stupid Itzi.”
She wished he were Itzi. Though simple-minded and feeble, Itzi weren’t prone to violence. “Yes, Master,” she said.
Jonpur tugged on the chain and marched out. Timmilina followed, struggling to keep slack in her leash so that he wouldn’t yank her down again. Rusty iron chafed against her skin. Her skirts were heavy with seawater, but she treaded carefully. Cobbled streets would not be kind if she tripped.
To her dismay, few townsfolk had retreated indoors yet on the balmy summer’s eve. Two full moons and oil lamps illumined their path. She bowed her head, trying to hide her identity. Surely, the whole city witnessed her disgrace, paraded through the streets like a criminal. Hushed wisps of speculation buzzed from the crowd: gossip, waif, scold, harlot, thief, adulteress.
Timmilina wanted to scream denials, but she feared the man who held her leash. When she heard her name whispered among the throngs, she gave up on hiding and lifted her face, hoping to lessen their scorn with feigned bravery.
Her forced trek through the scandalmongers seemed to drag on forever. Yet, the sky was not completely dark when they reached the ITC. No stars were visible. Timmilina was vaguely aware of men struggling against chains and women crying. Her own tears no longer flowed. Nothing seemed real. It was like watching a nightmare.
A scribe in purple silk with a gold ITC crest asked for the slave contract and quilled information onto a parchment form. Numbly, she followed her leash until Jonpur locked it to an iron ring in a long, stone-lined passage.
“Sit,” he ordered.
She sat on an oak bench. He disappeared through a door at her side. Sconces flickered with lamplight in the hallway. Her nose wrinkled with irritation, assaulted by fumes from smithy furnaces. Distant screams and barked orders echoed through the corridors. Owners and slaves passed by, but Timmilina was too engulfed in private fears to give them more than transitory glances.
Jonpur reappeared, unlocked her from the wall, and motioned toward the door. “In there, slave.”
She stepped through the doorway. Her leash landed with a clank on the floor. She blinked, looking back with surprise. The door slammed in her face. She shuddered, then turned to find another man scrutinizing her. He was muscular, clean, and neatly dressed in purple and gold. She didn’t look above his neck.
“I am Lord Galen Blackthorn. Your owner requested that you be trained to address him only as ‘Master’, so that is how you will address me. Forget who you were. Right now, you are ‘slave’. Do as you’re told and we should get along fine.”
She caught her lower lip between her teeth and nodded. Blackthorn scrawled notes to parchment as he watched her. “Come over here, slave.” Timmilina approached. He made a subtle hand signal to stop. She heeded it. He slipped a key into the padlock behind her back and released her arms. The iron fetters remained on her wrists. “First we need to get you out of those clothes and Mark your forearm.”
She gulped. Would she have to take off her clothes in front of him? She was afraid to ask. The other question was safer. “Mark?”
“Your Number. Your master isn’t bothering with an Owner’s Mark… unless you have plans to run away?”
Heavens, how she wanted to escape. But they sent hounds and horses after runaways and no one would dare help her remove the irons. The only chance at freedom was the Barbarian Wastelands, impossibly far away. She lowered her head and shook it. “No.”
“Wise choice.” He unlocked the leash and pooled it at his feet. “I’m going to fetch a tattooist. There’s a stack of training tunics on the shelf. Be wearing one when I return.” She nodded. He quilled more notes and exited.
She struggled to remove wet, dirty clothes around the iron bands. She wiped her face on her chemise before she discarded it to a heap on the floor. Even after she had the brown muslin tunic on, Timmilina felt exposed. The sleeves barely covered her elbows. There would be no hiding the Mark or the manacles. The hem ended at mid-calf. Her ankle bands and bare feet showed and her bloomers were too long.
She shuddered with humiliation and rummaged through the stack. Tunic after tunic, she held them up, only to discover that she already had the largest one on. With a resigned sigh, she discarded her blood-stained bloomers with the rest of her old clothes.
The door sprung open without warning. Blackthorn and another man wearing purple and gold entered. “Sit, girl,” the strange man ordered, pointing to a wooden chair behind a table. Timmilina obeyed.
Blackthorn hovered behind her, writing on his parchment. “Are you afraid?”
“Yes,” she admitted with a squeak.
“It hurts, but probably less than those bruises on your face,” the tattooist said as he took a chair on her right. He arranged ink and implements on the table.
Her back cheeks hurt more than the front ones, but she tried not to think about it. She presented her arm, sucked in her breath, and closed her eyes. Just then, her stomach growled.
“Hungry?” Blackthorn asked.
“I haven’t eaten since morning.”
“You missed supper, but if you do well with tonight’s training, I’ll see you get something to eat.”
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Blackthorn scrawled more notes.
“Her release date?” the tattooist asked.
“Queen’s Jubilee, one thousand twenty-two,” Blackthorn announced with an official air.
“Hold still, girl,” the tattooist ordered.
Blackthorn stepped around the table toward where her fettered wrist lay. Timmilina expected him to hold her hand down, but she felt the sting on her forearm first. She sucked in breath through gritted teeth, drew her fingers in a fist, but held her arm still. Her eyes squeezed shut again.
Blackthorn said, “Hmm.” She heard his quill scratch on parchment.
She endured the burning invasion in silence.
“Done,” the tattooist announced.
Timmilina breathed a sigh of relief. She opened her eyes, focusing on the newly inked “22”. She regarded it with ambivalence. While it was another shameful proof she was a slave, it was less cumbersome than the irons. If she survived three years, she could hide it under sleeves.
Blackthorn nodded approval to the tattooist. He gathered up his tools and left. Blackthorn turned to Timmilina. “Training starts now, slave. Kneel.”
Timmilina knew she had to, but she dreaded it. She looked for the closest rug to kneel on, and then stood.
“Obedience must be instant,” Blackthorn said.
She turned from the table and dropped to her knees on bare stone. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not going to punish you for something before I teach it. Just don’t hesitate next time.” More quill scratchings. Timmilina suspected he was writing down all her mistakes. He’d wait until he saved up a long list and then whip her good. “How did you get those bruises?”
“My… father,” she said with as little contempt as she could man
age, “did the left; Master did the right.”
The trainer rummaged through a box of padlocks. He paused. “Why did they hit you?”
“Father hit me because I didn’t bring him any fish tonight. Master hit me because I said, ‘Thank you, Master Hannon.’”
“He hit you for saying ‘thank you’?”
She felt rather vindicated that Blackthorn didn’t realize what so deserved the blow either. “No, for saying his name.”
He muttered something, and then asked, “Who is your owner, slave?”
“Master Hannon Jonpur,” Timmilina said with the same inflections Jonpur used.
“Very good.” Blackthorn crouched behind her. “Hands behind your back.”
She cringed, but remembered to obey quickly. The padlock clicked, securing her wrists. It took all her will not to moan. Maybe Gil had broken her arm after all.
The trainer slipped out the door. For several minutes, she remained motionless, expecting him to return at any time. Her mind conjured dozens of scenarios for what impended and none of them were pleasant.
She looked around the room. Sconces lit it reasonably well. The walls and floor were stone, but there were several rugs to lend a cozy feel. Besides the table and wooden chairs, there were two upholstered armchairs, a couch, and a desk with a padded chair behind it. There was even an inhouse with a hand pump and a watercloset.
Arms ached, her punished buttocks burned, and her legs grew numb. There was no hourglass in sight, but it seemed that she’d been on her knees for hours. “Master?” she called.
He returned as quickly and mysteriously as he left. “Did I give you permission to speak?”
“No,” she admitted with a wince.
A long silence followed. Blackthorn scribed more notes. “Questions are permitted if you have not been ordered to silence. What did you want?”
“Are you going to punish me?”
“If you disobey me, yes.”
“Why did you lock my hands then?”
“I don’t have to give you any reason. You are property. You may not question orders except to clarify your master’s wishes.”
A sigh escaped. “My knees and arms hurt.” She wasn’t about to tell him about her backside.
“Complaints are not permitted either.”