Slaves of Socorro

  ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘You look just like a slave!’

  Ingvar looked sidelong at the strip of cloth hanging beside his face. ‘Why would a slave have a dirty piece of linen tied round his head?’

  Thorn shrugged. ‘No idea. But it does make you look the part. It gives you a sort of . . . melancholy look.’

  ‘I’ll give you a melancholy look when we get back,’ Ingvar threatened jokingly.

  They tied Ingvar’s hands securely in front of him, then fastened a length of old chain around his neck. Jesper had bought the chain and several old padlocks earlier in the bazaar.

  Ulf and Wulf regarded their giant shipmate quizzically.

  ‘He does look a little like a trained bear,’ Ulf said and Wulf nodded. For once, they were reasonably sure that Ingvar, burdened as he was, couldn’t throw either of them overboard.

  ‘And you two look like a pair of chattering monkeys,’ Lydia said acidly. She liked Ingvar and she didn’t enjoy seeing him being teased by the twins.

  They both looked suitably taken aback by her comment. They were never entirely sure about Lydia. She didn’t seem to have a strong sense of humour and her hand was always hovering by the long dirk she wore at her side. The long, sharp dirk she wore at her side.

  Ingvar smiled tolerantly. ‘It’s all right, Lydia. When I get back I’ll knock their heads together.’

  She patted his arm. ‘I’ll look forward to that,’ she told him. Even though she knew it was play acting, the sight of Ingvar trussed and chained and ready to be sold as a slave upset her. The sooner this was all over, the better, she thought. She looked up, surprised, as Hal gave voice to the thought that had just run through her mind.

  ‘Sooner we get this done, the better,’ he said. ‘Jesper, take the lead.’

  The plan was for Jesper to precede them through the streets of Socorro by thirty or forty metres. He could slip unobtrusively through the crowds, while they would obviously draw attention. If Jesper caught sight of Tursgud or any of his crew, he would hurry back and warn them. After all, the massive Ingvar and the shaggy, bearded, one-armed Thorn were a distinctive pair and Hal didn’t wish the renegade skirl to have any warning of their presence in the city.

  ‘Are you sure you’ll recognise Tursgud’s men if you see them?’ Hal asked.

  Jesper nodded confidently. ‘I’ve seen them often enough, lounging around the tavern in Hallasholm as if they own it,’ he said. ‘Besides, they all have a distinctive rat-like manner that’s hard to miss.’

  They set out, with Jesper scouting on ahead, Hal leading Ingvar by the chain around his neck and Stig and Thorn, fully armed and weapons ready, pacing either side of him, as if guarding him. Stig carried his battleaxe. Thorn elected not to wear his club-hand. Instead, he wore a small shield on his right hook and carried a sword slung on his right hip, ready to be drawn left-handed.

  Hal was unarmed, save for his saxe knife, which actually meant that he was more than adequately armed.

  They walked in a large arc to the east, giving a wide berth to the arm of the harbour where Nightwolf was moored. Hal reasoned that her crew would most likely contain their movements to the taverns and inns closer to the waterfront. There was no reason why they should venture further inland.

  But still, you never could be sure, which was why Jesper preceded them. The streets were narrow and winding, crammed with people moving in both directions. The little procession drew curious glances from passers-by. Ingvar was enough to draw a second glance. He towered over most people in the street and his massive shoulders and arms were thick and hard with muscle. Seeing his size and the rope and chain bindings that contained him, most people drew aside as the group passed them.

  They emerged from one of the narrow streets into an open plaza. Ahead of them, and on the opposite side, was the sprawling mass of the gold market. The high walls were built from blocks of sandstone. There was an entryway a few metres to their right. The gates were massive, made of blackwood, studded with iron bolts and reinforced with heavy strips of the same material.

  Stig whistled quietly. ‘Pretty impressive,’ he said. ‘Are they all like that?’

  ‘According to Gilan, yes,’ Hal said.

  Jesper, who had waited for them at the beginning of the plaza, curled his lip at the sight of the lock on the gate.

  ‘I’d have that open in twenty seconds,’ he said disparagingly. The gate might look massive, but the lock was old-fashioned and, in Jesper’s view, barely more efficient than a loop of rope over a post. A stream of people moved into the market, hurrying and jostling one another as they went.

  ‘When does it close?’ Thorn asked.

  Hal looked round at him. ‘According to Gilan, it doesn’t. They trade twenty-four hours a day. Of course, things slow down a little late at night.’ He signalled for Jesper to take the lead once more, heading left.

  They passed the corner and headed around the eastern side of the market. Stig craned his head as he turned back to look the way they had come, then at the distance remaining before them.

  ‘This place is huge!’ he said.

  Thorn nodded. ‘Gilan said it’s like a town within a town.’ Earlier, Gilan had apprised them of this plan to stage a diversion by lighting a fire in the gold market.

  Eventually, they reached the end of the eastern wall and turned the corner. The slave market stood before them, fifty metres away.

  It was a huge wooden amphitheatre, a circle of high timber walls, unpainted and faded to grey by the desert sun and wind.

  The walls were four metres high and, from where the Skandians stood, offered no way of entry. They were featureless and unwelcoming, stretching away in a curve on both sides and presenting a blank face to the world outside. It was a sobering sight, totally in keeping with the nature of the place.

  For a moment, they stood uncertainly, baffled by the uncompromising nature of those grim, grey walls that seemed to offer no way of entering or leaving. Then Hal gathered his wits and pointed to the right.

  ‘There must be a gate somewhere,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

  Following his lead, they began circumnavigating the massive circular structure. But as they did, they continued to be faced by blank walls until they began to half believe that there was no way in, that they would complete a full circle back to where they had begun without discovering a way into the slave market. Even Jesper was discouraged.

  ‘How can I break in if I can’t find a lock?’ he muttered.

  And then they came to the gateway.

  It was built under a high timber entryway, consisting of a massive beam that was supported above an opening in the wall – an opening that was five metres wide and barred by double gates built in the same grey timber as the walls. Above the gates, the walls extended upwards for another two metres and there was obviously a walkway behind them. Hal could see half a dozen guards staring down at them, armoured in the customary chain mail and leather, and with conical spiked helmets incorporated in a turban-like headdress. One of them turned away and called off to the side, where a small enclosed structure was situated. A door opened in response to the call and an officer emerged. He was more expensively equipped than the guards on the rampart. His helmet was silver plated, as was the chain mail vest he wore. Both helmet and mail gleamed in the sun. Unlike the other guards, he didn’t carry a spear, although Hal was sure that there would be a curved sword belted round his waist.

  The guard who had summoned him pointed down to the small party waiting outside the gate. The officer leaned over the timber balustrade and shouted down to them.

  ‘No entry until the eve of the sale!’ he said. He sounded angry, as if this was a call that he made all too often to foreigners. ‘Come back then. Sellers only until then!’

  Hal glanced at Thorn, who cupped his hands and bellowed back, in a voice that was trained to carry above the roar of storm winds and waves.

  ‘We’re selling!’ he shouted, jerking a thumb towards the tethered Ingvar. ‘What do yo
u think this is – a side of mutton?’

  ‘Not very flattering, Thorn,’ Ingvar muttered.

  Thorn shrugged and grinned at him. ‘We’re not here to flatter you, just to sell you,’ he said.

  There was a quick consultation on the walls above them. The officer shouted down again.

  ‘All right. Stand back while we open up. And you’ll leave your weapons at the guardhouse inside.’

  They heard feet descending a timber stairway inside the walls. Then, a few moments later, the massive gates began to creak open, a gap forming between them, then growing to twice the width of a man’s shoulders. At that point, the gates stopped moving. Obviously, the guards weren’t about to open up too wide, in case there were other men lurking somewhere to the sides, ready to rush in.

  ‘Come on in!’ shouted the officer. ‘And no tricks or we’ll skewer you!’

  ‘Charming,’ Thorn said in a low voice. Then he bowed and gestured for Hal and Ingvar to precede him through the gate and into whatever lay beyond.

  What lay beyond was a vast, circular arena, with a floor of thick, grey sand.

  In the centre was a raised platform – presumably where the slaves to be sold would be put on display. Wooden steps led up to it on either side. Around the arena were rows and rows of benches, rising in tiers. Hal counted quickly. There were eight rows of benches, rising steeply from the arena floor. This would be where the buyers and spectators sat, calling their bids to the auctioneer and his assistants on that central platform. At a quick guess, he estimated the benches would hold between one thousand and fifteen hundred customers.

  On the far side, directly opposite the entrance they had just passed through, the rows of benches were interrupted by another massive opening. This one led to a recessed gate, level with the rear row of seats. The tiers of seats formed a slope-sided tunnel either side of the entry, with timber railing preventing those in the seats from falling into the gap.

  Level with the back wall of the arena, there was another heavily fortified gate.

  As they stepped onto the sand-covered floor of the arena, they were met by half a dozen guards, all armed with swords and spears and wearing leather and mail armour. They wore the now familiar turban/helmet combination. The guards formed a loose cordon around them, watching them warily, ready for any sign of aggression.

  Hal held up his hands in a gesture of peace.

  ‘Relax,’ he told them. ‘We’re here to sell, not to fight.’

  One of them, obviously the senior, gestured to the sand at his feet.

  ‘Weapons,’ he said. ‘Drop your weapons.’

  Hal turned to his companions. ‘Do as he says,’ he told them. He could see that neither Stig nor Jesper liked the idea of surrendering their weapons. Thorn appeared more philosophical about the whole thing.

  ‘You’ll get them back when you leave,’ the guard told them. ‘But no weapons are allowed in the slave quarters.’

  That was reasonable enough, Hal thought. There were dull thuds as Stig’s axe, then Jesper’s and Thorn’s swords, fell to the sand. One of the guards handed his spear to his neighbour and moved forward, stooping quickly to gather the weapons. He carried them to one side, and deposited them on a table.

  ‘Knives too,’ said the man in charge. All of the Skandians were wearing saxe knives. At his urging, they unbuckled them and handed the belts and sheathed weapons to the same guard. The saxes joined the other weapons on the table. Hal’s waist felt unnaturally light without the reassuring weight of the knife nestled there.

  Satisfied that they posed no threat, the guard in command beckoned them to follow, heading for the opposite gateway. They fell in behind him, Hal leading the way with Ingvar, then Jesper, Thorn and Stig in a tight knot. Jesper’s eyes darted quickly about him, taking in the size of the gates and any other detail that might be important when they came to break in. So far, he could see nothing that would delay him more than a few seconds.

  They trudged through the thick sand to the gateway. The guards kept pace with them, forming a screen around them. They stepped into the shade of the entry tunnel and the commander of their escort produced a ring of keys and proceeded to unlock the gate that faced them.

  Jesper’s lip twitched derisively as he looked at the key, and the massive lock it fitted.

  The guard shoved one of the double gates open and gestured for them to enter. They trooped in, their escorts following them, and found themselves in a large, well-lit room.

  It was bare of furniture, apart from a rectangular table set facing the entry. A man sat at the table, looking up at them as they entered. He was small and dapper, with olive skin and a thin black moustache. He was dressed in the usual long white robe but, instead of a kheffiyeh, he wore a green turban. His dark, quick-moving eyes assessed them, lingering for a moment on Ingvar’s massive frame. He quickly categorised Stig and Thorn, marking them down as guards – muscle tasked with keeping the massive slave in line. Hal, he could see, was in charge. Jesper was another matter altogether. He frowned and pointed at him, addressing himself to Hal.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘My secretary,’ Hal replied without hesitation. ‘My assistant,’ he added, when the man seemed puzzled. The dark eyes checked Jesper again and seemed satisfied with the answer. Probably, he thought cynically, the ‘assistant’ was the only one among them who could count or calculate.

  ‘I’m Mahmel,’ the man said, making no movement to rise or to shake hands with them. He wasn’t introducing himself so much as identifying himself to them, and that required no ceremony. ‘I’m the market co-ordinator. You’re looking to sell this slave, I take it?’

  Hal prevaricated. ‘Well, I could be,’ he said. ‘It depends on the price I get. What’s he worth?’

  Mahmel looked at him with world-weary eyes. He wasn’t about to start haggling.

  ‘Where are you from?’ he asked, changing tack. Hal wondered what that had to do with the price but he answered readily enough.

  ‘We’re Hellenese,’ he said. ‘You know our country?’

  ‘Yes. I know it,’ Mahmel said in a bored tone. ‘And I know the people of Helleno love to haggle. You’ll do it all day if you get the chance. But we don’t do it here in this slave market. Your slave here –’ he jerked a thumb at Ingvar ‘– is worth whatever the highest bidder is willing to pay for him. No more. No less.’

  ‘That might not be acceptable to me,’ Hal said, a trace of righteous indignation in his voice.

  Mahmel shrugged. He made it an expressive, graceful movement.

  ‘Then that will be a pity, because you will take what is offered. That’s the rule of this market. Once you bring a slave here for sale, you accept our terms and conditions. You can’t beat around the bush and waste everyone’s time with your Hellenese-style bargaining. He’s here. He’s for sale. You take what you get – less our commission.’

  ‘Nobody told me that,’ Hal began.

  Mahmel raised a hand to stop him. ‘Did you ask anyone?’

  Hal hesitated. ‘Well . . . no. But I –’

  ‘Then that was your mistake,’ the manager said, with a tone that said no further discussion was invited. ‘If you bring him here to sell him, you automatically accept the rules and conditions of the market.’

  ‘That’s not fair! I –’

  ‘You assumed that you could set your own rules? Well, you can’t. He’s here. He’s in the auction in three days’ time. And he’ll stay here until then.’

  Hal glanced desperately at Thorn and Stig. Thorn gave the slightest shrug of his shoulders. They couldn’t really argue too strongly. They were unarmed and outnumbered. Mahmel had obviously done this before. Yet they hadn’t considered the possibility that Ingvar might be held here and forbidden to leave.

  Ingvar stepped forward, his hands joined in a pleading gesture towards Mahmel. The instant he moved, there was a multiple rasp of steel on leather and their escort all drew their swords. He stepped back a pace immediately, but spoke in a pitiful w
hine.

  ‘Please, sir,’ he said, ‘may I talk to my master?’

  Up until now, the discussion had been carried on in the common tongue. But now Ingvar spoke in Skandian.

  Mahmel frowned, obviously not understanding. ‘I don’t speak Hellenese,’ he snapped. Then he looked at Hal. ‘Tell him to speak the universal tongue if he speaks to me. Better still, tell him not to speak to me.’

  But before Hal could say anything, Ingvar turned to him and dropped to his knees, sobbing as he spoke. He had spoken Skandian to see if Mahmel could understand the language. Now, seeing that he obviously couldn’t, Ingvar spoke urgently to Hal. His words, however, were completely at variance to the tone of submissive pleading that he adopted.

  ‘This is a good thing, Hal. If I’m kept prisoner here, I can contact the Araluan captives and get them ready for the breakout.’

  Hal glanced at him, working overtime to keep the look of admiration from his face. People all too often thought of Ingvar as slow, because of his size and his poor vision. But his mind was as sharp as a sword and he’d instantly seen the advantage that would come from having someone on the inside at the slave market.

  ‘Good point, Ingvar. I hadn’t thought of that,’ he said, making his words sound harsh and commanding. He looked back at Mahmel. ‘I’ve told him that if he doesn’t obey you, you’ll beat him with whips.’

  Mahmel shrugged. ‘Of course I will. Someone that size needs to be kept in line.’

  ‘Exactly. And that raises another matter. If you’re planning to keep him prisoner here . . .’ He paused.

  ‘And I am.’

  ‘Then I want reassurance that you’re capable of holding him. He’s my property, he’s a valuable slave and I want to know that your arrangements here are secure. After all, as you point out, he’s big and powerful and he could be a handful for your men.’

  Mahmel considered the request. It was perfectly reasonable, he thought. After all, the young Hellenese had deemed it necessary to have two brawny armed men to control the slave. The request simply showed that he had a good head for business, and that was something Mahmel respected.