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.
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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 towards 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 re-acquaint 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 friend 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.
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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 torch-lit 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 stout hands here, good for farm, field or stable; got a warmhearted 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 holler 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 silver!” 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 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 effaces. 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!”
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“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 slowly, 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 neighbors, 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. Win-trow 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 like 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 farm hands 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 anymore 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.
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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. ”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE - DREAMS AND REALITY
THE DREAM-BOX IS MISSING MALTA LOOKED FROM ONE SOLEMN FACE TO THE other. Both her mother and grandmother were watching her intently. Her eyes widened in surprise. “How could it be? Are you certain?”