Ship of Magic

And on that fine conclusion, his thoughts halted and teetered. He simply didn't know.

So he sat in the corner of his pen and idly watched the buyers who came to peruse the cheap and undesirable slaves across from him. He was hungry and cold and uncomfortable. But the worst sensation of all was his indecision. That was what kept him from curling up in a morose ball and sleeping.

He did not recognize Torg walking slowly along the fronts of the slave stalls for several minutes. Then, when he did, he was shocked when his heart gave a leap of near joy. What it was, he realized, was relief. Torg would see him and tell his father. He would not have to make what he had always suspected was a cowardly decision. Torg would do it for him. And when his father came for him, he could not mock him that he had cried out for help from him.

Much insight into himself could have been gained from a contemplation of these things, but Wintrow reined his mind away from it. Perhaps he did not want to know himself quite that well. Instead he abruptly stood up. He moved to the corner of his pen to lounge defiantly against the wall. He crossed his arms on his chest and waited for Torg to notice him.

It was surprisingly difficult to stand still and silent and wait for Torg to notice him. Torg was making his way slowly down the opposite row, examining every slave, dickering with the keeper, and then either nodding or shaking his head. The keeper had a tally block he was marking as they came. After a time, it puzzled Wintrow. Torg seemed to be buying a substantial number of slaves, but these were not the artisans and educated slaves that his father had spoken of acquiring.

He watched Torg swagger along, obviously impressed with his own importance as a buyer of human flesh. He strutted for the keeper as if he were a man worth impressing, inspecting the slaves with fine disregard for their dignity or comfort. The longer Wintrow watched him, the more he despised the man. Here, then, was the counterpoint to the slaves' loss of spirit and spark: a man whose self-importance fed on the humiliation and degradation of others.

And yet there was a horrible kernel of fear in Wintrow's waiting, too. What if Torg did not turn and notice him? What then? Would Wintrow abase himself by calling out to the man? Or let him pass by, and face a future full of dealing with other Torgs? Just as Wintrow thought he would cry out, just as he bit down on his own tongue to keep it from betraying him, Torg glanced at him. And away, and then back, as if he could not believe what his eyes had shown him. His eyes widened, and then a grin split his face. He immediately left his task to stride over to Wintrow.

“Well, well,” he exclaimed in vast satisfaction. “I do believe I've earned myself quite a bonus here. Quite a bonus.” His eyes roved up and down Wintrow, taking in the straw clinging to his worn robe, to the shackles around his chafed ankles and his face white with cold. “Well, well,” he repeated. “Doesn't look as if your freedom lasted long, holy boy.”

“Do you know this prisoner?” the keeper demanded as he came to stand beside Torg.

“Indeed I do. His father is ... my business partner. He has been wondering where his son disappeared to.”

“Ah. Then it is fortunate for you that you have found him today. Tomorrow, his freedom would have been forfeit for his fine. He would have been tattooed the Satrap's slave, and sold.”

“The Satrap's slave.” The grin came back to Torg's face. His pale eyebrows danced over his gray eyes. “Now, there's an amusing idea.” Wintrow could almost see the slow workings of Torg's brain. “How much is the boy's fine?” he demanded suddenly of the keeper.

The old man consulted a tally cord at his waist. “Twelve bits of silver. He killed one of the Satrap's other slaves, you know.”

“He what?” For a moment Torg looked incredulous. Then he burst out laughing. “Well, I doubt that, but I don't doubt there's quite a tale attached to it. So. If I come back with twelve silver bits tonight, I buy him free. What if I don't?” He narrowed both his eyes and grinned as he asked, more of Wintrow than the keeper, “What would he sell for tomorrow?”

The keeper shrugged. “Whatever he would bring. New slaves are generally auctioned. Sometimes they have friends or family who are willing to buy them free. Or enemies eager to have them as slaves. The auction bidding can be quite fierce. And sometimes amusing as well.” The keeper had seen who had the power and was playing to him. “You could wait it out, and buy him back. Perhaps you'd save a coin or two. Perhaps you'd have to pay more. But he would be marked by then, marked with the Satrap's sigil. You or his father could grant him his freedom after that, of course. But he'd have to have some tattoo from you, and some sort of paper or ring to say he was free.”