Ship of Magic

“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.

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.