Ship of Magic

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. Wintrow 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.

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.”