Without Magic

by Tye Tivillus

  Chapter 2: A New Life

  Bo spent a long time in the back of the cart. It was dim, and someone at some time had pissed on the floor, leaving it damp and smelly. Twice they stopped to take on new passengers. One or two of the other children were crying, mostly silently, while the rest huddled sullenly. Bo thought he recognised one or two faces from the market streets, but there were so many children around that soon one face melded into the next. Much like the regular people found in The Gutter, those around Bo were a mixture of many different races. Here was a white child, probably a native of the city, there was a child with skin and hair as black as coal, most likely from across the seas. Many, like Bo, were different shades in between white and black – mongrels, as they were called. Bo himself was darker than most when it came to skin tone, but it meant little where he lived.

  One of the girls looked grimly cheerful. She caught and held Bo's green gaze with her own. Her hair was dark, and her skin was an olive brown. She had no special features to speak of. Still mute with anger, and horror, all Bo did was to stare at her until she finally spoke up.

  'Don't glare at me, I'm not the one as took you.'

  'Where are we going?' asked another boy shrilly. He was one of the ones who'd been quietly sobbing. The girl snapped an answer at him, clearly irritated by his lack of a backbone.

  'We're going to the castle, in the upper city. Be glad it's not the slavers market, 'cos you wouldn't last long, blubbing like that.' When asked how she knew so much, the girl smiled smugly, explaining that she was already 17 and had sold herself into slavery. After that, no one wanted to speak to her. It was clear she was the only person who was there by choice. Everyone else who spoke identified themselves as being within the ages of 14 and 16. It was odd to see such a collection of older children, and odder still that they had been bought directly by the castle. Usually it bought slaves from the markets, like everyone else. The most common slaves purchased were young ones from the age of 5 to 8, when they could still be trained and moulded for the life of a slave. Any younger and it was a chore bringing them up, any older and it was likely that they would attempt to escape, and would never fully take to the position, becoming easily depressed and on occasion suicidal. Never-the-less, older slaves had their uses, Bo reminded himself with a shudder. They could be turned into eunuchs and prostitutes, or served as some instant muscle if there was need of low ranking guards, gladiators, or stable hands. Being bought by the crown, however, was a mystery; surely they wouldn't be after eunuchs, which were kept by the temples and houses of pleasure in most cases, while prostitutes were more usually bought by private wealthy folk. Bo didn't think many of the children in the cart would survive as entertainment brawlers, as they (like him) had almost zero muscle bulk. In all he could hardly imagine a reason for the castle to be quite so desperate that they would need to buy their slaves directly from the townsfolk.

  After the last slave had been gathered, it took a total of two hours hunched in dark, close quarters with a group of strangers, to get to the castle. The cart rumbled over a lowered drawbridge, to the accompaniment of bellows from the guards. Bo had been half dozing, having drifted off staring at the wall from two inches away. After another half hour of stopping and starting, with the anxiety levels of the prisoners rising slowly, there was a crack of daylight let in from the doors. Most of the teens had to shield their eyes from the glare, after being cooped up in the dark, and one after another they were hauled out into a yard. Blinking sheepishly in the sunlight, they were met by a large burly looking man. He sported a monocle, and a long thin stick that he flexed between two hands, as though desperately wishing to whip someone with it. He had a marvellous moustache that he seemed to have taken great pride in, as it was firmly waxed into position, without even one stray hair sprouting from it, almost as if the entire thing had been drawn on.

  Bo was trying to blink away the dots in his vision and stretch his aching shoulders. His hands were still firmly fixed behind his back, as were a number of other teens. They were ushered into a single group, labelled 'troublemakers'.

  'Alright my little scumbuckets!' bellowed the man with the monocle, 'Doncha move unless ordered to, or my men will play target practice with yer bodies, and I tell you now that they don't need the practice.' A handful of guards grinned ghoulishly at one another, each holding a strung bow in one hand, and an arrow in the other with the sort of casual stance achieved only by those who are well practised in their discipline. 'Yer a part of the castle now, so we gotta getcher fitted out proper, like. Yeh'll be given slave collars, courtesy of the crown, and a set of clothes, watcha WILL wear fer two days and then change from the clean laundry bucket, 'cept in special cases. None of you lot have been taught what to do and what not ter do in front of royalty and the like, so none of yer will be allowed into the main castle, and you will be punished if we find you there. Can't have yer pissing in the corner and whatnot, it'd make the ladies die of fright ter see you common roachers.' Again the guards shared grins, until the man with the monocle turned to face them. They quickly wiped the smirks from their faces, once again 'all business'.

  The monocled man, later introduced as 'Master Sir' to the new slaves, watched as small groups were taken to be stripped, washed, shaved, showered in anti-flea and lice powder, and then clothed in simple servant garb. Each part of the process was set up in an area that was off to the side of the castle's main courtyard, near a servant entrance. The ground felt rough and rocky to Bo's unshod feet, and he was mortified to see more than one idle servant or slave spectating with a group of friends as The Gutter children were initiated into service.

  Bo and the other troublemakers were to go through the ordeal first, and they were escorted by a number of bowmen who seemed eager to test their skills on a moving target.

  'I reckon the little un's gunna run first. Give yer a sliver if 'e does, and three ronzies on the little lady.' Shuddering with apprehension at the thought of what would happen should he run, Bo shuffled miserably towards the hoses. The gravel underfoot grated at his feet and the sun shone dimly overhead, hardly strong enough to warm his back. Reaching a hastily built wooden platform, two of the guards set about cutting the clothes from each new slave, and tossing them on a nearby bonfire. Bo remained stoically silent as the large powerful hand of a guard clapped down on his shoulder, holding him steady while his clothes were destroyed. The chill Autumn air quickly brought up goosebumps on Bo's exposed flesh and the teen slumped even more as he was led onto the wooden stage with three or four others. It was already wet underfoot, and dangerously slippery in places. The cart Bo and his group had come in on was the last of the day, and it was clear there had been quite a stream of incoming slaves that had gone before them. Bo turned to face the front as he was ordered, only to be blasted with high power water. One of the other smaller boys slipped and fell. He wasn't able to get up again without assistance. The water used to wash down the slaves was cold, causing Bo to gasp and receive a mouthful of the stuff. As Bo choked and spluttered, momentarily distracted from the terrible cold, he noticed that the water was being blasted from a hose, powered by a mage. To him this seemed an excessively wasteful use of magic, and it was something of a shock that the castle could spare a mage simply to wash down a couple of urchins.

  Somehow there were a number of servant girls who had managed to get the job of roughly scrubbing all new initiatives, and they tittered and giggled no end to see all of the naked boys. One or two of the troublemakers were keeping up a false bravado that Bo envied. One even winked at the girls who were scrubbing him down, making them blush and titter even more. Bo would have liked to hide his dignity, as he did not wish to be quite so intimate with the many strangers who were gawping and gaping at the spectacle, but he, and the rest of the troublemakers, remained bound throughout the ordeal as a form of protection to those who had to deal with them. The teen tried not to look at the crowd that had formed, favouring keeping his eyes on his own two feet. Unlike many of those around him, Bo d
id not particularly like to have girls washing him down, and he wished more than ever that he had his hands free to do the job himself. The teen was sure this sort of thing was banned by the laws of chivalry, but there was little he could do or say to prevent it.

  As soon as they were scrubbed red raw, the small group was shoved from the stage. As they exited, trying not to slip or fall with the forced march over the wet wood, a sackful of anti-flea powder was dumped on them haphazardly. The white, floury powder clung to the slave's wet bodies, stinging at their eyes and any exposed wounds. If the slave had been unfortunate enough to have their mouth open at the time, they would have also discovered that it tasted extremely bitter. Bo coughed, trying not to inhale any of the stuff, and blinking furiously as his eyes watered from the sting. Stumbling the rest of the way down from the stage, he noted that his skin looked ghostly and pale, and that with an even coat of white, it was difficult to tell one person from another.

  Bo had never felt so humiliated in all his life. Having taken care of himself in private since he was three or four, he considered washing, and dressing and all other aspects of life to be something that should not be carried out under the eyes of others. Said others, however, were not so ashamed, having lived wilder lives. The girl who had sold herself and was apparently 17, showed no shame at all, stripping off and coldly eyeing the boys that gawked at her rudely from the ranks of those waiting to be cleansed. Bo, however, had no time to watch what other people were doing, as he was quickly grabbed by a barber, like a sheep by a shearer.

  'Aright kid, stay still wouldja?' grumbled the man, brandishing a wicked looking blade. Bo did as he was told, not wanting to have anything other than his hair cut off. Although he'd had short hair already, the teen was still sad to have it shaved off. The whole process took little over five minutes, as the barber seemed to scrape the blade across Bo's scalp with a reckless, inhuman speed, leaving him with ragged uneven stubble. Bo watched as his light blonde hair fell in wet clumps to the ground, to be swept away by young apprentices, who were doing their best not to stare at those unfortunates around them. The barber's talent was measured in the number of nicks and scratches Bo accumulated, versus the speed with which he was shaved. In all he felt that a better barber could have been found in a crazed monk, but he wasn't about to say this out loud and risk losing an ear. The teen's muscles were starting to complain by the time he was released, and his head and shoulders itched horribly, both from the cut hair that had not been swept away, and from the flea powder. Bo groaned with impatience, wishing his hands were free to brush the offending detritus away, and to run them over his newly shaved head. Instead, the bowmen, who seemed to have quickly grown bored of the whole event, guarded those who had been washed, powdered and shaved with a level of dissatisfied disinterest that occasionally extended to smacking the nearest urchin around the head for looking at them the wrong way.

  After the troublemakers had all been through the first three steps, they were quickly escorted to the last station. Here they were provided with clothes. Bo sighed with relief as the soggy leather bindings were finally cut away from his wrists, freeing his hands. The guards seemed more attentive than ever, even to the point of readying their bows. Bo hardly dared to scratch his neck and shoulders, but the itch had grown to a point where he could no longer restrain himself, and the teen quickly brushed away the offending hairs before donning his new uniform. Thankfully the guards did not seem to care particularly, and Bo was free to satisfy his itches with a relief that was almost akin to religious revelation.

  The clothes provided for the new slaves were a simple affair, consisting of a pair of undyed under shorts, three quarter length pants of a thicker weave material, and a sleeveless shirt. Women were also supplied with a breast-bracer. For shoes the slaves were given simple wrap around affairs, made of a single piece of very stiff leather that were bound to the foot with cloth. The clothes were rough and itchy, and many of them were pre-loved to the point of consisting more of patches than of the original cloth. The pants and shirt were not well tailored, having as much grace and style on the underfed street urchins as a sack, but Bo was not going to complain as he was simply glad to have something with which to hide his body from curious onlookers. The clothes felt loose and airy on him, but Bo had no time to appraise his new apparel as he, and the other troublemakers, were swiftly herded to what looked like a smithing forge. One by one they went in, and came out with a brass collar.

  Inside the forge room was hot, and despite the cold water from earlier, and the Autumn chill, Bo could feel the prickle of sweat all over his body as he was lead toward the flames. His nose was pinched by the sharp scent of metal and coal, while his ears picked out a harsh scraping noise as the smith prepared something in the gloom. The smith was well muscled, but younger than Bo had expected, and clean shaven. The teen was forced to kneel on the ground, which was covered in old hay. His head was placed next to an anvil, and a collar loosely fitted around his neck. The collar was a simple circuit, uncomfortably warm on Bo's bare neck but not burning hot. Lightly the smithy tapped at it with some tool that Bo couldn't see, and the boy's ears rang with each blow. Finally the man muttered a few words of magic over the metal, and it glowed a bright white, before quickly cooling. While he affixed Bo's collar, the man never said a word, and his face remained unreadable, at least at the times when Bo could see it.

  'Caw this is a terrible job ter be doin on such a nice day, yer reckon?' grumbled the guard, prompted into conversation with the smith through boredom. The smith never looked up from his work, and did not respond. Undeterred the guard continued to chatter, leaning on a post idly while he speculated on how the new slaves would fare. 'This un's pretty quiet, innee?' the guard said finally, nudging Bo with his foot. There was clear disappointment in his tone. 'I thought he'd be more interestin', bein' one of them troublemakers 'n' all.'

  'I wish you'd follow his example and shut up,' growled the smith. With that he hauled Bo to his feet and handed him over, ready for the next urchin.

  After the collar, the slaves had one last indignity to endure before they were fully indoctrinated. A large X was to be tattooed into each slave's right hand. Should they ever escape, the collar might be easy enough to get off, but the tattoo would not be. Anyone who saw it would know that they were a runaway from the castle, and they would be hunted by those keen to get the reward for a returned slave. Bo had to bite his lower lip to keep from verbalising his pain. Initially he'd been unable to hold his hand still, so it had been held there for him until the pain from the tattoo made his hand throb, ache and sting all at the same time. When his hand had felt like an unwieldy club that wasn't strictly a part of his body, he'd been able to hold it there himself. Despite the occasional uncontrolled jerk or twitch the X had come out clear and straight. It looked raised and unhappy, and there was a small amount of blood coming from it. A healer mage stood nearby, for smoothing over the new tattoos and making sure each new slave would be ready for work the next day. As each new tattoo was brought before them they would pass a hand over it while muttering a few words. The tattooed appendage would come away healed, with a bright, clear black X on it. Bo's hand was snatched up by the bored healer, who passed their fingers lightly over the wound, muttering in a mechanical way, as though it had become more of a meaningless chant than a spell. Nothing happened to quench the pain, and Bo looked down to see the spell hadn't worked at all. He looked back up questioningly at the healer who was as confused as Bo. Having never been healed by magic before Bo didn't know what to expect, but he was fairly certain something had gone wrong. The mage tried two more times, but as the trouble was causing a delay, and slaves with tattoos to be healed were starting to get held up, Bo was taken aside, and his hand was hurriedly wrapped with bandages instead of healed properly.

  Although he had done little that day, Bo was sore, depressed, and tired, as though he had spent his time running about on courier work. He felt like a sheep being pushed around by overly aggressive do
gs. Most of the flea powder had rubbed off by the end of the process. The boy found himself yawning and sagging with a group of his peers, back next to the cart where it had all begun. The cart smelled awful and Bo subtly tried to sidle away from it. He couldn't help but wonder if that was how he'd smelled earlier in the day. The thoughts were quickly pushed from his head as Master Sir strode into view, chest jutting out and puffed up like a pigeon in search of a mate.

  'Ah look how pretty you all are!' he exclaimed. He grinned toothily and his monocle flashed. It must have been made of real glass. Bo briefly wondered if Master Sir even needed it for his vision, or whether it was purely cosmetic. As if hearing this, the man turned to look at Bo. The teen tried not to squirm uncomfortably under the man's gaze, as Master Sir frowned. For a moment it looked like he was going to come over, but in the end he just muttered something, turning away and taking off his monocle to polish it. 'Now, I want you to observe your pretty new necklaces. These have the magics in them! So if you do something as what you aren't allowed ter do, you better watch out. Tell yer what, I always say a demonstration works better than words, don't I lads?' His archers grinned, but it wasn't the kind of amused grin they'd had earlier. 'First we need a volunteer!' the man's gaze swept over the small group. Bo shuddered, hoping whatever was happening, it wouldn't happen to him. He glanced up, accidentally meeting Master Sir's eyes just as the old coot was looking at him, and quickly glanced down again.

  'You!' bellowed the man. Bo looked up quickly again, heart in mouth. Master Sir's finger quivered, pointing in the direction of a scrawny boy to the front of the group. Bo let out a shaky sigh of relief.

  The boy, even smaller in stature than Bo with a stick thin body and almost unnaturally large eyes, stepped forward. He looked like a ghoul with his shaved head, or a skeleton. There were streaks in the powder coating his face where tears had trickled down his bird-like features.

  'One of the unbreakable laws for slaves here is not to strike anyone who is not of the same rank or below. That means you pisspots are on the bottom of the ladder. Striking anyone without a brass collar will incur a punishment, as will any other misdemeanour.' He turned to the boy standing in front of him and snarled. 'Now, I want you to strike me.'

  'S-strike you?' The boy asked incredulously. Master Sir cuffed him around the head.

  'Don't forget to speak my name when you address me.' The Master gestured to his face, which was grinning fiercely. 'Go on boy, strike me.' Bo frowned. Master Sir clearly enjoyed bullying the youth, who looked so small and scrawny that he'd barely be able to reach up to Master's face, let alone punch the fellow. With a shocking turn of speed the boy straightened up and sent a punch flying toward Master Sir's face. No one had imagined the scrawny boy would be able to move so fast, and although there was little muscle behind the blow, anyone could see that he knew his way around a punch. Master Sir flinched, hastily straightening up and rocking back on his heels, even though the punch never even had a chance at connecting. Before the fist could reach Master Sir's face, the boy cried out, stumbling back and falling to the ground. He clutched at his collar with both hands, trying to tear it from his neck. Master Sir nudged the stricken boy with a foot casually. It was clear he was displeased that the boy had made him flinch in front of the gathered audience of his own men, and the castle servants. He scowled at the rest of the new slaves as if daring them to voice an opinion. 'As you lot can see - set off the collar, and for you brassers it keeps going until someone like me, or another person of my rank or higher turns it off again.' He looked back at the boy who was thrashing and heaving on the ground. After a moment that stretched out altogether too long, Master Sir muttered something and the boy stopped moving. He was still trembling slightly, but all attention was once again on the man with the monocle. 'Alright ladies, let's move out. You'll sleep in your new quarters tonight, and before sunrise you'll be split into pairs. Each pair will be assigned to a silver collar slave, who will show you the ropes. My men here will show you the way.' With that Master Sir left, striding back to the castle, while his goons were lumped with the job of shepherding 25 new slaves to their quarters.