by Mel Odom
No one had ever known what had happened to the city at the time of the Cataclysm, Wick knew. The great libraries that had been stored there had been shipped to Greydawn Moors, it was said, but the ships never made it to the Vault of All Known Knowledge. Some librarians thought that the ships had gone down in a violent storm at sea. Others believed that Dream had perhaps never existed. There was nothing left of the city except for bits and pieces of information that couldn’t be verified, and hand-me-down stories told by humans claiming to be Silver Sea sailors.
The city had existed, Wick thought as tears ran down his face. He thought about everything that had been lost there. The thought of all the fine libraries of books that had probably been burned by torches carried by vengeful goblinkin under the orders of Lord Kharrion tortured the little librarian. But far, far more had been lost as well, he knew. With so many buildings in evidence, he was certain that not even the fine ships of the Silver Sea sailors had been able to get all of the populace to safety. He couldn’t guess at the number of families that had died in their homes here, or in the streets fighting for their city.
This was also the place, Wick remembered, that the Changelings were said to have made their final sacrifice, giving up beauty and intelligence and their wings as payment for their arrogance and vanity, in order to halt the Goblin Lord’s destruction of the world.
Is that true? Wick looked at the fountain, trying to take everything in. He longed to be able to bring out his journal and capture the image of the fountain. It would be a terrible thing to reveal it as it was now, but it would also be a confirmation of all those legends, one more linchpin in the chain of truth the Librarians of Greydawn Moors labored to find amid their cataloguing efforts.
And he was the only one who knew.
A cold, mournful wind swept up from nowhere, rushing pell-mell over the slaves awaiting auction. Wick shivered, listening to the sound of the wind fade away as those gathered to buy slaves pulled at their cloaks and outerwear to stay warm.
A rough hand pushed Wick’s shoulder, breaking him from the melancholy that gripped him. He tore his gaze away from the great fountain with difficulty and glanced at the grim visage of the goblin that had shoved him.
“Move along,” the goblin growled gutturally. “It ain’t like we got all morning to get ye sold.”
Wick moved forward, suddenly aware of the space that separated him from the other slaves. They looked back at him curiously, and a little angrily.
Maybe they’re afraid that I’m going to cause trouble. Wick looked away from them, not even glancing at Harran. If the goblinkin guards got the idea from his fellow slaves that he might do something foolish, they might deal harshly with him. And he might end up in the mines for certain. That was how the goblinkin dealt with rebellious slaves, after all. Slaves that caused problems were shackled to the floor by one leg in a mineshaft and given no tools to cut through the chain that bound them. They had to fill the ore cars with rock and rubble, and in the event of a cave-in, there was no escape.
Wick shivered at the thought, his stomach trying to turn inside out. Please, please don’t let me be sent to the mines, he pleaded.
“And what am I bid for these fine specimens?”
Hours later, hungry and more fearful than ever, Wick stood with the young members of his group from the blockades. The little librarian had quickly discovered that the groups were organized into lots by their ear tags first, then physical well-being and age. He had wound up with Harran and the other younger dwellers that remained in good shape despite the imprisonment and the cleaning labor of the last three days.
“They have strong backs for halfers,” the auctioneer stated enthusiastically. He was a tall human with a long chestnut-colored beard, and his booming voice echoed across the expansive courtyard. He wore green and white robes, and a folded hat with a rolled brim. “And all of them are guaranteed to be in reasonably good health.”
The crowd laughed appreciatively. The “guaranteed to be in reasonably good health” line never failed to draw a laugh.
As he stood on the raised auctioneering block, the little librarian gazed out at the crowd of prospective buyers seated on wooden bleachers. The wealthiest buyers occupied private booths that rose above the bleachers and were even served meals by scantily dressed human females. Vendors sold snacks from the backs of their wheeled carts and the spicy aromas made Wick’s stomach grumble.
“This lot would be good candidates for the mines,” the auctioneer suggested, glancing at the dozen booths that flew the banners of the various large mines that Orpho Kadar operated around the city.
The thought of the mines hurt Wick even more now that he knew for certain where he was. Dream had never allowed mining anywhere within the city or even nearby regions. There had been a few mining towns even in dwarven history that owed their demise to overzealous digging that caused the whole town to collapse. Budhifer Tongalas had penned an amusing satire about a goblinkin mining town that had been devastated by a huge boar captured for the arena, called The Boar, the Boors, and the Boring.
The mine bidders waved their flags in lackluster enthusiasm. The bidding was sporadic and not very competitive at all. None of the orchard farms seemed interested at all, and Wick’s hopes began to sink. He was going to die in the mines, and there surely wasn’t a worse fate for a Third Level Librarian to—
“I’ll take the lot of them,” a harsh voice grated.
Wick turned, following the voice. He spotted a fierce-looking goblin with a leather eyepatch leaning out of a booth on the right.
“That’s Boolian Toadas,” one of the dwellers next to Wick gasped.
The little librarian recognized the name at once. Boolian Toadas bought slaves for the arena. The goblin was also a respected buyer because the arena constantly needed more slaves.
The auctioneer smiled broadly. “Welcome, Boolian Toadas. Well, this is the first time we’ve heard from you this fine morning. But better late than never, says I.”
“It’s the first time ye’ve offered slaves what’s looked like they had legs under ‘em,” Boolian Toadas grunted. He tore a leg from a roasted chicken and chewed the meat from the bone noisily. “An’ I was disappointed in the last sad lot ye sold me.”
“Well, sir,” the auctioneer said without missing a beat, “you could have returned them and asked for your money back—had they not been in so many pieces.”
The crowd roared with laughter, enjoying the grisly joke made at the slaves’ expense.
Two of the dweller men standing in Wick’s lot threw up, and that amused the auction crowd even further. In truth, Wick felt certain that if his own stomach were not empty, he probably would have thrown up as well. According to the stories the slaves told each other in the pens, the Hanged Elf’s Point arena housed all manner of vicious beasts and men. The human gladiators were the most prized—and dangerous!—of them all.
“Yes,” Boolian Toadas replied, “but they served just fine as food for them wild pigs we brung in just last week. Was just as well, ‘cause the sharks was a-gettin’ fat down in the harbor, I’m told. Sailors new to these waters say we got the biggest and fattest sharks they’ve ever seen.”
The crowd laughed again, applauding in appreciation.
“Ah, but my friend Boolian Toadas,” the auctioneer said unctuously, “Captain Arghant himself brought these fine specimens from up around Lottar’s Crossing. And were the raiders who capture our merchandise from those areas not so quick and skilled, we wouldn’t have these to sell you now. As everyone knows, Lottar’s Crossing breeds only the fleetest of foot halfers. Captains of slaver ships brave those treacherous waters and the navies that would prevent them from carrying on their trade because they know such merchandise is well respected here in our humble city.”
No one bid against Boolian Toadas. It was accepted that once the arena supplier saw a lot that he wanted, he wouldn’t let anyone outbid him. The arena was an important draw to the thriving goblinkin city. For a while, so
me of the mining labor buyers had bid against the goblinkin out of spite, driving the price up. Stories had it that Orpho Kadar had sent out assassins, had the men killed, and put their heads on pikes as an example. That had been years ago; no one had bid against Boolian Toadas since.
“Sold!” the auctioneer cried when no one offered a counter bid.
Wick was numb inside with fear as the auction guards led his group away. They stopped at one of the temporary holding pens in one of the courtyard’s corners. Goblinkin quickly kicked their feet out from under them, forcing them to their knees. A fat goblin with broken teeth took a pair of pliers from a scarred box, then fetched out a bag of ear tags that bore the arena’s mark.
Several of the dwellers broke down and wept. Wick didn’t blame them in the slightest. The ear tags bearing Ill Wind’s mark hadn’t completely healed yet, and with the way they were being fed and kept, the healing process remained a long time off.
The goblinkin worked relentlessly, and the pliers snap, snap, snapped! as they bit down through tender flesh.
Wick tried not to be sick as he waited his turn. If I were stronger, braver, he told himself, I would fight these men. He really wanted to, because once he entered the arena, his death was assured. But he kept his head lowered, walking forward on his knees as the goblinkin bade him. The courtyard’s cracked cobblestones chafed at his knees.
Boolian Toadas stepped out of his booth long enough to come over to the holding pens to inspect his purchase. None of the dwellers dared look at the goblin.
“Ye do look like a fast bunch of halfers,” Boolian Toadas commented. “Have any of ye got experience with fightin’?”
No one answered.
Boolian Toadas rubbed his palms together. “Well, I hopes some of ye are a-lyin’ to me. I know there’s halfers of around Lottar’s Crossing what’s tortured a goblinkin or three. Why, I’ve even heard tell of some what’s turned cannibal and learned to enjoy goblin stew made from their victims.”
Images of a stew with floating goblin parts filled Wick’s mind, adding to his nausea. Those are stories. They have to be. Dwellers are not warriors—or culinary barbarians.
“Excuse me,” a smooth, cultured voice interrupted.
Recognizing the voice, though not believing it possible, Wick looked up.
As confidently as a lord, the man in black stepped up to Boolian Toadas. “I wonder if I might have a word with you, good sir.”
The arena procurement master looked over both his shoulders, then—when no one stepped forward to speak with the man in black—back at the individual who’d addressed him. The big goblin placed his hand meaningfully on the big broadsword at his side. “Ye’re wantin’ a word with me?”
The man in black smiled, then held his forefinger and thumb only a fraction of an inch apart. “Hardly any time at all, good sir, I assure you.”
Boolian Toadas’ face tightened and looked more fierce. “An’ why should I be willin’ to talk to ye?”
Although the human was dressed in black, Wick realized that the black clothing was not the same dress he’d been in the night they’d spoken. The little librarian slowly brought his hands to his midriff and closed them over his journal. The cold gray skies overhead felt like they were closing in on him. There was no escape from the man in black.
“I would consider it a favor, good sir,” the man in black said brightly.
Why is he pursuing me so? Wick wondered. He studied the man’s dress, trying to fathom something that would give him an indication as to what the man might want. The journal is the only thing I can think of. But why would he want the journal?
“I don’t do no favors,” Boolian Toadas responded unkindly. “Favors tend to be bothersome things, always a-breedin’ thoughts in some person’s head that ye might owe them yet another one.”
“Perhaps then,” the man in black went on smoothly, “I might be able to do you a favor.”
“Don’t need no favors.”
“Really?” The man in black stretched out his hand, holding one above the other, holding them palm out. Then he clenched his hands into fists, gestured, and silver coins dropped from his top hand to the bottom one. They tinkled as they struck each other and he let them lie in a pile in his palm. The man in black leaned forward confidentially. When he spoke again, he whispered. “I know that Orpho Kadar probably doesn’t pay his arena procuring manager everything that one in such an office is worth.”
Boolian Toadas took a step forward so that the silver in the man in black’s hand might be hidden from view. “Ye would be right about that.”
“I thought we might make a little transaction,” the man in black said. Then he glanced at Wick and winked while Boolian Toadas glanced around nervously. Before the arena master looked back, the man in black swung his attention to him.
“What kind of transaction?” Boolian Toadas asked.
“The profitable kind,” the man in black answered. “The only worthwhile kind to be had.”
“Profitable for who?”
“Why for both of us. Otherwise there’d be no profit to speak of at all.”
“What do ye want?” Boolian Toadas asked gruffly.
“A slave.”
Boolian Toadas narrowed his remaining eye and scratched at his eyepatch. “There’s plenty of slaves to be had on the auction block this mornin’ .”
“I want one of your slaves,” the man in black said.
“Which slaves?”
“These.” The man in black gestured toward the slaves.
Wick tried to concentrate on the conversation, but it only made the snap-snap-snapping of the pliers more sharp. He cringed and glanced ahead. Only seven slaves remained before he would acquire yet another ear tag.
“These slaves?” Boolian Toadas asked.
“Yes.”
Snap! Another dweller ahead of Wick yelped in pain.
“So ye’d be a-wantin’ a fleet-footed halfer, then?” Boolian Toadas asked.
“If we could come to an agreement on the terms, why then I would very much like one of these fleet-footed halfers.”
Boolian Toadas leaned in more closely. “Ye’d be a-knowin’ that these here fleet-footed halfers don’t come cheap.”
“I know.”
“The only reason that I got them this cheap is because I buy in bulk.”
“Of course. And because Orpho Kadar would have anyone who outbid you assassinated.”
Boolian Toadas hesitated just a moment, as if he might take offense at the statement. Then he laughed and slapped his knee. “That is true, but Orpho Kadar also pays a fair price.”
“Then I shall seek to emulate Orpho Kadar’s generous example,” the man in black said. He spread his palm, flashing the silver coins.
“Which slave do ye want?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
That’s a lie, Wick thought. He still clutched his journal, trying to make sure it stayed out of view.
Snap! Another dweller yelped in pain.
“That’s not enough,” Boolian Toadas said.
“And what would be a fair price?”
The arena master hesitated only a moment. “Five more silvers.”
“Done.” Five more silvers trickled from the man in black’s upper hand, tinkling against those in his lower hand. “And if it’s all the same to you, I’ll take the halfer here.” He dropped a black-gloved hand to Wick’s shoulder.
The little librarian cringed. I’m not going, he told himself angrily. I’ll tell Boolian Toadas that—that—He sighed in defeat. If he told the big arena master that the man in black wanted his journal, then the goblinkin would want to see it as well. I should have buried it. Or burned it. There had been plenty of chances to do both during the last three days. But he had stubbornly hung onto it. My conceit is going to lose the Vault of All Known Knowledge’s greatest defense—its location! Panic sped his heart in his chest.
“Is this halfer special to ye?” Boolian Toadas asked suspiciously. His single eye studied W
ick closely for the first time.
Snap! “My poor ear!”
The man looked at Wick more closely as well, the showed a puzzled expression to the big goblin. “I don’t know, good sir. Does he look any more special than any of the other halfers you’ve bought this morning?”
Boolian Toadas didn’t speak and stared at the man in black.
Snap! “Ow!”
“No,” the arena master replied. “This one doesn’t look any more special than the others.”
“Good.” The man in black patted Wick on the shoulder. “Then we’ll both be happy.”
Snap! A dweller cried out.
Wick nervously looked at the line ahead of him. Only two dwellers remained between him and the pliers.
“But ye must see him as special,” Boolian Toadas said. “Otherwise ye’d have reached for another.”
“Really?” The man in black took his hand from Wick’s shoulder.
Remembering how quickly the man in black has produced the silver coins with sleight-of-hand, Wick made certain his journal was still at hand. He sighed with relief when he discovered it was still there.
“You think I would choose another halfer?” the man in black asked. He made a production of glancing along the line of dwellers. “Do you think I’ve mistakenly selected a defective one?” He glanced back at Boolian Toadas. “I’d be frightfully cross with you if you sold me a defective halfer.”
“Oh,” the arena master said quickly, “this one isn’t defective.”
“And how do you know?” the man in black asked testily. “Have you seen this one run for yourself?”
“Why no. But I’m perfectly sure there’s nothing wrong with this one.”
“Yet you lead me to believe-after we have our bargain, mind you, and not before I paid you which would have only been decent of you←that there’s something wrong with this halfer.”
“That’s not what I said,” Boolian Toadas replied. “I was only curious as to why ye wanted this one.”
The man in black shook his head. “You’ve got the reputation of a reputable man, good sir. I’d hate to think that the halfer I’ve selected is damaged goods.” He glanced at Wick. “Open your mouth, halfer. Let me see your teeth. Is there some disease lurking in there, then?”
