Slaves of Socorro

by John Flanagan

  The guard’s eyebrows raised at the blunt reply. He looked more closely at the stranger, taking in the unwavering gaze, the air of authority and the long sword at his hip.

  ‘Corporal Jemdal Oran, Third Patrol of the Dooryeh,’ he replied and, seeing Gilan’s questioning look, explained further, ‘The Bey’s Guards.’

  ‘Well, in that case,’ Gilan replied, in a more accommodating tone, ‘let me introduce myself, Corporal. I’m Gilan of Cresthaven. I’m a trader and I’m here for the market.’

  The corporal nodded, somewhat mollified by Gilan’s tone. It was no less than a member of the Bey’s dooryeh deserved, he thought. But a trader like this could be expected to provide a healthy bribe, so long as he wasn’t antagonised.

  ‘Which one? Slave market or gold market? We have both here.’

  ‘I’m looking to buy a few strong slaves,’ Gilan told him. ‘But I’ve got some precious stones to trade as well.’

  He let his fingers rest on the money purse at his belt, twitching it so that a chink of coins was audible. The corporal’s eyes dropped to it, then came back up to meet Gilan’s. The Ranger could see the avarice there.

  ‘Slave market opens next week,’ the corporal said briskly. ‘Only sellers are allowed in at the moment. Buyers have to wait for the market to open. There’s a day to view the slaves on sale, then on the next day trading begins.’

  ‘Doesn’t give me a lot of time to browse,’ Gilan said.

  The guard raised his eyebrows. ‘The Bey doesn’t encourage browsers. If you know what you want, one day is plenty of time to find it.’

  One day also adds a sense of urgency to the whole thing, Gilan thought. And that will tend to inflate prices. When people feel rushed, they often spend more freely. But he merely shrugged.

  ‘Fair enough. What about the gold market?’

  ‘We call it the souk. That’s always open. But no women are allowed in.’ He jerked his head at Lydia, who was standing back a few paces, her eyes lowered.

  ‘She’s my niece,’ Gilan explained.

  ‘I don’t care if she’s your grandmother’s second-best friend,’ the guard replied. ‘She’s not allowed in the gold market. Women, gold and jewels don’t mix. They haggle over prices too much and cause bad feeling. Bad feeling causes fights and fights slow up the selling.’

  ‘And that means less tax for the Bey?’ Gilan asked.

  The man nodded. ‘You’ve put your finger on it. So if you visit the gold market, leave her outside.’

  ‘I’ll do that. Where do I find the gold market?’ Gilan asked.

  The guard pointed. ‘In the south-east quarter of the city. You can’t miss it. It’s roofed over. Biggest enclosed market in Arrida,’ he said proudly. ‘Slave market is just beyond it,’ he added.

  ‘But it’s closed to buyers at the moment,’ Gilan said.

  ‘That’s right. So you stay out of the slave market till next week. And she stays out of the gold market full stop.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ Gilan replied. He moved forward under the gate’s massive archway. As he did, his left hand brushed against the guard’s right and several coins changed hands. Lydia slipped quietly into the city behind him.

  The guard surreptitiously checked the coins that had been passed to him. One gold and two silver. Quite an acceptable amount, but not so much as to cause suspicion.

  ‘Welcome to Socorro,’ he said, stepping back to allow them more room to pass through the gate.

  Hal spent the morning trimming and shaping the two spars that he had selected for his new mast and yardarm. He set up simple work benches, made from logs supported on twin X-shaped brackets, and laid the timbers across them as he worked with his adze. Thorn watched, admiring his skill and precision. Hal made only the roughest measurements, relying on his eye to shape the timber as he needed it.

  The rest of the crew watched idly. Four of them had a ball made from an inflated pig’s bladder, and they amused themselves kicking it around the beach, controlling it only with their feet and keeping their hands behind their backs.

  Heron’s mast was shorter than a standard wolfship’s. The long, curving yardarm angled up above the top of the mast when it was raised, providing the height needed for the sails. To rig the ship for a square sail, where the yardarm would be parallel to the deck, Hal would have to extend the mast upwards by at least two metres. He planned to overlap the new spar with the existing mast for its entire length, using the original mast as a support. He would bind it tightly along the entire length of the join.

  The spar was almost ready and he was currently curving one side to fit snugly to the rounded shape of the thick, stubby mast. Several times, he and Ingvar would heave the new spar over to the ship and test the fit. He would mark where it wasn’t quite right, then go back to work.

  Finally satisfied, he and Ingvar carried the new spar to the ship one final time and Ingvar held it in place against the mast. There were still a few small projections that needed trimming, and Hal made the necessary adjustments in place, using a heavy straight-bladed woodworking knife, until the spar sat snugly against the mast, with the curved section of the mast nestled neatly into the groove he had shaped.

  ‘Stig! Ulf! Wulf! Lend us a hand here, will you?’ he called.

  The three abandoned their ball game and clambered aboard. They lashed the new mast temporarily in place at three points along its length, then Hal began to bind it permanently, using wet rope that would shrink as it dried, tightening the bindings even further. He’d already detached the forestay. Now he climbed the shrouds and reattached it, passing it through a hole he had drilled in the extension mast for that purpose.

  He looked up at the new, taller mast and nodded in satisfaction.

  ‘That should do the job,’ he told Stig, who was standing beside him.

  His friend nodded. Hal had done a neat and efficient job putting the new mast in place. But then, Hal was always neat and efficient with his woodwork.

  ‘Looks just like a bought one,’ Stig said, grinning.

  Hal raised an eyebrow. ‘Never thought I’d go back to square rigging. It just won’t feel like the Heron. Still, it’s only for a day or two.’ He replaced the trimming knife and adze in his canvas tool kit and took out the implements he’d need for cutting and shaping the sail.

  ‘If you can rig the stays and halyards for the new yardarm, I’ll get on with cutting the sail,’ he said.

  Stig nodded, and gestured to the others to help him. The new halyards and attachments were a straightforward task, one that could be carried out by any competent seaman – and they all qualified in that regard.

  Hal dragged the big canvas weather cover onto the beach and waited while Ingvar spread it out. Using a piece of charcoal, he marked the shape of the new sail into the canvas, drawing extra lines for the places where he would sew in reinforcement and shaping seams.

  Edvin approached as he began to cut the sail. ‘Did you want to eat before you do that, or wait until you’re finished?’

  Hal glanced up at the sun. It was past noon and he estimated that it would take several hours to get the sail ready and attached to the yardarm.

  ‘We’ll eat now,’ he said and Edvin turned back to his cook fire, adding several logs and fanning the hot coals into live flame. He had a fillet of beef still remaining from the stores he’d bought en route. After this, they would be on salted meat and fish and pickled vegetables. But then, he thought, in a day or so they’d be in Socorro.

  He sliced the beef, along with several onions, and set them sizzling together in his big black iron frying pan. When the meat was browned, he moved it away from the direct heat and added a measure of wine to the pan, then salt and pepper and some of his spices, and set the savoury contents bubbling gently.

  Within a few minutes, Kloof came nosing around, attracted by the smell of the meat cooking. Edvin grinned at her and tossed her a handful of scraps that he’d trimmed from the beef. She snuffled them up in seconds, and wagged her tail hopefully
at him. Edvin spread his empty hands out to her.

  ‘That’s all, I’m afraid.’ She tilted her head in disbelief and settled down, her chin on her paws, watching him closely. When it came to food, Kloof was an eternal optimist.

  Leaving the beef mixture to cook, Edvin quickly mixed water and flour together to make a thin batter. He took another frypan, placed it over the fire and, when it was hot, added a pat of butter. Then he spooned a large dollop of the batter into the pan and swirled it to let it spread into a thin layer. When the top began to bubble, he flipped it expertly, revealing the golden pan-fried underside.

  He repeated this action until he had a stack of hot, thin pancakes. Then he spooned the beef and onion mixture into them, rolled them and placed them in a pan by the side of the fire to keep them warm.

  The rest of the crew, noticing the savoury smells emanating from the cook fire, had abandoned their work and gathered around him, their mouths watering. Thorn approached behind them, glaring at them.

  ‘Did anyone tell you it was time to eat?’ he asked fiercely. They looked suitably chastened and shuffled their feet, avoiding his gaze as they moved away from the cook fire.

  ‘No, Thorn,’ they mumbled. He looked around the semi-circle of faces, then shoved through them with a huge grin.

  ‘’Cause my stomach tells me it’s definitely time!’ he said. He seized one of the meat and onion stuffed pancakes Edvin had made, taking an enormous bite and smiling beatifically as juice ran down his chin and into his beard. Instantly the boys began to clamour for their share of the food, and before long, the platter of pancakes was empty.

  Hal, who had left the partly shaped sail to join them, finished the last of his pancake, sat back and took a long swig of coffee, then sighed rapturously.

  ‘Do you think we should be drinking Gilan’s coffee when he’s not here?’ he asked.

  Stig considered the question. ‘He’d want us to,’ he said gravely.

  Hal looked into his cup. It was nearly empty. ‘Do you think he’d want us to have a second cup?’

  Stig nodded. ‘Without a doubt.’

  ‘Keep telling yourselves that,’ Edvin told them, shaking his head. But he fetched the pot and poured a fresh cup for Hal. Stig held his cup out and Edvin, rolling his eyes, topped him up as well.

  Kloof barked.

  ‘Quiet. Dogs don’t drink coffee,’ Hal told her, not looking. But the dog barked again, more urgently this time. Hal glanced up and suddenly leapt to his feet.

  ‘Arm yourselves!’ he shouted to his startled crew. ‘Now!’

  A party of armed men was making its way down the eastern slope of the ridge that surrounded the bay.

  As they strode through the narrow, winding streets of the town, jostled by the crowds moving around them, Lydia moved up beside Gilan, abandoning the subservient position she had adopted at the gate.

  ‘How do we find the bazaar?’ she asked.

  Gilan gestured to the milling throng around them. At least half the people were carrying bundles of goods to trade, usually by the simple expedient of balancing them on their heads, tied up in giant rolls. Others were leading donkeys laden with nets of fruit and vegetables.

  ‘Follow the crowd,’ he said. ‘That’s where they’ll be heading.’

  They allowed themselves to be carried along with the human tide. It was, Lydia thought, a little like floating downstream in a strong river current. Eventually, they arrived at the market. Stalls were laid out in neat, ordered rows, most of them with green or brown awnings to keep the heat of the sun off the goods and the traders themselves. Fruit, vegetables, meat and livestock were all on display, usually laid out on blankets spread over the cobblestones. The air was alive with voices shouting, arguing, laughing and bargaining in half a dozen different languages, the common tongue being the most prevalent.

  Gilan took her elbow and guided her past a row of stalls selling melons, oranges, onions and assorted vegetables. ‘This is the food section. Let’s find the clothing stalls,’ he said. ‘You do the buying – say you’re buying for your older brothers.’

  ‘Won’t it look suspicious if we buy ten sets of clothes?’ Lydia asked.

  He nodded. ‘Decidedly. So we won’t buy them all in one place. The robes are pretty much one size for all.’

  ‘Except Ingvar,’ Lydia said with a smile.

  ‘Except Ingvar. He is a size, isn’t he?’

  They crossed over three aisles, moving from the food section of the market to the section where clothing and fabrics were on sale. Gilan stopped at a money changer and exchanged some of his Araluan money for dirum, the local currency.

  He frowned as he studied the purseful of coins he had been handed. ‘I think he might have taken advantage of me,’ he said.

  Lydia raised an eyebrow at him and looked from him to the money changer. He was an overweight, swarthy man, whose eyes were constantly darting about him and whose hands made continual small movements.

  ‘I’m sure he did,’ she said.

  ‘Nobody ever got the better of a money changer,’ Gilan said.

  He gestured at a stall where a trestle table displayed a variety of garments, ranging from the voluminous trousers that the locals wore, to brocaded and garishly decorated waistcoats, to the simple, flowing robes and headdresses they were after.

  ‘Off you go,’ he said, handing her a fistful of dirum. ‘Remember to haggle a little.’

  She gave him a pitying look, dropping the coins into a side pocket on her vest. ‘I’m a Limmatan,’ she said. ‘I was born haggling.’

  A faint smile crossed Gilan’s face. ‘Interesting picture that conjures up,’ he said. ‘Just don’t argue too much or you’ll have women banned from this market as well.’

  She looked around. The market was predominantly filled with women of all ages and sizes. They were gesticulating, throwing their hands in the air, uttering shrieks of apparent despair at the prices quoted. From time to time, one of them would throw the goods they were inspecting back on the trader’s table and walk off indignantly, only agreeing to return to the negotiation when the seller agreed to a cut in price.

  ‘If they were to ban women here,’ she said, ‘the market wouldn’t survive.’

  She approached the stall and began fingering one of the long white linen robes, a look of distaste on her features. The trader at first pretended not to notice her, then, as she held up one of the robes to inspect it more carefully, he casually came closer and muttered a price.

  Lydia laughed and tossed the garment back onto the table, shaking her head disdainfully. She began to turn away but the trader picked the garment up and called her back, with an impassioned plea for her to consider the superior quality, and so the inflated price, of the garment in question. Gilan watched with interest as the charade continued. At first, Lydia offered a figure less than half the amount the trader was asking. The trader’s eyes rolled to heaven and he clutched his chest over his heart in a ‘you’re killing me’ gesture. Then he offered an infinitesimal reduction on his previous price. Lydia countered with an equally infinitesimal increase in her offer and so the bargaining continued, the trader constantly asking slightly less, Lydia constantly offering slightly more.

  After three minutes, they had reached a reasonable area of negotiation, where the difference between what was offered and what was quoted was becoming smaller and smaller. Then Lydia played her trump card.

  ‘I want three,’ she said. ‘I have three brothers and I’m buying one for each of them.’

  The trader fingered the narrow beard on his chin and thought deeply.

  ‘For three you will pay less,’ he said magnanimously. ‘Eight dirum each one.’

  ‘Six,’ she said firmly. ‘No more.’

  ‘Seven,’ he said.

  ‘Done,’ she replied. The dialogue was rapid fire, with neither one of them having time or inclination to consider the other’s offer.

  The trader deftly folded three of the robes for her, placing them on the table whil
e she counted out the money. Then they began again as she indicated that she wanted three kheffiyehs – the simple but effective linen headdress, held in place by a double loop of twisted horsehair, that would shield the wearer from sun, wind and dust.

  By now, each had a sense of the other’s skill and determination, and the negotiations were much quicker. A few minutes later, she moved away, the new clothes folded in a sack. Gilan took charge of it and they walked through to the next aisle, where another trader and another store awaited them.

  ‘We could have got a better price if I’d bought all ten there,’ she pointed out.

  Gilan shrugged. ‘The objective isn’t to get a better bargain,’ he said. ‘And he might remember a girl buying ten robes and headdresses. We don’t want people asking questions. Markets like this are crawling with spies and agents on the lookout for anything unusual.’

  She nodded and repeated the process at a second and third stall. Interestingly, all of them charged the same amount at the end of the haggling, which made her feel that she had struck a reasonable bargain. Either that or they recognised her as an easy mark, she thought.

  They took a break and sat at a stall selling coffee and sweet pastries. The coffee was delicious – thick and grainy and heavily sweetened. Gilan rolled it around his tongue appreciatively.

  ‘They know their coffee in this country,’ he said.

  Lydia pulled a face. There were too many grounds in the cup for her taste.

  ‘Now what?’ she asked as he drained his cup. The look on his face told her that he was considering ordering a second. ‘We do need to get back to the ship sometime this week.’

  He nodded reluctantly. ‘True. Then perhaps we should have a look at the gold market.’

  She frowned. ‘What’s the fascination with the gold market?’

  ‘We’re planning to liberate the captives,’ he told her. ‘And that means we’ll be raiding the slave market. We might have to stage some sort of diversion and I figure the gold market might be the best place to do it.’