The trainer’s eyebrows shot up. “The Grand Imperial? Are you serious?” He stared at Bensin, obviously far more impressed at this piece of information than at any of Mr. Creghorn’s other boasts. “How did you do?”
Bensin shrugged, embarrassed. “I, uh, I didn’t place or anything, sir. I only made it to the second rung.”
“Well, just getting in is more than most of our students ever manage. That’s not bad. Not bad at all. But I’d like to actually see what you can do.” He turned to Bensin’s owner. “I brought a couple of sets of cavvara shil gear. Would you mind if Bensin and I go out front and spar for a bit?”
“No, no, not at all. Please.” Mr. Creghorn gestured to the door.
As he followed the trainer outside, Bensin wondered if he would have any chance to speak to him without Mr. Creghorn’s hearing. Being owned by a cavvara shil instructor might be interesting, and it would be great not to have to give up his sport when he was sold. But he wanted to know a few things about what he would be getting himself into. His current owner, however, would certainly not approve of his asking questions.
But Mr. Creghorn parked himself on the shady front porch to watch from a distance. Maybe I will have a chance to talk to Mr. Mayvins.
The trainer pulled a duffel bag out of the pickup truck at the curb. Bracing himself once more as he bent over, Bensin knelt and unzipped it for him, setting the gear out on the lawn. Two sets of padding, two shils, and of course two cavvarachs in their protective cases. He could tell by the blue and tan coloring and logo that one set of everything was from the CSF, but the other items were different. The pale green padding with the white trim must be Mr. Mayvins’ own, along with the matching shil and the cavvarach in the black case.
Bensin hadn’t realized until now how much he had missed cavvara shil in the two weeks since the CSF had closed for New Year. But the sight and feel of the familiar equipment loosened a little of the knot that had clenched his heart since he’d found out he would have to leave Ellie.
Mr. Mayvins sat down on the lawn to take off his socks and shoes. Bensin, already barefoot, slipped the CSF set of the poncho-like protective padding over his head and tightened the waist strap at his right side. It was a warm day, but he barely noticed the discomfort as he adjusted the thick padding that would protect his torso and groin in the event of a missed parry.
Next, he picked up the shil. He debated which arm to put it on, but his opponent was probably right handed — he had picked up his glass and the cookie with his right hand, anyway — and would be more comfortable sparring against him that way. So Bensin strapped the shil onto his left, the familiar curve of the smooth hard plastic fitting perfectly over his forearm.
Opening the cavvarach case, Bensin lifted the weapon out, stepping back to brandish it in some practice swings. He loved the way the sunlight reflected off the gleaming steel, the pleasantly squishable feel of the foam rubber that coated the hilt, the sharp angle of the hook jutting out toward him from halfway along the blade’s top edge, the precise weight as he swung it. The ache in his back ceased to matter, and for a moment he almost forgot that he was being sold away from his sister. The cavvarach became another limb, the shil and padding an extra layer of skin.
Mr. Mayvins faced him, his own cavvarach poised. “Ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
Bensin waited and let him take the offense. The man tested his defenses, his blade striking high, low, left, right. Bensin caught every blow on his own blade or on his shil, careful to avoid his opponent’s hook. Mr. Mayvins struck out with his feet in half a dozen different kinds of kicks, some aimed to knock the weapon from Bensin’s hand, others to knock him off balance so he could pin him to the ground, the two possible ways to win at cavvara shil. He’s good. But so was Bensin’s defense, and soon he was striking out with kicks of his own, lunging and slashing, attempting to hook his opponent’s weapon, dodging and ducking and sidestepping.
There was something exhilarating about cavvara shil. Bensin never felt more alive than when he was sparring with a skilled partner or competing in the ring surrounded by dozens or hundreds of onlookers. Of course, most of the time the onlookers were cheering for his opponent. Slave fighters had few actual fans. But Bensin had learned not to care, because cavvara shil was one activity in which slave and free were equal. The exact same rules applied to both, and you never got in trouble for hurting a free person as long as you played by the rules. And so he could give it his all, losing himself in the joy of an activity he loved and was good at.
He knew he was out of shape, thanks to his sore back and the fact that he had missed his practice and most of his daily workouts for the last fortnight. But still, sparring now was like spending time with a close friend.
“All right, enough,” the trainer ordered finally. They both stepped back and lowered their cavvarachs, dripping sweat and panting. Neither of them spoke as they peeled off their padding and shils. But as they stuffed them back into the duffel bag, the man grinned at Bensin. “You’ve got some pretty impressive skills, you know that?”
Bensin couldn’t keep back a grin of his own. “I love cavvara shil, sir.”
“Yeah, I can tell. You fight with an easy grace. It’s like the cavvarach is part of you. That’s hard to teach. But are you injured?”
“Injured? No, sir.”
“You move like you’re hurt. Something wrong with your back or shoulders?”
“Oh. Um, no, sir, not really.”
The trainer crossed his arms and gave him a Don’t mess with me look. “If I’m going to consider buying you, I have to know what I’d be getting. If you’re not in fighting shape, I need to know that now.”
Bensin was embarrassed to tell him, but he had no choice. He glanced toward the porch, but Mr. Creghorn had apparently gone back into the air conditioning. Pulling his shirt up, he turned so Mr. Mayvins would see the whip welts across his back.
For a moment the coach was completely speechless. Bensin had returned both cavvarachs to their cases before the man found his tongue. “He did that to you? Cley did?”
“Yes, sir.” Along with the Watch officer. But there was no point in going into that.
The Imperian’s face was indignant, but he kept his voice low. “Does he lash you like that often?”
“Not very often, sir. Every couple weeks, I guess; sometimes more when he’s in a bad mood. But not right before I compete.” He knows better.
Mr. Mayvins looked as though he had more to say on the subject, but he merely reached for his socks and began to pull them on again. “I hope our sparring just now didn’t make it any worse.”
“Oh, no, sir. It’s not so bad anymore. It happened several days ago.” Except for the five lashes I got yesterday for spilling coffee on that man who came over. And the five the day before for being rude to that woman who was thinking of buying me.
This man was increasing in Bensin’s estimation by the moment. A free man who actually cares how a slave feels? There could be worse things than having an owner like that. Much worse. “Do you think you’re going to buy me, sir?”
Rising to his feet, the man wiped his sweaty forehead on his sleeve and stepped back to lean against his truck. “I don’t know. I’ve never owned a slave before; never thought I would. To be honest, I really don’t approve of the whole system. I was just planning to look for someone to hire in a couple days a week. But my whole life is in transition at the moment anyway, and I figure if there was ever a good time for a spur-of-the-moment decision of this magnitude, this might just be it.”
Bensin wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but the man seemed almost to be talking to himself anyway. “Trouble is, I’m not really in a position to afford it,” he went on. “Recent circumstances have played havoc with my finances. I can’t use credit, either; my wife — I mean, my ex-wife — maxed out our cards not too long ago, and what with all the upheaval, I missed a couple of payments. I learned the hard way that credit card companies don’t show much grace.
”
“You can bargain, sir. Mr. Creghorn will lower the price.”
“You think?”
“I know he will. He told me before you came that he’d cut my price in half if that’s what it took.”
“Why does he want to get rid of you so badly?”
Bensin shrugged, looking away. “He doesn’t like me, sir. We don’t get along.”
“Hmm. Perhaps I should hear his side of that.”
Bensin wasn’t worried. Mr. Creghorn wouldn’t say anything that might jeopardize the sale.
“In any case, do you want to be sold? How would you feel about leaving here and coming to work for me?”
He really wants to know. Once again, Bensin was impressed. Well, maybe this is my chance to ask questions, even to negotiate — carefully. “I guess that depends, sir. What would I be doing for you?”
“A little housework. I might hire you out to others for odd jobs. With how short I am on cash right now, anything you can earn would be helpful. But you’d probably be spending most of your time on cavvara shil. I’d want you to compete in tournaments, and maybe also help out as an aide in some of my classes at the CSF, especially the beginning ones, where they don’t really know what they’re doing yet. And I noticed I have an odd number of students signed up for several classes, so it would be great to have an extra person who can pair up with someone when we do the sparring.”
“Would you give me a day off every week, sir, like the law says?”
Up went the coach’s eyebrows, and Bensin cringed inwardly, hoping he hadn’t overstepped his bounds. When Mr. Creghorn got that look on his face, it usually meant at least a tongue-lashing, if not the literal kind. But this man said only, “I’m a law-abiding citizen. Well, I speed sometimes, but you know. Overall. Yeah, you’d get your day off.”
“And on those days, would you let me hire myself out for pay or come back to this neighborhood to hang out with my friends?”
The man shrugged. “It’s up to you what you do when you’re not working.”
This was sounding better and better. “How far away from here do you live, sir?”
He considered. “Let’s see. My new apartment is between five and ten minutes’ drive from the CSF, and I guess it took me about another ten to get from there to here.”
Too far to walk, then. Well, the bus might be an option.
Mr. Mayvins regarded Bensin, waiting. “Anything else you want to know, or is the interview over?”
Bensin lowered his gaze. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“No, that’s fine. You might as well find out what you’d be getting yourself into. Now is there anything else?”
Bensin hesitated. He had never spoken so freely to a free person before, but the man didn’t seem to be bothered by it, so he might as well ask his last question. “What sorts of things might you do if you were angry with me, sir?”
Up went the eyebrows again. “What sorts of things might you do to make me angry?”
“Oh, nothing on purpose, sir,” Bensin hastened to assure him. “But if, like, you thought I hadn’t done my work well enough or something.”
“Then I’d tell you to do it again until it was done right.”
“What if I lose in competition?” Eight lashes was Mr. Creghorn’s standard response to that misdemeanor.
“Then we’ll figure out what went wrong and focus your training on fixing it for next time. If you misbehave on purpose, I suppose I might ground you or give you extra chores or something. I’ve never had kids, so I don’t exactly have a game plan all laid out, but I guess I’d figure it out as we went along. If I found I couldn’t trust you, I’d probably sell you, but I’m not going to lash you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I don’t believe in whips, and I don’t own one in any case.” He looked Bensin in the eye. “But if you do what I ask you to around the house and put in your best effort in practice and competition, I don’t think we’ll have any problems.”
It felt unnatural to hold his gaze, but Bensin forced himself to keep his eyes on Mr. Mayvins’. “If you really do all that, sir, and treat me like you said, then I won’t ever give you any problems. I’ll be the best slave you could ask for; the best purchase you’ve ever made. I promise.”
The Imperian nodded slowly. “All right, then.” He laughed. “I can’t believe I’m really doing this, but okay. Let’s go see if Cley will lower the price to something I can actually pay.”
Mr. Creghorn must have been watching through the window, because he opened the door, beaming, as they approached.
“So, what do you think? The boy’s good, isn’t he? Works out every day and everything. Well, come on in and have a seat again. Anything else you’d like to know about him or see him do?”
The air conditioning felt good on Bensin’s sweaty skin. He stood under the vent by the far wall and waited, eyes downcast once more, to see what his future held.
“I think I’ve seen as much as I need to,” Mr. Mayvins replied, picking up what was left of his ice water and taking a sip. “But suppose you tell me if there’s anything else I should know. I hear the two of you don’t get along. Any particular reason?”
Bensin still wasn’t really worried, but he held his breath, just the same. He knew very well that Mr. Creghorn could easily come up with a whole list of complaints.
But his owner merely smiled tolerantly. “Oh, our personalities clash, that’s all. Nothing that won’t happen when my own son gets to be his age, I’m sure. It’s hard to see eye to eye with teenagers these days, you know? But what with you being an athletic trainer and all, you probably interact with young people a lot more than my wife and I do. I’m sure the two of you will get along great. He’s a good kid; works hard. No real problems with him.”
Judging by his expression, the trainer didn’t seem totally convinced by Mr. Creghorn’s fake sincerity, but he nodded. “Well, I’m definitely still interested, but I’m afraid the price will be a problem. I’ll be honest: I’ve faced some large expenses recently, and I just can’t afford what you’re asking. Twenty-four thousand imperials is more money than I have to my name at the moment. And frankly, it’s more than an injured teenage slave is worth.”
“Injured?” protested Mr. Creghorn. “The boy’s in perfect health!”
“Oh, he’s injured all right. His back is covered with painful welts. Springstyle Sporting Goods is holding a youth competition that I’d like to enter him in a week from tomorrow, but he’s barely in any condition for a hard workout, let alone fighting.”
Mr. Creghorn laughed. “Oh, that. Well, I can assure you that those welts, as you call them, don’t cause him any pain. If he told you they did, he’s lying. He’s a good kid and all, but he does tend to complain sometimes.”
“I’ve been an athletic trainer for most of the last decade,” Mr. Mayvins insisted. “Trust me, I know when an athlete is in pain.”
Smiling tolerantly, Mr. Creghorn rose to his feet and pulled out the Motivator from the corner where it hung behind the bookcase. He brought it over to Mr. Mayvins and showed him the dangling tag he’d never bothered to snip off from the handle.
Holding the whip the way he might have held a poisonous snake that he couldn’t believe anyone would keep as a pet, Mr. Mayvins read the label aloud. “The Motivator: guaranteed to provide a lasting impression without any lasting side effects.” He looked up. “No lasting side effects? From a whip? What does that mean, that it’s not supposed to hurt later? That’s the biggest load of beefbarf I’ve ever heard!”
Bensin clamped his lips together to hold back a snort of laughter. Mr. Creghorn looked uncertain. “Well, it’s always worked well for me in the past.”
Mr. Mayvins peered at the fine print. “Use only as directed. Manufacturers cannot be held liable for any damage and/or loss of production resulting from the application, misapplication, or over application of this product.” He slammed it down onto the coffee table, almost knocking over Mr. Creghorn’s coffee cup. “Did you eve
r read that part? The manufacturers obviously know it isn’t going to work quite as well for the person on the other side of the lash. I could tell by the way he moved and fought out there that Bensin wasn’t at full strength. His agility was impaired. And I’m not sure how I feel about buying damaged merchandise, especially at your price.”
“Oh, well, the price is negotiable,” Mr. Creghorn hastened to assure him. “Tell me, how much did you have in mind?”
“With the current state of my finances, I’m afraid I couldn’t pay much more than twelve thousand. And even that is going to leave me tightening my belt until the next payday.”
Mr. Creghorn laughed as though his visitor had told a joke. “Twelve thousand isn’t even as much as I paid when I first bought him three years ago. And I’ve put a lot of money into his training since then. I suppose I could go down to twenty, though, considering the circumstances.”
But the trainer shook his head. “I literally don’t have that much in all my bank accounts put together. I’d be taking out most of my retirement savings even to come up with the twelve.”
“Ah, but you have to realize that buying a slave is an investment, just like buying a house,” Mr. Creghorn explained. “Especially a young one like Bensin here. I mean, he’s got another fifty, sixty years of labor in him, easy. Not fifty years of cavvara shil, of course, but he’ll earn you plenty of money from that before his fighting days are over. And if you choose to sell him at some point, his value will only increase as he enters adulthood, what with your training and other experience gained along the way.”
“Maybe so,” Mr. Mayvins agreed, “but if I don’t have the money, I don’t have the money. I suppose I could go as high as fourteen, though.”
“He’ll earn money for you,” Mr. Creghorn assured him. “Not only through his winnings; you can hire him out. That’s what I do. I’ve got arrangements with families all over the neighborhood; he goes to different houses on different days and does yardwork and odd jobs. It isn’t all that much each time, but still, it does add up. I’m going to miss that handy little supplement to my income.”
The Collar and the Cavvarach Page 6
