by E B Rose
A muscle on Gladwiel’s cheek twitched. “Because I have enough slaves and I don’t have the time to wait until he gains value.”
“The answer is no,” Olira said stubbornly.
Gladwiel blinked once. Twice. He narrowed his eyes as if an idea occurred to him. He sat down, leaned back. A smug smile stained his face. “Okay,” he said docilely.
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
Gladwiel pulled a paper in front of him and started reading it, indicating he was done talking to Olira.
Olira chewed her lower lip, squinting at the slave trader. What was he trying to accomplish with this change of attitude? She glanced at the slave, but didn’t see any explanation from him either. She would describe his face as made of stone, but even rocks expressed more emotion. She returned her gaze back to Gladwiel and allowed the silence to stretch for as long as she could tolerate.
“So then, do I collect my payment from your assistant?” she finally burst out.
Gladwiel blinked at her. He raised his eyebrows, pretending like he’d forgotten Olira was there. “Oh, no, Mistress Olira. I won’t be able to make you any payment today.”
Olira’s ears were on fire. Her nails dug at her palms. Fury scorched her tongue and took away her ability to speak.
“Come back in a month,” Gladwiel said dismissively, turning back to his paper. “I’ll see what I can do then.”
Olira’s breathing turned into a silent growl. Muscles in her neck ached, from tensing her jaw. She exerted an effort to make herself speak. “Are you saying you’re not paying me?”
“No,” Gladwiel said without looking. “I’m saying, if you want to be paid in cash, you’ll have to wait.”
“You’ve been delaying for two months already.”
“And I’m deeply sorry for that,” Gladwiel said with no hint of sincerity.
“I will go to the city court.”
Gladwiel flashed her a poisonous smile. “Go ahead. Go make an official complaint. You know what will happen?” He leaned back and started examining his nails carelessly. “The constables will write down your complaint. They might arrange a visit to my office, maybe in two weeks, if they’re not too busy. I will tell them that I made you a very generous offer - and anyone would agree to that - and that you refused. I’ll tell them I have every intention of paying you back. They’ll give me a deadline, which wouldn’t be earlier than a month after they visited me. And then, if my finances are not going as I planned, I have a right to ask for an extension. Twice.”
Olira noticed she was bleeding her palms. She flexed her hands, grabbed the arms of her chair, and redirected her fury into leaving long scratches along the padding. “This is extorsion,” she whispered. She could only whisper, because her rage consumed all her energy to speak any louder.
“No,” Gladwiel said, pleased with himself. “This is business.”
Olira stood up, snatched her purse, and stormed off to the door. Anyone else would have at least left with a snappy response, or a sharp insult, but a headache was blooming at the crown of her head and she couldn’t even bother sorting out a response. She’d feared this might have happened. Jygan had warned her not to do business with city people. She hadn’t listened.
She paused with her hand at the doorknob and glanced at the slave. There was something different in the man’s posture now, though she couldn’t put her finger on it. He seemed… alert.
No, not alert. Alarmed.
His grey eyes remained on the floor, but when Olira curled a finger and gestured him to come, he saw it. He hurried after his new Owner.
3
OLIRA
“Olira Aryanna,” Olira replied flatly.
“That’s a beautiful name,” Hasrey said, writing Olira’s name on the sales papers. “And what would you like to name him?”
“Umm…” The question caught Olira off-guard and dimmed her rage with a dose of discomfort.
Hasrey’s office was smaller, stuffy, and dimly lit. Leather-covered ledgers and scrolls, chests, and cabinets took up most of the space. There was barely enough room to fit Hasrey’s small desk and a wooden chair for Olira to sit.
She turned to glance at the slave, who stood next to Olira, with the same blank expression on his face. “I don’t know,” she mumbled. “What was his real name?”
Hasrey connected his fingertips below his chin, to form a steeple. “Slaves don’t possess names, Mistress Olira,” he explained. “They can’t possess anything. Their Owners choose their names.”
“What did his previous Owner call him?”
“You know what, don’t rush,” Hasrey said, waving his hands dismissively. Olira caught a glimpse of uneasiness on his face, but couldn’t be sure. “You don’t have to name him now. Take your time and when you make a decision, get your village headman to write the name on here.” He pointed at a blank space on the paper.
Olira glared at Master Gladwiel’s assistant. “I know how to read and write,” she glowered.
“Excellent!” Hasrey smiled, showing his teeth. He continued to scribble on the paper, his smile looking more forced every second. He clearly didn’t expect a simple farmer to know how to read and write.
He prepared two copies, and turned both papers towards her. Pointing at the bottom of the pages, “Just sign here and here, then he’s all yours,” he said.
Olira pulled the papers from under Hasrey’s clutches and started reading. Hasrey placed a quill pen at the edge of the table, in front of her. He drummed his fingers on his desk and sighed. His efforts to rush her didn’t escape from Olira’s attention. She leaned back on the uncomfortable chair, ignoring Hasrey’s impatient gestures. Her eyes went back and forth between the two pages.
“So, do you have any other business in Kiore, Mistress Olira?” Hasrey tried a different approach.
“Yes,” Olira said distractedly. She didn’t look up from the pages, making sure they were identical, word for word.
“An excellent day for shopping, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh.” She bit her lips when she came to the section describing the slave’s physical appearance. The sentence below read: I was given a chance to inspect the property before purchase and I accept the property in his current physical condition.
Blood rushed to her face. Most buyers stripped the slaves and examined them naked before purchasing. She didn’t think she could stomach it. She studied the slave’s face with quick glances, making sure at least the facial description matched: blonde hair, grey eyes, tanned skin, thin-lipped, jutting jaw… He did look strong and healthy as Gladwiel had claimed.
“So, what are you going to shop for?” Hasrey distracted her relentlessly.
“I need to get some spices and a few bolts of fabric,” she said, returning back to the paper.
“Ah, wonderful,” the assistant said, leaning forward. “I recommend Rumur Seamore for the best spices in the city. His shop is right at the crossing of Orchid Street and Middle Lane. As for fabric, I wouldn’t go anywhere other than Tidor Softfeather’s shop. Stay far away from Erick Fjalar’s fabrics. He had a pest invasion last month. Every one of three bolts he sells has holes and…”
“Who is Master Valder Babrozi?” Olira interrupted. She was frowning at the bottom of the pages.
“Oh, that’s Master Gladwiel’s business partner,” Hasrey said, waving a hand dismissively.
Olira narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t know he had a business partner.”
“Oh?” Hasrey blinked his eyes in a perfect confusion. The expression loaded in that single sound said, ‘How can you not know it? Even a five-year-old child knows Valder Babrozi is Master Gladwiel’s partner!’.
The slave trader’s assistant raised his eyebrows. “Well, he’ll make an appearance today, probably in the afternoon, if you wish to meet him,” he said, shrugging indifferently. “Master Gladwiel is a travelling merchant, but Master Valder is a Kiore resident. That’s why we put his name as the seller. For tax reasons, you know?” He winked.
<
br /> Olira stared at him a while longer. She couldn’t decide if she believed him or not. It didn’t matter. She was not going to walk out of here with her money. She might as well take whatever she could. Finally, she reached for the quill pen and signed under her name on both pages.
“Congratulations!” Hasrey said with a big grin. He took one of the copies while Olira kept the other. “You are an Owner now.”
Olira didn’t respond. She rolled her copy and stuffed it in her bag. She stood up, eager to leave.
“Before you go,” Hasrey said, reaching for his pocket and bringing out a small piece of paper. “Here are his Words.”
“His Words?”
“Yes, every purebred slave is bound by specific Words,” he explained. “That’s what makes purebreds special.”
“Right.” Olira knew this. “They’re born without a rhoa, so their bodies have to be bound by Words to spare them from the ill influences of Darkhome.” She’d heard this from the sermons of the Twelve Riders’ priests. She touched four fingers on her forehead and drew the Twelve’s sign in the air.
“That’s right,” Hasrey said, smiling and nodding. He pointed at the each of the three words written on the page as he explained. “That’s his First Word. It is used to temporarily paralyse him, if he’s doing anything he shouldn’t do… Not that you’d ever need it. The second one is his Pain Word. It’s used to punish him. Again, not that you’d ever have a reason to use it.”
Olira brought the paper closer to her face. “Prij… pri- prihjti…”
The slave flinched. It was very subtle, but Olira caught it. He stopped breathing, though his expression didn’t change.
Hasrey interrupted her before she could finish the word. “Perhaps it is best not to pronounce those Words if you don’t mean to use them.”
“Oh.” A small crease appeared on Olira’s forehead. She searched for a trace of that subtle sign of life on the slave’s face again, but couldn’t find it. “And what is the last Word for?”
“That’s his Kill Word,” Hasrey said. “Speak it and he will not be stopped until he kills whomever you want him to kill. Again…”
“Not that I would ever have a reason to use it,” Olira finished.
“Exactly.” Hasrey flashed another smile, full of teeth. “Also, I’m obliged to warn you: If you ever use the Kill Word, legally, you are still accountable for the murder. In the end, he is only your property.”
“Right.” Olira took a few more seconds to quietly memorize the Words, then put the paper in her bag. “Is that all?”
“Almost.”
Hasrey walked around his desk and rummaged one of the large chests on the corner. He pulled out a metal collar with a chain attached. “City regulations,” he explained. “Slaves have to wear chains on the trade roads and within the cities. You can take them off at your farm.”
Hasrey put the collar around the slave’s neck and snapped it shut. Olira held her breath, expecting a cringe or any sign or discomfort from the slave, but there was none. The metal collar was only loose enough to allow two fingers between it and the slave’s neck. It looked uncomfortable. The slave didn’t care.
“You are now the property of Olira Aryanna,” Hasrey recited. “You are given no name for now. Acknowledge.”
“I am now the property of Olira Aryanna,” the slave spoke. His voice was raspy, and rough. He sounded older - and more tired - then he looked. It sent a cold shiver down Olira’s spine. “I am given no name. I acknowledge,” he finished.
Hasrey nodded his satisfaction. He handed the key of the collar to Olira, which she dropped in her bag.
“He’s all yours,” Hasrey grinned, holding the free end of the chain to Olira.
Olira fixed the folds of her skirt and her travel cloak, hung her bag across her shoulders, and fixed her dress again, before picking up the chain.
Hasrey walked her out the office. “I wish you a pleasant day, Mistress Olira. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”
Olira didn’t respond. The chain clinked behind her at the slave’s each step as they walked into the streets.
*
The city of Kiore was built on the sunny side of a green mountain that hovered above the city. Paved streets were slightly sloped. Most buildings were built either adjacent, or very close to each other, creating narrow alleyways between them. It was still early morning and although the weather was chilly, the sun was working to change it.
Warrior’s hooves clacked on the stone roads as Olira led him through the streets. She patted the mule’s grey mane when the animal brayed and tilted its ears again.
She’d hitched the slave’s chain at the back of the packsaddle and Warrior was oddly uncomfortable by the slave’s presence. Olira didn’t judge him. She was too.
Now that she was paying more attention, she was seeing a number of people with slaves trailing behind them. They all had similar collars and chains. Only one out of every ten slaves were a purebred like Olira’s.
The ones they called freeborn slaves displayed a variety of emotions describing their situations; most looked bitter or wistful. Some were angry and others were scared.
On the other hand, every purebred had the same bare, blank expression on their faces.
Olira had given up glancing at her slave’s face, searching for a sign of life. He walked on the left side of Warrior, his gaze down at the pavements. Every now and then, he raised a hand to scratch his cheeks, confirming Olira’s suspicions that he was just shaved recently. He matched pace with Warrior, keeping the chain loose between them.
Olira had enough self-awareness to admit the slave’s indifference annoyed her, mostly because she was angry for ending up with a slave in her hands. She was angry at Gladwiel, for swindling her like this and she was angry at herself for ever making business with a slave trader. Although the slave didn’t do anything wrong, his presence - and his empty face - was becoming a source of agitation for her.
Her first stop was the perfume shop. She tied Warrior to a post near the door. Sweet, intense smell of fruits and flowers wafted out on the street. After a moment’s hesitation, she started unloading half her packsaddle onto the slave’s arms. She took the chain off the saddle and led him inside the shop.
The shopkeeper kept her waiting for an infuriating amount of time while he chatted with a wealthy customer. The customer had a freeborn house slave behind her, who carried a basket on her back. The freeborn kept fidgeting, rubbing her shoulders, looking around, eyeing the expensive bottles of perfume with plain jealousy.
Olira’s slave stood like a statue; the bags of herbs on his arms, no sign of getting tired, or getting bored waiting.
When the customer finally left, Olira started stacking the sacks on the counter. The shopkeeper produced a ledger. Olira opened each sack and showed the contents while the shopkeeper crossed each item off his ledger. He added up what he owed and counted nine lousy Blues on the counter. Olira sighed as she dropped them into her purse.
This was why she’d made business with Master Gladwiel. She grew rare, exotic herbs that most small shop owners couldn’t afford. Palleogano plant only blossomed once a year and its petals were used to cure burns and a skin disease called Wither Pox. It was an immensely rare plant, difficult to care for, and had a high value on the market. Tiger Blossom could be used to cure fever and Oxeron was a strong sedative and painkiller, used to make boosters like pemitoin.
Master Gladwiel made a fortune buying sick slaves, healing them with Olira’s herbs, and selling them back. Olira couldn’t find any other buyers near her town, or at Kiore, who could afford her prices.
Olira and the shopkeeper agreed on a date for the next order. By the time they went back outside, it was just before noon.
Olira went on to make her next stops; a pharmacist, a scribe, and an alchemist. She emptied all of the packsaddle just after noon and filled her purse with twelve more Blues. It was not nearly enough to pay off her debt to Master Tholthus, and she still had to buy
supplies for the winter, but the leftovers should at least be enough to pay one instalment.
She paid two Chinderian Reds to buy a loaf of bread for the slave. Since she hadn’t expected to end up with a slave in her hands, she had only packed enough food for herself. She sat down by a statue at a town square and took out her lunch from the saddle bags.
Nothing could have prepared her for the slave’s reaction when she held out the loaf of bread.
The slave’s eyes grew large, his nostrils flared at the smell of fresh bread. He took it with trembling hands, crouched down, and tore a big bite out of it. He took another one without even chewing the first. A soft growl rose from his throat as he attempted to stuff the whole loaf into his mouth as quickly as possible. He clutched the bread with both hands, his shoulders hunched, his whole body trembling.
“Merciful Alunwea,” Olira gasped. “Slow down, you’ll choke yourself.”
The slave coughed a chunk of half-chewed bread on the paved ground. He swallowed what was left in his mouth after barely chewing. His movements had slowed down, though the effort he made to eat slower left him out of breath.
“When was the last time you ate?” Olira whispered.
“I don’t know, Owner.” He shoved another piece into his mouth and gulped it down.
“How do you not know the last time you ate?”
“I don’t remember, Owner,” he said, his mouth full.
Olira chewed her lips as she watched the man eat with trembling hands. She offered him her waterskin, but had to take it back after the slave attempted to drink the whole thing without even stopping to breathe. He picked up the chunks and the crumbs he’d dropped off the ground and ate them too, licking his fingers clean.
Olira nibbled at her sandwich, feeling guilty and embarrassed. She’d made him walk all over the city and carry her bags, without even considering if he was hungry or not. She ate enough to suppress her hunger, and gave the rest of her food to the slave. He made the sandwich disappear within seconds. Then he sat, doubled over, with a hand over his stomach and his eyes closed.
