The Book of Deacon Anthology

by Joseph R. Lallo

  “Jarrad! This late in the day I feared you would not make it!” Grahl said.

  “I keep to my schedule, Grahl. Are these my men?”

  “Yes, yes, ready for inspection!” he said with a brittle grin. “As you can see, some fine ones here. All of them unbranded or single-stripe, as requested. You'll get many good years out of each of them. Worth every entu.”

  “Mmm,” Jarrad grunted.

  “Look, here. You see? We've managed to find a pair of elves. Not much muscle on them, but renowned for their stamina. Should be able to do the work of two humans each.”

  “Mmm,” came another grunt, this one more irritated.

  “And we've even got a dwarf. Good strong mountain stock. He ought to do the work of three men, easily.”

  “I count eleven slaves here. Where is the last?” Jarrad rumbled.

  “I . . . ah . . .” Grahl began, realizing too late that he should have set a few minutes aside from his angry screaming to craft a convincing lie. “Disease, I'm afraid. It came upon him quickly. We separated him from the rest, but he died. Had to bury him deep. Couldn't be helped.”

  “I need twelve.”

  “But the elves! And the dwarf! They—”

  “I don't care how hard they work, Grahl. This is about numbers. I paid you for twelve healthy men because I have twelve jobs that need doing. Either I leave here with twelve single-stripe slaves, or I’ll take back my money and find someone who can provide them.”

  “I assure you, I am the only slaver in ten territories who deals exclusively in quality slaves. You won’t find another slave to match these for twice the price.”

  “Fill my order as requested or I will take my money and go elsewhere,” he said with the slow, deliberate tone of a man on the brink of violence. Responding to the unspoken threat, his hefty servants formed up on either side of Grahl, causing a stir among the more loyal of the slaver's men.

  “Of course, of course. Just one moment,” he said bowing and stepping back while snapping his fingers insistently for Dihsaad.

  “What do you want, Grahl?” asked the far from enthusiastic underling.

  “Bring me Ben,” the head slaver muttered quietly.

  “You don't honestly expect—”

  “I wasn't asking for your opinion, Dihsaad,” he growled, “Just get Ben!” Turning his attention back to his unsatisfied customer, he displayed his incomplete, yellowing smile. “Now, I may not be able to provide you with a replacement of the same level of quality on such short notice, but I assure you this man will be an asset to you, as he has been to me and my men for quite some time.”

  After a moment or two of anxious silence, a man was led from within one of the tents. In a camp such as this, it wasn't uncommon to see someone being led. Thanks in large part to the fact that all but the slavers themselves were in heavy restraints, nearly everyone had to be led, if only to keep them from attempting to escape. There was no threat of such a thing in this case, and only minimal restraints, but he still had better reasons than most to require aid in finding his prospective buyer.

  For one, he was old. Old enough to be a grandfather. While in actuality he wasn’t very much older than Jarrad, by slave standards he was ancient. He was also better dressed than the other slaves. Rather than the torn and filthy remnants of the last clothes he'd worn as a free man, he was wearing a long-sleeved tan robe, caked with dust. The waist was tied inexpertly closed with a length of rope, and the front was open enough to reveal a tunic and trousers of a matching color. A scraggly wreath of gray hair wrapped around the back of an otherwise bald head, and a wild mass of whiskers had claimed most of his face. Most notable, though, was a strip of cloth tied in place as a blindfold and explaining the main reason for the guiding hand.

  “A blind man!? You had better be joking, Grahl,” Jarrad barked. “You, slave. Show me your arm!”

  “Are you talking to me, sir?” asked the blind man with a crisp, precise manner of speech that seemed out of place in a place like a slaver camp.

  “Of course I am!”

  “Well, there are a number of slaves about, sir. If a man can't make eye contact with you, you really need to be more specific than that,” he replied, rolling up his right sleeve to reveal three deep scars, short lines arranged like the rungs of a ladder. The first was ancient and faded with time, the second somewhat more recent, and the last fresher still. The rest of his arm was littered with no fewer than six marks, ranging from letters of two different alphabets to simple insignias. The arm told a story, as was its purpose. The symbols told of past owners. The lines spoke of value. It was never a good sign to see too many of either.

  “You would offer me a triple-stripe slave in place of a single-stripe?” Jarrad growled.

  “What I am offering you is experience, Jarrad. This man has had half a dozen owners, yes, but he learned everything the first three had to teach, and taught the second three all they knew. You've got good strong backs, but Blind Ben here will keep their equipment in good repair, and teach them tricks that will make them work harder and faster than you'd believe. You and I both know a man doesn't end up with six slaver's marks on his arm unless there have been six bright and wealthy men interested in his service.”

  “Six marks also means five bright and wealthy men felt he was beyond his usefulness,” Jarrad countered.

  “Six, sir, seeing as how I'm back on the market, so to speak,” corrected Ben.

  “You would speak to your master that way?”

  “You haven't bought me yet, sir. Grahl is my master,” he said evenly. “But since you ask, yes, I would speak to my master that way. I'm too old to be worrying about who hears what.”

  Grahl's fists tightened, his muscles tensed, and another moment would have brought a strap across the slave's back, but a wry grin came to Jarrad's face.

  “Right. I'll take him, but he's still not a single-stripe. I want the difference in silver,” Jarrad said.

  Grahl twitched. “Yes, that . . . that is perfectly fair. I . . . I can have your silver for you in—”

  “Today.”

  “I . . . I have something better,” Grahl proclaimed, hissing again to Dihsaad, “The bag! The bag!”

  The weakly struggling bag was thrust into his hand, and he held it out to the dissatisfied customer.

  “In this bag is a malthrope. A baby,” Grahl said.

  “What good does that do me?” ask Jarrad, recoiling from the sack.

  “You know as well as I do that a live baby malthrope fetches no less than seventy entus. That should go a long way to making up the difference. And turning one of these in is a civic service. People will respect you for bringing this in.”

  “Where did you get this thing?”

  Grahl opened his mouth, but shut it again quickly before the truth tumbled out. He couldn't very well say that his men had found it while hunting for the slave he'd just said died of an illness. After taking a moment to remember to plan out his webs of deceit with a bit more care in the future, he wove the best one he could manage on short notice.

  “My brother found it . . . with its mother. The creature had died giving birth. We managed to keep the little pest alive so we could claim the bounty.”

  “This hardly looks like a newborn,” Jarrad said, tugging open the bag and peering inside.

  “Look, that doesn't matter, does it? What matters is you'll gain standing with your community if they know you're taking the time to help rid the area of these little monsters, and you'll have the money you're missing.”

  Jarrad looked long and hard at the man holding the bag.

  “I'll throw in food and water enough to keep the thing alive until you get home.”

  The customer's jaw tightened and he snatched the bag away. “Very well, since it is clear you don't have my money anymore. Load up the blind man and the food, and for heaven's sake, don't say another word. This deal has gotten twisted enough.”

  Blind Ben was led to the barred carriage, and when there were enough a
rmed men on hand to make those already inside think twice about escape, the door was opened and he was helped in. Before the door closed, Jarrad upended the bag onto the floor of the carriage, causing the ragged ball of red fur to tumble out. The breath of fresh air and shock of the fall had brought its senses back and it made a mad scramble for the door, but the bars were slammed hard enough to knock the beast to the center of the carriage floor. A few halfhearted kicks and shoves sent it scurrying for cover, the same way one might treat a rat that had been dropped into a crowded room, and the same way the rat might behave.

  Ben had wearily taken a seat on one of the plank benches that lined each side of the carriage, and was too tired to grope for the creature when it wedged itself underneath. When it became clear that the thing wasn't going to climb out, the other slaves left it cowering and trembling behind the blind man's legs, its eyes wide and its heart pounding.

  #

  For a slave, the origin and destination of a trip have profound implications. When on the way to a slave trader, the journey was a perilous one. They were forced into ships, hundreds traveling in space intended for dozens, or into long and poorly equipped caravans of carriages and wagons. As the captives were tossed by the seas or burnt by the sun, those who could laughably be called their caretakers take little notice when a handful fewer arrive than had departed. There were simply so many, and each was so cheap, that it wasn’t worth the effort to take any real interest in their well-being. Some of them always survived.

  When on the way from the slaver, however, things were different. Now they were few, a precise number, purchased for a tidy sum and intended for a specific purpose. Very few plantation or mine owners could afford to buy more than they need, so every one of the workers was looked after for the duration of the trip, so that they would be strong, healthy, and ready to work when they arrived. It was astounding how much the value of a living, breathing creature could change based solely upon where it was headed, and how many coins had been exchanged for it.

  Regardless of the philosophical ramifications, it was this monetary value that had been one of the two things that had allowed the little malthrope to survive his journey. Jarrad was no fool, and the slaves he had purchased were far more than a simple purchase of workers. They represented his next harvest, and those for years to come. They were the tools that would allow him to grow more crops on his farm, and, in turn, would allow his farm to grow larger, and more successful. So he gave them food, and he gave them water, more than enough of each. He even provided a pair of buckets; one to wash with, and one for . . . other necessities. Though the red-furred creature was not destined to be a worker, it did represent a respectable quantity of silver when the time came—but only if it was alive. Thus it was only sound business sense to see to it that it received a share of the food and water.

  That was enough to keep it from wasting away, but for a helpless and reviled creature among a dozen frustrated slaves seeking a target for their hostility, there were greater dangers than starvation. The carriage had barely been on the road for more than a few minutes when the tribal and racial lines began to be drawn. Of the twelve slaves in the wagon, three were from Tanoa, an island off the western coast. Five more were nomads, two from Nattal tribe and three from the Wendo tribe. Each of these tribes was in on again/off again conflict with the others, and both were at war the Tanoans.

  The two elves quickly became the targets of their combined hostility, as well. Initially it was for the simple fact that they weren’t human, but this was soon overshadowed by the fact that they were just tall and graceful enough to look down their noses at the rest of the group. That left the dwarf, who had no particular gripe with any in attendance, but was eager for a fight just to break up the monotony. Twice the various combinations of allies and adversaries came to blows, and twice the hired hands supervising them had to lay down the law before they would settle for trading increasingly creative obscenities and eying each other distrustfully.

  The only passenger who seemed to be exempt from the posturing and prejudice was Ben, the blind man. Though none could explain precisely why, no one felt particularly inclined to involve him. He merely sat on the edge of the bench and slouched forward, swaying side to side as the carriage jostled along the poorly kept roads. Perhaps it was because he was blind. If he couldn’t see them, it seemed only fair that they treat him as though they could not see him. Or perhaps it was because he was so old that he had earned a measure of respect and reverence simply for having survived so long in so wretched a life. Whatever the reason, the blind man was left alone, as though he emitted an aura of solitude. Huddled beneath Ben’s seat, the malthrope was mercifully afforded the same luxury.

  It was a very long journey from the slaver camp to Jarrad’s fields. True, Tressor was a vast land, but most of the trip was spent attempting to maneuver an overloaded carriage over poorly maintained roads. That much time trundling along in the hot sun was enough to take the fight from even the feisty dwarf. As each of the men slipped into his own tight cycle of anger, frustration, boredom, and hopelessness, the creature among them drifted through its own sequence of emotions.

  First was fear. The carriage shook and rattled all around him, assaulting his keen ears and turning his stomach. And then there were the others. The little beast had seen and smelled things like those that surrounded him before, but only from afar. Worse, whenever he did, he saw and felt an anxiety in his mother that he quickly learned to adopt. If she was afraid of something, then it was certainly something to be feared. Now, for reasons he had no way of understanding, he was trapped with them.

  Worse than the fear, though, was the sadness. As he huddled in the corner, his deft paws hugging his gangly legs and his prized tail wrapped around his feet, he thought of the place he called home, a forest that was already farther away than he could even imagine, and growing more distant by the moment. He thought of his mother, too. Motionless on the dusty ground . . .

  The image burned hot in his mind. What burned his mind more was the slow realization that both his home and his mother were lost to him forever. He thought of these things, and quiet, bitter sobs shook him.

  Grief is like any other kind of pain. No matter how intense or how constant it is, time takes the edge from it. It may not fade, but it loses its sharpness. It becomes the new normal, and eventually steps aside and makes room in the mind for other things.

  When his mind had numbed to the sorrow, and for the moment there were no more tears left to cry, the little fox felt the parts of himself that had been buried by the tragedy creep to the surface. Chief among them was curiosity. As frightening as all of this was, it was new, and something inside of him wanted to know more. He inched out from his hiding place, stretching to get a better look and retreating when he was noticed and a foot or fist swatted in his direction. The attacks didn't make him less curious, just more cautious, teaching him to watch where they were looking and picking his inspections accordingly. He sniffed and tugged at boots and cuffs, generally making a nuisance of himself until a particularly quick kick sent him scurrying back to his corner.

  The food, when it was offered, was another curiosity. Once each day, a bowl for each of the slaves was slid through a rectangular slit along the bottom of the carriage door. When he received his share the first time, he didn't know what to make of it. The stuff was wet and mushy, and it didn't have any flavor to it, but it took the hunger away. It also gave him a bowl to play with until they were able to get it away from him. With a carriage of slaves to deal with, the servants couldn't very well climb inside and chase him around. As a result, they were forced to loosen the chain securing the door enough to fit an arm through and try to snatch the bowl away. Since it was the slave-keepers who were trying to take the bowl back, the longer he was able to hold onto it, the more entertained the other slaves were. It quickly became a game, and the little creature became very good at it, particularly since it was the only time he was able to scamper around the entire floor of the carr
iage without dodging feet.

  Eventually they just let him keep the bowl rather than fight with him. When a new one came at the next meal time, he would grab the new and they would take the old.

  When the current bowl became tiresome, he would look out between the bars of the carriage. There were many unfamiliar sights. Until the horrible day that his mother was killed, the malthrope’s world had been little more than thin forests and the occasional sprint through the sandy fields between. The nearest he’d ever had to a house was a simple hut composed of twisted branches, mud, and thatch. It was a place he only dimly remembered, because they had been forced to abandon it one night and never returned. Now he saw homes built of wood or stone, and there were so many of them. Sometimes they were far enough apart that he could only see one of them from one horizon to the next. Other times they were close enough that they were nearly touching. The closer the houses, the more people there were, and the busier they seemed to be. The busier they were, the more they spoke.

  To sharp ears honed to pick out the rustle of a single tuft of grass half a field away, the sound of so many different voices speaking was simultaneously the most terrible and the most wonderful thing he had ever heard. It was a chorus of complex sounds and unfamiliar voices. Sometimes he let the sounds blend together, washing over him. Other times he tried to single them out, scanning the crowds and attempting to match the mouths to the words. Some of the sounds had a familiar shape to them, things he had heard his mother say on one of the rare occasions that she spoke.

  Once he tried to form some of the sounds himself. The high-pitched, squeaky attempt at speech must have caught the attention of some of the townsfolk, because eyes turned to him, voices raised, and he learned a few new words that stung him with their tone. From that time onward he huddled in the shadow of the bench and kept quiet when people were near. There were some words he knew he never wanted to hear again.