by Robin Hardy
Roman took his bowl and mug to sit at a table nearer the door. He took a swig of the ale and found it watered. The stew smelled old and greasy. He ate slowly, tense and alert, listening to every voice and movement around him.
Two renegades passed by him on their way out. They were dressed in good leathers and carried royal broadswords. One was laughing, “Did you hear about old Gerd? Says he got hold of one girl who swore she was a chataine. Sold her to—” the slam of the door as they left cut off his voice.
Roman bolted to the door and collided with such force into another renegade that both of them went sprawling. The soldier got up swearing and swinging, but Roman ducked his fists and stumbled outside.
They were nowhere to be seen. He was peering down the street when he was grabbed from behind by the fellow he had run into. Roman impatiently knocked him to the ground again and ran up the road to look farther. But the two soldiers had been swallowed up completely by the street life.
Crushed and dizzy, Roman felt the burning flush of insight. Of course! That’s what had happened! Deirdre had been captured and sold into slavery. That explained all the riddles of her disappearance. He felt nauseous and giddy at once. He would find her now. He would find where she had been sold and trace her. It could be done.
With a new hope and confidence, Roman strode back to the inn and sat to finish his stew. He went to the bar again to tell the proprietor, “I want a room for the night.”
Grunting, the owner wiped his hands on his dirty apron and took up an oil lamp to lead Roman past the bar to a dank corridor. He stopped at the second door and set the lamp down in a small, windowless room which contained a bed and a dry washbasin.
Roman moved to step inside, but the owner stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Two royals,” he said. Breathing a disgusted sigh, Roman paid him again. The proprietor stopped him once more from entering. “You want company?” he asked.
“What?”
“A girl,” suggested the owner.
“No,” said Roman, then reconsidered. “Wait . . . yes, I do. But not just for the night, nor just a village girl—someone special. Someone who might have been of noble birth. Who would sell me that kind of girl?”
“As a slave?”
“Yes,” Roman choked out.
“Well,” the proprietor took on an informative air, “the best slaves are usually in Fark’s market. He takes care of his property, he does. But you better have a lot of money, and keep a tight hand on it. He’s a clever cheat and his friends’ll stab you in the back for a few royals.”
Roman turned to leave. “Where is it?”
“Ah, it differs from day to day. In the morning, I’ll find out from the boys where he is now. I wouldn’t go at night anyway, if I were you.”
Roman nodded unhappily and tossed his pack down in the room. He cast an inquiring look to the proprietor, who still stood in the doorway. “So—you want a girl tonight?” the owner persisted.
“No,” Roman said.
In the morning Roman rose eager and determined. He entered the dining room, nearly empty at this hour, and sat at the bar. The proprietor set a plate of fatty ham and bread before him. “Have you heard where Fark’s market is?” asked Roman.
“Yep. North of here, near the abandoned mill. He’s already set up this morning,” he answered amiably. Roman gulped the breakfast and stood, taking up his pack.
“That will be two royals,” said the proprietor.
“Two royals? For what?”
“Your lodging.”
“I paid you for that last night,” Roman said, eyeing him.
“I said, that will be two royals.” The proprietor raised his voice and a couple of scruffy soldiers looked up. “Are you refusing to pay your bill?” The soldiers stood and ambled over to stand behind the owner.
Roman gritted his teeth and produced the money. “Have a safe and pleasant journey, sonny,” the proprietor called after him, cackling, as Roman stalked out.
He reached the inn’s stables in time to see a young man leading out his horse, balking, saddled and bridled. “Let go of that horse before I break your hands,” Roman growled.
The boy jumped and sputtered, “He is—I was readying him for you.”
Unconvinced, Roman checked the cinch, then mounted. The boy held out his hand: “That will be two royals for the care of your horse.”
“I paid the proprietor for your services. Go claim it from him,” Roman said, kicking the animal sharply. As it happened, he needed no directions to find Fark’s market. Heading north, he simply followed the trail of slave traders leading their merchandise.
The abandoned mill was located in a grassy meadow a few miles outside of Corona. But the mill itself was hardly visible for the activity around it. Pulling his horse to the side of the road, Roman stonily took in a scene he had never before witnessed: Hundreds of slaves stood in the open field, chained together in rows of thirty to forty each. The rows changed like tides as new slaves were added and purchased slaves removed.
Roman dismounted with extreme wariness and moved closer to the field, leading his horse. He listened as a trader outlined the features of a slave to a buyer: “Look at his color—you can see he’s healthy. And strong—he’ll pull for you what a mule would!”
“But he’s blind in one eye,” the buyer observed in dissatisfaction.
“That’s why the good Lord gave us two—the other eye sees perfectly! And for that little defect, I’ll give you a reduced price of only one hundred twenty royals.”
Someone tapped Roman’s shoulder and he jumped. “See anything you like, soldier?” A steely-eyed trader was watching him.
“I must look more closely,” Roman mumbled, and he began leading his horse down the rows, looking for a blond head.
He intended only to scan the rows for her, but found himself instead looking into faces—faces blank from misery; frightened faces; hateful, angry faces; tender, innocent, suffering faces. Yet they all shared a common stance of hopelessness. They were chattel, something less than human, because no one cared or was able to redeem them. Deirdre—are you enduring this somewhere?
He walked the length of the field and she was not there. He found the trader again. “I’m looking for someone especially . . . a girl, with blond hair, whom Gerd might have brought in. She—she might have claimed to be daughter of a surchatain.”
The trader laughed hoarsely. “Now that’s a selling point I hadn’t thought of! No, I dare say we haven’t had a chataine here.”
“Do you know Gerd?”
“Sure. Buy a lot from him,” the trader admitted.
“Where does he live?” Roman asked.
“Gerd? Nowhere. But he works mostly in southern Seleca.” The trader kept a wary eye on his merchandise as he talked.
“Where can I find him?” Roman pressed.
“Wherever he is, soldier. Whether you ever find him depends a lot on what you want from him.” The trader eyed him with amused malice, and Roman looked away, thinking.
Then he asked, “Are there other slave markets in Corona?”
The trader laughed again. “Are there fleas on a dog?”
“How many are there?”
“Who knows? It’s a profitable business, and everyone wants to try his hand at it. They come and go in the night,” replied the trader.
Roman stared at the shifting rows before him. “I’ll search until I find her,” he vowed to himself, mounting and riding to seek out another market.
It was a short ride away. Again, it was an open field with slaves chained in rows. He stopped to look. There were fewer here, and their condition was generally worse. But there, toward the back, was a blond girlish head tucked in slender arms—his heart raced as he ran toward her. He lifted her abruptly to peer in her face, and the little girl cringed away from him, crying.
His disappointment at finding her not to be Deirdre was overshadowed by pity and outrage. Why, this was just a child! She looked no older than Deirdre had been when he
first became her guardian.
“Unhand the merchandise until you pay for her, soldier,” growled a trader at his side.
Roman released her, gulping, “How much?”
“Eighty royals.”
Eighty royals! he thought. I can’t pay that—it’s almost all I have, and I would have nothing left to redeem Deirdre when I find her. His conscience asked, Will you leave this child in slavery, then?
Roman stepped back a pace in dismay. I can’t free every slave I find, he protested. It’s impossible.
“Well?” the trader demanded.
Roman reluctantly drew out his money bag and paid him. “Tell me . . . do you know Gerd?”
“Yeah. What’s he to you?” the trader muttered suspiciously.
“Has he brought in a girl to you—a blond girl, claiming to be a chataine?”
“Let me tell you something, soldier. You go asking questions about Gerd, and you’ll find him at your back with a knife.” The trader unlocked the girl and shoved her toward Roman. Preoccupied, he took her by the arm. She did not resist, but watched him from under her brows.
He led her to his horse, where he halted uncertainly. “Listen . . . I don’t wish to use you. I only wanted to free you, but I can’t ward you—”
She looked up at him wide-eyed. “You’re going to free me?”
“Yes—” he began, but before another word fell from his lips, the child kicked him with all her strength in a tender place, seized his money bag, and ran for her life.
When Roman finally picked himself up from the dust amid the guffaws of the traders, he grittingly thought, So much for my good deeds. If I find Deirdre now, I’ll have to free her by force. And the way he felt now, he was rather looking forward to the opportunity. He mounted with a gasp and rode to find another market.
But locating the next one required a longer search. When he thought he saw a girl being led in chains some distance from the other markets, he followed, but found himself stumbling into an ordinary tin shop. There was no one inside but craftsmen.
He stepped outside again, puzzled. He searched around the shop to see if she had been taken someplace near it that he had not seen. But there was nowhere else she could have gone.
Then he noticed that the building was rather large for a tin shop. He considered: the larger slave markets operated in the open, as they had the numbers to defend their merchandise from anything other than an army. But a smaller operation, not so well manned, would need a cover. . . .
Roman entered the tin shop again and looked toward a rear door. One of the craftsmen stopped his work to peer at him. “Need something, fellow?”
“I want to buy a slave,” said Roman. The other appraised him a moment, then went to the rear door and knocked a code on it. It opened, and Roman stepped into a dark back room.
Here, among tin scraps and tools, were about fifteen girls chained to rings in the wall. Three renegades who sat around a table, drinking, looked up. A fourth shut the door behind him.
None of the girls was Deirdre. “Are you here to buy, fellow?” one soldier demanded.
“Not one of these,” Roman answered. “I’m looking for a particular girl, one who claimed to be a chataine.”
“Oh, well, there she is,” said another renegade, gesturing to a plump girl behind him.
Surprised, Roman said, “Ah—no, she’s not the one—”
“She’s a chataine,” the renegade insisted defensively.
“Nonetheless, she’s not the one I wanted,” Roman answered. “The one I’m looking for is—”
“Well, how about this one?” the fellow pointed to another. “She happens to be a chataine also!”
Roman inhaled. This was turning into a carnival. “I’m looking for a girl Gerd might have sold—”
“What’s wrong with our chataines?” the renegade demanded, standing while the others snickered. “Are you saying you don’t like any of our girls? Why, they’re ALL chataines!” he exclaimed, flapping his arms to encompass the whole room. “You’re an idiot if you can’t see that!”
The others fell from their seats laughing, and he added, “Rufus, get the idiot out of here.” The fellow behind the door opened it and shoved Roman out.
He retreated outside under the tin workers’ curious glances. There, he paused to eat the last bit of bread from his pouch and think. With no money and no more provender, how would he stay in Corona and search through the winter?
Roman was pondering this dilemma when a voice at his back said, “Try for a royal, fellow?”
He jerked his head around to see a ragtag drifter holding up three walnut shells and a gold royal. “Find the pebble, and the royal’s yours, eh? If not, you pay me. Hey, fellow?”
Roman looked interested. “How is this done?”
The drifter squatted to the ground and laid the three shells in a row. Then he placed a pebble beneath one. “You just tell me which shell hides the pebble, and I pay you a royal,” he said, moving them around. He lifted the middle one to expose the pebble. “There, see?” He replaced it and switched them around again. Then he lifted an end shell. “There it is again! Easy, huh?”
“It looks easy,” admitted Roman.
“But if you don’t find it, you pay me,” said the gambler.
“Very well,” agreed Roman.
With a flourish, the fellow set the shells down and moved them so swiftly they blurred. He sat back on his heels and demanded, “Now, where’s the pebble?”
Roman looked down at the shells a moment, then up at the gambler. “In your right hand,” he answered. He reached over to open the drifter’s fingers and show him the pebble. “You owe me a royal,” Roman said.
The gambler gave it up to him, laughing, “Say, you’re good at this! Try it again, and win another!”
Roman stood. “One from you is enough.” He lifted his foot to his horse’s stirrups.
“Wait!” demanded the drifter. “You’ve got my money!”
“You lost it fairly—” Roman began, but was yanked from the saddle by a second drifter who started beating him savagely with a short wooden club.
Roman struck him solidly in the throat and he fell right away. Then Roman wheeled back to the first, but he had vanished. So he climbed back on the horse, muttering in satisfaction, “Easiest royal I ever earned.” From there he continued his quest.
Chapter 14
Galapos sat absent-mindedly drumming the table. Seated across from him, Basil was examining marked and smudged maps with satisfaction. “You’ve done well, Surchatain. The villagers will be overjoyed at your generosity in dividing your land among them.”
“Perhaps, Counselor. I think more likely, however, that they will bitterly complain about the taxes of a tenth I will require for the privilege of owning their own land.” He rose and impatiently stalked to the window.
Basil laid the maps down, quietly observing, “You are troubled for your children.”
Galapos snorted. “Troubled? Because Deirdre has disappeared from the inhabited earth and Roman is off on an addled search for her? Why should that trouble me?” Basil remained silent and Galapos breathed out heavily, turning toward him. “Forgive me, Counselor. My tongue runs of its own accord at times.”
“I’m not offended, Surchatain—I know the trial you’re enduring. But has there been no word from the scouts you sent out?”
Galapos shook his head. “I received a negative message from Karl and Joel in Calle Valley, and a negative message from Perin and Lari in Goerge. From Marc and Varan I’ve heard nothing.”
Basil walked over to the window to scan the countryside himself. “Roman may yet find her. He is a born hunter, and his sense of direction is uncanny.”
Galapos said, “Yes, but this time his compass is off.” He looked intently out over the land as if searching into the streets of Corona.
A knock. “Enter!” called Galapos, turning determinedly from the window.
A sentry opened the door. “Dinner, Surchatain.”
&
nbsp; “Well timed, at that,” Galapos muttered.
In the dining hall, Galapos, Kam, Basil, and a few others sat down at one end of the long table. Kam made a disgusted face at the watery, lumpy pottage set before them. “If you were able to pay the cooks, Surchatain, perhaps they would treat us with greater kindness at mealtime.”
Galapos smiled wryly. “They do the best they can, considering they are soldiers who think a pan is for smashing on heads.”
Kam looked up at a soldier who ambled in with a bottle of ale and an armload of goblets. “You are the ugliest serving girl I have ever seen,” he declared with feeling.
“You’re no delight to gaze upon, yourself,” the soldier griped, drag-ging up a chair.
“Gentlemen, please,” Galapos laughed, “we must make do with each other until such time as more people can be brought into the palace. Peace, fellows.”
Kam sullenly ate his soup, dribbling a little down his black beard. “Any word from Roman?”
“No.” Galapos’s smile faded.
“Corona is a sorry place to carry out a search in winter,” Kam continued. Basil’s look warned him to stop, but he did not see. “I think we ought to send an outfit to bring him back. He was just not thinking aright to go there.”
“No, he was not,” Galapos acknowledged. “But to bring him back against his will would not straighten his thinking. That task falls to a higher power than mine. Roman will return when he is made ready.” Kam pursed his lips skeptically, and the party ate in depressed silence.
At length, Galapos looked around and muttered, “What I wouldn’t give for some entertainment now.”
A sentry entered while he was speaking and whispered to him, “Surchatain. A traveling minstrel asks you to hear him.”
“Send him now,” Galapos agreed in surprise. “A traveling minstrel,” he explained to Basil.
“We haven’t had one pass through since before Tremaine,” said Basil, and those at table straightened a little in interest.
A pleasant-faced young man came in and bowed low before Galapos. “Surchatain Galapos, I am honored that you receive me. Your name has been on the lips of men from Goerge to Calle Valley as the deposer of the tyrant Tremaine. A long life to you, Surchatain! And now, if you allow me, I will sing a song in your honor which I just now composed.”
