Chapter Text
The tall nobleman paused at the heavily barred gate. He turned and gazed in an absent-minded manner back up the dirty, squalid, cobbled road. An observer might almost have assumed, from his demeanour, that he had strayed to this spot by accident. But this man hadn't arrived here by chance or mistake, though few of his birth or standing would have thought of doing so.
While his man exchanged rough-tongued insults with the gate guards, he pondered on his reasons for being at this spot, wishing that he didn't have to enter the dark, menacing passageway beyond the gate. And how very ungrateful to be so reluctant when at least he did so by choice ....
"Master Caerrovon," started the neatly-bearded man, suddenly at his side, "we are now privileged to be made free of this wonderland." Steel permitted himself a small, grim smile at this humour, and they left their retinue at the gate and entered in, past the opened gate, down the passage that echoed with their footsteps, as though, thought he, all the dead walked with them, heard but unseen. As they emerged from the dark, the usual racket and bustle assailed them, and Steel drew in air through his teeth. His man glanced sideways at him, knowing that his Master's impassivity was hard-won, and wishing that he would not indulge this personal crusade.
His face set in a contemptuous mask, Lord Steel walked disinterestedly along the rows of ‘floors' - areas swept clean by human bodies alone in most cases, though in the more up-market rows, the Slave-hounds washed the floors down from time to time, the better to display their wares. Steel spared hardly a glance for the first four rows of wretched living merchandise. He had learned through bitter experience to school himself. These belonged to the Slavers in the market for quick gains: they did not look after the miserable samples of foreigners, most of whom were therefore on the verge of collapse. Added to the poor conditions was physical and mental abuse: it was unlikely to find anyone who could be saved, here, or who would be worth saving.
Steel had tried, when he was younger and more optimistic. It hadn’t ended well, he didn’t have the means to heal the deeply wounded and they had caused havoc with his household. When a young and angry man attacked a woman he had made the hard decision to do what he could for those who could be helped, and fight the rest of the problem another way. On the whole, they had been more fortunate since that day.
Abruptly, the floors increased in size, the noise level dropped from a shrieking frenzy, and Steel was able to think. The Slavers and their Hounds still called for him to observe this one’s teeth, that one’s fine stature, but there was now a thin skin of mock refinement covering the crudity and sordidness. Steel was nearing the exit, at once smelling the reprieve from the miasma of human misery and exasperated that he had put up with it for an hour for nothing. Then they turned so they were facing the last T-junction, and at the end was a tableau so unusual that Steel stopped abruptly.
These floors were kept for special slaves. Ones usually marked for those owners looking for powerful men to be gladiators or personal fighters; to the left, pretty young females – sometimes males – scantily dressed in diaphanous apparel, powdered and scented, for buyers with specific tastes; sometimes slaves with particular talents: athletes, musicians and the like, usually attractively presented.
Straight ahead sat a very dark-skinned older woman of obvious refinement, though her doubtless original and beautifully-fitting clothing was grubby. Her chin was raised, she stared straight ahead like a queen. Steel had seldom seen a skin such a dark brown, the locals were of a type: blonde and fair-skinned, but with the slavery laws other types were becoming more commonplace. And many of the Slavers and their Hounds were now of mixed blood because, well, they were the product of the rape of slaves being brought to market and not accepted in other professions.
The woman was in herself unusual, her attitude unique, but occupying the floor on either side of her stood two men, unlike her and unlike each other. Hard to believe they were the same species, yet Steel did not need his rather weak and erratic empathy to feel the bond between the three. Each man stood angled away from the woman, shoulders straight, every quietly aggressive nuance visible in their demeanour, like mismatched knight-protector bookends, guarding their queen.
He glanced off to the side and saw that Iftal was the Slaver. He often claimed the best floors. Steel had done reluctant business with him before. He walked closer, and noted that while the woman…lady …ignored him, both men were watching him with hard, challenging eyes. In a less disgusting place, Steel would have allowed himself to be amused. They had both been in very good physical shape when taken, the taller, heavier man would probably end up as a gladiator, the smaller, leaner man perhaps an athlete, acrobat, yet neither was heavily chained. Often that was done as shrewd promotion to draw attention to the slave’s power and reined aggression. This odd grouping drew Steel, and he stopped before them.
Affecting a bored tone, he inspected his beautiful finger-nails and asked, using Cortican Standard with ease “Are you staging plays, now, Iftal?”
Iftal washed one hand in the other in a gesture innate to all slavers of Caerrovon's unwelcome acquaintance and said, just a hint of obsequiousness in his voice, “A pretty trio, is it not? I chose not to separate them, yet, as they are best kept this way. The men were so much trouble, I thought to castrate them as soon as they were sold to me, but as long as they are kept with the woman, they remain docile.” Steel wondered if that was the adjective he would have used, glancing at the fury almost vibrating in the men’s muscles as they glanced around their surroundings, returning to watch him. Many of the slaves on these floors were resales: slaves bred in captivity or well-trained in places designed to groom them into compliance and hone their abilities and their usefulness. Good slaves, slaves that fitted themselves obediently into new households. Seldom found here were what the Slave-hounds called Fresh Meat.
Steel himself seldom bought any resales.
“A pretty scene,” Iftal repeated. “But, if you, great Lord Steel, are interested in any one, or two, then you only have to ask…”
“I only came with the idea of buying one, and if, as you say, they are a set and more trouble than they are worth once the set is broken…”
“No, no, they are no trouble, they will be no trouble – “
“Yet you keep the lady,” Steel nodded briefly to her, but she didn’t acknowledge the sign if, indeed, she saw it, “for the single reason that she somehow calms the wolves?”
“No, no, she is a talent, she sings beautifully! Truly, she can sing! You would be transported, Lord Steel!”
“But I assume her voice is only beautiful in the presence of two young warriors?” Steel inquired, raising an eyebrow, and was rewarded by a fleeting expression of pure frustration on the Slaver’s face. “Where are they from? I have seen no other slaves of their type.”
“A new market, Lord Steel. Very exclusive. Wonderful merchandise! You would be among the first!”
“Then perhaps they are physiologically bonded? Like the slaves from Hersaltior, mated couples die if separated? Fascinating.” His jaded tone sounded anything but. Iftal shrugged. However, Steel was not as bored as he seemed, nor as oblivious to the slaves. Though the lady remained impassive and the heavier warrior stolid, the slender man’s eyes had been following their exchange: though his face remained set, the fire in his blue eyes waxed and waned.
“May I observe these interesting new acquisitions more closely?” Steel asked. “On the understanding that I am looking for only one, and almost certainly not one of these, from your story?”
“Go ahead, of course, of course, Great Lord,” Iftal smiled his horrid smile. “And I will have the surgeon ready if you should choose one or both of the men.”
“You will never sell me a castrate, Iftal,” Steel said, managing to keep his voice level.
“No, no, there are others who feel the same way, which is why I like to give the choice to the new owner. Please, inspect them, Great Lord. You and I have done much business in the past, and will again.”
“Do not, Master,” Brak begged under his breath. “Please, let us leave.”
“I am curious, that is all,” Steel told him, wondering if this was true. It was so seldom he saw Fresh Meat slaves that were not in shock, in deep grief, drugged by chemicals or pain from beatings or injuries. And there was something tantalising about these three…
He stepped up onto the slave floor and walked to the lady and bowed a little. He didn’t try and speak to her, but drifted over to the man who appeared younger, and had been more aware of what was going on between him and the slaver. Brak, his hand hovering over his dagger, followed closely.
The man didn’t raise his chin but his eyes, filled with impotent hatred, stared up into Caerrovon’s. They were truly beautiful eyes. The man was a little thin but with care would be physically perfect, other than some whip-scabs and yellowed bruising over his shoulders. “You understand me?” Steel said, softly.
“Yes,” he said, low and cold.
“Who is the lady you protect?” There was a spark in the light eyes, and he lifted his face for ten seconds and looked straight at Steel’s soul. Steel smiled a little, appreciatively.
Slaves were trained never to be so bold.
“You wear a – a show-sword,” Steel heard him say, though he was struggling with vocabulary, “a man of right, goodness. If such, Sir, (something) sword and take … lives…lady first.”
“What knows the likes of you of my Master’s honour,” snarled Brak in a whisper, though Steel tried to shush him. “
“Nothing, you, (something) my only play. This – ” Steel was understanding him better, now, and he used an epithet gleaned from the Slave-hounds vocabulary, indicating unadulterated hatred of Iftal and questioning the species-specificity of the sexual habits of all his ancestors “ – will sell her, and cut us, yes?”
“That is a likely scenario, yes,” Steel nodded. “Apparently you and your…partner …” he gestured with a head-twist at the taller man who was watching, but not understanding, “…have made it almost imperative that you both be castrated.”
“Not slaves!” he spat back quietly, answering Steel’s tone rather than the words. “Are – “ again he used a word from another language, struggled and said “ – stolen. We are took...”
Steel sighed. It happened. It wasn’t supposed to, but it did, all the time. He in his turn looked deeply into those bright, angry eyes, extended his awareness to its maximum and asked, simply, “Are you good people?”
The eye-lashes dropped dark shadows on the high cheekbones before he looked back. “Him,” he indicated with his eyes, “good, lady good. ”
“And you?” Steel prodded, unexpectedly amused again.
“Bad.”
“Oh!” Steel shook his head. “Yet the three of you are like a three-cord rope?” He saw the man’s puzzlement and put three fingers together and held them with the other hand. “Strong together.”
“Long and (something) tell you if ….” There was suddenly a terrible weariness deep in the eyes.
“You are prepared to bet on my honour,” Steel said. “Can I place a heavy bet on yours, and that of your taller and more solid friend?” The eyes flashed, wary. He understood more than he could use in speech, as was usual. “If I take you, all of you…if I can afford your troublesome selves…will you swear, for all three of you, to be no trouble to me?”
The man watched Steel’s hand-gestures as he spoke, and then asked, “You …making game?”
“No.” Steel’s finger-tips touched the gold-and-silver knot on his shoulder, a ritualistic gesture. “On my honour as a Keeper, my family’s name of Steel, no.”
The eyes fell. “Take two. You can then buy, yes? Tell to them and …no trouble.” He said it softly so that Steel had to lean in close and the man’s untidy, filthy curls tickled his chin. Steel waited till the man looked up, eyes now flat and dead. He smiled, and the eyes widened a little.
“Oh, I can see they would be no trouble if I left you to the so-called surgeon’s blade! My name is Lord Steel. What is your name, young man?”
“Neal, my name is Neal.” He mimicked the phrase and accent exactly. At that, both the other man and the woman looked over. Neal said, “Peter, June, Sir.”
“Can you speak to them and ask them for their word of honour to be compliant if I purchase all three of you? Um…if I take you all, will you be good?”
Brak groaned beside him as Neal spoke swiftly to the other two, and received reluctant nods from both.
“Swear, Sir,” Neal said.
“And you?” Steel couldn’t help grinning, something he seldom did at the Slave-market. Neal looked at him and shrugged.
“I try, Sir.”
“All any of us can ever do. Now let me see your back, yours and Peter’s. Was June harmed?”
“No. Feared and the …food and places… bad, but no …hurt her,” he said, and slipped off the dirty, ragged top and turned, calling to Peter to do the same. They had both been severely whipped, but none of it was recent. The wounds were deep, inflamed and some were still weeping unhealthily.
“You will all listen to me and obey me and any I may place over you and treat my household with respect?” Steel almost chanted, again reaching.
Neal nodded. “Yes.”
“I believe it of them,” Steel told him. “You, hmmm…” The blue eyes suddenly lit with humour, and Steel turned to Brak and spoke quietly in another language. “If you can get them all cheap, put them in the blue suite, after a visit to the bathhouse.”
Then he turned and went to the Slaver, who was leaning forward in excited anticipation of a sale. Steel was surprised he did not salivate, he looked so like a dog waiting for a bone. “You yourself have told me that their bond limits their usefulness and the men have been brutally beaten. I will take them all if you give my man, Brak, a very, very good deal, Iftal.”
“Very good, very, very good,” Iftal nodded. He felt a little relieved. Though so exotic, the three had become an oddity, something for buyers to observe but not bid on. Still, he should make some profit, and even if he took a loss, he’d free up the slave floors for more saleable merchandise, and keep the strange Lord Steel, who regularly bought slaves, happy. Steel turned and pinned Neal with a glare to fit his title, and walked out. He stood outside, breathing deeply, much relieved to be out of that filthy, misery-drenched atmosphere, though the air was far from fresh here. Two soldiers, Pey and Tomn drew up and they walked to their horses and, leading Brak’s mare, they rode off towards home.
Not too long afterwards, Brak shepherded his new charges into the same sunshine and the same air, and similarly, they breathed as though they hadn’t dared do so for a long time. They blinked, looking about. “You!” barked Brak, and the three jumped with expectation of pain, but saw he was gesturing to a nearby urchin, who ran and found a rather tatty wagon with a tattered horse in the shafts.
“I apologise, but we need to get you clean and clothed,” he told them, Neal translated as best he could and the wagon conveyed them to a bath-house set up specifically for such occasions. The three bathed and basic clothing was provided. Brak stayed with the two men, the lady was escorted off by one of the women and came back dressed in a long gown that was not a perfect fit, but was clean.
She smiled a little at Brak, and shook her head when he tried to ask her if she had everything she needed, but Neal came out of a change-room, dressed all in brown and she made a face at him and he shrugged and said something to her. When Peter joined them, they went back onto the street and Steel’s carriage, with four young, beautiful dappled horses, was waiting for them.
It had a crest on the door, and Neal said, “Slaves … this?”
“No, not usually. My Master has developed a soft-spot for your Lady June.”
Neal apparently translated this to her, and she smiled, and Peter handed her into the coach as one born to it.
“I see why (something) wash the…um…dirt?”
“Yes,” Brak agreed, dryly. “Usually we make our way home in another public conveyance; I was surprised to see the carriage.”
The carriage was well-sprung and Neal said something to Peter, there was a slight disagreement, and Neal asked if they could sleep, they were very tired. At Brak’s nod, Peter and June leaned back into the deliciously soft cushions and were very soon breathing deeply. Neal stayed awake, taking note of the surroundings as the light faded from the sky.
“First watch, hmm?” Brak asked. Neal shrugged a little. “Let me take this chance of ordering you and pleading with you not to run away, any of you. It is obviously your first thought. But the laws are yet vicious in the extreme, and I will not have my Master hurt by your torture and death. To say nothing of the loss of a substantial amount of wealth he could have used to buy other, less troublesome slaves.”
“Hurt?” Neal’s voice dripped sarcasm. Brak thought he hadn’t understood every word, but the tone was unmistakeable and the slave had picked out a word he’d heard often.
“Yes, hurt. Partially politically: he fights an ongoing battle against the type of slavery that is practised, and his opponents are many and always ready to pounce on any mistake or perceived weakness on his behalf. His youth and lack of funds already place him in a difficult position.
.....“And yes, emotionally hurt, because although he knows you only a little, he becomes…invested much too easily. His youth again.”
Neal pondered this for a few miles, trying to understand when he had not heard most of the words before. Neal himself was fighting to keep his eyes open when the carriage clattered suddenly over cobble stones and he found that they had entered onto a long drive between high, old, stone walls and under some …bridges?…that reminded him suddenly of Venice, a place he had loved, though they weren’t really similar…men called back and forth and then they were in a courtyard.
Peter wakened quickly, reaching to his shoulder, then clenching his jaw. June was quietly awake and alert. Ostlers ran to the horses’ heads, and the door of the carriage was opened. Brak jumped down and made sure the small step was placed for June.
With a hand on Brak’s, she stepped down, a little unsteady on the cobblestones in the new and badly fitting shoes. Neal and Peter got out, and looked round, and their hearts fell. It looked, to all intents and purposes, to be a battle-ready castle, and the closest modern Earth buildings they had seen were high-security prisons.
End of Chapter 1
Note: comments and criticisms much welcomed! Thanks for reading!