Lady of Mercy (The Sundered, Book 3) (20 page)

“Sara.”

Robert’s hands fell away. “You see it, then.” If he noticed the difference of name, he made no comment. “Darin, who is she?”

Darin shook his head. “Lady of Mercy,” he whispered. For just one moment, he had the absurd desire to turn back his sleeves and lift his slave’s scar so that the statue could plainly see it.

In the hand of God
, she whispered. His spine tingled as her power surged in the silence.

Robert whistled softly. “And we’re all on the road to Marantine,” he said, clipping Darin’s shoulder to break the moment. “Come on.”

Darin nodded quietly, then stopped to stare at his companion. He had known Erin for much longer than Robert had—but he would never have recognized the dirt-stained, determined warrior in this statue. If Robert noticed Darin’s scrutiny, he gave no sign of it, but he was unusually quiet and kept his own counsel.

 

A pastry stand, one of three, was their next stop; Robert did all of the barter, and they left it with dry, flaky concoctions cooling in their mouths.

“Not bad,” Robert mumbled, around a full mouth. “I’ve had better, mind. Why, in the capital, I—” He froze suddenly; wind swept crumbs from his lips. Without another word, he grabbed Darin’s collar and jerked him out of the thoroughfare and into one of the market’s few alleys.

Two stone walls rose on either side, and each had a small
stairway that barely infringed on the open alley space. The doors, small and simple, were obviously not meant for a buyer’s use. The buildings were old but well kept, and it was obvious that they were the permanent home of either a very rich merchant or a merchants’ consortium. Darin had no time to ask; Robert trotted up the stairs to the building on their left and yanked the door open.

Darin had no choice but to follow; the door closed behind him with an authoritative click.

“Church delegation,” Robert said quietly, bowing his head in the direction of Darin’s ear. “I really don’t feel like meeting a priest today, if it can be at all avoided.”

For the second time that day, Darin wasn’t listening—at least not to Robert. Another disembodied voice had grabbed his attention.

“And for such a specimen, the starting price is not less than five hundred crowns.”

Darin froze, the words and their cadence horribly familiar. He swung his head from side to side in a wild silence and started to edge backward. Robert put an arm firmly around Darin’s shoulders.

“Not that way,” he whispered, a tight smile strung around his lips. “We’ll leave by the front doors.” So saying, he began to edge his way into the crowd, glibly uttering arrogant apologies to the people he managed to run into as he did so. It was an art, this making of apologies that somehow managed to be more offensive than plain rudeness, but it was not out of place among the nobles for whom apologies were a pastime for the weak or overpowered.

“Come, come, ladies and gentlemen. Have you ever seen so fine a child? Five hundred crowns for an investment like this is so low that she’s almost a gift! Have we no takers among the lot of you? No one with the imagination necessary to think of the hundreds of uses for the girl?”

“Five hundred.”

“I see we have a gentleman of inordinate taste. But the rest of you—will you let this man deprive you of the opportunity?”

Darin tried to ignore the rest of the droning speech. He did his best not to see another hand raised, and another amount called out. He turned his face in random directions to avoid looking at the girl on the platform, or at the fine blue silks that
hung so ridiculously on her small frame—or at the thin iron bands that covered her small wrists. And most of all not at the shaky, vacant smile that froze the comers of her slightly bruised mouth.

“Darin, don’t attract attention.”

But he couldn’t avoid it. He couldn’t avoid remembering the feel of the chains and the eyes of the buyers that clambered into the room in front of the block. He couldn’t shake loose from the nervous start each bidder gave him when they looked at him with those bored, acquisitive eyes, even though he had already been reserved for use by House Damion.

“Sold!
Take your number and come back to the block in an hour.”

The girl was led, gently, off stage. Darin felt his knees unlock and began to back away, finally released from a spectacle that was no entertainment.

Robert gave a tiny sigh of relief and began once again to direct Darin toward the doors. A hint of light could be seen between the standing figures that crowded the room in front of it.

“And now, nobles of Verdann, something a little more dangerous.” At his back, Darin could hear the clank of chains and a few muffled grunts. He wanted to cover his ears as he walked to the door—but he didn’t dare. Robert was right; he had probably already attracted unwanted attention.

“Take a good look at the size of this man. Fresh from Illan and only half broken.”

The words meant very little to Darin. Robert stopped and swiveled, bringing his hand up to signal a halt. Darin dared to glance up and he saw that Robert’s mouth was set in an unfamiliar line. In dread, Darin turned to once again face the auction block.

On it, standing stiffly, was a large man. He was probably about thirty, which was generally considered too old for a slave to be of much use. His hair hung in an ugly, uneven fashion, and his face had one scar, still red, across the left cheek. His chest was also similarly marked—which was easy to see. It was completely bare.

No tame slave this, as Darin could see by the size of the chains that ran around his arms, ankles, and throat. But the shadows under his eyes marked a fatigue and a pain that showed how close he was to slavery’s edge.

“Well, ladies? Wouldn’t you like to take a man like this home with you? He’s strong as an ox. Look at the muscle on him! This is a man made for strong field work or quarry labor.” There was a general chuckle, mostly male, from the audience.

“Boy,” Robert said, loudly enough to be clearly heard.

Darin looked up.

“Remain here. I’ve one short task to run in the market, but I’ll be back before the bidding closes.”

Darin didn’t even dare a protest. Habit forced his head low; habit informed his posture. He didn’t even glance to the sides; when he raised his head again, it was to stare at the block—perhaps the only neutral area in the great room.

“Turn around,” the auctioneer said.

The man on the block glanced down. Very deliberately, he took the small, short steps necessary to show his back to the audience.

“The caravan had a little trouble with him—they were forced to remove his tongue. Everything else is intact. The asking price is only two hundred crowns. Two hundred crowns will guarantee this slave to the right purchaser. Who will bid two hundred crowns?”

“For an unbroken slave?” A faceless man shouted from the audience. Darin let him remain faceless.

The auctioneer gave a broad, dark smile.

“To the right master, that wouldn’t be a problem.”

Once again the chuckle rose like a dark wave.

“Lord Kellem, you’ve never bought bad stock from us. Will you take him on? Two hundred crowns for strength that is rarely seen in the Empire. I imagine with just the right training, you could make him a slavemaster without compare.”

“Two hundred, then.”

“Lord Kellem is willing to take him on. Are there any others? Two twenty-five is the asking price; two twenty-five.”

“Turn him around again, if you can.”

The auctioneer nodded, and once again the slave turned to face the crowd, taking his slow, short steps. The chains rankled every inch of the way.

“He’s half-tame, I’ll wager. Two twenty-five.”

“A perceptive buyer. Lord Osserann? Ah yes, I thought I recognized you. Lord Kellem, for a pittance of twenty-five crowns, will you lose your sport? Two fifty will guarantee it.”

There was a silence for a moment, and then a curt, crisp yes.

“A wise man indeed. Two seventy-five. Two seventy-five.” The silence was louder. “Lord Osserann, take a good look at him. Two seventy-five takes him from Lord Kellem.” The silence lengthened, and the auctioneer’s tone made it clear that he thought the game at an end. “Very well. Two fifty once.”

Darin looked furtively to either side, trying to catch a glimpse of Robert.

“Two fifty twice.”

He heard a commotion that came from the back of the room.

“Two fifty—”

“Three hundred!” A voice boomed out. Darin relaxed as he recognized it for Robert’s. Then the sum penetrated his mind.

Three hundred crowns? He began to move in the direction of Robert’s voice, keeping his head bent and his eyes upon the ground.

“Three hundred?” The auctioneer’s voice held genuine surprise—and genuine pleasure. Both were rare. “Three hundred is the bid. Do I hear—”

“Three twenty-five.”

“Three fifty.”

There was silence, and then a tall slim man stepped out of the crowd and headed toward the block. Darin could see him clearly as he entered his field of vision. He was robed in crimson velvet, with dark black boots and an equally black hat. Across his back—and most probably his chest, although Darin couldn’t see it—was the regalia of House Kellem. He’d seen it only twice in his life—but he remembered it.

“Three hundred and seventy-five.”

“Four hundred.”

Lord Kellem’s head swiveled to the side, giving Darin a good look at the hawkish profile. The lord’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe I know your house.”

And Robert stepped into view, as if the block were his stage. He wore a cloak of velvet as well, and Darin’s throat tightened.
Please
, he prayed silently,
please don’t let us be caught
. He remembered clearly the last time that Robert had brought new finery into their midst. Robert only shrugged.

“I recognize it, Lord Kellem. House Montan; the money is good. Four hundred is the bid. Four hundred and twenty-five?”

Lord Kellem nodded, but his eyes never left Robert.

Robert shrugged again. “Four fifty.”

“Lord Kellem?”

The man moved once more, to stand directly in front of the slave on the block. “Four seventy-five.”

“Five hundred,” Robert said, yawning.

“Five twenty-five.”

“I tire of this,” Robert said, folding his arms across his chest and leaning into the platform. “Seven hundred.”

The minutes of silence that suddenly stretched out were a testimony to the auctioneer’s dumbfounded shock. He recovered quickly, but his face was red when he spoke again. “Seven hundred. Seven hundred is the bid.”

Lord Kellem looked once at the slave, and once at Robert; it was hard to tell which of the two was a more pointed glare. But he nodded, curtly and forcefully, and strode back into the crowd. With a murmur, it closed around him.

“Take your number and come back when the block has closed,” the auctioneer said, once again the smooth-faced man of business. He handed Robert a slip of slightly crumpled paper that shook. “Lord of Montan.”

Robert nodded, his face equally businesslike. He also turned and cut neatly through the crowd, stopping as he reached Darin’s side. He did not acknowledge the boy; he was wearing a noble demeanor. “We wait.”

Darin nodded, chin almost flush against his neck.

And wait they did. It was agony for Darin; he kept his face frozen, unable to stop some of the horror and fear from showing, as, one by one, slaves were led to the bidding block. He recognized, in all of them, a bit of himself.

The auction drew to a close very slowly. Nobles and merchants, satisfied with their purchases, filtered out of the open doors until only a few remained, chits in hand, to speak with the auctioneer and formalize their claim. They were tired or bored except when casting their sidelong glances at Robert; then, their eyes flickered with a curiosity that they knew enough not to express.

Robert waited until most of these remaining nobles had gone. Then he walked to the block and handed a new attendant the small slip in his hand. The man, in simpler dress, and of a less prepossessing size than the auctioneer, glanced at it, raised an
eyebrow, and then barked out an order that was high enough to carry clearly.

In a few moments, the clanking of chains answered it.

“Didn’t bring guards, Lord?”

“No.”

“Want an escort, then? For a small fee we can—”

“No.”

“Have it your way,” the man shrugged, obviously put out by Robert’s terse replies. He stomped to the back of the block and carefully pulled the screen that separated the selling area from the hall that led to the holding rooms to one side.

The large giant of a slave was half led and half shoved down the long corridor behind the block. Two men flanked him, and one—at a safe distance from the reach of his arms—prodded his back with a thick wooden pole. His chest had been covered by a canvas shirt and a thin, padded vest that would probably protect him from the cold for long enough to be transferred from the block to a house. Both were off-white and unadorned.

“Enough of that,” Robert said irritably. “I want something left for my own amusement.”

As if this were a signal, the auctioneer, having completed the transaction that had occupied his attention, now turned.

“Ah, Lord Montan.” He held out one hand, and after a deliberate hesitation, Robert took it. “A good purchase. If anyone can deal with this barbarian, I’m certain it’s you. Would have been a pity to let Kellem have him—wouldn’t have been much of use left. ” He held out an open palm.

Without a word of acknowledgment, Robert deposited a small cloth sack into the man’s hand. “It’s more than coin is worth.”

The auctioneer didn’t take Robert at his word—which was to be expected. He opened the drawstrings of the small black bag and smiled to himself.