Chapter 11 – Boy for Sale
The slave market may have looked like it was winding down from Mab-Tok’s bird’s-eye view, but seen from where Farthing and Weasel had made their small camp in the buyer’s district, it was as busy as any market day in Wead-Wodder. All the buyers were in the one area around the edge on the western side of the market, while the sellers and their slaves took up most of the rest. Sirrupp had explained the layout as they had approached the night before, guided in by a myriad of open fires and the smell of cooking from cultures from across the world of Dirt.
“Mr Horseman, Mr Goatherd, you will find the market is very well organised and of benefit to buyers whether they are large agents or small businessmen like yourselves. There are two encampments. However, you will find that around the central area where the auctions are held, there are many places buyers and sellers can mix and discuss terms privately; it can be most advantageous and all the better deals involving some of the most tradable products are conducted so. If you wish, you may want to employ one of the many boys that come with some of the caravans in order to learn the business. They will seek out trades for you and let you know who is who, and who you can deal with on good terms. They are generally trustworthy and most discreet. After all, they are the traders of tomorrow; if they dealt unfairly with people today, it would be remembered.” The slight glint in Sirrupp’s eye reminded Farthing that, despite many graces, this was a man dealing with an illegal and unscrupulous trade in human beings. It was easy to imagine that he forgot little and forgave nothing.
“Gentlemen, I must away to my own encampment. Unfortunately, I do not have the trade you are looking for, but no doubt we will meet again at the auctions. I will remember to look out for you.”
Farthing finished his tea making as Weasel emerged from their tent, nothing more than a canvas stretched out between canes, but it was enough and a common arrangement with all the smaller traders. They had agreed on a plan the night before. Farthing would search out necessary, light provisions and use the excuse to get some sort of idea of the geography of the market and how that related to Mab-Tok’s reconnaissance. Weasel, in the meantime, as the obviously elder of the two, would find and employ one of the boys that Sirrupp had referred to. They had already seen a few scampering between the tents the night before, but all had been occupied by other buyers. Their neighbour, a rough, dark-skinned man from southern Bind, had laughed when they asked him about the boys. “Just stand somewhere looking wealthy and lost, and one will find you. Don’t worry about being choosy, they are all the same and desperate to make an impression. Many buyers have already made trades and left so there will be several around looking for employment.” Annoyingly, he had also paused to appraise Farthing and had asked Weasel whether he was sure he was buying and not selling.
“You are prettier than you thought,” Weasel had commented later with a chuckle.
Breakfast and tea finished, the two made to leave on their errands.
“How is your memory for places, Mr Goatherd?” They were being careful to use their fake names even when out of earshot, just in case.
“I won’t have a problem, Mr Horseman,” Farthing answered. “If it looks like I can drag a cart down it, I will remember it.” They had been gone from Wead-Wodder nearly three weeks, but it felt like an age. Shifting dirt might easily have been a different life and he almost missed it.
“We should meet back here late morning then, no later. Hopefully, I will have someone in our employ, though remember that they may be discreet, but they will be the son of one of the slavers and we can be sure where their true loyalties lie. Oh, and try not to get bought,” Weasel added with a grin, to the obvious annoyance of Farthing.
As late arrivals, they had encamped a fair distance from the central auction area where not just slaves were sold, but also food and provisions. There was a good trade to be had here since no one was local and would need to stock up for long journeys when their business was concluded. Farthing made his way closer to where he was sure the main market was, and where the larger traders were camped. There was no pretence about favouritism here; the important buyers had the pick of the prime plots close to the auction and it was safe to assume the same would apply to the slavers on the other side of the market. Farthing watched the buyers carefully as he passed by. Who were these people who would so casually snatch away the lives of others and use them in trade? If he was looking for devils, he was disappointed. There were people of all ages here from many different places, and any of them would not have been out of place in The Hive trading apples as here trading people. From the little he had learned, few here would be buying for themselves but rather would be acting as agents. When he reached the larger tents, he saw that some had brought their own slaves to tend their needs; sorrowful, plainly dressed people, some with irons locked around their necks and all showing scars on arms and cheeks, the brands of their owners. No pretence. Nothing was secret, and by the way they acted, nothing would be hidden wherever they hailed from.
Much to his shock he had overheard several traders speaking with accents that were common in the Prelates and one or two he was reasonably sure hailed from Redust. Surely slaves were not held in the Prelates? For all the oppression, slavery had never, as far as he knew, been tolerated, but Farthing only knew his own, small part of the world around the port of Wead-Wodder. After all, Redust was just one of the two hundred Prelatehoods, governed by a Prelate whose daughter, with Farthing’s sister, might even be in one of these tents. Farthing’s heart jumped at the thought and he pushed any idea of hope back into the box in the back of his mind. He needed information, not wild speculation, however desperate he was to find his sister.
The auction area was depressingly like a livestock market with human-sized auction pens. Each one contained a stage about five feet high and ten feet in diameter with a strong central post to which were attached several large metal rings. Around each stage, fencing had been erected to keep a little distance between the buyers and the slaves on sale; the greater circumference also allowing for more front-row seats and so more competition. It was a simple trick designed to push prices up, and Farthing had seen it employed in the fish market at Wead.
Auctions did not take place in the mornings and the pens were empty. Around the perimeter, there was a large variety of tents supplying everything from food to shackles, tea and coffee shops to caravan agents, clothing and tents to blacksmiths making made-to-order brands to suit any budget. Farthing frowned. The market had a festival atmosphere, despite it being early in the day, and he was struggling with the idea that something so vile as the sale of branded slaves should be conducted in such a celebratory manner.
“All the fun of the fair,” he muttered to himself.
“What is, lad?” Farthing had made his way to a small tea tent and was greeted by the elderly owner.
“Sorry, I was talking to myself. It is going to be a busy day!” Farthing grinned in what he hoped was an enthusiastic way.
The man smiled back. “Buying or selling?”
“My uncle is buying, and I am along to help and to buy the provisions.”
“Your first time to the market?” The man beckoned Farthing to sit down and he poured him a china cup of a highly-spiced tea. Farthing pushed over a coin and took a sip. The tea was stronger than he made himself, but it was gently perfumed. He smiled in appreciation.
“Yes, my first time. We only arrived last night and I am still trying to find my way around.”
“Well, everything you need is here in the centre and it’s all about the coin. The larger stalls on the far side are where you will find the pricier dealers who offer privacy and will flatter the customer till they burst! All the stalls on this side are for us ordinary, honest, working folk and I know which side I would rather be trading on.” The old man broke into a huge grin. “Over there with the toffs!”
Farthing laughed too and tapped the
tea with a spoon. “I doubt they do better tea, though.”
The old man smiled. “Aye, lad, I doubt it too. My family are from the hills in Epinod, and we grow the best tea and herbs in Bind.” Farthing looked a puzzled. “Epinod is about as far as you can get across the continent before you hit the Eastern Plains. You don’t sound like you are from Bind.” Farthing shook his head, cautiously. “Don’t worry lad, no one here will press you for either your name or your history, and you can bet anything you are carrying that they will not be telling you the truth about themselves, neither.”
“Including you?”
“Well, my tea gives it away, really, so lying would be pointless in my case. My name is Mr Harrins.” He held out his hand.
“Goatherd,” offered Farthing.
“Well, Mr Goatherd, enjoy your tea.” He refilled the cup from his large metal pot and waved away the offer of another coin. “When you are ready, the best provisioners at sensible prices are just behind here off the main walk. Good day! Morning Percival!” he shouted at another man who was pulling along a small, familiar handcart.
“Morning, Mr Fennel!” the man called back.
Farthing laughed. A lie upon a lie; he would have to be careful. Finishing his tea, he made his way to the small tents as suggested by the tea man, whatever his real name was. Despite these being lower value traders, their stock seemed as good as anything Farthing had seen in The Hive; better possibly. He had to judge carefully what he bought for a couple of reasons. Firstly, their funds were getting thinner and Fren-Eirol had impressed on him the need to make sure they were funded for a long trip if needed. But he and Weasel had also decided that they should play it low-key; spend just enough that sellers would take them seriously, but not try to play with the big boys, the experienced and wealthy buyers, until they were certain what they were doing. Getting people too curious would not serve them well.
“Fruit and Cheese sir?” A young girl with big eyes who looked not much more than fourteen or fifteen years of age smiled at Farthing from behind a small barrow covered by a light awning. Farthing smiled back.
“Some hard, waxed cheese, if you have any, and some apples would be good.”
“Have you finished at the market then?”
His order did sound more like a traveller’s bag, he had to admit. “No, just arrived, but my uncle is setting up a busy schedule; I doubt I will have much time to sit comfortably and eat.”
The girl laughed and brought out a small round of hard cheese from one of her sacks. She was very pretty and it suddenly struck him that if she weren't selling cheese, she would herself be a potential product. Farthing reminded himself that this market cared little for age and prized youth in a way that made him feel both sickened and angry. He forced another smile. “Anyone here do dried meats?”
“My father does. He is just a few tents up. He cured them weeks ago and has had them hanging in grass drying in the sun.” The girl held her hand out for coin and Farthing paid her.
“I will pay him a visit immediately, then. Also, anyone sell beans?”
“A couple of the tents have general provisions like dried beans and lentils. A lot of the fresher goods have already been sold, but some of the dried peas are wonderful.”
Back in Wead-Wodder, he and his sister all but survived on dried beans most of the time; it was about all they could afford with their limited means. He thanked the girl again and silently thanked the gods that she was here selling, not being sold. Maybe her pretty eyes would find her a husband one day and not an owner.
The perfume of fine herbs greeted him in the breeze as he made his way to the father’s stall. Hanging from cross poles under the canvas were legs and ribs of pork and goat, salted, cured and then wrapped tightly in grasses and herbs to dry. The result was a lean, thinly sliced, dark red meat that was much sort after in Wead-Wodder and far beyond the reach of Farthing. But this was Bind, home to cured meats and here the cost was surprisingly low. Farthing picked a sage-scented variety and the man skilfully carved him twenty large, very thin slices with a quite dangerous looking long blade.
“Your daughter recommended your pork, sir. And I must praise you also on the cheese I bought from her.”
“Oh, she is responsible for the cheese, son! She gets the milk from her own small herd of goats and makes it all herself. It is only the wax she buys in. Smart girl, and she will be the boss of my farm one day, I declare!” He smiled warmly.
Once again, Farthing found a maddening conflict between the warmth of these people and the slave trade they serviced. With difficulty, he kept his counsel to himself. Thanking and paying the man, he made his way through other stalls, collecting some dried herbs, a valuable sachet of salt and a selection of beans. He also managed to buy a small copper pot which would be easier to cook with than his terracotta pot that he used for tea. His last trip was to the wood piles to buy a sack of firewood, and with that loaded on his back, he staggered his way towards the camp.
“Are you Mr Goatherd?” Farthing nearly dropped the sack of firewood in surprise, and turned to see who had addressed him. He was greeted by a young boy of no more than nine years old and a most serious expression.
“I am, lad,” Farthing said.
“I’m Timon. Mr Horseman sent me to find you and see if you needed any help.”
Weasel had obviously been successful in finding their runner. Farthing chucked him the bags of food.
“I’ll carry the wood, lad, since it is already on my shoulders, but you are welcome to carry the other bags if you can.”
“Certainly, Mr Goatherd,” said the lad, and threw the bag over his shoulders with the ease of someone twice his age and size. “Follow me, Mr Goatherd; you were about to take a very long journey back to your tent.” And with that, the boy doubled back along the path Farthing had taken, then scooted off left down a narrow alley behind some of the larger tents, jumping the guy ropes like a rabbit. He was right, of course. Timon brought Farthing back to the tent in about ten minutes by basically going straight through the encampments rather than walking all the way around. Weasel was sitting on the ground reading through some notices he had picked up.
“Have you managed to get everything we need, Mr Goatherd?” Weasel smiled up at Farthing.
“More or less, Mr Horseman,” Farthing replied, “Though I have yet to find water.”
“It should be beer, Mr Goatherd,” Timon said, unpacking and stacking the wood into a neat pile and storing away the food. “No one stocks water other than for the animals and washing down the bondees, though some boil it for tea.” It said much that even a nine-year-old freely used the market slang for bonded slaves. “Beer is healthier. If you give me five coins, I can get a good deal that will last you a couple of days.” Farthing threw the lad a five-coin peace and he rushed off between the tents. Farthing sat on the ground and rubbed his sore shoulders.
“Coping, Mr Goatherd?” Though Weasel spoke softly, he did not chance using their real names.
Farthing nodded, but his expression was vexed. “When we get far enough away from here not to be heard, I am going to shout, scream and swear a lot.”
Weasel grinned. “That will be two of us then.”
When Timon returned pushing a small handcart with beer and some water for Farthing’s tea making, he offered to make them up some lunch.
“Thank you, Timon,” Weasel said. “But I have a list I need you to go through.” He handed a small note over to the boy who read it carefully.
“Your client has very exact requirements, Mr Horseman,” the lad said. “It might take me a while to find the right trader.”
“I will also be interested in any sales that I have missed that also fit that criteria and the traders involved. It may be that if the right stock is not available, they would be able to find me something suitable as a commission.”
The boy nodded. “Most of the traders here are cash only, but ther
e are a few of the more specialist dealers who do take on commissions and make the exchange at the market. They would not have sold at the auctions, but would have done their deals in the tea rooms. I will see what I can find out. Will you be going to the auctions today? It is the younger boys, mostly.”
Weasel carefully hid his reaction. “Probably not,” Weasel told Timon. “But we will take a tour around some of the rest of the camp to get our bearings. Find out what I need and be back here at sunset. Tomorrow will be busy, I suspect. Have you eaten?”
“My Father’s tent is my first stop. I’ll eat there.” Without another word, he ran off.
“I have become very hardened to most of what this world can spew up, Mr Goatherd,” Weasel muttered. “But I find this lad’s resilience both astonishing and saddening.” He reached for some of the packets, took a few slices of the dried beef and quietly chewed on it. Farthing followed suit and opened one of the terracotta bottles of beer. The two men shared the simple meal in silence.
“Hello again.” The big-eyed girl smiled at Farthing as he and Weasel wandered through the tents. Farthing smiled back. “Did you find my father’s tent?”
“Thank you, I did. We had some of his dried meat today. You are right, it is good, as was your cheese.” The girl smiled openly and looked at the young man and magician appraisingly.
“You two sound like you are in the wrong place,” she said, her smile dropping ever so slightly.
“Our first journey to the market,” Weasel said quickly. “We are still finding our feet.”
“If you say so,” said the girl, with an ounce of charm. “But you are still different.”
“How so?” Farthing asked, confused by the girls very direct comments.
“Oh, simple,” she said, laughing. “You are not looking at me like I am for sale. Everyone else does, even the boys who run for the traders. My father hates it, but we need this market or we don’t sell enough during the year.” Farthing did a rapid reassessment of the girl and probably several other of the traders who were not dealing in slaves. He knew what not having choices was all about, he should remember that he wasn’t the only one on the bottom of the pile.
“Don’t be too certain, young lady,” Weasel said with a wicked grin. “You are neither the right height, shape, age or hair colour for our client; you simply do not fit the bill!”
The girl looked at him suspiciously again. “If you say so, sir.” She put her head on one side like a puppy. “So, what hair colour would I need to be if my dark-brown is all wrong?”
“The richest red, and halfway down your back.” The girl’s hair was beautiful, but the cut was shorter and practical for her cheese making.
“Oh, well, I don’t have that kind of luck,” the girl said with a mock sigh. “And neither do most others. I am not sure I have seen any redheads this year, though if they were young and pretty, they definitely would not be up on the auction blocks. Those would go for private sale and for more coin than I will ever see.”
A look of worry flashed across Farthing’s face and Weasel gave him a warning glance.
“We have a good runner researching for us, so with any luck, we will find the perfect specimen or, at least, find a person who deals in such. Come on, Mr Goatherd, time is passing!” And with that, he strode off to the auctions.
“Goatherd?” The girl looked at Farthing with wide-eyed amusement. “Really?”
“Really,” he said, with a surprising amount of feeling.
“Well, you can call me plain Mistry,” the girl said. “And I will still have plenty of cheese tomorrow if you need!” She curtsied briefly with a cheeky grin, and then turned to two potential customers checking out her cheeses. Farthing trotted to catch up with Weasel who had found the tea tent that Farthing had visited the day before.
“She hasn’t seen a redhead,” he commented sadly.
“That is good news, Mr Goatherd,” Weasel said with another warning glance. They must keep in character. “That means it would be private sales only and that narrows it down plenty. Our chances of finding good information have improved, not worsened.”
Farthing still felt he had little to celebrate. Weasel was looking thoughtful as two cups charged with fragrant leaves of tea and herbs and a jug of steaming water was delivered by a young boy; the man with many names was obviously elsewhere. Weasel looked up briefly, smiled, and paid the boy who went to serve another customer. The area around the auction blocks was packed, waiting for the first of the sales to begin. It was surprisingly quiet, thought Farthing, but then he supposed that would change quickly once the bidding started. Just like a cattle market, as the Jippersons had pointed out. Farthing poured the hot water over the tea to brew. Weasel was looking at the copy of the note he had given Timon.
“I had not considered that both girls are red-headed,” he said quietly. Farthing looked up. “That changes things.”
“How so?”
“As the girl said, redheads are rare and that is to our advantage, but that also means they would be much sought after. My guess is that they would be sold as a pair and it would be to the richest of buyers.” Weasel was clearly thinking this through and looked straight at Farthing. “How much do you know about the Prelate’s daughter?”
“Nothing really. I have never seen her. The gossip says she is beautiful, small and thin, but she is young and so she has not been out and about, as it were. Not that would have meant much to us in the south of Wead, she would never have come there, I would think.”
“Geezen didn’t tell you anything more about her?” Farthing shook his head. “Describe your sister again.”
“Pretty much the same. Just about the same age, I suppose, small, beautiful, thin….”
“And also with red hair.”
Farthing shut his eyes in understanding. “Wea… Mr Horseman, this wasn’t an accident, was it?” Farthing could have kicked himself for not seeing it before. What were the odds of his sister being asked to tend to the Prelate’s daughter, a girl who could have been almost a sister when it came to shape, size and colouring, on the very day she was abducted?
“No, it wasn’t, Mr Goatherd. It wasn’t at all.” The magician’s look darkened. “Someone wanted a pair of beautiful birds and were prepared to pay a fortune for such a prize.” He looked up and counted the cost on his fingers. “A fast boat, a small, very good crew, a way into the Prelate’s Palace, a wind talker and probably a wave talker as well, enough gold to pay off whoever they needed to, and the incentive to guarantee that they were brought straight here for the start of the market. That is a fortune, Mr Goatherd. A fortune far beyond the resources of all but a very few. We are searching for the wrong thing.”
Farthing looked puzzled and worried. “What do you mean?”
“It is not the two girls we should be looking for; we should be looking for the buyer. Come on!” Weasel swallowed back the hot tea in one gulp and left for the auction area, Farthing on his heels.
The northern latitudes of Dirt were never hot, but here on the arid Jerr-Vone plain, with little wind, the sun was doing its best to get the heat up for the auctions. As the two reached the first of the pens, three small boys, no more than seven or eight years old were lifted onto the stage and their shackles locked to the iron rings on the post.
“Gentlemen!” announced the slaver in a thick, southern accent. “I start my sale with a very particular lot indeed. These three are orphans rescued from an orphanage that has succumbed to a most mysterious fire.” Several chuckles and a few guffaws came from the buyers. “In my heart of hearts, I could not, in all honesty, leave these beautiful boys to the ravages of the street. What would you have thought of me had I committed such a heinous act?” The slaver was an experienced performer and his story was greeted with appreciative laughs and agreement. “And you, fine gentlemen, I doubt me that such an esteemed club of honest souls could deprive them of a better life.
Look at the hope in their poor little eyes. Just waiting for a new home!” He waited while the laughter died down and then abruptly his tune changed key and tempo. “I am selling these as a trio for entertainment and future breeding stock. Who will give me nine hundred? Eight Hundred? Eight hundred it is …. And eight-fifty, nine hundred, nine-fifty….”
Weasel pulled at Farthing’s arm. “Let’s get over to the tea tents, I do not want to see more of this!” He was barely hiding his anger and his grip on Farthing’s arm was fierce. Farthing agreed. He was no fighter, but he dearly wished for a blade to cut some reality into the gross examples of humanity bidding for the souls of such innocence.
“Did they really come from an orphanage?” he asked as they skirted around the stages and made their way to the more expensive tea tents on the far side.
“Probably,” said Weasel quietly. “After the slaver had burnt it down.”
The grand tents on the slavers’ side of the market were considerably different from the small stalls and tea tents they had so far seen. These were proper tents, mostly made from black or red cloth, with small, fenced in areas guarded by muscular guards, many of them slaves themselves. Though a few traders stood out in the open talking, Farthing could see that the real business was being done in the shadows deep within the tents, and that was by invitation only.
“How do we get inside?” Farthing asked the magician quietly.
“That is what the boy is arranging for tomorrow. For the moment, I just want to see what is what and where people are.” Weasel moved down one of the broad paths behind the tea tents. Here were tents of both the slavers and the few buyers who could pay for a bit more security. There was none of the festival atmosphere here, this was all business and money. Weasel stopped and looked at a large area of flattened dirt and grass. He closed his eyes for a second.
“Here!”
“What is?”
“This is who we are looking for, Mr Goatherd. We are looking for the man who had his tent here.” Weasel’s look was dark but certain.
“How do you know?” Farthing was barely catching up.
Weasel looked at him in amazement. “How do you think?”
“Oh, sorry. I forgot. So, who is he?”
“That I don’t know, but I can all but smell him. See the size of the space?” Farthing saw what Weasel meant. “That was one tent; one huge tent. Whoever was in that tent not only had the money to rent such a large piece of the market but had transportation for everything that went with it.” Weasel looked at the ground more closely and traced out an enormous clawed print in the dust. He swore.
“What is it?”
“They have a dummerhole, damn them.”
“What is one of those?”
“It is a calliston that has had half its brains burnt out and then used as pack-mule.” Weasel spat on the dirt. “Callistons are little different from dragons, Farthing.” In his anger, he forgot to use Farthing’s pseudonym. “Imagine Fren-Eirol without wings and that is what they are. Big, strong, intelligent and peaceful. Sadly, with their thick hides they also make perfect pack animals and war beasts.” Farthing just stared at the print in the dirt. He was learning things about his own species that had he never imagined possible. Weasel whisked around and headed back towards the Auctions.
“Come on, let’s get back to our camp. There is nothing we can do now till tomorrow.”
They skirted the auction, giving it a wide birth, and back down the path towards where Mistry had her stall. Weasel had gone on ahead so Farthing stopped to chat with her for a moment. He was feeling troubled and he needed a friendly face.
“You saw the auctions then, Mr Goatherd.” Mistry was packing her cheeses into sacks. With the auctions at full pace, few would need her wares and she wanted them out of the sun and away from flies.
“It was not what I expected.”
Mistry gave him a hard look. “No, I imagine it wasn’t. Of course, if you were here to actually buy a slave you would not have batted an eyelid.” Farthing started to speak, but she came up to him and put her finger on his mouth. “I don’t need to know, Mr Goatherd. I really don’t. Trust me on that.” She went back to her cheeses.
“You are not what I expected, Mistry. And nor is your father.” There was no one around and Farthing felt a little more comfortable speaking.
“You mean, we are not mean-eyed slavers looking at everything as product and profit? No, Mr Goatherd, we are definitely not that. And the sooner we can build up our farm so we don’t have to come near this damned place again, the happier I will be.”
“How does this exist? I mean, why is it allowed?” Farthing was exasperated and emotionally worn out.
“What here? You are in Jerr-Vone, Mr Goatherd,” the girl said, sounding much older than she looked. “It has one of the smallest populations on Bind, despite being a great big desert. The King of Jerr-Vone, as he likes to call himself, has ten thousand subjects and fifty soldiers. He has no money and is leagues from here. He is bribed to keep his nose out of it, not that he has the means to do anything about it anyway. This market exists because men around Dirt want to play with power and like having power over people. If they are rich enough, they can do what they want, and trust me plenty are rich enough. Where there is a demand, there will always be someone to fill it, whether it is with cheese or human beings!” The girl sighed and turned to look into the tall, strong man’s eyes, so filled with dismay and the confusion of youth. “How do you not know this, Mr Goatherd?”
Farthing looked at her and frowned. “I am poor, Mistry. I own a few clothes and a handcart which I fill each day with dirt and push it a league to dump on the pile of dirt I shifted the day before. Aside from the very rare beer and swim, that is my life, in total. I do not know all these things because when you are stuck in the bottom of a hole, dirt is all you get to see, taste, breathe and spit.”
An awkward silence fell between the two for a moment and Farthing just stood there not sure whether to say anything more or just walk away. This young girl reminded him of his sister in many ways, but despite being younger, her talk spoke of innocence long gone. Mistry picked up a sack and pulled out a small package which she put in the soft bag he had ritually carried from the day Weasel had given it to him back in Wead-Wodder.
“It is a special goat’s cheese I make, Mr Goatherd,” she said with a soft, cheeky smile. “It goes into a bean stew beautifully.” She reached up and gave him a little, chaste kiss on the cheek. “I don’t know why you and your friend are really here, but please, be very careful. Some of the traders here do not play by the rules.” She nodded over to where a man stood in the distance. “He is one of the worst and gives me the creeps! Now, go catch up with your friend. I will still be here in the morning.”
Farthing nodded and smiled his thanks to her, and made his way down the path and past the man she had quietly pointed out.
“She is a very pretty young girl, Mr Goatherd,” Sirrupp said as Farthing approached. “You two make a beautiful couple! Are you having any success?”
“Some,” Farthing said cautiously, the warning from Mistry echoing in his mind.
“Well, I am sure you will have good fortune. Good day, Mr Goatherd.” Sirrupp turned and disappeared between the tents. Farthing resisted the temptation to run like a rabbit back to his own tent, but only just.
Farthing woke to the smell of breakfast. The hint of perfumed, cured meat wafted around their small tent teasing his mind with memories of sunny days up on the Wealle, lying on his pallet as his sister, always the early riser, made a warm bowl of beans and bacon for breakfast. Farthing snapped himself out of it; they never had bacon for breakfast, it was far beyond their means. They almost never had the luxury of a day off.
“Mr Goatherd, I have beans and cured meat and tea ready. We are to be at the tents midmorning.” Timon had returned past sunset the night before with a list of five t
raders who dealt with teenage girls. Three of them only dealt with young girls and those were discounted, which had left two. Farthing yawned and sat up.
“Mr Horseman?” he enquired, regretfully shaking the last of his waking dream from his head.
“He has gone to the wash stalls and will be back shortly, Mr Goatherd.”
“Have you eaten?” he asked the boy.
“I ate with my father and then went to arrange the meetings. I am unsure of one of them, Mr Goatherd, as he seemed less interested this morning, but Gam, the trader from Baysen, was very enthusiastic. He has four girls to show you though he regrets none are redheads. However, he says that once you see the quality of his specimens, he has an associate who can no doubt find you the perfect match for your requirements.” Farthing felt his heart beat faster at the chance of getting closer to his sister and her captors. Before he had the opportunity to build up his hopes further, Weasel returned to the tent and Timon served the beans in small, ornate bowls that he must have brought from his father’s tent, whoever he was.
“A fine day, Mr Goatherd,” Weasel proclaimed in a loud, optimistic voice. “I feel the possibility of a trade ahead, do you not?”
“Aye, Mr Horseman!” Farthing said, acting his role to the full.
“Timon, this is fine fair,” the magician complimented the boy. “Sadly, it appears that Mr Goatherd with his love of tea neglected to find us any coffee. Would you oblige?” Weasel tossed the boy a two-coin and he vanished in a puff of dust. The magician turned to Farthing.
“I have managed to find out who the owner of that large tent was. It was a governor of a region in a nation called Wessen. I know a little of the country, mountainous and wealthy in ore beyond belief, but I have never heard of the man. Tekkinmod is his name.”
“Is that enough for you to find him?” Farthing felt heartened by this news.
“No, it is not. Sadly, I did find out that he has several homes and interests across Bind, so I need something more to track him down, a connection of some sort and I need to be sure he bought the girls. What I felt at the site of his tent is not enough for me to follow on its own. If we can discover who the trader was who captured Rusty and Precious, or the agent that did the deal, and if I can shake his hand, that would give me some connection. I need something like that because, at the moment, the entire area is full of rich traders and buyers coming and going with slaves.”
“You didn’t need to do that to find the boat with my sister.”
“Yes, I did.”
“How?”
“You, as soon as we met. What was the first thing I did when you came looking for me in the inn back at The Hive?”
“Demanded I pay your bar bill.”
“Before that.”
“Told me to get your name right.”
“Between those two!” Weasel growled.
“Oh, you grabbed my arm. Actually, it hurt.”
“Sorry, I needed a good connection and to be sure you were who I thought you were.”
“You knew I was coming?”
“Yes and no. Geezen is not just a busybody midwife who beats up Prelates, she is a force of nature. For some reason, I can always tell when something is going to happen that involves her. If she wasn’t human shaped she would make a very good sea dragon, you know. She and Fren-Eirol are like sisters when they get to talking and that scares me to death.” Farthing felt that this should have all been light-hearted banter, joking about Fren-Eirol and Geezen, but for some reason, Weasel’s expression was serious.
“So that is how you are tracking my sister?”
“Yes, well, sort of. It is probably because of the ocean, but the connection has caused me problems and I more followed the boat, to be honest. That is why I need another connection; I need to be sure before we run off chasing the wrong thing. Sorry lad, this is not as magical as people think.”
“So, how do we do this?”
“If we really had the gods on our side, the trader we are meeting in the tent is the agent, but I think he won’t be. I am damned sure he knows who is, though.”
“Timon said something about an associate.”
“That is what I am counting on. The more I find out about how this place works and what is seen as prime beef, the more I am certain that your sister and the Prelate’s daughter were the star attraction; very expensive, very exclusive and only available to a small inner circle.” Farthing’s small rays of hope were dimming fast. The magician looked at him and his expression softened. “There is good news in this, lad,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“The one thing about valuable goods is that they lose value very quickly if damaged. If I am right, and I think I am simply by what that girl said, then they will be regarded as very valuable indeed.” Farthing hoped the magician was right and there wasn’t an even darker side to this murky world they had yet to discover. “Ah, my coffee, Mr Goatherd, and just in time. I was beginning to lose consciousness!” Weasel took the bag of coffee from Timon. “I will make this myself and then you can lead us to the tents.” Timon nodded to the magician and took the breakfast bowls away for washing.
Mistry’s cheese stall was closed when they passed. Farthing checked behind the simple table, but there were no signs of cheeses or anything else and he had to admit he was disappointed. This young girl and her father were the only genuinely normal people he had met at the market. He felt they didn’t belong here but to a world that was inhabited by the Jippersons, Fennerpop and Barkles. Everyone else made him feel like he needed to wash, to scrub himself clean of their filth. He caught up with Weasel and Timon.
“That is a shame,” he said for Timon’s benefit. “That girl had some really nice goat’s cheeses yesterday, and I was hoping for another.”
“The stallholders come and go often,” Timon explained to Farthing. “She is maybe at another part of the market today or headed home.” Farthing smiled in thanks, but he was worried. Mistry has said she would be here today.
They were ushered into one of the large, black tea tents by Timon and followed by two muscular slaves, nearly as tall as Farthing himself. Timon handed over a note to one of them who disappeared into the back of the tent and returned with a small, portly man wearing a floor-length silk robe.
“Mr Horseman?” he asked, walking up to them. Weasel smiled and shook the man’s hand firmly, his eyes shutting just momentarily as he did so.
“This is Mr Gam,” said Timon.
“I thank you for your hospitality, Mr Gam,” the magician said formally. “This is my associate Mr Goatherd, my sister’s son who is helping with my small mission.”
Mr Gam smiled at Farthing. “Mr Goatherd, Mr Horseman, please take a seat. I will to business immediately.” The three of them sat down on comfortable loungers by an intricately carved table, and a young girl brought out tea and hot water. Farthing noticed the triangular shaped scar on her cheek, matching the same scars on the faces of the other slaves; the brand of their master. Gam dismissed her curtly.
“I have four specimens to show you, gentlemen. I am very aware that they do not meet your criteria fully, but something about them may appeal. I show them to you more so you can appreciate the excellent, unspoilt quality of my merchandise.” Farthing shifted in his seat, hoping the dark interior of the tent hid his discomfort. “Firstly, this young female comes from the south of bind. She is of high stock, so does not have roughened hands or features from working on the land. All of my special stock is like this. There is a market for the tougher, peasant females, but it is less valuable, as I am sure you gentlemen can understand.”
The girl that was brought out must have been around fifteen years old, Farthing reckoned, and was dressed in a simple sackcloth robe that was about knee-length. She wore no makeup and her dark, almost black hair was tied back away from her olive features. Following her was an older, tough woman who took the girl by the shoulders and guided her firmly int
o the middle of the room. A flap had been opened high in the tent and the sunlight illuminated the spot where the girl had been placed. Farthing wondered if these displays were arranged for the right time of day so the sun was in the perfect position. The woman directed the girl to turn around slowly as if showing off a prize animal.
“As you can see, gentlemen,” Gam continued, “she is of slight build, but we expect that she will fill out over the next few years. Her people have a naturally dark complexion so she does not suffer skin problems from sun exposure.”
He waved at the women who pulled at a string at the back of the robe so it fell to the floor leaving the girl naked. The girl instinctively covered herself with her hands, but the woman smacked at them, ordering her to drop her hands to her side. Farthing bit his tongue to hide his shock. He glanced around at the others in the tent, but there was no leering or lusting; these men were looking at stock. The woman loosened the girl’s hair and let it fall. It was long and thick. There was no doubt the girl was beautiful, but the agony of shame in her face was unbearable to watch.
“Please notice gentlemen there is no marking of any kind anywhere on her body. Naturally, if you have a particular interest in any of the stock I will understand that you will want to examine the goods more closely with the aid of my sister here.” The point was well made. They were playing the part of agents for an anonymous client, they could not be seen to touch or “spoil” the product, just look. The girl was taken away and two more brought out. They were fair skinned and a little older.
“Twin’s, gentlemen, are very much sort after. These are from across the Yonder Sea from one of the most northern Prelatehoods and are very fair. I am particularly proud of these specimens as they do not have the freckling associated with that region and are smooth skinned. We have been training these for more than a year to a good standard of dance and they are intended for both private and public entertainment.”
The girls were paraded in the same way as the first though they showed none of the embarrassment. Instead, all Farthing could see in their eyes was a detachment as if they were hiding inside. He wondered how much of their dignity had been stripped away during their year of training.
“Finally, gentlemen, I have a bronzed specimen from the south of the Eastern Plains.” The girl that was brought out from the back was dark skinned, muscular and nearly as tall as Farthing. She was chained, wore a collar and lead held by Gam’s sister, was already naked and obviously angry. “Mr Horseman, Mr Goatherd, this was a most unexpected find. She is the daughter of a trader of the Pharsil-Hin who appeared to have had enough of both his daughter and his life and I was happy to remove both from his care. There is no doubt she will be a challenge to whoever buys her, but she is spectacular and a showpiece that is quite extraordinary.” The girl hissed at Gam and his sister jerked back on the lead making the girl grimace in pain. “She has yet to fully comprehend the nature of the choker around her neck, but she is beginning to get the idea.” The girl lost a little of her fight, but her eyes still flashed in anger. Gam dismissed her and turned to Weasel and Farthing. “I hope you now realise the high quality of merchandise I offer, and the unique nature of all my product.”
“Very much so, Mr Gam,” the magician told him with a warm smile. “I feel you are quite the person we have been looking for to fulfil our order, but sadly, though marvellous your specimens are, none would pique the interest of our client.”
Gam smiled. “I quite understand, Mr Horseman, and I expected as much. Is your client in any particular hurry?”
“Not at all!” Weasel was acting as if this had been his business for years and Farthing wondered exactly what skills the magician had learned over the centuries or whether he really wanted to know. “I warned him before we left the chance of finding his exact match was remote, and asked him where he would compromise. He made it clear that he was only prepared to compromise on time, not on requirements. He will be happy if an arrangement is made in private for future collection.”
Weasel very carefully said collection and not delivery. It had become clear that many of the buyers here were agents and they were scrupulous in keeping the identities of their clients confidential before, during and even after a sale. The exceptions seemed to be some of the wealthiest buyers who had power beyond caring and came here to enjoy the market as well as to make purchases. Gam stood up.
“If you would care to wait for a few minutes, gentlemen, I will just have a word with my associate and will return very shortly.” He waved for more hot water and tea to be brought, and quickly strode out of the tent. Weasel turned to Farthing.
“Mr Goatherd, I would say we have very much landed on our feet today. This man Gam seems a most professional soul.” Weasel winked at Farthing to pick up the story.
“I am amazed at the beauty we have seen, Mr Horseman. If Mr Gam is able to fulfil our additional needs, I would think that our client will be paying us a bonus!”
Weasel laughed in a genuine, merry way that was so far out of character for the magician, but so in character for the supposed slave agent, that Farthing nearly applauded him. Gam returned, saving them the need to carry on the charade.
“Gentlemen, this is my associate Mr Fox.” A large, thickset man followed Gam into the tent. Farthing’s heart leapt for a moment as the man looked the double of the younger Mr Jipperson. As he walked out of the gloom, it was clear he was no relation except in profession; Mr Fox was every inch the seaman and possibly from the Ices too. Farthing was confident this was their slaver. Weasel held out his hand, but Mr Fox just nodded in acknowledgement.
“Mr Gam here has told me your wants, gentlemen. What you are looking for is very rare indeed, especially if you want the purest of skin and slight figure that Mr Gam insists in all his dealings.”
“Oh, I am aware of the problematic nature of our request, Mr Fox,” Weasel oozed. “And if you feel that it is beyond…”
“Oh, I said it was rare, but not impossible, Mr Horseman!” The man did not have the natural airs and graces of Mr Gam, and the politeness fell away very quickly. Gam stepped in.
“Indeed, Mr Fox has fulfilled a similar, but more difficult order just a couple of days ago.” Weasel showed obvious interest. “The details of which are private, of course. But I can assure you if anyone can find the specimen you desire, he can, you have my oath on that.”
Farthing raised an eyebrow. From the little he had learned from Timon and the one or two other buyers here in the market, an oath was an oath on pain of death. It was rare to find any who would break such an oath, and unheard of in these privileged tents by the auction blocks.
Weasel smiled. “Your oath is acceptable, Mr Gam, for you and on behalf of your associate. I am keen to do business on such an arrangement. Would you have an indication of price?” Gam nodded formally and passed two small envelopes over to weasel who took them and placed them in his robes.
“You will agree within the hour?” Gam asked.
“I will indeed.” Weasel shook Gam’s hand, nodded to the seaman and abruptly left, ushering Farthing out. Timon was outside waiting.
“Will you need me further, Mr Horseman?” It seemed he already knew the outcome. Weasel handed one of the envelopes to the young boy.
“You have done us proud, Timon. I hope we may have use of your services again at some point.”
“I will be running for two more years, Mr Horseman, and I will be happy to work for you again.” He nodded to the two men and ran off. Farthing looked at Weasel questioningly.
“I gathered from one of our drunken neighbours, well, a neighbour that I encouraged into drunkenness after you had retired last night, that in such dealings, the slaver pays the bonus to the runner. That was one of the envelopes and by the weight, Timon has done well today. Now, for the other one.”
Weasel went to the tea tent that Farthing had first visited, out of the view of the large black tents. He
waited till they had been served and left in private. Then he opened the envelope. Much to Farthing surprise, he did not read the contents but smelled it instead.
“What are you doing?”
“I am not actually interested in the price! I need to find a connection to that Mr Fox. I am positive he is our man and dealt directly with Tekkinmod from Wessen. I need that connection and to add that to the connection you have with your sister. If I get up to the mountains where Fren-Eirol is, I can then get a better idea of direction.” Weasel touched and felt both the envelope and the note.
“Well?” Farthing was desperately trying to keep his excitement hidden; this was the closest he had got to his sister since she was taken.
“Nothing! Damn. Fox hasn’t touched this note and I don’t think Gam had anything to do with the deal, other than knowing about it. Right, Mr Goatherd. Let us go back and give Gam the good news and I need to pull a trick with Mr Fox. He doesn’t seem to like shaking hands.”
They drank their tea and waited for a painfully long half an hour to make it look good, then the two returned to the tea tent. Outside, they were asked to wait for fifteen minutes as Mr Gam was busy. Farthing guessed it was another client meeting. When they were shown back into the darkness of the tent, Gam was standing waiting for them and Fox was at the far side talking to Gam’s sister.
“Mr Horseman, Mr Goatherd.” Gam was polite but businesslike.
“We have a deal, Mr Gam,” Weasel told the man without preamble and he held out his hand while walking a little farther into the tent. Gam shook it firmly.
“On my oath, Mr Horseman.” Weasel nodded in acknowledgement of the formal arrangement and walked back to stand by Farthing.
“May we speak to Mr Fox as I have a couple more details I wish for him to hear?”
“Mr Fox,” Gam called over to the seaman. “Would you join us?”
Farthing did not see how it happened, but just as he approached, Fox caught his foot on the edge of one of the rich woven carpets that covered the floor of the tea tent and fell straight into Weasel. The magician caught the man easily, though the seaman was twice his weight, and helped him to his feet. Fox looked annoyed and perturbed and brushed himself down.
“Mr Fox?” asked Gam.
“I am fine!” the seamen said sharply. “Have we a deal?”
“We have, Mr Fox,” Weasel said calmly. “I wished to say thank you and just ensure you understand exactly the requirements.”
“Your note was clear enough, Horseman,” the man said roughly.
“Indeed. But I wanted to add that my client is keen the purchase should be from Midcontinent if that is possible. I do not entirely understand why he should want this and it is not part of his exact requirements, but he did mention it as an additional possibility.” Midcontinent was a term unique to the Prelates and meant the region starting at Redust and heading west, just south of the Red Mountains. Farthing wondered what Weasel was up to. Mr Fox looked at Weasel suspiciously.
“Aye, that is possible, but it will take research.”
Weasel turned to Gam. “Then I propose that we meet here at the market next season. That should give Mr Fox ample time to do his research and to find the specimen.”
“I will accept that arrangement, Mr Horseman. You understand that there may be an extra levy?”
“If it is as fair as your dealings so far, that is acceptable.” Weasel was being very formal, but friendly.
“It will be only any additional expenses for Mr Fox’s research. The price is otherwise as agreed.” Weasel shook Gam’s hand. Fox had left through the back of the tent. He obviously had little time for the details or the play-acting that went with it.
“Come, Mr Goatherd, let us leave this gentleman to his business.” The three shook hands once more and Weasel and Farthing left the tent. Much to Farthing’s annoyance, Weasel insisted on watching the preparations for the afternoon auctions, then stopped for another cup of tea, during which he talked nonsense, mostly, and only then headed back to the tent by a really long way around.
“What are we doing?” Farthing asked in irritation.
“I have what I need and I don’t need to spoil it,” Weasel said with a false smile. “We have given them a year to find a girl and so there is no rush. If they see us running for the hills, then they will wonder what is going on. We leave tonight.” The logic was unarguable, but Farthing still growled in frustration. At the camp they were alone, the other buyers were obviously up at the auction.
“What about the girl?”
“What girl?”
“The girl we have sent Fox off to kidnap?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. There is only one girl that I can think of that matches all the requirements on my list and she lives in the Skattlings. I know her well and her family. If Fox tries to grab her, he will be lucky to get away with all his body parts if he gets away at all.
Farthing thought this through. “You mean Sally?”
“That’s the girl. You know her?”
“Not in that way!” Farthing blushed.
“Well, her family, especially her brothers are quite formidable and are well known on the docks for the way they protect their sisters.”
“Maybe, but Fox managed to break into the castle; he is not some street lout.”
“Trust me, the idiotic Peacemen are nothing compared to Sally’s family. If they had been in charge of the Prelate’s security none of this would have happened.”
Farthing smiled, despite his worries. “And you are sure that there is no other girl he will kidnap instead?”
“Not with moles where I said they had to be there isn’t. Sally is quite unique in that department, and it is well known among all her paying guests. His research will be surprisingly short, followed by his career.” Weasel was grinning wickedly. Farthing had nothing but hatred for Fox, but he couldn’t summon up the glee Weasel enjoyed at the prospect of sending someone to such a bitter end, whatever the justice of it all.