By Jenny Barber

The funny thing about the Slavelands is, while everyone agrees that it’s a necessary evil, no-one in it can agree on a standard treatment for their live purchases. Now, my brother has been around these parts for a while and he tells me all kinds of stories about the various sections of Wrell, one of the middle sized slave towns of this delightful province. In some parts, the slaves are treated like royalty and sales are mutually beneficial - the slaves get a share of the money which motivates them to negotiate it up, they get good clothes and great quarters to live in until they find a new owner and life is generally sweet.

Then there’s the part I got stuck in. It totally reeks. Personally I blame my brother - it’s his fault I’m here. All I was doing was a leee-tle favour for him, delivering a rather -sensitive- package to one of the nicer ladies in town when these big lugs get hold of me and next thing I know, here I am, chained up and waiting to be sold.

Now waiting is something I’ve had a lot of practice at - I spent my childhood in the waiting rooms of whore houses and on the docks of Derrin Argin, a trading town to the north of here, waiting for my brother to finish his latest piece of double dealing so we could skip onto the next smuggler’s boat. I ran with all the other street rats and waited on corners, watching for guards or anyone else that might spoil our fun and I never got caught. Talk about ruining a lucky streak.

If I stretch a little I’ve got just enough chain to be able to peer through the curtain that divides the stage from the set of open cages behind it. The audience are all men, the slaves are all women and everyone knows why they are here which is why the two men that have obscured their identities are attracting a lot of interest. The way I hear it, it’s a point of pride in these parts to be seen at an auction - it proves your manliness or some such rubbish like that. Go figure.

Of the two of them, I’d have to admit to being most intrigued by the one at the front. He’s a lean statue of a man who looks like he’s a man of quality on a mission for his master....or mistress. He’s enveloped in shiny midnight silk and not a single part of him is left in the open for the casual observer to analyse. Anyone who might even be thinking about getting close to sneak a peak under that huge hood is quickly deterred by the wicked curved blade he has loosely strapped to one side. It’s very frustrating!

The other one hovers at the back, and appears to be the statue’s opposite number - a portly piratey looking creature that strides up and down in his diaphanous rainbow coat, whirling this way and that, sometimes addressing one of the buyers next to him, sometimes looking up at the town clock. This pretty bird has a delicate ceramic mask fixed to his face by several lengths of scarlet ribbon. I’d lay odds that he’ll be followed home and maybe even relieved of any prizes he carries. He looks to be an easy mark, that one, but there’s something about him that makes me suspicious. He’s too easy.

One of the slimy whoreson slave Tenders slices his whip across my back but I’m used to much worse so I’m able to maintain some sort of dignity when the ratassed bastard pushes me through the mouldy curtains and onto the sweating stage. I’m one of the better lots today so there’s immediate interest. I’m young, and new enough to slavery that I still have my spirit. I would love to be able to affect some sort of outlandish pose to show them just who was up before them (it’s my upbringing, I just can’t help it!) but the chains binding my hands behind my back kind of spoil things so I have to make do with a semi-superior, semi-challenging look. That was my brother’s advice if this type of situation ever came up. He told me that a spirited slave generally gets a more interesting master. What he neglected to mention was what ‘interesting’ might mean and even though I heard the stories the other slaves babbled all morning, I still can’t help tempting fate.

"This spirited wench is a virgin slave, unbroken by man or master and promises plenty o’ entertainment to the brave soul as takes her, " the idiot auctioneer blathers on, striding out to grab parts of me in demonstration. When I get free, I swear he’s gonna find himself dead - if I’m feeling merciful that day. After feeding a .... creative .... background, to the drooling punters, he finally starts the bidding at 20 Talos. Please. A dog’s worth more.

I watch the crowd carefully, trying to anticipate who might throw a serious bid to the stand. Most of them are content to leer at the lack of costume the Tenders have so generously provided me with. Confidentially, there isn’t enough material to cover one leg decently, let alone a whole body but I’m not that green. The places I used to follow my brother to prepared me for this ridiculous, only-just-dress they’ve thrown at me and I’ll allow them this, it does look good. Blue’s definitely my colour.

The pretty bird at the back calls a bid of 80 Talos which is immediately countered by the dark statue. That starts the proper bidding off and when one sweating pig tries for 100, he’s mocked by a group of boys that had come to watch the games. If it wasn’t me being bid for, I might start enjoying this.

Suddenly a gust of wind charges down the alley and within seconds the skies drop their load on those foul wastrels, like it’s trying to wash ‘em clean of a lifetime’s filth. Some hope. Of course I’m fine under the roof that covers the stage and it’s deliciously funny to watch all those hogs slopping about for shelter but storms never last long hereabouts and it’s all over in minutes, leaving only the serious bidders dripping in front of the stage.

The pretty bird looks up at the sky, as if suspicious of another downpour, the dark statue had stayed frozen during the rain and is still in the same position, letting the excess water run down his shiny cloak. I doubt he’s even slightly damp. He makes a slight movement with his head and says in a soft voice "150 "

The pretty bird lets loose a raucous squawk of a laugh, "I know you, dark one, you’ll spend naught on this wench. She’s bastard born and waiting for my galleys. 160."

Well now, that catches my attention. I have to try very hard not to break into a wide grin right there because I just realised pretty bird’s identity. That remark about my half-blood heritage would have been enough on it’s own but what really clinched it was the cackle. I’d’ve recognised that anywhere.

My other prospective bidders backed away slightly so the game was between the two ‘anonymous’ ones. I don’t really expect the bidding to rise much further, from what I’ve heard, the highest any slave in these parts had been bought for was 235 Talos. She was a fully matured dancing girl with a host of other talents that made her a legend throughout the whole town and I’d be a fool if I thought I was worth half as much. These two are already bidding too much as it is. Mind you, it is kinda flattering.

Dark statue’s voice is viper smooth, "195."

"Hah! Take her and welcome. The scrag’s not worth that." my brother taunted, flouncing off to the side as if he was waiting for the next lot. "Scrag?" I’m definitely going to have words with that cheapskate - I mean, it’s not as if I couldn’t get twice that back within the week. I can’t believe that . . . idiot . . . backed down like that. Why, his reputation would have been enough to silence any opposition and he could have got me for much less - and much sooner too. Now he’ll have to go to all the trouble of breaking me free later. Gods, I hope I escape before that happens, I’ve never needed to be ‘rescued’ before. I’ll never live this down.

One of the Tenders drags me off the stage to finish the deal. Dark statue practically glides over to the Slave Master and hardly twitches when he throws the bag of money on the table. Very smooth, this one, I can see that I’m going to have to be careful around him.

He watches the Slave Master count the grimy coins while one of those greasy Tenders slips a noose around my neck and digs out the key that’ll unlock their precious chains. When he gets the nod, he turns the key and I don’t even have time to rub my wrists before rope’s around them and I’m ready to be led off like a newly bought cow.

"You have a brand, sir?" The Slave Master asks politely, indicating the blazing fire and the branding rod. A metal shape gets thrown onto the table and the Slave Master attaches it to the rod and places the whole bloody contraption in the flames to heat. Now they’ve got my attention, my brother never warned me about immediate branding. I’d seen other slaves with scabby brands on of course but I always though it was done later. Hells! There’s no way I’m going around with someone else’s mark on me. I struggle, wriggling my wrists in the ropes, trying to escape but the Tender must have some ox in his lineage cos he grips my arm and has me steered towards the fire before I can do anything.

I look at the dark statue, trying to appeal, but his face is still hidden in shadow and I doubt if he even notices me. Then they dig a burning pain shape into my arm. Owowowowow. I suck in a long breath and roll my fists as tight as they’ll go but they don’t get any semblance of a scream out of me. No-one’s ever going to get the satisfaction of seeing me scream. I’m so busy concentrating on the hot stinging waves pounding around my shoulder that I barely register being led away.

I vaguely remember the streets, we tend to take the less occupied ones, the smaller alleys that creep behind the rundown houses of this stinking place. Through it all, my new master says nothing. The only reaction I get is when I start falling behind his easy glide, he slows so I can catch up which is better than most would’ve done. That gives me a little hope. Maybe things won’t be too bad - at least until I get around to escaping anyway.

We leave town and as I concentrate on stumbling after him, I catch a smell of what direction we’re heading in. There’s no mistaking the delicious taste of salty air that flows in with the biting coastal winds. I’m almost looking forward to finding out where we’re going. From what I could tell, where we’re going is a dip in the cliff’s edge. When we reach it, my mysterious master stops so I get a good look at the glorious stretch of sea that sparkles out for miles and miles. Then I look down. Ag! The cliff goes down for miles and miles too.

I follow my master down the winding gravel-ly path that hugs the cliff face, we’re going much slower now, probably because the sharp wind that dances around us holds a promise of kicking us down to the tiny beach below. We finally reach the bottom and all I can see is the pebbled beach and high gorse-pocked cliffs - there’s no sign of anywhere left to go. Still he walks silently on. I’m led to one end, where dark rocky teeth guard the mouth of a large cavern. As we pick our way over the rocks, the sea sprays my ridiculously insubstantial ...costume... against me then the wind batters it even more. Gods I hate this. What with trying to keep my balance, keep up with my unsociable master and keep vaguely warm I’m starting to build up a good slice of animosity for the whole situation.

After what seems like an eternity of carefully picking over slimy rocks, we make it to the cavern and are met by two wiry men with very sharp looking swords raised in our direction.

"Your business, stranger?" one of them barks. Officious twat!

"I have a new acquisition for the Captain," the dark statue says dropping any previous hint of smoothness from his tone. Now why does that voice suddenly sound so familiar?

"You’ll have to me more specific," the other one snarls.

I’m sure I heard the statue sigh then he lowers his hood and gives the guards an even look. "First-Mate Skatch, close personal friend of the Red Fiend. Your vigilance does you justice, men, it will not go unrewarded."

"What!" I exclaimed crossly, breaking my stubborn silence. Oh I was really pissed now, not because I’d known Skatch since I was a little girl and he’d not said a word on the whole journey, or because I knew of the Red Fiend by reputation and slave gossip. Oh no. This was much, much worse.

"Calm down my sweet Wren," Skatch coaxed, fixing me with one of his looks, "We have an appointment with the ‘Fiend,"

I have to take a very deep breath. "He can wait until you’ve lent me your cloak. I’m not seeing him in this...."

Sensibly Skatch complies, finally getting around to cutting the wretched ropes that bind me so that by the time he decides to lead me to the ship that’s moored further back in the cavern, my temper’s cooled to a light simmer.

Despite the throbbing in my arm, it’s hard not smile at the familiarity of the ship. It had been old when the ‘Fiend took over as Captain and I’ve spent so much time on it’s weathered decks that it’s like home. I think the only reason Skatch is accompanying me now is to referee. As best mate he’s supposed to see that no unnecessary harm comes to the Captain and even the smallest of glances is enough to tell me that he was nervous about what I might do.

As Captain, the wretch gets the best cabin, which also happens to be on the top deck so he can entertain his ‘visitors’ with the minimum of fuss. Usually it’s beneficial to hover outside and listen for any good bits and by the time I get to the gaudy red door, there’s already quite a crowd pretending to be busy with other things. I’m half tempted to wave at them but it might spoil the pirate-brat image I’ve been trying so hard to build up. I grit my teeth and enter the ‘Fiend’s lair.

He’s lounged in a chair, idly pushing coins around a table with one of his many nicked daggers. The way the rest of his huge arsenal of personal weapons is scattered around you’d think he didn’t care about them but they’re all sharpened and shiny and ready to leap into his hand within a second. He’s a very dangerous man is the ‘Fiend.

"Greetings brat," he says urbanely, "Have you seen your brand yet? I had it designed especially with you in mind and it means you’ll get complete freedom next time you’re working in a town." He is, of course, implying that he’s doing me a favour - like I don’t already have complete freedom in that dog-pit of a place.

"You always said you’d like a tattoo and this is a nice alternative. I could make you my slave mistress with complete authority on purchasing...." Oh this was classic, he’ll be wanting to charge me for the privilege next.

He sits back with this friendly grin on his face and I can hear Skatch attempting to muffle his laughter behind me. Then the revered Captain hits me with the big one.

"In fact, there’s a couple of errands I want you to do in town for me. Your brand should be healed in about an hour and there’s a couple of prize women in the upper market I was wanting to get hold of. I don’t think you need worry about branding them - I’ll sort something out when they get here...." Very magnanimous of him, don’t you think?

I take one look at the great and mighty Red Fiend and try to come up with something suitable to reply but in all my years of association with the silver-tongued bastard, I’ve found that simple is always best so I glare at my lout of a brother and do what any loving sister would do. I shove the table so that it smashed into his favourite part of anatomy then while he’s distracted with thoughts of a few ruined evenings worth of entertainments, I knock him out cold.