by Colin Kapp
It was doubtful if a more astute class of man existed on all the three hills than the average slave auctioneer. Operating usually on a percentage basis against the immutable laws of supply and demand, he knew well how to present his wares to the best advantage and how to drive the shrewdest bargain.
This afternoon, however, most of the sale rostrums were unattended by clients, no matter how eloquently the vendors phrased their sales address. A curious order had replaced the normal hubbub of the slave market and almost all the onlookers were facing a solitary platform high on the slope. Watchmen were in abundance, as if to emphasize the weight of the hand of the law, but the crowd was genuinely good humored and interested in the coming spectacle. The atmosphere was one of anticipation rather than resentment. The occasion was the sale of Zinder’s bond—and speculation had it that the Imaiz himself would be coming to the bidding.
Ren had arrived early with Catuul Gras and a more than nominal bodyguard of Pointed Tails. They first approached the auctioneer to establish Catuul’s right to bid on behalf of Magno Vestevaal and to offer proof of the considerable funding on which they could draw if necessity arose. Then, under the jovial eyes of the happy auctioneer, they were offered selected seating in front of the rostrum from which to conduct their business. At a few minutes to the preset hour at which the proceedings should have begun there was still no sign of anyone from the House of Magda. Then the crowd divided abruptly and a man strode through alone—Dion-daizan, the wizard of Anharitte.
This was the first time that Tito Ren had ever been really close to the Imaiz and he studied Dion carefully as the latter spoke to the auctioneer in the customary mode of introduction. Ren’s analysis did not leave him particularly impressed. Of indeterminate age, though probably nearing fifty years, Dion appeared to eschew all forms of showmanship or affectation,
Clad in a simple white gown, without apparent weapons, Dion’s face was neither distinguished nor particularly memorable. Only the movement of his hands indicated quiet confidence and competence that warned the agent to be wary. Whether or not the man was a Terran was not discernible from his unexceptional appearance, but he was obviously skilled in the control both of himself and others. And from the respect with which he was treated it was obvious that he was nearly a god in the eyes of Anharitte.
The auctioneer held up his hands for attention. His prologue was treated to a quantity of good-natured banter from the onlooking assembly, but this died when Zinder herself was brought out.
Ren was stunned. He had seen the work of beauticians on seven prime worlds, but never in all his experience had he seen such exquisite presentation of the female form as Zinder managed on her way to the rostrum. The audience of perhaps a thousand held its breath as she walked on stage in burnished radiance. Only Dion himself seemed unimpressed.
Even the auctioneer became speechless. Though he had issued instructions that Zinder be readied for the market, he had not anticipated the skill in the hands of several inhabitants of Magda whose task it had somehow become. He started to make his customary appeal to would-be purchasers, but seemed to become awed by the wonder of it all. Evidently lost for words, he finally paid her the ultimate tribute—he kneeled and kissed her hand.
A cheer rose from the assembly.
Catuul Gras came coldly to his feet. ‘I bid you five barr for the bond,’ he said.
So low a price was a calculated insult. The audience tensed with anticipation. It was going to be an evening to remember.
‘Raised to the second power,’ said Dion-daizan unhurriedly.
‘Six barr to the second power,’ said Catuul Gras. He was playing his hand narrowly.
‘To the third power,’ said Dion-daizan.
‘Seven to the third power,’ Catuul said.
Ren, whose mathematical training probably transcended that of any in the watching public, lapsed into mental calculation of the true value of the bids, unsettled by the way in which the Imaiz each time multiplied the value of the bid by raising the index. It was absolutely certain that at some point the Imaiz was going to approach a figure he could not possibly afford, and at that point Catuul must withdraw. He was relieved to note that, as the values rose, the scribe became more punctilious about obtaining confirmation before proceeding.
Nevertheless, Ren continued disconcerted by the actions of the Imaiz, who seemed determined to drive the price into truly astronomical figures.
It said much for the mental constitution of the auctioneer that he was able to continue functioning as evenly as he did in the face of the rapidly mounting values. He was sweating profusely and developed a marked tremor of the limbs when his due commission on the sale would have made him rich beyond all his dreams. Still the contest continued.
Ren was now using a pocket calculator to bring out the absolute values of the bids in terms of the galactic credits. The Imaiz used no calculating aids, but Ren had the feeling that Dion-daizan was nevertheless completely aware of the real value of the figures with which they were playing. Only Catuul seemed out of his depth and repeatedly looked at Ren for confirmation that he was intended to continue.
‘Ten barrs raised to the sixth power,’ said Catuul uneasily. This was more money than he had ever heard of.
‘Ten to the seventh power.’ Dion-daizan showed slight signs of agitation although Ren suspected the wizard was well within his ample budget.
‘Eleven to the seventh.’
The Imaiz faltered and a gasp of anticipation ran through the watching crowd. Ren felt a savage elation at the thought of having placed the Imaiz on public trial. It was a beautiful piece of harassment.
‘Eleven barrs to the eighth power,’ said the Imaiz finally.
Somebody in the crowd with some appreciation of the amount involved gave him a round of applause. Ren signaled for Catuul to continue.
‘Twelve to the eighth,’ said Catuul grimly.
The Imaiz stopped and scanned the crowd, as if trying to estimate the cost of losing face. Then he shrugged resignedly and turned again to the auctioneer. Ren still judged Dion-daizan to be within the limits of his purse, but the wizard was obviously struggling with considerations that evidently weighed as heavily with him as the regaining of Zinder.
‘Twelve to the ninth,’ said the master of Magda in a voice that could scarcely be heard.
Catuul Gras stole a warning look at Ren, but the agent had a reasonable idea of the Imaiz’s true financial potential, based on the yearly spaceport dues paid to the House of Magda. He knew it was possible to squeeze the Imaiz even drier.
‘Thirteen to the ninth,’ said Catuul.
‘Thirteen to the tenth,’ said the Imaiz, his voice suddenly sharp with a new resolve.
‘What’s the old fox up to?’ asked Catuul anxiously. ‘Has he really got that much money?’
‘I think he has. But he’s becoming uncomfortable. I think just once more must take him to the limit.’
‘Fourteen to the tenth,’ said Catuul.
The auctioneer had long since ceased to comprehend the magnitude of the figures being used and cared only that each bid was higher than the last. On a commission of even one percent his family would be rich for generations.
Dion-daizan sat, his face suddenly bland. The auctioneer looked at him questioningly.
‘Dion—don’t you wish to raise?’
‘Of course not.’ The Imaiz’s face was alive with humor, revealing a richness of personality he had hitherto concealed. ‘Believe me, it’s not through lack of finance, but in observance of a principle.’
‘Principle?’ The auctioneer was lost.
‘Yes,’ said Dion-daizan happily. ‘Anyone who would bid fourteen to the tenth power barrs for Zinder must have achieved a true appreciation of her worth. Far be it for me to deter such enlightenment. It’s not every day that my progressive policies gain such eminent recognition. Nor is it often in Anharitte that the real worth of a human being is so openly , acknowledged. May others soon become as wise as Director Vestevaal.�
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Ren watched with mounting horror as the hammer fell. The auctioneer’s voice boomed above the murmur of the crowd.
‘I hereby declare the slave Zinder to be sold to the Society of Pointed Tails acting on behalf of its client, Director Magno Vestevaal. The agreed price is fourteen barrs raised to the tenth power—a completely unprecedented sum for any slave at any time in history and a truly magnificent tribute to the slave-training policy of the House of Magda.’
‘Damn!’ Ren, ashen of face, staggered to his feet. It was too late to rescind the bid—the transaction was already complete. He turned appealingly to Catuul Gras.
‘What the hell’s Dion up to?’
‘Teaching the director a lesson, I should think,’ said Catuul grimly. ‘Well he’s certainly made his point—and at our expense. Let’s face it, Tito. He’s beaten us at our own game.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Ren, consumed by his own anger. ‘A man like Dion isn’t going to let Zinder go.’
Zinder, from the rostrum, had displayed a keen interest in the proceedings. Far from seeming betrayed by Dion-daizan’s action, she appeared elated. She saluted her late master who, in turn, approached her to kiss her hand. Then Dion-daizan turned to the crowd and raised his hands in an expansive gesture of triumph. The ensuing cheer was probably the loudest roar of acclamation from human throats that Roget had ever known.
The auctioneer took Zinder’s halter and led her, a symbol of apparent meekness, to Catuul Gras. The latter took the plaited rope as though it were likely to grow hot and looked somewhat stupidly at Ren.
‘The sale price is on guarantee from the Galactic Bank,’ said the auctioneer. ‘The contract settlement is now between the purchaser and the city administration. Therefore I have no need to detain you, except to remind you of the convention that the title of the bond must be registered at the prefecture within seven hours or the money is forfeit and the bond is returned to the city administration.’
‘I understand,’ said Catuul Gras. ‘I assure you the bond will be duly registered within the time.’
Ren said nothing, not being able to trust himself to speak. Having been tricked into authorizing such an astronomical sum on the acquisition of a single female slave, he knew that the blackest hour of his career was upon him. An error in his judgment had caused this embarrassment to happen. He had been certain above all things that the Imaiz would not allow Zinder to be bought over his head. Now the wizard was standing both pleased and apparently unworried as Zinder was led away by the hands of his sworn enemies. Ren was still not convinced that the Imaiz would allow it to happen, but failed to see how he could prevent it—unless by some ambush or deception Dion managed to stop the bond’s being registered in time.
Catuul’s mind was apparently working along the same lines. He signaled members of his clan out from the crowd and sent them ahead to see that the roads Zinder and her new owners had to travel were free from possible trouble. With practiced inconspicuousness the little group melted away.
‘I think,’ said Catuul, ‘that we had best pick up the director and get the registration over as soon as possible. That is—’ he glanced uneasily at the radiant Zinder—‘assuming that you wish to go through with it.’
‘For that sort of money,’ said Ren ruefully, ‘the deal had better be legally complete. Though the devil knows how it’s going to look on the account books.’ Despite the immensity of his blunder the humor of the situation overwhelmed him and he started to chuckle spasmodically at his own discomfort.
The assembled crowd was beginning to disperse with much laughter and amused speculation. Not a few came to have a closer look at Zinder wearing the customary bondage halter. For a moment Ren felt angered by what he regarded as morbid curiosity. But when he saw the proud and dominant strength in Zinder’s face, he realized that on the end of the halter was a powerful social catalyst. What he was parading through the streets was the anachronistic shame of Anharitte’s slave trade. He and the Pointed Tails were being used to underscore the unfairness and absurdity of the system. While he was agent for the titular master, it was obviously the slave who held command of the situation and the hearts of the onlookers.
Thinking deeply in this vein, Ren walked ahead. Catuul followed, leading Zinder on the halter as if she were any common beast. Four of the Pointed Tails armsmen acted as a guard detail and also carried the torches, which were just needing to be lit as the purple dusk closed down. Ren found the journey acutely embarrassing. His civilized instincts prompted him to make conversation with Zinder, whose intellectual talents were probably more than equal to his own. But the halter she wore about her neck made such an action seem incongruous and he could think of no topic of conversation that could span the dual standards that had been thrust upon him.
He therefore stalked ahead of the group, growing increasingly angry at his own inability to resolve the conflict within himself. He sensed in the situation the ingenuity of the Imaiz in attacking the slave problem in this particular way and his respect for the wizard increased considerably. The Imaiz was forming a schism not only in society but also deep in the psyches of individual participants—such as himself. It was a dangerous and powerful game, and Ren knew that if Dion-daizan were not stopped he would ultimately win the battle.
Magno Vestevaal was waiting in Ren’s chambers. The director had been drinking liberally, presumably celebrating a victory that had not been won. Ren roused him from his chair, knowing the worst had best be told without delay.
‘We have to go immediately to the prefecture to register the bond.’
‘Register?’ Vestevaal’s eyes refocused on Ren in an instant. ‘What the hell do you mean?’
‘I mean that the Imaiz played with us as he might with fools. You now own Zinder.’
‘Own Zinder?’ Vestevaal appeared to sober himself by a tremendous effort of will. ‘I see! And how much did this—ah—acquisition cost us, Tito?’
‘Fourteen barrs to the tenth power,’ said Ren, being deliberately obtuse to soften the shock.
‘What in hell is that in terms of money?’
Ren bent over his office calculator and converted the figures first to duodecimal galactic credits and then to the Terran ten-based notation which the director handled more happily. Vestevaal watched him steadily, sensing in Ren’s actions a certain reticence that foretold of trouble.
‘Well?’
Ren had finished the calculations and was examining the printout, wondering how to present it in the best light.
‘You’d better sit down again,’ he said. ‘Would you believe about two hundred million million Solar dollars?’
For a moment the director appeared in danger of suffering a seizure. At last he swore. ‘You could buy two battle cruisers for less. Tito—have you any idea how I’m going to explain that sort of expenditure to the Free Trade Council? What are you trying to do—ruin me?’
‘No, but I think it’s a reasonable certainty that the Imaiz is. He promised to teach you a lesson. I guess this is it. But I still think we’ve hit him where it hurts. After all, we’ve got Zinder.’
‘Where is she?’ asked Vestevaal. The color was slowly coming back into his cheeks. ‘Do you have her?’
‘She’s outside with Catuul and the guard.’
‘Then fetch her in—fetch her in! Where’s your hospitality, Tito? It’s not every day you get the chance to entertain somebody who’s worth more than all your Company executives rolled into one.’
Ren called for Zinder. Unlike Ren, Magno Vestevaal was in no doubt as to how she should be treated. He borrowed Ren’s sword to cut the halter from her neck, then handed her into a chair as though she were a queen. She took the incident completely unabashed. Already she seemed to have, established with Vestevaal a degree of rapport that reached to depths Ren could not envision. She accepted wine and fell into a quiet conversation with the director until Ren was forced to interrupt, fearing if they further delayed they would become overdue for registering her bond.<
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The remainder of the journey to the prefecture was in marked contrast with that from the slave market. Magno Vestevaal led the way, engaged in earnest conversation with the slave girl on his arm, while Ren and Catuul followed disconsolately at their heels. The four armsmen had dispersed themselves fore and aft of the group, swords drawn and ready for trouble, since Catuul still feared an ambush or an interference designed to delay the registration of the bond. The director, however, ridiculed the idea of potential trouble and refused even to remain consistently within the shield of guards. He was right—inasmuch as they arrived at the grim portals of the prefecture without any sign of unwanted intervention.
EIGHT
The prefecture was bustling with people. Watchmen were returning or departing on duty—clerks were fetching and carrying their massive volumes and a small mob around the slave registry was presumably waiting to see the registration of Zinder. Ren was not surprised to see Barii, the Imaiz’s slave-caste steward in the group—and Dion-daizan himself. Everyone turned to watch as the director and his costly prize came across the threshold.
Dion-daizan made a bow of courtesy to Magno Vestevaal, which the latter good-humoredly returned. The director seemed in remarkably good spirits, having regained his equilibrium completely after his shock of learning of Ren’s transaction.
His reaction to Dion-daizan was an acknowledgment of the excellence of his adversary. Dion’s respect was no less evident. Both men turned to regard Zinder, who stood peacock-proud watching the register clerk intently as he painstakingly wrote the details of her bondage on a new page of his mammoth book.
Di Irons came out of his office and took charge of the proceedings. His manner suggested that it was important for the peace of the city that the registration went smoothly. The prefect inspected the entry carefully, held it up for Dion-daizan to examine, then called for the mark of the auctioneer to authenticate the sale.
Catuul went suddenly tense. He had momentarily lost sight of Baril, but finally located him standing behind the Imaiz, who had retired discreetly to the rear. Like Ren, the scribe had the gravest doubts that the Imaiz would permit the registration to be completed, but it was difficult to see how he could now prevent its finalization. Everyone in the room felt the tension rise and additional watchmen came out from some dark antechamber to stand silent and ready for trouble.