The Dragon Writers Collection

by DragonWritersCollective

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Mortified

  Gráinne awoke to Lan rapping on the door to her room. “Gráinne, wake up. We need to leave soon, or we might miss MacMoragh. John knows where he is.”

  Lan’s comment about the urgency of leaving superseded Gráinne’s desire to laugh and tell him that while the Kathan had delivered a monologue into his goblet the night before, she’d learned John knew Fenn MacMoragh. “I am awake. I will dress and come down,” she called back.

  Gráinne paid particular attention to her selection of clothing and chose a gown that wouldn’t give the potential Captain the impression she could afford to be extravagant in hiring him. She smiled at the thought that Lan would have been proud of her attention to detail. Empire-waisted and A-lined, rather than full-skirted, the black gown she chose accentuated her slenderness but also her height, so she put on flat slippers instead of shoes with a higher heel. She would probably be taller than he was anyway, and she didn’t want to put him on the defensive by rubbing in that fact. Most males seemed uncomfortable about relative height with taller women. She pulled her hair away from her face and secured it with a comb so that it fell behind her shoulders, leaving her neck and collar bones exposed. Around her neck, she tied a black ribbon, from which dangled a silver locket. On its face was the Ferrane family emblem: a tigress errant. On her finger, she placed a similarly marked silver ring that had belonged to her mother.

  Lan and John were in the kitchen dipping bread into fresh gruel Marta had cooked before she left to tend the garden. “And then I told him,” John was saying as Gráinne arrived. “Good mornin’ to you,” he said to her, abruptly changing the subject.

  “Good morning, John. Lan. Do go on,” she replied, taking a seat and tearing off a chunk of bread she immediately nibbled. Her stomach and head protested the whisky she’d drank the night before. Pecking on something not spicy or too heavy seemed a safe bet for not upsetting her stomach.

  “I was just telling Lan about my talk with that MacMoragh fella. I’ll tell you he has travelled a fair share of his life and seen a lot of places I’ve never heard of in all my years of talking with travellers. He did mention the land of Scots, and I told him I’d had a guest here who was a Scot named Iain MacGregor. I swear that red hair of MacMoragh’s grew redder when I told him that name. Seems he and MacGregor don’t get on well. MacMoragh said that MacGregor was a coward and hiding out from the whole MacMoragh Clan because of something he’d done. So, as I was about to tell Lan, I told him if I heard of where MacGregor might be, I’d pass it along to him. Yessir, that hair grew redder, I do swear.”

  Lan’s disinterest in John’s tale seemed apparent to Gráinne when he curtly asked John, “How do we find him?”

  “He’ll be at the market today.”

  “The square is teeming. How will we know him?”

  John belted out a laugh and leaned back in his chair. “You won’t be missin’ that one, young fella. He’s the tallest, reddest haired Scot you’ve ever seen, I assure you. And he has a patch over one eye.” He twisted and wrinkled his face, as if straining. “But for the life of me, I can’t remember which eye.”

  Gráinne thought about the ugly creature with his eye sewn shut. She leaned in and asked in a near whisper, “Why does he wear a patch?”

  John shrugged. “I don’t know. I wasn’t about to ask him. Some folks get mighty sensitive about things like that. I don’t think MacMoragh is the kind you want to poke with a stick . . . if you know what I mean.”

  Lan cleared his throat.

  Gráinne’s attention turned to him, just in time to see him roll his eyes.

  “We should leave. Are you prepared?” Lan asked.

  Gráinne nodded. “Yes, I am.” She was already wondering if the patch had anything to do with Iain MacGregor, and if so, how she might use that to convince MacMoragh to take on the job of Captain. “We will need the chest.” She had no idea what it might take to persuade MacMoragh, and she wanted to have the upper hand if his motivation was silver. Before they left the inn, Gráinne cleared the table of the dirty plates and leftover food while Lan retrieved the chest.

  “I am not sure this is a good idea, woman,” he said upon returning, shaking the chest.

  “Maybe not, but I do not want to be caught without resources on hand,” she replied firmly. “Just guard it closely.”

  The two set off for the market square, but when they arrived, Gráinne was confused by what she saw. The busy marketplace she’d twice visited looked completely different. Beings milled around and talked with each other, but only a few scattered merchant stalls lined the perimeter of the square. A raised wooden platform, accessible by stairs on either side, stood in the center of the square. At one end were three wooden boxes. Benches populated by people who sat facing the wooden boxes filled the remainder of the platform.

  “This is the last place I expected to see you,” said Tell Bravin from behind Gráinne.

  She turned around to see him staring at her bare neckline. Gráinne cleared her throat, and his gaze moved up to hers. “I have come to find a Captain for the Cailleach Bheur,” she replied to him.

  Tell quirked an eyebrow, and a grin stretched his lips. “You’re going to find a Captain here?” He looked toward Lan and nodded to the chest. “Ah, I see. You plan to buy one.” He looked back at Gráinne. “And what if there are none for sale?”

  Gráinne frowned. “Sometimes, you are an arse, Tell Bravin.”

  Bravin laughed and leaned down slightly to whisper into Gráinne’s ear. “On that account, I would have to agree with you.” As he straightened back up, he motioned toward the platform. “Shall we then, Marquessa? All the seats will soon be taken, and I would not miss this for all the gapa in Rogea.” His eyes sparkled with mischief.

  Gráinne didn’t understand what Tell was intimating or why he found the idea of her finding and paying a Captain so humorous. She did think, however, that she and Lan might have a better chance of spotting MacMoragh from the highest spot in the square, and that was the platform. She rolled her eyes at Tell, who laughed, and then she set off for the platform stairs.

  “But,” Lan said.

  Shush!

  Gráinne continued on and climbed the steps with Tell following closely behind her.

  “This way. There are some empty spaces,” Tell said, stepping around her and leading the way to a bench that had only a couple of people sitting on one end of it.

  The bench Tell had chosen was in the back row of benches, which pleased Gráinne. It would give them a fairly clear view of three-fourths of the market square. Once she sat down, she was pleased to discover she had no trouble seeing over the heads of those around her. At last, her height held advantage!

  A bell rang out, and a shirtless man standing near the boxes cried out, “Take your seats. The sale begins soon. Today’s stock will delight you!” The man looked human and reminded her of Tell’s warriors. Two wide leather straps harnessed his shoulders and chest, and at his side hung a coiled whip.

  The benches soon filled. More beings continued to file onto the platform, taking up the bulk of standing room on either side and behind the rows of benches. Gráinne frowned and fidgeted as her view of the marketplace became more and more obstructed.

  “Bring in the first three!”

  The crowd near the stairs stepped back, and a murmur broke out. Gráinne strained to see what the fuss was about. Emerging from the top of the stairs were three human females led by chains attached to collars. The first two were scantily clad, young women. The third was a middle-aged woman wearing a dress with an apron. Her large breasts almost flowed out of the top of her dress. Each of the three was led to a box and chained to metal loops that stuck out of the boxes. Gráinne gasped, and her expression further betrayed her shock.

  Tell Bravin leaned over and whispered, “Do you think any of them can sail a ship?”

  Lan’s hand touched Gráinne’s shoulder, and he leaned into her other ear, whispering, “Stay calm.
We are here to find MacMoragh.”

  “Our first three offerings are voluntary contracts,” the man near the boxes called out, and the crowd hushed. “On the left is Maeve, a tavern wench offering her services for one moon. In the middle is Rhianna, a lovely maiden willing to serve only a mistress. On the right is Marjorie, a buxom seamstress who offers her skills only in trade for food and shelter for herself and her child.”

  Gráinne wanted to throw up. Lan squeezed her shoulder.

  “Maeve’s opening bid is twenty silver. Do I have a taker?” the man running the event called out.

  “Let me see the goods, Halgar!” yelled a man in one of the benches in front of Gráinne.

  The man near the boxes replied, “Leave it to you to have no imagination, Klegg!”

  The crowd roared with laughter.

  “Bare her breasts,” he ordered, and a man dressed similar to Halgar approached Maeve. He reached out and pulled her top down, exposing her breasts.

  The crowd applauded.

  Gráinne looked down. In her peripheral vision, she could see the woman jiggling her breasts at the crowd.

  “Twenty silver!” someone yelled out.

  “I have twenty. Do I have twenty-five?”

  “Twenty-five!”

  “Twenty-five from Harrington. Do I have thirty?”

  “Thirty!”

  “Thirty from the Dwarf! Will someone offer thirty-five and save him from smothering?”

  The crowd roared with laughter.

  “Thirty. I have thirty.”

  Nobody yelled out a number.

  “Thirty is the bid. Going once.” Halgar waited. “Thirty twice.” He hesitated, but nobody called out a number. “Sold to the Dwarf for thirty silver! Pay the Scribe and pick up Maeve’s contract.”

  Gráinne looked up to see Maeve being led off the platform, her chain handed over to the Dwarf. A similar procedure took place for the sale of Rhianna’s contract. Some jeered at her and commented that it was a waste her maidenhood would be taken by another woman. Rhianna jeered back, taunting the men who made such comments. The crowd laughed at the men, who eventually quieted, likely from embarrassment. After the bidding for Rhianna’s contract ended, the sale of Marjorie’s contract began.

  “Marjorie’s opening bid is a season.”

  Someone yelled, “This one is past hers!”

  Gráinne’s temper flared.

  “Ye dinnae know a bargain when ye stumble on one, Gordon!” a deep voice called out. “I will meet that bid!”

  “We have a season’s bid from The MacMoragh. Have we a bid for longer?” Halgar cried out.

  Gráinne bolted to her feet.

  “You want to bid, pretty lady? You have to call out a length of time.”

  The crowd looked at Gráinne, whose face flushed crimson.

  “Are ye biddin’ agin me, lass?” the voice of MacMoragh rang out, and Gráinne followed the sound to the sight of the red-haired Scot she’d come to find.

  Fenn was much larger than Gráinne had imagined. His height rivaled that of her husband. Large-boned and muscular, his body was hard. He wore a loose linen shirt open in the front, exposing a tattooed chest. His skin was suntanned a rich bronze that complimented his bright red hair, and several places on his face and chest bore scars. As John had said, the Scot wore a patch over one eye. His other was both striking and piercing, a shade of teal which reminded Gráinne of the sea. At his waist was a wide leather belt holding a rope, a leather sheath for a dagger, and a small coin purse. Although the crowd blocked her view of his legs and feet, she could make out that just below the belt was a tartan fabric. She assumed he wore a kilt.

  “N….n….no,” she stuttered.

  The crowd laughed. Tell tugged on Gráinne’s skirt. She looked down at him and lowered herself back onto the bench.

  Nobody bid against the Scot. Marjorie was led over to him, and he removed the collar, whispering something to her. Gráinne couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that the man she’d come to find was someone she already knew.

  “Our next three are special arrangements,” Halgar called out as the next three beings were led to the boxes. The first was led by a small woman shrouded from head to foot by a black cloak. The creature she led by a chain was blindfolded. “On the left is Zak the Thrull, an interesting but dangerous creature. His Mistress, Velaria,” he said, pointing to the cloaked woman, “is willing to contract him out for one season.” The Thrull looked somewhat human-shaped, but his skin was dark green and scaly in places. On his back were tendrils waving wildly about. At the tip of each was a barb. He growled and snarled as Velaria positioned him on the box.

  “What do you suppose he can do with those snakes on his back?” Klegg called out.

  Zak smiled. “They’re tendrils, not snakes. Come up here, and let me show you. If you have the nerve, that is.”

  The Thrull’s ability to speak surprised Gráinne.

  Klegg smirked and stood up. He walked over to the Thrull and stood in front of him. “And what will you do?” he taunted, waving his hands in front of the blindfolded creature.

  The Thrull smiled. The tendrils wrapped around Klegg’s throat and began to squeeze. Klegg gasped for air, trying to pry them loose. Velaria leaned over to the Thrull’s ear, and whispered something. He growled and released Klegg’s throat, and Klegg stumbled backwards. He cursed at Zak all the way back to the bench and sat down, never once turning his back on the creature.

  The crowd laughed. Halgar motioned for them to quiet, and he continued. “In the middle, we have Jaer. Jaer’s contract is for a moon. The proceeds will pay the fine he incurred for attempting to steal from the purse of the Magistrate’s wife.”

  “What can I say? I was hungry. You wouldn’t let me hunt in the woods,” Jaer protested.

  “The Magistrate’s wife? Not too bright, is he?” someone yelled.

  “He’s too small to offer any meaningful service,” another yelled. “No lady would even know he was between her legs!”

  The crowd laughed.

  Jaer was the smallest Elf Gráinne had ever seen. Dressed in green with soft, calfskin boots, he had long blonde hair tied back like the tail of a pony. She found his wry smile amusing.

  “Feed him to the Thrull!” someone else yelled.

  The crowd cheered.

  Halgar continued. “And finally, we have Dragorloth the Kathan. He is a capable guard and keen warrior.”

  Gráinne’s mouth dropped open, and she looked at Lan, whose expression was nothing short of horrified.

  “Dragorloth’s Master wishes to punish him by selling his contract to someone who will deny him his wanton desires.”

  The Kathan on the box looked down, clearly ashamed. Although Dragorloth’s body shape was humanoid like Lan’s, his skin was not human-like in any way. Rather, white fur with black tiger stripes covered him from the tips of his ears to the wispy hair at the of his tail, which was sleek and long, not bushy like Lan’s. His face was streamlined and decidedly more feminine than Lan’s. Despite what Halgar said about his experience as a warrior, the face of the Kathan didn’t have the harshness of a face that had seen war. Dragorloth wore black pants and boots, and his chest was bare. Like Lan, he sported blue tattoos on his chest, but the striped pattern of fur that covered the markings made it impossible to distinguish their shape.

  “What did he do? Lick his Master with a rough tongue?”

  The crowd laughed.

  Gráinne heard a meep from Lan, and it made her temper flare at the way the three were being treated and how it was making Lan feel. She gritted her teeth and clenched her fists in her lap.

  “Enough! Enough!” Halgar yelled. “The opening bids for each are twenty silver pieces. Which would you like? Don’t be shy!”

  Gráinne rose slowly, focusing her gaze sharply at Halgar. She calmed her throat muscles and formed a confident tone. “One hundred-fifty for the three!”

  The crowd gasped. This time, when their faces turned to look at her, Gráin
ne didn’t blush. She was angry, and the craving to Shift gnawed at her. She knew her focus had to remain on maintaining human-looking eyes. “Well?” she called out and then looked around sternly at the faces staring at her in disbelief. A low hum of whispers began as the attendees turned back around and faced forward. She knew they were talking about her, and she didn’t care.

  Halgar cleared his throat. “We have a bid of one hundred and fifty silver for the trio of special arrangements. Do I hear one hundred sixty-five?”

  Gráinne held her breath. Nobody responded to the call.

  “Going once . . . twice.” Halgar looked around the crowd. “Sold for one hundred-fifty silver to . . . ,” he said, looking at Gráinne.

  Lan stood and puffed out his chest, his chin and neck stretched with an air of dignity. “The Marquessa of Vandovir.”

  Halgar gave a nod and motioned toward the Scribe. “Come and collect your contracts, Marquessa.”

  Gráinne took a deep breath and looked at Tell, who had risen from the bench to let her pass into the aisle. “Bloody hell,” he said as she walked by, and she could barely manage to suppress a grin after she’d moved past him. Lan followed her, carrying the small chest with the silver in it.

  Tell me we have enough to pay for this. Goddess knows what they will do to us if we do not.

  “We do,” she heard from behind her.

  Lan paid the Scribe for the contracts, which were given to Gráinne, along with the keys to the locks on the trio’s collars. She descended the stairs and walked a few verges from the platform. When the trio and Lan joined her, she said, “My name is Gráinne, and this is Lan. I will come to the inn and speak with you later, but for now, Lan will take you there and get you something to eat.”

  “Finally! Food!” said Jaer.

  “Remove their collars and chains, Lan,” she said, handing the keys to him. “I will follow shortly. I need to speak with MacMoragh first.”