[Shadowed Path 01] - A Woman Worth Ten Coppers

by Morgan Howell

  “For you, Karmamatus?” asked the voice in oily tones. “Times are indeed strange.”

  “You know me, Peshnell,” said Yaun. “This is no trick.”

  “Karmamatus,” said the man in the dark, “do you pledge your word to preserve me and mine?”

  Honus arched his thumb across his chest, making the Sign of the Balance. “I so pledge.”

  The eyes disappeared. Then came the sound of a bolt being drawn. The door opened, spilling sunlight onto a stone floor covered with soiled straw. A smell like that of a filthy stall issued forth and overpowered the stench of the street. Several ragged figures sat huddled against the far wall. A sharp-faced man with a scraggly black beard stepped into the light. His long, brightly colored robe contrasted with his dismal place of business. He smiled, revealing missing teeth. “You’re fortunate indeed. I’ve acquired fresh stock.”

  “From where?” asked Honus.

  Peshnell shrugged. “Who knows? But I was told the children are bred slaves.”

  A harsh voice echoed from deeper inside the dim room. “Outside!” The figures rose and there was the clink of chains. A large man with a thick switch in his hand and a club dangling from his leather tunic approached the slaves. The switch whistled, and a sharp snap mingled with a cry of pain. “Move!”

  The slaves stumbled out the door in single file, for an iron ring locked their right ankles to a heavy chain. They were barefoot and wore identical gray garments—loose, sleeveless tunics made of cheap, flimsy cloth. All the tunics were the same size, so that upon the children they nearly dragged the ground, while upon the adults they didn’t reach the knees. Three men, one woman, and two children stood blinking in the sunlight.

  “The old man can figure sums and…”

  Honus cut Peshnell short. “I’m interested in the two young men.”

  The leather-clad guard, a burly version of Peshnell, unlocked a pale-faced man from the chain. Honus watched him mount the stone block. “This man has a wound,” he said. He lifted up the man’s tunic to reveal a sword cut on his upper thigh. Pus oozed from the gash and the skin around it had already turned black.

  “It’ll heal,” said Peshnell, “but, for you, I’ll reduce his price.”

  “I’m not interested,” replied Honus. “It’s a marvel he could even mount the block. Let me see the blond fellow.”

  The slave stepped down from the block, this time not attempting to hide his pain. The guard made a move to lock him to the chain again, but Honus’s hand gripped his shoulder. “There’s no need for that,” he said. “That man’s going nowhere. Let him die unshackled.”

  The guard glanced toward Peshnell, who nodded. “Inside,” barked the guard. The wounded man limped back into the darkness.

  As the guard moved to unlock the blond man, Peshnell said, “There’s a reserve on that one.”

  Honus shot Peshnell a menacing look. “If this is a slaver’s trick…”

  “No, Karmamatus! Remember your pledge!”

  “I expect you to deal fairly.”

  “I am, I am,” said Peshnell in a nervous voice. “He can be yours, if you but match the miller’s offer. His treadmill goes through many slaves, so we have a standing agreement. Ask anyone, Karmamatus. I speak truth.”

  “What’s the price?”

  “Thirty coppers.”

  “Count the money, Yaun.”

  Yaun emptied the coins into his palm. “I’ve sixteen coppers, Karmamatus.”

  “That’s not enough!” cried Peshnell. “I paid twenty for him. You pledged to preserve what’s mine.”

  “What about the girl?” asked Yaun.

  “Her?” said Honus, glancing at the chained woman.

  “She’s fully grown,” said Yaun. “She could bear your pack.”

  Honus turned his attention to the young woman for the first time. Her dark eyes widened when she returned his gaze. “Perhaps she’d do,” said Honus.

  Peshnell turned to the guard. “Put her on the block.”

  When the woman was unchained, she hesitated before mounting the block. Only when the guard raised his switch did she hop onto the stone. Yaun grinned. “Show her naked,” he said. The guard reached up with one hand and whisked the tunic over the slave’s head. For an instant, she stood in stunned humiliation; then she tried to cover herself. The guard’s switch whistled and struck her backside. She dropped her hands and became rigid, staring off into the distance, as if forcing her mind elsewhere. Passersby slowed to eye the nude woman on the stone. Yaun gawked openly. “Peshnell,” he said, “you should sell this one to the pleasure gardens in Larresh.”

  “Larresh is far away. Could you reach there with one such as her? Up here, men don’t pay for what they can take.” The slaver leered. “I don’t.”

  Emboldened by Peshnell’s words, Yaun reached to fondle the slave girl, but his hand was stopped by Honus’s iron grip. “That’s a person there,” he said, “not a horse.” Despite his words, Honus looked upon the naked woman as he might a horse and judged her fitness. She was slender, but not skinny, and her muscles were sleek. Although she was dirty and had welts from the switch, she appeared not to have suffered overlong in Peshnell’s “care.” Honus judged that she had seen but eighteen winters and was probably a maiden before she was captured. She’s not as strong as a man. He glanced scornfully at Yaun, who still quivered in his grip, and realized he could abide him no longer. She’ll have to do. “Ten coppers,” said Honus.

  “Ten coppers!” wailed Peshnell. “Look at this beauty. Such delicate hands and feet. Long hair, like polished walnut. Firm, perfect breasts. A curvaceous a…”

  “Ten coppers,” said Honus with finality.

  “I’m being robbed. You made a pledge.”

  “Perhaps I should visit the miller,” said Honus in an ominous tone. “I made no pledge to him.” Then, to make his threat perfectly clear, he added, “Dead men buy no slaves.”

  “Did I refuse you, Karmamatus?” said Peshnell quickly. “I merely hope you appreciate my openhandedness.”

  “I understand it well enough,” replied Honus. “Yaun, pay him.”

  While Yaun counted out the coins, Honus lifted the shabby tunic from the ground and handed it to his slave. “You should dress now.”

  Throughout the sale, the woman had appeared oblivious of her surroundings, but she quickly seized the tunic. Slipping it over her head, she jumped down from the block.

  Honus turned his attention to Yaun, who had finished paying Peshnell. “Don’t put those coins away. She’ll need a cloak.”

  “Please, Honus,” said Yaun, glancing longingly at a nearby tavern. “I’ve already bought you a slave.”

  “So you wish to give her your cloak?”

  Yaun sighed and handed Honus the remaining coppers.

  “Now, take off my pack,” said Honus, not disguising his contempt. Yaun slipped it from his shoulders and set it on the street. Honus opened it and began tossing Yaun’s possessions on the dirt. Yaun’s face reddened, but he said nothing as he scurried to collect his things. The last item Honus removed was a boot. The scowl lines needled on his cheeks fought with a grin. He shook the boot and things jingled in its toe. “Why, Yaun,” Honus said with a voice dripping with concern, “such stones will bruise your delicate foot.” He walked over to the sewage ditch that ran along the center of the dirt lane and upended the boot. Three coins tumbled out, flashing gold before they disappeared into the flowing filth. Honus tossed the boot at Yaun’s feet. Yaun glared at him as a dog might regard a wolf—with a look that mingled hostility and fear. After donning his fancy helm and boots, Yaun walked over to the ditch. Without a word, he rolled up his sleeves and began groping in the sewage for his money.

  “Slave,” said Honus to the woman. “Take up my burden. We’ll leave this swine to root for the price of a horse.”

  SIX

  AS HONUS walked through the streets of Durkin, he paused occasionally to examine the used clothing for sale. Whenever he glanced at his new slave,
he found her watching him with apprehensive eyes. “Have you never seen a Sarf before?” he asked.

  “No, Karmamatus.”

  “Don’t imitate those swine when you address me!”

  The woman paled but met his gaze. “I thought I was being respectful,” she replied. “What should I call you?”

  “Master. And you, what’s your name?”

  “Yim.” There was a brief pause before she added, “Master.”

  “A strange name.”

  “It’s common where I come from.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “North. The Cloud Mountains.”

  “And do folk still honor Karm there?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Do you?’

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Good.” Honus threw down the tattered cloak he had been inspecting. “Come, Yim. I’m eager to finish my business here.” He wandered down the lane until he spotted a man’s cloak spread out before an old woman with a withered arm. Honus held it up. The garment was well made and fairly new. Its thick gray wool was tightly woven and felt of lanolin. “How much, Mother?” he asked.

  “For ye, Karmamatus, ten coppers.”

  “I just bought this slave for that sum!”

  “Then ye shan’t need a cloak to warm ye at night.” The woman laughed, causing Yim to blush.

  Honus pointed to a slit that had been repaired in the back of the cloak. A large bloodstain surrounded it. “This garment is ill omened,” countered Honus. “A man was slain in it. Four coppers.”

  “Six.”

  “I wish to buy her sandals also.”

  “It’s summer soon. Her feet will toughen.”

  Honus held the cloak against Yim. It nearly reached her ankles. He thought of chill nights and spring rains, then tossed the woman his remaining coins. She quickly whisked them out of sight and rose to leave. As Honus stuffed the cloak into the pack, he heard the departing woman call out, “If ye’re concerned about her feet, keep her on her back!” Cackling, the crone disappeared down an alley.

  With his business finished, Yim’s new master strode out of the squalid town, his grim face causing the crowds to part. Yim had to struggle to keep up with his rapid pace, which he didn’t slacken. Soon she was sweating and panting from her effort not to fall behind. She feared that if she did, her owner would prove as wrathful as he looked.

  They continued that way until they crested a hill and the town was hidden from view. “We’ll walk more slowly,” Honus said, “now that the stench is behind us.”

  Yim sighed with relief. They hiked until noon with Honus in front and her trailing. The pack she carried was large and even heavier than it looked, for it contained chain mail. Occasionally, Honus peered back to see how she was holding up. Each time, he seemed pleased to find that she wasn’t lagging behind.

  “We’ll stop here,” he said, when they reached a broad tree with pale, new leaves. “You may rest awhile.”

  Yim removed the pack from her shoulders and untied its water skin. She raised it to her lips, hesitated, and handed the skin to Honus. He drank his fill before returning it. Yim quenched her thirst and slumped down in the thin shade. “I’m not used to this,” she said. Then, in an effort to bolster her standing, she added, “I was a princess in my land.”

  The lightning on Honus’s brow moved as an eyebrow arched upward. “A princess?” There was amusement in his voice.

  “Yes. And I didn’t have slaves, only servants. Faithful servants.”

  “The market for princesses must be poor if I can get one for ten coppers.”

  Yim looked away, feeling stupid.

  Honus was glad when his slave grew quiet. He turned his attention to the ruin across the road. It was roofless and overgrown with tangled vines, but its crumbling stone walls still retained a vestige of grace. Honus realized that the old tree under which they rested was the remnant of a double line that once had shaded a lane leading to the manor. He gazed at the fire-blackened house before him, closed his eyes, and tranced.

  The ruin’s inhabitants had long ago traveled the Dark Path, and the echoes of their memories were faint. Except for the very last, they were mostly glad ones. Honus sought out the pleasant remembrances, trying to find some solace in the happiness of others. His mind discovered a moment of lovers’ passion, as fragile and faded as a wildflower pressed in a book. He wistfully lingered with their bliss until his heart could stand it no longer. Then he let his mind fall back into the living world. The transition was always a quick one, and when Honus’s eyes shot open, he caught Yim studying him.

  Her inspection felt intrusive, and it annoyed Honus. Rising abruptly, he glared at her and gave his voice a hard edge. “You’ve rested long enough if you’ve time for impertinence.” He didn’t wait for Yim to shoulder the pack before he set off at a pace as fast as when he first left Durkin. Honus didn’t turn around either, but listened for Yim’s panting. Only when her breath came in gasps did he slow to a walk.

  Yim followed her capricious master upon a road that wound through a countryside that no longer even had a name. Most of the farmsteads they passed were abandoned, their humble buildings succumbing to the ravages of weather and man. The few that weren’t derelict seemed nearly as neglected. The rare travelers they met were headed in the opposite direction. Yim thought they might be refugees, for they were burdened with household goods. Honus didn’t speak, so Yim knew neither where he was headed nor why. All she could determine was that no one else was going there. The longer Honus and Yim walked, the fewer travelers they encountered. By late afternoon, they had the road to themselves.

  As Yim trudged along, she pondered her changed fortune. She had been anxious to leave the dark, fetid slave pen, but she was uncertain whether her lot had improved or worsened. The attack and what followed still seemed like a nightmare terminating in her complete humiliation. Her captors hadn’t even bothered to haggle over the pittance Peshnell offered. They sold me for the same price as a few sacks of oats. And now I belong to this Sarf, thought Yim.

  She had heard of Sarfs. Tales said they were deadly, but virtuous. Honus seemed the former, but not the latter. Since he walked in front, Yim couldn’t study his face, but his silence and his punishing pace felt harsh. Yim feared Honus’s harshness was evidence of cruelty, and she worried how he might use her.

  The sun was low in the sky when they came upon a creek. Honus halted and sat upon a rock next to where clear water gurgled among rounded stones. Yim took his action as a sign that she could rest. She removed the pack, drank her fill from the cold stream, and refilled the water skin. Before she could sit down, Honus broke his silence. “Wash your filthy rag and clean yourself also.”

  Yim blushed. “Right here?”

  “Yes, here. Now be quick about it.” As Yim began to hop from stone to stone, Honus added, “Stay close by.”

  The water deepened to form a shallow pool about ten paces from where Honus sat. Yim halted there and glanced to see if her master was looking away. He was not. Feeling as she had upon the slave seller’s block, Yim turned her back to Honus, removed her tunic, and washed it as best she could. Afterward, she wrung it out and placed it on a rock. Having finished with the tunic, she squatted down to clean herself in the calf-deep water. It was icy and she bathed as quickly as possible, scrubbing her goose-pimpled skin with sand until it was rosy pink. All the while, she felt Honus’s eyes on her nakedness. It filled her with dread as she thought of the approaching night. Yim rose from the water and dressed in her tunic before facing Honus. He was gazing at her breasts, which were clearly visible through the wet, clinging fabric.

  As Yim returned to the bank, Honus rose to resume their journey. Without a word, Yim hiked the pack upon her wet garment and waited for her master to move on. Honus crossed the stream by leaping from stone to stone, then continued up the lonely road.

  Dusk was falling when Honus drew his sword and handed it to Yim. “Carry this and keep walking. There’s something I must do.”


  Yim obeyed. She listened for Honus’s footsteps behind her, but there were none. When she turned around, he was gone without a trace, leaving her alone. His action was as terrifying as it was inexplicable. Yim briefly wondered if she was being punished, but she couldn’t imagine her transgression. She clutched the sword, but it provided little comfort on the darkening and desolate road. Thick brush hemmed in the narrow lane, so it resembled a twisting alleyway. The Seer lost his life and I my freedom in just such a place.

  The only thing Yim could do was to keep moving. Her bare feet made no noise, and after a while, she could detect rustling sounds to her rear. “Master?” The sounds stopped. Yim looked behind her. The road was empty. As Yim stood listening, the sun sank below the trees.

  Yim started walking again. The sound returned and became louder. This time, she turned to see two dark shapes step onto the lane. In the stillness of the gathering gloom, she could hear men’s low voices.

  “Are you crazy? The Sarf!”

  “He’s gone. And the fool left his sword behind.”

  “He might return.”

  “Then we’ll be quick.”

  Yim grasped Honus’s sword with both hands and waved it at the two silhouettes. They advanced with the confidence of dangerous men. Soon Yim could see them plainly. They wore heavy leather tunics, sewn with iron plates. Their coarse, scarred faces matched their crude armor. One man held an unsheathed sword; the other brandished an iron-headed mace.

  “Throw that thing away, pretty,” said the man with the sword. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

  “I’ll hurt you,” said Yim, trying to sound confident, “if you come closer.”

  The man with the mace snickered and began swinging his weapon with swift, random movements. The studded iron became a blur that whistled through the air. Yim swung wildly with her blade, trying to fend it off. The mace wielder grinned and Yim sensed he was toying with her. Several times, the iron passed so closely to her face, she felt its breeze. With a sudden clank, the sword was jarred from her grasp. Yim’s assailant stepped forward and pinned the blade to the dirt. “Enough of that,” he said. “Now it’s time to really play.” He grinned and, with the end of his mace, began to lift the hem of Yim’s tunic.