Lion of Zarall

by E B Rose

  “Are you sure?” Hasrey muttered as he took the pillow. “You just paid twenty Blues for him.”

  “Flay those brands off his skin when you’re done. Make sure no one finds the body.”

  Hasrey held the pillow between his hands and approached the purebred cautiously. He brought it over the slave’s face, swallowed, then pressed it down.

  The slave woke up as soon as the pillow touched his face. He made a muffled noise. His back arched as he tried to breathe, but Hasrey pressed the pillow firmly against his mouth, not letting any air through.

  Gladwiel found himself chewing his thumbnail; a nasty habit he’d copied from Hasrey. Anxiety brewed in his stomach. The slave started flailing his arms, trying to push the pillow off his face. His hands hit Hasrey’s face. Then, his fingers found their way around his neck.

  “M-Master Gladwiel,” Hasrey whimpered as he craned his neck, trying to shake the purebred’s clutch off.

  Gladwiel watched in horror. The slave’s fingernails scratched Hasrey’s neck, drew blood. He was defending himself. He was resisting. He was drawing blood from a free man.

  He was what they said he was.

  “Master Gladwiel, a little help!” Hasrey begged.

  The blanket fell off as the slave started kicking wildly with his good leg. He had managed to push Hasrey back just enough to steal a shallow breath.

  Gladwiel snapped out of his shock. His hands dipped into his pocket and found the paper with the purebred’s Words written on it. He dropped the paper, picked it back up with trembling hands, and read the First Word out loud: “Padlociatius.”

  The slave’s arms and legs fell on the bed. He was temporarily paralysed.

  Hasrey was out of breath. He put all his weight on the pillow, as if the harder he pressed, the quicker the slave would suffocate. Blood trickled down his neck. He glanced at Gladwiel, an identical shock and fear on his face.

  Have you seen what he just did, Hasrey asked with his eyes, though he didn’t dare voicing the question out loud.

  “It’ll be over soon,” Gladwiel swallowed.

  “Master Gladwiel!” The same errand boy who’d summoned Gladwiel to the sick bay, opened the door without knocking.

  “Not now!” Gladwiel roared. Remembering the blanket had fallen and the purebred’s brands were visible, he positioned himself to block the boy’s view.

  The boy blinked at him, then at Hasrey and the pillow. He shook his head, as if seeing them strangle a slave with a pillow was nothing new. “That farmer woman from West Kilrer is here, Master Gladwiel,” he announced.

  The purebred’s arms started twitching, as he regained control of his body. He made an angry noise under the pillow. His hands jerked up, searching for Hasrey’s neck again.

  “I said not now!” Gladwiel sneered at the boy. He turned his attention back on the purebred and repeated: “Padlociatius.”

  The slave’s body went limp. For the last time, Gladwiel hoped.

  “But she says she’ll come back with the constables if she doesn’t see you now,” the boy insisted. He kept staring at the slave, his eyes not too far from the famed brands.

  Gladwiel stormed at the boy, grabbed his arm, and shoved him towards the door. “Tell her…” He started, then paused.

  Tell her what?

  Gladwiel didn’t want constables in his warehouse, especially not when he had the bloody purebred in here. They would recognize him, and then Gladwiel would have to part with his head. He needed more time to get rid of the purebred’s corpse, making sure it never led back to Gladwiel.

  That annoying woman… She was relentless. Couldn’t she have found another time?

  “Tell her what?” the boy prompted. His head turned back to the slave. Hasrey continued pressing the pillow down, trying to finish him off before the First Word wore off again.

  A brilliant idea started shaping in Gladwiel’s head.

  “Take her to my office. Tell her I’ll be with her shortly.” Gladwiel pushed the boy out and slammed the door shut behind him. He rushed to the bedside and pulled Hasrey back. He threw the pillow aside.

  “What are you doing?” Hasrey yelled. He went to pick the pillow up.

  “Hold it,” Gladwiel held out a hand. He stared at the purebred, whose face had turned purple. The slave’s eyes were flat, glassy and were fixed on the ceiling. Red blotches had appeared on the whites of his eyes.

  For a moment Gladwiel thought he was too late. The purebred had passed. Maybe it was for the best.

  Then, the slave’s arms started twitching as he slowly came out of his paralysis. He sucked in a shaky breath, coughed, blinked. He propped himself up on his elbows in jerky movements. His grey eyes found Gladwiel’s and rage twisted his face.

  Hasrey took a step back.

  With his tangled, mane-like hair and beard, the slave looked like an angry lion, ready to leap out of the bed. Gladwiel swallowed as he kept the First Word at the tip of his tongue.

  “What are you doing?” Hasrey whispered.

  “Hasrey, go get him some pemitoin,” Gladwiel said, making an effort to keep his voice steady. He didn’t break the eye contact. Outside, his other slaves were learning how making eye contact was one of the Acts of Defiance. This slave had committed at least three Acts within the last five minutes and looked ready to commit a dozen more.

  “Pemitoin?” Hasrey repeated, confused. “Why?”

  “Hasrey,” Gladwiel growled impatiently. “Do as I say and hurry.”

  Hasrey hesitated only a split second before leaving the room. They’d kept the ingredients for pemitoin in Hasrey’s office, not trusting the expensive mixture with their physician.

  The purebred narrowed his eyes, no doubt recognizing the name of the mixture and what it did. Sweat trickled down his face.

  Gladwiel forced himself to take a step forward. He was within arm’s reach of the slave now.

  “I know who you are,” Gladwiel spoke, keeping the fear off his voice.

  One of the slave’s hands shot up to his bare chest, over the exposed brands. He scowled.

  “You will do as I say,” Gladwiel demanded. “You will play along. And maybe you can walk out of here alive. If you try anything, I will make sure Hasrey finishes what he’d started.”

  The slave glared at him for nearly a minute. When he finally parted his lips and spoke, Gladwiel almost flinched.

  “Yes, Owner.”

  2

  OLIRA

  Olira fidgeted with the folds of her dress.

  She hated being here. She hated doing business with the likes of Master Gladwiel. The slave trader looked at everyone as if he was calculating their worth, as if they had a slave tattoo on their necks.

  Olira’s father always argued the Domestic Assets Trade Union and men like Master Gladwiel were the source of everything that was wrong with Chinderia. Being here, sitting on this soft, comfortable chair, breathing in the heavily incensed air, forced Olira to imagine the disappointed scowl her father would have given her, if he was alive.

  Guilt gnawed at Olira’s rhoa. She crossed her arms over her breasts to stop them from fidgeting. She didn’t want Master Gladwiel to mistake her discomfort for weakness. She came here unannounced, not allowing Master Gladwiel to elude her again. She wasn’t bluffing when she’d told the boy she would bring the constables with her.

  She was not going to leave this office empty-handed.

  Her gaze drifted around the office. She’d been here a few times in the past. Master Gladwiel furnished this space extravagantly. His oak desk was carved elegantly. He fashioned a long-backed, ornate chair for himself behind it. A purple, velvet cushion, in the shape of Master Gladwiel’s butt, rested on the seat. Two comfortable armchairs were placed in front of the desk and Olira was sitting on one.

  On the other side of the room, a couple of sofas were positioned to face the wall. More velvet cushions littered them. A side table between them housed a bowl of fresh fruits and empty glasses.

  Olira scowled at the
furniture. She guessed this must have been where Master Gladwiel’s business transpired; they would line the slaves up against the wall, while the customer sat on the soft pillows, munching on their refreshments, and browsing their next slaves to take home.

  It disgusted Olira. She despised slave owners and hated herself for ever doing business with a trader, despite accepting she didn’t have much choice.

  She was playing the argument she was about to have with Master Gladwiel inside her head, when the office door opened behind her. She plastered a cold scowl on her face before craning her neck towards the door. Her feisty comment froze on her lips when Master Gladwiel rushed out an apology.

  “I am so sorry for making you wait this long, Mistress Olira,” Gladwiel said as he hurried inside. “I just had to oversee something myself.”

  Olira blinked at the second man who trailed after Gladwiel. She mumbled a response to accept the apology.

  Gladwiel closed the door behind him and gestured the man to stand in front of the sofas. Then, he hurried behind his desk and sat down on his cushioned chair.

  “You’re here for your payment, I presume?” Gladwiel smiled warmly.

  “Umm… Yes.”

  Olira glanced at the other man. At first, she thought the man was one of Gladwiel’s workers. He was clothed in a plain, faded yellow shirt, a pair of dark pants, and a pair of leather shoes. She’d spotted his slave tattoo only after the man stood with his back against the wall, his eyes cast down, and his hands clasped in front of him.

  Understanding swept over Olira’s confusion. Gladwiel must have been expecting a customer to display this slave, after meeting with Olira. She dismissed the slave out of her mind and returned her attention back to Gladwiel.

  “Right. My payment…”

  “I apologize for the delay,” Gladwiel said genuinely. “I have your payment ready.”

  “You do?” Olira’s eyebrows arched. She was so prepared for an argument, she almost felt disappointed.

  “Yes, of course. Again, I’m so sorry for taking this long. You know how business is. Things still haven’t stabilized after what happened at Brinescar, you know?”

  “Oh, right. That’s okay, I understand.” She bit her lips, suddenly feeling guilty for threatening the man about bringing constables.

  “Can I offer you some refreshments?”

  “I’m good, thank you.” She eyed the slave trader’s face suspiciously. Over the few months they did business together, he’d never offered her any refreshments. “So… My payment?”

  “Right.” Gladwiel stood up and gestured at the door. “My assistant, Hasrey, is in the next room, finalizing the paperwork. It shouldn’t take too long.”

  Olira gathered her skirt to stand up - eager to get her money and leave - then froze. Her eyebrows drew together. “Paperwork?”

  Gladwiel’s smile didn’t falter. “Yes, the sales papers. City guards usually ask to see them when leaving or entering a city.”

  “Sales papers?” Olira scratched her head. The city guards never asked to see any papers from her before. “What sales papers?”

  “For your payment,” Gladwiel said carefully. When Olira continued blinking at his face, he pointed at the slave with his chin.

  Olira’s eyes darted between the slave who stood like a statue and the slave trader. Her jaw went slack when she understood. “Oh, no! No. No, no, no, no…”

  Gladwiel shrugged, palms facing up. “What? What’s the problem?”

  “I’m not buying a slave!”

  Gladwiel erased his friendly smile and replaced it with an annoyed glare. “You’re not buying a slave. I’m making you a payment.”

  Olira’s face flushed red. She forced herself to remain sitting on the edge of the chair, because if she stood up, she was afraid she would lunge over the desk and strangle the slave trader with her bare hands. “No,” she said firmly.

  Gladwiel propped his hands on his desk and leaned forward. “Mistress Olira,” he gritted his teeth. “How much do I owe you?”

  “You owe me eighty Chinderian Blues for a bag of Palleogano, forty Blues for Oxeron and Tiger Blossom roots, and another thirty for a whole rack of other rare spices and herbs. That’s hundred and fifty Blues cash, Master Gladwiel.”

  Gladwiel shook his finger. “We never said cash.” He pointed the same finger at the slave. “This is how I’ll be paying you.”

  “I don’t accept this payment. I want my money.”

  Anger flashed on Gladwiel’s face. He reined it promptly. He took a deep breath, ran his fingers through his hair, and settled on a different approach.

  “Mistress Olira,” Gladwiel said patiently as he walked around his desk. “I just paid hundred and eighty Blues for this slave. He’s worth more than what I owe you. Come, have a look.” He walked over to the slave and gestured Olira to join him.

  “I’m good, thanks.” The last thing Olira ever imagined herself doing was sitting on those sofas and browsing a slave.

  “Please, come have a look at him.”

  “Master Gladwiel, I don’t want a slave.”

  Gladwiel mumbled to himself. Rather than giving up, he grabbed the slave’s arm and brought him to Olira.

  “Merciful Alunwea…” Olira muttered to herself. Anger and embarrassment painted her face red. Gladwiel positioned the man to stand in front of Olira. She remained on her chair while turning her face away. “What part of…”

  Gladwiel put a hand on the slave’s shoulder and shoved him down, hard. The slave went down on his knees with a thud. He blinked once, and clenched his jaw, but recovered his blank expression in an instant. He let out a slow, quiet breath, fixed his glassy eyes on Olira’s knees, and remained still.

  “Master Gladwiel…”

  “Look at his tattoo.” Gladwiel grabbed the man’s face, turned it right, and tilted it back to reveal the slave tattoo on the left side of his neck. The slave didn’t even cringe at the rough handling.

  “Do you see this?” Gladwiel continued, poking a finger on the slave’s neck, pointing at the dog-like beast displayed on the tattoo. “This means he’s a beast.”

  When Olira took a deep breath, she noticed the man smelled like soap. Part of her wanted to cover her eyes or look away, but she was afraid Gladwiel would make the man sit on her lap until she looked.

  She eyed the slave, taking in the short-cropped blonde hair and the hard lines of his face. He seemed older than Olira, though no more than his mid-twenties. His skin looked pink, as if he’d just been scrubbed clean, and the smell of soap confirmed that. A layer of light powder concealed yellow bruises all over his face. His cheeks looked red and irritated, and Olira spotted minor cuts, left by a hasty razor. Freshly shaved.

  “I know what a beast tattoo stands for, Master Gladwiel,” Olira gritted her teeth. Beasts were the type of slaves who were used to fight in the arenas. They killed for entertainment.

  “Do you know what these three lines stand for?” Gladwiel continued, pointing at the vertical lines under the dog-like creature. “Three lines mean he’s a purebred. His parents were meticulously matched and he’s been raised as a slave since the day he was born. Trained to fight in the arenas since he was old enough to stand. His kind are the best slaves anyone could afford.”

  Olira couldn’t hold back a shiver. She’d never seen a purebred from up close. She studied the slave’s grey eyes. They were flat and glassy, communicated no thoughts or emotions. Not a trace of anything that made a person human. Even animals had feelings. This man was completely empty.

  He had no rhoa.

  She was embarrassed when she realized she was more fascinated than disgusted. Her embarrassment turned to anger. She glared at Gladwiel. “Master Gladwiel…”

  Gladwiel cut her off as he continued. “Purebreds never disobey. Ever,” he emphasized. He pushed the slave closer to Olira’s chair, as if his proximity would help change her mind. “They don’t think, they don’t feel. They never disrespect or harm their Owners and Masters. They have no h
uman urges, nor desires. They never want anything. Not even their freedom.”

  The slave’s expressionless face confirmed everything Gladwiel had said.

  “And look at his size! Look at these shoulders, these muscles. He’s big and strong and healthy. He’s only got twenty winters behind him. Good looking too…”

  Olira stood up. In her hurry to get away, she almost kneed the slave on the face. She walked around him and invaded Gladwiel’s personal space until her nose almost touched his chin. “I. Don’t. Need. A. Slave,” she said, drawing out each word. “I need my hundred and fifty Blues.”

  Gladwiel’s jaw hardened. For a brief moment, he appeared as if he was a heartbeat away from striking her. When Olira didn’t step back, Gladwiel took his frustration out of the slave. He yanked the man up on his feet and shoved him towards the wall. The slave stumbled, recovered, and resumed his position in front of the sofas. Hands clasped in front, eyes down, shoulders straight.

  Gladwiel walked behind his desk and started pacing. “What kind of person refuses a purebred beast?” he shouted, waving his hands aggressively. “I’m practically giving him away for free.”

  Gladwiel’s scolding tone and rude gestures offended Olira, but she chose to remain calm. She’d discovered that indifference infuriated people more than a heated argument. She sat back down on her chair, leaned back, and crossed her legs.

  “I refuse,” Olira replied distractedly as she fixed the folds of her skirt. “And you’re not giving him away for free. You’re trying to sell me a slave I don’t need and I can’t afford.”

  “Mistress Olira, be reasonable!” Gladwiel almost yelled. “Just take him off my hands.”

  Olira sighed. “For the last time, I don’t need a slave.”

  “Well, think of him as an investment!” Gladwiel argued. “Take him now, keep him until the fight season approaches, and put him on an auction. You’ll double, heck, triple your investment! Even if you sell him right away, any private buyer would happily pay at least two hundred or two fifty for him.”

  Olira blinked lazily. “If he’s so valuable, why don’t you sell him and pay me in cash?”