Rook felt the man’s hand release his hair. His naked body collapsed with a slap upon the cold, stone floor. He looked over and saw Saint Rathaniel in his Star-Armor standing outside the cell. His one and only arm rested on the hilt of his sword at his side. His white eyes looked blankly upon Garrot.
“Sorry, Saint Rathaniel.” said Garrot, lowering his head like a dog who had just been scolded.
“The glorious and exalted Behemoth Kraken has sent me to oversee the sale of these slaves.” intoned the Saint. “I shall see his will fulfilled. Next time I shall not stay my sword.”
“Yes, Saint Rathaniel.” mumbled Garrot.
Rathaniel stood there looking blankly upon Garrot for a moment before turning and disappearing down the hall. Once gone, Garrot looked down at Rook. “Wash up.” he said. He looked at the other kids. “All you, wash up. Wash your clothes. Wash your bodies.” He looked back at Rook. “No dirt, no grime. I see dirt and I wash you myself.” He scowled one last time down at Rook, spit on him, and then fumbled with his keys and disappeared out of the cell.
Rook and the others washed themselves in silence using the buckets of cold water. One of the buckets contained a couple of rags and even a bar of soap that smelled of lavender. Rook helped wash some of the younger ones, making sure they were completely clean before turning the soap and rag upon his own body and hair. Then, in similar fashion, he helped the others get their clothes clean before starting on his own. Luckily, by that point, the water in the buckets was black with dirt and he was able to hide his secret possessions in the bottom as he washed and rang out his clothes. By the time he had them back on and the Golothic and dagger hidden in his pocket and waistband, Garrot and Rathaniel had returned.
Garrot unlocked the cell but this time opened the door wide. “Come. Time for the sale.”
Rook exchanged a quick look with the others. He swallowed hard and exited the cell.
“All of you, come on.” barked Garrot, and the others all filed out slowly, gathering in the dank hall. “Look at me,” he said. “When you’re out there, you all be quiet. No talking. You answer only what you are asked. You better sell yourselves.” Here Garrot turned his dark eyes on Rook. “If you don’t sell, you come back here with me. Then you wait a month until the next sale and work in the pleasure houses to earn your keep.”
All the kids began anxiously looking at each other.
Garrot was still eying Rook. He grabbed him by the chin and lifted his head up, forcing Rook to look him in the eyes. “Maybe you sell to a noble. They pay good for young boys like you with no hair and smooth skin. They have their way with you in the backside, and then take you in the mouth.”
Rook tore his head away and swallowed hard.
“Come.” said Garrot. “It is time.”
Outside, the Spring sun was blinding. Rook and the others had to raise their hands to their eyes. The sky was pale blue and the clouds were stretched by the warm winds. Rook’s nose was expecting the pleasing scents of Spring but was instead assaulted by the stench of sour beer, mingled with filth. From beyond the timber walls that surrounded them Rook could hear shouts and the clang of steel. It was not battle, but rather combat training. Out in the yard were a few whipping posts blessedly empty of people, but Rook could see that they were all stained crimson. There were some callous looking men milling about with whips and they eyed Rook and the other children as they passed. One of them pointed their direction and smiled wickedly as he unfurled his whip and gave it a good crack. There were a few yelps from the children, and the guards all chuckled cruelly.
They were led across a dirt yard where sullen men and women sat along the wooden walls, bound in iron shackles. Few of the men wore shirts and Rook could see that they all bore numerous scars from lashings, both ancient and new. The women were mostly dressed in dirty rags, and all of them had those veils upon their faces. Their heads were down and they were all silent, hardly even peeking up at them, except for one. She was a black-haired lady; slender and dressed in dingy brown pants and a matching shirt. A black veil hung upon her face and her dark eyes met Rook’s. Rook stared at her, wondering how long she might have been here; how long she might have been a slave and what terrible fortune brought her to this fate. Her eyes followed Rook and he was about to look away when she lifted her veil to him.
He gasped. Where her nose should have been was nothing but thin, pink skin covering the flat, white bone of the skull’s nasal cavities. She smiled, but it was not a kind smile. And it was unsettling, not because of the gruesome way in which the mangled wound twisted, but because it was a knowing smile. It was a smile that told him that no matter how much he held onto hope that things would turn out ok, they wouldn’t. She was proof that they wouldn’t. It was a crushing, devastating, cruel, mocking smile.
With her veil still up she turned her head, baring the side of her neck to him where a circular scar of raised, pink skin lay. She lowered her veil, and Rook turned away. A sense of dread washed over him. From the corner of his eye he began to notice that all the men bore the same scar upon the side of their necks and he thought likely the women did too, though their veils did a good job of concealing them.
They were led out through a gate of iron bars and into a circular court enclosed by more timber walls. Here there was a wooden stage of sorts, and upon it stood twenty boys and girls ranging in age from about thirteen to five. There was a fat man dressed in a fine tunic and pants on the stage directing a couple of rougher looking men on where to have the kids all stand, and in what order. The children cast glances Rook’s way as Garrot and Rathaniel led them all up the steps and onto the stage with the others.
The wood was old and weathered and in many locations Rook saw what looked like old bloodstains upon the graying planks. On the floor were many iron shackles, and they were each in turn bound in a line from oldest to youngest at Rathaniel’s discretion. Being almost eleven, Rook was one of the oldest and tallest of his group. He was placed toward the far end with only two other boys from his group before him. In all, with his group and the others, Rook guessed there were about thirty of them.
At the opposite end of the yard Rook could see another gate of iron bars guarded by a number of men in ragged leather armor. Each of them had swords upon their backs and whips at their sides. Outside the gate Rook could see a crowd of people waiting. Rook watched as one of the guards unlocked the gate and swung the door open. A large number of finely dressed men and women began to file in. The men wore nice tunics and shirts; some more grim and gruff looking than others. The women wore dresses or fine gowns, some of them in simpler outfits. But all the women had those veils upon their faces.
Rook cringed. He wondered if they all shared the same disfigurement as the lady who had lifted her veil to him, or if maybe she had just suffered a terrible punishment for some crime. Certainly all these women were wealthy nobles or city officials, would they really be subject to the same torture? Rook couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps the glories he had seen in Narbereth—the food, freedom and wealth of the people—was nothing but a veil hiding secrets as dark and unforgiving as the torment the people of Jerusa lived in.
Rook held his head low as the crowds gathered before the stage. He could see people pointing his direction and whispering in each others’ ears. Though fully dressed, he felt completely naked. He could feel eyes raking over him, appraising him. He looked up and saw a slender man in glittering silver pants and shirt pointing at him and speaking excitedly to the Saint at his side. The man wore a large, powdered wig and his face was stark white with powder. He leaned into a Saint with hair and eyes like brilliant blue sapphire, whispering into the Saint’s ear. The Saint stood with his arms folded over his black, star-metal breastplate, nodding with disinterest.
Rook looked away. There was a short, stocky man dressed in all black and upon his back Rook could see the handles of four swords poking up. He had greasy black hair and a long beard plaited with silver beads. He stood with his arms akimbo, his eyes bru
shing back and forth across the stage, briefly locking on Rook. His shirt was unbuttoned partway, exposing thick chest hair. There was a teenaged boy dressed in scuffed leather armor with him. The man would point a giant finger and grumble something and the boy would nod his head. Then Rook saw the man point directly at him and say something to the boy.
Rook squirmed on his feet and looked the other way. There was a fat man garbed in fine clothing that seemed to have an exotic flare. Hanging on his arms were a pair of scantily dressed women in blue silk with matching veils upon their faces. He stood eyeing them all, sometimes twisting his lips in contemplation or bobbing his head with casual indifference.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, Rook noticed that some of the armed guards were busy setting up some sort of stall at one end of the court. He saw them setting up the wooden walls. Another brought some pails of water and another pair were dragging over a scary looking chair with iron clasps on the arms and legs. Rook watched as the men erected something of a booth around the chair, cloaking it from view.
At the opposite end of the court he saw them setting something else up. Some men were placing a wooden post in the ground and others were piling up logs in an iron ring nearby. They set the logs ablaze, and in a moment there was a large, roaring fire. Rook watched them as they placed a number of long, iron bars tipped with circular emblems into the flames. Something occurred to Rook, and he shuddered. He began to feel nauseous. Those were branding irons.
Rook couldn’t take it anymore. He turned his head down and just looked at the shackles binding his ankles. He tried not to listen to the murmurs from the crowd. He tried to drown out the whimpers and sobs from the other children around him. Most of all, he tried not to think. He focused on not thinking, for any time his mind wandered, it was to that first meeting with Garrot and Karver. To that time when Garrot had undressed him. As much as he tried to forget, the terror, shame, humiliation and anger of that night haunted him as if it had just happened. He couldn’t endure a lifetime of that. He didn’t know what he would do if it came to that. And then his mind flashed the image of the noseless woman, and he wondered if maybe it could even be worse than his fears.
Rook bit his cheeks. His thoughts came back around to Ursula. They were the same thoughts that had haunted him for the last five weeks since losing her. He wondered where she might be, and in whose arms she might be held right now. A grim part of his mind always reminded him that she might not be in anybody’s arms. She could very well be in a cold, dark crib or left in some more terrible place. He wished he could know what had become of her. He wanted to know if she was warm and happy, or if maybe she was hungry and crying. He wondered if she was still alive, or if perhaps death would be a less cruel fate for her. He couldn’t dwell long on those thoughts. They were too painful. If it came to it, he’d rather dwell on that night with Garrot.
Rook was shaken from his reverie. One of the guards shouted something about opening the stage for inspections. Rook looked on as the crowd all made their way toward the stage. He could feel the floor beneath his feet shake as the men and women came up. He saw some approach Garrot, pointing at specific children and asking questions. He could see Garrot nodding his fat head or answering their questions.
“Ooooo, this one is nice.” drawled the lanky man in the silver outfit and powder wig. Rook cringed as the man placed a pale, delicate, long-fingered hand on his cheek. “Saint Ioniel, what do you think?”
Rook looked up and saw the sapphire eyes of the Saint briefly brush over him. “Yeah, sure. It’s up to you, Lord Bartholomew.”
The man took both of Rook’s cheeks in his hands. “Oh, you are soft. I like that. I could just rest my head on your chest right now.”
Rook flinched and tried to step backward as he felt the man’s hands creep up his shirt, but the shackles prevented him from moving and he almost fell over. The man lifted Rook’s shirt up, exposing his belly and chest, but then his face twisted in disgust at the giant bruise on his ribs. His lips furled. “Well, I suppose that will heal. What are you like down there?” The man grabbed the waist of Rook’s pants, narrowly avoiding the dagger hidden in it, and pulled out. He peered down into Rook’s trousers. “Let’s put him on the maybe list, Ioniel.”
“You,” said a gruff voice. Rook looked over. It was the short, stocky man dressed in black with all the swords on his back. The teenaged boy in the scruffy leather armor was with him. The boy looked to be in his early teens. “Lift your shirt.” said the man.
Rook licked his lips and looked away. He was suddenly aware of the Golothic in his pocket. It was radiating a strong heat.
He felt the man’s rough hands grab him. He tore his shirt up, almost taking it off his body. “You get this from fighting? Are you a fighter?” The man poked a wide, calloused finger into Rook’s bruised ribs. The pain made his breath stick in his throat and his eyes water.
“He don’t look like no fighter.” said the boy.
Without even looking, the stocky man swatted the boy across the face, nearly knocking him over. “I didn’t ask your opinion. Is your money buying me a slave?”
“N-No, sir.” said the boy, holding his face, cringing.
“He’d make a good fighter,” said Garrot. Rook’s head turned and saw the fat man standing there. “He could train. This one’s kind of tough.”
“Did he get this in a fight?” asked the burly man.
“Yes,” said Garrot.
Rook was about to say something but Garrot kicked his legs. “He fights, but needs to learn to shut up. He could use good discipline. He could train for fights. Make you lots of money.”
The short man looked down at Rook, his dark eyes appraising him as his large hands stroked at his plaited beard contemplatively. “Discipline I can teach.” He turned his head and cast a dark gaze at the boy, causing him to cringe away and take some steps back. The man looked back at Rook. “Stoking the fires of my forge and pounding out steel will discipline. But the will to fight and survive in the arena has to have been bred in.”
The burly man grabbed Rook and began squeezing his arms. Rook was jostled as the man lifted his shirt and pressed on his belly and then felt his chest. His hands moved down, squeezing his thighs, then moved up and squeezed painfully at his testicles. “He’s got his balls, but he’s a little scrawny. I suppose working the hammer will put some muscle on that frame.” The man flicked a large finger at Rook’s arm.
“Came from Jerusa.” said Garrot. “You know how it is there. But he’ll fatten up. Jerusans work hard just for promise of food.”
The man stared down at Rook, stroking his beard. “What about it, kid? I’ll strengthen you with the hammer. When you’re ready, you’ll make your own sword. And then I’ll put you in the arena.”
The Golothic in Rook’s pocket had been growing steadily hotter, as if it was prodding him to do something, to say something. A strange inkling came over him and he suddenly felt he should mention that his father had been a blacksmith. Perhaps even mention that his whole family line had been smiths. Rook’s eyes flicked to the side, at the boy so cowed by this man that he dare not even stand in his shadow, and suddenly an anger washed over him. Rook bit his lip and looked down.
No. he thought. I’m done with doing things Bulifer’s way. The demon had taken enough from him. It had promised him that he and his sister would be taken care of, yet his sister Ursula had been taken from him. He’d give the demon no more. As far as he was concerned, the deal was off. Bulifer had promised to come to him one day for a weapon. Rook swore he would give him a weapon, right through the chest.
“How much?” asked the man.
“Hundred crowns.” said Garrot. “I’ll give you a good deal.”
The man stood over Rook, rubbing at his beard, contemplating.
There was a terrible scream. Rook looked over and saw that there were a couple of boys being dragged over to where the post and firepit were set up. A pair of guards held a boy upon the post while a third brought a red-hot
iron from the wood fire. The boy screamed again. A guard twisted his head, baring the side of his neck. The boy wailed horrifically as the red-hot iron was pressed onto his flesh. Rook saw a couple wisps of smoke come off the boy’s skin before the iron was removed, leaving a disgusting, red scar. The guards threw him from the post and dragged the next boy over.
“You take fifty?” asked the burly man.
Garrot grunted. “Seventy-five.”
“I’m afraid of fighting.” said Rook, not really looking up at the man. “I have no idea how to use a hammer, and I don’t work good around fires.”
The man looked down at Rook, his brow furling. “Let me think on it,” he said, and roughly grabbed the arm of the boy he was with and walked off.
Garrot scowled down at Rook. “Stupid brat! You cost me money!” he began to raise his hand when another man called out.
“Seventy-five, you said?” asked a man.
Rook turned his head to see a balding man in a red gown standing there.
“Oh, Mister Arnos,” said Garrot. “Not seen you in a while.”
“Yes, well, I’ve had all the staff I’ve needed but I just opened another pleasure house.” said the man as he inspected Rook. “He’s quite fair.” The man knelt down. Rook cringed as the man’s hands caressed up and down his body. The hand slipped down his pants and Rook flinched back. “Hmm, he flinches.” said the man with disappointment. He stood back up.
“I had him before,” said Garrot. “He works well. Nice and quiet about it. Few times and he’ll be ok. He’s smooth. No Hair. He can make you lots of money.”
Bloodcurdling screams erupted from the court. Rook looked to the opposite side of the yard where the crude booth with the terrifying chair had been set up. There were a number of girls down there crying, and from within the shrouded booth the screams continued. Rook watched in horror as Fawn, a seven-year old girl he had come here with and shared the cell with, ran out of the booth. She had a veil over her face but was clutching at her nose. Her hands were soaked in crimson blood, and the black veil that hung on her face was wet and heavy with it. She screamed again, falling to her knees. It was a nasally, bubbling, ghastly scream.
The Record of the Saints Caliber Page 59