“Better be careful,” observed the blacksmith. “She finds out you care that much, she’ll stick a knife in you first chance she gets.”
I forgot Del was on a short chain. I stood up so fast I jerked her up with me. “How much?” I asked, when I could speak clearly again.
He named his price. Inflated, but I was too anxious to leave his forge to haggle. I paid him and turned immediately toward the horses, hardly noticing that Del trailed after me like a dog on a rope. I was angry, angry and sickened, because I’d been a slave and here I was making her behave like one, when she was the freest thing I’d ever seen.
“I can’t mount,” Del said quietly, as I put my foot in the roan’s stirrup.
I turned back, frowning, and realized belatedly I’d removed from her even the capacity to make the simplest movements. But, under the eyes of the watchful blacksmith, I couldn’t give her her own chain. So I mounted my horse more carefully, led Del—on foot—over to the mare, and watched her climb up. Her face was pale and tight and strained, and I had the feeling mine was, too.
“Ought to make her walk,” the blacksmith said. “She’ll get uppity, otherwise.”
Del said nothing. Neither did I. I just kept my hand away from Singlestroke with all the resolution in my body, and clicked my tongue at the roan.
Because of the chain, Del and I had to stay close. Because of the chain, I was so angry I saw red. I’d locked myself into the role of a slave trader as securely as I’d locked Del into iron; I couldn’t give her her freedom on the streets of Julah if we were to pull off our subterfuge. Thoughtlessly, I’d declared this was what we would do; now we did it, and I think it made both of us sick.
I sucked in a deep breath. “I’m sorry, bascha.”
She didn’t answer.
I looked at her in profile. “Del—”
“Is this how you like your women?” No bitterness, none at all; somehow, it made the question worse. As if she believed I did.
“I’d trade places with you if I could.” And knew I meant it.
Del smiled a little. “Wouldn’t work, Tiger. Besides—haven’t you been here already?”
“In a manner of speaking,” I agreed grimly, and that ended the conversation.
Julah is a rich city. It skirts the Punja on one side and flirts with the Southron Mountains on the other. It celebrates the wealth of the tanzeers who own the gold mines in the mountains and the slavers who speculate in human flesh instead of ore. Nearness to the mountains means Julah has plenty of water, but for anyone bound north across the Punja, it is the last bastion of safety and comfort. It seemed hard to believe Del and I had come so far.
We found Omar’s house easily enough, once pointed in the right direction. It was painted a pale orchid-blue, tiled in yellow-ocher, shrouded by palms and foliage that shielded it from the street, sun and prying eyes. The turbaned gateman took one look at Del, knew what business I had with Omar, and let us through. One servant took our horses and another escorted us into the house, leading us into a cool, private foyer. I sat down; when Del started to, I told her no.
Omar was incredibly polite. Instead of making us wait (we didn’t have an appointment), he came in almost at once. He waited until a third servant had served gritty effang tea, then seated himself upon a saffron cushion.
Like his brother Osmoon, he was chubby. Black-eyed. But his teeth were his, lacking the flashiness of Osmoon’s gold dentures. He wore a pale-pink turban and darker robes, with pearls strung around his neck. His fingers were ringed. The slave trade in Julah appeared to be more profitable than the desert business his brother ran.
“Osmoon wishes you well.” I sipped effang and completed the welcoming rituals, which eat up a lot of time even as they betray a visitor’s true feelings. But I’m on to them, and know how to speak blandly about meaningless topics all day long.
Omar knew it. He gave me welcome, then waved a hand to dismiss the rituals. “Your business?”
“Yours,” I said smoothly. “I am told you know if there are Northern males to be had.”
His face betrayed nothing but polite interest. “Who is asking?”
I considered lying. False names have their uses, just like false trades. But too many people know the Sandtiger; Omar might not know me on sight, but my reputation does generally precede me. That’s what reputations are for. “I’m known as the Sandtiger. Sword-dancer. And sometime slave trader.”
His black brows moved as he plucked a pale-green grape from a bowl set upon the low laquered table between us. “I know of a man called the Sandtiger. Like you, he is scarred and wears the claws. He is truly a friend of my brother. But he has never, to my knowledge, traded in slaves before.”
“No,” I agreed, “but after a while one grows tired of seeing the wealth of others engaged in business similar to your own. My poor wealth is won only by force of arms.”
Omar had studiously avoided looking at Del. As a slave, she had no stake in our discussion. But now he let his eyes drift to her, and over her apricot-shrouded form. “You wish to sell?”
“I wish to buy.” I said it very distinctly. “A Northern male to put with my Northern female.”
His black eyes jerked back to me. “You intend to breed them?”
“Provided I find the proper mate for her.”
He spat out grape pips. “How much are you willing to spend?”
“As much as I have to. But I will also give the first child to the trader who sells me the right boy.” Actually, we didn’t have much money left from Sabo’s reward. I had thoughts of finding her brother, haggling over the price, withdrawing to consider it. Then I’d turn Del loose, rearm her, and we’d settle on a plan then.
“I’ll buy her,” Omar said, “but I can sell you no Northern boys. I have none.”
“None?”
“None.” He clamped fleshy lips together.
“Who does?”
No answer.
I sighed. “Look, I’ll find what I want with your help or without it. If someone’s got a monopoly on Northerners here in Julah, you don’t stand to lose anything by telling me anyway.”
Omar prevaricated a while, not wishing to lose a potential customer, but in the end he agreed there was a monopoly and told me who had it. “Aladar. But he is the tanzeer; you must see his agent if you wish to buy or sell.”
“Who’s his agent?”
Omar nodded. “I’ll tell you, of course, friend of my brother … for a price worthy of the Sandtiger.”
Sometimes reputations can hurt business dealings. But in the end, I got the name I wanted and he got his price.
“Honat,” Omar said.
“Where?”
“At Aladar’s palace, of course.”
So Del and I went to Aladar’s palace. Of course.
Twenty
Aladar’s palace was quite impressive, even coming in the back entrance as we did. The adobe walls were lime-washed white. Elegant tiled archways were patterned with repeating mosaic designs in tangerine, pale-lime, canary-yellow. Even in the stableyard, cream- and copper-colored gravel crunched beneath our sandaled feet. Palm and citrus trees gave the impression of cool spaciousness.
And all of it, I thought, had been paid for by Aladar’s slave trade.
I thought briefly about leaving Del with the horses, for fear Honat the agent might take a liking to her and complicate matters considerably. Then I decided she’d be safer with me, in the long run, because it would be a lot easier for them to snatch her without me than if she sat—or stood—right next to me.
Honat was an oily little man with a surprisingly deep voice. His fingers were very short and his palms quite wide, reminding me of a toad. His eyes were toadlike, too (peat-green and bulging), which didn’t make me feel any better.
He wore a pale-green turban fastened with a glittering emerald. Rather ostentatious, I thought, for a tanzeer’s agent. His robes were gold tissue and he wore little gold slippers on his fat, splayed feet. I towered over him; so did Del
, but that didn’t seem to bother him in the least. He picked thoughtfully at his receding chin a moment (staring at her from baleful toadlike eyes), then gestured for me to sit down on a fat crimson cushion. I did so, doling out enough chain so Del—standing—wouldn’t choke.
Honat looked at her again. “The woman may sit.”
Well, progress. But she had to sit on the woven rugs because there were no more cushions, which weren’t for slaves anyway. By this time Del was getting good at keeping her head bowed submissively. I had no idea what thoughts were running through her mind, but at least Honat didn’t either.
He asked my business and I went through the whole story again, making certain he understood I had no intentions of selling, only buying. When I discussed the breeding program, his eyes lighted. I wasn’t sure if the response was good or bad.
Honat glanced sharply at Del again, commanded her to lift her head; after I repeated the order in Southron she could understand, she did so.
The agent smiled his oily little smile. “Children from this woman would be beautiful indeed. I see why you wish a match with her.”
“Do you have one?”
He waved a hand, curiously naked of rings or ornamentation. “We have several. It’s only a matter of selecting the most appropriate one.”
True. I didn’t know Jamail at all on sight and couldn’t look to Del for direction, because a slave has no say over the purchase of a fellow slave. But Del would have to see him, because I wouldn’t be able to recognize him otherwise. Del’s description of him wouldn’t do me much good. After five years, Jamail most likely no longer resembled the ten-year-old Del remembered.
“I’m looking for a young one,” I explained. “Perhaps fifteen, sixteen … no older. Young enough to make certain he has many years left to him, for—as you know—a male will have more time in which to breed than a female. Even this one will use up nearly a year carrying but a single child.”
Honat, still staring at Del, nodded understanding. “We have two young Northern boys. I can’t say precisely how old they are—they were acquired as children, you understand, and sometimes children aren’t certain of their ages.” Blandly, he waited for my answer.
“I’d like to see them.” No more would he get from me.
“All in good time,” Honat promised smoothly. “First I must discuss this with my master. It is his decision to buy or sell.” Toad-eyes flicked in Del’s direction again. “I think it likely he would be more interested in acquiring this one, rather than selling another.”
“This one is not for sale.” Equally bland. “I paid a fortune for her. I expect to earn an even greater one when I sell her children.”
Honat studied me. His face was perfectly blank, although in his eyes I saw the merest trace of distaste. “You are cold, Sandtiger. Even I don’t speak so blithely of selling children in front of the woman who will bear them.”
Inwardly I cursed myself. Was I being too cold, too unfeeling for a slave trader? I’d believed them less than human. (Or was I simply careless because I knew none of the story was true?)
I shrugged off-handedly. “The Sandtiger’s work has taught him to be cold. Hasn’t Honat’s?”
His eyes narrowed a bit. “Is she virgin?”
I scowled. “We are not discussing this woman, Honat. And if you persist in it, I’ll take my business elsewhere.” I made as if to rise, certain the agent would talk me into staying.
He did. He didn’t want to lose the potential profit, for as Aladar’s agent he was entitled to a commission on the sale of any property.
Honat smiled. “If you will excuse me, Sandtiger, I will see if my master is willing to have the slaves shown to you.” He rose, balancing carefully on his wide toad feet. “Please refresh yourself. There is cooled wine.” A naked hand fluttered in the direction of the decanter sitting on the table. He left.
I looked at Del. “Well? Think he went for it?”
“Two Northern boys,” she said grimly. “But neither of them may be Jamail.”
“I’ll take you with me to make sure of a proper match.” I poured a cup of wine and held it out to her. “Here. This nonsense has gone on long enough. I don’t care if Honat comes back and discovers me treating you like a person instead of a thing.”
She smiled a little and thanked me, accepting the wine in hands showing the white knuckles of tension. I realized she was deeply apprehensive, for herself and her brother. Here within the palace she was a slave. She would be treated as one. No one would listen to her claim that she was a free woman, and if she came face to face with Jamail, he might give away the game. And it would be all over for all of us.
Del gave me back the emptied wine cup. And Honat came into the room, followed by two blond boys. I sat there staring at them both as Honat sat down on the cushion opposite my own. Then I looked at Del.
Color had spilled out of her face. Her breath was ragged and harsh as she stared at the two boys; I saw her teeth close over her bottom lip. She was angered by what she saw, and sickened, but I saw no recognition in her eyes. Only disappointment.
Honat smiled. “Both of these slaves are young and strong and—as you undoubtedly see—whole. Fit for breeding.”
Both were naked. They stood before Del and me silently, staring over our heads with frozen faces, frozen eyes, avoiding my own as if not seeing me would keep me from seeing them, thereby diminishing their humiliation. My hand on Del’s chain clenched so hard it hurt; I longed to shout at the boys that I wasn’t a slaver, that I had come hoping to free one of them. I knew the overwhelming temptation to free them both, regardless of their identity. Simply to let them be the men they were originally intended to be.
I felt Del’s eyes on me and looked at her slowly, seeing understanding and empathy in her face. Before she had only sympathized with my past. Now she understood it fully.
More than anything I wanted to find her brother for her.
“Well?” Honat asked, and I realized I’d have to continue the farce.
“I don’t know,” I said. “They look young.”
“You said you wanted them young.” Honat frowned. “They will grow. They’re Northern. Northerners grow tall and heavy, like yourself.” Peat-green eyes briefly assessed my own height and weight; the conditioning sword-dancing brought. “More wine?”
“No,” I answered absently, setting Del’s cup on the table. I got up and dropped her chain, walking up to the boys. I had to make it look good. So I walked around them slowly, consideringly, not touching them as one would a horse because I couldn’t bring myself to, but I did everything else I could think of. “How do I know either of them is potent?” I demanded stiffly. Slavery can castrate a man even without the blade. I’d known it myself, before Sula gave me back my manhood.
“Both of them have gotten palace slave girls with child.”
“Uh huh.” I rested hands on hips. “How do I know it was these two?”
Honat smiled. “You are a shrewd man, Sandtiger. I can nearly believe you were born to the trade.”
I suppose he meant it as a compliment. It made me feel sick, even as I smiled back at him. “I won’t be conned by any man, Honat. Not even the tanzeer’s agent.”
He spread his wide, naked hands. “I’m an honest man. If I were not, word would soon get out and no one would deal with me. My master would dismiss me. I assure you, both of these boys are ideal for your purposes. Which one do you want?”
“Neither,” I said shortly. “I’ll keep looking.”
Honat’s dark brows shot up into a forehead furrowed by surprise. “But we are the only ones who deal specifically in Northerners, my master and I. You must do your business with us.”
“I do business with whomever I choose.”
Honat stared at me. I got the impression he was judging me, waiting for something. Then he smiled and clapped his hands, dismissing the boys. They turned and filed out of the room. “Of course you may deal with whomever you choose,” Honat agreed readily, as if placating a s
tubborn child. He picked up the heavy decanter as I sat down again. “Did you like the wine? It is from my master’s own vines.”
“I didn’t have any wine,” I told him irritably. “I prefer aqivi.”
“Ah.” It was a blurt of discovery, and then Honat threw the decanter at me while he shouted for assistance.
By the time I was on my feet with Singlestroke free of his sheath, the room was filled with burly palace guards. They were neither eunuchs nor young boys, and each had a sword in his hands.
The wine dripped from my face and burnous. I’d knocked the decanter out of the way, but it had cost me valuable time. Fast as I am, Honat had used the delaying tactic to get out of my reach. “Honest man, are you?” I snarled.
“Honat does what I tell him to.” The quiet, calm voice issued from the wall. “It’s what I pay him for.” From a secret door stepped the man who could only be Aladar.
He was a tanzeer, all right; he wore the rich silks and jewels that branded him a desert prince. His pale-brown face was smooth and youthful, framed in a carefully trimmed black beard and moustache. He was a trifle hawk-nosed, and it gave him the look of a predator. Mahogany eyes were very, very cunning. Also genuinely amused.
“The Sandtiger, is it?” One hand stroked his beard, which glistened with scented oil. Aladar was an attractive man, if you like them smooth as honey. “I’ve always wondered what his growl would sound like.”
“Come a little closer. You’ll be able to hear his growl and feel his claws.”
Aladar laughed. His voice was a warm, clear baritone. “I don’t think so. I’m many things, but not stupid. I’ll keep my distance, thank you, until the Sandtiger is safely netted and declawed.” His eyes were on Singlestroke. “I am grateful you have made an offering of yourself. It saves me some little trouble.”
“Me?” I scowled at him. “I’m offering you nothing, slaver.”
“Well, then I’m taking.” Aladar seemed untroubled by the change of phraseology. “You’ll serve my purposes very well, I think. As for the woman—” he looked at Del a moment “—you said you wouldn’t sell her, so the only way to get her is to steal her from you. But then—slaves can’t own property, can they? Certainly not other slaves.”
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