by Joseph Lallo
The flames surged again, forcing him to shield his eyes for a moment before desperately scanning the cramped furnace he'd thrust himself into. Menri was too large to fit through the hole in the roof, and even if it could be made larger, the hefty brute was too heavy to make it out and the malthrope lacked the strength to carry him. There had to be another way. He squinted through tearing eyes and was just able to make out the original roaster, still standing on supports badly weakened by the flames.
“Come! Come on! This way!” the beast cried, wedging himself under the arm of his frenzied tormentor and heaving him toward the heavy, seed-filled drum.
The unprocessed seeds had soaked the beast's legs from the thigh down, providing them a tiny measure of protection. He had to hope it was enough. With a roar, he thrust a kick that sizzled against the metal. It was enough to upset the supports and send the roasting drum toppling over, where it smashed easily through the weakened wall. The rush of motion stirred the flames, causing a wave of fire to wash over the beast and the human. A shock of pain shot through the malthrope and he gasped, filling his lungs with black smoke and scalding air. Shrugging off the pain and summoning every ounce of strength he could muster, he heaved the coughing slave forward and staggered through the smoke and flames toward the new exit. The pair rolled out a heartbeat before the shack finally collapsed.
Buckets of water switched from dousing the ruined shack to the half-dead workers. Patches of burning fur and clothing were extinguished, and a few of the braver slaves managed to drag Menri clear. Drawing in ragged breaths and coughing violently, the malthrope crawled out of the worst of the heat and rolled to his back. Neither of them had fared well in the blaze. Menri had a swath of burns across one arm and leg that would leave nasty scars. Half of the fur on the beast's face had been blackened, his nose and left ear was raw and blistered, and his left eye was shut tight. Each was hacking and wheezing, trying to get good air into broiled lungs. A cluster of the other slaves gathered around Menri.
Suddenly, all eyes turned to the edge of the field, as Marret approached amid a battalion of handlers. There was fury in his eyes and his voice.
“No! No, no, no, no, no!” the plantation owner cried. “The roasters! There . . . were there any slaves inside?”
“Two. They got out,” replied Bartner, a witness to the near-tragedy and little else. There was a casual tone to his voice, and even a weak grin on his lips.
“How much rakka?” Marret fumed.
“Perhaps four bushels. A bit more, maybe.”
The owner's hands shook as he paced in tight circles, anxiety burning at him with a sting nearly the match of the fire. “Four bushels. No lives lost, no one to replace . . . Fine, fine. I want that shack rebuilt! New roasters. Get the blind man on it. I need roasters turning again tomorrow! Half-rations for the rest of the season for the slaves responsible, and half rations to everyone until we're back to turning out rakka seed. I will not have this plantation crumble because of some blasted incompetent slaves!”
With that, Marret stormed away, his men in tow. Those around Menri managed to get him to his feet, but once they did, he pushed them away. He turned to the creature beside him.
“You . . . why?” Menri wheezed.
His savior tried to answer, but the creature could only manage more painful coughing. Finally, he reached up, a clawed finger pointing to the brand on Menri's healthy arm, then to the matching one on his own. Menri nodded once and bent low, the other slaves keeping him from falling. With his burned arm, he grasped the beast and helped him to sit up.
“Listen to me . . . I don't like you. I'll never like you. But what there was between us . . . is over. You may be a monster, but you're one of Jarrad's slaves.” Menri looked to Bartner, who had taken it upon himself to scatter the crowd of onlookers and “encourage” them to begin work on the new roasting shack. “Right now, we've got better things to worry about than each other.”
Ben finally made his way to the injured pair. His voice was steady but urgent. “I'm here. How bad is it? Describe the wounds.”
“I've got blisters. The beast has them, too. On his ear and nose. He caught a lungful, too.”
“All right. Get your wounds cleaned and dressed. Lots of clean water. Do you need my help for that?”
“I can manage.”
“Good, go. And you, you little devil. How bad is it? Open your mouth. Breath for me.”
The creature, with care and concentration, was able to pull a shaky breath in and let it out without coughing.
“Again . . . I don't hear anything terrible. Your face. Your ear and nose were burnt. What of your eyes?”
With a quiver and a twitch, the malthrope fought his left eye open.
“It . . .” he struggled to say. “It seems you are still the only blind man on this farm.”
Ben smiled weakly and shook his head, snapping quickly back into the proper tone when the moment had passed. “Get him up. Clean water for him, too.”
The other slaves paused.
“Do it!” came Menri's booming voice from behind them. “He is one of us. You don't leave one of your fellow workers on the ground.”
Even with the strong words of a man they trusted, a man they looked up to, there were few slaves willing to set aside their bone-deep distrust. It was Gurruk and Blondie who finally shouldered their way through the assembled crowd and pulled the burned malthrope to his feet while Goldie fetched water. Burns were treated to the best of Ben's ability with the resources at hand.
Behind them, the fire finished what it started, consuming the remains of the roasting shack and taking any remaining trace of respect or loyalty the slaves might have had to their owner along with it.
#
Marret's sweeping changes and complete abandonment of quality managed to keep the plantation afloat for another season, but it cost him dearly. Buyers who had come to trust the peerless attention to detail that made Jarrad's rakka so sought after had paid the usual premium. When they received their share of the harvest, what they received was rakka in name only. Burnt to a crisp, half-rotten, or nearly green . . . if the seeds had a fraction of the effectiveness of a proper batch, it would have been a miracle. The reaction from the buyers, buyers who had trusted Jarrad for years, was universal. Angry words were exchanged, vicious threats were delivered, and future purchases were canceled. Word spread through Tressor: buy rakka from Marret at your own risk.
A hard-earned and valued reputation that had taken Jarrad years to build had been squandered in the space of two harvests by his son.
Planting season was just a few weeks away, but the land had yet to be prepared. Rakka was too costly in both time and resources to grow without the secure knowledge that a buyer would be waiting for it when it was time to harvest. Marret's newly-earned reputation had left him with no one willing to commit to even a single sack. Another farmer would simply switch to a different crop and weather a few lean years. Marret's debts—and, more importantly, the men to whom he owed them—made that a death sentence. Rakka was the only crop that carried a high enough price to keep his head out of the noose.
Messengers were hired, missives were prepared, and prayers were said. One by one the replies returned, each making it clearer and clearer that Marret had sold his last rakka berry. Then came one final response.
Marret had sent thirty messages. This reply was the thirty-first. It was written on highest quality velum, and delivered one night by a messenger none had seen come or go. The wording was simple and direct:
I am interested in a business arrangement. I will arrive at midnight to discuss it. Meet me at the northern entrance to your plantation and find us a private place to discuss it. No witnesses.
It was ominous, vague, and reeked of danger, but it was the last chance Marret might have to avoid paying his debts with his life. He handed out instructions to his men, and when the time came, he was waiting at the gate on the north side of his land.
There was a chill to the air, one made wors
e by the uncertainty in the pit of Marret's stomach. He was wearing a finely-woven robe, a single garment that was worth more than his late father's entire wardrobe. Like so much that he'd paid mounds of silver for, it was pretty, but it didn't do the job. The breeze cut through it, leaving the young man to shiver as he waited.
Beside him stood Ben, staff in one hand, a lantern in the other, and a bag slung over one shoulder.
“It must be near midnight by now,” Marret muttered, blowing in his hands.
“Quite near, master.” Ben nodded. “If you do not mind the observation, this seems an unusual way to begin a simple crop purchase.”
“I do mind, blind man. My father liked a bit of back and forth with his workers. I prefer a man who knows his place,” Marret snapped.
“As do I, farmer,” came a voice from the darkness.
Marret turned to the darkness to see a gray-cloaked figure emerging. There was a strong moon, and the lantern was freshly filled with oil and quite bright. The darkness simply wasn't dense enough to have concealed an approach, but nonetheless, here his visitor was, steps away without so much as a glimpse prior. Worse, she wasn't alone, joined on each side by two figures dressed in coarser, heavier versions of her own gray cloak. The hoods were cavernous, and the light of the lantern didn't seem to penetrate deep enough to reveal even the gleam of an eye.
His visitor stepped closer. She was attractive, in a cold and pale way. Her features were sharp and flawless, skin nearly white and lips and hair nearly black. Rather than the light, billowy clothing worn by most of those who called Tressor home, beneath her cloak she was bundled in a thick coat and heavy leggings. For an instant, Marret thought he'd noticed a few flakes of snow melting on the shoulder of the cloak. There was a look of weary impatience on her face.
“I didn't think my instructions left any room for confusion,” the woman said. “No witnesses.”
There was a twist to her words, and it was not entirely due to the undertone of irritation. Marret, unable to place it, set the puzzle aside for a moment.
“Madam, as you can see, this man is blind. I give you my assurance that he is in no way a witness.”
“Yes, well, I trust you've set aside a suitably private setting for our discussion.”
“Yes, yes, we will be discussing it in my study—”
“No, the stable.”
“But—”
“You don't have very many options, farmer. Do what I say or I walk away, and you cannot afford for me to walk away. I mean that in a very financial way. Let us go.”
She marched briskly past Marret, acting for the world as though the plantation belonged to her, and made her way toward the stables without being directed. Marret hurried to keep up.
“This is very irregular, madam,” he objected.
“And you wouldn't have been standing at that gate if you hadn't exhausted all of the 'regular' options. Now, be a good little farmer and keep quiet until we are behind closed doors,” she instructed sharply.
Marret swallowed his anger and followed. A few minutes of walking led them to the dark and unpleasantly fragrant confines of the stable. Ben shut the door, drawing the attention of the four horses that would be witnessing a business deal that was looking less wise by the moment. Each animal was in its own stall, and as the two silent companions of his visitor moved to the far corners of the room, the creatures became visibly uneasy.
“Now. We are in your chosen location, and I have followed your rules. May we please get down to business, Madam . . . I'm sorry, what is your name?”
She crossed her arms and adopted weary expression. “Madam Teht. And, yes, I'd say we should begin. I have a few questions for you, if I may?”
“I . . . I suppose.”
“My partners and I are of the belief that there is something very special here on this land.”
“You and your partners are quite insightful. This soil has been consistently responsible for some of the finest rakka ever to—”
“No. A man. Or perhaps a woman. Someone here, who has been here for some time. It took some time to pinpoint it, but now we are quite certain.”
“I don't understand . . . you are here for a slave?”
“Well, I am certainly not here for you. Now, tell me, do you have anyone here who is . . . unique? Someone remarkable?”
Marret was uncertain where precisely the conversation was going, and for that matter, why it was going there. Until he could be sure that there was no chance of this meeting ending in a large payment, though, he forced himself to remain in a business state of mind.
“We pride ourselves on having the finest and best-trained workers in all of Tressor.”
“Yes, but does one stand out more than the rest? Despite our best efforts, we simply haven't been able to get a good look. Something is blinding us. I'm looking for someone different. Someone truly notable. A swordsman, perhaps? An artistic prodigy? An elemental? A malthrope?”
Marret shuddered.
“There,” she said with a smile, “You've got a malthrope. Such was my suspicion.”
“I assure you, it is quite legal. He is a worker, and a fine one.”
“I'm sure he is. Tell me, does the beast have a mark anywhere? A curve and point? There since birth?”
“I really wouldn't know. Blind man?”
“As I understand it, he as a mark like that over his heart.”
“Excellent. I want him. Name your price,” said Teht.
“I'm afraid a simple slave sale—”
“You don't understand,” she said, snapping her fingers. A bag the size of Marret's head was tossed to the ground at her feet. Presumably it was thrown by one of her men, though neither seemed to have moved. The bag spilled open, dumping out a fortune in featureless gold coins. “Name your price.”
Marret's throat suddenly went dry. He opened his mouth, but before the words could come, his servant interjected.
“Master, don't,” Ben advised.
“Quiet!” Marret barked, “This young woman and I are discussing the future of this plantation!”
“Master, her voice. Do not tell me you cannot hear that,” Ben insisted. “Madam Teht has a Northern accent.”
The plantation owner shuddered, turning over the peculiarity of her speech in his head. It had been quite some time since he'd heard such an accent, and hers was weak, but it was undeniable.
“Where, may I ask, do you hail from, Madam Teht?”
She snapped her fingers again, and a second bag of gold struck the ground beside the first. “Is that really relevant?”
Marret's mouth fell open and his eyes widened. Every fiber of his being urged him to politely assure his honored guest that her place of origin did not matter to him in the slightest, and that the malthrope would most certainly be hers within the hour. This, alas, was not so.
“I'm . . .” he said hoarsely, “I'm afraid that it is . . . it is quite relevant. You see, the malthrope doesn't have a tail. My late father cut it off and sold it. The beast was to be destroyed, but it was and is a fine worker, so an arrangement was made to allow it to remain on the plantation, alive, provided that it never leave. If it were to disappear, then my father—and now I—would be responsible for anything it might do.”
“I assure you that it will not be allowed to do anything untoward while under my ownership.”
“I don't doubt that, but the slave would need to be sold to you through official means. The officials involved would simply assume it escaped otherwise, and even with a proper sale they may not be satisfied. If you are Northern . . . well, our people are at war. An official business agreement would be treason. Either case would leave me in a position with little use for your payment, regardless of the size.”
“I see,” she said with a sneer. “Well . . . we wouldn't want that, would we . . .”
“Absolutely not. As long as this plantation is my responsibility, that malthrope stays on it.”
Teht narrowed her eyes and heaved an irritated sigh. “Th
ey always send me on these blasted errands to the South, and they never go smoothly,” she muttered to herself with a shake of her head. “Fine. You grow rakka here, yes?”
“Ah, yes! The finest in Tressor,” Marret replied, relieved to find the conversation finally returning to the subject he'd been prepared to discuss. “If you'll look here, last season's crop was quite bountiful.”
Ben fished the bundle of parchment from within the bag and held it out. Marret snatched it and selected a page, handing it to Teht.
“Now, we have quite a bit of next season's crop available. It . . . it is still somewhat troubling if you are Northern, but . . . well, unlike the slave you were after, we should be able to . . . misplace the record of this transaction. You may reserve—”
“All of it.”
“Well, yes, if you wish, you can certainly purchase it all.”
“I intend to, farmer. All of it. In fact . . . thrice this amount.”
“Err. What you see there is what I will be able to grow. If you would like to reserve the full crop for the next three years, I would be willing to sell it. Properly prepared rakka will keep for well over three years.”
“If you want this gold, I want three times what you grew last year, and I want it this year. One bushel less and we do not have a deal. Simple enough for you?”
“I . . . rakka takes a considerable amount of work. To get top quality rakka, there will be some that must be discarded or—”
“I'm not interested in quality. Quantity is what I'm after. You provide this much, and I will buy every last berry, every last seed. And if you manage it the next year, and the year after that, each year, I'll be back.”