by Jean Winter
Before they knew it, Bit's turn was next and the young escort was extending a forearm to take her up. Gracious, were they here already? Lyra gave Bit a last, quick hug, wishing her good luck.
“Khari'na number forty,” the announcer droned. “Eighteen years, five foot six inches, medium brown, o' the township o' Wyrie. Two years o' formal schooling, sews—special skill in embroidery, cooks, certified 'pure.'”
A small ripple swept through the tables with that last detail. The only bona fide virgin of the day. That alone increased Bit's value a few thousand. The auctioneer began and sticks poked into the air.
“… ten thousand to number thirty-five. Do I see ten-five? Ten-five on number eighty-four. Eleven thousand? Thank you, number twelve. Eleven-five to number twenty. Twelve thousand? Twelve? Twelve—number seventy. …”
Lyra's heart pounded for Bit. She was just a baby. The problem was, Lyra didn't even know to what kind of man she would prefer to see Bit go. An impossible quandary. A prayer for Bit went up to the heavens and a favorite childhood song inexplicably started playing in Lyra's head.
… Help me to follow Thy path and to pray.
Help me return to Thee, Father, some …
“Are you ready?”
Hundt.
Lyra let the last word of the cherished melody hang unspoken. Her mouth opened to answer something, but she stopped herself. No. Sarcasm wouldn't help. Besides, she'd made a promise to the Eternal Father, and she wasn't about to let anger and worry drive the Spirit away now. The only impression she had received was to continue in patience and wait.
“Yes.”
The caller was wrapping up Bit's sale. “Seventeen thousand and three to fifty-two. Seventeen thousand and four? Seven—aye, seventeen-four thousand number twenty. How about seventeen-five, number fifty-two? Seventeen-five. …”
Lyra couldn't see bidder number fifty-two, but after a moment, he must have raised his stick because the caller suddenly went back to bidder twenty asking for seventeen-six. There was another long pause, then the caller pronounced Bit sold for seventeen thousand five hundred to bidder number fifty-two. The usual appreciative applause transpired.
Bit was led back off stage.
“Oh, 'Na Lyra, I was so nervous!” Bit exclaimed, hugging her. “I could hardly move! But did you hear the price? I canno' wait until Mother sees the money that will be sent to her!”
“You did beautifully, Sweetness. I am very proud of you.”
Maehan came forward to receive her, looking quite weary, but bearing a smile for the girl nonetheless. “Aye, 'Na Behrlitelle. You did very well.” Maehan patted Bit's cheek. “Now go to the waiting room and relax for a while.”
“Okay,” said Bit, flushed with excitement. “Good luck, 'Na Lyra. I know you are going to do great, too.”
With one more hug, Bit left and suddenly the escort was waiting expectantly for Lyra on the bottom step. Gulp.
She whispered quickly to Maehan, “What did you put down for the emcee to say about me?”
“Nothing, my dear. Mr. Shorn had your file already when we visited him and I believe he put it with the others in Grally's office later.” Worry made new creases across Maehan's brow. “Your fake history was the only thing in there. Surely, he wrote something on a bio sketch form for the emcee.”
Lyra's pulse started a pounding rhythm in her veins. Mr. Shorn knew absolutely nothing about her!
The escort cleared his throat softly in an effort to get her attention and the announcer beckoned khari'na number forty-one onto the stage. The skin over Lyra's implant begin to itch again. It mocked her, reminded her that it was the very reason she was here—about to be sold. Nearly trembling, Lyra reached for the escort's hand.
A much larger, stronger one intercepted, enveloping Lyra's fingers in a firm but gentle grip.
“If you do no' mind, sir,” murmured Hundt in a tone that said he really was not asking permission, “I will present this one to the lords personally.” Lyra peered, surprised, into the dark, unfathomable expression of her volunteer.
The escort grazed quickly over Hundt's massive form and stammered something in the affirmative, then stepped away, not about to argue with biceps three times the size of his own. Lyra managed to recover her wit soon enough.
“A highly irregular request, Mr. Hundt. I'm sure this is not part of your job description.”
Hundt turned his back on the disturbed escort. “And trust him to save you from your own clumsiness in those shoes? I do no' think so.”
Lyra giggled. “Was that a joke from the mouth of the staid Gralion Hundt?”
“It has been known to happen,” he grunted.
Lyra let her new personal escort-giant carefully lead her up the steps and nervous hyper-awareness kicked in. The remaining khari'na behind clumped together, whispering to each other. Overhead, the blinding wash of lights waited to drown her. The intermittent groaning and clanking from backstage had grown louder.
Ching! Pssssssssss.
Lyra and Hundt's heads whipped toward the sound.
Large puffs of steam pushed forward under the bottom edge of the background curtain and up through the cracks in the stage flooring. What in the world?
Yaliguhd's flustered face suddenly popped up from under the curtain. “Sorry about that! Oh! It is you, Mr. Hundt. Well, the boiler clamp just broke—but keep going. Just a little steam.” Then the head disappeared, leaving a disturbed, swirling patch of mist hovering in its place.
Lyra stared uneasily at the fogginess billowing across the stage. She turned large, questioning eyes to Hundt who only shrugged. The emcee called once more for khari'na forty-one.
Lyra quickly whispered, “I just want to say thank you again, Mr. Hundt—for being so kind to me.”
“It has been my pleasure, Mrs. Woodrose.” His gaze went out over all the people waiting to see the woman that the breadth of his body still largely shielded from view. Then it returned to Lyra, and rested there. “And by the way,” he said, raising her hand in readiness, “you can call me Grally.”
CHAPTER 11
Hundt led Lyra to center stage.
Steam flowed around them in great swelling clouds. It settled as it cooled, rolling off the front edge of the stage in slow-moving, eerie sheets. Lyra waited for Hundt to take her onto the catwalk for her initial presentation to the audience, but he paused, thoughtful, as he took in the scene that had been created.
“Walk out there by yourself,” he suddenly commanded.
Lyra's grip on his hand intensified. “Are you kidding?” she whispered harshly back. “You are supposed to make sure I don't trip.”
“You will be fine.” He unlocked her death grip and turned her about. “Just take one step at a time. Go out, pause, turn, and come back. Do it now.”
By the waist he practically shoved her forward and Lyra cruised into clear air, alone, and keenly aware of the precarious battle she fought with her stilettos and the real possibility of misstepping off the catwalk. The overhead lights were blinding. Lyra swallowed back her stomach and reminded herself that now was not a good time to panic. Slow down. Left foot. Right foot. Good. You're nearing the end. An unknown strength helped her set her shoulders square.
On the floor below, the mist parted into rivulets as it crept between tables and eventually disappeared into the black beyond. Everything it touched was silent and still. Everything it touched was … silent … and still. Oh God, the emcee had not begun!
At the end of the catwalk, Lyra had to force her arms to remain at her sides. Instinctively she wanted to hug herself and run screaming from the stage. Don't panic. Don't panic. Look confident. Lyra's panic increased.
Remember who you are, my daughter.
Lyra stopped breathing.
All of a sudden, an inexplicable burning lit up inside, a mysterious energy filling every cell of her being, pulsing through her heart, and electrifying her senses. The sensation was so sharp, so intense, it almost hurt and, for a moment, Lyra was certain that if sh
e moved a muscle, she would literally burst into flames.
The announcer finally started. “Khari'na number forty-one: twenty-eight years, er, about five foot four, dark brown hair, from the town o' … Flantilly. … Ten years experience.” The man fell silent.
Holy Heavens, that was it?
The unseen force dissipated and Lyra felt free to make a quarter turn. Giddy with anxiety, she addressed the spectators then continued around to the other side. It took several seconds for the auctioneer to finally realize that no more information would be forthcoming. He broke the dead stillness to begin at nine thousand.
Slowly, Lyra turned again. Not a sound whispered through the hollow silence. The caller asked again for nine thousand. Lyra's legs felt like jelly. She was sure they would give out at any moment. On her next turn she saw that Hundt had come forward part way, and a few panicked fingers rose toward him. To her immeasurable relief, he swiftly closed the gap, ending her solo act.
With a supportive hand at the small of her back, he guided her next turn.
“My bio was awful and nothing is happening,” she whispered while she faced away from the audience.
Hundt gently twirled her then pulled her against him, leaning her back slightly, his face close to hers. “Wait for it …”
“Nine thousand to number thirteen!” the caller exclaimed, relieved. “Nine thousand. Who will give me nine-five? Nine-five to fifty-seven. Ten-oh? Thank you, thirty-six. Ten-five? …”
Hundt walked Lyra back to the stage. He waited until they passed the nearest tables before mumbling out the side of his mouth, “Stay focused on me alone, for now. Understood?” Lyra nodded nervously. They reached the stage and on the next turn he whispered, “Good. Now smile. Loosen your grip on my hand. Lengthen your stride. Do no' walk—flow.”
The bid reached fourteen-five and the caller didn't appear to be slowing.
Hundt turned her again at stage left. “I said to keep your eyes on me,” he chastised. “You are wandering. You must block out the caller. It is making you stiffen.”
“I'm trying!”
“Try harder,” he growled.
Breathing in deeply, Lyra searched for the reassurance of the Holy Spirit again, and soon discovered a tiny, residual spark of warmth still encircling her heart. With equal parts dry humor and dizzy relief, she told it, Oh there you are! Now, you led me into this mess so you'd better stay with me!
Perhaps if she just pretended that she and Hundt were having fun at a party together. Miraculously, the tension left. Lyra smiled freely and received an approving nod from her escort. He spun and dipped her once more—low and dramatic this time.
“One would think,” she observed slyly, “that you have held a woman like this before.”
“Sisters,” he grunted. “It was five against one. I was doomed from the start.”
She stifled a laugh. “Okay. What do we do now?”
With a grasp to the back of her knee, Hundt pulled her leg up tantalizingly against his hip, his lips parting to reveal startlingly white teeth. “We dance.”
# # #
Kade sat. Agitated. Silent, as the auction progressed. His number ninety-seven bidding stick lay untouched next to fingers that drummed nervously on the table. He didn't know when he would see her and his anxiety increased with each completed sale.
Every once in a while a woman of potential would appear and he would get a meaningful glance from Sal, but each time Kade would only shake his head and go back to frowning at his knuckles. Consequently, Sal spent most of his time quietly nursing a stiff drink and wondering what had come over his best friend.
Their fellow table-mates, a rather fat lord in his late forties and a short, bald man in company of a paunch of no inconsequence himself, possessed one bid stick between them. But it was only a token. Just two more of the many men and occasional woman in attendance merely to see and be seen.
Around khari'na number thirty, a stout lady—a wife by virtue of her thick, gaudy, gold necklet—joined the bald man at their table. The lady seated herself and immediately launched into a hushed, though animated, play-by-play description of each of the stores she had visited and “with whom” she spoke. The lord “hmm-ed” and nodded at the right times to the satisfaction of his wife.
Long minutes rolled by with earfuls of “Lady So-and-So looking a bit rounded in the tummy—if you know what I mean,” even though her husband had been on deployment for the last six months, and Lord and Lady What's-Their-Name spending five hundred rednotes on their daughter's coming-of-age cotillion.
At khari'na thirty-six, Kade took a little more notice of the exceptional beauty in green. Her shoulder length, fiery red hair billowed in soft waves about her heart-shaped face. Education level: eight years of schooling under private tutelage. Age: twenty-five. Skills and Interests: painting, poetry, music instruction on the harp. Just the type of woman he had been hoping to find. Wasn't it?
He could feel Sal watching him carefully from under knit brows, but after a pause, Kade only leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands wearily behind his head. He would have bid hard for that one, if it weren't for …. Sal returned to his drink.
The girl eventually went for nineteen thousand, seven hundred and fifty—a price that made Kade whistle softly. That extended well past his own sixteen-five that he had transferred out of his savings the other day. And taking out that much had been a worrisome enough experience as it was. He was still in desperate hope that he would be able to return at least some of it when the day was through.
Khari'na number forty did not help his mood. Even from forty feet away, he could tell the pretty, budding, young virgin must not be more than sixteen or seventeen—no matter what the emcee had written on his paper. She reminded him quite a bit of his own sweet Jos'lie, too, and that didn't settle well.
The bidding eventually slowed for her around seventeen thousand. The lead bidder, fifty-two, was just a few tables up—an older couple with a young man placed between them. The young man appeared to be not yet twenty. Honest-looking. A little soft. Was she going to be some kind of present?
When khari'na forty-one was brought up, Kade could barely see any of her for the muscle-bound figure blocking her from view. It was the same guard that broke up the tussle with Malig'ahnt. Hmm. Where was the usual escort?
Then the stage began to fill with fog, a whitish, grayish haze, and the khari'na and the guard were two ghostly silhouettes floating across it. Some equipment mishap? None of the arena crew seemed too concerned, however, so Kade and Sal just remained in their seats with everyone else.
Suddenly, she blazed out of the mist. Kade bolted upright in his chair.
The full force of the center lighting struck khari'na number forty-one's gown and glittering flecks of light exploded off her, splashing prismatic onto nearby surfaces like spray from a sparkling waterfall. Kade's pulse slammed through his veins.
By herself, she stepped to the end of the catwalk. Glowing. Haloed in the lights. Her gown shimmering in soft colorful hues. The billowing steam turned to swirling tendrils in her wake, and for the second time in an afternoon the woman dictated absolute silence across the arena. Like a queen commanding the attention of her subjects, she stood. Her gaze penetrated through every single man, humbling him, stripping him of his pathetic titles, his wealth, his masculinity, and causing each to wonder secretly within himself if she would find him worthy. Was he?
“Khari'na number forty-one,” the emcee finally began with uncertainty. “Twenty-eight years, er, about five foot four, dark brown hair, from the town o' … Flantilly. … Ten years experience.”
Silence.
That was it? Wait, that couldn't be right!
The hush did not lift as she turned gracefully alone at the catwalk's end, the embodiment of power, agility, dignity, and elegance all rolled into one. A more beautiful sight Kade had yet to witness, and he could not take his eyes off her. The caller began at nine thousand.
No response. The guard rejoined her and
when he took her hand, it was with the respect and admiration of one handling a precious jewel.
Thump.
Ow! A not too subtle kick squarely against Kade's shin under the table made Kade glare at his best friend. Sal was quietly pushing his bid stick toward him with an expression that said, Well, Mr. Impetuous, are you going to put your money where your mouth is, or no'?
The khar's dark escort suddenly drew her close, towering over her as he lowered her into an intimate dip, sensual and possessive. Kade reached for the stick.
“Nine thousand to number thirteen! I have nine thousand. Who will give me nine-five? … Nine-five to fifty-seven. Ten-oh? Thank you, thirty-six. Ten-five? …”
Looking somewhat like a pincushion, the arena floor was soon littered with upraised sticks. Kade held tightly to his ninety-seven on the table. It was useless to jump in until things began to slow down. But after a minute, he and Sal exchanged uneasy looks. Things were not slowing down.
Fifteen thousand … sixteen-five … seventeen … The escort spun and dipped her low and seductive, making a show of grasping the back of her knee and lifting it to his waist. The long slit in her skirt allowed the airy fabric to fall away revealing a tantalizing, light muscle definition along her shapely leg from hip all the way down to the tiny sparkle of an insignificant chain round her ankle.
New numbers went up and the lady at their table suddenly smacked her husband smartly in the shoulder with her substantial purse. Kade looked over in time to see Lord Baldy glumly lowering his bidding stick.
This is ridiculous! Kade let go his stick. “I canno' compete with this!” he told Sal over the general buzz of excitement that had arisen.
“Nineteen-five to number seven. Twenty? Thank you, number fifty-five. Twenty thousand-five? …”
Dumping his face in his hands, Kade groaned. Through parted fingers he watched the mysterious khari'na float and turn with her partner. She looked quite at ease now, almost coquettish even, smiling up at him. It was almost like they were dancing.