by Jean Winter
“I must say, he moves well for such a large man,” Sal commented, impressed.
Sal received a withering glance that would scorch the needles off a pricklycact.
The bid reached twenty-two thousand and finally, there was a slight pause. Kade sat up, scanning the tables. A number thirty held it for the moment. Then he saw a number seven in the air near the front. He cursed under his breath. It looked like one of those gladiator troop scouts. He didn't think they ever spent this much money on an auctionee.
The bids went back and forth a few more times between the two until there was another pause for twenty-four thousand. The woman, who up until now had given complete focus to her escort, swiped a glance at number seven's table whereupon her brilliant smile wavered.
“Twenty-four thousand to number ninety-seven back there! Thank you, sir.”
Kade was still holding his number aloft when he heard, “Kadent.” Sal's tone was as a patient father to a naughty child caught drawing on the wall. “What are you doing?”
Picking up Sal's drink, Kade took a hearty swig, closing his eyes as the heat and bite drizzled reassuringly down his throat. Sal grinned at him.
“And you are really prepared to spend this much?”
Number seven bid twenty-four-five which Kade countered. “I have more in savings,” he said, focusing mulishly ahead. He slid the drink back toward Sal.
The cup was smoothly pushed right back. “Uh, huh,” Sal chuckled. “I think you need this more than I do, mate. I will order myself another.”
“Twenty-five-five?” the caller's voice rang out. “Twenty-five thousand five hundred?”
No movement at table seven. Finish it, Kade willed.
“Twenty-five-five to number two!”
What? A new bidder!
“Ah, now that is just no' fair.”
Sal, his voice thick with sarcasm, had swiveled his chair so he was facing Kade more than the stage.
“What are you looking at?” Kade's heart thudded heavily as he motioned to increase the price.
Sal laughed. “Brother, watching you sweat in your pants like this is much more entertaining than anything happening over there.”
After making a mental note not to speak to Sal for another week after tonight, Kade went back to worrying about the new, unidentified competition—who raised the price again.
“You know, I have no' seen you this uptight over a woman since that time we snuck backstage to meet that stripper you liked.”
“Sal, not now.”
“Remember her?” Sal went on, uninhibited. “That was our first year in the academy together. You were going to impress her with your sleight o' hand.”
“Sal.” Blast! Too many heads in the way for a look at number two. Kade countered again.
“I think that was your first time, too. What was her name again?”
“Sal! Will you just shut it and tell me if you can see who number two is?” Kade snapped.
Their pretty server brought Sal his new drink and he took a merry swig before standing up for a better view. “Ooo, you are no' going to like it,” he warned, gazing ahead. Number two flashed up once more.
“Serpahn Malig'ahnt,” Kade guessed in disgust. He was afraid of that.
The khari'na and escort pair slowed their dance to a picturesque walk from one side of the stage to the other. No more showing off. They were merely watching now to see what became of the last two bidders. Kade shut his eyes and raised his number.
“Twenty-eight thousand, gentlemen! Twenty-eight!” The auctioneer strode closer to table two, waiting expectantly for a response. The lord did not disappoint. Kade went to raise his number again, but Sal's hand was suddenly clasped over his stick, concern darkening his features.
“Kade, wait. Are you sure you know what you are doing? Are you no' dipping heavily into your savings now? Remember your savings account? That pretty money you have spent the last twelve years breaking your back to accumulate? Tell me there is more somewhere that I do no' know about.”
Kade ground his teeth, making himself think things through a moment. Recognizing ninety-seven's hesitation, the auctioneer brought the proposed counter down to twenty-eight thousand seven hundred and fifty. “I will make it work,” Kade finally muttered. He pulled his stick out from under Sal's hand to raise the bid again.
Malig'ahnt gave the go-ahead for twenty-nine and Kade signaled again. Twenty-nine thousand two fifty! Going back and forth between the two, the audience looked like they were watching a courtball match.
“Twenty-nine-five from number two, ladies and gentlemen!”
Kade waited for the caller to decrease the next proposal to twenty-nine six hundred before he signaled again. Without a blink, Malig'ahnt went to seven hundred. Kade raised for eight hundred. Nine hundred. Kade wanted to scream.
Blast the Mother and all her Stars! You are just kidding yourself to hope that Malig'ahnt is as daunted with this much money as you are!
Quite nearly in a passion, the auctioneer asked for thirty thousand. Kade sat in private agony. This would require absolutely everything he had in savings and then some. He would have to borrow. And the new home plan would, once again, be just a distant dream. Kade stared at his paper number.
“Kade,” Sal broke in gently, reading his thoughts, “think o' your children. Think o' your business. Are you sure she is worth it?”
Kade felt every eye in the arena boring into him. The steam had cleared by now and the woman, she too was waiting, breathless, for his response. She knew who number two was just as he did.
“Thirty thousand, my lord?” the auctioneer asked again.
Suddenly, khari'na forty-one dropped her escort's hand and strode out onto the catwalk alone. All the way to the end she went, peering into the darkness toward him—and Kade saw fear in her eyes.
“Are you sure?” Sal whispered again.
You must protect her.
Kade's lips silently formed the words of the mandate introducing itself into his thoughts. He blinked. Protect her? She needs me? A sudden calming peace washed over him and Kade met Sal's gaze. “I wish I was no', brother.” He raised his number one more time.
The reaction through the arena was audible.
“Thirty thousand! Gentlemen, thirty thousand!” the caller exulted.
Kade abandoned his chair as all eyes bounced back to Serpahn's stick at table two. Please! he pleaded to any omniscient power that might be listening.
A low, but heated conversation had erupted between table two's occupants—between father and son. Malig'ahnt senior was gesturing angrily toward the woman and Serpahn was biting back—not wanting to give in.
Sal stood again, joining Kade at his side, and whispered, “How much do you want to bet that Daddy is going to win this one?”
“Well, how about a halfpen'? That is all I will have left to my name if you are right.”
“What about thirty thousand and fifty, my lords?” the auctioneer prodded.
Oh, come on!
Serpahn motioned to raise his stick, but his father caught his arm and lowered it again. More stifled, angry words transpired.
“This is a fine, one-o'-a-kind khari'na, my lords. Exceptional grace. Exceptional poise,” the caller wheedled. “Thirty-thousand and twenty-five?” Kade was about ready to run up there and punch the guy's lights out.
With a tenacity that defied the old man's age, Malig'ahnt Senior took the stick from his son and laid it to rest between them.
“Thirty thousand it is! Sold to number ninety-seven!” The caller threw his hands in the air. He expected an uproar of applause, but the anticipated reaction did not come. Everyone just sat dumbfounded. No one had ever outbid Lord Serpahn Malig'ahnt before. And at such a sum!
In the uncomfortable silence, Kade and Sal, as inconspicuously as possible, found their seats again. Slowly, their table companions began an appreciative fist pounding on the table's surface. Others began to chime in, and others, adding whistles and cheers—until at last, the din
nearly became deafening.
Kade suddenly felt very hot. Henna's bosom! What had he just done? His eyes sought out the khari'na at the end of the catwalk, hoping for reassurance of the impression he had felt so acutely a moment ago, but she was already gone.
The applause continued and Sal was instantly back in excellent humor. He swigged the last of his drink and slapped the glass on the table. “I tell you what, brother. That woman you just bought with everything you had?” He laughed with a merry ease. “That must have been some first encounter.”
“Aye,” Kade agreed less enthusiastically, feeling strangely alone now. Everyone and everything else seemed to fade into the background, peculiarly dim and muted like in a dream, and in that moment, he had a sinking feeling his life would never be the same again. “I guess it was.”
The last of his drink sat dumbly in his hand, and Kade downed it. It really was.
Things began to quiet down and the emcee called for khari'na number forty-two.
Kade leaned over to Sal. “I think I am going to leave now. Will you stay here and claim her for me until I get back?”
“Sure thing, mate.” Sal twirled Kade's bid stick lazily between his fingers as he eyed the figure of their waitress refilling drinks the next table over. “Going to make some sizable withdrawals?”
Kade nodded. “And see how quickly I can take out a loan.”
# # #
“Thirty thousand it is! Sold to number ninety-seven!”
Lyra felt a hand wrap round her waist. “It is done,” Hundt said close to her ear. “I want you out o' sight o' Malig'ahnt immediately.”
He led her back to the stage, but from the floor nearby a dangerous voice uttered venomously, “Another time then, whore.”
The words stung like one of her razor stars and Lyra clung tighter to her friend. At the stage's side steps, the next khar in line looked like she was going to be sick. However, Hundt didn't let Lyra stop to speak to anyone. He pulled her past Maehan, past the remaining khars in line and, brushing away the caravan laborer that waited to guide Lyra to the waiting room, whisked her out of the arena.
Lyra found herself moving through another long hallway. They finally stopped at a wide door.
“You did well,” he said. “I am proud o' you. Are you okay?”
“Yes, I guess so.” Lyra felt dizzy.
Already, her time on the stage seemed blurred, like a distant memory. She had felt fine until she realized the fighting troop really was interested in her. Then the number two stick began to be raised. Sometimes it was Hundt's steadying arm alone that kept her upright and moving after that. Consequently, she didn't know by what power she managed to leave him and go stand at the end of the catwalk, peering into the sea of blackness in supplication to bidder ninety-seven. But any owner besides Malig'ahnt was preferable, of that Lyra was certain.
“Go in and rest. The auction will be over soon and I will be back with Mae to oversee the transfers.”
Lyra nodded dumbly while Hundt produced a key and let her inside. She just stood there after the door closed behind her. “It is done.” I've been sold. It finally hit her.
I'm someone's khar! Oh God and Creator, I'm someone's khar! Father, what are You thinking? Where is my miracle?
Bit pounced on her with a big hug. “Oh, 'Na Lyra, you took so long! Did the bidding go high? Did you see who got you? How was it?”
Conversations in the waiting room lulled as the other khars paused, waiting to hear her response. “It went well,” Lyra told Bit softly as she hugged her back. “I couldn't see the lord who won the bid. It went fine,” was all she decided to say.
Bit hopped up and down. “Come see the beautiful necklets we get to choose from! I already know which one is my favorite.”
The “waiting room” was actually a long ballroom. Several tables filled with necklets and all kinds of jewelry lined one wall with a few sales clerks scattered about helping the enthusiastic auctionees find things they liked. Along the opposite wall stood a long counter-height table with men in cashier uniforms preparing to receive payment and handle amounts of money that Lyra couldn't even imagine. The near end of the room housed the expected seating area, occupied by small groups of sold, waiting khars, while the other was decked out in long swaths of fabric overhanging a number of delicate, freestanding arches. Each was decorated differently with taffeta and silks, or greenery and flowers, or combinations of both.
Bit dragged her to the first jewelry-laden table and started sifting through necklets. Lyra said, “Bit, what is all that decoration for over there? Those arches?”
“Oh, that is for our joinings, silly—where we give our pledge and we get our new necklets. Do you no' remember that from orientation?”
Lyra pretended to be engrossed in the sparkling, silvery array before her, but inside, she was hurling barbed impeachments. Oh, so making the part where the drooling owner clamps his chain on his new slave's neck look kind of like a wedding meant that it was all okay? That it was real affection and earnest goodwill? How many of the girls really fell for that?
(Sigh.) Probably most of them.
Viewing the necklet display, Lyra was confused at first with the abundance of silver and silver alloy spread before her. No gold or warm and precious syllomite anywhere to be seen. Then with a jolt, it came to her. Silver, the common metal (and the only metal most Believers could afford), was the designated color for khari'na in this society. The color-coded collaring must make for easy identification at a glance.
Free woman—Slave.
Someone deserving of a measure of respect—Someone deserving only slightly more regard than a doormat.
Barf.
The sprightly teen was intent on pointing out many pretty pieces to her, but it was hard for Lyra to concentrate. Everyone was staring: sales ladies, cashiers, other khari'na. Why did everything about her have to stand out? She was different, odd, and Lyra longed once again for the shrouding comfort of Mar'go's linen. The attention got worse when the next khari'na began to arrive and the story of her sale spread through the ballroom.
A few appeared impressed when they heard the news, but the majority acted like it was all some planned stunt that she had orchestrated. “She is obviously sleeping with Mr. Hundt, after all.”
Lyra's face burned at the indelicately loud gossip, but fortunately, Bit appeared oblivious to it all. She was too busy gushing over the sparkly trinkets. Thankfully, it wasn't too long before the last auctionee finally walked through the door followed by Maehan and Hundt, and an eager rush for the Keeper and her list of winning bidders with their corresponding numbers transpired. Everyone was dying to know their new lord's identities.
While Bit skipped happily over to join the others, Lyra took the opportunity to disappear into a remote corner of the seating area. She desperately needed some solitude. Scooting a high-backed sofa chair around to face the blank wall, she sat down, with great relief, to remove her fettering heels. Then curling her legs up under her, Lyra sank into the chair's upholstery, closing her eyes in an attempt to shut out her poignant reality.
For some minutes, she managed to remain in anonymity, mouthing some favorite, comforting hymn lyrics as she lightly stroked the petals of the lilicanth still secured over her ear. She really needed those uplifting messages to work for her now. Naturally, a prayer soon developed.
She thanked the Father for giving her the strength to get through her time on stage. She prayed for faith and the ability to understand why it appeared necessary that she remain on this path to unholy seduction. She even concluded with a thought for the mysterious number ninety-seven. Please. Let him be a man of, at least, some decency.
Someone approached, ending her solitude.
“Lyra, do you no' wish to know your new lord's name?” It was Maehan
“What does it matter? It's done, and they all only want one thing, anyway.”
“Oh, Little Tiger,” Maehan soothed, patting her hair, “promise me you will at least give him a chance befor
e you decide to loathe him forever. You might be surprised.”
Lyra sighed, “Of course I will give him a chance.” Granted, I could never enjoy the company of a man who condones prostitution and slavery, but … I promise to try to not despise him.
Men began to pour in and Lyra peeked around her chair. She saw Hundt lining the girls up to be received. “Come along, my dear. It is time for you to join the others,” Maehan said.
Lyra rose. “But, do I have to put the shoes back on?” she said with a grimace. “My feet feel like they are about to fall off.”
The Keeper smiled. “I suppose you can just carry them until you go to the joining arches.”
That reminded her! “Maehan, I have no idea what I'm supposed to do or say.” She supposed it was in her best interest to pretend that she was a normal, prepared khari'na. She didn't want the lord to start asking prying questions.
Maehan passed her a folded slip of paper. “I wrote the pledge out for you. You can keep this tucked into your glove sleeve until it is time. He will take you under an arch and you will kneel before him. Recite these words, then stand to receive your necklet.”
“That's it?” Lyra eyed the paper with a morbid curiosity. Then she stashed it as suggested. She didn't want to worry over what was written there just yet. One thing at a time.
Lyra took take her place in line and her stomach began to flutter. She was about to discover just what kind of Caldreen'n she would be forced to deal with next. Probably a very, very rich and snobbish nobleman—someone who never had to lift a finger for himself and always had every hair and thread perfectly in place. Perhaps it was that older lord with all the land who she had allowed to kiss her hand. Well, if it was him, she knew what to do. That one wanted an elegant figure to hang on his arm at social functions, a khar who would know the right thing to say when asked and be mature enough to keep quiet and out of the way otherwise.
People walked by, but Lyra kept her head down. She didn't want to meet eyes with more curious onlookers. Next to her Bit was trembling slightly.