I gave Chido this, that he had freed the slave on good terms, giving him enough so that he was able to live comfortably as a clum. What his descendants might do was another matter, a problem of the clums. The various slave markets throughout the city always repelled me. They held an undeniable fascination, of course, but you know my view on slavery. We strolled down there, and only because, having taken this fresh hitch upon fate, and having decided that the next person who tried to insult or put down Hamun ham Farthytu, the Amak of Paline Valley, would get a bloody nose and a challenge and six inches of honed steel, I was persuaded to venture into haunts where unpleasant characters made it a habit to go for their morning refreshment.
Long terraces set with tables and chairs overlooked the central area, where buyers might stand to make their bids. Water was continuously sprinkled, but as seems always the way with a slave market, dust puffed beneath the feet of the eager buyers. On the stone platform at the far end, with steps leading on and off, and the barracoons in the rear, the miserable bundles of humanity were paraded up and made to strip, clanking in their chains. Bidding was brisk. There are various slave markets, of course, catering for different qualifications in slaves. The simple laboring slaves were something of a glut on the market, what with the prisoners the war was bringing in, despite the huge numbers sacrificed in the Arena. This market dealt usually in skilled slaves, of the kind Chido needed as a zorcaman, a task that is nowise as simple as it sounds.
We sat down on the terrace, out of the blaze of the suns, and watched the proceedings. The auctioneers took turns. They seemed always to be big broad men, able to crack a whip with a cannon-shot report, able to size up the points of their merchandise in just the right, honeyed words to bring the bids rolling in. And, too, they were honest with it. One husky-looking Bleg, with his batlike face hideous in the suns-shine, was revealed as having a broken and badly set leg, and his value came down accordingly. I suppose slaving is like anything else; once you acquire a bad name no one will trust your goods. Tothord of the Ruby Hills was there, sipping a light forenoon yellow wine, and eating a luscious gregarian mousse between sips. “What diff do you fancy, then, Chido?”
“Apim, if possible. But I do not mind too much. I don’t think I could stand the smell of a Rapa, though, by Krun!”
“They don’t smell so bad once you get used to them,” I said.
Chido grimaced. “If you ever can!”
All the slaves being put up, either singly or in teams, were male. Some of them were very valuable, skilled men. All had been tamed — or almost all. .
In the dust of the bidding area, a kind of arena of acquisition, most of the bidders wore a fold of their scarf flung across their mouths and nostrils. Obeying Chido’s injunction, I had come with an orange scarf carelessly thrown over my shoulders, ready for when he dragged me down into the dust. He watched the slaves as they were put up, his young eyes shrewd. He was no fool when it came to slaves. Why, except by the actions of chance, had I happened to pick up an orange scarf, when Nulty had handed me a green one?
Suddenly Chido stiffened like a ponsho-trag on the scent of a stray. “That’s my fellow!” he said decisively.
The slave was a brown-haired, well-built intelligent-looking young apim. The auctioneer bellowed that he had been captured in a raid in Pandahem, that he had been a member of a Lomian zorca patrol. Chido rushed off down the wooden steps from the cool terrace into the dust of shouting men, waving his arms, already bawling out ten deldys as a starter. I followed reluctantly.
“Twelve deldys!” bellowed a Lamnia close by. “Fifteen!” screeched Chido. At a guess a smart zorca handler would be worth twenty-five. Prices fluctuated wildly, of course. The price rose. I was attracted by the novel sight of an auctioneer abruptly catapulting from the curtains at the back of the podium concealing the gates to the cages. The auctioneer was a big fellow; his whip was wrapped around his neck and he fairly flew through the air. He landed with a crash, and his personal slaves picked him up and dusted him off and hustled him back. I heard yells behind the curtain.
“Twenty!” bellowed the Lamnia. These golden-furred halflings are shrewd merchants, and I knew he’d work it so that his final bid was twenty-five or so, thus forcing Chido, if he wanted the slave, to pay over the odds. And so it fell out. Chido yelped: “Twenty-three!” The Lamnia, dusting his fur, said,
“Twenty-five,” and Chido was left holding the sticky end.
“By Krun!” he said. “I’ve set my heart on that fellow!” And, with a loud roar, he hollered, “Twenty-six!”
The apim zorca handler was knocked down to Chido. He pushed his way through to pay at the raised desk where a Relt, one of those gentle cousins of the fierce Rapas, took the money. I was looking after Chido, and sighing, and thinking dark thoughts about slavery, when a massive booming voice burst through the tumult. I heard it distinctly.
“Notor Prescot! Majister!”
I felt as though a whip had scorched my spine.
I looked toward the dais. Guards were holding down a giant of a man whose four arms flailed their chains about, whose fierce red haired head glared intolerantly on the rabble. He saw me, he saw the way my hand flashed instantly to my lips, and he nodded. His bellowings ceased. At once, he became docile. A Djang!
And I–I, Dray Prescot, was the king of the Djangs!
Without a second’s hesitation, I saw it all clearly.
A stout apim in a green cummerbund bid twelve deldys.
I waited.
The bidding crept up, but slowly. All realized this ferocious four-armed Djang had been knocking the auctioneer and slave-masters about, and had not been cowed by whip or chains. He would prove an unacceptable handful in any decent household. Djangs were very rare as slaves, rare as mercenaries. They kept to their own land of Djanduin, ever ready to ward off the attacks of the Gorgrens, who sought to subdue and enslave them. Well, we had seen off the Gorgrens, Kytun and Ortyg and my army of Djanduin, seen them off handsomely. I did not recognize the Djang up there, being sold off like a beast, but he knew me. I was his majister.
I shouted: “Twenty deldys.”
One or two faces turned in my direction, but I sidled away, and waited for an opposing bid; none came. I heard a man snigger and say: “The fool who buys that four-armed monster is buying trouble, by Havil the Green!”
I paid the Relt. The twenty deldys just about cleaned out what I had in my purse. The Djang, still loaded with chains, stepped down to me. I saw a scurry in the crowd as men pressed away. They anticipated trouble. The chains, according to the law of Hamal, would be returned by me to the slave market within a day. I said: “Follow me, slave.”
“Aye, master.”
Here came Chido, leading his apim zorca handler.
“Now, by Krun, Hamun! What in Hamal have you been up to?”
“A whim,” I said, and turning, caught the eye of the Djang and winked. He did not respond. People were looking at him. Like any Djang, in tactical matters he was quick-witted.
“I’m taking this fellow back right away, Chido. I’ve a rod in pickle for him that’ll teach him manners.”
“We — ell,” began Chido.
But I strode off — I made it a good brisk pace to avoid further queries — and shouted back that I’d see Chido at the Dancing Rostrum later, and gave a jerk at the chains.
“Come along, slave,” I bellowed, so that onlookers heard me clearly. “I’ll teach you good manners, four arms or no four arms, by Havil the Green!” The onlookers, poor fools, sniggered. One shouted: “Whip him good, Horter!”