The first blaze of sunlight dazzled him for a moment. When his eyes adjusted, he found himself standing on a wooden platform, at one end of a large square paved with filthy brown flagstones. Brick walls rose on either side of the square, trapping the heat of the day, seeming to bounce all of it toward the auction block. Blade felt sweat breaking out at once, and the auctioneer looked as if he'd been fished out of a river. His long robe was almost black with filth and sweat.
Scattered across the square were at least two hundred people, some standing, some sitting on cushions or rugs, a few lucky ones sitting on donkeys or under canopies held over them by household slaves. Blade smelled beer, fruit, and smoke from carved ivory pipes, and read weariness, heat, and boredom on all the faces.
The auctioneer waved his ivory baton at Blade. «Honored sirs, I offer this man-strong, fit, in the prime of life, suitable for any task.» He prodded Blade's shoulder muscles and biceps. «Taken by the Riders under the Forbidden Desert Edict of our noble Baran, he is unwounded, well-fed, ready to train. Imagine this matchless physical specimen bearing your chairs, shifting the burdens of your household, standing guard over your valuables. Consider-«
«Consider how long we've been sitting out here!» shouted someone. «Get to the point! How much?»
«Honored sirs, I beg you to consider the many uses to which, a man of such size and strength may be put. I beg you to-«
«How much, you pissing jackass?» roared another voice, louder and angrier than the first one.
The auctioneer's face turned noticeably paler. «A hundred and ten mahari,» he gasped.
Several people growled angrily, and others turned away and began to drift toward the gate. «In the name of Junah, have mercy, honored sirs,» cried the auctioneer. «It is not my judgment of this man's worth that has set the price where it is. Nor is it my place to question the judgment of the Baran's officers.» The growls died away into silence, but the drift toward the gate continued.
The auctioneer's face turned still paler, and he looked as if he was about to get down on his knees and beg the crowd to put in a bid. «Honored sirs, I am at a loss-«
«Oh, send him back down and bring on another girl,» someone snapped. «A hundred and ten mahari for that wild bull? And him not even trimmed? You think anyone'd want something like that in his house, or within a mile of his women?» There was a growl of agreement.
Blade realized that the size and physical condition he'd expected to be an asset were turning out to be almost a liability. His best chance now was being sold for manual labor, but anyone who had a hundred and ten mahari to spend on workers coud buy three of them for that price. It looked as if he might be going back to prison, or else facing the trimming knives of the surgeons.
«Ho, auctioneer!» One of the mounted men slipped down from the back of his donkey and pushed forward, a servant striding behind him. «I bid a hundred mahari, for the desert man.»
«Kubin, you-!» the auctioneer began, then bit off his words. He even managed to stop his hands from shaking before the approaching man reached the block.
Blade stared down at the man, and their eyes met. The man called Kubin was nearly as broad as Blade, though a head shorter. He wasn't fat, either. His bare arms and the chest revealed by his silk tunic were layered and ridged with muscle. In his sash Kubin carried a scimitar nearly large enough for one of the Hashomi, and his servant carried another. Blade noticed that the men nearest to Kubin were inching away or trying to look elsewhere.
The auctioneer tore his eyes away from Kubin and shouted, «Is there another bid? Another, honored sirs? Another bid than that of Kubin Ben Sarif? Another? What, no other? I call once.
«I call twice.
«I call three times-and the desert man is sold to Kubin Ben Sarif, for one hundred mahari!»
There was a collective sigh of relief from the crowd, almost loud enough to drown out the sigh of relief from the auctioneer. He bowed deeply to Kubin. «Is it your wish that the man be trimmed? For thirty mahari extra, the surgeons of the house will do it for you, and keep him until he recovers.»
«Or dies,» said Kubin. He looked Blade up and down, seeming to examine each muscle and tendon, each limb, each scar. Blade did his best to remain impassive under the man's inspection. Kubin Ben Sarif was not precisely the master he would have chosen. There was something about the man to make others fear him. Still, he was better than a return to prison, perhaps as an unsaleable slave destined for trimming or the living death of the salt flats.
Kubin's examination of Blade went on so long that the auctioneer began to fidget again. «Honored Kubin, it becomes difficult to spend any more time upon this man. There are other slaves to sell this day. Will you have him trimmed or not?»
Without moving a muscle, Blade got ready for action. If Kubin said yes, there was going to be blood all over this auction block in the next minute, and not all of it would be Blade's. There were enough soldiers in sight to make sure he wouldn't be getting out of here alive, but that wouldn't save the auctioneer, or Kubin.
Kubin's eyes rose again, and this time they met and held Blade's. Slave and free man stared hard at each other, then both looked away in the same moment. Slowly Kubin shook his head.
«No, I'll take him as he is.»
Chapter 13
The auctioneer's desire to get both Blade and his new master on their way helped speed the paperwork. In less than half an hour Blade was chained securely in the back of a hired cart driven by Kubin's servant. They rattled out of the slave market with Kubin riding behind on his donkey.
The cart picked up speed as they reached the main street. Blade noticed that many people seemed to recognize Kubin, and some of those who found themselves in his path made a visible effort to get clear. Few greeted the man, and practically no one smiled at him.
Blade wondered what kind of a man he had to deal with-a secret police officer, or Dahaura's equivalent of a Mafia chief, or what? It was hard to believe that someone engaged in criminal business would ride around as Kubin did, in broad daylight, undisguised, and with only a single servant, unless he was brave to the point of madness.
The cart kept to the main streets until it rumbled out one of the gates and on another mile beyond the wall. Then it turned down a lane between two high stone walls and finally stopped at a gate. Unlike the gates, of the other villas along the road, this one was not ornamental ironwork. It was massive timber, with a heavy iron bolt rammed home. The tower on one side of the gate was plain, without plasterwork or mosaics. All four sides were loopholed, and Blade saw the glint of spears and helmets on top.
The gate opened smoothly, on well-oiled hinges. The cart rolled in, onto a path of hard gravel between rose trees twenty feet high. Among the trees stood marble benches decorated with geometrical figures and statues in bronze and marble. The rose petals, red and yellow and gold, lay scattered on the gravel, and the scent was almost overpowering.
All the rest of Kubin Ben Sarif's villa that Blade saw was like this-an endless alternation of grim military efficiency and opulent beauty that hinted at the wealth the efficiency was defending. However Kubin Ben Sarif had gained his fortune, he certainly had one.
There was nothing luxurious about the basement room where Blade and Kubin first faced each other in private. Walls and ceiling were whitewashed stone, while the floor was plain blue tile. The only furniture was a long table of polished wood, and a stool padded with a green cushion on which Kubin sat. An iron ring nearly a yard in diameter was set into one wall, and Blade's chains were fastened to the ring. He could turn freely, but not move more than a couple of feet in any direction.