LeRoy Clary
The Last Dragon: Book Three
CHAPTER ONE
Damon
After the battle on the mountain pass between Trager and Vin, we were bound and taken to the desert where the fat Slave-Master growled in my direction, sounding tired and twice his apparent age, “You. The pretty one standing alone. Your name?”
“Damon.” I used my polite voice and offered a weak smile as if that would help my situation as his newest slave ready to be sold on the blocks of Kaon. I ignored his comment on my pretty looks because objecting was like saying I’m ugly.
“Family association or former occupation?” he snapped as he gnawed on a skewer of braised meat and fruit.
I hesitated, then answered as truthfully as far as I knew how, in an imperial tone to let him know I was not his regular slave, “I labor for the royal family of Dire as one of the two personal servants for Princess Elizabeth. You would do well to release me or face her wrath.”
A huge man stood at the Slave-Master’s side, a Kaon warrior by his dress. He snorted angrily and began slowly drawing his blade from where it was tucked inside his wide blue sash. The action was more than an idle threat. The long, curved blade was too massive to swing quickly or with agility, but one two-handed swipe would split an opponent into equal parts to bury. As a defenseless slave who had both of his feet tied together and held no weapons in his bound hands, I had little question as to the outcome if I didn’t soothe him.
I spoke quickly as I spread another false smile on my face, “Perhaps I should have said that I used to work for the princess and I’m certain she would appreciate my release or pay a small ransom. Now, of course, I belong to you and am at your service until you decide what I’m to do.”
The sword returned to its normal position in the colorful sash at his waist without any change in the Kaon warrior’s expression. He stood and glowered as before, his face a crosshatch of scars. I ignored him and kept my attention focused on his overweight boss.
“Negotiating ransoms is tedious and rarely profitable enough to waste my time. Have you any skills of value?” the Slave-Master asked me in a tired tone as dead as his eyes. “Skills that might allow me to sell you for more silver than these other wretches will bring at the auction blocks?”
That was a question worth thinking about—if my remaining time alive permitted. The skills that first came to mind included me skulking around Crestfallen Palace searching for tidbits of palace intrigue or rumors of interest that might be used to blackmail or sway royal opinion to agree with Princess Elizabeth.
I also poured wine for the princess at official gatherings, always keeping her goblet full but not overflowing, and watering it enough so she wouldn’t be affected by the alcohol while negotiating. I also functioned as her bodyguard. And truthfully, I was a foil for her wicked sense of humor in private, her messenger, and often a friend. None of those were likely to increase the price a new owner would pay for me.
There was also the matter of performing small-magic, parlor tricks such as changing the spots on blocks to those more favorable when gambling, splashing wine on a lap across the room to embarrass an enemy, making a floor slippery, so someone fell at the appropriate time causing them maximum humiliation. There were other magic tidbits, most of which were little more than tricks, and some that were simply clever sleight-of-hand. I’d keep the newly acquired mental communication with the waif Anna to myself.
Were any of those skills of value to the dead-eyed Slave-Master or to a potential buyer? If sold, my new owner would have to make that determination without knowing about those magic skills. If I were ever sold, was the operative phrase. I contained my humor while the man with the dead eyes and his minion with the large sword assumed a sale of me would happen at the slave auctions in Kaon. They were probably wrong—if I convinced them of my value, so they didn’t kill me in the next few moments.
“I asked you a question,” he growled.
“Sir, as a former personal servant to a princess, I was educated nearly as well as any royal, and better than many. I am adept at reading, writing, math, history, and the other usual subjects a buyer might enjoy. My real skills lie in providing services to those born above me in social rank.”
“Would I be one of those? One born to a higher social rank?” His double-chin lifted as if encouraging my answer to be positive and praise him.
But there had been the slightest movement around his cold eyes, a twitch at the corners, either amusement or threat. It was hard to tell. My normal rule was never to lie unless I knew for a fact someone didn’t know the truth—and wouldn’t find it out. Getting caught in an obvious lie causes a distrust that is never fully repaired. Not that I was against lying—I was against getting caught. The Slave-Master was getting impatient for my answer.
“Sir, I regret to tell you that no, you are not highborn,” I said, then quickly added, “To your credit, you rose high above that humble birth-station to the exalted heights you now enjoy, probably due to your hard work, ambition, and perhaps a bit of luck.”
To the surprise of all, he threw his head back and roared with laughter.
I managed to take a deep, relieved breath. The stench of his unwashed body gagged me as much as that from the chained slaves at my sides. Fortunately, he believed I had joined him in the laughter, and that made him laugh all the more as his men, and the other slaves looked on in confusion. The two slaves nearest me edged away, probably fearing the worst and not wanting to suffer whatever punishment might come my way, or get blood splattered on them.
The Slave-Master settled himself after our shared laughter and adjusted the long tan robes that perfectly matched the color of the desert behind him. If he chose, he could tuck the red scarf inside his tan robe, move off a few steps and all but disappear against the rocky desert background, a tactic long used by people of the Brownlands. It was said that the Kaon could disappear at will, but most considered it more of a skill than magic. He leaned closer and examined my face closer, then spoke as if puzzled, “You do not fear me.”
It was a flat statement and the manner in which he said it was its warning. I responded with respect, “I do fear you but hope you will not harm a valuable slave and cost yourself a purse full of silver.”
His eyes shifted from me to another slave, one down the line from me who began to chant in a strange language. The man was emaciated, filthy, and sores covered his skin. A guard arrived at his side and ordered him in the Common language to be quiet. The slave lifted his chin high, exposing his neck and prayed aloud in Common for death, raising his voice even louder instead of stopping.
His prayers were swiftly answered. The massive sword moved far faster than I’d believed possible. The guard wiped his bloody blade on the man’s clothing, which didn’t help much because of the filthy shirt the slave wore, and the blood soaking into the material had turned it wet-red. A few steps away the head of the slave had rolled to the base of a tree and lay there looking at us with blank eyes. The guard grabbed the next slave in line and used his shirt to clean the blade further, leaving a red smear across his chest and ignoring the corpse at his feet.