“How did you find me?” I managed to ask.
“Not easily.” A shade of a smile lightened the concern in her eyes.
“How soon can you get me out?” I was starting to get a grip on the essentials at last.
“I can’t,” said Mellitha grimly. “Not today, anyway.”
I stared at her. “You must know who to pay off, surely?”
“It’s not as simple as that.” Irritation colored her voice. “We have elections at the next greater full moon; several of the candidates have been making a lot of noise about excessive profiteering by the sitting magistrates, so no one’s taking so much as a consideration until the votes are counted.”
“You’re telling me an elected official doesn’t want to take a bribe?” I shook my head in disbelief. “Don’t Relshazri dogs eat free sausage? Just offer more money; Messire will honor the debt.”
“It simply isn’t a question of money these days.” Mellitha’s tone was sharp. “Despite what you Tormalin may think, our elections do sometimes produce dedicated and honest magistrates. We certainly find it preferable to nailing everyone into place with clientship and patronage for the benefit of those lucky enough to born to the right parents. That’s one thing I do think the Rationalists have got right.”
“I’m sorry.” I shut my eyes for a moment to get myself in hand. Just for the present Mellitha was the only help I had and it would do me no good at all to alienate her. What was I thinking, losing my grip like this? “So, what is going to happen to me?”
“You’ll be sold at the open slave auction, the day after tomorrow.” Mellitha lifted the lid on her basket. “Now, I have got some clothes for you and some food and water. I’ve paid the jailer to get you into a better cell as well. There’s some coin inside the cheese, in case you need to pay anyone else off or buy food before I can send more in to you. Now, where’s the salve? Oh, yes, I gave it to you…” She continued talking but her words faded to a meaningless jumble as I stared at the opposite wall. This is probably going to seem really stupid, but I hadn’t even given a thought to the trade that is, after all, one of the principle foundations of Relshazri wealth: the buying and selling of slaves.
We don’t trade in slaves in Tormalin, not for the last handful of generations; we’ve progressed beyond such things. Caladhrian Lords, on the other hand, are only too happy to take a bond against a debtor’s body and even against his wife’s and children’s, in some cases. Defaulters can wake one morning to find themselves being measured for an iron collar and either sold to an erstwhile neighbor to work the fields or stumbling down the road to Relshaz, depending on the prices. Lescari Dukes are often in the market for a couple of hundred warm bodies, trying to get a quick crop of wine or grain out of any land that has escaped the fighting for a couple of seasons to sell for sound Tormalin Crowns or Caladhrian Stars. On the other side of the coin, they’re only too happy to recoup some of their costs at the end of the fighting seasons by selling off any prisoners they’ve managed to seize, the poor bastards who don’t have relatives willing or wealthy enough to pay a ransom. Relshaz takes them all and sells them on at a profit, usually to the Aldabreshi where by all accounts they live a few wretched years chained in a galley or worked to death on some island, Trimon only knows where.
“You have got to pay whatever it takes to get me out at the sale,” I broke in on Mellitha’s detailed explanation of her agreement with the jailer.
“Of course, I’ll do my very best—” she began, a little affronted.
“Bid whatever you need to,” I insisted. “Messire will repay you, trust me.”
“Of course. Try not to worry. Once you’re out of here, we can sort out what happened, find some answers.” Mellitha sounded just like my mother, consoling me over a lost hound-puppy. I wasn’t reassured. That hadn’t turned out at all well either; the poor little scrap had gone scavenging around the crab-boats, fallen into the harbor and drowned.
The guard snapped something at Mellitha and she responded with a curt rebuke. She still got to her feet however, pressing a bundle into my arms. “Just keep out of trouble in here and we’ll get you out at the sale.”
“See if Shiv has any ideas,” I called over my shoulder as the guard hustled me out with his stave jabbing painfully into my kidneys.
The rank-smelling turnkey led me through a couple of courtyards to a different wing of the lock-up. Mellitha’s coin had bought me a pallet lumpily stuffed with coarse husks in a wooden-floored, second-story room with a couple of handful others. I sat down carefully, my back to the wall, and unwrapped the bundle, the outermost layer proving to be a plain linen shirt and a pair of old breeches. Judging from the garb of my companions that was evidently the most clothing anyone here was allowed. A threadbare towel was rolled around a leather water bottle, some fresh bread and a creamy yellow cheese. The sharp scent made me realize I was actually starting to feel a little hungry again. I dampened the corner of the towel and cleaned the worst of the filth from my hands and face but gave up on the rest; the water would be more valuable in keeping me from the risk of prison fever lurking in whatever the turnkeys gave us to drink. Eating half of the bread put more heart into me and I certainly felt less vulnerable with some clothes on.
A few of the others in the long room were staring with a greater or lesser degree of curiosity. I met their gazes without a challenge but with enough intensity to make them drop their eyes first. Once I was satisfied that I was unobserved, I discreetly removed the wax-paper package molded into the cheese and tucked it down the front of my breeches. That done, I made my own survey of my fellow would-be slaves, making sure I didn’t catch anyone’s eye or look at any one of them for too long. The last thing I wanted was to get myself into a fight. The other men were slumped on their pallets or staring idly out of the barred window; most were a little older than myself, well enough fed, and about half had the weathered faces of an outdoor life. No one was talking so I had no means of identifying their origins, but since I was only going to be here for a short while I didn’t see any benefit in striking up a conversation with anyone.
A couple of younger men were coughing persistently, a soft but repetitive sound that was already becoming tiresome. It looked as if they had been forced to the far end of the cell, my pallet and another vacant place separating them from the other prisoners. I glanced at them and wondered how far over I could move myself before my neighbor on the other side would object.
“Sit tight, be patient and Mellitha will get you out,” I told myself sternly. If I kept myself to myself and didn’t share a cup or anything, I shouldn’t be at too much risk of contagion.
To my considerable surprise only the second chime of the day came ringing in through the unglazed window, from a timepiece quite close by, from the sound of it. I sighed; it was evidently going to be a long and tedious couple of days.
Noon came and went, a shower of rain pattered softly down on the roof tiles and a different turnkey appeared with a tray of wooden bowls of barley-meal, all unpleasantly crusted with the remains of old meals and with flies hovering eagerly above them. I left mine untouched, soothing my growling stomach with a little more bread.
“Hungry’s better than risking the squits,” I advised myself firmly. Besides, the less I ate, the less I would have to visit the reeking crocks standing against the far wall; one for excrement to sell for manure, one for urine to sell for bleach, I assumed wryly. Trust the Relshazri to find a way of turning coin from every situation.
That was about the most humorous aspect of the day. The afternoon’s entertainment came when we were herded to the window by a couple of guards with whips in order to watch a man being garrotted in the courtyard below. It took ten men to drag the heavy-set criminal out and lash him to the execution frame; he screamed obscenities at them until a leather gag stopped his mouth. At that point tears began to stream down his brutish face, already red and suffused with blood even before the guards drew lots to see who would turn the ratchet to crush the sad bastard’s throat.