“This way!” she exclaimed, pointing ostentatiously, drawing the attention of others within earshot.
They joined the stream of other slaves and ogres moving along the terrace promenade. Here, as on the other levels of Winterheim he had seen, the promenade was a great, circular avenue that passed completely around the ring of the city’s central atrium. The humans tended to remain away from the balcony, walking close to the building fronts that lined one side of the wide avenue. The other, with its sweeping view down to the waterfront and harbor, was best left to the ogres who strolled with much less urgency than the humans.
Strongwind, tethered as he was, found himself walking among the ogres. He noticed sneering, contemptuous glances and imagined that the brutes delighted in his chained confinement. He ignored the looks and did his best to stay close to the Lady Thraid. Only gradually did he realize that some of the looks-especially the contempt of other ogresses-seemed to be directed at his mistress, not himself. He was surprised at that, since he had guessed that the king’s personal interest in his assignment had meant that the lady was a favorite of the king himself.
The Nobles’ Market was up two levels, and the ogress and the slave king climbed the ramp in long strides. Finally they arrived at a wide double doorway leading into a cavernous chamber where many slaves milled about and a few armed ogres glowered and shouted orders or fingered long, wicked-looking whips. There was a great hubbub of noisy conversation and a significant amount of jostling for position in several long queues.
“A smelly lot,” Thraid sniffed, indicating the mob of humans. “I command you, slave, to get me two large salmon. I shall wait for you over at the plaza inn, where I will be having a mug of tea.” She reached forward and used a small key to disconnect the chain from his collar, then pressed two gold pieces into his palm. “These are for the fish and nothing else. Do you understand? On your honor, return to me swiftly.”
“Certainly, my lady.” The slave king’s expression remained blank, but his heart pounded at the thought that he would at last be turned loose among a great congregation of slaves-and in the Nobles’ Market, the place he most wanted to visit in all the city!
He wandered through the door and looked around, grateful that his height allowed him to see over most of the crowd. Six or eight large alcoves opened in the wall around the perimeter of the big room, which had a temperature much chillier than the rest of Winterheim.
After a moment’s inspection, the Highlander king deduced that these alcoves each opened into a large warehouse where different types of food were kept. The alcoves were used for disbursement. Wooden signs with crude pictures marked the locations. A fish, a flask of oil, and a loaf of bread were readily found, and with a little study he understood that salt, berries, and sea-greens were among the other offerings.
He would get the salmon, but first he would seize this moment to briefly extend his freedom. Remembering Tildy Trew’s words, he joined the line at the salt alcove, waited for the half dozen slaves in front of him to have their sacks filled by a big, swarthy man-obviously an Arktos-who curtly gestured for the next in the queue to move forward.
“Can’t give ya salt wit’out a sack,” he declared, all but sneering when Strongwind arrived before him.
“I don’t want salt,” he replied. “I want to talk to Black Mike.”
Though he hadn’t known what to expect, the Highlander king was startled when the glowering fellow reached across the counter and seized him by the front of his collar. With a jerk of a sinewy forearm, the man pulled Strongwind forward and hissed at him a few inches from his face.
“Where’d you hear a name like that? What kind of a fool are you, to use it here?” The man’s mouth was clenched into a tight line, and flecks of spittle flew from his lips as he all but snarled.
Firmly the king broke the grip, his own fingers twisting the salt vendor’s wrist with unrelenting pressure as he leaned back and pulled his adversary halfway onto the counter. “Where can we go to talk?” he asked, conspiratorially.
The fellow’s eyes narrowed to twin spots of darkness, and his black hair and beard framed the swarthy face in bristling fur. In that instant Strongwind knew: This was Black Mike himself.
“Garic, take over here,” said the salt vendor, and another fellow-a lanky, long-haired Highlander-advanced from the recesses of the alcove.
Shooting a sideways, narrow-eyed glance at the two men, he took his place at the salt counter. The slave in line behind Strongwind was already pushing forward as the Highlander king stepped to the side then went through the door that opened for him, following the other man into a dark, cool room. Blocks of salt were stacked up to twelve or more feet high, enclosing the walls of the room and forming several corridors of small passages in the large chamber. Wooden stepladders were erected here and there, providing access to the tall stacks. To one side, near the counter, several male slaves were busy grinding a salt block into granules for distribution.
“I’m taking the new man back to the evaporation room,” announced Strongwind’s guide. They followed a narrow corridor between two towering stacks of salt blocks, turned a corner near what seemed like the back of the room, then passed under a stone arch that led to a wide connecting hallway. At the end of that hall was a door, which the man opened then stood back, gesturing to the king to proceed.
A sense of alarm prickled along the nape of Strongwind Whalebone’s neck, but he had come too far to back out now. Indeed, he was encouraged that his question had provoked such an unquestionably genuine reaction. Balling his hands into fists, he stepped through the door and quickly looked to the right.
A man was waiting there with an upraised club, and the Highlander reacted immediately, stabbing a punch into the fellow’s face, drawing a curse as the would-be attacker stumbled backward. A heavy blow smashed onto Strongwind’s head from behind-from another club wielder lurking on the other side of the door-and Black Mike drove into his side with a charging rush.
The king went down, but not before he kicked the second attacker in the gut. His hands grappled for the third man, and when the two hit the floor Strongwind wound up on top. Only when he saw the two clubbers raise the weapons to either side did he release his grip, springing away to face the trio in a fighting crouch.
“What’s this about?” he demanded. “I ask a simple question, and you try to bash my brains in!”
Slowly he became aware that other men were in this room, a dozen or more surly-looking fellows advancing from the shadows to surround him in a menacing ring.
“I’ll have the truth from you one way or another. Where did you hear that name?” demanded Black Mike.
“Your name?” Strongwind acted on his guess and saw by the man’s widening eyes that he had hit the mark. “A slave woman told me-made it sound like Black Mike was somebody I’d like to talk to.”
“You’re awfully careless, then,” snarled Black Mike. “Why shouldn’t we kill you right now?”
“Because I don’t know the rules of slave life in Winterheim? I’ve only been here for ten days, so forgive me if I come up short on some of the finer points of rebel etiquette.”
“Ten days?” One of the other slaves, a muscular, stocky Highlander, spoke up. “Are you the bloke that came in on the galley with Grimwar Bane? You’re the king?”
“That’s me,” Strongwind replied.
There were several appreciative whistles from the men. “Well, they put you to work, I see-for now,” said one of them, with a grim chuckle.
The Highlander wondered what the fellow meant but didn’t take the time to ask. Another slave nodded, apparently impressed. “I had it from some of the grenadiers that you gave them a pretty good licking before they took you. Those bastards would have loved to have your head on a pike. So you’re really the king of Guilderglow?”
“I was a king. It seems I am a slave, now, but I am still a man, and they have not broken my pride.”