The Fisherman's Daughter Read Free

in the village and acknowledges for the first time that this is bigger than her. She’s not the only one who lost someone.
    The stern woman frowns as she studies Meiri’s face. “There’s no cleaning that up. They should have left the face alone. Less valuable.”
    One of the other dark-robed women shrugs. “Less pretty will be better for her. I think she used to be pretty.”
    The first woman shoots her companion an irritated glance. Her eyes hold no compassion. She returns her attention to Meiri and fastens copper bracelets around her wrists. She then places rings on Meiri’s second and fourth fingers, linked to the bracelets with ropelike chains. The sides of each bracelet have matching stubs that can interlock and clasp together when needed, and the tops of the metal hoops are empty sockets, designed to hold the crest of the house that will purchase her.
    “It’s time,” the second woman says. “The market is opening.”
    The throng of women are ushered out of the room and down a hall into open air. A crowd has gathered before a wooden platform, and they’re brought to stand in front of the buying agents of noble lords and ladies. She can see a tower in the distance, square and squat, rising above the rest of the one- and two-story brick homes.
    “Fairholm!” she realizes aloud and then clamps her lips shut, hoping no one noticed. Children and young men join them on the platform, each in similar tunics of light gray.
    Fairholm. Is this what the shaman meant by “fair folk”?
    The agents shout to the slave traders, and the churn of market bargaining begins. Bit by bit, gray-clad slaves are walked off the stage, and their bracelet sockets are fastened with stone disks carved with house crests. Two of the prettier girls are called, and from the crowd’s chatter Meiri knows they’re going to the harem. The agent who bid on them looks at her for a long while and Meiri meets his eyes, holding her breath. He finally looks away and makes payment, leading his merchandise under armed guard.
    The second gray-robed woman whispers into her ear, “Your smashed nose and eyes saved you. I don’t think a man will ever look at you, and where you’re going, that’s for the best. Just hope you don’t heal up pretty.”
    Meiri, a youth, and a short woman with a pinched face and mouth that is too big for her nose are finally purchased by a plain-looking woman with a copper wire holding a gray bun in place. The buyer’s tunic is blue linen and hemmed with braided wool. She hands the stone house disks to the slave merchants, and they fasten them into the bracelets of Meiri and her companions.
    When they make it to the palace—one of several in the city—they are taken to the slaves’ quarters.
    “Now,” their buyer says. “My name and your names are not important. You will call me Matron, and I will call you Girl, Girl, and Boy. You may ask me questions if you’re unsure what to do. You may not speak to anyone else in the house unless you are spoken to. Do you understand?”
    The short ugly woman frowns. “You can’t keep us here! We’re not slaves. We’re free folk!”
    The man beside Matron lashes her hard on the back, and she falls to her knees.
    “The next one will not be so gentle,” Matron snaps. “I run a fair house, but I will not tolerate back talk. Work hard and you will be well treated. Think you’re anything more than what you are and life will be misery. Do you understand?”
    The three of them nod. Shame burns Meiri’s cheeks, adding to the throb of her bruises.
    “Boy will apprentice with Master’s staff, and you two will tend the kitchens and serve the tables.” Matron stops for a moment and regards them thoughtfully. “Lord Keeva has an appetite for women. There’s a reason I buy ugly ones; otherwise, he takes my help and makes courtesans of them. Thankfully his tastes don’t bend towards young boys.” Her eyes narrow as she focuses on Meiri. “Now that I see you closer, I hope you