a slave drew her morning bath to when another unbraided her hair for bed.
After Jess had joined the husband and wife, Kestrel looked meaningfully at the auctioneer. He nodded. He pulled a thick key from his pocket, went to unlock the door, and stepped inside. “You,” Kestrel heard him say in Herrani. “Time to leave.”
There was a rustle and the auctioneer returned. The slave walked behind.
He lifted his gaze to meet Kestrel’s. His eyes were a clear, cool gray.
They startled her. Yet she should have expected to see this color in a Herrani, and Kestrel thought it must be the livid bruise on his cheek that made the expression in his eyes so uncanny. Still, she grew uncomfortable under his gaze. Then his lashes fell. He looked at the ground, letting long hair obscure his face. One side was still swollen from the fight, or beating.
He seemed perfectly indifferent to anything around him. Kestrel didn’t exist, or the auctioneer, or even himself.
The auctioneer locked the iron door. “Now.” He clasped his hands together in a single clap. “The small matter of payment.”
She handed the auctioneer her purse. “I have twenty-four keystones.”
The auctioneer paused, uncertain. “Twenty-four is not fifty, my lady.”
“I will send my steward with the rest later today.”
“Ah, but what if he loses his way?”
“I am General Trajan’s daughter.”
He smiled. “I know.”
“The full amount is no difficulty for us,” Kestrel continued. “I simply chose not to carry fifty keystones with me today. My word is good.”
“I’m sure.” He didn’t mention that Kestrel could return at another time to collect her purchase and pay in full, and Kestrel said nothing of the rage she had seen in his face when the slave defied him, or of her suspicion that the auctioneer would take revenge. The likelihood of it rose with every moment the slave remained here.
Kestrel watched the auctioneer think. He could insist she return later, risk offending her, and lose the entire sum. Or he could pocket not even half of fifty keystones now and perhaps never obtain the rest.
But he was clever. “May I escort you home with your purchase? I would like to see Smith settled in safely. Your steward can take care of the cost then.”
She glanced at the slave. He had blinked at his name, but didn’t lift his face. “Fine,” she told the auctioneer.
She crossed the waiting room to Jess and asked the husband and wife if they would escort the girl home.
“Of course,” said the husband—Senator Nicon, Kestrel remembered. “But what of you?”
She nodded at the two men over her shoulder. “They will come with me.”
Jess knew a Herrani auctioneer and a rebellious slave were not the ideal escort. Kestrel knew it, too, but a flash of resentment at her situation—at the situation she had created—made her sick with all the rules that governed her world.
Jess said, “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
The couple raised eyebrows, yet clearly decided that the situation was none of their business except as a piece of gossip to spread.
Kestrel left the slave market, the auctioneer and Smith trailing behind her.
She walked quickly through the neighborhoods that separated this dingy part of town from the Garden District. The cross-hatching of streets was ordered, right-angled, Valorian-designed. She knew the way, yet had the odd sense of being lost. Today, everything seemed foreign. When she passed through the Warriors’ Quarter, whose dense barracks she had run through as a child, she imagined soldiers rising against her.
Though of course any of these armed men and women would die to protect her, and expected her to become one of their own. Kestrel had only to obey her father’s wishes and enlist.
When the streets began to change, to twist in irrational directions and bend like water, Kestrel was relieved. Trees leafed into a green canopy overhead. She could hear fountains behind high stone walls.
She came to a massive iron
After Jess had joined the husband and wife, Kestrel looked meaningfully at the auctioneer. He nodded. He pulled a thick key from his pocket, went to unlock the door, and stepped inside. “You,” Kestrel heard him say in Herrani. “Time to leave.”
There was a rustle and the auctioneer returned. The slave walked behind.
He lifted his gaze to meet Kestrel’s. His eyes were a clear, cool gray.
They startled her. Yet she should have expected to see this color in a Herrani, and Kestrel thought it must be the livid bruise on his cheek that made the expression in his eyes so uncanny. Still, she grew uncomfortable under his gaze. Then his lashes fell. He looked at the ground, letting long hair obscure his face. One side was still swollen from the fight, or beating.
He seemed perfectly indifferent to anything around him. Kestrel didn’t exist, or the auctioneer, or even himself.
The auctioneer locked the iron door. “Now.” He clasped his hands together in a single clap. “The small matter of payment.”
She handed the auctioneer her purse. “I have twenty-four keystones.”
The auctioneer paused, uncertain. “Twenty-four is not fifty, my lady.”
“I will send my steward with the rest later today.”
“Ah, but what if he loses his way?”
“I am General Trajan’s daughter.”
He smiled. “I know.”
“The full amount is no difficulty for us,” Kestrel continued. “I simply chose not to carry fifty keystones with me today. My word is good.”
“I’m sure.” He didn’t mention that Kestrel could return at another time to collect her purchase and pay in full, and Kestrel said nothing of the rage she had seen in his face when the slave defied him, or of her suspicion that the auctioneer would take revenge. The likelihood of it rose with every moment the slave remained here.
Kestrel watched the auctioneer think. He could insist she return later, risk offending her, and lose the entire sum. Or he could pocket not even half of fifty keystones now and perhaps never obtain the rest.
But he was clever. “May I escort you home with your purchase? I would like to see Smith settled in safely. Your steward can take care of the cost then.”
She glanced at the slave. He had blinked at his name, but didn’t lift his face. “Fine,” she told the auctioneer.
She crossed the waiting room to Jess and asked the husband and wife if they would escort the girl home.
“Of course,” said the husband—Senator Nicon, Kestrel remembered. “But what of you?”
She nodded at the two men over her shoulder. “They will come with me.”
Jess knew a Herrani auctioneer and a rebellious slave were not the ideal escort. Kestrel knew it, too, but a flash of resentment at her situation—at the situation she had created—made her sick with all the rules that governed her world.
Jess said, “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
The couple raised eyebrows, yet clearly decided that the situation was none of their business except as a piece of gossip to spread.
Kestrel left the slave market, the auctioneer and Smith trailing behind her.
She walked quickly through the neighborhoods that separated this dingy part of town from the Garden District. The cross-hatching of streets was ordered, right-angled, Valorian-designed. She knew the way, yet had the odd sense of being lost. Today, everything seemed foreign. When she passed through the Warriors’ Quarter, whose dense barracks she had run through as a child, she imagined soldiers rising against her.
Though of course any of these armed men and women would die to protect her, and expected her to become one of their own. Kestrel had only to obey her father’s wishes and enlist.
When the streets began to change, to twist in irrational directions and bend like water, Kestrel was relieved. Trees leafed into a green canopy overhead. She could hear fountains behind high stone walls.
She came to a massive iron