Azya stood on the auction block,
her hands bound, swaying in the breeze. She felt slightly sick from the stew
she had had mere hours before—it had been her first true meal in a fortnight as
Pittar scrambled to make her look less starved before she was sold. He had not
fed her more than scraps before that because he feared to get near her. Azya
didn’t blame him. She feared herself. For two weeks she had traveled in a daze
in the back of the wagon, and for a full week that was with the Sergeant’s body
beside her that slowly began to stink and rot. Thankfully, they had found a
large encampment of soldiers where Pittar unloaded the body for burial. That’s
also where they left a sickly Moss who Azya knew wouldn’t live much longer. A
new commander, this one elderly and hard of hearing, accompanied them. Because
of this, Pittar was unofficially in charge. Now, he watched her with squinted
eyes from the ground, his expression commanding her to remain upright and look
alive.
The
auctioneer, a portly woman in garish clothing, shot her shrill voice over the
crowd. It took Azya a few moments to realize she was referring to her.
“To
my right you’ll see a young woman, just seventeen. She’s strong and healthy.
Her dealer says she can do all manner of household or farm work, and doesn’t
require full meals. Can we start the bidding at one hundred coin?”
Azya
tried to pay attention to who raised their paddles for the bidding, but her
vision swam and blurred. She sighed heavily and swallowed her nausea. Closed
her eyes. Wanted to bat at the gnats that flew near her eyes but her hands and
feet were bound. She sniffed back tears.
“SOLD!”
came the cry moments later. “Three hundred fifty coin to bidder number
twenty-seven. Thank you sir.” A pittance for a slave, Azya knew. Pittar rushed
up to the auction block and hauled her off. A middle-aged, well-dressed man
approached them, a thin black moustache and goatee curling down his face. He
brought out a purse woven of fine thread and counted out the coin into Pittar’s
grimy hand. He pocketed it greedily and grunted a thanks to the man. He glanced
at Azya, nodded satisfactorily, and disappeared into the crowd.
Her
new master cut the rope that bound her feet. “You will speak only when spoken
to and respond to questions without deceit.” His accent was refined, his words
clipped and careful. “Do you understand?” She nodded. “Now, what are you
called?”
“Azya.”
Her voice croaked dryly. He glared at her, then handed her a canteen covered in
fine leather. She sipped gratefully from it and handed it back to him.
“Azya?
The name reeks of poverty.” He stoppered the canteen and hooked it to his belt.
“You may call me Jarta. When did you last eat?”
“Early
this morning,” she said, stomach churning.
He
handed her a tin coin, the lowest denomination. “There’s a bread cart over
there.” Gesturing to a stand on the other side of the town square, he said, “Buy what you can and meet me back here.”
Azya
took the coin, hands still bound, and began to walk in that direction. Then she
stopped. Jarta was not accompanying her. He was letting her go on her own? She
turned around. He was not watching her, but was haggling with a merchant who
had approached him with a long cloak full of daggers for sale. Was the man an idiot? This could be her
only chance. Without a second thought, she clutched the tin coin and hurried
away from him through the crowd. When she thought she might be hidden from his
view by the throngs of people, she broke into a full run down the street, bare
feet pounding on the cold dirt. She startled at the sudden shouts and commotion
behind her, but it only made her run faster. Her head throbbed with pain but
she pushed what little strength she had to its limits. She had no idea where
she was going—the town was wholly unfamiliar to her. In desperation, she darted
towards a dark alley only to collide with the armored chest of a town guard.
“Where
might you be going, lassie?” The man clutched her by the arms, and the
commotion around her quieted. The townsfolk stared and she saw Jarta push
through the crowd.
“Well,
I thought so.” She panted and looked at him. His tone of voice was almost
bored. “You have fight in you. That means you’ll survive where I’m taking you
and they won’t have my neck for getting another one that dies right away.
Release her to me.” The guard thrust Azya towards Jarta, who knelt and quickly
bound her feet once again with a new rope.
Azya’s
head spun with fatigue and she felt bile rise to her throat. She swallowed hard
to keep from retching. “Where’s that then?”
“Didn’t
I tell you that you were to speak only when spoken to?” His rebuke was lazy,
but still firm. “You’ll be used in the household of the Emperor.” She looked at
him, startled. “Don’t get over excited,” he said, his smile wry. “It’s the last
place most slaves want to go.”
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