Before the table stood two large, black kettles with strange, curved iron handles. An orange-red glow emanated from each of their circular tops. Tristan assumed that the strange auras were being produced by glowing, red-hot coals deep within them. Black smoke rose lazily from the kettles' glowing embers, vanishing into the growing darkness of the evening sky.

Near the kettles, two pillories had been constructed. The orange glow from the black kettles mixed with the light from the dozens of oil lamps to cast strangely flickering shadows across the hulls of the silently waiting ships and the stark, empty pillories.

Then Tristan saw the white-skinned demonslavers lining the inner edges of the clearing, keeping the burgeoning crowd from approaching the raised platform by the constant threat of their nine-tails and tridents. Then Krassus came into view. The people in the crowd began to shout invectives and wave their arms in anger. Krassus didn't seem to care.

Slowly he walked to the platform in his blue-and-gray robe. An elderly woman with frizzled gray hair and dressed in a shopworn black robe followed along behind him. As they approached, the demonslavers kept the crowd back. Without fanfare Krassus and his unknown companion walked to the side of the platform and up the steps. They remained silent.

Tristan looked over at Faegan. "Is that woman the partial adept Krassus talked about that day in the palace?" he asked urgently. "Do you know her?"

"From here, I can't tell who she might be," Faegan whispered back, not shifting his eyes from the scene. "But it is obvious she has importance for him."

Tristan expected Krassus to speak. But he didn't. He simply stood there, the woman by his side, as if he, too, waited for something.

Suddenly Tristan heard the sound of shod hooves rattling harshly against the same cobblestoned street he, Faegan, and Shailiha had just come down. Turning, he crawled on his stomach across the slate roof to its northern side and looked carefully over.

At least a dozen carriages-of-four were approaching, their teams trotting down the street and toward the docks. But as they neared, Tristan could see that the vehicles were really not carriages at all. They were more like bizarre, wooden-slatted cages on wheels, and they were being driven by yet more of the demonslavers. Finally he could see them better, and his heart skipped a beat.

They were full of people.

Each of the rough-hewn cages contained perhaps twenty or more people, men and women alike. They sat crammed upon what looked like piles of soiled straw, and he could make out black iron manacles here and there.

The cages continued rattling up the street toward the docks. Tristan crawled back across the roof to lie beside Faegan. Below, the demonslavers on the pier barked out orders, and the crowd reluctantly parted to allow the vehicles to pass.

The cages came to a stop before the long table. A group of demonslavers promptly went to one corner of the clearing, and from a pile lying there each of them took up a device that seemed to be a long iron rod with a ring at one end. Another group of demonslavers began unlocking and opening the cage doors.

One by one the rod-wielding demonslavers approached the open cages. With a quick twist of the rod handles, the rings at their ends clanged open. The open rings were shoved into the cages and forced up against the throats of the captives. With another twist, the rings closed viciously around the prisoners' necks. One by one, the men and women were dragged out, kicking and screaming.

With the captives finally free of their cages, Tristan could see them much better. It was then that he began to get an inkling of why he and his sister had been regarded so strangely all day.

All the slaves were about the same age as he and Shailiha!

Tristan looked back to Krassus. The wizard had yet to speak, but his dark eyes missed nothing as the prisoners were hauled from their cages and forced to move toward the table where the robed men sat waiting.

"Can you tell what's happening?" he asked Faegan quietly. All he could make out was that the robed men were busy doing something that involved the occasional azure glow of the craft, and were making notations in some kind of large books.

"I can see part of it," the wizard responded softly. "And yes, I believe I have a good idea of what is going on. But let us not speak of it now."

There was a distinct sadness in the old man's tone. Shailiha looked to her brother and placed an index finger across her lips. Tristan nodded back.

One by one the prisoners were hauled away from the table by their necks and locked into one of the two pillories. Two demonslavers pulled the rods from the black kettles; the ends of the rods came out glowing bright red. Branding irons.

Before each of the slavers pressed his hot iron to skin, he looked up to Krassus, waiting for a sign. And each time, before giving his blessing, the wizard in the two-colored robe would look down for an indication from the men at the tables. Then he would indicate with either his right hand or his left.

As the demonslavers pressed the heated irons into the left shoulders of the prisoners, screams resounded through the night. Many if not most of them fainted away in the stocks, and were dragged by their necks to separate areas on the pier. When one prisoner was finished, another immediately took his or her place. As the excruciating process continued, Tristan saw that one group of slaves was becoming noticeably larger than the other.

Faegan lowered his head. Shailiha closed her eyes, brushing tears from her face. Only Tristan's eyes remained locked on the gruesome scene, his hands balled up into fists and his jaw clenched with the frustration of not being able to take action. Finally he, too, could take no more, and he slowly closed his eyes against the spectacle.

Those prisoners were his people, the prince realized in shame and horror, and there was absolutely nothing he could do to help them. Was that what Krassus' taunts had meant? What in the name of the Afterlife was it all about?

At last, blessedly, the branding stopped, all of the prisoners having been marked with a rod from one kettle or the other. The moaning and crying of the victims was softer now.

Those who had fainted were revived by having cold seawater splashed in their faces. Then the two groups were marched down the piers to the waiting frigates and forced up the gangways. Full of despair, Tristan lowered his head.

Suddenly a long, silent, moonlit shadow flowed darkly across the roof between him and his sister. Then came another, and yet another. Tristan tugged silently on the sleeve of the wizard's robe, slid the dreggan from its scabbard, and smoothly rolled over onto his back. He was on his feet in a flash, his dreggan in a strong, two-handed grip.

Three demonslavers stood near the ladder at the other side of the roof, the rose-colored moonlight glinting off their alabaster skin. Each of them held a short sword. Two of them smiled.

Just then Shailiha turned to see why Tristan had risen, and the air left her lungs in a rush. Turning over, Faegan also looked. But before anything could be done, all three slavers charged at once.

Tristan ran across the roof, his dreggan slashing as he went. The first of the slavers he met died quickly, its head cleanly severed from its body.

But the next two would not be so easy. They hacked savagely at Tristan, who fended them off as best he could, his sword almost a blur. But inexorably they came on, forcing him to keep backing up toward the wizard and the princess, as the three blades clanged coldly, harshly against one another.

Shailiha looked aghast at Faegan, silently beseeching him to intervene with the craft, no matter the consequences.

The demonslavers were closing on Tristan, and it was plain to see that the prince was tiring. Faegan relaxed his mind and stopped cloaking their endowed blood.