A lively market day, he thought to himself. No doubt some folk had woken up early today, looking forward to this. A day in town, seeing friends, dickering for bargains. A stroll to the auction to see what was available in slaves today.

For a time they were kept bunched at the bottom of the steps while the auctioneer finished with the batch on the platform. A few serious buyers pushed through the crowd to view them more closely. Some shouted questions to the handlers, as to age, condition of teeth, past experience. These the handlers repeated to the slave in question, as if they could not hear and understand the buyer themselves. One queried Wintrow's age. “Fourteen,” he replied quietly.

The buyer made a derogatory noise. “I'd have taken him for twelve. Push up his sleeve, let's see his arm.” And when the handler complied, “Well, there's a bit of muscle there. What kind of work do you know, boy? Kitchen? Poultry?”

Wintrow cleared his throat. What was he? A slave with good skills was treated better, or so he had been told. He might as well make the most of what cards he did hold. “I was in training to be a priest. I've worked in orchards. I can do stained glass. I can read, write, and figure. And I've been a ship's boy,” he added reluctantly.

“Too full of himself,” the buyer sneered. He turned away, shaking his head at a companion. “He'll be hard to train. He already thinks he knows too much.”

While he was trying to think of an appropriate reply to that, a jerk on his chain brought him to attention. The others were already climbing the steps and Wintrow staggered up after them. For a few moments, all he could concentrate on was the steep steps and the short chains that linked his ankles. Then he took his place in the row of slaves on the torch-lit wooden stage.

“New slaves, fresh slaves, no bad habits yet, you'll have to teach them those yourself.” The auctioneer began his spiel. The crowd responded with half-hearted chuckles. “Now here's what I've got, see for yourself, and you decide which one will lead off the bidding. I got a couple stout hands here, good for farm, field or stable; got a warmhearted granny here, perfect for keeping an eye on your little ones; got a woman here, seen a bit of hard use but still got some good years in her; and a couple of boys, lively, healthy boys, young enough to be taught anything. Now, who wants to open up the bidding? Don't be shy, you just holler it out and let me know what one's caught your eye.” The auctioneer gestured invitingly to the field of faces that looked up eagerly at the merchandise on the platform.

“Mayvern! The old woman! Three silver!” Wintrow found the desperate young woman in the crowd. A daughter perhaps, or a younger friend. The old woman on the platform beside him lifted her hands to her face, covering as if she were ashamed or afraid to hope. Wintrow thought his heart would break. Then he caught a glimpse of something that made it flip over in his chest instead. His father's height and fair hair stood out in the crowd like a flag beckoning him to home and safety. He was discussing something with a man behind him.

“Father!” he cried out, and saw Kyle Haven's head turn to the platform in disbelief. He saw Torg beside him, his hand going to his mouth as if in amazement, mimicking his astonishment very well. One of the handlers thudded Wintrow in the ribs with his stick.

“Be still. Wait your turn,” he commanded him.

Wintrow scarcely felt the blow or heard the words. All he had eyes for was his father's face, looking up at him. He seemed so small and far away in that sea effaces. In the gathering dark, Wintrow could not be sure of his expression. He stared down at his father and prayed to Sa. Neither his mind nor his lips shaped any words; it was a simple plea for mercy. He saw his father turn to Torg for a hasty conference of some sort. He wondered if, this late in the day, his father had money left to spend. But he must, or he would have taken what he'd bought and gone back to the ship. Wintrow tried to smile hopefully, but could not quite remember how. What was his father feeling just now? Anger, relief, shame, pity? It didn't matter, Wintrow decided. His father could not look at him and not buy him. Could he? After all, what would his mother say?

Nothing, if she wasn't told, Wintrow suddenly realized. Nothing at all, if all she knew was that her son had run away in Jamaillia City.

The auctioneer's lash slapped the table in front of him. “Sold!” he roared out. “For ten silvers, and you are welcome to her, my lady fair. Now. Who wants to open the next bid? Come on, now, there's some likely slaves up here. Look at the muscle on these field workers. Spring planting is only a few months away, farmers. Can't be ready too soon!”

“Father! Please!” Wintrow shouted, and then flinched away as the handler jabbed him again.

Slowly, Kyle Haven lifted his hand. “Five shards. For the boy.”

The crowd had a general laugh at this insulting bid. One bought a bowl of soup for five copper shards, not a slave. The auctioneer recoiled slowly, his hand to his chest. “Five shards?” he asked in mock dismay. “Oh, laddie, what did you do to displease papa so? Five shards I'm offered, five shards is where we start. Anyone else interested in this five-shard slave?”

A voice came up from the crowd. “Which boy is the one who can read, write, and figure?”

Wintrow kept silent, but a guard helpfully replied, “He's the one. Was in training to be a priest. Says he can work stained glass, too.”

This final claim in such an apparently young boy put the others in doubt. “A full copper!” someone laughingly bid.

“Two!”

“Stand up straight,” the guard bid him and followed this advice with a nudge from his stick.

“Three,” his father said sullenly.

“Four!” This was from a laughing young man at the edge of the crowd. He and his companions nudged one another and shifted, their gazes going from Wintrow to his father. Wintrow's heart sank. If his father became aware of their game, there was no telling how he'd react.

“Two silvers,” someone called, apparently thinking she could make a quick end of the bidding with a large increase. Two silvers, he was to learn later, was still a low bid for a new and unpromising slave, but it was within the realm of acceptability.

“Two silvers!” the auctioneer called out with enthusiasm. “Now, my friends and neighbors, we are taking this young man seriously. He reads, writes and figures! Claims to do stained glass, but we shan't make much of that, shall we? A useful lad, bound to get bigger as he can't get smaller; a tractable, trainable boy. Do I hear three?”

He did, and it was not from Wintrow's father or the hecklers. The bids shot up to five silvers before the real buyers began shaking their heads and turning aside to examine other waiting merchandise. The boys at the edge of the crowd continued bidding until Torg was sent to stand beside them. He scowled at them, but Wintrow clearly saw him offer them a handful of coins to leave off their game. Ah. So that was how it was done and the whole purpose of it.

A few moments later, his father bought him for seven silvers and five whole coppers. Wintrow was unfastened from the coffle, and led forward by his manacles exactly as a cow might be. At the bottom of the steps, he was turned over to Torg. His father had not even come forward to receive him. A tide of uneasiness arose in Wintrow. He held his wrists out to Torg to have the chains removed, but the sailor feigned not to notice them. Instead he inspected Wintrow as if he were indeed just any other slave that his master had just purchased. “Stained glass, eh?” he scoffed, and got a general laugh from the handlers and other idlers at the base of the auction stage. He gripped the chain between Wintrow's wrist and dragged him forward. Wintrow was forced to stumble after him, his ankles still hobbled.