again. By the time the sun sank down into the dust-haze on the western horizon Village Tkoman lay before them, a huddle of mean little buildings overtopped by a row of temple spires and the jutting stump of an ancient, ruined citadel.
Master Chnesuru ordered his tent set up on the Sakbe road platform nearest the ramp down to the village gates. The litters were ranged in a circle, and some of the older women were sent to fetch cool water for their occupants. The others had to make do with the muddy tank at the base of the road platform wall. Miiru the cook got the commissary going, and soon the amber-gold twilight was filled with the pat-pat of dough being shaped into bread-cakes, the sweet-harsh smoke of charcoal fires, and the clatter of knives upon wood as the pulpy Shirya- tubers and fat A'ao-squash were chopped up for stew. Tlayesha helped with the buying of a great heap of black Hreqa- fruit, now at the best of its short season. Canny Chnesuru was a good provider; his slaves were sleek and healthy, and he had few problems with escapes. The Salarvyani were sound businessmen.
The slaver himself disappeared into the village to look for buyers, and it was not long before a troupe of harlots arrived, true to Tlayesha’s prediction. The sounds of cooking became submerged beneath the clash of silver bangles, the thready notes of a Sra’ur, and the laughter of men and women. Tlayesha had never quite sunk to the level of a Sakbe road trollop!
She strolled along the platform. This was a frequent stopping place for travellers, and there were peasants with fruits and meat to sell, peddlars bearing hampers piled high with cheap cloth and jewellery, itinerant priests, hawkers of amulets and potions, and what seemed like a legion of children selling wine, bitter beer, and Chumetl, the salted Hmelu — buttermilk that everybody preferred to the dubious-tasting water. There were other wayfarers too: a family of villagers in ragged breechclouts who ogled the harlots with interest, a party of sturdy merchants, some men from one of the Chlen — hide tanners’ clans, two or three litters belonging to the Temple of Avanthe by their blue curtains and insignia, several soldiers of at least three different legions-probably going north to join their units at Purdimal or Khirgar-and even a lesser nobleman, judging by the gaudy clan-symbols that swung from the pole before his tent.
All of this was as familiar to Tlayesha as a well-worn sandal, and she went to stand in the charcoal-and- spice-smelling dusk to look down over the jumbled shadows of the little town. Soon she saw Master Chnesuru returning in the company of a slender, ageing man in the pleated kilt of a minor aristocrat: probably Lord Fyerik, whose fief lay about ten Tsan to the south of Village Tkoman. Two brawny overseers trailed along behind. Her employer appeared a little tipsy, but she knew this to be part of his cleverness. When it came to selling his wares Master Chnesuru was a consummate actor.
“Here,” the slaver cried, “you have strong hands for your crops, my Lord!” He called for torches, and Qoyqunel herded the slaves up into the light so that they could be inspected.
Lord Fyerik made a sarcastic face, walked up and down in front of the group, and then snapped his fingers. “Fifty men-a score of Kaitars for each!”
Chnesuru made the expected. gestures of astonishment and pain. “My Lord, you do not buy old wcSmen! These slaves are sound, perfect, industrious, experienced, willing…’’He seemed to run out of qualities and shifted to his hurt but honest expression-a good actor, Chnesuru. “You have dealt with me before. You have seen that I never wrong you!”
They chaffered awhile, at first amiably, then with pretended acrimony. At last Chnesuru was satisfied with ninety Kaitars apiece for his brood. Not a bad sum, more than Tlayesha had thought he would get-but then demand was high during the month before harvest time.
Suddenly she felt anger rising within her. There, in the midst of the group, stood the slave with the shaking sickness! Old White-Side had been as good as his-its-word!
It was too late to do anything now, and Tlayesha could only stand and watch as the overseers herded him and the others down from the Sakbe road platform. Lord Fyerik took his leave, and then they were gone.
She could not repress a pang of-something. She had no idea why she cared. Was it only because the Ahoggya had flouted her, or was she going all soft and motherly at the age of barely twenty summers? By all the Gods…!
The following morning she sought out the Ahoggya.
“You did it, didn’t you?” she accused. “You sold off the sick boy.”
“What would you have done? Kept him to tickle you, as the priestesses of Dlamelish keep little boys and RenyuT'
“Of course not,” she bridled, “but you did not have Master Chnesuru’s permission!”
“He will be pleased. Ninety Kaitars for one worth less than ten.”
“When Lord Fyerik finds out he has been sold a sick slave-!” “We shall be long gone.” The creature turned around so that she faced another pair of slyly wicked eyes. “Why did you not order the slave to lie with you? Master Chnesuru would not have minded. The boy might have enjoyed it-little enough pleasure for his kind in this world. And maybe later another infant to sell for a few coins!”
“Tla! Cha! You talk foolishness!”
“Or you might find a normal man to jolly you?” Old White-Side gurgled a chuckle. “Some say that your body is appealing in spite of your veil. Now if it’s pleasure you seek, then know that we Ahoggya have eight sexes and-”
“Wretched pisspot with legs! Shall I give you a drug that will loosen your sagging bowels all over the road?’ ’
The Ahoggya turned, flipped his dangling reproductive organs at her, winked broadly with one of the eyes on that side of its body, and lumbered away.
They camped that night at a place called Ha’akel’s Wall, some twenty Tsan before the market town of Tsuru. Tlayesha busied herself with a pregnant woman slave and had almost succeeded in putting the matter of the sick boy out of her mind when she saw Master Chnesuru waddling toward the sick-cart. His expression told her that something was seriously wrong.
“Where is the man with the shaking sickness?” the slaver asked abruptly in his accented, mushy-sounding Tsolyani. “Qoyqunel said you were treating him yesterday.” He laid a stubby hand on the lashing of the cart and peered within. “He is not here with the sick?”
She knew better than to compromise Old White-Side; the creature was capable of a hundred devious little vengeances. Yet the situation seemed to call for at least part of the truth. “Why-I believe that he was among those sold to Lord Fyerik-” She got no further.
“WHAT?” Chnesuru actually shook her, something he had never done in the years Tlayesha had known him. “The slave is sold? Somebody sold him? Who-? How-?” She had never seen him so furious. His features went to dirty grey, then to apoplectic red. Terror filled her for Chnesuru could be cruel.
The slaver whirled and bawled for lanterns. The camp was swiftly searched from end to end. The boy could not be found. Nor could anyone recall who had made up the lot offered to Lord Fyerik.-Naturally.
Chnesuru stamped and swore and fumed. Calling upon his unpronounceable Salarvyani gods. At last he ordered Qoyqunel to take two men and return to Lord Fyerik’s estate. Now. Tonight. Not tomorrow morning! The slave boy must be brought back-at any price! This last was easily the most amazing thing Tlayesha had heard her employer say yet. He vouchsafed no reasons for his concern but strode into his tent with all of the dignity a small, fat man can muster. He pulled the flap shut.
Qoyqunel had wit enough to make no protests. Somebody would surely pay for his long run back down the Sakbe road and his return the next day under a scorching sun. If he ever found out that his discomfort was to be laid at the Ahoggya’s door, then the smelly old beast would need all of its eight eyes to keep watch over its skin!
To Tlayesha’s even greater wonderment, Chnesuru did not march on at dawn. Instead, he had the caravan tarry at the road tower (and what Ha’akel’s Wall was-or had been-she never found out) until Qoyqunel returned in the late afternoon, panting and perspiring, with the boy in tow. He glared at his comrades, screwed up his mouth, and pushed the slave into Chnesuru’s tent. Presently he emerged and bellowed for Tlayesha.
“He calls you, woman! The idiotic slave has been beaten, and you are summoned to coddle him.”
The nameless boy squatted on Chnesuru’s elegant carpet, as filthy and sweaty as ever she had seen a slave. Old White-Side’s weals were livid upon his shoulders, and he had a new abrasion upon his belly as well, probably a kick from one of Lord Fyerik’s overseers when they discovered the nature of his malady. She bit her lip and began to wash his wounds. They were angry-looking but superficial. Chnesuru must be badly shaken to show such interest.
