The Steel Remains

The doorman came back in the company of a girl carrying a gaudily painted wooden tray laden with goblets and a flagon. She wore not much more than three fistfuls of cloth and a couple of thin cords holding it all together, and she walked to accentuate what was on display. She was too young for the makeup she wore, and there was a worried crease around her eyes like someone trying to remember the right way to perform a complex task, but she conformed more or less to the specifics they’d just been discussing. Ringil made his eyes stick to her curves in an appropriate fashion as she crossed the room. Hale saw, and smiled.

“So. You like?”

“Yes. This would be, uhm, suitable, but—”

“Oh, I’m sure it would.” Hale, dreamily, watching as the girl laid out flagon and goblets on the desk. “Unfortunately, Nilit here isn’t for sale. I’ve taken a bit of shine to her. But really, she’s nothing special, and she has sisters.”

He glanced up.

“I mean that quite literally. Sisters, two of them. All sold together. But the others are still in training. That can take awhile, especially if the girl is . . . spirited.”

Nilit’s hand knocked the flagon against one of the goblets she’d already set down. The cup toppled and rolled off the edge of the desk, clattered hollowly on the floor. Hale’s lips pressed together in exasperation. Nilit scrambled to retrieve the still-rolling goblet, and her eyes flashed on Ringil’s. The worry was gone, wiped out by a more immediate terror. She set the goblet back in place, hung her head, and mumbled something inaudible to Hale. He raised a finger at her and she shut up instantly.

“Just get out,” he snapped.

The girl hurried away, her wagging display-walk forgotten. Hale poured from the flagon, two goblets only. He beckoned Ringil forward.

“Please, be my guest. Choose a cup. This is one of the best wines the League territories have to offer. Before one becomes a customer of Terip Hale, one becomes an honored guest in his house. How else will we bind trust in our dealings?”

Ringil selected one of the goblets and held it up. Hale matched the gesture for a moment, drank first, as host ritual required. Ringil followed suit, swallowed a mouthful, and made an appreciative face.

“Fine vintage, eh?” purred Hale.

In fact, it wasn’t all that impressive. A dark Jith-Urnetil grape, late-harvest pressing of course, you couldn’t mistake that taste; but really a little too sweet for Ringil’s palate, and cloying on the aftertaste. He’d never been a big fan of the coastal range vintages anyway, and this one lacked far too many middle notes. But it would certainly have been expensive, and that counted for a lot with men like Hale.

“Well, then.” The slave trader finished his drink and put down the goblet. There was an anticipatory gleam in his eye. “I’d say that since it’s fairly clear what your requirements are, maybe we should just go down to the stable together and see if something doesn’t catch your—”

Ringil put in a ma

“Oh?” A politely raised eyebrow. “And what would that be?”

Ringil cradled his goblet and peered into it. Put on a sheepish expression. “I have mentioned already how my father feels about these things, about my . . . preferences. This uh, this behavior . . . of mine.”

“Yes.” Hale could not quite keep the weariness out of his voice. “Yes, I believe we’ve covered that. Go on.”

“Well, there is one thing I need to be certain of before I buy from you—there must be no issue from this woman. She must be barren.”

And something drained abruptly out of the room.

It was bizarre. Ringil felt the change the way he usually felt the prelude to combat; slight pressure at his lower back, the faintest of crawling across his shoulder blades. Somehow, it seemed, he’d said the wrong thing. In the sudden quiet that had opened behind his words, he looked up from his drink and saw that something indefinable had shifted in Terip Hale’s demeanor.

The slaver picked up his emptied goblet again, studied it as if he’d never seen it before and couldn’t imagine how it had gotten into the room with him.

“That is a very . . . specific requirement,” he said softly. He looked up and met Ringil’s eyes. The anticipatory gleam was gone. “You know, my Lord Laraninthal, I’m really not sure we shall be able to accommodate you so easily after all.”

Ringil blinked. This was unlooked for. The way he’d put the Laraninthal character across—wealthy but diffident, recently arrived in Trelayne, uncomfortable in his desires, and fearful for his father’s good opinion—he was offering Terip Hale an irresistible opportunity. First off, if Laraninthal was new to the city, he’d have no real sense of the market here, and thus no clear idea of what his pale, well-endowed sex slave ought to cost him. The fact that he was embarrassed about wanting her in the first place would only compound the matter. Hale could overcharge him to the mast tips. And that was just the start—do the deal right, and the slave trader was opening the lid of a whole treasure chest in genteel blackmail. You see, my lord, it appears there are rumors. We wouldn’t want your father hearing them, would we? Now, don’t worry, I’m sure we can stanch the chatter—but it will cost a little something, these arrangements always do . . .

And so forth. For the duration of his stay in Trelayne, this Laraninthal could be discreetly bled for whatever he was worth.

It was a lot to pass up.

Yeah, but looks like old Terip here is getting ready to throw it away with both hands. And throw you out, too, Gil, you don’t get a grip on things pretty fucking fast.

“If this—” His accent had slipped with the surprise—he tugged it back into place, cleared his throat, and improvised off a tone of insulted pique. “If this is some trick to increase your price, then I am not—”

“We have not discussed price yet,” observed Hale, still in a tone like silk. But Ringil’s feigned outrage seemed to have had the desired effect. A little of the tension went out of the slaver. He set the goblet down and steepled his fingers. “In any case, it isn’t that which concerns me. It’s merely that I don’t see why you should be so concerned with the wench in question’s breeding capacity. It really is neither here nor there. If she swells with child, we can soon find you a replacement, well before she becomes unsightly. And meanwhile, by law you will own the offspring if it survives. You can sell it, along with the mother if she no longer pleases you, or separately, if that improves your price. The market is flexible in these matters.”

“I, uh, I would not know how to go about—”

“Oh, you may be assured of my diligence in such a case. I’ll gladly pledge you any assistance you require.”

Yeah, I’ll bet—for a small consideration. But at least Hale seemed to be tipping back in the right direction. Ringil put in another diffident clearing of the throat.

“You see, in imperial law, slave offspring ca

“Yes, I’m sure.” A faint impatience curled into the slaver’s tone now. “But you’re not in the Empire now, my lord. We have League law here, and I assure you, I know it to the letter where my business is concerned.”

“Well, then.” Grudgingly. “I suppose that—”

“Excellent.” Hale clapped his hands. “Well, I think what we’ll do is, instead of talking all night, we’ll go down and see some flesh right now. That’ll give you something to sleep on, eh, my lord.”

A lewd wink. Ringil tried hard to look enthusiastic.

“Oh, and perhaps before we do that, my Lord Laraninthal could give me any other specifics he has in mind. The stable we hold is extensive, and it may save time if we can narrow the field. Is there perhaps a particular hair color that draws you? Height? I understand your women in the south are quite small-boned.”