The Wending Way (The Purple Throne #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

The slave hall stood at the edge of the lower city, where refuse clogged the gutters and the marble of old temples wore the stains of neglect.

Once, the hall had been a meeting place for the men and women of science, but now the banners of the Traders' Guild fluttered over the broken reliefs like torn sails.

The air reeked of oil, iron, body odour and the sour stink of hopelessness.

Verna drew her cloak tighter as she stepped through the archway, her two guards at her heels.

The thick, oppressive heat from braziers along the walls struck her first. Then came the low, constant roar of noise: shouts, laughter, and the clatter of coins and chains. On the high vaults above, pigeons beat their wings, their droppings streaking the statues of long forgotten gods.

It was a hateful place where dignity was dead.

The hall opened before her into an amphitheatre that was more a pit than a stage.

Rows of stone benches encircled a wooden platform that was raised high enough that every bidder could see the merchandise.

The floorboards were slick with oil used to make the skin shine, and to hide bruises.

Verna paused at the edge, letting her eyes adjust to the smoky gloom.

She had been here many times and each visit she wished it could be the last. But she returned, unable to forget the faces of those sold on the block, and the hollow sound of their chains on the stone floor.

The crowd was a mixture of nobility and merchants: aristocrats in embroidered cloaks sat beside ship captains with salt on their boots, next to traders from the coast wearing fine but practical clothes. They laughed, waved their bidding tokens like it was a game.

Then there were the slavers.

They stood along the sides of the pit; broad men with shaved heads and leather collars around their necks to mark them as guild servants.

Their arms were thick and calloused, and they carried iron rods and whips were looped at their belts.

A few women worked among them, sharp-featured and cruel, armed with hooks to drag the captives into line.

She took a seat at the back, her guards, two thickset women from Abrensia, sat on either side of her.

The bidders gave them a wide berth, wary of the guards’ sizes and the wide, bladed weapons attached to their belts.

It was said the steel was so sharp that these warriors could behead a man with one swing.

Suddenly, the door clanged open, and the sound of chains filled the hall as a group of slaves was herded from the corridor at the rear.

The slavers shouted in guttural voices while they shoved the captives forward with their boots and rods.

They came barefoot, their wrists bound in iron cuffs, their ankles linked by chains.

Each carried a wooden tag around the neck, marked with a number and a few words scrawled in red ink: age, region and trade.

Verna could see they came from the fringes of the Empire, spoils of the never-ending wars that raged in the far outposts.

These first to be auctioned were men hardened by years of labour or war, all in their prime.

The bidding was spirited, the majority going to the sea captains to replenish their crews.

The waters were treacherous along the trade routes in the Meridian Sea, and many were lost overboard.

The sailors departed after that lot was finished, not interested in the slaves to come.

The ships’ decks were no place for women or the weak.

There was a short lull in proceedings while drinks were replenished, then the next lot of slaves were brought in: people with skills, and the scribes.

Once they were bought and taken off by their new masters, the crowd leaned forward with expectation.

The next to come were the domestic men and women.

As they stumbled in, the air around them shimmered with fear. A few wept silently. One woman carried a baby, her face contorting in agony when the child was taken from her arms when she reached the platform.

The slavers handled them like livestock, prodding and striking to force them to stand up straight. Those who faltered were doused with buckets of icy water. Their oiled skin glistened under the torch light, and their hair hung loose to show the thickness and colour.

Verna felt the familiar anger rise. The body language of the slavers spoke of ownership, not passion or hatred. That, she thought, made it worse.

A new auctioneer appeared, stepping onto the dais.

He was a plump man in a crimson tunic; his lips painted red and his hair arranged in glossy curls.

A eunuch if she wasn't mistaken. Slavers used them to handle the women prisoners.

He carried a staff tipped with ivory, the symbol of the guild authority.

A condescending smile played on his soft mouth.

"Welcome, honoured patrons," he called, spreading his arms wide. "We have the finest stock in all of Castine today. Strong backs, gentle hands, unspoiled spirits! May fortune favour your bids."

The crowd responded with a low murmur, anticipation rippling around the room.

Verna's stomach turned. Unspoiled spirits indeed. As if the human soul could be weighed and priced.

When she threw back the hood of her cloak, she drew glances.

There was no doubt they all recognized her.

As well they should. She was Lady Verna of the Eclipsian Vineyards, one of the wealthiest people in the Empire.

She could afford to buy what others merely admired.

Ignoring their whispering and sly glances, she kept her eyes fixed on the platform.

A slaver passed by, dragging a trembling woman by the chain at her throat. He looked at Verna as he went, leering through broken and brown teeth. "Fine day for a purchase, m’lady," he said. "The northern caravans brought strong stock this season. Harvest of war."

Verna's face didn't change. "A harvest," she repeated sarcastically. "That's what you call it now?"

The man shrugged and moved on, his laughter rasping against the stone.

At the platform's base, two guild assistants, pale men with long faces, ink-stained fingers and ledgers clutched in their hands, arranged the order of sale. One called out numbers while the other marked them down. Behind them, the line of captives waited, each person stepping forward when prodded.

The first was an older man, a farmer by the look of him. The auctioneer introduced him briskly, and within moments the bidding was done. A merchant from the city of Capella raised a token and the gavel fell.

Next came a boy, followed by a seamstress and then a cook. The line moved through quickly enough; each life reduced to a handful of shouted numbers.

Verna felt the old anger rise in her chest. The helpless, useless fury at the inhumanity of the auction.

The last captives were dragged forward, the girls and young women.

If they were lucky, they would be bought for domestic chores, if not they would end up in the bed of some bastard who beat them, or in the city brothels.

When one girl stumbled, falling to her knees, the nearest slaver struck her across the shoulders.

"Up. Show your face!"

Verna had to stop herself from crying out. The urge to intervene was nearly overwhelming. When the girl cowered, eyes wide with fear, Verna's resolve hardened.

The auctioneer looked up to offer her a small bow. "Ah, Lady Verna. An honour. Perhaps you'll find something of interest today."

Verna didn't reply. She moved to the front row of benches where she could see the captives clearly. The bruises were evident, as well as the cuts on their arms and legs. The slavers had been heavier with the lash this time. Something or someone must have upset them.

Her fingers closed around the cool edge of her silver ring.

This was why she came. Not because she could change the system but because her coin could save a few from the cruelty of slavery.

When the auctioneer raised his staff, the first girl was forced onto the block.

Verna sat still, waiting for the bidding to begin.

The auctioneer rapped his ivory staff three times on the floor, and the crowd went quiet. "Lot One!" he shouted. "Healthy girl, fourteen summers, no scars or pox. She's been trained for house service."

Two of the slavers stepped forward, each gripping an arm to hold her up. Her tunic was made from brown wool from the goats of Caladi. It was soaked at the seams where she had been washed. A bronze collar hung around her neck with a chain attached. Her feet were bare.

The men positioned her under the lamplight and yanked her chin up so the crowd could see her face.

She trembled but made no sound. One of the slavers pinched her arm and turned her so her back faced the buyers, showing her muscle and shape.

The audience murmured, appraising her as they might a mare.

"From the hill province," the auctioneer continued. "A shepherd's daughter. Unspoiled. You won't find better."

When laughter rolled through the crowd, Verna's stomach twisted. She'd seen enough livestock markets, but none stank like this.

The auctioneer raised his hand. "We begin at two hundred Baras."

A merchant near the front lifted a token. "Two hundred."

"Two-fifty!" came another voice.

"Three hundred."

"Three-twenty!"

The girl stood motionless, her eyes fixed somewhere above their heads. She was panting, and a tear slid down her cheek like a thread of silver in the light.

"Three-forty! Going once, going twice—"

Verna waved her token. "Five hundred."

The hall fell silent, then erupted into murmurs.

The auctioneer grinned. "Five hundred from Lady Verna. Do I hear more?"

No more bids came.

The gavel came down hard. "Sold!"

The girl flinched at the sound. A slaver unhooked her chain from the post and shoved her toward the steps. She stumbled again but managed to right herself before falling. When the girl reached her, Verna lifted a hand.

"Enough," she said quietly.

The slaver gave the chain a yank. "She's yours, my lady."

"I said enough." Verna's voice cut the air like frost. She took the chain from his hand and coiled it around her own wrist.

The slaver shrugged and turned away. The girl's eyes flicked to Verna's face. "You'll be safe soon," she murmured. "Sit here, child, until my business is concluded."

The crowd's attention shifted as the auctioneer went on. Verna bought three more of the most vulnerable girls, then rose from her seat when the block was cleared. "Come. Let us get out of this accursed place."

As she reached the top of the steps, she turned when the auctioneer cried out, "We have a special lot tonight. You'll not forget this one, honoured patrons. Rare stock from the borderlands. It took four men to bring her in."

Verna looked down curiously as two slavers dragged the heavily-chained captive through the doorway and onto the block.

The woman was taller than either of her captors and looked to be somewhere in her thirties, but it was hard to tell. Her dark hair hung loose and wild, her tunic was torn at the shoulder, and even chained, she moved with a wary grace. Her face showed no fear, only anger.

One of the slavers struck her across the back to make her kneel. When she didn't, he struck again. A second guard joined in, trying to force her to her knees. She twisted from their grip and they both stumbled.

A ripple of shock went through the crowd.

The auctioneer lifted his staff threateningly. "Hold her still!"

More slavers finally forced her to her knees. Her head rose slowly, and when her eyes met Verna's, it was like looking into a dark storm.

Verna felt her pulse quicken.

The auctioneer, recovering his bravado, laughed. "A wild one from the northern wars. A fighter. Perfect for the mines, or perhaps," he looked around the crowd with a sly grin, "for those who like a challenge."

The hall fell silent.

"Two hundred Baras to start," the auctioneer announced.

A rough voice echoed from the back of the room. "Two hundred."

"Two-fifty."

"Three hundred."

"Four hundred."

The bids came quickly, and the slavers watched eagerly, hungry for coin.

Verna's hand closed over her ring again. It seemed to pulse on her finger. Before she could think, she called out, "One thousand."

The crowd fell silent.

The auctioneer blinked. "My lady, are you certain? She’s dangerous."

"One thousand," Verna repeated, her voice ringing out. "Payable now."

A hush spread through the room. When no one gave a counter bid, the auctioneer struck the floor with his staff.

"Sold… to Lady Verna."

The warrior woman's gaze never left Verna.

Verna motioned to the nearest guard. "Give me her chain."

"My lady. She's dangerous."

Verna waggled her fingers. "Her chain."

The man hesitated, then obeyed.

The woman rose slowly to her feet, her shoulders squared despite the bruises, and stepped down from the platform without waiting to be told.

The crowd parted as they passed. "You're free of them," Verna said quietly.

The woman's voice, when it came, was hoarse but steady. "No one here is free. I am your slave now."

One of Verna’s guards placed a hand on the hilt of her sword and snapped, "Watch your tongue, woman."

The slave shrugged but offered no resistance as she was led out to the waiting carriage.