6. Kazrith
“That can’t be everything, can it?”
I rummage in my pockets, looking for the scribbled piece of parchment and then studying my carriage.
The burning bright sun hangs high overhead, searing its unforgiving glare into my eyes. Home was not so bright, albeit the red skies. Getting used to this is going to be impossible.
A faint breeze shakes the trees overhead.
I swear I’m forgetting something.
Patting Zinni on the back to calm his abrasive and aggravating whinnying, I climb into the carriage and study my belongings, staring down at the parchment. My sweaty hands have rubbed off on it, leaving the ink barely legible.
Before me is a scattered, almost indiscernible scene. I have had time to catalog my acquisitions but haven’t had time to organize them.
“I’ve got the pretentious rocking chair,” I say aloud, noting the small piece of furniture clearly fit for some spoiled demon brat. Its wood gnarls over itself, forming symbols and sigils.
I try not to think about how old it looks or ponder what could have happened to the child who owned it. What’s important to me is that I acquired it cheaply and that I can sell it for a profit.
I run down the list, trying to discern what I’m missing.
“I’ve got the bag of small blacksmithing daggers,” I say aloud, noting how primitive and crude they look as I pull them out of the coated rucksack. They must have been somebody’s first projects, but sentimental fools often find value in them.
I move aside products, looking over handmade creations, valuable antiquities, and raw materials alike. The carriage is packed so tightly, I have to avoid tripping over the goods.
Then I hear footsteps outside, trodding against the rock and gravel road. I think about who could possibly be wandering in these desolate parts before reaching one conclusion.
“Hey, Vrask,” I shout outside, not even bothering to check. “Any way you’ve seen a massive bag of nimond beans?”
After a moment, the footsteps stop, and Vrask peers into the cabin.
“Well, hello to you, too, asshole,” Vrask says. “I thought I’d see you off. And here you’re accusing me of stealing your shit?”
I sigh in frustration, stretching to stop myself from escalating. I know I’m not going to see him again soon, so I can’t exactly start one of our signature fights.
“You know that I’m not going to be gone that long, right?” I ask. “We’ll run into each other again.”
He scoffs. “Well, maybe I won’t even bother then. Safe travels, I suppose.”
I shake my head in confusion.
“Was that all you came out here to say? You could have said goodbye in the tavern.”
“Just thought I’d make sure you’re really going this time,” he replies, turning back around. “You have a habit of lingering.”
I chuckle, sticking my head out to watch him depart.
When I’m in the area again, perhaps I’ll invite him out for an ale. I may have been too curt.
Not that he didn’t deserve it.
“The kids.”
I grunt in disbelief, remembering the gathering of children around my cart earlier just within the city bounds.
They must have pilfered the nimond beans.
“Guess I’m not leaving town yet,” I say, getting the carriage ready for one last detour.
I’ll have to double back to the city. It isn’t that I enjoy taking nimond beans from children. But failing to reclaim at least some of the product would be a huge loss. I don’t like marking through anything in my ledger.
New Solas is so much more quiet in the mornings than back home. The streets are almost deserted. Back home, the shops open at first light, but New Solas is slumbering still.
“Whoa, there,” I say, trying to calm down Zinni. Pinni, on the other hand, shows much more restraint. “I’ll only be gone a moment.”
I make sure to lock the cabin before I leave.
There’s no sign of the children. I still remember how they played together in front of the auction houses, acting out the one trade I want no part in.
Instead, a stray, wandering carriage passes through the district, its wheels eerily scraping against the cobblestone streets.
I wave at its driver cautiously, but the xaphan holds up his nose.
“Yeah, that went about as expected,” I say, loud enough for the driver to hear. He either doesn’t hear or doesn’t care.
I might not care for the xaphans, but perhaps while I’m waiting, I can learn why demons drive themselves mad for this trade. Anything that might give me insight into the mindset of my clients is worth my time.
I walk off the street and move through the district until I find the first sign of commotion. A large, open-facing building with a grotesque golden roof greets me, coupled with an unfortunate scene.
“And here we have Miss Jerilee! She’s built well and will serve all of your needs!”
Apparently, many businesses sleep, but the slave trade does not.
The xaphan auctioneer aggressively slaps the depressing human female, motioning her into place in front of the crowd. I can smell strong hints of kaffa beans as I stand among the crowd, observing.
Everybody in the crowd stands at attention, ready for bidding to begin. Xaphans and demons alike, of all ages—but only male bidders—stare down the woman, turning their heads sharply to analyze the movements of their adversaries.
“Five hundred thousand nodal!”
An elderly xaphan who can barely stand, his wings flailing behind him with every step, moves to the front of the crowd, ensuring he can be heard.
But he isn’t uncontested.
A demon, pale green in color and almost as large as me, cuts off his movement, knocking him to the hard stone floor.
“Five-hundred eighty!” he shouts.
Nobody moves to check on the elderly xaphan, who might well be trampled underfoot. In the uproar, the man is overruled.
The audience erupts, bidding exorbitantly high prices on this woman. She looks like she can barely stand, her disheveled brown hair falling loosely over untoned and muscle-starved shoulders. Her eyes dimly reflect the light, her head hung low in shame.
My stomach churns at the sight.
“Six-hundred fifty thousand nodal,” the elderly xaphan cries out, sounding as though every word might be his last. His voice is both coarse and flimsy as he feebly picks himself up from the floor.
I have to understand.
The whole point of this side quest was to observe the behavior of other demons so that I might better sell wares to them.
I look at the long line of women hidden behind the staging area, lining up toward the platform. Seemingly humans of every background and age fill the auction block, every eye filled with despair. Notably, none of the women fight their fates—none push away from the line, toward the brutally equipped guards, who might bludgeon them with maces at the first sign of resistance.
“Seven hundred thousand,” a booming, unrecognizable voice calls out from somewhere in the crowd.
I watch, trying to catch even a glimmer of the attraction other demons must feel. If any of this is to mean anything, I can’t simply chalk up this obsession to madness. I have to understand what drives this obsession.
“One million nodal.”
The demon, who earlier cut off the elderly xaphan, unconcerned with his safety, roars over the crowd’s commotion.
It brings silence to the crowd. Several xaphans and demons, who had cut in between the adversarial bidding war, are left speechless. The xaphan is left rasping on the ground.
“Sold to Mr. Xerneas Xenophil!” the auctioneer calls out, shoving the woman over.
Briefly, I see her pleading with him, as though hoping to find a grain of sympathy in the system that would gladly ruin her.
She does not look happy, her movements staggered against her chains.
He seems wickedly gleeful, his smile catching his charcoal-black eyes.
“Oh, the things I’m going to do to you,” he says, swatting the woman on the rear.
She winces in pain. I can see even from a distance the thoughts raging through her mind.
She knows what’s in store for her, I think.
And yet still, she doesn’t fight—doesn’t protest in the slightest against her possible death. Then again, fighting will still lead to her death, just in a more hasty fashion.
I shake my head in disbelief. A younger-looking woman, whose short red hair captures the bright light of the morning sun, steps up to the block, prodded by guards.
And I watch more or less the same scene play out again.
They scream over each other, unconcerned for each other’s safety or camaraderie, until they win the woman, who will only reluctantly enjoy their company. I wonder how many have died here, trying to obtain this vexing prize.
There is no life left in any of these women’s eyes. They are pale, drained of their wills, their bodies mere flesh.
I can tell by the way they carry themselves that they aren’t fit for labor. They’re not well-fed and can barely stand.
I’m tempted to step up and ask one of these demons what he values so much about these women. I can only speak for myself in saying it, but I wouldn’t pay for the honor of their hesitant company.
That’s when I catch their movements out of the corner of my eye. I tear myself between the scene playing out on repeat and my intended quest.
I shrug. The more I watch, the less I feel like I understand.
As much as I try, I’m not sure I’m ever going to understand how human women titillate these xaphans and demons. And that frustrates me.
Because while I can’t see the entrepreneurial value of these women—they don’t offer much in the way of labor, and can’t assist in many other ways either—I can see the value in understanding the motivations of the men who value them.
I manage to recover the bag mostly intact. One of the young children guides me to where he’s stashed it, inside the hollow of an old and gnarled tree.
Finally able to check it off my list, I load the nimond beans into my carriage, ready to depart.