CHAPTER 7
This is reckless and foolish,” Reynald muttered under his breath.
“It will be fine,” I told him. “I have it in hand.”
He nodded at the statue of the Knight Vanquisher in the plaza in front of us. “That’s what Ralinbor of the Wilds said before his final battle.”
“I thought he said, ‘This kingdom isn’t big enough for two sons of Aymar.’”
“That, too.”
We were waiting two streets north of Derog’s personal fortress, in the shadows of some building in the Knight Vanquisher Plaza.
The night had fallen, and the enormous knight thrust his halberd to the sky as if trying to impale the three moons glowing against the darkness.
The statue had been erected twenty years ago to commemorate King Sauven’s victory over Ralinbor of the Wilds.
Ralinbor Savaric possessed a rare brand of magic, which allowed him to control a particularly nasty species of monster.
He was also Sauven’s half brother and best friend.
They were raised together, separated in adolescence due to political circumstances, and then reunited in their early twenties. Ralinbor was Sauven’s ride or die.
Sauven had promised Ralinbor great rewards for supporting his claim to the crown, but when it came time to deliver the goods, he dragged his feet and made excuses.
Ralinbor saw the writing on the wall—now that his brother sat on the throne, Ralinbor, with his army, vast lands, and powerful magic, had become a threat to his rule.
Two years into his reign, Sauven accused Ralinbor’s maternal uncle of treason and had him beheaded.
Ralinbor took his army and marched on Kair Toren.
The story had an ugly ending with Ralinbor dying in battle, his wife being brought to the capital, tried for treason, and executed, and their orphan son burning to death. Although that last one was in doubt.
Sauven won, but his victory was bittersweet.
He’d killed his brother, the one man in the whole kingdom he’d genuinely cared about.
Perhaps because of that, instead of a triumphant smile, the knight’s stone face bore a perpetual disapproving frown.
I didn’t need any more disapproval in my life right now. I was getting plenty as it was.
“There must be a better way,” Reynald said.
He’d had almost four months to figure out a better way and he hadn’t. Pointing that out would be counterproductive.
A woman in her fifties walked into the square, carrying a lantern and moving like she had a destination in mind and needed to get there. She wore a dark dress with a knitted shawl wrapped around her shoulders.
Here we go.
The woman stopped and raised the lantern, the light catching her face. She had harsh features and skin like old parchment. Her hair, which might have been blond at some point, had grayed to a kind of beige. She wore it pulled back into a braid and coiled on the back of her head.
Darotha. When you needed some questionable crap done in the west part of the city, she was the person to see.
She had three great qualities: She stayed bought, she kept her mouth shut, and she hated Derog.
His men raided the beggar slums once and took away some kids.
Darotha took offense to that. Those were her beggar children.
He sent his people into her backyard, took her kids, and did not return them, apologize, or make amends, and she couldn’t do anything about it because he was sitting in his fortress surrounded by guards.
Darotha didn’t make a stink. She didn’t confront Derog. She simply waited and held on to her grudge. Derog had no idea, but she’d stab him in the back with a rusty knife in a heartbeat. When I offered her that knife two hours ago, she’d grabbed it with both hands.
“I still don’t understand why we need her,” Reynald muttered.
“We need her because I can’t sell myself, and you can’t sell me either. Derog’s people might have seen you before, when you were asking questions about your son, and even if they hadn’t, you’re too scary.”
There was no way to tone him down. The slavers would never open the door to him.
“I’m not going to buy my vengeance with your life.”
“I’m Maggie the Undying. It’s not a figure of speech.”
Darotha saw us and headed right over.
“We’re not doing this.”
That sounded very final.
“I’m going into that house one way or another,” I told him softly. “There are children in there who will be sold and brutalized unless someone stops it. I need to know if you have my back. If you don’t help me, I’ll have to stab Derog myself, and I’ve never stabbed anybody in my whole life.”
I only hit people with rocks. That was more my speed.
Darotha was halfway across the plaza.
“Are you going to abandon me?” I asked. “In or out?”
“In, damn it,” he growled.
Darotha reached us and looked at me. “You sure you want to do this?”
“I am.”
“Follow me. Keep your head down, look at your feet, and don’t talk.”
I looked down and trailed her across the square. At the mouth of the street, I glanced over my shoulder. Reynald was still under the arch, deep in the night shadows. I gave him a little wave. He didn’t wave back.
We walked through the dark streets until we reached Derog’s estate, one solid wall facing the street, a single door like black satin in the center of it. The woman knocked on the door. A small window opened, revealing a slice of a man’s face.
“I have merchandise,” Darotha said.
The window shut. Metal clanged. Win. Darotha had cost me three nomas, and she was worth it.
The door swung open, revealing a hard-faced man in his thirties. A thin scar carved through his cheek, drawing a pale line on his skin that ran all the way into his dark hair. I caught a glimpse of a long stone tunnel behind him.
Darotha reached over and slapped the back of my head. “What did I tell you about staring?”
I bowed my head.
The guard’s gaze slid over me, long and sticky, almost viscous. A cold draft swirled from the tunnel, throwing damp air into my face. A nauseating shiver squirmed through me. I didn’t want to go into that house. I wanted to turn around and run away as fast as my legs would carry me.
“Come with me.”
Darotha started moving, and I followed her into the tunnel.
It punched through the entire width of the building, exactly sixty feet, and at the other end, another archway led to the courtyard, brightly lit by a row of lanterns.
The courtyard was large, at least thirty-five, maybe forty yards across and paved with cobblestones.
A well rose to the right, and in the center of the courtyard, an old wine tree stretched its branches from a flower bed.
I concentrated on the tree. If I looked nervous in any way, it was game over.
Reynald was right about Derog’s business preferences.
He liked to buy young. Slavery had been illegal in Kair Toren for over three hundred years.
The very first Savaric king had outlawed it, and their entire dynasty rested on that law.
Buying and selling slaves fell under Crimes Against the Kingdom, federal treason with an automatic death sentence.
Even a noble of a prominent family caught with slaves would be purged.
Most of the slaves Derog acquired would be smuggled outside of the country to be sold at foreign markets.
Despite the law, a few Rellasians still risked buying human beings, and they wanted them young, so they would be easier to control.
Cute kids and attractive teenagers were in high demand.
At twenty-six, I was way out of Derog’s favorite age bracket, which was why I had chosen to pretend to be a vulnerable adult.
Explaining that term to Reynald had taken some time.
The guard who let us in was staring daggers at me.
I raised my chin a little and looked at the tree.
It really was a pretty tree. Stout, with a thick trunk that spiraled up in that corkscrew way particular to wine trees.
During the day, it would bloom with pale pink flowers that looked a lot like oversized roses.
If you cut it, its sap would run ruby red, like cabernet sauvignon .
. . And the door in the far wall opened.
Crap, crap, crap. I looked down at my feet.
A pair of brown boots came into my view.
“Where did you get her?” The man had a quiet voice.
“My sister sent her to me from the countryside,” Darotha said. “Her late husband’s daughter from a previous wife. My sister’s got a house full of her own kids and a husband in the ground. They are bad off, and they need the money.”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty.”
“Too old.”
“She has the mind of a child,” the woman said. “She’s sweet, obedient, good with kids. She keeps herself clean.”
Thick calloused fingers grasped my chin and lifted my face.
The man in front of me was large, with broad shoulders and the kind of seasoned strength you sometimes saw among the older MMA trainers, the guys who stood in the fighter’s corner and screamed incomprehensible advice and curses during the matches.
He was in his fifties, with skin the color of sand and longish dark hair brushed back from his forehead.
His face, with a sharp nose and dark hooded eyes, showed no emotion. Derog Olgren. The slavemonger.
His eyes studied me.
Like being caught in the claws of an old eagle.
Behind him, another man stood, holding a coin purse and a book with a quill in it. He was in his late thirties, pale, with short, dark blond hair. Lasa, the bookkeeper.
I tried to look oblivious and trusting.
Derog turned my head left, then right.
“She’s untouched,” Darotha told him. “Healthy. Not diseased.”
That first one was not strictly true. I wasn’t a virgin, but I doubted they would check. My value wasn’t between my legs, it was in my mouth.
Derog grimaced and let me go. “It’s supply and demand, Darotha. Customers who risk buying a fucktoy want something extraordinary.”
“She’s docile. She won’t run off, and she will do whatever you tell her to. Smile, Maggie.”