4. OLIRA
4
OLIRA
“Olira Aryanna,” Olira replied flatly.
“That’s a beautiful name,” Hasrey said. He wrote Olira’s name on the sales papers. “And what would you like to name him?”
“Umm…” The question caught Olira off-guard and dimmed her rage with a dose of discomfort.
Hasrey’s office was smaller, stuffy, and dimly lit. Leather-covered ledgers and scrolls, chests, and cabinets took up most of the space. There was barely enough room to fit Hasrey’s small desk and a wooden chair for Olira to sit.
She turned to glance at the slave who stood next to her with the same blank expression on his face. “I don’t know,” she scoffed. “What was his real name?”
Hasrey leaned forward with a polite smile, his head tilted slightly to the side. “Slaves don’t possess names, Mistress Olira,” he explained softly, his tone kind and measured. “They can’t possess anything. Their Owners choose their names.”
“What did his previous Owner call him?”
“You know what, don’t rush,” Hasrey said, waving his hands dismissively. Olira caught a glimpse of uneasiness on his face but couldn’t be sure. “You don’t have to name him now. Take your time and when you decide, get your village Agha or Bailiff to write the name on here.” He pointed at a blank space on the paper.
“I know how to read and write,” Olira glared.
“Excellent!” Hasrey flashed his teeth. He continued to scribble on the paper, his smile looking more forced every second. He prepared two copies and turned both papers towards her. Pointing at the bottom of the pages, “Just sign here and here, then he’s all yours.”
Olira pulled the papers from under Hasrey’s clutches and started reading. Hasrey placed a quill pen at the edge of the table in front of her. He drummed his fingers on his desk and sighed. His efforts to rush her didn’t escape from Olira’s attention. She leaned back in the uncomfortable chair, ignoring his impatience. Her eyes went back and forth between the two pages.
“So, do you have any other business in Kiore, Mistress Olira?” Hasrey asked casually.
“Yes,” she said distractedly. She didn’t look up from the pages, making sure they were identical, word for word.
“An excellent day for shopping, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh.” She bit her lips when she came to the section describing the slave’s physical appearance. The sentence below read: I was given a chance to inspect the property before purchase and I accept the property in his current physical condition.
Blood rushed to her face. Most buyers stripped the slaves and examined them naked before purchasing. She didn’t think she could stomach it. She studied the slave’s face with quick glances, making sure at least the facial description matched: blonde hair, grey eyes, tanned skin, thin-lipped, jutting jaw… He did look strong and healthy, as Gladwiel had claimed.
“So, what are you going to shop for?” Hasrey asked.
“I need to get some supplies for winter and a few bolts of fabric,” she said, returning to the paper.
“Ah, wonderful,” the assistant said, leaning forward. “I recommend Rumur Seamore for the best grains in the city. His shop is right at the crossing of Orchid Street and Middle Lane. As for fabric, I wouldn’t go anywhere other than Tidor Softfeather’s shop. Stay far away from Erick Fjalar’s fabrics. He had a pest invasion last month. Every one of three bolts he sells has holes and—”
“Who is Master Valder Babrozi?” Olira interrupted. She was frowning at the bottom of the pages.
“Oh, that’s Master Gladwiel’s business partner,” Hasrey said, waving a hand dismissively.
Olira narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t know he had a business partner.”
“Oh?” Hasrey blinked in surprise. His eyebrows shot up as if saying, ‘How can you not know this? Even a five-year-old child knows Valder Babrozi is Master Gladwiel’s partner!’ With a bemused shake of his head, he leaned back slightly, crossing his arms. “Well, he’ll make an appearance today, probably in the afternoon, if you wish to stay and meet him. Master Gladwiel is originally from Calae, but Master Valder is a Kiore resident. That’s why we put his name as the seller. For tax reasons, you know?” He winked.
Olira stared at him a while longer. She couldn’t decide if she believed him or not. It didn’t matter. She was not going to walk out of here with her money, so she might as well take whatever she could. Finally, she reached for the quill pen and signed the bottom of both pages.
“Congratulations!” Hasrey said with a big grin. He took one of the copies while Olira kept the other. “You are an Owner now.”
Olira didn’t respond. She rolled her copy and stuffed it in her bag. She stood, eager to leave.
“Before you go,” Hasrey said, reaching for his pocket and bringing out a small piece of paper. “Here are his Words.”
“His Words?”
“Yes, every purebred slave is bound by specific Words,” he explained. “That’s what makes purebreds special.”
“Right.” Olira knew this. “They’re born without a rhoa , so their bodies have to be bound by Words to spare them from the ill influences of Darkhome.” She’d heard this from the sermons held at her local Chamber of the Twelve. The Pyre at her town preached how Twelve Riders guided people’s rhoas to Farhome after their death, but purebreds were long lost, and only a few Words kept them from being possessed by fiends. She touched four fingers on her forehead and drew the Twelve’s sign in the air.
“That’s right.” Hasrey smiled and nodded. He pointed at each of the three words written on the page. “That’s his First Word. It is used to temporarily paralyse him. If he’s doing anything he shouldn’t do… Not that you’d ever need it. The second one is his Pain Word. It’s used to punish him. Again, not that you’d ever have a reason to use it.”
Olira brought the paper closer to her face. “Prij… pri- prihjti…”
The slave flinched. It was very subtle, but Olira caught it. He stopped breathing, though his expression didn’t change. Hasrey interrupted her before she could finish the word. “Perhaps it is best not to pronounce those Words unless you mean to use them.”
“Oh.” A small crease appeared on Olira’s forehead. She searched for a trace of that subtle sign of life on the slave’s face again, but couldn’t find it. “And what is the last Word for?”
“That’s his Kill Word,” Hasrey said. “Speak it and he will go into a Raged state. He will not be stopped until he kills whoever you want him to kill. Again…”
“Not that I would ever have a reason to use it,” Olira finished.
“Exactly.” Hasrey flashed another smile, full of teeth. “Also, I’m obliged to warn you: If you ever use the Kill Word, legally, you are still accountable for the murder. In the end, he is only a tool.”
“Right.” Olira took a few more seconds to quietly memorize the Words, then put the paper in her bag. “Is that all?”
“Almost.”
Hasrey walked around his desk and rummaged through one of the large chests in the corner. He pulled out a metal collar with a chain attached. “City regulations,” he explained. “Slaves have to wear chains on the trade roads and within the cities. You can take them off at your farm.”
Hasrey put the collar around the slave’s neck and snapped it shut. Olira held her breath, expecting a cringe or any sign or discomfort from the slave, but there was none. The metal collar was only loose enough to allow two fingers between it and the slave’s neck. It looked uncomfortable. The slave didn’t seem to care.
“You are now the property of Olira Aryanna,” Hasrey recited. “You are given no name for now. Acknowledge.”
“I am now the property of Olira Aryanna,” the slave spoke. His voice was raspy and rough. He sounded older and more tired than he looked. It sent a cold shiver down Olira’s spine. “I am given no name. I acknowledge,” he finished.
Hasrey nodded his satisfaction. He handed the key of the collar to Olira, which she dropped into her bag.
“He’s all yours.” Hasrey grinned, holding the free end of the chain to Olira.
She fixed the folds of her skirt and her travel cloak, hung her bag across her shoulders, and fixed her dress again, before picking up the chain.
Hasrey walked her out of the office. “I wish you a pleasant day, Mistress Olira. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”
She didn’t respond. The chain clinked annoyingly behind her at the slave’s each step as they walked into the streets.
The city of Kiore was built on the sunny side of a green mountain, which loomed protectively above it. Its paved streets had a gentle slope. Buildings stood either adjacent to each other or in proximity, forming narrow, winding alleyways. Despite the early morning chill, the sun’s warmth promised a pleasant afternoon.
Warrior’s hooves clacked on the stone roads as Olira led him through the streets. She patted the mule’s grey mane when the animal brayed and tilted its ears again.
She’d hitched the slave’s chain at the back of the packsaddle and Warrior was oddly uncomfortable by the slave’s presence, flicking his tail and shaking his head frequently. Olira didn’t judge him. She was too.
Now that she was paying more attention, she was seeing several people with slaves trailing after them, all wearing collars and chains. Only one out of every ten slaves were a purebred. The rest were freeborns; mostly house slaves and flame tattooed pleasure slaves. They all kept their heads down and attempted to look indifferent, but at least they still looked like people trying to bury their emotions. Purebreds were different. They had no feelings to bury.
Olira had given up glancing at the purebred’s face, searching for a sign of life. He walked on the left side of Warrior, his gaze down. He matched pace with the mule, keeping the chain loose between them. Now and then, he raised a hand to scratch his cheeks, confirming Olira’s suspicions that he was shaved recently.
Olira had enough self-awareness to notice that her dislike for the slave trade and her frustration at Master Gladwiel for forcing her into this made her want to lash out at the slave. She reminded herself that this wasn’t the purebred’s fault. He probably never even asked to exist. She forced her scowl away from the slave and tried not to be annoyed at the clink of the chain. Sooner she could finish her business in the city, sooner she could leave and remove that annoying collar off him.
Her first stop was the perfume shop. She tied Warrior to a post at the side of the building. Sweet, intense smells of fruits and flowers wafted out on the street. After a moment’s hesitation, she began unloading the goods from her packsaddle into the slave’s arms. She took the chain off the saddle and led him inside the shop.
The shopkeeper kept her waiting for an infuriating amount of time while he chatted with a customer. The customer had a freeborn house slave behind her, who carried a basket on her back. The freeborn kept fidgeting, rubbing her shoulders, looking around, and eyeing the expensive bottles of perfume with curiosity.
Olira’s slave stood like a statue; the bags of herbs on his arms, no sign of getting tired or getting bored waiting.
When the customer finally left, Olira started stacking the sacks on the counter. The shopkeeper opened his ledger. Olira opened each sack and showed the contents while the shopkeeper crossed each item off his ledger. He added up what he owed and counted three Blues and eight Greys on the counter. Olira sighed as she dropped them into her purse.
This was why she’d made business with Master Gladwiel. She grew rare, exotic herbs that most small shop owners couldn’t afford. Palleogano plant only bloomed once a year and its petals were used to cure burns and a skin disease called Wither Pox. It was an immensely rare plant, difficult to care for in this region, and had a high value on the market. Stripefang Blossom could cure fever and Oxeron was a strong sedative and painkiller, used to make boosters like pemitoin .
Master Gladwiel made a fortune buying sick slaves, healing them with Olira’s herbs, and selling them back. Olira couldn’t find any other buyers near her town, or at Kiore, who could afford her prices.
Olira and the shopkeeper agreed on a date for the next order. With their business concluded, Olira left the shop and set off to make her remaining deliveries. Her next stops included a pharmacist, a scribe, and an alchemist. By the time the sun reached its highest, she had emptied her packsaddle and filled her purse with ten more Blues and twenty-two Greys. It was not nearly enough to pay off her debt to Master Tholthus, and she still had to buy supplies for the winter, but the leftovers should at least be enough to pay one instalment.
She paid two Reds to buy a loaf of rye bread for the slave from a street vendor. Since she hadn’t expected to end up with another throat to feed, she had only packed enough food for herself. She sat by a statue at a town square and took out her lunch from the saddle bags. She contemplated how much this man would eat over the winter and how much extra resources she would have to buy now and how long until she could get rid of him.
She grimaced. A weight burdened her shoulders. Getting rid of him meant selling him. Like a slave merchant. Like an Owner.
Her inner strife was shattered when she noticed how the slave was devouring the loaf of bread she gave him. Sitting on the floor, he had hunched over the bread, as if afraid someone was going to take it from him. He tore into the crust, his hands trembling, and he took another bite before swallowing the first. A soft growl rose from his throat as he tore yet another piece with his fingers and stuffed it into his mouth too.
She felt a flush of shame rise to her cheeks as she noticed the man’s hollowed eyes and sunken cheeks that spoke volumes about his hunger.
“Merciful Alunwea,” Olira gasped. “Slow down, you’ll choke yourself.”
The slave coughed a chunk of half-chewed bread on the paved ground. He swallowed what was left in his mouth after barely chewing. His movements slowed, though he was still desperate to shove that bread down his throat as quickly as possible.
“When was the last time you ate?” Olira asked harshly.
“I don’t know, Owner,” the slave said with a full mouth. He shoved another piece into his mouth and gulped it down.
“How do you not know the last time you ate?”
“I don’t remember, Owner.”
Olira felt horrified as she watched. It had only been a few seconds, and the bread was gone. She offered him her waterskin, but had to take it back after the slave attempted to drink the whole thing without even stopping to breathe. Next, the purebred picked up the chunks and the crumbs he’d dropped off the ground and ate them too, licking his fingers clean.
Olira nibbled at her sandwich, feeling guilty and embarrassed. She’d made him walk all over the city and carry her bags, without even considering if he was hungry or not. She took another bite to suppress her hunger and gave the rest of her food to the slave. He made the sandwich disappear within seconds. Then he sat, doubled over, with a hand over his stomach and his eyes closed.
“Are you okay?” Olira asked.
The slave opened his eyes and stared at the ground. A subtle shift occurred within him. The look of desperate hunger vanished from his face, replaced by a vacant expression. Slowly, he stood, clasping his hands in front of him with a sense of resigned composure. “I live to serve; I breathe to please, Owner.”
Olira scowled. That sounded like a well-rehearsed statement rather than an actual answer to her question. She stared at the purebred’s face, waiting for another spark of life, but captured nothing. The man had gone from a mindless slave to a starving animal, then back to a mindless slave within seconds.
“Didn’t Gladwiel feed you today?” she asked.
“No, Owner.”
“Why not?”
“I am not privy to my superiors’ thoughts, Owner.”
She scoffed. She propped her hands on her waist and glared at him. “Why didn't you tell me you were hungry?”
The slave stared at the paved ground. His focus shifted from one cobblestone to the next one. “You haven't asked, Owner.”
Olira rubbed her jaw and took a deep breath. She waited for more, knowing she wouldn’t get anything else from that blank face. “Well?”
The slave focused on the cobblestones. His eyebrows twitched. When he didn’t speak, Olira sighed. “Are you still hungry?”
“No, Owner.” He swallowed.
“Are you thirsty?”
“No, Owner.” The slave’s throat moved visibly. Olira offered him her waterskin anyway. The man took three big gulps, and then another one, before handing it back to Olira.
“Do you have another need?” She grimaced. “Do you need to pee or something? Are you tired? Do you need a rest?”
“I am well, Owner,” the slave said quickly.
Something about his attitude unsettled her. All his responses sounded rehearsed, almost memorised. She wondered if he might be a simpleton. She noticed people were glancing in their direction, making little effort to hide their smirks. Someone even made a snide comment about having a conversation with a purebred, their voice dripping with disdain. She decided not to pursue her answers now. The sun was moving fast, and she still had stops to make.
Leading Warrior and the slave back through the paved streets, Olira started shopping. She bought cloth, wool, and food supplies for the winter. She could have bought all of these from Master Tholthus, who ran a General Store at Oxreach, but it was cheaper in Kiore. Besides, she didn’t want to add more to her debt to Master Tholthus. She tracked the cheapest stores, avoiding the ones Hasrey had recommended. It all cost her sixty Greys — six Blues — leaving her with ten Blues in her purse. It felt annoyingly light, but the packsaddle looked full enough to ease her mind about the winter.
For the first time all day, her worries lifted and she could breathe easier. She smiled, telling herself everything was going to work out fine.