“What …” the first hunter slurred. He stood suddenly, trying awkwardly to draw his sword.
“It was the smoke,” Asa said, gesturing toward the brazier. “If you were curious.”
When the hunters had collapsed, Asa brought out the lead-sealed vial Rouse had given him, straddled each sleeping man in turn, and dropped the black oil into their eyes and down their noses. The girl came close, her hands knotted together in anxiety and pleasure.
“Stay back from the fire, dear,” Asa told her. “It’s not good for little girls.”
The hunters lay quiet and still for a long while, and then—as the chancellor and priest had said they would—each man began to tremble and shake. White foam formed at the corners of their mouths, and their eyes rolled back in their heads. Asa stripped the two men quickly to their skins and then doused the herbs in the brazier with the last of the cider. When the air cleared, the girl scuttled forward to collect the swords, belts, and armor.
“Encancú atzien,” she said.
“You’re welcome,” Asa replied, fastening the slave chains around the hunters’ necks. “Try to get a good price for them.”
The line at the quay was longer. Word had spread that the workhouses had come. The desperate and the expendable came out of the overpacked, stinking buildings like juice from an orange. The hunters squatted at Asa’s side like a pair of dogs. The black oil stained the whites of their eyes a greenish brown and the one who had carried the paper shook his head from time to time as if he were trying to clear it. Their nakedness seemed to cause them no discomfort, nor the black iron collars or the chains with which Asa gently encouraged them on.
The overseer at the purple table scowled when Asa’s turn came, looking over the two hunters with a buyer’s eye.
“What’s wrong with them?”
“Bad batch of cider,” Asa said. “I told them there was something growing in it, but they didn’t listen. Been like this for months, and I can’t take care of them anymore.”
“Why the hell should I, then?”
“They’re strong. Tractable.”
“They’re mindless.”
“Hey,” the second hunter said, and then seemed to lose the thought, sitting on his bare haunches.
“It might take a bit longer to train them,” Asa allowed. “But they won’t get bored and they won’t talk back. Good teeth, good backs, and no complaints. If that’s not what you’re looking for, I’ll find someplace else to sell ’em.”
The workhouse man drummed his fingers on the purple cloth. In the pens behind him, the captives had swelled to four dozen or more. As many again stood in the snaking line behind Asa and the hunters. As the workhouse overseer hemmed and hawed, Asa caught sight of the girl, watched her work her way to the edge of the bars, pressing her body against them. She waved a little, and there was a desperate hope in the gesture.
“Twelve for the pair of them,” the overseer said.
“Fifteen.”
“Twelve or keep them.”
“Twelve it is, then.”
The overseer counted out two lines of tiny silver coins, six to a line, and Asa scooped them up. Two of the guards came to take the newly sold slaves back to the pen, and Asa made an alarmed noise.
“What?” the overseer said.
“You didn’t buy the chains. These are my chains. I’ll lead them back to your cage if you like, but the metal’ll cost you another four.”
“Keep dreaming.”
Under the watchful eyes of the guards, Asa led the two hunters to the pens. Zelanie followed every motion with ravenous eyes. Her mouth hung half-open with unspoken words. Asa pretended to ignore her. At the gate to the pens, guards and captives alike stood, laughing at the naked men while their collars were removed. The magistrate’s hunters seemed vaguely aware that something distasteful was happening to them, but they made no move to cover themselves and spoke no word of protest. Asa slid back, leaving both chains and men to the guards. No one had any attention to spare, except the woman. She took the black vial without any sign of surprise, hiding it in her sleeve with the practiced flicker of a pickpocket.
“Drink it at sundown and be free,” Asa said, then stepped away before she could answer or ask. “Hey, those chains are mine. You can buy your own.”
At the edge of the quay, Rouse leaned against a crumbling stone wall, chewing thoughtfully on a wad of tar. Asa dropped the chains in a pool at the huge priest’s ankles.
“Thank you for the loan,” Asa said.
“Welcome.”
“Any idea how long they’re going to be like that?”
“They will never be the men they were before. What does return to them will come in … four months. Perhaps five.”
“Well, hopefully they’ll enjoy their new positions. The last job they had seemed a little risky.”
Rouse nodded, paused, used the nail of his pinky to dig a bit of blackness from between his teeth, which he then flicked out into the water. “We’re done until tonight.”
“It’s not that I don’t enjoy your company. But I’d best get back to my rooms before my dear friend gets word from some other place. If he thinks she’s really dead, he’ll likely do something dramatic and bloody. Fall on his sword or some such.”
Rouse chuckled as he wrapped the chains around one thick forearm. “And to think, someday he may rule a nation.”
Asa froze, then forced an easy smile. “The world’s an unjust place.”
“So it is,” the chancellor said, rising. “So it is.”
Joy radiated from the prince like heat from a fire. His smile was so wide, it seemed to creak, and he walked with his arm around Asa’s shoulder as they passed through the crowded marketplace. High above them, the sky was white and featureless, and held no hint of the coming twilight. There were hours still before anything had to be done. Asa tried to share in his delight, with little success. Now that the game was almost won, the headiness that had been so rich before seemed thin and unsatisfying. The weight of Steppan’s arm annoyed, and the glances that his gaiety drew held something between dismay and menace. Not everything needs to be so damned loud.
“Wine, my friend,” Steppan half shouted. “Wine and the best food we can find. And smoke if you want it. There is nothing in the world too fine to lay at your feet today.”
“Promises, always promises,” Asa said.
If there was an edge to the words, Steppan missed it. Laughing, he steered them into a narrow alley of planks laid between two buildings and fifty feet above the distant ground. The old woman who claimed the place nodded at them in greeting, just as she had the night Asa had first brought Steppan there. The wine was terrible, but one of the tiny silver coins from the workhouse overseer would pay for a week’s worth. Steppan lifted the clay mug in a toast.
“To Asa!” he declaimed. “Champion of love.”
“God, not that! Pick something else.”
“Why not that?” Steppan asked. The planks beneath their feet left gaps as wide as a thumb. Too narrow to slip through but enough to see how far the fall would be. For a moment, it seemed thick with significance.
“People love their fathers. Their sisters. People love dogs or songs or poems. If I’ve got to be the champion of something, make it something that doesn’t change what it means every time someone says it.”
Steppan laughed as if it had been a joke and drained his cup. His hair was wild and dark and glossy. If his skin had a pock on it, Asa hadn’t seen it. The man was joyful and bright and full of hope. All the prince’s troubles were forgotten because a girl he’d seen once at a distance probably wasn’t going to die or be sent to the workhouse. It was like watching a child getting an unexpected rock of honey, and it weighted Asa’s heart like lead.