Though he would have enjoyed hearing Boaz scream in the terrible agony of being digested alive, Rikus shook his head. “I gave my word,” he said. “Besides, being eaten by a raakle can’t compare to the pain the gaj will cause Boaz’s mind.”
“If you say so.” Neeva shoved the trainer toward the gaj’s pen.
Rikus laid a hand on his fighting partner’s shoulder and shook his head. “I’ll take him,” Rikus said. He substituted his hand for the one that Neeva had been using to hold Boaz’s bleeding mouth closed. “I want the pleasure of feeding him to the gaj myself.”
The gaj thrust its mandibles as far into the corridor as they would go. Rikus stepped toward the pen.
Boaz mumbled something at the mul. Though the trainer was doing his best to appear menacing and confident, fear and panic softened his sharp features.
The gladiator moved the hand covering the half-elf’s mouth just far enough to hear what he had to say. “You’ll never get away with this,” Boaz hissed. “Tithian will know what happened, and Neeva will be the one who pays.”
“You’re the only one who’s going to pay,” Rikus interrupted. The mul smashed a fist into the half-elf’s rib cage. Boaz cried out, then began to wheeze.
Please, Rikus, the gaj asked. Give him to me now.
Boaz tried to call for help, but with his broken ribs and teeth, only incoherent mumbles came from his mouth. Rikus smiled, then pushed the half-elf across the corridor. The gaj’s barbed mandibles closed on the trainer’s abdomen, and a pair of whiplike antennae lashed out of the pen, entwining themselves around its victim’s brow.
Despite his injuries, Boaz found the strength to scream.
SEVEN
A BIDDING WAR
The instant Agis stepped into the hastily erected slaveyard, his eyes fell on a white-haired man standing amidst the crowd of nobles who had gathered there. Though the old fellow was only a few inches taller than the people around him, he stood out from the jabbering throng by virtue of his silent demeanor. Over his broad shoulders he wore an ivory-colored cape, and in his hand he carried an obsidian-pommeled cane that left no doubt in Agis’s mind that the man was the sorcerer who had returned his dagger to him in Shadow Square.
“What’s he doing at a slave auction?” Agis murmured.
“Buying slaves, I suspect,” Caro replied sarcastically. “Isn’t that what one does at these iniquitous affairs?”
“You asked to come, Caro. If you don’t intend to be good company, perhaps I should send you home,” Agis replied.
Along with fifty other lords and the sorcerer, Agis and Caro stood beneath the Elven Bridge, an ancient structure spanning the dusty bed of the Forgotten River. According to legend, the magnificent bridge had once crossed a broad, slow-moving estuary of glistening water. Now the edifice was no more than a useless relic, for all that remained below it was a short bend of dry gulch sealed at both ends by piles of rubble. The only signs of water in the riverbed were white crusts of calcium and lime left on the bridge piers two decades past-the last time it had rained in Tyr.
Currently, an enterprising tribe of elves was using the area below the bridge as a slaveyard. They had created a small square by erecting four walls of dirty hemp and had invited a select group of nobles to attend a surreptitious auction. Judging by the bulging purses hanging from the nobles’ belts today, the elves’ trade promised to be a brisk one.
Agis turned his attention to the old man. “Come along, Caro,” he said, starting across the square. “Let’s have a word with our friend.”
In the days following the uprising in the square, there had been no indication that the templars knew about Agis’s participation in the affair. Neither had Jaseela been questioned. Agis might have banished the memory of his involvement in the whole matter, save that he found that he did not want to. In killing the half-giant, he had crossed some intangible line. Now, for better or worse, he was a rebel.
With his aged manservant close behind, the noble worked his way through the crowd. Several acquaintances invited him to stop and gossip, but he risked seeming rude by giving them brisk replies and moving along.
By the time he reached the sorcerer’s side, a pair of seven-foot elves had already stepped into the makeshift square. They politely cleared a space in which they could display the slaves.
“We meet again,” Agis said, smiling at the sorcerer.
The old man gave him a blank stare. “Do I know you?”
Though Agis was certain the sorcerer recognized him, he decided to play along. “You were kind enough to give me directions to the Red Kank a few days ago.”
The old man’s face remained sour and blank, but he said, “I see you survived your little expedition.”
“Yes, thank you,” the noble replied, offering his hand. “I’m Agis of Asticles.”
The sorcerer ignored the introduction and looked away. “Don’t give me reason to regret what I did for you.”
“It surprises me to see you here,” Agis noted casually, ignoring the affront.
“Nobles aren’t the only ones who need slaves,” the old man commented.
“I didn’t think the Veiled Alliance condoned slavery.”
The sorcerer raised an eyebrow. “You have mistaken me for someone else,” he said. Without waiting for a response, he muscled his way through the crowd and left Agis behind.
For a moment, the noble considered pursuing the old man to brooch the subject of a coalition between himself and the Veiled Alliance. Unfortunately, he suspected that pursuing the subject in a public place would make the sorcerer even less inclined to listen. The noble decided that if the old man was attending a slave auction, there was a good reason. By watching carefully, he might learn something that would enable him to approach the Alliance under better circumstances.
A pale elf with black hair stepped into the square. Instead of the typical desert burnoose that most elves favored, he wore a fine cloak of brushed fleece. The elf lifted his hands to quiet the crowd. “Gentlemen and gentlewomen, welcome. I am your host, Radurak, and it gives me great pleasure to present to you a collection of slaves brought all the way from Balic-”
“Your tribe hasn’t been away from Tyr in six months,” cal led a noble.
Radurak tipped his hat to the noble. “The Runners of Guthay have many warriors,” he said, grinning slyly. “A few of us have been to Balic more recently than you think.”
Several nobles expressed open skepticism at the statement. Though what Radurak claimed may have been true, it would have been difficult to move a sizable number of slaves across such a vast distance with only a few warriors. It seemed more likely that the elves had stolen the slaves from legitimate traders. Had it not been for the old man’s presence and his own desperate need of slaves, Agis would have left at that moment. He did not like doing business with thieves.
“I’m sure all of the commodities you offer come from legal slave stock,” called another noble.
“Of course,” Radurak replied. “Unfortunately, the seals of ownership were taken by raiders, not fifty miles outside Tyr. You have my word that every one of the fine specimens I sell today is my tribe’s property.”
This brought a round of laughter from the skeptical lords. Finally a voice called, “Let’s just get on with it! I want to have my slaves tucked safely inside my townhouse by nightfall.”
Agis looked toward the speaker and saw that it was Dyan. He elected not to greet the portly noble, as he no longer felt a kinship with the cowards who had deserted him and Jaseela in the square.
Radurak bowed. “By your request.”
For the rest of the day, Radurak and his elves presented a motley assortment of paupers, sots, and cretins they had assembled for the auction. After the first hour, Agis had no doubt that the entire bunch had been gathered from the alleys of the Elven Market. At one point, the sorcerer lifted a hand to wipe the sweat from his brow and Agis glimpsed a fat purse hanging from the belt beneath his white tabard. He had, indeed, come to buy something, though Agis could not figure out what.