“What’s it like?” asked Alec.
Seregil listened with half an ear as the Hâzad extolled the beauties of his mountain fai’thast. It sounded a lot like Bôkthersa. He was more interested in the interplay between the two. Alec had been hostile to Rieser in the beginning, and with good reason. But that had been somewhat tempered during the time they’d spent in each other’s company.
For his part, Seregil had considerable respect for the tall, grim man. He was made of stern stuff, and brave to a fault. How else could he have offered to go with them like this, strangers sailing to the most dangerous place a Hâzadriëlfaie could possibly go?
Rhal waited until Seregil and the others were gone from sight, then set sail for open water. They’d left the coastline far behind when Nettles emerged from below, dragging Morthage by the arm.
“What’s this?” asked Rhal.
“I found a traitor, Captain,” Nettles told him as more of the crew gathered around. He held out his free hand, showing them a painted stick that had been broken in two. Rhal had seen enough message sticks since he’d met Seregil to know what this was.
“And just who are you sending word to?” he demanded.
Morthage was pale and trembling, but said nothing.
“Caught the last of what he said,” the mate told him. “He said, ‘to Riga, my lord.’”
“A lord, eh? A Plenimaran?” Rhal growled.
“No! I swear!” Morthage cried, finding his voice.
“Who then?”
Morthage went down on one knee. “Please, Captain. It’s only the Virésse lord, Ulan í Sathil! I meant no harm.”
“Bilairy’s Balls, you didn’t. By the Old Sailor, man, what were you thinking? Don’t I pay you well enough? And it’s Lord Seregil’s money!”
The knave was thoroughly cowed now. “I—I beg your forgiveness, Captain.”
Rhal wasn’t in any mood to forgive, and hanged the blackguard with the full approval of the crew, but it was already too late to get word to Seregil. He and the others were long gone.
Just beyond the beach Seregil and the others struck a rutted road and followed it. They soon reached a crossroads, with a marker that told them they were twenty miles out from Riga and only six from a town called Rizard.
“I hope they have a horse market there,” Micum said, sitting down heavily on a large stone.
Seregil knew Micum would ask for help if he really needed it, and that pride would keep him from need as long as possible. Despite the grey in his hair, Micum was still tough as an oak bole.
Not long after that they came upon a prosperous-looking farm with a corral full of fine-looking horses.
“Even better,” said Micum. “It will be easier convincing people that I’m a horse trader if I have some horses.”
They approached the house cautiously, but there were no dogs about, though they could hear barking from one of the outbuildings.
Micum went to the door and knocked.
A servant girl answered and looked him up and down. “What do you want here, sir?”
“I want to buy some good horses. Will your master sell a few, do you think?”
She left them there and went to inquire. The master of the house, a plump clean-shaven man, soon appeared.
“Good morning, sir,” said Micum. “My name is Lornis of Nanta.”
“And I’m Digus Orthan. So you like my horses, do you?” the man replied, smiling as he clasped hands with him.
“That’s a nice-looking herd you have. Would you part with any of them? I can pay you a good price.”
“That’s my trade, sir. Let’s go have a look, though you flatter my stock. The best have all been taken by the army.”
The man spoke the truth, but the horses he had left were good enough. In short order Micum picked out a spirited piebald mare for himself, a pair of chestnut geldings, and three cheaper mounts for the slaves. He paid in silver.
“You’ll be needing a saddle, too,” Digus noted. “I have one that might do for you, if you don’t mind it being used.”
“Not at all. Do you have just the one, though?”
“You put your slaves on horseback?” Digus asked, surprised.
“I’m a trader myself, sir, and travel long distances. These three are good, loyal slaves and I work them hard. They need steady beasts for that.”
“Well, I don’t have any saddles for them, but I can spare a few blankets and bridles.”
The bargain was struck, and Micum parted on good terms with the man.
“Always good to make a friend here and there,” Seregil told Rieser as they rode on. “You never know when they’ll prove useful.”
At the next crossroads, they overtook a drayman with a load of turnips, heading in the same direction they were going.
Seregil and the others pulled up the hoods of their cloaks. Between that and the veils, only their eyes were visible. The sharp, dangerous look in Rieser’s was enough to warn Seregil that the Hâzad might find the role of slave harder to play than he’d bargained for.
“Lower your eyes!” Seregil whispered in Aurënfaie. “And stop looking like you’re about to kill him.”
They rode forward until Micum came abreast of the man.
“Where are you headed, friend?” Micum asked as the farmer reined in his dray horse.
“Rizard market, if it’s any of your business,” the man replied.
“Why, so am I!” Micum exclaimed. “I don’t suppose you’d mind us riding along with you?”
The man scowled up at him, taking in the long sword at Micum’s hip. “I might, or I might not. You speak my tongue well enough, but with that red beard I don’t think you’re a countryman.”
“No, but I’ve been a trader here nigh onto twenty years now.”
The man turned to look at Seregil and the others. “Are you heading in to sell these?”
“Are you looking to buy?”
Seregil was glad that Rieser didn’t speak the language.
“They any good for field work? I got no use for any fancy house slaves.”
“Ah, you’re right. You’d be throwing your money away on this lot for field work,” he scoffed good-naturedly. “But Sakor’s Flame, I wish I had three more just like ’em. They’re loyal as hounds. I hardly ever have to beat them.”
The farmer was still sizing Micum up. “What is it you do?”
“I trade in horses, friend. I’ve sold most of my string, as you can see. I’m here for more, and then sailing north. Can you recommend an honest trader?”
“There’s a man in Rizard, but his stock is nothing to speak of. You’ll have better luck among the rogues in Riga, if you want better.”
“Riga it is, then.”
“So, you’ve been up north? What news of the war?”
Seregil rode behind the wagon with the others, leaving Micum to trade lies for gossip with the drayman. In no time they were laughing together like old friends.
“He’s good at this,” Seregil whispered to Rieser.
“So I see. A useful skill.”
They were nearly to Rizard when they were met by half a dozen riders in brown coats, all carrying whips and cudgels as well as long swords.
“The damn slave takers!” the farmer muttered under his breath. “They’ll be stopping us on your account. I want to be off the road before sundown.”
“Halt in the name of the Overlord!” their leader ordered. “What’s a dirt farmer like you doing with slaves?”
Meanwhile his riders had surrounded Seregil and the others.
“They’re nothing to do with me,” the drayman told them. “This red-bearded fellow’s the one you want for that.”
“Lornis of Nanta,” Micum replied, extending his hand.
The slave taker ignored it. Turning instead to Seregil and the others, he ordered sharply, “Take off those hoods, all of you.”
When they quickly complied, the one closest to Alec grabbed him by the hair. “Look at that, will you? Soft as a girl’s! You a girl?”
“He’s pretty enough. Look at those eyes!”
“What does it matter what he is?” another said with a crude laugh. “‘When whores are few, a boy will do,’ right, Zarmas?”