Chapter 4

Oddly enough, it was on that first journey to Bardek that Ebañy found himself voluntarily practising dweomer. For the first time, he was completely free of the reach of Valandario and his father, with her dweomer unable to touch him across the water. With the threat of derision, scolding and hounding completely gone for the first time in as long as he could remember, so too was the guilt. But it was finding something interesting and useful to do with his magical abilities that inspired him to work at it.

The first few weeks, while he was still learning the language, he had to make do with cheap inns as the people of Bardek were accustomed to sophisticated entertainments. A storyteller whose accent was difficult to decipher and who made many a grievous error was a source of some amusement and no small amount of pity, but it translated into scant coin. The quality of the inns vexed him far less than it did in Deverry, as it tended to mean sharing a tiny room with a narrow bed and a chipped washbasin rather than bedbugs, rats and mouldy straw, but it still rankled.

Once he'd mastered the Bardek tongue, however, he moved to the next town hoping that a fresh start would put him on the right foot with a new audience, and his instincts were correct.

Weaving popular local tales and news into his larger-than-life stories of wild barbarian lands seemed to appeal, and everywhere he went he was complimented on his command of the language.

'You must have lived in the isles for a good long while, I suppose,' an innkeep remarked to him one evening, while polishing a pewter tankard.

'Oh, it's been a few weeks now, to be sure.' When the innkeep laughed, he realised that the man thought he was jesting. Ah well – a long-term resident of Bardek shall I be, then!

He appreciated the more civilised aspects of Bardek society and culture – that he was expected neither to wear a sword, nor to be able to use one, was a great relief. He awaited his chance to discover their customs in the bedroom. Still uncertain of how an advance to another man would be received, or indeed, anyone, he resolved to wait until he was asked, and he was in no particular hurry.

He didn't have to wait long. One evening after a show, he was drinking with a handful of admirers when a slender man in his mid-thirties slid onto the bench beside him. The man smelled faintly of soap and leather and there was a certain playfulness to his expression that pleased Ebañy no end.

'Can I buy you a goblet of wine, friend?' he asked, a touch of warmth in his voice and smile.

Well now, Ebañy lad, this might be your chance!

'My thanks, friend,' he replied, returning the smile and allowing his gaze to linger on the other man's face for just a moment.

The man's eyes didn't leave Ebañy's as he summoned a serving lass, only turning away when she stood beside them.

'A flagon of your finest for my friend and me, my thanks.'

She bobbed her head and hurried away.

The man's name was Marmano, and he owned a jeweller's shop in a neighbouring town, although as he confided to Ebañy, his employees managed most of the day-to-day work.

'The more elaborate pieces I'll make myself, but these days I have journeymen who can manage most of the business and oversee the slaves. And so I can take my leisure now and then,' he said expansively.

Ebañy kept his face bland. 'A fine life, indeed!' he remarked, turning his expression arch. 'I, of course, must ply my humble trade wherever I go. Although it certainly has its advantages, as it allows me to pass many a pleasant evening, in very pleasant company.' He pledged Marmano with his goblet. The other man returned the gesture.

Ebañy ordered a second flagon, and when it was done, Marmano leaned in and said quietly, 'We could have another in your chambers, if you like, his hand resting briefly on Ebañy's thigh.'

'That sounds splendid.' He brushed Marmano's hand with his fingers just at heartbeat too long to have been an accident.

'I'll wait by the stairs,' he whispered, got up and left.

Marmano's touch had aroused Ebañy so fully that he realised with a start how long it had been since anyone had shared his bed. Ah well! The remedy comes not a moment too soon!

A short time later, he announced, 'Friends alas, Salamander grows weary and must away to his bed. But fear not! I shall return on the morrow for more tales, songs and tricks to help the fine citizens of this town while away an hour or two, in the land of never was, never will be. Farewell!' He bowed and left the common room.

He had hardly reached the foot of the stairs when Marmano stepped out of the shadows and pushed him up against the wall, kissing him hard and fumbling at his brigga.

'Steady now, friend,' Ebañy said, pushing him back. 'There'll be time enough for that! But a soft bed is more to my taste than a dim stairway. And we can take our time.'

'My apologies,' Marmano said. 'You're just such a lovely lad.'

'Well, you're easy enough on the eye yourself.' Ebañy kissed him, lingeringly, one hand reaching down to caress his buttocks. Marmano groaned, and Ebañy could feel him, hard against his thigh.

He took Marmano's hand and led him upstairs, wine forgotten.

Marmano lingered a couple of days and introduced Ebañy to another side of Bardek life: 'places for men like us.' Well, we're alike in a few ways, I'll give him that! Although he found the semi-naked dancing slave boys at one establishment tragic rather than titillating, on the whole he found it quite refreshing to be able to kiss another man in a public place without anyone thinking anything of it. Cultural differences, indeed!

However, a significant cultural difference that left an increasingly nasty taste in his mouth – like biting into spoiled meat – was the way that slavery was so deeply embedded into the society. But since he was as curious about the darker sides of human or elven nature as he was about its pleasures, he set about learning how the trade worked.

'Asking too many questions – or indeed, asking the wrong questions – could land you in all sorts of trouble, Ebañy my lad, so I shall have to poke my long Elvish nose in via more sneaky, sly and clandestine means.'

As he wasn't able to hear anything while scrying, as only a master like Nevyn could do (or so he thought), he'd set about putting himself in places to eavesdrop via unmagical means. However, one afternoon as he followed a couple of slave traders at a discreet distance, just close enough for his elven hearing to make out what they were saying, he suddenly realised that he had followed them into a dead-end street where only one door. The overhanging second storeys provided shade but there were no alcoves deep enough to hide him. As one trader knocked on the door, the other turned his head to glance behind them.

From sheer panicked instinct, Ebañy shrank against the wall, willing himself invisible, his heart pounding so loudly he felt sure they could hear it. He closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable shout of alarm and calls for the archon's men to come and arrest a spy, but they never came. As the men disappeared into the building, it was some moments before he realised that they really hadn't seen him. Did I actually just make myself invisible with dweomer? He almost laughed aloud.

With a clear goal in mind, he set about figuring out what he had done and how to replicate it, He eventually worked out that he had, by sheer instinct, done what he vaguely remembered hearing describing as 'drawing in one's aura'. The elation when he hit on the knack and could replicate it at will spurred him on, and gave him ideas about other forms of glamour or illusion that could come in handy for such clandestine work. Scrying's usefulness was also clear, and he practised using every type of focus he could – flame, cloud, water – so that the images he sought appeared more and more rapidly. He rarely tried meditation – Val had only told him to think of nothing at all and let the images come, but every time he tried, an amusing jest or the image of a pretty lad or lass would float across his consciousness and that would be that. But with a clear goal in mind and even just a vague idea of how to get there, he found himself able to spend long hours working away on a problem, until he was confident that not only could he turn himself or someone else effectively invisible, but could don a disguise so complete that not even his own father would recognise him. Well, if his father weren't a wretched elf, that is.

Glamours and aura manipulation made spying a good deal safer, and before long he felt he understood the slave business, which made it no less repulsive. Most slave traders, and owners, treated their human property relatively well, with decent food and labour no more arduous than that of a servant in Deverry. It occurred to him that it was much like a lord who treats his horses well, and he gagged – the lord feeds the horses good oats and gave them clean straw and water so that they serve him well, but he would never ask his horse whether it wanted to go into battle with him, or spare it a slap or a kick if it didn't do what he wanted. The casual cruelty of it sickened him.

He'd had high hopes of finding cracks in the trade that could be exploited and ways to disrupt and undermine it, or better yet, join up with some kind of underground movement towards emancipation that he could help nurture, no matter how embryonic. But if there was one such, he could find no trace of it. None of the slaves he spoke to seemed so discontented as to harbour thoughts of revolution – rather they hoped one day to be rewarded with freedom, though as far as he could tell this was a rare occurrence. In one town, he even pretended not to speak any Bardekian so as to overhear more honest conversation, but with similar results. When he learned about the punishment for rebellious slaves, he felt the blood turn to ice in his veins. No wonder they never think of rebellion!

The only slaves he knew of whose lot was bad enough to fight for freedom were those chained in the galleys and mines, but security there was extremely tight. 'Even if I could find a way to sneak into a mine and unshackle hundreds of prisoners, I'd have nowhere to put said prisoners once free. I can't glamour them all, and even such voluminous cloaks and brigga as mine are insufficient to conceal even one such.'

Reluctantly, he conceded that slavery in the isles was a problem too big for him to solve, even with his newly mastered magics.

As he travelled through the islands, performing often (he was particularly popular at weddings, he noticed), he started to formulate a plan. 'If I can't help all those who've been enslaved, I can at least help one.' And so, once he'd saved up enough coin, at the next public auction he resolved to pick out a slave who would be considered less desirable than most, and who therefore might be at risk of being sold to a less than desirable household. Or worse.

Always taking a pomander with him, for the smell of unwashed human misery tended to make his eyes water and distract him, he spent time at the slave pens, to find out what he could.

His mind was made up when he overheard two slave traders shaking their heads and lamenting the fact that one young woman's value as a house slave was now low.

'She's a pretty thing from the other side, and healthy. Too bad her previous owner threw a pot of boiling water all over her in a fit of rage.'

The other shrugged. 'Ah well. She'll make good breeding stock, at the very least, no matter the scar.'

When the auction began, Ebañy was displeased to find two others bidding on the slave girl – he'd not been able to find out her name – but he tried to look nonchalant, as if winning the bid mattered not at all.

He'd taken care to wear his most ostentatious clothing and expensive jewels, to convince his rivals not to bother competing with him Yet, as the price kept climbing with no sign of his competitors bowing out, he began to sweat. He only had so much ready coin, and although he could always earn more, he needed to be able to hand over the full price within a day of the sale. It didn't occur to him to give up and find another slave to rescue. In desperation, he called out a price that would take every last copper he had, and then some.

His opponents did not move.

'Slave number 4705, going once,' called the auctioneer. He paused. 'Going twice.' Another pause. 'Going three times, and sold to the pale-haired gentleman.' As Ebañy mounted the stairs, the auctioneer said, 'You can't see the scars in the dark.' The crowd laughed. Ebañy flushed but hurried to the podium to collect the girl.

As he'd seen other buyers do, he marched up to the auctioneer's assistant, who was drawing up the bill of sale at a battered wooden table as the next lot began. Without looking up, he asked, 'Do you have the full price?'

'I have most of it here with me.' Ebañy dropped a heavy purse onto the table. 'But I need time to collect the rest from a moneychanger. Will tomorrow morn suffice?'

The assistant nodded absently and signed the bill, handing it over without a word. 'Your bill of sale,' he said tonelessly.

The girl was hovering uncertainly behind the table, and Ebañy wondered if it was the first time she had been sold. He beckoned her over, and she hesitated, but followed him. Back in his inn chamber, he asked her name.

'Daka, master' she said.

He flinched. 'Please don't call me that! You can call me Salamander, the wandering minstrel from far off Deverry,' he beamed. 'And now, you are free!'

She stared at him.

Had he used an idiom unknown on this island? 'You can go, right now if you want to. I am setting you free.'

'But you can't.'

'Of course I can! I wish to be an emancipator, not an owner of human beings.' His mouth twisted in distaste.

'No, I mean you can't just say I'm free and have it be true, master.'

'Why not? And don't call me that.'

'Because if I walk outside and just say I'm free, then I'll be arrested as a runaway, beaten and sold again.'

'What?'

She shook her head. 'There are laws and procedures for freeing a slave,' she said patiently.

'Oh.' His face fell. 'Perhaps I don't understand the system as well as I thought.'

'I don't know exactly what they are, but you do have to go to the archon and make it legal.'

'Ah, well, a visit to the archon to sign a few papers is no hardship. We'll tidy up all the legalities and have you on your way in no time.'

'But you can't!'

'My turtledove, we've just established that I can, and I intend to!'

'But what will I do?'

'Whatever you want to,' he gestured expansively. 'You'll be free.'

'But all I know is being a house slave. I don't have a craft. There's no call for paid servants here – why pay someone to keep your house when they might up and leave if they want? I've no clan, no money.' Her eyes narrowed and her tone was faintly accusing. 'I always thought if I were ever set free, it would be to be welcomed into a clan as part of a family, not turned out into the street like a stray dog!'

He bit his lip, frowning. 'Well now, that does put something of an obstacle in our path. But fear not! I'm sure we shall think of something! But before we do that, I fear must acquire us some more wretched coin, because those other bidders pushed me rather beyond my means. I need to make up the shortfall and have enough to pay the innkeep of this fine establishment while we figure out what you're going to do with your impending freedom.'

She flushed slightly. 'I'm sorry, master.' He shot her a reproving look. 'I'm sorry, Salamander. I have been ungrateful to you. You're trying to do a kind thing and, well, one of those who bid against you owns a brothel, and he isn't too particular about how the clients treat the lads and lasses, if you catch my meaning.' She shuddered.

Ebañy's eyes widened. 'Now, I'm twice glad I put out the extra coin.' He shrugged eloquently. 'It's an easy enough thing to acquire more. Now, I shall be out in the marketplace for some hours this evening, but you may do as you please. Would you like a bath?'

She nodded.

'I'll ask one of the lads to bring one up for you. Ask him to bring you summat to eat, and we'll settle up and get you what you need on the morrow, when I've earned us the coin to pay for it!' Laughing, he swept out of the room.

Daka wondered whether he would want her to sleep with him, as the auctioneer had suggested. He was a good-looking man, that was certain, for all that he looked like he'd fallen into a vat of bleach as a babe and had all the colour leached out of him. But sexual entanglements with one's master could be dangerous, as she had learned to her cost. She shrugged, hoping it would be a problem for another day, and sat down on the bed to think until her bath arrived. What do I want to do?

To her very great relief, when her master (she couldn't think of him as anything else) returned late that evening, he seemed to want nothing more than to stretch out on the divan and sleep, offering her the bed.

From then on, each night while he was still buzzing with the adrenaline of this performance, he would buy her a drink and start what she had come to think of as the 'what about' game. It had not taken long to establish that she would not make an entertainer – she had no patience for storytelling, and though her voice was pleasant enough, it was utterly tuneless. 'Ah well,' he had said. 'Mayhap you could collect up the coins for us, for now?'

'I'll scare all your customers away.'

'Nah nah nah! They're happy enough to stare at a freakish barbarian, so you'll look perfectly normal, in comparison.'

She looked skeptical but nodded.

He was right, and though occasionally someone stared, or a young child might point, the crowds remained strong.

Another night, he asked, 'What about dancing?'

'I don't know how.'

He leapt up and took her by the hand, holding both arms outstretched while his feet stamped in intricate, rhythmic patterns. 'I've not yet learned the dances of your people, but some of my folk dance like this.' Abruptly, he stopped. 'My other folk dance more like this. Now, you take my hand like so, put your hand on my shoulder thus, while I put my hand at your waist, here.' His hand was light, an almost brotherly gesture, and it touched her. But as they stepped and twisted, all she could think of was how dancers, like all entertainers, would be stared at. She let go his hand and shook her head.

'What about scribing or such like?'

'I can't read or write.'

'I know that,' he said impatiently, 'as a slave you've been forbidden from doing all sorts of things that you'll be able to do very soon. You can learn. Or perhaps figuring – do you like working with numbers?'

'Well… I used to work the household budgets for my old master, adding it all up and telling him the tallies.'

He clapped his hands. 'There you are! Truly, it would serve you well to read and write as well, even if you're not going for a scribe, as you'll be able to record the figures and use written accounts.'

'I'll think on it. Can you read and write?'

'Oh yes, though I've not a scribe's hand, and I don't read so well in Bardekian, yet. No time.' For emphasis, he drew a string of silk scarves seemingly from out of the air, made them float around his head and disappear into his tunic.

She looked up in surprise. 'You don't speak the same language as we do?'

He laughed. 'No, my owlet, they speak quite a different tongue altogether, over in Deverry. Many things are different – for starters, there's no slavery. Or almost none, at least.'

'It can't be all bad, then, no matter what the merchants say.'

'No, not all bad at all.'

The process for freeing Daka was longer and more complicated than either of them had imagined, with Ebañy having to make sworn statements in front of priests, which were entered into the public record, then taken from official to official, some of whom never seemed to be in their offices.

As he said to Daka, 'the laws have certainly thought things through better than I had – I have to swear that you've financial support, and I have to provide it until and unless you've the means to support yourself.'

'Well that's a relief.'

He looked hurt. 'Now that's a nasty thing to say! I'd never just have abandoned you without a copper to your name or a means of feeding yourself! I should like to think you'd know me better than that by now.'

'You're right, of course. I'm sorry.'

He shook a finger at her. 'Don't you go agreeing with me just because I still technically own that piece of pabrus!'

'Sorry. I mean, I really do know you wouldn't turn me out, but it's still hard to believe, somehow.'

He sighed. 'I can see how it could be, at that. Slavery is the one true evil in these fair islands, without which I think I could happily pass the rest of my days among them!'

'Why do you hate it so much?'

He frowned. 'Slavery? I don't know, exactly. It just makes my skin crawl, the thought of human beings bought and sold and owned like horses or cattle, with no will or life of their own.' He shuddered.

She shrugged. 'Never thought too much about it, I suppose. I mean, I didn't want to always be a slave, but how else does any work get done?'

'Why, by paying folks to do it! I'll admit it isn't perfect, and servants don't have the easiest time of it, but they can still choose a different life for themselves. Here, have you ever been to Orystinna?'

'I've never been out of this town. Why?'

He clapped his hands together. 'Once all this is settled, how about we take a little trip?'