There had been a time when this had been a decent city, with good decent folk, honest servants. No slaves.
“What? No response?” she asked dryly as the guard’s hand fell. He offered only a sullen glare in response. “I’ll just take my leave then.”
With a smile, she led her horse through the gate and off the road, pausing just long enough to check the riding gear and her own supplies. Then she swung up on the horse and offered a cheery wave before nudging Kilidare onto the road.
Her nearly empty coin purse slapped against her hip as the horse took off at a ground-eating gallop. Good thing he hadn’t pressed the issue. Tyriel doubted she would have bothered with going to the constable and this morning’s purchase had near emptied her resources, for the time.
She could always change that. Her father would be more than happy, even rather insistent on changing that.
And she was rather insistent that he not.
She had made it by on far less than she had now. She could do it again.
* * * * *
“Sold?” Aryn repeated, staring at the innkeeper with shuttered eyes. By the gods, he thought angrily. One of the patrons that had kept shooting the boy looks the past night, no doubt.
Pretty child slaves didn’t last long in places like this. They usually ended up in private homes or whorehouses. How could such filth be legal? Why was it allowed? His gut roiled and his hand ached for his sword.
He would find him.
That was all there was to it.
Shifting the harness at his shoulders, he closed his eyes. A headache pounded behind his eyes, a familiar one. The blade at his back had that odd heavy feel to it.
West, they had to ride west, find the child…soon, no, not soon, now.
They had to go now.
He shook his head as the odd spell of dizziness swarmed up.
Shoving it back, Aryn clenched his hands and focused. The boy. He had to focus on the boy.
Damn it! Had he seen to it last night instead of having his cock ridden—ah, but it was too late now.
No. He’d seen what was done to too many of the slave children.
If he could help just one—
Aryn had no idea what he would do with a small child while he traveled, but he would come up with something.
With a flat stare, he looked back at the innkeeper. He drew the long-bladed knife he wore at his hip and gave the sharp edge of it a slow stroke.
“To whom?” He offered the innkeeper a slow, cold smile.
Nervous now, the innkeeper licked his dry lips and shot the knife in Aryn’s hand a quick look. “The elf las’ night. Didn’t know she was fae ‘til then, but it was ‘er. The one that saved ‘is lazy arse last night, see. She up and paid for ‘im afore headin’ out this mornin’.”
A smile spread across his face. Aryn’s rush was relief was unreal. “Any idea where she was heading?”
The smile had the tension inside the innkeeper’s chest loosening, turning to greed. “Mebbe.”
Aryn turned the knife, letting it catch the dull light as he cocked his head and studied the innkeeper. He arched a brow, waiting.
“Maybe?” he repeated. When no answer came, he slammed the knife’s tip into the bar, reached out, snagged the innkeeper’s filthy shirt and dragged him closer. When they were nose to nose, Aryn said, “I suggest you remember, and remember fast. Else you are going to have a difficult time running this sorry inn—because I am going to cut out your tongue and shove it down your throat. And if I’m still feeling edgy, I’ll chop off your dick as well.”
Rapidly, the innkeeper said, “M’ boy saw ‘er loadin’ the boy up w’ the caravan that was outside t’ wall las’ night. Right happy, the boy looked.” His face was pale, save for two spots of color high on his cheeks. “The Wildlings have him now. And I did not lay a hand on t’ boy. Gave ‘er a good price, I did.”
“There is no price on a life,” Aryn said in disgust. He dropped him abruptly and shoved. “Perhaps I should take your boy and let the Wildlings have him as well. And you could buy him back, for a price. But then, he would know true happiness, and he would never want to leave them for you.”
Gaping at him, the innkeeper said, “You can’t do that! He’s my boy! My son!”
“That child you sold to the elf is also somebody’s boy, somebody’s son. Didn’t keep you from buying him like he was a shirt or a pair of shoes, did it?”
Disgusted, Aryn left, grabbing his pack and hitting the streets. His contract to the wagon train was up and he was free. If he didn’t get away from this blasted city, he would go mad.
Chapter 3
“Eh, thas jes’ a bloody girl.”
Oh, isn’t he a bright one?
With some amusement, Tyriel watched as he scratched his head and eyed her dubiously. Putting down her gear kit, she rose to her full height and studied the big man.
Fighter, she decided, but nothing more than a muscled grunt. A guard who relied on his brawn and not much else—likely because he had little else to rely on.
Gerome, the man who’d hired her for a rather princely sum, gave the big man a dark look. “Benjin. Be silent.”
But, no. Benjin would not be silent. Tyriel decided she’d be amused rather than insulted, though. Her gear kit, a rolled-up piece of leather that held the tools she used for polishing and cleaning her weapons, and sharpening her blades, lay in plain view on the stone she’d used as a work surface, and anybody with sense would have noted that, or the sword at her back, the knife at her waist. Not Benjin, though.
So, his next comment didn’t even surprise her.
“Y’ takin’ to bringing whores along?” the dunce asked, too stupid to recognize the warning in his boss’s eyes.
Whore, am I?
She had no ill will to those who sold themselves—assuming it was a choice. Tyriel sold herself as well, although what she sold was skill with a blade and magic.
So she kept her voice mild as she said, “I’m not here to whore for anybody.”
“I’ve not seen many her equal when it comes to a sword,” Gerome said, stepping forward and meeting Benjin’s eyes with a sharp look. “Since Dheo is no longer traveling with me, we’re short—and all my guards could use with some sharpening of their skills. Tyriel can help with that and keep the wagon train safe. I don’t care if she’s one of the exiled if she can handle you lot and keep my people safe.”
“I don’t need no handlin’.” Benjin’s face folded into surly lines and he gave Tyriel a dismissive look. Crossing his arms over his massive chest, the surly fellow looked Tyriel over with derisive eyes. “I ain’t workin’ alongside no bloody girl. Unless’n I kin be putting her under me.”
Gerome eyed the fellow with pursed lips, then shrugged his shoulders. “All right. Aldy, get Benjin’s wages together. He gave me three days of work.”
“Huh?”
Aldy, the spry little man who had brought Tyriel the work contract the previous night, scurried over to the hulking idiot who stood staring at Gerome as if he had grown a second head.
“Wages? I thought we got paid at the night before each stopover.” The dunce reached up to scratch his straw-colored hair a second time.