Chapter 3

Olira scrunched the skirt of her dress in her fist.  

She hated being here. She hated doing business with the likes of Master Gladwiel. The slave merchant studied everyone with a calculating look, as if they all had slave tattoos on their necks and he was appraising what he could get for them at an auction.

Olira’s father always argued the Domestic Assets Trade Union and men like Master Gladwiel were the source of everything that was wrong with Chinderia. Being here — sitting on this comfortable chair, breathing in the heavily incensed air — made Olira imagine the disappointment she would find on her father’s face if he was still alive.

She unclenched her fist and straightened the crease on the thick brown fabric. Her jaw ached from grinding her teeth. Guilt gnawed at Olira’s rhoa. She crossed her arms over her chest to stop her hands from fidgeting. She didn’t want Master Gladwiel to mistake her discomfort for weakness. She came here unannounced, not allowing Master Gladwiel to elude her again. She wasn’t bluffing when she’d told the boy she would bring the constables with her. 

She would not leave this office empty-handed.

She pushed a strand of light brown hair behind her ear as she studied the lavish office with disgust. She’d been here many times in the past, and Master Gladwiel didn’t spare any expenses furnishing this room. His oak desk was carved elegantly. He fashioned a long-backed, ornate chair for himself behind it. A purple velvet cushion, moulded into the shape of Master Gladwiel’s backside, rested on the seat. Two comfortable armchairs were placed in front of the desk. Olira was sitting on one.

On the other side of the room, a couple of sofas were positioned to face the wall. More velvet cushions littered them, and a side table between them housed a bowl of fresh fruits and empty glasses. 

Olira scowled at the furniture. She guessed this must have been where Master Gladwiel’s business transpired; the slaves would line up against the wall, while the customer sat on the soft pillows, munching on their refreshments, and browsing their next slaves to take home. 

It disgusted Olira. She despised slave owners, and she regretted ever getting into business with a slave merchant. 

She was rehearsing the argument she was about to have with Master Gladwiel inside her head when the office door opened behind her. 

“I am so sorry for making you wait this long, Mistress Olira,” Gladwiel said as he hurried inside. “I just had to oversee something myself.”

Olira blinked at the second man who trailed after Gladwiel. She mumbled a response to accept the apology. 

Gladwiel closed the door behind him and gestured to the man to stand in front of the sofas. Then he hurried behind his desk and sat down on his cushioned chair.

“You’re here for your payment, I presume?” Gladwiel smiled warmly.

“Yes…” 

Olira was distracted by the other man’s presence. At first, she thought the man was one of Gladwiel’s workers. He was clothed in a plain, faded yellow shirt, a pair of dark pants, and leather shoes. He stood in front of the sofas, with his back against the wall, his eyes cast down and his hands clasped in front of him. When she spotted the slave tattoo on the man’s neck, she looked away. Gladwiel must have been expecting a customer to display this slave after meeting Olira. She shook her distaste and focused on her argument.

“Master Gladwiel, I’ve been waiting patiently for my payment…”

“Yes, of course, I sincerely apologise for the delay,” Gladwiel interrupted with a calming gesture. “I have your payment ready.”

“You do?” Olira blinked, momentarily thrown off balance. Her argument evaporated from her mind. 

“Yes, of course. Again, I’m so sorry for taking this long. You know how business is. Things still haven’t stabilised after what happened at Brinescar last summer.”

“Oh, right. That’s okay, I understand.” She bit her lips, suddenly feeling guilty for threatening the man about bringing constables. The anger and frustration that had been bubbling inside her since the early morning of her two days’ journey to Kiore suddenly dissipated.

“Can I offer you some refreshments?”

“Oh, umm, I’m good, thank you.” She eyed the slave merchant’s face suspiciously. Over the few months they did business together, he’d never offered her any refreshments. “So… My payment?” 

“Right.” Gladwiel stood and gestured at the door. “My assistant, Hasrey, is in the next room, finalizing the paperwork. It shouldn’t take too long.”

“That’s great to hear, thank you.” Olira gathered her satchel and stood. A mixture of relief and bewilderment almost made her laugh. Then, her smile froze on her lips. “Wait. Paperwork?”

“Yes, the sales papers.” Gladwiel rolled his eyes. “Need to keep them on you when entering or leaving a city. Guards will always ask to see them.”

“Sales papers?” Olira scratched her head. “The city guards never asked for any papers from me before.”

Gladwiel chuckled. “Well, you’ve probably never travelled with one before.”

“Travelled with what?”

“A slave, of course.”

A knot of unease twisted in Olira’s stomach. Her eyes darted between Gladwiel and the slave, who stood against the wall like a statue. She recoiled when she understood. “Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head and pointing a finger at Gladwiel. “No. No, no, no, no…”

Gladwiel blinked with a surprise that matched Olira’s. “What? What’s the problem?”

“I’m not buying a slave!”

“You’re not… I don’t understand, Mistress Olira. I’m making you a payment.”

Olira’s face flushed red. She forced herself to sit back down and regain her composure. “You’re making me a payment?”

“Yes.”

“With a slave?”

“Yes.”

She inhaled a deep breath and held onto it for a while until the urge to slap the audacious man diminished a little. “I’m not buying a slave, Master Gladwiel.”

“I know. I’m making you a payment.” He sat back down, too. Propping his elbows on the table, he leaned forward. “I don’t understand what the problem is?”

Olira gritted her teeth. The problem was, she despised the slave trade, and even the idea of owning a slave made her want to gag. The sentiment was deeply ingrained by her parents. Growing up, her father had been a vocal advocate against using slaves for labour. The more slaves business owners used, the less work became available for free men and women. It led to poverty, which forced more people to commit crimes. And the process of enslaving people due to these crimes was so dodgy and poorly regulated. The Domestic Assets Trade Union gave slave merchants and breeders such unchecked power. It was terrifying.

And the purebreds… Freeborn slaves, she could understand. She still disapproved, but she could understand. But the existence of purebred slaves was like a spit on the Twelve Riders’ faces. 

She didn’t see any point in making this argument to Gladwiel. The man had a rock for a rhoa. Instead, “I don’t need a slave, Master Gladwiel,” she simply said through gritted teeth.

Gladwiel narrowed his eyes at her. He was eerily quiet for a long moment. Olira didn’t break eye contact. Her jaw ached from clenching. 

“Mistress Olira,” Gladwiel finally said with a deep sigh. “How much do I owe you?”

“You owe me eighty Chinderian Blues for a bag of Palleogano, forty Blues for Oxeron and Stripefang Blossom roots, and another thirty for a whole rack of other rare herbs. That’s hundred and fifty Blues, Master Gladwiel. Cash.”

Gladwiel shook his finger. “We never said cash.” He pointed the same finger at the slave. “This is how I’ll be paying you.”

“I don’t accept this payment. I want my money.” 

Anger flashed on Gladwiel’s face, but he reined it promptly. He took a deep breath, ran his fingers through his hair, and settled on a different approach. 

“Mistress Olira,” Gladwiel said patiently as he walked around his desk. “I just paid one-hundred and eighty Blues for this slave. He’s worth more than what I owe you. Come, have a look.” He walked over to the slave and gestured Olira to join him.

“I’m good, thanks.” The last thing Olira ever imagined herself doing was sitting on those sofas and browsing a slave.

“Please, come have a look at him.”

“Master Gladwiel, I don’t want a slave.”

Gladwiel mumbled to himself. Rather than giving up, he grabbed the slave’s arm and brought him over to Olira. 

“Merciful Alunwea…” Olira muttered to herself. Anger and embarrassment painted her face red. Gladwiel positioned the man to stand in front of Olira. She remained in her chair while turning her face away. “What part of–”

Gladwiel put a hand on the slave’s shoulder and shoved him down, hard. The slave dropped to his knees with a thud. He blinked once and clenched his jaw but recovered his blank expression in an instant. He let out a slow, quiet breath, fixed his eyes on Olira’s knees, and remained still.

“Master Gladwiel–”

“Look at his tattoo.” Gladwiel grabbed the man’s face, turned it right, and tilted it back to reveal the slave tattoo on the left side of his neck. The slave didn’t even cringe at the rough handling.

“Do you see this?” Gladwiel continued, poking a finger at the slave’s neck, pointing at the dog-like beast displayed on the tattoo. “This means he’s a beast.”

When Olira took a deep breath, she noticed the man smelled like soap. Part of her wanted to cover her eyes or look away, but she was afraid Gladwiel would make the man sit on her lap until she looked. 

She eyed the slave, taking in the short-cropped blonde hair and the hard lines of his face. He seemed older than Olira, though no more than his mid-twenties. His skin looked pink, as if he’d just been scrubbed clean, confirming the smell of soap. A layer of light powder concealed yellow bruises all over his face. His cheeks looked red and irritated, and Olira spotted minor cuts left by a hasty razor. Freshly shaved.

“I know what a beast tattoo stands for, Master Gladwiel,” Olira grumbled. Beasts were the type of slaves who killed for entertainment. They were even worse than the flame tattooed pleasure slaves.

“Do you know what these lines stand for?” Gladwiel continued, pointing at the intricate lines around the dog-like creature. “These lines mean he’s a purebred. His parents were meticulously matched, and he’s been raised as a slave since the day he was born. Trained to fight in the arenas since he was old enough to stand. His kind are the best slaves anyone could afford.”

Disgust washed over Olira. She’d never seen a purebred up close. The slave’s grey eyes were blank, communicating no thoughts or emotions. Not a trace of anything that made a person human. Even animals had feelings. This man was completely empty. 

He had no rhoa.

She glowered at Gladwiel. “Master Gladwiel…”

Gladwiel cut her off as he continued. “Purebreds never disobey. Ever,” he emphasised with a passionate shake of his finger. He pushed the slave closer to Olira’s chair, as if his proximity would help change her mind. “They don’t think, they don’t feel. They never disrespect or upset their Owners and Masters. They have no human urges, nor desires. They never want anything. Not even their freedom.”

The slave’s expressionless face confirmed everything Gladwiel had said. 

“And look at his size! Look at these shoulders, these muscles. He’s big and strong and healthy. He’s only got twenty winters behind him. Good looking too…”

Olira stood up. In her hurry to get away, she almost kneed the slave in the face. She walked around him and invaded Gladwiel’s personal space until her nose almost touched his chin. “I. Don’t. Need. A slave,” she said, drawing out each word. “I need my hundred and fifty Blues.”

Gladwiel’s jaw hardened. For a brief moment, he appeared as if he was a heartbeat away from striking her. When Olira didn’t step back, Gladwiel took his frustration out of the slave. He yanked the man onto his feet and shoved him towards the wall. The slave stumbled, recovered, and resumed his position in front of the sofas. Hands clasped in front, eyes down, shoulders straight.

Gladwiel walked behind his desk and started pacing. “What kind of person refuses a purebred beast?” he shouted, waving his hands aggressively. “I’m practically giving him away for free.”

Oddly, Gladwiel’s lapse in controlling his anger made Olira feel calmer, nearing triumphant. She tipped her chin up. She’d discovered that often times indifference infuriated people more than a heated argument. She sat in her chair, leaned back, and crossed her legs. 

“I refuse,” she said. “And you’re not giving him away for free. You’re trying to sell me a slave I don’t need and I can’t afford.”

“Mistress Olira, be reasonable!” Gladwiel almost yelled. “Just take him off my hands.”

Olira sighed. “For the last time, I don’t need a slave.”

“Well, think of him as an investment!” Gladwiel argued. “Take him now, keep him until the fight season approaches, and put him on auction. You’ll double, heck, triple your investment! Even if you sell him right away, any private buyer will happily pay at least two hundred or two fifty for him.”

Olira blinked lazily. “If he’s so valuable, why don’t you sell him and pay me in cash?”

A muscle on Gladwiel’s cheek twitched. “Because you’re here and demanding payment now. Just take him and we’ll call it even.”

“The answer is no,” Olira said stubbornly.

Gladwiel blinked once. Twice. He narrowed his eyes as if an idea occurred to him. He sat down, leaned back. A smug smile stained his face. “Okay,” he said docilely.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

Gladwiel pulled a paper in front of him and started reading it, indicating he was done talking to Olira. 

Olira chewed her lower lip, squinting at the slave merchant. She glanced at the slave, but didn’t see any explanation from him either. She would describe his face as made of stone, but even rocks expressed more emotion. She returned her gaze to Gladwiel and allowed the silence to stretch for as long as she could tolerate. 

“So then, do I collect my payment from your assistant?” she finally burst out.

Gladwiel raised his eyebrows, pretending like he’d forgotten Olira was there. “Oh, no, Mistress Olira. I won’t be able to make you any payment today. Come back in a month. I’ll see what I can do then.”

“Are you saying you’re not paying me?”

“No,” Gladwiel said without looking. “I’m saying if you want to be paid in cash, you’ll have to wait.”

“You’ve been delaying for two months already.”

“And I’m deeply sorry for that,” Gladwiel said, with no hint of sincerity.

“I will go to the city court.”

Gladwiel flashed her a poisonous smile. “Go ahead. Go make an official complaint. Do you know what will happen?” He leaned back and started examining his nails carelessly. “The constables will write down your complaint. They might arrange a visit to my office, maybe in two weeks, if they’re not too busy. I will tell them that I made you a very generous offer — and anyone would agree to that — and that you refused. I’ll tell them I have every intention of paying you back. They’ll give me a deadline which wouldn’t be earlier than a month after they visited me. And then, if I’m having any financial trouble, I have a right to ask for an extension. Twice.”

Olira noticed a pang in her palms. She had clenched her fists so tight, she drew blood. Flexing her fingers, she grabbed the arms of her chair. “This is extortion,” she whispered. Her rage consumed all her energy to speak any louder.

“No,” Gladwiel said, pleased with himself. “This is business.”

Olira snatched her purse and stormed to the door. A headache was blooming at the crown of her head. Jygan had warned her against doing business with city merchants, but she hadn’t listened. She knew she could get better value for her goods in the city. She was right, but what that value was going to cost her?

She paused with her hand on the doorknob and glanced at the slave. There was something different in the man’s posture now, though she couldn’t put her finger on it. He seemed… alert. 

No, not alert. Alarmed. 

His grey eyes remained fixed on the floor. He didn’t look up, but when Olira curled a finger and beckoned him, he saw it and he hurried after his new Owner.

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