Red Magic (зк-3) by Jean Rabe

Author:Jean Rabe [Rabe, Jean]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: sf_fantasy

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Wynter's childhood rushed at him as the centaur toured the slave pens. Nearly four dozen slaves milled about the largest pen; these were not prime stock and could be bartered for. There were four other pens. One contained women who were too fat, too old, or too ugly to be used for pleasure slaves, but could work well as domestic servants.

Another, the closest, was filled with young men, obviously laborers. The third was crowded with families-at least the slavers were trying to sell them as units. The fourth held dwarves, halflings, and children. There were no elves for sale today.

Wynter eyed the stock, remembering how his father had examined slaves. The conditions in the pens looked as deplorable as when he had visited the markets in his youth. The slaves were allowed no privacy, could not talk long to each other without the guards fearing they were plotting to escape. They wore very little clothing. Potential buyers didn't want the merchandise concealed. Wynter saw that about a dozen of the young laborers had fresh whip marks on their backs, the blood glistening in the fading sunlight.

"Can I help you today?" a tall, young man called as he came toward the centaur. The man wore a leather tunic that was much too large for his lanky frame, and he carried a whip at his side. His bald head bore an unusual tattoo made to look like a beholder. His skull served as the monster's body, with many eye stalks painted in a ring around his head. The creature's central eye was painted on the man's forehead.

"Just looking. A poor selection, it seems to me."

"That's because you're shopping late," the man replied matter-of-factly, fingering the whip. When he smiled, the beholder's central eye rode up on his forehead. "We had a big auction this morning, and a few of the wizards bought the best of the lot. There're still some good ones left. Depends what you're interested in. You can have the dwarves cheap."

The man gestured, and the slaves moved closer so the centaur could get a better look. One scarred young man glared at the slaver. The slaver returned the stare and flicked his wrist, the whip snaking out from his hand and striking the man in the cheek, drawing blood.

"I was interested in quantity-a few dozen to work the fields near Thaymount," Wynter interjected, hoping to keep the slaver occupied so he wouldn't whip any more slaves. "I'm the chief buyer for a slave plantation there."

The man whipped the slave again, harder this time, then grinned at Wynter. "You've traveled a long way." His expression caused the beholder's central eye to rest about an inch above the bridge of his nose. "The best of the lot are gone. Sorry to disappoint you. You must be from the Agri Plantation. You work for Blackland Ironhoof?"

Wynter's dark eyes narrowed. "He's my father."

"Long time since someone from that plantation's been here. Heard you're doing all your buying from Eltabar lately.

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