Douglas Niles - Winterheim

Strongwind was anxious to get out and see more of this city. Thus far, his work had been confined to the apartments, where he had been ordered to build some storage shelves and perform mundane cleaning tasks. He had been hoping for a chance to perhaps meet and talk to other slaves, particularly in the area of the Nobles’ Market. Wandcourt and Brinda had proved to be taciturn. They had bluntly discouraged any of Strongwind’s questions about their voluptuous mistress. After a few perfunctory attempts at conversation, the king had learned to keep his thoughts and words to himself.

Thraid produced a supple length of chain and a metal collar, and Strongwind guessed that he would not have a great deal of freedom on this excursion. However, the new slave was willing to endure the humiliation of having the collar shackled around his neck if it would get him out of the apartments for a few hours. Still, he glowered at Wandcourt, and the elder slave shrugged in mute apology as he fastened the device. Thraid tugged roughly on the chain, yanking Strongwind to the side as she concluded that it was attached satisfactorily.

“I will walk along willingly, my lady,” he said through clenched teeth. “You will not find it necessary to jerk me along.”

“Oh, but I like to!” she said with a giggle, pulling hard enough that he fell to his knees. She smiled in delight, and as he stood again the man reflected with some surprise that it was not a cruel expression but more like the innocent happiness of a child with a new toy.

“Now come, Whalebone,” she said.

They departed the front door, crossed through the courtyard, and went down the narrow side street that seemed to lead only to Thraid’s house. Strongwind followed behind the voluptuous ogress, taking care to stay close. Even so, she tugged hard on the chain when they reached the corner.

“This way!” she exclaimed, pointing ostentatiously, drawing the attention of others within earshot.

They joined the stream of other slaves and ogres moving along the terrace promenade. Here, as on the other levels of Winterheim he had seen, the promenade was a great, circular avenue that passed completely around the ring of the city’s central atrium. The humans tended to remain away from the balcony, walking close to the building fronts that lined one side of the wide avenue. The other, with its sweeping view down to the waterfront and harbor, was best left to the ogres who strolled with much less urgency than the humans.

Strongwind, tethered as he was, found himself walking among the ogres. He noticed sneering, contemptuous glances and imagined that the brutes delighted in his chained confinement. He ignored the looks and did his best to stay close to the Lady Thraid. Only gradually did he realize that some of the looks-especially the contempt of other ogresses-seemed to be directed at his mistress, not himself. He was surprised at that, since he had guessed that the king’s personal interest in his assignment had meant that the lady was a favorite of the king himself.

The Nobles’ Market was up two levels, and the ogress and the slave king climbed the ramp in long strides. Finally they arrived at a wide double doorway leading into a cavernous chamber where many slaves milled about and a few armed ogres glowered and shouted orders or fingered long, wicked-looking whips. There was a great hubbub of noisy conversation and a significant amount of jostling for position in several long queues.

“A smelly lot,” Thraid sniffed, indicating the mob of humans. “I command you, slave, to get me two large salmon. I shall wait for you over at the plaza inn, where I will be having a mug of tea.” She reached forward and used a small key to disconnect the chain from his collar, then pressed two gold pieces into his palm. “These are for the fish and nothing else. Do you understand? On your honor, return to me swiftly.”

“Certainly, my lady.” The slave king’s expression remained blank, but his heart pounded at the thought that he would at last be turned loose among a great congregation of slaves-and in the Nobles’ Market, the place he most wanted to visit in all the city!

He wandered through the door and looked around, grateful that his height allowed him to see over most of the crowd. Six or eight large alcoves opened in the wall around the perimeter of the big room, which had a temperature much chillier than the rest of Winterheim.

After a moment’s inspection, the Highlander king deduced that these alcoves each opened into a large warehouse where different types of food were kept. The alcoves were used for disbursement. Wooden signs with crude pictures marked the locations. A fish, a flask of oil, and a loaf of bread were readily found, and with a little study he understood that salt, berries, and sea-greens were among the other offerings.

He would get the salmon, but first he would seize this moment to briefly extend his freedom. Remembering Tildy Trew’s words, he joined the line at the salt alcove, waited for the half dozen slaves in front of him to have their sacks filled by a big, swarthy man-obviously an Arktos-who curtly gestured for the next in the queue to move forward.

“Can’t give ya salt wit’out a sack,” he declared, all but sneering when Strongwind arrived before him.

“I don’t want salt,” he replied. “I want to talk to Black Mike.”

Though he hadn’t known what to expect, the Highlander king was startled when the glowering fellow reached across the counter and seized him by the front of his collar. With a jerk of a sinewy forearm, the man pulled Strongwind forward and hissed at him a few inches from his face.

“Where’d you hear a name like that? What kind of a fool are you, to use it here?” The man’s mouth was clenched into a tight line, and flecks of spittle flew from his lips as he all but snarled.

Firmly the king broke the grip, his own fingers twisting the salt vendor’s wrist with unrelenting pressure as he leaned back and pulled his adversary halfway onto the counter. “Where can we go to talk?” he asked, conspiratorially.

The fellow’s eyes narrowed to twin spots of darkness, and his black hair and beard framed the swarthy face in bristling fur. In that instant Strongwind knew: This was Black Mike himself.

“Garic, take over here,” said the salt vendor, and another fellow-a lanky, long-haired Highlander-advanced from the recesses of the alcove.

Shooting a sideways, narrow-eyed glance at the two men, he took his place at the salt counter. The slave in line behind Strongwind was already pushing forward as the Highlander king stepped to the side then went through the door that opened for him, following the other man into a dark, cool room. Blocks of salt were stacked up to twelve or more feet high, enclosing the walls of the room and forming several corridors of small passages in the large chamber. Wooden stepladders were erected here and there, providing access to the tall stacks. To one side, near the counter, several male slaves were busy grinding a salt block into granules for distribution.

“I’m taking the new man back to the evaporation room,” announced Strongwind’s guide. They followed a narrow corridor between two towering stacks of salt blocks, turned a corner near what seemed like the back of the room, then passed under a stone arch that led to a wide connecting hallway. At the end of that hall was a door, which the man opened then stood back, gesturing to the king to proceed.

A sense of alarm prickled along the nape of Strongwind Whalebone’s neck, but he had come too far to back out now. Indeed, he was encouraged that his question had provoked such an unquestionably genuine reaction. Balling his hands into fists, he stepped through the door and quickly looked to the right.

A man was waiting there with an upraised club, and the Highlander reacted immediately, stabbing a punch into the fellow’s face, drawing a curse as the would-be attacker stumbled backward. A heavy blow smashed onto Strongwind’s head from behind-from another club wielder lurking on the other side of the door-and Black Mike drove into his side with a charging rush.