Jo Clayton - A Gathering Of Stones

Carved in Twara-Teng high relief, the massive portal was intricately chased, heavily ornate, monumentally ugly. On sale days the syndics had the twin leaves of the Gate swung outward and pinned to angular dragonposts, exposing the serpentine geometries of their inner surfaces. Maksim walked past them, his nostrils twitching. He loathed this place, but was; almost pleased because its aesthetic qualities were so wonderfully suited to the acts within, as if the building and its ornamentation were designed by some heavy handed and deeply offended satirist. He paused at the dispensary and rented a falcon’s mask for Jastouk, taking a black bear’s mn771e for himself.

Masked and silent, they strolled among the cages for a while, waiting for the first sale to be called.

Jastouk was restless, uneasy. Like most of the hetairos working with Minders or from one of the established. Houses, he’d been meat in a cage like those around him when he was a child, a brown-eyed blond with skin soft and smooth as fresh cream, knowing just enough to be terrified because he had no say in who bought him or what use they made of him. But that was long ago, longer than he liked to think about. The years were pressing in on him, leaving their traces on his face and body. The day would come when Clients would ignore him for younger, fresher fare; new lovers would be hard to find, his price would drop, his standards go. He’d seen it, happen to others again and again, thinking not me, no, never. Anyway, that’s a long time off, when I’m old, I won’t be old for years and years. This place reminded him that those years were passing, each year faster than the last; it was time and more than time to begin planning, it was time and more than time to search for a lover he could stay with.

They passed a small blond boy, all eyes and elbows and numb terror.

Maksim felt the fingers on his arm tremble, caught the flicker of slitted eyes. He guessed at Jastouk’s fears and felt pain at the loss of something he’d treasured, the golden gliding invulnerability of the hetairo. Jastoulc had made several mistakes this morning, the biggest of them, underestimating the power of the buried anxieties this place would trigger, the effect they’d have on his judgment. Maksim looked at him with pity instead of lust and was saddened by that. For a moment he thought of keeping the hetairo with him now that Brann was gone and unlikely to return, but only for a moment. He was fond of Jastouk but he didn’t like him much and he certainly wasn’t in love with him; he hadn’t been in love for… how long? It seemed like centuries. It was at least decades. The last time, when was it? Certainly before he went to Cheonea. Traxerxes from Phras. The ancient ache of parting felt like pressed flowers, the shape there but all the fragrance gone. Five stormy years and more pain and fury than… faded and gone. No one after Trax. He was too busy with his little Cheonenes, trying to shape them into something… no time, no energy, nobody… Jastouk wasn’t meant for longterm anything. He was a diversion, delightful but ephemeral.

No, don’t think about it, he told himself and made a half-hearted pretense of inspecting the merchandise. Without his musings to distract him, outrage took hold, outrage and helplessness. If he were given the rule of things, he’d turn every slaver into pigmeat and lop the ears off parents who sold their children no matter what the reason. He’d outlawed slavery in Cheonea, skinned some slavers and confiscated some ships-how long that would hold he had no idea. He had to trust his farmers to keep the land clean; they were tough old roots; they had their claws on power and it’d take a lot to pry them loose. Ah well, it wasn’t his responsibility any longer.

He pulled the mask away from his face, mopped at his brow and upper lip with the lace-edged linen wipe he twitched from his sleeve. He settled the mask into place, tucked the wipe away and strolled to the back of the room. Todichi Yahzi was in none of the cages. That might mean the kwitur was part of the first lot. If so, good, he thought, the sooner I’m out of here…

Maksim set his back against the wall, smoothed a hand down the front of his robe, his stomach churning despite the calm detachment he was trying to project. Or it might mean Todich was already gone. Private sale. The dealer hadn’t planned to offer private views, but anything might have happened since last night.

Jastouk leaned against him, responding to his tension, offering warmth and support-and a voiceless warning that he was broadcasting too much emotion.

Maksim sighed and did his best to relax. He was drilled in self-control, but excess was an integral part of his power. He drew strength from riding the ragged edge of disaster. Not now, he told himself. This is not the time for power, this is the time for finesse. Forty Mortal Hells, you great lumbering fool, finesse! He blinked sweat from his eyes and swept the room with an impatient glance. It was rapidly filling up. About a third of the newcomers wore masks, some of them far too rich to be part of the Dispenser’s stock; it was early for such notables to be out, maybe that meant something, maybe it was just chance. The rest were stolid types with House Badges on dull tabards, some solitaire, some with a clutch of clerks in attendance. Maksim bent toward the smooth blond head resting against his ribs. “Tell me who’s here,” he murmured.

“Some of the masks I don’t know.” Jastouk’s whisper was a thread of sound inaudible a step away. “They don’t make the night circles, I think. Goldmask Hawk, that’s an Imperial Hand from Andurya Durat; I don’t know why he’s here now; this is a meat market. The skilled slaves go in the evening sale. Black Lacquer Beetle with the sapphire bobs, she’s Muda Paramount from the Pitna Jong Island group, that’s out in the middle of the Big Nowhere, she usually culls a girl or two from these sales, or a boychild if he’s very young and very beautiful…” The creamy murmur went on as the stage began to show signs of life. Two sweepers emerged from behind tall black velvet curtains, swung brooms in graceful arcs, almost a dance as they came together, parted, then glided out, pushing before them small heaps of dust and other debris.

“The Hina mix in gray with the Shamany Patch… um, that patch is a lie, he hired it off the Shamany; everyone knows that but goes along with it. The Shamany’s a miserable poxHouse, makes its taxcoin from those patchrents. I’ve seen him around in the dogends of morning, I think he runs a stable of child thieves; he’s probably looking for new talent…”

Three youths in black pajamas pushed a squat pillar out to the center of the stage, fitted a curving ramp onto it. The Block. Maksim shuddered, acid rising in his throat. It was over a century since he’d been present at a slave auction; it was two hundred and seventy-one years since he himself had been sold in one. The sight of it still made him want to vomit. As more sceneshifters brought in the Caller’s Lectern and a cage that glittered like silver in the harsh light, he forced himself to listen to Jastouk.

“Rinta House, Gashturmteh, Aldohza, Yeshamm, all solitaire reps, they don’t look like they’re expecting much… um, BlackHouse is here, that’s why. Not a good idea to bid too often against BlackHouse, bad things happen to you.” Jastouk shuddered, his body rubbing against Maksim’s.

The Caller came onstage and stood behind his Lectern, holding his hardwood rod a handspan above the sounder. He looked out across the milling crowd, then he hammered twice for attention, the harsh clacks breaking through the buzz of conversation, pulling those still drifting among the cages onto the auction floor. Maksim stepped away from the wall and onto the floor though he stayed at the back of the bidders. His size was an embarrassment sometimes, an advantage here. He couldn’t be overlooked. He folded his arms across his broad chest and waited.