frighten its prey, and the real black ships, the ones of legend, were either long gone or else from far to the west.
Peirol learned all this and more, for he was the only one on the
Petrel
besides the six-man prize crew. Kanen had decided that Zaimis would be best kept close, and the sailors from the
Petrel
weren’t to be trusted, even chained up, so they were transferred to one of the galleys. But a mere dwarf was nothing to worry about. The bodies were dumped overside, the broken mast cut away, and the
Petrel
taken under tow by three galleys, with only a headsail on its foremast to reduce yawing.
Peirol still had the small bag of diamonds behind his left knee, but he knew better than to try to bribe one of the prize crew. It was known that he was a jeweler, and his bag of gold and lesser gems had been discovered. If he came up with another jewel, he’d likely be stripped, searched, and given a “Beshkirs smile,” throat slit from ear to ear.
At least he’d recovered his roll of tools, cast aside as worthless when the raiders looted his cabin. So if all went well, and he found the master everyone said he would, Peirol would be able to work his craft, impress his master no end, and hopefully be manumitted.
Eventually the pirates reached Beshkirs and sailed into its harbor. It was at the end of a peninsula, a rocky hand curving around a deep-water mooring. Low, thick-walled stone forts were built at either side of the harbor mouth, and the city climbed across the knolls behind them. To one side of the roughly rectangular harbor, more than fifty galleys were drawn up, sterns to a seawall. Behind the seawall loomed a great stone barracks.
“That’s where the galley slaves are quartered when they’re not afloat,” a sailor said. “Free ships are over there.” He gestured to the other side of the harbor, where merchant ships were anchored, or tied to wharves. “This bucket and its cargo’ll be auctioned for Lord Kanen’s and our shares. You and your friends’11 be for the auction block.”
Peirol had never considered slavery more than a natural part of the world like sunrise and wine, since he of course would never become one. He felt sorry for the slave with a harsh master, and for the poor traveler or soldier who got caught in a slaver’s snares. Suddenly he realized being another’s property, having to do his bidding forever, would be his doom. For an instant he thought of hurling himself overside, but his good sense caught him. There was always a way out, always something a clever man could do to improve or change his lot. And certainly Peirol of the Moorlands was a clever man….
• • •
The slave market was a natural amphitheater in the center of Beshkirs. Stone slave pens that could hold one or a hundred bodies were behind the block, which was large enough to stage a masque. Milling around the front of the block were the traders and hangers-on, exchanging raucous jeering, insults, and lewdness. Behind them, row on row, rose seats where other, slightly more dignified spectators watched and bought.
The pens were crowded with men and women, of a dozen shades and, it seemed, a hundred races. There were few children, and only two or three older men or women. Peirol assumed the old ones had some highly marketable skill, fairly sure what had happened to the middle-aged and ugly.
He asked one of the guards about Zaimis, but no one knew her either by name or description. Peirol assumed either Kanen had kept the woman or, since his reputed love was more for gold than sex, had successfully ransomed her to Aulard, her intended husband. He wished her well and hoped her marriage would be happier than he feared, given what Edirne had said.
The auctioneer, Jirl, was a fat, jovial man who carried a heavy staff and kept matters moving quickly. Someone would be pushed up the stairs by the two guards, who wore studded, weighted gloves and had clubs and daggers at their belt, and blink bewilderedly or try to fix a
Peirol learned all this and more, for he was the only one on the
Petrel
besides the six-man prize crew. Kanen had decided that Zaimis would be best kept close, and the sailors from the
Petrel
weren’t to be trusted, even chained up, so they were transferred to one of the galleys. But a mere dwarf was nothing to worry about. The bodies were dumped overside, the broken mast cut away, and the
Petrel
taken under tow by three galleys, with only a headsail on its foremast to reduce yawing.
Peirol still had the small bag of diamonds behind his left knee, but he knew better than to try to bribe one of the prize crew. It was known that he was a jeweler, and his bag of gold and lesser gems had been discovered. If he came up with another jewel, he’d likely be stripped, searched, and given a “Beshkirs smile,” throat slit from ear to ear.
At least he’d recovered his roll of tools, cast aside as worthless when the raiders looted his cabin. So if all went well, and he found the master everyone said he would, Peirol would be able to work his craft, impress his master no end, and hopefully be manumitted.
Eventually the pirates reached Beshkirs and sailed into its harbor. It was at the end of a peninsula, a rocky hand curving around a deep-water mooring. Low, thick-walled stone forts were built at either side of the harbor mouth, and the city climbed across the knolls behind them. To one side of the roughly rectangular harbor, more than fifty galleys were drawn up, sterns to a seawall. Behind the seawall loomed a great stone barracks.
“That’s where the galley slaves are quartered when they’re not afloat,” a sailor said. “Free ships are over there.” He gestured to the other side of the harbor, where merchant ships were anchored, or tied to wharves. “This bucket and its cargo’ll be auctioned for Lord Kanen’s and our shares. You and your friends’11 be for the auction block.”
Peirol had never considered slavery more than a natural part of the world like sunrise and wine, since he of course would never become one. He felt sorry for the slave with a harsh master, and for the poor traveler or soldier who got caught in a slaver’s snares. Suddenly he realized being another’s property, having to do his bidding forever, would be his doom. For an instant he thought of hurling himself overside, but his good sense caught him. There was always a way out, always something a clever man could do to improve or change his lot. And certainly Peirol of the Moorlands was a clever man….
• • •
The slave market was a natural amphitheater in the center of Beshkirs. Stone slave pens that could hold one or a hundred bodies were behind the block, which was large enough to stage a masque. Milling around the front of the block were the traders and hangers-on, exchanging raucous jeering, insults, and lewdness. Behind them, row on row, rose seats where other, slightly more dignified spectators watched and bought.
The pens were crowded with men and women, of a dozen shades and, it seemed, a hundred races. There were few children, and only two or three older men or women. Peirol assumed the old ones had some highly marketable skill, fairly sure what had happened to the middle-aged and ugly.
He asked one of the guards about Zaimis, but no one knew her either by name or description. Peirol assumed either Kanen had kept the woman or, since his reputed love was more for gold than sex, had successfully ransomed her to Aulard, her intended husband. He wished her well and hoped her marriage would be happier than he feared, given what Edirne had said.
The auctioneer, Jirl, was a fat, jovial man who carried a heavy staff and kept matters moving quickly. Someone would be pushed up the stairs by the two guards, who wore studded, weighted gloves and had clubs and daggers at their belt, and blink bewilderedly or try to fix a
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