Page 3 of The Winner's Curse
Many voices were shouting now, each calling for what they wanted to see. Kestrel found it hard to breathe.
“A girl!” yelled the pointy-chinned woman, this time more loudly.
The auctioneer, who had been sweeping his hands toward him as if gathering the cries and excitement, paused when the woman’s shout cut through the noise. He glanced at her, then at Kestrel. A flicker of surprise seemed to show on his face. She thought that she must have imagined it, for he skipped on to Jess, then peered in a full semicircle at all the Valorians against the barrier above and around him.
He raised a hand. Silence fell. “I have something very special for you.”
The acoustics of the pit were made to carry a whisper, and the auctioneer knew his trade. His soft voice made everyone lean closer.
His hand shifted to beckon toward the open, yet roofed and shadowed structure built low and small at the back of the pit. He twitched his fingers once, then twice, and something stirred in the holding pen.
A young man stepped out.
The crowd murmured. Bewilderment grew as the slave slowly paced across the yellow sand. He stepped onto the auction block.
This was nothing special.
“Nineteen years old, and in fine condition.” The auctioneer clapped the slave on the back. “This one,” he said, “would be perfect for the house.”
Laughter rushed through the crowd. Valorians nudged each other and praised the auctioneer. He knew how to entertain.
The slave was bad goods. He looked, Kestrel thought, like a brute. A deep bruise on the slave’s cheek was evidence of a fight and a promise that he would be difficult to control. His bare arms were muscular, which likely only confirmed the crowd’s belief that he would be best working for someone with a whip in hand. Perhaps in another life he could have been groomed for a house; his hair was brown, light enough to please some Valorians, and while his features couldn’t be discerned from Kestrel’s distance, there was a proud line in the way he stood. But his skin was bronzed from outdoor labor, and surely it was to such work that he would return. He might be purchased by someone who needed a dockworker or a builder of walls.
Yet the auctioneer kept up his joke. “He could serve at your table.”
More laughter.
“Or be your valet.”
Valorians held their sides and fluttered their fingers, begging the auctioneer to stop, stop, he was too funny.
“I want to leave,” Kestrel told Jess, who pretended not to hear.
“All right, all right.” The auctioneer grinned. “The lad does have some real skills. On my honor,” he added, laying a hand over his heart, and the crowd chuckled again, for it was common knowledge that there was no such thing as Herrani honor. “This slave has been trained as a blacksmith. He would be perfect for any soldier, especially for an officer with a guard of his own and weapons to maintain.”
There was a murmur of interest. Herrani blacksmiths were rare. If Kestrel’s father were here, he would probably bid. His guard had long complained about the quality of the city blacksmith’s work.
“Shall we start the bidding?” said the auctioneer. “Five pilasters. Do I hear five bronze pilasters for the boy? Ladies and gentlemen, you could not hire a blacksmith for so little.”
“Five,” someone called.
“Six.”
And the bidding began in earnest.
The bodies at Kestrel’s back might as well have been stone. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t look at the expressions of her people. She couldn’t catch the attention of Jess, or stare into the too-bright sky. These were all the reasons, she decided, why it was impossible to gaze anywhere else but at the slave.
“Oh, come now,” said the auctioneer. “He’s worth at least ten.”
The slave’s shoulders stiffened. The bidding continued.
Kestrel closed her eyes. When the price reached twenty-five pilasters, Jess said, “Kestrel, are you ill?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll leave as soon as it’s over. It won’t be long now.”
There was a lull in the bidding. It appeared the slave would go for twenty-five pilasters, a pitiful price, yet as much as anyone was willing to pay for a person who would soon be worked into uselessness.
