A Changeable Market in Slaves

 How many times had T’Prin walked down this narrow lane? How many times had he slunk away, from the law courts, avoiding the high street for fear of meeting someone he knew, someone who would ask about the proceedings against him? How many times had he come this way with his head reeling, wondering what tricks he could use when the bailiffs served him with another summons? Yet in all those times, he’d never before noticed the little shop tucked between the out-of-business bakery and the run-down travel agency: a little shop with its window caked in dirt and a door sign reading EXOTIC CURIOS.

 In the land of Ithlandril, at the confluence of the rivers Udalanar and Surandimir, not far from the Plains of Occlanoue where Garth One-Finger fought the Battle of Kennings Mill against Malevon Darkstrider and the forces of Hnurn, a day’s march from the Jhallawel Forest so famous for Ba’ullahnut berries and the nomadic Quinquopel horses, there was a village named Fe’Huulin’s Rest, not named after Fe’Huulin the Gray, as you might expect, but after his son by the beauteous Ellandewollinir, Fe’Huulin d’Ellandewollinir, sometimes called Fe’Huulin Vallamarn or more simply Fe’Huulin of the Seven Dancing Servants of R’ynnhwn; and though the village had the reputation

 throughout the length and breadth of Adragharzh as a place of wealth and prosperity, second only to the cities of the Diacrectic League in the Archipelago Isles of Dragon Longing, it happened that a certain slavemonger named T’Prin, on the first day of the Month of the Quill (or more fully, Quillaamer’xhanderzjee), discovered that, though filled with rue, he must file a writ of surrendered suzerainty before the Judges of Ulm.

 One ducat and eighty-seven pence. That was all. And sixty pence of it was in coppers. Coppers saved one and two at a time by haggling with the meatmonger and the wine merchant and the temple prostitutes until one’s cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times T’Prin counted it. One ducat and eighty-seven pence. And the next day was the slave auction.

 Listen. T’Prin was a slavemonger in the last days of slaves, when everybody owned them and made excuses. Owners said they couldn’t just free the slaves because they were like children in adult bodies, too naпve to get along in the world. And it wasn’t a good time to start paying them as hired hands, because crop prices were down. And slaves really were happier with someone else taking all the responsibilities.

T’Prin was a slavemonger in the last days of slaves, when shipping embargoes by emancipated countries reduced incoming supplies, when local slave owners felt guilty about buying new slaves, when the market fell through. He had been an honest businessman in a trade that people once said was necessary. He kept his stock healthy and always gave customers good value.

Still, through no fault of his own, he found he was bankrupt. And he had no idea what to tell his family.

 A man sits beside a pond. It is night. The sky is full of stars, but he does not see them.

He throws pebbles into the water one by one. Each one gives a blooping splash, and rippling circles glide outward from the point of impact. When the ripples have died down enough that he cannot see them in the starlight, he throws another pebble.

His name is T’Prin. This afternoon, creditors came to his dirty shop on the edge of town and told him to get out. They had a written order from the Tribunal. They refused to let him remove a single thing from the premises, not even his father’s small library of books.

He had hated his job. He had hated treating people like animals. But as his father lay dying, the old man made T’Prin swear to keep the business going. It was the only thing his father had to leave the world. His mark. His legacy. T’Prin couldn’t find the courage to say what a shabby little legacy it was, so he made the oath his father demanded.

Tonight the business is gone, the oath broken. A friend told T’Prin he should be glad to get out of that squalid place. And so he should be.

 He throws another pebble. It disappears beneath the water. Its ripples disappear slowly. The surface of the pond becomes clear as if the pebble had never been thrown.

T’Prin throws another pebble.

 “Mistah T’Prin — he broke.”

Author’s Notes

Sometimes it takes a number of rewrites before I find a good tone of voice for a story. And sometimes the rewrites get out of hand…