Though Hell Should Bar The Way – Snippet 38

This book is available now so this is the last snippet.

Though Hell Should Bar The Way – Snippet 38

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Slaves were sold at the top of the swale near the underground prison. There were stone seats and a permanent roof of structural plastic for spectators.

There was nothing for the prisoners, unless you counted the tower which mounted an automatic impeller. It was sited on the back side of the bleachers, which struck me as odd until I realized that from this location the muzzle couldn’t be lowered enough to bear on the customers. Given the quality of the guards I’d seen in Salaam, that was a wise precaution.

They’d started to bring out the prisoners by the time we arrived. They were in groups of five roped together at the right ankle. Guards were linking them as they climbed a ladder from the pit. None of them looked in great shape even without bonds, but I suppose the Admiral saw no reason to take chances.

We climbed four levels of seats, above the audience already in place. Those seated on the bottom row had come with cushions. Two of the four principals had brought attendants.

“The high mucky-mucks down there’re the consuls,” Abram whispered. “That’s Platt from Karst on the right and the woman on the left’s Kimber or Kimley, something like that, from the Alliance. The two in the middle are the Solitan League and the Sworn Brotherhood. They’re each three worlds, but they don’t count for much.”

The Alliance consul was the only woman visible. Platt was taller than me but he looked worn. His curly hair was obviously dyed and had receded high up his forehead. My first glance wasn’t encouraging, but it seemed that he might be what I had to work with.

I looked at the woman from the Alliance. There was no legal connection there, but maybe her gender would help? The thing was, I’d met plenty of women doing jobs that mostly were handled by men. From what I’d seen — and I was an outsider, I know — most of them were harder on other women than a man would have been. I guess they were just proving they weren’t soft.

The first gang of slaves shuffled in front of the stands. They were looking down and sometimes shielding their eyes with their hands: The roof didn’t cover them.

“Five spacers from the ship Hentzau,” the auctioneer called. He was in the chancellor’s division, a man named Albert. I knew him slightly because he chose to buy meals from Martial instead of eating with his own division. “All sound in limb.”

Two men in the second row bid against one another without enthusiasm. The lot was sold at 120 piasters per person. Guards shuffled the slaves off to the other end, where groups of attendants waited. An aide to the successful bidder jotted notes, as did Albert’s assistant.

“They’re both off-planet labor contractors,” Abram explained. “They’re putting together gangs to ship out of Eski Marakech.”

Another group was offered. This time an old man seated just below us with a grandson asked for a closer examination. He looked at the spacers — also from the Hentzau — individually, demanding they open their mouths. He finally offered 200 piasters on the second man in line. No one bid against him, though the other labor contractor bought the remainder of the coffle at 110 apiece.

These were men just like me. It bothered me a little that I was thinking of them as items of trade — as I would think of shovels or bags of barley being bought for the palace. I don’t suppose it mattered. I wasn’t buying them, even buying them for the palace.

Giorgios had an assistant to purchase labor. That fellow, Ali son of Ali, wasn’t present today.

I said to Abram, “How about me? I wasn’t paraded like those fellows.”

“Oh, I heard about that,” he said. “That was really hush-hush, you know? Giorgios did a deal with the cutter’s captain who took you, cash under the table. The chancellor didn’t get his cut, but maybe Giorgios squared him.”

Abram looked at me and grinned. “I guess he had to pay pretty well to get an expert on the console like you, huh?” he said.

“I don’t know what he paid,” I said. “It was off-book like you figure, so I haven’t found it in the records. I think he paid in Alliance thalers.”

I didn’t argue about being called an expert on the console. In Salaam, that’s what I was.

The third group came up to bid. Albert hadn’t more than stated, “Five spacers from the S611 out of Rupert’s Planet,” when the tall man at the head of the line put his arms akimbo.

“I am a citizen of Bryce!” he called, looking from one consul to the other. “I’m being improperly held!”

Albert turned to the woman. “Mistress Kimber?” he said. “This spacer was a member of the crew of S611, which is registered on Rupert’s Planet. Salaam has no treaty with Rupert’s Planet.”

“That’s a lie!” said the spacer. “I’m Gus Andre and I was a passenger on S611, not crew!”

“Master Albert?” said the woman. Two of her aides were whispering together as one consulted his personal data unit. “What evidence do you have that this man was crew and not a passenger?”

“The S611 didn’t have facilities for passengers,” said Albert, pulling a hardcopy document from his scrip. “Just bunks for the crew.”

“I slept in a bunk,” Andre said, “but I wasn’t crew!”

“Do you have the ship’s log showing that Andre was enrolled in the crew?” Kimber demanded.

“I don’t have record of that, no,” Albert said. Before the consul could speak again, Albert gestured to one of the escorting guards. “Release this man to the care of the Alliance consul.”

An attendant separated the freed man from the rest of the coffle by using shears to snip the light rope which attached his ankle to a heavy hawser. He tried to run over to the consul with his arms outstretched, but one of her aides intercepted him and led him off to the side where attendants waited. Bidding began on the remainder of the coffle.

“Are there any women?” I asked Abram.

“They’re sold separately,” he said. “They’re kept in that building with the yellow window frames.”

He gestured back toward the town proper. The barred windows didn’t set it off from other houses.

“And the really pretty ones don’t come to public auction anyway,” Abram continued. “The chancellor holds a private sale for high rollers. But say, look — if you want a woman, I can find you plenty of stuff that’s just as good as what comes off captured ships. Except maybe hair color — real blond is hard, but I could keep an eye out.”

“Thank you, Abram,” I said, “but it was just curiosity. I like to know things, but I’m not looking for a woman.”

“If you’ve got problems with buying one, there’s a lot of fathers I could introduce you to,” Abram said. “You’re a big man, Roy, even though you don’t put on side. There’s a lot of girls who’d really like to be your woman.”

Arguing with him didn’t do any good, so I concentrated on the new line of prisoners shuffling in. The man in the middle was arguing with the guards. When he reached the display area he called to the consuls, “I’m from Andover and I was a passenger on the Regenswelt! A passenger!”

“This man is Thom Burris, crewman on the Regenswelt out of Grantholm,” Albert said, reading from his hardcopy. “He has spacers’ tattoos.”

“Those aren’t spacers’ tattoos!” Burris shouted. “Ariel is my girlfriend, not a ship! Well, she was. I’ve never been in space except as a passenger, and I was on my way back home when you bastards caught the Regenswelt in orbit!”

The consul for the Sworn Brotherhood got to his feet and said, “Master Albert, tattoos are common on Andover. There’s nothing about Master Burris’ tattoo to suggest he’s anything but a healthy young man with a girlfriend.”

Albert glanced at his hardcopy again, then looked up and said, “Appeal denied. Five spacers, one missing three fingers of his left hand. What am I offered?”

“I protest!” the consul shouted.

“You can’t do this!” said Burris.

Albert said nothing to the consul. To the nearest guard he said, “Silence the prisoner so that I can get on with the auction.”

The guard had a thick-bladed cutlass instead of an impeller. He chopped at Burris’ head with the flat. The prisoner got his hands up, but the edge scraped his forearm. He staggered back and fell.

The guard moved forward, but Albert said, “That’s enough.” To the consul he added, “You can make a protest to your government if you like. When the auction closes, I’ll give you a note as to where the man has been sold for you to pursue it if you like.”

The sale proceeded. I said to Abram, “I don’t see how Albert could be so certain. A tattoo doesn’t seem much evidence the fellow was a crewman.”

Abram shrugged and said, “The Sworn Brotherhood has maybe three gunboats and a very old destroyer if they get everything together. The consul would have to send the message off through Eski Marakech, which would take a good month. Whereas the Alliance could have a standby squadron here in six weeks and stay long enough to screw everybody on ben Yusuf’s life up. They wouldn’t land troops themself, but they might make it hot enough for the other admirals to make a change in who was running Salaam.”

“I see,” I said.

As the next coffle was arriving, I tapped Abram on the arm. “I guess I’ve seen enough,” I said.

We got up and headed back for the palace. The delivery from Roussel should be made this afternoon. I wanted to see Monica unwrap the sauces she’d ordered.

 

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Comments

4 Responses to Though Hell Should Bar The Way – Snippet 38

  1. Doug Lampert says:

    Hmm, Platt makes his inevitable appearance, I’d guess that means no help from Karst.

    And if our Hero has not slipped a message into the sauces or something (or at least is seriously considering it) then someone should let him know that watching her like this can pretty quickly get you into creepy stalker territory.

  2. Randomiser says:

    Yes, I think this book has rather lost its way, whatever is barring it.

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