The Fickle Winds of Autumn
20. The Market at Thinisby

Ellis loitered by the busy market stall; he breathed in the fresh scent of the ripe produce and absorbed the rowdy, distracting sounds of the carts and the traders and the geese.

His master’s lessons were interesting, but it was good to get out of the cottage, to breathe in the bustle of town life and stretch his legs for an afternoon.

The days had shortened - already the nights threatened a frost - but the sun still offered a lush mellow warmth, and the promise of a bountiful harvest as it bounced off and heated the back of his head.

He tested the weight of a plump turnip. His master’s coin did not go as far as it used to - but this was the most reasonably priced vendor in Thinisby - and they must eat.

Near the fountain behind him, the low rumble of a heavy wagon reverberated through the shouts of the hawkers and the discordant squabbling of the chickens.

He turned and lifted his hand to shield his eyes against the low Autumn sun; its cordial yellows streaked across the town square, highlighting the bright rolls of cloth and yarn, and the cascading piles of fruit and vegetables.

A ragged line of miserable men were chained behind the wagon. Several had ribs visible through sallow, grimy skin which looked jaundiced in the happy afternoon light.

They wouldn’t last long tied to the galley oars of a Thruan merchant ship, or lost deep in the salt mines of Anbar.

The caged goats, who bleated mournfully in the butcher’s cart, surely had a better chance of survival.

The other townsfolk strolled past this deplorable sight; they did not seem to see or notice the human cargo.

And why should they?

It was nothing new.

A sour and wounding memory rattled and stung across his thoughts.

Hadn’t he almost ended up joining such piteous ranks?

His own father had virtually been forced to abandon him to such a fate - he was just one hungry mouth less to feed - and none of the local farmers or craftsmen would employ him - not once they had discovered the truth about him.

What terrible things might have befallen that frightened and helpless boy if Aldwyn had not come and taken him as his votary?

“Do you want that turnip or not, lad?” the stall-holder demanded.

“Err... no thanks,” Ellis replied as he returned it to the pile.

His mind bubbled and burned; rippling with painful, indignant imaginings.

What sort of life would that have been?

And wasn’t it just luck that he had escaped such dire circumstances?

He shuffled closer to the wagon, absently blending with the busy crowd.

A bald bearded, muscular slaver tied two emaciated horses to the fountain; they bent their sagging necks towards the water and greedily slaked their thirst.

A burly-looking slaver, with a red scar down the side of his face, seemed to be in charge:

“You stay here with the goods,” he instructed a third, much thinner colleague. “Keep a close eye on things - and mind you don’t go a-wandering off! Dak and I have business to attend to - we’ll be back directly.”

The two bigger men walked away from the marketplace, past the line of their slaves.

Ellis’s eyes traced them lazily, but stopped to refocus on the puny-looking slave at the end of the chain.

What new disgrace was this?

How much lower could such people sink?

Had they no shame?

No sense of humanity at all?

To be trading in girls - and young ones at that!

She was probably no older than him - a miserable and forlorn creature; her bedraggled hair framed a blanched, weakened face, splattered with the filth and dirt of the road.

Pale streaks ran down her cheeks - perhaps a sign that she had been left exposed to an unforgiving rainstorm - or perhaps washed there by her tears.

Her bare feet were bleeding - they had not calloused over - clearly she could not have been born to a life of such hardship and poverty.

And the bulky leg-irons had cut deep into the unprotected skin of her ankles and her filthy, bruised calves.

There was a danger of blood poisoning - that might explain her pallid face.

A welcome pulse of satisfaction flowed through him - his master’s methods of observation and diagnosis had taught him much.

His training had already progressed well enough for him to know how to staunch the flow of her blood and ease her wounds - the farmers who had once shunned him and feared his magik were now happy to pay for him to cure them.

Perhaps he should offer to help?

Hadn’t he once been in a similarly forlorn situation?

Wouldn’t he have wanted some sense of hope? Of kindness? Or goodness?

Certainly no-one else seemed bothered or prepared to intervene - and how could he criticise them, if he also stood by and did nothing?

He pursed his lips; he shouldn’t really interfere; wouldn’t he just be keeping her alive longer - perhaps it might even be cruel?

But his master always said it was their duty to act - to heal where they could, and leave the rest to Fate - and he couldn’t just leave the poor girl to suffer.

His legs seemed keener to act than his mind; they pulled him towards the thin-looking slaver, while his thoughts searched and scrambled for some words to say.

“The girl on the end is bleeding quite badly,” he motioned towards the bedraggled slave. “Her wounds look infected and will poison her blood.”

The narrow-faced slaver squinted back at him.

“What of it, boy?” he replied brusquely.

“She won’t be of any profit to you if she bleeds to death before you can get her to the port. I am a healer - let me do what I can for her.”

“I ain’t a-paying for no healer boy. Be off with you!”

“I did not ask for any coin,” said Ellis. “Let me help the girl without payment - as part of my religious duties.”

“Hmm, that one at the end? She’s not worth bothering with.”

“I’m sure your friends would be pleased with you when they return - a healthy slave will fetch more profit that a half-dead one.”

“Well, get on with it then, see if I care,” the thin slaver snorted. “But no funny business, see?”

The slaver raised his arm in a threatening manner.

Ellis nodded and approached the girl.