Garinor stared at the man for a minute before answering. He was going to be at the mercy of others anyway and this person was willing to help, so he nodded.
“Good, good,” the man said. “Day’s nearly done, so let’s ‘urry.”
Quick as that, the man led him out of the tavern and into the streets of Teltiar. He looked like he wanted to grab Garinor’s arm and drag him, but he resisted and settled for constantly looking over his shoulder to make sure the boy was beside him.
Rows of shanties passed by, but Garinor kept up the brisk pace set for him. Choosing one seemingly at random, the man walked up to a door and banged on it three times. He encouraged Garinor with a smile and placed his arm around the boy. It was a simple gesture, but Garinor suddenly wondered if the man’s arm wasn’t pressing down a little too hard.
The door opened and a toothless old man peered into the evening light. “Yeh?”
“Jarrus, I got a boy for ya,” said the man proudly. He pushed Garinor forward like he was showing off a prized watermelon.
The old man bent forward and pushed his wrinkled face within inches of Garinor’s nose. “I see, yeh ‘e is. Come in, boy.” He stepped back a pace and opened the way.
When Garinor walked inside he wished suddenly he could turn around and walk out. The place reeked horribly and he put his arm to his face to try to block out the stench. He stopped moving, but the man who had brought him pushed him inside.
With a heart-dampening thud the door closed behind him.
Six men of various ages all sprang up from their places around the room. Some had been playing cards, others were catching up on gossip, but the newcomers drew their attention at once. The shortest among grinned evilly and rubbed his hands together as he eyed Garinor up and down approvingly.
“Yes, he’ll do fine. G’work, Kunn,” he wheezed. He released a small pouch from his waist and tossed it to the man Garinor had met in the tavern. “We have him now. You can go.”
Garinor was later thrown into a cell with a dozen other boys. They all looked starved to some degree, others were beaten, but all them—Garinor included—were bound hand and foot.
None of the others would speak about what was happening and from the looks of puffy eyes and dark bruises, he knew why. It wasn’t allowed.
The next day came too quickly. Footsteps thundered down a set of steps and all the others in the room with him shied away from the cell door. Garinor didn’t move in time. A burly oaf of a man burst through the door and started kicking Garinor mercilessly for the simple reason that he was the closest. The boys were grabbed and hoisted out of the cell, tied together one by one by thick rope.
Dazed, Garinor did nothing more than march along silently. Potato sacks were thrown over their heads as they passed another man in the hallway. After that, they stumbled up a flight of stairs, across a cluttered room, out a door, and into the town. The line of boys whimpered, though Garinor still didn’t understand.
After a circuitous route to the destination, meant only to weary and disorient them, they came to a sudden halt. The wheezy man from the night before paced up and down the line giving out instructions. “A fine day be today. Not working a line today, no. Today you’ll have it easy. Stand up strong. Say nuthin’. And do as told. Tha’s all.”
The boy at the head of the line was untied from the others and brought up to some platform that none of the other boys could see with the sacks over their heads. Garinor could tell there was a crowd about, though, for many whispers and mutters could be heard all around.
“Ladies and gennlemen,” said the wheezy man to the gathering. “Today’s a right day for three of these. First three to go, that’s all we have, but the pickin’s are yours. The first,” he said, apparently gesturing the boy who had been released from the others.
“Ten silvers!” called a woman from the group.
“Eleven!”
“Fourteen!”
Up went the numbers until the boy was sold to a wealthy lord for sixty-five silvers. He was given over to his new master and the next boy in line was released. The auction started up again and he was sold for forty-eight silvers to a middle-aged couple who simply had to have him.
Garinor was horrified about what was happening, but he also felt a bit of relief as the boy he was tied to was released and brought forth for auction. The wheezy man had said only three were to be sold. Two were done and now the third was being offered up.
Garinor’s relief was short-lived as the crowd jeered and shouted at the offered boy. Apparently, no one was even remotely interested in him.
“Now you, boy,” sniggered one of the slavers, who undid the ropes that secured Garinor to the next boy in line. The sack was pulled off his head and sunlight bore into his eyes, blinding him.
Time was running out. The auction was about to start.