While Lem gagged up bile, the broker casually unlocked the blood-caked fetters from Gala's ankles. He shook them clear of her dead feet, then glared at Wintrow. “By all rights, I should clap these onto you!” he snarled. “You've cost me a slave, and a day's wages, if I'm not mistaken. And I am not, see, there goes my customer. He'll want nothing to do with this coffle, after they've shown such bad temperament.” He pointed the bat after his fleeing prospect. “Well. No work, no food, my charmers.”

The little man's manner was so acridly pleasant, Wintrow could not believe his ears. “A woman is dead, and it is your fault!” he pointed out to the man. “You poisoned her to shake loose a child, but it killed her as well. Murder twice is upon you!” He tried to rise, but his whole arm was still numb from the earlier blow, as was his belly. He shifted to his knees to try to get up. The little man casually kicked him down again.

“Such words, such words, from such a cream-faced boy! I am shocked, I am. Now I'll take every penny you have, laddie, to pay my damages. Every coin, now, be prompt, don't make me shake it out of you.”

“I have none,” Wintrow told him angrily. “Nor would I give you any I had!”

The man stood over him and poked him with his bat. “Who's your father, then? Someone's going to have to pay.”

“I'm alone,” Wintrow snapped. “No one's going to pay you or your master anything for what I did. I did Sa's work. I did what was right.” He glanced past the man at the coffle of slaves. Those who could stand were getting to their feet. Lem had crawled over by Gala's body. He stared intently into her upturned eyes, as if he could also see what she now beheld.

“Well, well. Right for her may be wrong for you,” the little man pointed out snidely. He spoke briskly, like rattling stones. “You see, in Jamaillia, slaves are not entitled to Sa's comfort. So the Satrap has ruled. If a slave truly had the soul of a man, well, that man would never end up a slave. Sa, in his wisdom, would not allow it. At least, that's how it was explained to me. So. Here I am with one dead slave and no day's work. The Satrap isn't going to like that. Not only are you a killer of his slaves, but a vagrant, too. If you looked like you could do a decent day's work, I'd clap some chains and a tattoo on you right now. Save us all some time. But. A man must work within the law. Ho, guard!” The little man lifted his bat and waved it cheerily at a passing city guard. “Here's one for you. A boy, no family, no coin, and in debt to me for damage to the satrap's slaves. Take him in custody, would you? Here, now! Stop, come back!”

The last exclamation came as Wintrow scrabbled to his feet and darted away from them both. Only Lem's cry of warning made him glance back. He should have ducked instead. The deftly flung spinning club caught him alongside the head and dropped him in the filthy street of the slavemart.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - RAIN WILD TRADERS

BECAUSE ANYTHING OUT OF THE ORDINARY RATTLES ME, THAT'S WHY," GRANDMA SNAPPED.

“I'm sorry,” Malta's mother said in a neutral voice. “I was only asking.” She stood behind Grandmother at her vanity table, pinning up her hair for her. She didn't sound sorry, she sounded weary of Grandma's eternal irritability. Malta didn't blame her. Malta was sick of them both being so crabby. It seemed to her that all they focused on was the sad side of life, the worrying parts. Tonight there was a big gathering of Old Traders and they were taking Malta with them. Malta had spent most of the afternoon arranging her hair and trying on her new robe. But here were her mother and grandmother, just dressing at the last minute, and acting as if the whole thing were some worrisome chore instead of a chance to get out and see people and talk. She just couldn't understand them.

“Are you ready yet?” she nudged them. She didn't want to be the last one to get there. There would be a lot of talking tonight, a Rain Wild and Trader business discussion her mother had said. She couldn't see why her mother and grandmother found that so distressing. No doubt that would be sit-still-and-try-not-to-be-bored time. Malta wanted to arrive while there was still talking and greeting and refreshments being offered. Then maybe she could find Delo and sit with her. It was stupid that it was taking them so long to get ready. They should have each had a servant to assist with dressing hair and laying out garments and all the rest of it. Every other Trader family had such servants. But no, Grandma insisted that they could no longer afford them and Mama had agreed. And when Malta had argued they had made her sit down with a big stack of tally sticks and receipts and try to make sense of them in one of the ledger books. She had muddled the page, and Grandma made her copy it over. And then they had wanted to sit around and talk about what the numbers meant and why the numbers said they couldn't have servants anymore, only Nana and Rache. Malta would be very glad when Papa got back. She was sure there was something they were missing. It made no sense to her. How could they suddenly be poor? Nothing else had changed. Yet there they were, in robes at least two years old, dressing one another's hair and snipping at each other as they did it. “Can we go soon?” she asked again. She didn't know why they wouldn't answer.