It was surprisingly difficult to stand still and silent and wait for Torg to notice him. Torg was making his way slowly down the opposite row, examining every slave, dickering with the keeper, and then either nodding or shaking his head. The keeper had a tally block he was marking as they came. After a time, it puzzled Wintrow. Torg seemed to be buying a substantial number of slaves, but these were not the artisans and educated slaves that his father had spoken of acquiring.

He watched Torg swagger along, obviously impressed with his own importance as a buyer of human flesh. He strutted for the keeper as if he were a man worth impressing, inspecting the slaves with fine disregard for their dignity or comfort. The longer Wintrow watched him, the more he despised the man. Here, then, was the counterpoint to the slaves' loss of spirit and spark: a man whose self-importance fed on the humiliation and degradation of others.

And yet there was a horrible kernel of fear in Wintrow's waiting, too. What if Torg did not turn and notice him? What then? Would Wintrow abase himself by calling out to the man? Or let him pass by, and face a future full of dealing with other Torgs? Just as Wintrow thought he would cry out, just as he bit down on his own tongue to keep it from betraying him, Torg glanced at him. And away, and then back, as if he could not believe what his eyes had shown him. His eyes widened, and then a grin split his face. He immediately left his task to stride over to Wintrow.

“Well, well,” he exclaimed in vast satisfaction. “I do believe I've earned myself quite a bonus here. Quite a bonus.” His eyes roved up and down Wintrow, taking in the straw clinging to his worn robe, to the shackles around his chafed ankles and his face white with cold. “Well, well,” he repeated. “Doesn't look as if your freedom lasted long, holy boy.”

“Do you know this prisoner?” the keeper demanded as he came to stand beside Torg.

“Indeed I do. His father is ... my business partner. He has been wondering where his son disappeared to.”

“Ah. Then it is fortunate for you that you have found him today. Tomorrow, his freedom would have been forfeit for his fine. He would have been tattooed the Satrap's slave, and sold.”

“The Satrap's slave.” The grin came back to Torg's face. His pale eyebrows danced over his gray eyes. “Now, there's an amusing idea.” Wintrow could almost see the slow workings of Torg's brain. “How much is the boy's fine?” he demanded suddenly of the keeper.

The old man consulted a tally cord at his waist. “Twelve bits of silver. He killed one of the Satrap's other slaves, you know.”

“He what?” For a moment Torg looked incredulous. Then he burst out laughing. “Well, I doubt that, but I don't doubt there's quite a tale attached to it. So. If I come back with twelve silver bits tonight, I buy him free. What if I don't?” He narrowed both his eyes and grinned as he asked, more of Wintrow than the keeper, “What would he sell for tomorrow?”

The keeper shrugged. “Whatever he would bring. New slaves are generally auctioned. Sometimes they have friends or family who are willing to buy them free. Or enemies eager to have them as slaves. The auction bidding can be quite fierce. And sometimes amusing as well.” The keeper had seen who had the power and was playing to him. “You could wait it out, and buy him back. Perhaps you'd save a coin or two. Perhaps you'd have to pay more. But he would be marked by then, marked with the Satrap's sigil. You or his father could grant him his freedom after that, of course. But he'd have to have some tattoo from you, and some sort of paper or ring to say he was free.”

“Couldn't we just burn the tattoo off?” Torg asked callously. His eyes devoured Wintrow's face, looking for some kind of fear. Wintrow refused to show any. Torg would never dare to let it go so far. This was but the same kind of mockery and taunting the man always indulged in. If Wintrow gave any sign of being upset by it, Torg would only indulge in more of it. He let his eyes wander past Torg as if he were no longer interested in him or his words.

“Burning off a slave tattoo is illegal,” the keeper pronounced ponderously. “A person with a burn scar to the left of his nose is assumed to be an escaped and dangerous slave. He'd be brought right back here, if he were caught. And tattooed again with the Satrap's sign.”

Torg shook his head woefully, but his grin was evil. “Such a shame, to mark such a sweet little face as that, eh? Well,” he turned abruptly aside from him. With a jerk of his head, he indicated the slaves he had not yet inspected. “Shall we continue?”