“Father! Please!” Wintrow shouted, and then flinched away as the handler jabbed him again.

Slowly, Kyle Haven lifted his hand. “Five shards. For the boy.”

The crowd had a general laugh at this insulting bid. One bought a bowl of soup for five copper shards, not a slave. The auctioneer recoiled slowly, his hand to his chest. “Five shards?” he asked in mock dismay. “Oh, laddie, what did you do to displease papa so? Five shards I'm offered, five shards is where we start. Anyone else interested in this five-shard slave?”

A voice came up from the crowd. “Which boy is the one who can read, write, and figure?”

Wintrow kept silent, but a guard helpfully replied, “He's the one. Was in training to be a priest. Says he can work stained glass, too.”

This final claim in such an apparently young boy put the others in doubt. “A full copper!” someone laughingly bid.

“Two!”

“Stand up straight,” the guard bid him and followed this advice with a nudge from his stick.

“Three,” his father said sullenly.

“Four!” This was from a laughing young man at the edge of the crowd. He and his companions nudged one another and shifted, their gazes going from Wintrow to his father. Wintrow's heart sank. If his father became aware of their game, there was no telling how he'd react.

“Two silvers,” someone called, apparently thinking she could make a quick end of the bidding with a large increase. Two silvers, he was to learn later, was still a low bid for a new and unpromising slave, but it was within the realm of acceptability.

“Two silvers!” the auctioneer called out with enthusiasm. “Now, my friends and neighbors, we are taking this young man seriously. He reads, writes and figures! Claims to do stained glass, but we shan't make much of that, shall we? A useful lad, bound to get bigger as he can't get smaller; a tractable, trainable boy. Do I hear three?”

He did, and it was not from Wintrow's father or the hecklers. The bids shot up to five silvers before the real buyers began shaking their heads and turning aside to examine other waiting merchandise. The boys at the edge of the crowd continued bidding until Torg was sent to stand beside them. He scowled at them, but Wintrow clearly saw him offer them a handful of coins to leave off their game. Ah. So that was how it was done and the whole purpose of it.

A few moments later, his father bought him for seven silvers and five whole coppers. Wintrow was unfastened from the coffle, and led forward by his manacles exactly as a cow might be. At the bottom of the steps, he was turned over to Torg. His father had not even come forward to receive him. A tide of uneasiness arose in Wintrow. He held his wrists out to Torg to have the chains removed, but the sailor feigned not to notice them. Instead he inspected Wintrow as if he were indeed just any other slave that his master had just purchased. “Stained glass, eh?” he scoffed, and got a general laugh from the handlers and other idlers at the base of the auction stage. He gripped the chain between Wintrow's wrist and dragged him forward. Win-trow was forced to stumble after him, his ankles still hobbled.

“Take the chains off,” Wintrow told him as soon as they were free of the crowd.

“And give you a chance to run again? I don't think so,” Torg replied. He was grinning.

“You didn't tell my father I was held here, did you? You waited. So I'd be marked like a slave and he'd have to buy me back.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Torg replied genially. He was in fine fettle. “Were I you, I think I'd be grateful that your father happened to stay at the auctions this long, and saw you and bought you. We sail tomorrow, you know. Got our full load, he was just thinking to pick up a few last-minute bargains. Got you instead.”

Wintrow shut up. He debated the wisdom of telling his father what Torg had done. Would it sound like he was whining, would his father even believe him? He searched the faces they passed, looking for his father in the gathering dusk. What expression would he wear? Anger? Relief? Wintrow himself was caught between trepidation and gratitude.

Then he did catch sight of his father's face. He was far off, and not even looking towards Wintrow and Torg. He appeared to be bidding on the two farm hands who were being sold together. He didn't even glance at his own son in chains.

“My father's over there,” Wintrow pointed out to Torg. He halted stubbornly. “I want to speak to him before we go back to the ship.”

“Come on,” Torg grunted cheerfully. “I don't think he wants to speak to you.” He grinned to himself. “In fact, I doubt he thinks you'd make a good first mate anymore when he gives the captaincy over to Gantry. I think he fancies me for that job, now.” He uttered this with great satisfaction, as if he expected Wintrow to be astounded by it.