“Akilne, the Great Grey City, as they called it long ago, long before the faith of Viera found its way in the heart of its inhabitants. Notorious for its oddly colourless walls that seem to reflect light like water does – walls said to have been constructed by people that feared the malevolent gods lurking in the depths of the Grey Sea. Supposedly, the walls were initially made of red and orange bricks, but after warding off a dreadful curse from these sea deities, they lost all their colour and became the strange stones that we know today. Bunch of nonsense if you ask me, but what do I know...

-traveller”

* * *

Nelvel

Nelvel tried to scratch his ear, but with his hands and feet chained together, he made a ruckus that earned him glares from the other slaves trying to finish their night. They were still half asleep, but he was too nervous to even try to close his eyes.

Today was the day he would be sold on the market, after all. As the other passengers in the hold slowly woke, Nelvel observed them. Studied them with a desperate curiosity. What would these people do once they walked the streets of Akilne? Those people who still had their freedom, their hopes and their dreams. He tried to guess their profession and personality just by looking at them or hearing them talk. Nelvel thought he had always been good at sizing up people, and there wasn't much else to do right now anyway.

His eyes locked on an old man with a tired face who kept fidgeting with a small iron ring, the last keepsake of a deceased close one, perhaps. Judging by his expression full of regrets, the man either sought a place to start a new life, or a place to die. There were still people who believed that the grey gods of the sea would come and take them away in due time, when they had lost everything.

Will they take me, too? he wondered as he glanced around, watching the people slowly waking up.

But the few guys here that weren't slaves were, alas, somewhat boring. Most were Callirians just wealthy enough to board on a ship, but way too poor to get a cabin for themselves. They slept here, with the slaves, the cargo, and the horses.

Speaking of horses, someone came down here to check on them. Or at least, one of them. A fine horse, Nelvel surmised, even though he knew nothing about horses. What made him think so was the appearance of the fellow who took care of it. He had fine red clothes, a fancy sword, and a certain air of arrogance – a young noble, Nelvel would have guessed, a few years younger than him probably.

But shouldn't he have squires taking care of these matters? he wondered as he saw the noble taking out hay from a linen bag and feed it to the horse.

As the waking man next to him was about to retch all over him, the blue-blooded youth hurriedly stepped aside, dropping his bag at the same time. The sick looking lad who collapsed in his own puke had nearly dyed the nobleman's pants yellow, and seeing his unamused expression, that was not acceptable.

“A-apologies, sir... I've never been well on sea...” the sick man muttered with pitiful eyes as he rose from his puddle of vomit only to meet the youth's glare.

“Dear gods,” he growled with a Callirian accent, and Nelvel caught a glimpse of a silver pendant under his clothes when he leaned forward to grab his belongings. “Why do people take boats when they know they have seasickness?” the nobleman wondered out loud while he strode over the sick man and finished feeding his horse.

Perhaps the man wished to voice another apology, or some sort of justification, but in place of words, it was the last bits of his breakfast that came pouring out of his mouth. The noble did not bother to witness this sad event any longer and once he was done here, he silently left and climbed the wooden stairs. Probably returning to his cabin or seeking the sea breeze after a minute in this cave stinking of puke, sweat, and horses.

How I wish I could do the same...

Later in the morning, the ship arrived in Akilne. The slaver that owned Nelvel and the others ordered his vicious lackey to get the slaves moving. His employee was a short, skinny man, that the slaves called Seven-Teeth, for self-explanatory reasons. Apparently, barely two weeks ago, his name was Eight-Teeth, and the most ancient slaves here insisted that when they were bought two months ago they still called him Eleven-Teeth.

What in earth does he do with his teeth, to lose them so quickly?

But Nelvel had no time to be concerned by the lackey's mysterious dentition, as the whip he'd strike them with if they walked too slowly, was far more worrying. Seven-Teeth's squinted eyes were mean and sharp, and while there was no doubt he was a simpleton, Nelvel had to admit there was one thing the lackey excelled in – whipping slaves as soon as they slightly deviated from orders.

They disembarked and one of them, probably still sleepy, almost fell from the docks and risked dragging with him in the sea the line of chained slaves. He received a proper beating from Seven-Teeth before they resumed their march. The market turned out to be right next to the port – unsurprisingly, it was huge. Nelvel had already heard all about the market of Akilne, where many people from the coastal cities of the Grey Sea came to sell their goods, slaves among them, but seeing it in person was unnerving.

Most slaves here were destined to work in the fields or the mines, whereas the slave trade in Ocia revolved around domestic and pleasure slaves, or skilled labour for the jewellers, goldsmiths and dyers. It wasn't especially strange, for Ocia to be amongst the richest towns in the world despite also being the smallest city-state of Viera. It was a key location of the main sea route, after all, and what they lacked in cultivable lands and natural resources, they easily made up for in prosperous trade.

With his skill-set, Nelvel could hope to be bought for domestic purposes, and knew he'd have to be insanely unlucky to end up working the fields. Well, as far as luck is concerned, being a slave in itself is already bad enough.

The merchant – he had no known name, Seven-Teeth only referred to him as boss, and none of the slaves dared to ask – disappeared for a moment and when he came back he led them to a small elevated platform of sorts, where the slaves could be properly displayed. Then the commerce began.

Calling out to passersby and potential customers. A lady seeking a new gardener for her estate. A lord who needed more workers for his coal mines. A merchant that wanted to buy a few hands to help him carry his products. Most of the goods the slaver was successful in selling were the low-quality ones. Nelvel knew he wasn't amongst them, but every now and then he feared he would be bought by the wrong person. Someone rich enough not to care about the price of a literate slave, and foolish enough to use him as unskilled labour... That was his fear, as shameful as it was.

How low I have fallen... he let out a faint, bitter chuckle.

“Milord, milord,” the merchant called out, and Nelvel spotted a familiar figure on horseback. The young noble in red from earlier. The slaver approached the youth, rubbing his hands together and displaying a large smile. “Are you interested in our goods? I saw you stealing glances, don't be shy, milord! You want slaves of high quality, yes? Then you've come to the right place.”

“Have I?” the youth said with a smile of his own as he dismounted. “I seek literate slaves, do you perchance have any?”

The merchant seemed to have taken half a second to process the noble's Callirian accent, but he was quick to answer with the meagre professional composure he could muster. “Ouh, err, yes, literate slaves. We have them.” He motioned for the noble to follow him and they went to the end of the line, where the better looking slaves stood – Nelvel amongst them. “Milord is from Callir, I assume? Now that I think about it, I believe we shared the same ship, how funny is that, eh? First time in Akilne?”

“Mmh,” he grunted, dedicating all his attention to the slaves. Seven-Teeth made them open their mouth to prove that they were healthy – or that at least, they had more teeth than him. The noble, in turn, examined them carefully, walking arrogantly with his hand resting on the pummel of his sword.

“M'lord doesn't have any slave or servant with him?” Seven-Teeth observed before letting out a chuckle. “That why he's looking to buy? Good choice coming 'ere, good choice...” He then whispered something to his boss' ear, glancing repeatedly at the noble.

“No, let me handle it and shut up,” the merchant eventually whispered back angrily to his employee, before turning to his customer and flashing a bright smile. “Erhm... We've heard there was trouble in Callir recently. Hopefully milord is not concerned in any way, but if it were the case... I must inquire about the money.”

The man halted his examination and pierced the merchant with his grey eyes. “Are you asking whether my purse is empty?”

“If m'lord is an exiled nobleman, you understand we can't trust purchases on credit.” Seven-Teeth said, snickering and ignoring the merchant's glare. Perhaps he gets a kick out of seeing disgraced nobles or whatever... Then the lackey seemed to have found enlightenment, giving him an air of wisdom nobody could have ever expected from him. “Ah, I remember you, m'lord. Saw you sellin' these fine horses and all these swords at the Callirian port. You seem to have quite the money issues for a noble.”

“Please ignore him,” the slaver implored. “As milord certainly guessed, he isn't the brightest fellow around here...”

Why, of course! Nelvel mocked in his mind. What need was there to say it out loud? Did anyone here look like they thought this stupid short man was an intellectual? If this noble really was forced to sell his collection of weapons and all that, the smart thing to do would certainly not be to point it out and taunt him... But the highborn youth showed no hint of anger and simply gave an amused grin. Though the grin was mismatched with a cold, unfriendly stare, and the combination of it managed to wipe the mocking smile off Seven-Teeth's face.

“Whether I am exiled or not,” he said at last, “rest assured. I have enough silver to buy your merchandise, cut your tongue and fingers, pull out these ignoble teeth of yours, shove it all in your intestines, then bribe the citywatch and be on my way as if nothing happened.”

The noble kept staring at Seven-Teeth, and the short man stared back. The merchant stood there, eyes also fixed on the nobleman who may or may not have just uttered a threat. The other slaves on display remembered to inspect their hands, clothes, anything at all really, and some of them certainly seemed to find the sky interesting, all of the sudden. Only Nelvel dared to watch, wondering what would happen next.

But then the youth's intense face became a smile once again. “A jest,” he simply said. The merchant began to chuckle, or maybe forced himself to do so, and Seven-Teeth gave an awkward laugh. Yet the noble kept smiling and looking at the short bastard even after they all stopped laughing.

The slaver probably noticed it because he interposed himself and incited his customer to turn his attention back to the slaves. “W-well, all is good, all is good. As long as we can do business, we shan't be rude to anyone, whether they're exiled foreigners or not.”

“That is a relief,” the noble said cheerfully. ...For you, or for them? “So, do you have slaves that can handle accountancy and Vieran law? They would need to learn foreign languages too.”

“Err... A complicated request you have there, milord.”

“I know. I've asked two others merchants before, in vain. It is getting tiresome.” The slaver glanced over the slaves, and motioned for a handful of them to step forward. Nelvel amongst them.

“These ones can write and read. I don't know much about languages though. Err...” He grabbed a bunch of scrolls and went through them quickly, then pointed to some tanned and skinny man. “He... comes from the Dominion, and speaks their tongue.” He then walked a bit, looked at Nelvel and nodded. “This one knows Daeli and Paarese.”

The noble raised a brow. “Oh. Let's see.” He approached Nelvel and stared at him for a bit. “Is that true?” he asked in broken Daeli.

Nelvel answered in the same language. “Yes. I worked as a translator for a merchant before I was enslaved.”

“Hmm.” He nodded, then spoke in Paarese with a strong accent. “You must have experience with trade and numbers then, good. What about commercial law?”

“I've only received basic instruction in law, but I'm a fast learner,” he replied confidently in Paarese.

The slaver had the happiest smile Nelvel had ever seen. “See, milord? He's really good, right? Fifty silver coins, and he's yours.” Then he glanced at Nelvel and whispered coldly. “What did you say? I hope you didn't mess up.”

It seemed to Nelvel that the noble had heard that, and for some reason he now had an air of malice in his eyes.

The slave was about to answer the merchant with pride, as he knew he spoke an almost perfect Daeli, and that his Paarese was on par with natives', but the young highborn scoffed. “Bah! Fifty? More like twenty. His Daeli is average at best, and my horse could speak a better Paarese than him. Are you taking me for a fool, or do you really have no clue about what the slave said?”

Nelvel felt the heat and the blood reach his head. That blue-blooded bastard. He was the one who could barely pronounce a word of Daeli, and yet he dared mocking him... The merchant, of course, looked confused for a bit, and then angry. At Nelvel or at the customer, or perhaps both.

“Is this a bad joke?” he squealed, glancing back and forth at the customer and at Nelvel, but the latter still had no idea who he was addressing.

“I can offer you twenty-five for him,” the noble said. “It is generous, considering you thieves tried to trick me. But if you're not interested, I guess I'll check the rest of the market. I'm sure I can find a slave really worth that absurd price somewhere else.”

“Ye' callin' us thieves?” Seven-Teeth slurred. “Ain't it just cause you got no money left for him?”

“Money is not the issue. Your lack of honesty and honour are, however. Would you rather have me bellowing that this booth here is held by crooks and tricksters? That'd be bad for your business, but I don't mind.”

Nelvel was stunned by the noble's words. Do slavers have honour, to begin with? “Forty!” the merchant spat. “He's in good shape, he can carry your stuff.”

“No need, my horse is strong enough. Thirty.”

The slaver shook his head. “Thirty-five!”

“Thirty,” the noble insisted, and his voice now sounded like a growl. “And you will accept, because if you don't, I'll make it known that you tried to sell an overpriced slave to a fine, respectable nobleman like me, after mocking me.” He glanced at Seven-Teeth and the short man pursed his lips. “If we do have an agreement, however, I would be in a sufficiently good mood afterward for you to expect me to, say, casually babble about the great service provided here...”

They didn't really have much choice. Not that they would be in trouble with the law if his threats weren't empty, but no matter what he said, the word would spread, and would definitely reach potential customers of noble birth. Better agree to his demands and have good publicity, than refuse and get badmouthed in return. Yet Nelvel felt something was wrong. Why would the noble still want to buy him, if he really was displeased? If he indeed had money, why not look for a slave that fulfilled his requirements? Surely there were some in the vast market of Akilne.

“Fine. Thirty,” the merchant eventually grumbled. Whether or not he felt something was strange too, he ended up swallowing his pride, probably preferring to avoid any risk.

“Done.”

They took care of the paperwork, and once the contracts were signed, silver passed from one purse to another. Nelvel was unchained and finally, he could rub his sore wrists and ankles after all this time. The noble walked back to him, gave him a nod, and once he had mounted his horse, motioned for Nelvel to follow him.

“My, my,” the youth finally said once they began to wander around the market, “merchants these days have no sense of business whatsoever... How low has fallen the honourable slaver profession, for them not to be aware of their merchandise's worth...”

Nelvel had no idea if the man was serious when he used the word honourable. He stopped walking, and his master looked back. “Why did you even buy me?” the slave asked, too curious. He was angry, of course, but relieved at the same time – he had been chosen for his literacy, so at least he would probably not be doing physical labour.

“What's your name?”

“...Nelvel.”

The noble grunted in acknowledgment and motioned for him to keep walking. He gave a faint smile once Nelvel had caught up to his horse. “I bought you because your mastery of the Daeli and Paarese tongues is exceptional. My own speech may not be the best yet, but I can recognise a good speaker when I hear one. I reckon they could have sold you for sixty or seventy silver, perhaps, if they knew what they were doing.”

“Then why-”

“Because I could,” he answered flatly before Nelvel could finish his question. “Because a merchant not even aware of his slaves' capabilities doesn't deserve to earn that much money. And because I somewhat disliked this toothless creature he seemed to be employing.”

“Right...” Nelvel stared at his feet, at loss for words. This new master of him seemed like a cunning one, that much was certain. Whether it's a good or bad thing...

“You said you weren't born a slave, but got enslaved. Pirates?”

Nelvel nodded. “In the south. I, and the rest of the crew, advised against sailing there, but our boss didn't listen.”

The noble shrugged. “Southern seas, eh. Then he was an idiot, and he had it coming.”

And what about us? Nelvel had never thought once that he deserved the slave life, but he would not bother to argue with his master. Shit. The mere thought of calling someone master made him sick, but he had started to do it naturally. Come to think of it, I didn't see nor hear under what name the ownership contract was signed. “By the way, master...” Nelvel forced himself to ask, “how should I call you?”

“Oh, that's right. Let's see...” He seemed to think for a bit, which was puzzling. Does he not know his own name? “Mmh.” The youth smiled at last. It was a sly smile, one a mischievous child could make. “The name's Demnir. Nice to meet you.”