80th Winter 513AV
The ship rocked on the tide.
Rise.
Dip.
Rise.
Dip.
Creaking like an old woman rocking in her chair, Tim feared the ship's hull would give in on the next wave that hit it. Water trickled down the boards and occasionally a cold drop splashed in his neck, only to crawl down his spine, always out of reach. Chained like cattle for slaughter they sat on the lower deck. Four lines of a dozen men and women each, and then some more the slavers had picked up along the way, tied to poles and beams with whatever was at hand. Rope, string, a fishing net even. The swinging lantern cast a dim light upon the many faces. Some grimaced in defiance, others had long abandoned such idle hopes. The air no longer reeked of fear, and there were no more cries whenever the ship made a steep dip.
There were only murmurs. Whispers in tongues he didn't understand, or too faint to hear. He still remembered the bone-splitting fright he'd felt, the cold rush of betrayal and abandonment when Harley Fisher, his former employer and protege had handed him to the slavers for eighty gold-rimmed mizas. A small fortune to simple Harley, a bargain to Sylvester Mercator, the most slippery merchant the world had ever seen. He was a man of small stature, slightly bend over, though not by conscience or age. He would shuffle around, inspecting wares before he bought them, making the burly, giddy sellers think Sylvester Mercator would be easily tricked into overpaying. Yet the trick always ended up on their plate, quite peppered and far too sour. Sylvester would offhandedly mention some of his powerful friends before chatting his colleagues in trade up about their family, only to mention how horrible it would be if something bad were to happen to them. Now, his reputation preceded him and he simply had to point one of his wicked claws at the slaves he wanted to obtain them
"I'll have the boy," he had said, his thunderous eyes glancing over Tim.
"Excellent choice, Master Mercator. He'll last many, many years I suspect. Produce from our own grounds tends to last long and wo-"
A simple dismissive gesture was enough to shut the Sunberthian merchant up. "Don't play me, Kaufman," Sylvester had grumbled. "I am feeling generous today, 70 mizas, 5 more if he comes quietly."
Tim had registered a kick on his behind, to bring his attention to Sylvester's last few words.
"Like a lamb," Kaufman had promised, and so the deal had been done. The city, the very same docks he'd wandered about freely for years, looked at him with indifference as he joined the line that trudged aboard the ship. Not a soul had minded the dink in the dreadful procession, the small soul amidst far taller and stronger men.
No tears had crawled down his cheek, nothing much of emotion had registered at all that day. It was simple to just follow orders and his hollowed mind only produced empty thoughts. All he could wonder was why. But no answer came as the ship had lifted it's anchor and departed the lawless city for far more lawless terrain. The open sea, stretching to the horizon and beyond.
He was even denied looking back upon the stinking shykehole called Sunberth, even though it had been his stinking shykehole and he was damned proud of it too. The trapdoor that separated slaves from sailors had been shut bells before the anchor had been lifted. Speculation about their destination had buzzed among the slaves, but once it had been settled that Kenash was their most likely destination, the talk had simmered down and it had been mostly quiet ever since.
Trapped in that wooden cage, removed far from home, light and live, dark thoughts slipped into his mind. Like black vipers, they slithered through the cracks and poisoned his thinking. It had been his fault. He hadn't cared enough for his mother and he'd trusted Harley too easily. Slowly, as one day slipped into the next, his mother's face began to fade from his memory until one day, or night, it was hard to discern the two, he woke up and had forgotten entirely. All he could see was some gaunt, wrinkled face, a composition of those around him.
