Shadows Return - Lynn Flewelling [35]
“Just a little poke,” the possible necromancer murmured, and before Alec could pull back he produced a thick needle from the folds of his robe and pricked the end of Alec’s forefinger deeply.
Alec hissed at the pain and tried to pull back, but one of the servants reached in quickly and held him there while the master caught a large drop of Alec’s blood on his fingertip. They released him then, and Alec quickly pulled back out of reach. The nobleman rubbed the blood between thumb and forefinger and a small tongue of muddy red flame licked up for an instant, then disappeared.
“’ecroman’er!” Alec hissed, his worst fears realized.
The man wiped his soiled fingers with a spotless white handkerchief. “I’m nothing of the sort. And that’s good news for you, I’m sure you’ll agree.”
The wizard, or whatever he was, turned to speak to the hooded man in his own tongue. Alec knew the Plenimaran word for blood—ulimita—and heard it spoken several times. The noble seemed very pleased about something, and so did the hooded man. Though Alec could still see nothing of his face, he heard him say something softly in Plenimaran. There was something familiar about that voice. Before Alec could tell for sure, though, the hooded man turned and strode away. Whoever it was, he had the gait of an old man.
The not-necromancer nodded to one of his companions and a weighty-looking purse changed hands with a slave dealer.
Turning back to Alec, he said, “My name is Charis Yhakobin. I own you now, Alec, and you will call me Ilban, which means master in my language. To address me in any other fashion is disrespectful, and will be punished.”
“Kish my ash!” Alec snarled as a new wave of panic threatened.
“My tastes do not run in that direction, boy, and you will incur my great disfavor if you ever again suggest such a thing. You are a useful instrument to me. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
At his order, one of the slave market men came with a bunch of keys and opened the cage. Alec cowered back, but it did no good. His new owner gave orders to a pair of muscular servants. They entered the cage and cut the ropes around his legs, then roughly hauled him up by the arms.
“Come along, or my men will carry you out by force,” Yhakobin advised.
Alec’s legs burned as the blood returned to limbs too long bound. Even so, the urge to fight or run was strong. Alec hated feeling so helpless, but the memory of one of Seregil’s early lessons came back, calming him a little.
Pick your fights carefully, talí.
So he feigned resignation, hanging his head as he shuffled out, but all the while surreptitiously glancing around for a way to run.
“I think we can dispense with this, as well.” Yhakobin reached behind Alec’s head and released the branks, then lifted the apparatus from his head. “The slavers can’t tell the ’faie with power from those without. You’re no wizard.”
“Then what do you want with me?”
Without the slightest change of expression, Yhakobin struck him across the mouth so hard it snapped Alec’s head sideways.
“Your first lesson, young Alec, is to address me with respect. Your second awaits outside. Cover him, Ahmol.”
One of the older servants shook out a plain cloak and wrapped it around Alec, covering his bound hands.
Yhakobin turned to leave and the larger servants took Alec firmly by the shoulders and steered him to follow. Alec kept his head down, peering around from behind the cover of his dirty, unbound hair, looking for Seregil as they passed more of the cages, but there was no sign of him.
Night had fallen and the market crowd was even thicker. Even if he did manage to get loose, he was barefoot, weaponless,