tavern. “I’ve already bought you a slave.”
“So you wish to give her your cloak?”
Yaun sighed and handed Honus the remaining coppers.
“Now, take off my pack,” said Honus, not disguising his contempt. Yaun slipped it from his shoulders and set it on the street. Honus opened it and began tossing Yaun’s possessions on the dirt. Yaun’s face reddened, but he said nothing as he scurried to collect his things. The last item Honus removed was a boot. The scowl lines needled on his cheeks fought with a grin. He shook the boot and things jingled in its toe. “Why, Yaun,” Honus said with a voice dripping with concern, “such stones will bruise your delicate foot.” He walked over to the sewage ditch that ran along the center of the dirt lane and upended the boot. Three coins tumbled out, flashing gold before they disappeared into the flowing filth. Honus tossed the boot at Yaun’s feet. Yaun glared at him as a dog might regard a wolf—with a look that mingled hostility and fear. After donning his fancy helm and boots, Yaun walked over to the ditch. Without a word, he rolled up his sleeves and began groping in the sewage for his money.
“Slave,” said Honus to the woman. “Take up my burden. We’ll leave this swine to root for the price of a horse.”
SIX
A S H ONUS walked through the streets of Durkin, he paused occasionally to examine the used clothing for sale. Whenever he glanced at his new slave, he found her watching him with apprehensive eyes. “Have you never seen a Sarf before?” he asked.
“No, Karmamatus.”
“Don’t imitate those swine when you address me!”
The woman paled but met his gaze. “I thought I was being respectful,” she replied. “What should I call you?”
“Master. And you, what’s your name?”
“Yim.” There was a brief pause before she added, “Master.”
“A strange name.”
“It’s common where I come from.”
“Where’s that?”
“North. The Cloud Mountains.”
“And do folk still honor Karm there?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Do you?’
“Yes, Master.”
“Good.” Honus threw down the tattered cloak he had been inspecting. “Come, Yim. I’m eager to finish my business here.” He wandered down the lane until he spotted a man’s cloak spread out before an old woman with a withered arm. Honus held it up. The garment was well made and fairly new. Its thick gray wool was tightly woven and felt of lanolin. “How much, Mother?” he asked.
“For ye, Karmamatus, ten coppers.”
“I just bought this slave for that sum!”
“Then ye shan’t need a cloak to warm ye at night.” The woman laughed, causing Yim to blush.
Honus pointed to a slit that had been repaired in the back of the cloak. A large bloodstain surrounded it. “This garment is ill omened,” countered Honus. “A man was slain in it. Four coppers.”
“Six.”
“I wish to buy her sandals also.”
“It’s summer soon. Her feet will toughen.”
Honus held the cloak against Yim. It nearly reached her ankles. He thought of chill nights and spring rains, then tossed the woman his remaining coins. She quickly whisked them out of sight and rose to leave. As Honus stuffed the cloak into the pack, he heard the departing woman call out, “If ye’re concerned about her feet, keep her on her back!” Cackling, the crone disappeared down an alley.
With his business finished, Yim’s new master strode out of the squalid town, his grim face causing the crowds to part. Yim had to struggle to keep up with his rapid pace, which he didn’t slacken. Soon she was sweating and panting from her effort not to fall behind. She feared that if she did, her owner would prove as wrathful as he looked.
They continued that way until they crested a hill and the town was hidden from view. “We’ll walk more slowly,” Honus said, “now that the stench is behind us.”
Yim sighed with relief. They hiked until noon with Honus in front and her trailing. The pack she carried was