Market Analysis

  Lucy could almost see the market from the temple windows. The very tips of flags and canvas-covered tents were just kinda, sorta, visible. They could be wings of dragons, she imagined. It was so very interesting.

  She could hear the market. A din of chatter rose just after dawn and died only after dark. Lucy could never make out anything more than the odd sharp bark of beast or buyer.

  She could certainly smell the market. The Sisters of Euphemia had been quite intelligent in choosing this place for their temple. Winds tended to blow the scent of the fish stall away rather than toward the temple.

  >>Heh. I just wish you knew you could hear me. We will get there.<< A sigh.

  Lucy sighed.

  Fourteen years old, and she had never seen more than the street in front of the temple. That she could remember.

  >> Not long now << A smile.

  Lucy smiled.

  >>Oh! Hey! Maybe sooner! We'll get you out from under sister Euphemia's yoke.<<

  She lowered herself from the tips of her toes with a small “oof” of relief from the strain. She had brought an apple box to stand on. She stepped down onto the polished stone floor.

  Hmm. She needed to sweep.

  Lucy looked back up, wistfully, at the high slits in the temple's back wall. It was darned irritating to see nothing but sky and stars all the time.

  They weren't really windows. They let hot air escape, drawing in cooler air, and the inevitable sand, through slotted tiles along the base of the wall.

  Circulation was the only thing that made Santan livable. Air and money.

  Lucy smiled. Hot air rose out. Cool air stayed in. Maybe she just needed to be more “hot air” than “cold feet”.

  What she would have given to see the horizon! Even outside the temple. Or, Neith!, the city's walls, from a distance.

  Lucy stopped in thought. Odd that. An oath to Neith? In Euphemia's temple? She shrugged, picked up the apple box, and went to find a broom.

  >>Tomorrow.<<.

  Tomorrow was the slave auction. One day only. Illegal in almost every country but Sava. Off on its own. Sheltered. No one watching.

  There was never much worth watching in Sava.

  The Great Sava Desert made sure the population never grew to become any sort of threat to any other nation. That desert was ringed nearly entirely by the vast Daethian Mountain range.

  Daeth, Reverence of Skies, was said to walk those peaks. Not that Lucy had any desire to check.

  A few dozen mines dotted around the rim of the desert. Nothing of any great importance. All the big mines were on the outside of the mountain range. Much better weather – good roads. A person could even walk on grass. She had heard.

  There was sand in Sava. Sand and three great volcanoes. And the city.

  Santan had stood for more than two millennia; gateway between the desert and the mountain pass that took you into Kiel. That's all there was. One road in, one road out of Sava.

  Why then was there a city at all in Sava? Almost the entire population lived in that one city. Santan became an economic kingdom unto itself. The drips and drabs of supplies going out to mines and ore coming in were just enough to attract ore merchants.

  With an ore merchant came a textile merchant. Maybe a tool supplier for the mines. Merchants brought thieves and politicians. Thieves and politicians brought guards. So the city grew. Enough to become Santan, the only city in the Great Sava Desert.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Lucy opened a broom closet and set her apple box inside. She'd get it later after she swept.

  She closed the door, turned, and jumped in fright.

  Sister Morgan was standing right behind her.

  They did that. You got used to it. It was still startling.

  “Oh! Sister Morgan! Hello. May I be of service?”

  Sister Morgan, in her gruff masculine voice said, “>>Service?<<” She smiled. “>>Have you been talking to my husband again?<<”

  Lucy looked up. Sister Morgan's eyes were glazed over. That happened when the Reverence Euphemia spoke through a Sister.

  >> Careful.<<

  Careful.

  Lucy said, “My Lady! Indeed, yes! He calls me solely to speak to me of his love and admiration for you! He fears his craft is insufficient to match your beauty, and He despairs.” Flattery was always best with Euphemia. She never believed you – she just liked to hear it.

  >>Good girl. I make such good choices. I am so smart.<<

  Sister Morgan said, “Lucy! How are you this day?”

  They didn't always know either. Lucy's eyes had never glazed. If Euphemia wanted to talk, it was through a Sister. Lucy was no cleric initiate.

  >>Technically correct. At least not for my dear younger sister, Euphemia.<<

  Lucy sighed, “I was trying to catch a glimpse of the market. I'm still too small.”

  “Then perhaps I may be of service to you? Leave off the sweep. Come with me.”

  Sister Morgan reformed to male as they walked back to the “windows.”

  She said in a, perhaps, too deep masculine voice, “Here, come sit upon my shoulders.” Sometimes they didn't get voices quite right.

  Sisters of Euphemia could change to any gender, male female, eupharin (born with both), or none at all. The last was very scary. You were likely about to die.

  Sister Morgan picked Lucy up and placed the girl on her broad shoulders.

  Lucy looked. She saw people. Horses. Flags. Clamour. In the distance, the slave market.

  Her first view of the real world. The path forward. Lucy cried.

  ****

  The market was a crowded, clamouring, conglomeration of confusion. What organization there was seemed to be rather quasi-military actions of merchant group versus merchant group.

  The grain sellers held a front against the vegetable sellers while trying to reinforce their rear – assaulted by the horse merchants whose stock stretched their long necks for free feed.

  Vegetable sellers had been bested by the clothing merchants whose counterattack of “Yes, please. Buy all those vegetables and get fat so you have to buy more of my cloth. Or dump them and save yourself some money right now.” was ingenious and seemed to be working.

  Everyone avoided the fish merchants. Barrels of fish. From Kiel. In the hot desert sun. Never mind that it was late winter; nights might drop near freezing but the days were still hitting common faint levels.

  Yet fish was not the worst of the market.

  For Havard, Caravan Master, the worst part of the market, was the 'ick'.

  Every year, the caravan's route brought them to Santan in time for this market. It was twenty percent of the caravan's annual business. They couldn't skip it. Every year, confronted by the “ick.”

  Havard had never found a better description for the place. Ick – the sound of recoil. All other terms required dwelling on words he would rather not have kill a single brain cell.

  Flesh for sale in many forms. Fantasy flesh for sale or ... rental. Muscles, bones and backs lacking will to argue any longer.

  Young men for fighting pits, or for... Older men for slaughtering in fighting pits, or...

  Parts as well - teeth, false eyes, peg legs and if you could afford, they'd even be new.

  Females fared less well.

  It was easy enough to find. It was circular, of course. Contained, hidden from sight even though you knew it was there.

  The slave auction.

  The auction itself occupied most of the space. Corrals and stage near this end. Tiers of seating for buyers rose further on. Running in a semicircle behind the sunbleached bleachers were a number of sketchy booths. Fortune tellers, 'herb'alists, 'Powered' trinkets.

  If you found yourself inside the 'ick' – it's because you made the effort to be there.

  Market-goers had made a wider than normal walk area all the way round. You didn't have to go through if you didn't want to.

  Havard didn't want to. He was happy enough to go around. He was on his way to a rope merchant. Easiest was to go past the 'ick'.

  His caravan needed new ropes. Last few years had been kind of lean in the coinage. He and Clain, his second, had made do. The ropes they possessed could be used to mark depths, there so many knots. They had to be replaced.

  Rope. Of all things. Was he really going to have to shut down because of ropes?

  The caravan had to ford a mountain stream a few weeks into the route. Spring made snows melt and that stream could become impassable for days if you didn't have ropes. Days lost was money lost. Money lost meant caravan lost.

  When one is starving – a cracker is gold. Ropes were starting to seem very like gold. “The year – so dry – no Hopper weed!” or “Hoppers got 'em before we could,” the familiar refrains.

  There was lots of snow on those mountains now – but their water wasn't going to produce the hopper weed he needed now.

  Twine sellers had set up right past the slave market. They'd have rope. Even if it was a few years old. Hopper weed made fabulous rope. It didn't stretch so it was used to moor ships. Wouldn't rot in water so it was often used in wells. The plants needed a ton of water though. And grasshoppers would eat it right down to the roots if there were enough of them.

  Havard's eyes couldn't help but wander to the slave auction. Morbid curiosity. A desire to feel superior?

  There were maybe thirty to fifty buyers and a dozen poor wretches in stocks waiting their 'turn'. Two of the buyers looked like priests!

  The very thought sickened him. Money for a person. To have priests participate, Havard could only shake his head.

  Why did the Reverences allow this? Daeth, Reverence of Skies, was said to walk those peaks in the distance. Keeping an eye on Humans, Dwarves and Elves. Watching men? Stop watching and do something.

  Once again he vowed to defy them. To deny them their Reverence.

  To Havard's horror, onto the block walked a young girl of maybe thirteen, fourteen, in a bright white gown.

  Havard reached for Clain's arm to steady himself. He looked at Clain's face. They exchanged looks. The two men, Havard, Caravan Master and his second, bald Clain, walked into the “ick.”