Tyentso straightened, looking shocked. “Wasn’t there supposed to be a test?”
“The test was your life,” Thaena replied. “And you have failed it. You are a murderer and a demonologist, an arrogant liar who betrayed people who trusted you and sent the souls of hundreds to Hell. What sacrifice were you unwilling to burn on the altar of revenge? You never had a life worth living. What have you done with yourself but spread misery? What do you leave to the world that made it even the tiniest bit better than it would have been without you? Spend as long as you like teaching Kihrin, assuming he will have anything to do with you. I will not be Returning you.”
And with that, the Goddess of Death left the room.
56: THE OCTAGON
(Talon’s story)
When the carriage arrived, Sironno held the door open for Tishar and her nephew, while her guards formed an honor line behind them.
She’d worried that after their conversation in the carriage, Kihrin would be too distraught to deal with the rest of the outing. She’d worried for nothing: as soon as Sironno opened the door, Kihrin sauntered out of the carriage, a perfect picture of bored insouciance.
He held out his arm to her. “Shall we?”
“Of course. This won’t take long.”
“Everyone’s wearing orange,” Kihrin whispered to her.
“It’s House D’Erinwa’s color,” she explained. “I never wanted for anything while I was married into their House, but I hate that color. I’ve always looked hideous in orange.”
The public areas of the Octagon were not rank brick and wrought iron, but marble and shaped raenan stone, more appropriate for an Upper Circle salon than a slave house. The most exclusive areas of the Octagon were indeed a little different from salons. Where one might otherwise see fine art, the Octagon presented the finest in flesh to a jaded royal audience.
The main gallery, lush with hanging plants, artwork, and fountains, contained a simple black slate board that visitors examined before continuing on their way.
Tishar made her way to it.
“Normally, you would use this to direct your inquiries,” she told Kihrin. “They change it daily, depending on seasonal variation. Room 1: menial labor. Room 3: entertainers. Room 4: services. Room 7: pleasure. Room 8: exotics. The list goes on. Our tasks, however, require more personal service. Fortunately, I know exactly who to see.”
With a brilliant smile, she turned on her heels and marched with practiced, fear-inspiring intensity up to a man who was obviously the majordomo, and held out her hand for him to kiss. He smiled up at her as if she were his favorite person in the entire world. She leaned down and whispered her needs into his ear. Moments later, a side door opened for their benefit.
“Guards, you may stay out here,” Tishar informed them.
The lead nodded, used to the routine, and fell into position.
Taking Kihrin’s arm, Tishar walked him into a small side passage, barely large enough for two people, and cramped compared to the opulence of the main hall. The corridor continued for a long time.
“Is this a servant’s tunnel?” Kihrin asked.
She indulged him with a smile. “Something like that.”
When the tunnel ended, Tishar and Kihrin stood in a small round room. There were two doors, a staircase leading up, another staircase leading down, and eight tunnels exiting from the room like spokes on a wheel. Twelve guards were stationed around the room, surrounding a small, wrinkled little man seated behind a desk.
“Humthra!” Tishar called out to the small, wizened man.
He didn’t look up.
Tishar marched up to the paper-stacked desk of the hunched-over gnome. “Humthra!”
“Humph,” the old man said, and continued to write in his ledger.
“Humthra, I must ask you a question,” Tishar said.
“What?” The old slave master looked up. He glanced at Kihrin. “Huh. Middle-teens, excellent physical condition. Yellow hair and blue eyes, very rare. Vané stock, second generation. I’d place the opening bid at…”
“Humthra!” Tishar screamed.
“What?” the old man squealed.
“I need to look at today’s registry, Humthra.” She pointed back to her nephew. “HE is not for sale.”
The old man snorted. “Why not, you silly woman? You’d make a fortune…” Then he blinked and looked back and forth between Tishar and Kihrin. “Oh, is he your son? For you, Tish, I’ll double the opening bid…”
Tishar looked back at an uncomfortable, embarrassed Kihrin and smiled apologetically. “So sorry. Humthra can be a little … focused.” She turned back to Humthra. “The registry, Humthra.”
“Oh yes, of course. Here.” He turned around the large, heavy volume he had been looking through.
“No…” She turned to the front, then flipped through pages. “This is this morning’s registry, Humthra dear. I need this afternoon’s.”
“Oh, right here.”
Kihrin sounded stunned. “Those are just the slave sales for this afternoon?”
“Yes,” Tishar replied as she moved on to the afternoon’s figure. “Here we are … one lot bought from Darzin D’Mon.… oh, you turned these around fast, Humthra.”
“They were in good condition,” the old man explained. “Didn’t need any cleaning up.”
“Lucky you.” She moved an elegant gloved finger over the vellum until it stopped. She involuntarily made a low growling noise. “Throne, chance, and chalice,” she muttered. “He’s back already? I thought he was still at the Academy. Did he wash out?”
Humthra looked up. “Who?”
She pointed to the ledger entry.
“Oh!” Humthra shook his head “Oh no. He graduated early and top of his class. Proved everyone wrong who doubted he was really his father’s son. High Lord Cedric sent him down to buy whatever caught his eye.”
Tishar found herself chewing the inside of her lip. “And no doubt to make sure that what catches his eye is female and still breathing.”
“Aunt Tishar?” Kihrin asked. “Is there a problem?”
Tishar threw a sympathetic glance at her nephew. “Oh darling. I’m so sorry, but … I’m afraid there’s a problem buying Talea.”
“What do you mean? Someone’s already bought her?”
“Not bought. Buying,” Humthra corrected. “He’s still here.”
“Can we outbid him? Who is it? Can’t we still buy her?” Kihrin directed the rapid questions at both of them. The poor boy looked like his heart was breaking.
Tishar sighed. She dreaded explaining this. “It’s not so simple. The auction house offers an option of outright sale for interested parties who don’t mind paying a premium—in this case, twice the estimated auction appraisal. According to the registry, he intends to buy at least one of the slave girls Darzin sold to the house, but he hasn’t left yet. It’s possible that we’ll be lucky and he won’t buy any of them, or won’t buy the one you want. It’s also possible he may buy all of them.”
“Is there anything we can do?”