The merchant scowled. “I have too many of those already.”
“But witches are worth more—”
“And human women are less trouble! She escapes before my buyer arrives, and I don’t get paid at all, do I?”
“But he’ll be here tomorrow. And to point out the obvious: pretty face, blond hair, magic.” The fey rubbed his fingers together. “Coin.”
The merchant did not look convinced.
“And big tits,” the fey added, jerking up my tee. And looking smug, like he’d just made the sale.
The merchant looked sourly at my sports bra, which tended to flatten things out somewhat.
The fey’s eyes followed, and he frowned, like he’d expected something different. “Be that as it may, she’s worth at least . . . six of the ones I lost.”
“Six of the ones you let those bitches steal, you mean, and not by half. Two.”
“Five. None of the others were magical—”
“As far as I can tell, neither is she!”
“What do you call that thing?” The fey pointed at Rosier.
“I don’t know what you call that thing, but I don’t deal in that thing. I deal in women, and it ain’t one!”
“Four, then. My final offer, or I go elsewhere. I could even try to sell her myself—”
“Good luck wi’ that. There’s such a glut tonight, you won’t make half the price of the three I’ll give ye—”
“Then it’s true. Half the slaves in Britain are here tonight.”
“Aye, Lady’s orders. Wanted ’em all in one place.”
“For what?”
“Why don’t you go ask her?” the merchant said, exasperated. “Now, do we have a deal or not?”
The fey sighed. “Three it is.” He leaned over to cut my bonds. “Don’t worry, lovely one. You’re going to a better place.”
“Is that what you tell everyone you enslave?” I asked bitterly.
Only the special ones, he mouthed, his back to the merchant, causing me to stare up into that unique face in confusion.
Which only increased when it suddenly morphed, the features sliding from aquiline perfection to something else. Something with a too-narrow mouth, a too-large nose, and a pair of piercing green eyes. A very familiar pair.
“No. But in your case, it’s probably true,” the fey that wasn’t a fey told me. “You’re just the kind the nobles prefer, although they’d never admit it. You’re going to spend the rest of your life eating sweets and having fat babies for your master. You’ll be fine.”
Just stay out of trouble, he told me silently while I gaped at him. And tried to process the fact that Pritkin had just sold me into sex slavery to the fey.
And then he was gone.
Chapter Eighteen
“All right, move out! We’re clearing this area, all of you—get ready to move out!”
I stuck my head out of a tent flap a few minutes later, in time to see the merchant confront several dark-haired fey on horseback. “What’s this?” he demanded.
The nearest rider looked down at the rotund figure with annoyance. “What did I just say? Move out!”
“But I have special permission—”
“Not anymore. New orders, all camp followers are to pull back to the stronghold.”
“But I’m not a damn servant! I’m—”
“Doesn’t matter what you are. If you’re not fighting, you’re not staying. Now move out!”
There was a sudden uptick in activity on the road as people rushed to obey, throwing saddles on donkeys and baskets on wagons and dousing campfires with practiced ease. Except for the merchant, who was still shaking his head. “You don’t understand. I have a buyer—a very important buyer—coming in the morning—”
“Then he can see you at camp!” The soldier was starting to look annoyed.
“I’m not putting my stock in that cesspit! You can’t expect—”
The merchant suddenly found himself airborne, when the fey reached down and jerked him up, as easily as I might have a kitten. “I expect you to follow orders, hundr, or you may find yourself on the auction block, instead of your cargo!”
A gloved fist opened, and the merchant’s fine clothes ended up in the mud.
And ten minutes later, Rosier and I were in a cart, with what looked like a cage built onto the back of it, jolting along a wreck of a road.
We weren’t alone. There were a dozen women crammed in with us, all of whom looked as cold and miserable as I was. My clothes had been replaced a rough linen shift with a halter tie at the neck—slave wear, judging by the fact that everyone else was dressed the same. It was thin and backless to the waist, and I was barefoot, since they’d also taken my shoes. But other than being robbed, I hadn’t been harmed.
Unlike Rosier. He’d acquired teeth marks in his arm and a boot print on his face, courtesy of a dog, its owner, and his current resemblance to a chew toy. The damage was minimal, but he was looking a little spooked. I’d put him behind me, in a corner of the cage, but not before everyone saw. Which probably explained why our companions were huddled on the opposite side, staring at us with wide eyes.
I glanced behind me. Rosier had curled into a little ball, looking like he was cold, too. I put a fold of my skirt over him, and he looked up gratefully.
He really wasn’t that bad, once you got used to him, I decided.
“He isn’t so bad, once you get used to him,” I told everyone.
It did not appear to help.
I shut up and stared through the bars at the passing countryside, which didn’t tell me much, since it was the same close-packed tree line I’d been seeing for miles. Only not close enough. A thin rain had begun to fall, just as we were setting out, and while the top of the cage was covered, gusts of wind kept wetting us through the sides, making me shiver.
And curse Pritkin even harder. Last time I showed up in beautiful, sunny Wales, I’d expected to find him mending a tunic or cooking dinner or some other mundane stuff. But what had he been doing? Running from the fey he’d just ripped off to the tune of a priceless staff. And since they’d just stolen it from someone else, someone who was going to require a literal pound of flesh if he found out, they’d been real motivated to get it back.
We’d barely survived that little escapade, and now what was going on? Armies of fey on the road, Pritkin disguised as a slaver, and me . . . What the hell was he doing with me?
Had he wanted to get rid of me? I hated to believe it, but it was kind of looking that way. Maybe because I hadn’t been in favor of the let’s-steal-a-valuable-fey-relic quest he had going on.
I hadn’t known what the staff was at first, not being an expert on fey weapons—or godly ones, either—and had only figured it out later. So, of course, I’d been all about returning it. And going back to whatever Pritkin called a home and hanging out until the cursed soul decided to make an appearance.
It had seemed like the best plan—it had been the best plan—but Pritkin hadn’t approved. He’d wanted to know what the Svarestri were doing with the staff, why they’d been taking it to court, and whether it represented a threat to his king. And I was standing in the way.
So he sells me to a damn slaver?
“What?” Rosier demanded suddenly.