The Sable Moon by Nancy Springer Page A

that we took armed men to the harbor to await a swimming wolf! They do not smile to my face, not unless they wish to die quite slowly, but I cannot stop the snickers behind my back. But that is past; the question now is, what to do about Isle? It is small use to us that the heir is dead, if his body cannot be found.”
    â€œPerhaps he is not yet dead,” Wael mused. “If he got ashore, he could be anywhere by now; it has been almost two weeks. But we should hear news of him, for he would cut a strange figure in these parts. Perhaps he has been enslaved. It would be wise to check the markets.”
    Rheged nodded sardonically and made a note.
    â€œIf I could only have something that belonged to him, a piece of clothing or a knife or even a coin,” Wael went on intensely, “I could draw him to me, dead or alive, as surely as if—”
    â€œAs if you held him by a rope in your hand,” Rheged finished sourly. “What of it? Am I to send to Isle, now, for an article of his apparel?”
    â€œNay, nay, Majesty, send men to search the beaches! Offer rewards enough to render them honest. And send spies throughout the realm to find news of him. Offer rewards for that, also.”
    â€œYou make plentifully free with my gold,” muttered Rheged. “Even so, it shall be done. It will be worth much gold if I can hold that prince my hostage.”
    â€œOr even,” whispered Wael, “your sacrifice at the altar of the Wolf.”
    â€œAs you will,” Rheged growled. “But how is that to help my invasion of Isle?”
    â€œThat upstart little country, Isle!” Wael laughed softly, a wheezing, murky sound. “King, I could have given you that victory a dozen times by now. But it is the game itself that brings more joy, and the game has just begun, do you see? Just begun!” Wael lurched forward in his intensity. “And you know wolves belong to the winter. We will strike then.”
    â€œIf you say so, wizard,” the monarch wearily assented. “As you say.”
    The slave market was nothing more than a large cobbled clearing set amid the houses and shops of a place called Jabul. Here the traders came with their wares at the dawn of the market day, and even before the arrival of the buyers the place was crowded. Thousands of human beings filled it—an eerie gathering, Trevyn thought, for the slaves hardly moved or spoke. The silence of despair hung over them all. About half of the slaves were women, bound in their own strings apart from the men, many with babes at their breasts. Trevyn stared, gaped indeed, for they were as naked as himself. The sight did not thrill him so much as dismay him; they were as beaten, as filthy, and as bereft of dignity as he. Suddenly he thought of Meg, imagining her in such company, and his face turned hard as stone. He stood like rage immobilized while the buyers arrived and looked him over, feeling his limbs for soundness as if he were a draft animal.
    â€œHere is a man looking for a mute!” one of the traders cried to another, leading a buyer through the lines of slaves.
    â€œThen here is his mute!” shouted the other, striding to Trevyn and jerking him forward. “Right here, sir, a fine, strong fellow!”
    â€œAre you quite sure he is unable to speak?” the buyer asked, addressing the slave trader with distaste he made no effort to conceal. He was a slender young man, a bit shorter than Trevyn, with a high, pale forehead over eloquent eyes. The noisy slave merchant did not seem to mind his evident distrust.
    â€œWhy, he’s not made a sound these two weeks past,” the slaver blustered, “not even in pain. Here, let me show ye.” He grabbed Trevyn’s finger and wrenched it back, but the young man gasped and struck his hand away.
    â€œThat will not be necessary,” he said imperiously. “I take it, then, that he has not lost his tongue?”
    â€œNay,”