The Sable Moon by Nancy Springer Page B

answered the slaver, crestfallen. Then he brightened. “But if ye want him, sir, I’ll take the tongue out of him for ye, right enough—”
    â€œGreat goddess, nay!” The man was emphatic, and Trevyn allowed himself a sigh of relief. “Mischance enough if it was born in him.” The young man turned to Trevyn, studying him, not poking at him as the others had done, but looking into his eyes. Trevyn met his gaze steadily, and the man nodded, satisfied. “How much?” he asked.
    â€œSoftly, sir, he’s a handsome piece; if I put him on the block he’ll bring me a pretty price.”
    â€œI cannot wait for the bidding; I have business at home. Name your price.”
    The slave trader named a price. It was high, but the young man doled out the gold without demur. The slaver undid Trevyn from the string, leaving his hands tied.
    â€œHe is mine now,” the young man said.
    â€œAy.”
    â€œTo do with as I like.”
    â€œAy, to be sure!” The slave merchant laughed and cracked his whip.
    â€œGood.” The young man brought out a slender knife, such as scholars use to sharpen their pens with, and began carefully to cut Trevyn’s bonds.
    The slaver shouted, and his face went white. “Nay, young master! He’s a wild ’un—he’ll go to kill me!” But the thongs were cut, and the young man stepped back without comment. Trevyn rubbed his chafed wrists and studied the shaking slaver, who was backing cautiously away. No courage in the man without his fellows, it seemed! He would gladly have settled his score with this tormenter, and it was no cold caution that restrained him. He could not say why he stayed his hand, unless it was somehow because of the young man who stood quietly beside him. He could have leveled him with a single blow, by the looks of him, but the fellow had freed him fearlessly.… Trevyn turned and nodded farewell to the old man who had befriended him. Then he looked to his new master.
    â€œHere,” the young man said, handing him a sort of loincloth; hardly the raiment of a prince, but Trevyn put it on gladly. His feet were healed by now and his back mostly healed. The traders had been obliged to tend to him, not wanting to bring him to market looking like a scandal. Still, the young man winced and muttered to himself when he saw the stripes.
    â€œThis way,” he said when they were both ready. They walked together through the marketplace. “My name is Emrist,” he told Trevyn. “Not that it matters, I suppose,” he added vaguely. “Though, of course, you can hear.…”
    They turned out of the marketplace into a crooked alleyway that wound up terraced slopes between houses perched precariously on their foundations. At the top of the steep hill they paused for breath. If Trevyn had looked back, and if he had known, he could have seen Rheged’s men entering the marketplace to search for him.
    He and his new master traversed a ragged country cut by rocky ridges into patchwork gardens, vineyards, and orchards. They stopped often to rest, for Emrist was not strong. Toward noon they shared bread and cheese and a flask of weak wine. It seemed to Trevyn that Emrist was not a rich man. He went afoot, though easily tired, and his tunic and sandals looked plain and worn. Trevyn wondered how he had got the gold to buy him, and, indeed, why he had bought him at all. For his manner was gentle, and he did not seem to be the sort of person who would lightly own another.
    By early afternoon they had moved into wilder country, where habitations were fewer and growth cluttered the meadows until they were really young forests. The look of the land made Trevyn wary, and he was not entirely surprised when robbers ran at them, screeching, out of the brush. There were four of the rustic brigands, each armed with a wicked-looking sword. If Trevyn had been by himself he might have run; his fray with the