The Malmillard Codex by K.G. McAbee

travelers.
    Val breathed a sigh of relief as the door to
their musty room closed behind them. The strain of remembering all
the myriad things that could give him away as a slave had begun to
wear on him almost at once after they'd passed the gate.
    Look people straight in the eye, not with
head submissively downcast or through lowered lashes. Stand up
proudly, head high, shoulders straight as a freeborn. Do not leap
to do a service; wait to have it done. For all the practice that
he'd done with Madryn on their travels, Val had never realized how
difficult it was simply being free.
    And he was beginning to suspect that it may
well increase in difficulty instead of growing easier.
    "Well," said Madryn as she dried her freshly
washed face on the grimy bit of cloth hanging over the washbasin.
"Not the most elegant of accommodations, but with any luck, we
won't be here for long. A blade for you, passage for us both and
Daemon, and we're shut of this filthy little village and the Drunken Raven as well. Are you ready for a trip to visit a
certain nephew, Val?"
    Val nodded. He didn't trust his mouth to
form discernable words. Madryn had removed her jacket; the thin
silk of her undershirt stuck to her lean body and outlined her taut
breasts in a way that sent the blood pounding in his veins. He
wondered, and not for the first time, what Madryn thought of his
obvious and unmistakable desire for her.
    Did it excite her? Amuse her?
    Did it disgust her?
    "Val?"
    Madryn had an amused look on her face. Val
had returned from his momentary reverie to find her eyes on his
flushed and burning face, her mouth stretched into its usual
crooked grin. Embarrassed, he nodded, and then watched as she slid
the saddlebag into a cupboard and shut its door. Rusty hinges gave
a shriek of protest. Then, with a jingle of coins, she donned her
jacket and strode to the door.
    "Let's find a blade, then see about
passage."
    ***
    The Street of the Artificers was a grand
name for a muddy length of narrow passageway that stretched between
shabby buildings, some inhabited, some gutted by fire or age, some
looking as if they'd been abandoned to their fate far in the
distant past. Rows of stalls lined the already too narrow path,
providing little more that a winding corridor, open to the sky and
clogged by humans and animals going in all directions.
    Val watched in silent curiosity as Madryn
made her careful way, nose buried against one arm, around a vendor
with baskets of flowers, including roses of all hues. He followed
her, remembering how she'd had Frague remove roses from their room
at the Toad.
    An exhibit of special squalor and despair
greeted Val at one point on their journey down the twisting,
humanity-laden pathway. On a platform set against a filthy,
tumbledown heap of stones, slaves were linked one to the other with
a single chain. Trails of dried and fresh blood leaked from the
leather collars that were the badge of their caste; they were being
offered for sale.
    "Slaves, best to be had," whined the
slavemaster, his bored voice sounding as age-old and world-weary as
the chant itself. "Slaves for sale, finest in all the lands."
    Val tried to fight down the cold chill that
went through him as he passed the platform, even though he was sure
that the scars from his own recently removed collar were not
visible under his shirt and jerkin. Eyes drawn against his will, he
cast a curious glance at the selection. A motley crew of dirty,
scabby and flea-bitten wretches, the refuse of a dozen towns and
villages, cast out or born to the life, or sold to pay their debts.
A lone child, a scrawny thing of no determinate gender, watched
with red-rimmed eyes the antics of a tiny monkey at the next
stall.
    "Sir," called the slavemaster, his practiced
eye seeing that Val's gaze had lingered a bit too long on his
string of merchandise. "May I interest your lordship in a slave?
Someone to cook your food, to care for your attire, to provide for
your needs?"
    "No," Val snapped as