Chapter Text
But Not the Song (1/17)
Story Index and Warnings
March.
Business at the slave market is slow.
It's been drizzling since dawn and there's a bitter wind across the plains, buffeting the lines of shivering slaves and slicing through Brendon's threadbare clothes. He tries to keep still, mindful of the way the slaves around him hiss and glare when he fidgets, but he aches all over from the cold, and his nose is running and his feet are freezing into the mud, and the merchant walking slowly along the lines is taking too fucking long.
The merchant is the only potential buyer who's stopped for more than a minute all day. He's dressed in fine but outdated clothes, and his boots need polishing. He carries a riding crop, snapping it smartly at slaves' legs and backsides and smirking when they jump to attention. The caravan master follows him like an eager dog, barely able to hide his excitement. Brendon has only been in the caravan for a few days, bought with a handful of others at another market, but he knows it's been longer than that since the master last made a good sale.
The merchant stops and taps his riding crop against the side of his leg. Without looking at the master, he says, "I was hoping to find something a bit more refined. I am not interested in ordinary beasts."
Behind his back, the caravan master makes a face, but when the merchant turns he schools it quickly into proper obsequiousness. "Times are hard, good sir," he says, "but I do have some property with special skills, if you would care to consider it."
The merchant gestures carelessly. "Very well," he says with a bored sigh. "Show me your treats."
They walk along the line again, stopping only to discuss those slaves the master claims to have unique talents. The slaves around Brendon shy away subtly, trying to distance themselves from him without being obvious about it. Brendon wants to watch the master and the buyer, to keep an eye on them, but he knows it will only lead to trouble. He clasps his hands behind his back and bows his head, stares at the shackle around his ankle and doesn't move when the merchant's unpolished boots come into view.
"Musician, sir," the master says. "Very accomplished. He's performed for many great families in the city, to the envy of all."
The merchant snorts in disbelief. "This wretch? I find that hard to believe."
"I would never lie to you, sir," the caravan master lies smoothly.
Brendon's expecting it, but he still jumps at the sting of the crop against the back of his legs. The merchant lodges the handle of the whip under his chin and forces him to look up. Brendon meets his eyes for the briefest moment then drops his gaze, and he doesn't flinch when the man grabs his chin and tilts his head from side to side. The merchant's hands are clammy and his breath stinks, and this close Brendon can see the stains on his once-fine shirt, the fraying edges on his cuffs and loosening seams on his shoulders.
The man lets him go. "A plaything for a pampered female," he says dismissively. "I have no use for such a creature."
Brendon hides a sigh of relief as the man walks away.
"Of course not, sir." The caravan master hurries after the merchant. He hesitates a moment, then leans closer and lowers his voice conspiratorially. "If I may be so bold, sir, may I inquire as to whether you have interest in, shall we say, a plaything more suited to gentlemanly pursuits?"
The merchant taps his riding crop against his leg. "I have been known to indulge from time to time."
The master's eyes light up. He snaps his fingers at one of the mercenary guards. "You heard the gentleman," he says sharply. "Bring the pretty bird, and quickly."
The guard hurries away. A minute later he returns with another slave, a boy about Brendon's age, rail-thin and naked except for the leather collar around his neck and the shackle around his ankle. There are jangling bracelets around his wrists and hoops in his ears, and his face is painted with the intricate, colorful designs Brendon's only seen before on courtesans in wealthy houses. It makes him look wild and exotic, too bright for a dull, dirty caravan in the freezing rain. The guard gives him a shove and the boy stumbles, but he does not fall. He stands upright, his back and shoulders straight, his head held high and his expression almost haughty as he looks down his nose at the merchant.
"Well, well," the merchant says, a slow smile curling his lips. "What have we here?"
"He is very well-trained," the caravan master says. His eyes flick away from the merchant just long enough to glare at the collared slave. Even from several feet away Brendon can see the threat in that brief look. "I daresay there is no favor you will find too... unusual."
"I see," the merchant says. He walks in a circle around the slave, looking him up and down with deliberate slowness. The boy doesn't move; the only sign that he's aware of the merchant is the twitching of his muscles where the man touches the riding crop to his skin. "He's a little bony for my tastes," the man says.
"Food is scarce, sir," the master says apologetically.
The merchant makes a noncommittal noise in his throat and stops behind the boy. He drags the riding crop along the inside of the boy's thigh, over the crack of his ass and up the line of his spine. The boy still doesn't move, but something about his posture changes and Brendon can see his knees shaking slightly. He should look away. He hates watching bedslaves being sold. He hates the sick hunger on the merchant's face, the litany of thank god it's not me, thank god it's not me running through his mind and the mind of every other slave in the caravan. But there's a unnatural hush over the afternoon, as though even the wind and rain are holding their breath, waiting for the merchant to speak or the boy to react, and Brendon hates himself for staring but he can't stop.
The merchant steps around to the boy's front again, still touching him only with the tip of the crop, the leather pressed into his collarbone.
"Open your mouth for me, pretty," the merchant says, his voice low, almost purring. "I want to see how much cock you can handle."
The boy's lips are pressed together in a straight line.
"Now," the merchant says sharply.
The boy doesn't respond. He's staring at a point over the merchant's shoulder, his face completely blank, his eyes empty.
The caravan master starts to say something, but the merchant moves quickly. He grabs the boy's chin so tight the boy's lips part with a startled gasp, and the merchant smiles. The boy's eyes narrow and he jerks his chin free of the man's grasp, snakes his head down and bites the man's hand, hard.
Holy shit, Brendon thinks. A murmur rises from the slaves all around, and angry muttering from the guards. Holy shit.
The merchant lets out a howl of pain and pulls his hand free - it takes a tug, a grunt of pain, the boy is really fucking biting him - and the man lashes out, hits the boy hard enough to knock him backwards, into a guard. The guard doesn't catch the boy but shoves him again, pushes him to his knees and grabs the his hair so hard his head jerks back.
"What the hell are you doing?" the merchant screams, clutching one hand in the other. "You filthy little whore, I ought to – " He takes two long steps forward, but the caravan master intercepts him. "Get out of my way, you fucking weasel, or bring me a knife so I can put down that fucking animal myself."
The master is babbling apologies and promises and soothing nonsense, steering the merchant away from the kneeling slave. But the merchant ignores the master's pleas to reconsider, turns on his heel and strides back to where his horse is waiting. Moments later he's riding away, leaving the caravan behind.
The murmuring amongst the slaves stops abruptly when the master returns. His expression is murderous, and his voice is shaking when he stands over the kneeling boy and says, "Do you think this is fucking funny, you worthless bitch?"
The boy twists his head just enough to loosen the guard's grip in his hair. He looks up at the master for a long moment, then turns his head deliberately and spits on the ground. "He tasted like shit," he says. There's no emotion at all in his voice.
The guard jerks the boy by his hair again, pulling so hard his knees lift off the ground. The master steps forward and raises his hand; he makes as though to strike the boy but stops with his hand just beside his cheek. He touches him gently instead, a parody of a caress, and says quietly, "You know what happens when you're disobedient, princess."
"Let us remind him what he's here for," a guard says.
"Fuck him till he behaves," another adds, and several of them laugh. "He ain't as pretty as a girl but he'll do."
"I'm not running a fucking free brothel," the master snaps. He drops his hand to his side and steps back. "But I might make an exception."
The boy watches him expressionlessly.
"Here," the master says. He holds out his hand without turning, and a guard places a bullwhip in his palm. He lets it uncoil; the slithering length falls to the ground. "I really fucking hate to mark up such expensive merchandise," he says, his voice dripping with mock regret. "All that pretty smooth skin. It's such a shame."
The boy stares, unblinking, and still does not react.
The master snaps his fingers at a nearby guard. "Bring the whore's pet dog. Nobody but him gives a fuck if that stupid piece of shit's beaten bloody."
"No!" The word rips out of the boy's throat, and his blank mask drops away. He struggling and flailing his arms and trying to pull free even though it must hurt like hell. "No! Don't – it was me, don't, please – "
The master throws back his head and laughs. "So that's what it takes to get you to beg?"
The guard comes back, dragging another slave behind him. He's a taller boy, with a round face smudged with dirt and the wiry muscles of somebody who's been doing labor all his life. The guard is walking so fast the boy can barely stay upright, and he throws the boy to the ground at the master's feet when he reaches him. The boy doesn't try to stand or even look up. His hair falls over his face and his shoulders are shaking but he doesn't make a sound.
"No," the other boy says again. He's gone pale under his paint and he's still fighting against the guard, but his voice is quieter and he's looking at his friend now, not the master. "It was me, it wasn't – it was me."
The master looks down at the two of them. "Isn't that sweet," he drawls. "Maybe I should offer you up as a pair. I bet you can teach your boy to suck cock real pretty when he's taking it up the ass."
The boy snarls and lunges forward again, only to be snapped back again by the guard's fist in his hair. The master jerks his chin at the other boy and says, "Get him up. Over there, get some fucking rope." To the boy with the painted face he says, "If you don't shut the fuck up, I'll let the men do whatever the fuck they want to you, and your boyfriend too."
Two guards drag the other boy to his feet and over to the nearest wagon. Brendon stumbles out of the way with the other slaves, tripping over the chains binding their feet and dodging the guards' boots. The men pull the boy's shirt over his head and loop a rope around his wrists, lash it to the side of the wagon so that his face is pressed against the rough wood and he's held up by his arms at just the height where he can neither stand nor kneel. There is already a patchwork of scars on his back, overlapping lines that look like they've been collected over years.
The master cracks the whip several feet away, and the boy tenses but doesn't make a sound. "It's okay if you scream, sweetheart," the master says. "Maybe if you're loud enough, your little bitch boyfriend will behave next time."
The boy doesn't scream, but Brendon is close enough that he can hear the soft, stifled whimper after every lash. He holds his breath and counts silently; the master goes to twenty-five before he lowers his arm to his side, panting slightly. The boy's back is slashed crimson, the wounds bleeding freely, blood soaking into the waistband of his trousers.
The master takes a minute to curl the whip into a coil. He examines the blood on his fingers, then points with the coil at the painted boy, still on his knees and staring, wide-eyed and silent. "Put that one in the cage," he says.
The guard hauls the boy his feet; the cheap bracelets on the boy's wrists jangle softly.
"What about the other one?" a second guard asks. He glances at the whipped boy with an expression of distaste that turns into an amused smirk when the boy jerks suddenly, kicking his feet out and trying to find a footing to stand.
"Leave him there," says the master. He looks down and spits on the boy, then turns away. "If he can't walk, drag him. We've got to get the fuck out of here. Fucking wasted day."
The guards go along the lines, shouting and dragging the slaves into place. It's slow, moving the entire caravan when the slaves are bound, but the guards don't risk untying anybody until they're a couple of miles outside of town and ready to set up camp for the night. Brendon is one of the first they untie. They probably think he's too young or too stupid to make trouble; he doesn't know which it is, but he's not doing anything to change their minds. He rubs at where his ankle is chafed raw and finds a place to sit down, near the edge of the group but not so far from the other slaves that he's exposed to the full force of the wind.
The guards have circled the wagons around the camp like they do every night. To his right Brendon can see the boy who was whipped still tied up, the rope still too short to let him sit or even kneel. To Brendon's left is what the master jokingly calls the "behave-yourself" wagon: it's nothing more than a cage mounted on wheels, open to the elements and pulled along by a sullen mule. The other boy is in that one, still naked and huddled in a corner against the iron bars. Brendon can't see his face clearly in the twilight, but he knows, he knows the boy is staring across the camp at his friend.
"Dinner."
Brendon jumps, startled. "Oh." It's only a tiny hunk of bread, a couple of bites, but Brendon says, "Thank you."
The mercenary guard handing out the bread is the only one Brendon knows by name, because he's the only one who bothers to speak to the slaves directly. His name is Zack and his arms and neck are covered with dozens of gladiator tattoos. Brendon heard the other guards talking: Zack is relatively new to the caravan, but it's rare for a gladiator to live long enough to become a freedman and the other guards regard him with a wary respect. Brendon's glad Zack's one of the decent ones, the kind who keeps the others in line and stops them from hurting the slaves too much.
He takes a bite of his bread and goes back to watching. The boy in the cage hasn't moved. He could be a statue, cold and lifeless in the rapidly fading light.
"His name's Ryan," Zack says. "Ross. He's got a proper surname like a free man, and he never lets anyone forget it."
Brendon starts again and glances around nervously. He doesn't know why Zack is talking to him – maybe because he's the last mouth to feed, maybe Zack is just bored – and he doesn't know what to say, so he says, "Oh."
"Gets into trouble every fucking day of the week and twice on Sunday." Zack doesn't sound like he thinks it's funny, like the other guards do. "That shit he pulled today, that's typical."
Brendon says, "Oh."
"They say he was freeborn, captured in a fucking border raid or some shit," Zack goes on. "Who the fuck knows."
Brendon fidgets a little, pulling the bread apart in his hands, but he has to ask, "Why are you telling me this?" He didn't ask for gossip. He knows that you don't ask, and you definitely don't ask the guards. "I don't want to know," he says. It's a lie, but it's the lie he's supposed to tell.
"You're new," says Zack, "and maybe I'm wrong, but I get the impression you haven't spent much time dragging around in the caravans. Not a fancy toy like you."
Brendon doesn't look at Zack when he says, "Long enough."
Half a year. Half a year since Lady Victoria vanished and Brendon, along with all her other property, was confiscated by the crown and sold at auction for a fraction of what he should have been worth. Six long months that feel like six years, being bought and sold by progressively cheaper and meaner caravan masters. The winter was too hard and too many people are dying from plague. Nobody's looking to buy a trained pet to sit at the piano and show off to their friends, especially not one too small to be much use for real work. But Brendon knows six months is nothing. There are old men in the caravan, stooped and toothless and half-blind, who have been traded at cheap markets along the roads for their entire lives.
Zack says, "You seem like a smart enough kid, and maybe you know how to stay out of trouble. Once summer comes, people will be willing to spend a little more. Somebody'll snatch you up. Keep your head down and you'll be fine."
"I don't make trouble," Brendon tells him.
"Well," Zack says, neither believing nor disbelieving. "Just in case you get ideas, you should know, that's what trouble gets you." He nods toward the behave-yourself wagon.
Brendon looks at the boy in the cage – Ryan, he thinks, he has a name – then turns around slowly and looks across to the other side of the camp, to the boy still tied to the wagon. "That too?"
Zack makes a noise in his throat, short and angry. "That too. That kid – says his name's Spencer when he bothers to talk at all, who the fuck knows if that's true – used to belong to Ross's family. They've known each other forever, pull all kinds of stupid shit to avoid getting split up." Zack snorts, almost like a laugh. "Fucking lot of good it's done them. They'll end up in the silver mines if the old bastard can't get back what he paid, and chances of that are pretty fucking slim." He glances around, sees that no other guards are nearby, and deliberately spits on the ground. "You got friends around here, kid, don't let anyone see it."
Brendon chews the last bite of bread slowly. "I don't," he says quietly. "Not like that."
"Good," Zack says gruffly. He looks up and scowls, like he's surprised to find himself gossiping with one of the slaves. "Look, it's the warning I give all the kids. It doesn't mean shit."
"Thank you," says Brendon sincerely.
Zack shakes his head. "You're a strange one." He starts to walk away.
"Are you – " Brendon bites his lip when Zack looks back at him. "Are you going to leave him there all night?" he asks in a rush, before he can lose his nerve. "He can't even – the way he's tied up, he can't even sit down."
Zack stares at him. Brendon shrinks back a little, curling his shoulders inward. But Zack only shakes his head and turns away again. "That's exactly what I'm talking about," he says. "Trouble."
But about half an hour later, when the chores are done and most of the guards are gathered around the master's fire, Brendon sees Zack cross the camp to where the boy – Spencer – is tied up. Zack unties the ropes and helps the boy to his feet, looks around to makes sure nobody is watching before helping the boy into his shirt again. Then he presses a bundle of something into the boy's hands – clothes, Brendon thinks, maybe food and water too – and says something. The boy doesn't answer or even look up, but as Zack walks away, he makes a beeline across the camp. He's unsteady on his feet, wincing with every step, but he doesn't stop until he's at the behave-yourself wagon, stumbling and catching himself on the bars.
As Brendon watches, Ryan crawls over and presses their foreheads together through the bars. He's still naked. Spencer whispers something to him, but Ryan shakes his head hard; Spencer looks down, grimaces, and shoves the bundle Zack gave him through the bars, then the piece of bread. Ryan hesitates before he starts to get dressed. Brendon can't hear them, but he feels like he should look away, like he's watching something nobody else is meant to see.
Brendon waits, trying not to stare, until Zack walks by him again in his circuit around the camp. "Do you have bandages?" he asks.
Zack stops short. "What?"
"Bandages. You know, for." Brendon gestures vaguely.
Zack raises an eyebrow. "They won't let you near them."
It's not a no, so Brendon says, "Can I try?"
"It'll only get you into trouble."
Brendon looks over at the behave-yourself wagon again. Ryan tears the small chunk of bread carefully in two and passes half to Spencer, who's got his forehead pressed to the bars, eyes closed. Through Spencer's thin shirt Brendon can see his shoulders crisscrossed with red marks. Some of them are still bleeding; there are stains on his shirt.
They're the bravest thing he's ever seen.
"I want to try," he says.
Zack frowns. "Don't let the bastard associate you with them. If he does, you're fucking done for."
Brendon looks up at him. "Please," he says.
"Fuck." Zack shakes his head. "It's your funeral. They'll hate you anyway."
But he wanders away, toward the wagon where they keep the extra supplies. When he comes back he presses a roll of bandages into Brendon's hands and mutters, “Don't forget to wash the cuts first.”
Ex-gladiators know that kind of thing, Brendon thinks. He starts to say, “Thank you,” again but Zack's already walking away.
The ground is muddy from the rain, and Brendon's bare feet squelch noisily as he approaches the behave-yourself wagon. Ryan and Spencer hear him and look up at the exact same time. Brendon stops.
"I have bandages," he says. He holds up the cloth for them to see. When they don't reply, he steps closer. It's barely a movement at all, but Spencer's hands tighten on the bars of the cage. "Just bandages," Brendon says. "That's all." He immediately feels stupid. They're not idiots. They can understand him just fine.
Ryan stops eating and glances at Spencer.
"What do you want?" Spencer asks. His voice is rough and low.
Brendon takes another step. "Nothing. Just, you're bleeding."
Another step, and another. Brendon thinks about the time Alex took him into the mountains to find a lost horse. They never found it, but they did find a pack of wolves: silent, shadowy creatures lurking in the twilight as they rode back to Lady Victoria's estate. He remembers Alex speaking in a soft, steady voice, telling stories just to have something to say, and he remembers wondering childishly if the wolves never attacked because they were afraid of Alex's voice or because they wanted to hear how the stories ended.
Brendon thinks it's a good sign that Spencer hasn't tried to bite him yet. "Can I – will you let me?"
Ryan says, "The master will see you."
Brendon looks over his shoulder. The master is enjoying his food and wine by a fire at the other end of the caravan, and most of the guards are with him. "It's okay," he says. "Nobody's watching. I can just –"
He starts forward, but the wagon rocks as Ryan scrambles across the cage. "Don't," he says, sharp and commanding. Definitely freeborn, Brendon thinks. No slave learns to speak like that. "Don't touch him." Ryan sticks his hand through the bars. "Give them to me."
Brendon puts the bandages in Ryan's hand and steps back. He watches Ryan unroll the cloth with trembling hands, glancing warily toward the caravan master's fire as though he expects the man to come roaring at them at any moment.
Spencer glances at campfire again, then locks eyes with Ryan. Some silent communication flickers between them - Brendon can't read it, their faces barely move - and then something that might be an attempt at a bitter smile flashes across Spencer's face. He stands up straight and pulls off his shirt in one quick motion, a gasp of pain hissing between his teeth. Brendon stares; he's never seen the aftermath of a whipping this close before. Lady Victoria never whipped anyone. The dried blood from the deeper cuts has soaked into Spencer's shirt, and there are bits of cloth stuck to his back. Some of the wounds are bleeding sluggishly again. Ryan makes a tiny, tiny noise, and his hands shake harder. He can barely keep hold of the bandages.
"It's nothing," says Spencer. It's the biggest lie Brendon's heard in a while. "Just - cover up the worst ones, okay?"
"Spencer," says Ryan, without expression.
"I said it's nothing."
Brendon finally manages to make his voice work. "You ought to -" he begins, and stops as both of them glare at him. Ryan's expression says why are you still here?, clear as daylight. Spencer doesn't really have an expression at all. "You ought to - water," he manages to say. "Wash them out. It'll be worse, if they get infected, or. Or he does it again."
Neither one answers, but Ryan picks up the jug of water Spencer brought him earlier. "No," says Spencer. "That's for you. You drink it, idiot."
"Shut up," says Ryan. "Show me your back."
"No."
"I'll get more," says Brendon. "Zack likes me. I can get more."
Spencer and Ryan don't look at him, but after a moment Spencer nods in his general direction. Brendon sets off through the mud, and he doesn't see Ryan reach through the bars to pour his water over Spencer's back, but he hears Spencer's hiss of pain.
Zack is standing with some of the other mercenaries at the edge of the camp, watching over the huddled, sleeping slaves. The guards are talking and laughing, and Brendon stops several feet away, uncertain. Most of the slaves are still chained together, but there are a few, like Brendon, who are well-behaved and never try to run – who won't make it very far anyway if they do, is the joke.
It's probably true. Brendon doesn't know the land they're traveling through. They've been heading south steadily for weeks, a long meandering circuit of the provinces before the caravan reaches the city. Here there's nothing but flat, featureless grassland on either side of the road, open skies and unending wind, no landmarks to follow. The road snakes along a long, wide valley towards the rocks and scrubby trees of the mountain passes. There's no place to hide, and the city and its enormous open slave markets are only a few weeks' journey from here. They'll probably be there for summer, swinging through one more province before they stop for a month or so on the stinking edge of the market quarter.
Brendon remembers, or thinks he remembers, that one of the provinces on the far side of the mountains is the one that outlawed slave caravans some years ago. Lady Victoria had been very excited about it for some reason. He guesses they won't be going there.
Being free to move around the caravan doesn't mean he can walk up to the guards and demand water. He stands to the side and hugs himself against the cold wind and waits. Zack finally looks his way, speaks to the other guards for a few more minutes, then wanders over to Brendon. "They chase you away?"
Brendon glances back at the wagon. He can't see much more than the silhouette in the darkness. "Can I have some water, please?" he asks.
Zack stares down at him, and for a moment Brendon is scared he'll say no, maybe even laugh and kick Brendon away like the other men do when slaves ask for water. But Zack exhales sharply and shakes his head. "You gotta be careful, kid," he says, and he wanders away again. A few seconds later he's back with a small jug in hand. He shoves it at Brendon and says, "Don't get used to it."
"Thank you," Brendon says quietly, and he runs back to the wagon.
Ryan is whispering fervently to Spencer through the bars of the cage, but he hasn't done anything with the bandages yet. They both look up when Brendon approaches – it's a little eerie how they do that – and it's obvious from their expressions they didn't expect Brendon to come back at all.
"I brought more water," he says. He doesn't take his time stepping up to the cage now, just sets the jug carefully inside the bars and doesn't move away. "Not a lot, but it's – do you need help?"
"No," Ryan says, too quickly. He doesn't say go away now, but it's clear anyway.
"Because I can..." Brendon hesitates. "I can help," he says. "I'm good at patching up wounds." It's a bit of an exaggeration; he's done it once before. A man had turned up one night, staggering to the kitchen door, saying he was a friend of Alex's and he'd been attacked by wolves: Alex had recognized him, anyway, and jumped to his feet, exclaiming at the blood on his shirt. And at least Brendon's calm enough to hold the bandages without dropping them, which is more than Ryan can say.
Spencer says, "We don't need your help."
"Okay," Brendon says. "Okay. Then I'll just... okay."
He doesn't back away. He watches Ryan press the strips of cloth against Spencer's back. There aren't enough bandages to do a proper job of it, and Ryan's hands are so unsteady Brendon's surprised he can hold them at all. When Spencer's entire body goes tense, Ryan murmurs something that sounds like, "Sorry, sorry," and jerks his hands away, fumbling the bandages and almost dropping them in the mud. "Sorry," Ryan says again, his voice cracking on the word.
"Ry..."
Ryan takes a slow breath and, without turning his head, holds out the bandages for Brendon to take. He doesn't say anything, no please, no can you...? He doesn't even look at Brendon.
Brendon steps forward quickly. "Yeah," he says. "Hold still, okay?"
Spencer makes a sound that's almost a laugh. "I'm not going anywhere."
Brendon does the best he can, trying to look competent and serious and kind - but not pitying, he knows instinctively neither of them will forgive him if they think he feels sorry for them. Spencer is shivering a little in the sharp evening breeze, and his skin under Brendon's hands is chilled and damp. Ryan wraps both his hands around the cage's bars so tightly his knuckles go white, and he watches every movement of Brendon's fingers like a hawk.
"There," says Brendon when he's done. "There, that's it."
Spencer pulls away and shrugs his shoulders carefully, testing the pain. "Okay," he says. There's dead silence for a moment.
"I'll just go, then," says Brendon.
"Good idea," says Ryan, and there's an unpleasant lilt in his voice, the sneering sound only free people ever use.
Brendon bristles. He's had masters who talked to him like that, sometimes, when they were angry, and he's met slaves with masters who sounded that way the whole time - but Ryan's no one's master. Ryan's not any better than he is, not now, and Brendon just helped them. "You ought to be more careful," he says. "Most people aren't as nice as me."
"Ought?" repeats Ryan, and his head comes up, chin held at an arrogant tilt. Brendon can see why the caravan master hates him, he's all hard lines and defiant angles behind the cage bars, all unquenchable pride. "We don't need nice. We don't need anything. Who do you think you are anyway, slave boy?"
And that's it. "A survivor," retorts Brendon with a lot more confidence than he actually feels. "Slave boy."
Ryan's mouth twists in fury, but "Ryan," says Spencer. Ryan turns his glare on him momentarily before his eyes fall on the bandages and he slumps again, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing the side of his face into the cage bars like it's a wall, like he can hide. Spencer reaches through and wraps a hand around his wrist. "What's your name?" he says.
It takes Brendon a moment to realize Spencer means him. "Brendon," he says.
"Brendon," says Spencer. "Thanks."
Brendon says, "You're welcome," as evenly as he can. Then he turns and walks away, finds a spot to curl up with the other slaves. The rain clouds are clearing, and Brendon watches falling stars until he slips into sleep.
In the morning one of the carts breaks an axle when it gets stuck in the mud, and the caravan master surveys his slaves with a small smile on his face. A few men will stay behind to fix it, but the master doesn't want to waste any time.
"I suppose we'll have to carry the goods," he says.
A few slaves lower their heads, shuffle their feet, but most of them don't react. They know better.
Brendon can guess what the master's going to do even before he starts pointing and calling out. The man points to a man with a sprained ankle, a woman with a broken arm, a couple of guys with black eyes so swollen they can barely see. And Spencer, of course. The master thinks it's funny to give the heavy labor to injured slaves, to spend the day shouting at them for their laziness while they struggle under the weight of food they'll never get to eat.
When the caravan starts moving again, with agonizing slowness through the sticky mud, Brendon hangs back a little. He doesn't make a big deal of it, not so anyone will notice, just walks a little slower until he's beside the mangy mule pulling the behave-yourself wagon. The wind is sharper, colder without all the trudging people around him, but he puts his hand on the mule's warm back and hums to himself a little. It's the fox and swan song, the one that's been in his head for days. He misses being able to sing as loud as he wants to.
"What are you doing?"
Brendon shrugs but doesn't look at Ryan. "Just walking," he says.
"You should walk somewhere else."
"I like walking here." Brendon glances over his shoulder.
Ryan's voice sounds hoarse, like he's growing ill, and he's curled into the corner of the cage, trying to make himself as small as possible. But his eyes are wide and alert, and he's watching Brendon warily.
"I heard the guards talking," Brendon says. "Earlier, I mean, they were talking about where we're going." What actually happened was that Brendon asked Zack where the caravan was headed and Zack answered, simple as that, but Brendon isn't about to tell Ryan he talks to one of the guards so easily, not even Zack. "There's a market. I guess we'll be there by night. Lots of people have been sick and they need slaves to work the farms."
Ryan says, "Why are you telling me this?" His voice is flat and it's barely a question at all.
Brendon's telling him mostly because he wants somebody to talk to besides the mule, but he's not about to admit that. "You might want to be careful not to bite anyone this time," he says. "It'll be hard for Spencer's back to heal if the master punishes – "
"Shut up," Ryan snarls. He unfolds himself like he wants to lunge at Brendon but remembers the bars of the cage and stops. "You shut up. You don't know what the fuck you're talking about. You don't know anything."
Brendon wonders that the bars of the cage aren't rattling from the force of Ryan's fury, but the wind is sharp and the morning sun is bright, and Ryan is too thin and too small and too scared, the rusty locks on the cage too strong.
Brendon's throat is dry; he swallows uncomfortably and looks at the mule, pretending interest in the tuft of hair between its ears. "Yeah," he says. "I don't know anything."
He starts humming again. A different song, a funny, naughty song he learned when he was seventeen, sitting in the kitchen at Lady Victoria's and singing along with Alex and Ryland and the two gardeners and the housekeeper and the stable boy and almost forgetting he was the only slave in the room. He hums it slow and quiet and doesn't think about the words.
They walk in silence for a long time. The guards are shouting up ahead, but it's just their ordinary noise, keeping slaves in line and the caravan moving forward. Brendon isn't expecting it when Ryan speaks again.
"He's supposed to be free."
Brendon's step falters. "Who?" he asks, though he already knows. He wonders if Zack got the story wrong, if Spencer was freeborn too.
"I was going to..." Ryan trails off. Brendon doesn't look at him, afraid if he does Ryan won't go on. "I was waiting for my father to die, so I could set him free."
Brendon doesn't say anything.
"What are you singing?"
Surprised, Brendon twists to look at Ryan. "Oh. Nothing, really. Just an old song."
Ryan doesn't say anything more.
Brendon doesn't try to talk to Ryan for the rest of the morning. The caravan doesn't stop to eat at noon, though some of the guards move quietly through the lines of shuffling slaves handing out hunks of stale bread. Zack stops beside Brendon and looks meaningfully at his hand on the mule's back, and Brendon does his best confused face back, the one that made Lady Victoria giggle. Zack shakes his head and gives Brendon extra bread.
"He likes you," says Ryan from the cage.
"Zack's all right," says Brendon, waiting until no one is looking before he casually pushes his spare bread through the cage bars. "Don't let them see you have that."
"I don't want it."
They go on in silence for a moment. Brendon's feet are starting to hurt, and he thinks he's a little bit jealous of Ryan who at least doesn't have to walk. "You're being stupid, you know," he says at last. "You'll just die."
"I don't care."
Brendon turns to look at him. He's honestly surprised, though he probably shouldn't be. It's never occurred to him that you can do that, that you can just not care, that you can just -
Ryan has traces of the paint from yesterday still smeared across his cheekbones. His eyes are hard. "You're giving up?" says Brendon.
"You've given up," Ryan answers.
Brendon shakes his head. "What about him? About Spencer? Don't you -"
"Shut up."
Brendon looks over his shoulder to the back of the caravan, where the wounded slaves are stumbling along. Most of the guards are back there too, now, jeering. It looks like some of them are taking bets. Zack's hanging back, watching closely, ready to go in if things get nasty. Brendon can't see Spencer. He thinks about the bandages again, how cold Spencer's skin was.
"You're being stupid," he says again. "You have to get out of the caravan. No one's got any chance here."
"No one's got any chance anywhere," says Ryan. He pauses for a long moment, and then starts speaking again, more unsteady. "I. I - if I behave. They've got no reason to keep us together."
"Sure," says Brendon. "And if you die, they've got no reason to keep him alive."
"Spencer's smart," Ryan says. "He works hard. He's worth... They won't waste..." His voice fades as he looks away.
Brendon doesn't remind him that the master hates them, that everybody in the caravan thinks both Ryan and Spencer are headed for the silver mines already. Instead he says, "You should eat."
Ryan glares at him for a second, then picks up the stale chunk of bread. They don't speak for the rest of the day.
There are farms and fields around them now, and the road is wider and well-worn. It's early spring and there should be men in the fields, turning over the earth for planting, but most are empty, and there is no smoke rising from many of the houses. The people they do see watch them pass with flat, suspicious eyes. A few kids are playing in the dirt beside the road, but instead of jeering and chasing the slaves like children normally do, they watch silently as the caravan passes.
"Plague," Ryan says.
The sound of his voice startles Brendon. "Yeah," he says. He knows the signs. He's seen them often enough, this winter.
The caravan stops to make camp before nightfall. Brendon guesses they aren't far from a village, and a cold knot of fear forms in his stomach. The caravan is bad – he's exhausted from walking so many miles, his feet ache and he's always hungry – but a slave market is always, always worse. To be stripped naked and shackled to the others in a ragged, shivering line while the buyers poke and prod and laugh like it's a social event, to watch the other slaves' faces go blank with fear when they're pulled out of the line, to try to keep from shrinking in on himself and hiding when he catches a buyer's attention – it's so, so much worse.
The guards begin moving among the slaves, sorting them into groups and rattling the chains as they shackle them together. It's not Zack who comes to drag Brendon into the line, and Brendon does his best not to flinch when the man grabs his upper arm.
"Over there," the guard says, giving him a hard shove toward a group of relatively healthy men and boys. "Don't be difficult."
Brendon isn't. He knows how to behave.
When he's a safe distance away he glances back. The guard drags the handle of his whip along the bars of the cage and grins when Ryan shrinks away from him.
"I don't think you have anything to worry about tonight, princess," the guard says with a laugh. "Folks around here are looking for men to plow the fields, not pretty birds useless for everything but fucking. But you never know. We might get lucky."
He hits the bars of the cage one more time, and Ryan doesn't really react, not in any noticeable way, but Brendon knows he's about to say something, or spit on the guard, or worse. He whispers under his breath, "God, Ryan, don't."
There's no way Ryan can hear him, but he looks over quickly and catches Brendon's eye for a second. And he doesn't say anything. He turns his face away from the guard, tucks himself in the corner of the cage with his knees drawn up to his chest, and doesn't say anything at all.
The market is still in the process of being set up, and only a few locals are drifting around the outskirts, waiting for the guards to let them in to get a good look, when an enormous and enormously tasteless carriage rattles past. It's white with red-painted metalwork and a coat of arms painted on the door, pulled along by four matched, prancing black horses. It trundles to a stop a little farther down the road, and Brendon hears a high-pitched voice trill, "Oh Petey, must we? You know how I hate these things."
"Duty calls, my love," responds a male voice grandly, and the owner - obviously a gentleman, sporting high white riding boots that have clearly never been near a horse and a fancy tailored jacket - jumps down from the carriage and strides past the flummoxed guards, straight into the ring between the wagons where the slaves are being herded into something resembling a display. "Who's in charge here?" he demands.
All the slaves try not to stare as the caravan master practically lights up, scenting money, and rushes to greet the lord with exaggerated deference. The man's wife - pretty, but even more badly overdressed than he is - minces into the ring after him with a lace handkerchief pressed over her nose, followed by a dumpy balding servant with a notepad, and the bowing and scraping begins to get a little ridiculous. The lord appears to be enjoying it all immensely, and he only cuts off the slaver's effusive greetings and compliments after the servant coughs pointedly and murmurs, "Sir."
"Martin? Ah yes, of course," says the lord. "Well, let's make it quick. I've lost half my plantation boys to this damned plague. What have you got?"
The caravan master pauses, clearly doing some profitable arithmetic in his head. "One hundred and forty-one healthy adult males, Lord Wentz, ideal unskilled labor," he says. "Two dozen females. You can examine for yourself -"
"I'll take the lot," says Wentz, and bares his teeth at the master in a distinctly unsavory grin. "Or not - I know your type. My man Martin will look them over for me, in case you've miscounted, hmm? And in the meantime you and I can talk about batch prices."
The caravan master hides his horror well - his face barely quivers as he sees his profits sink, and Brendon thinks he hears one of the guards chuckle meanly. Wentz demands a lantern for his servant -"How's he supposed to see them clearly in this light, hmm?" - then offers his arm to his wife, raising an impatient eyebrow. The master claps his hands and a couple of guards bring stools and a table for the negotiations.
The servant works his way methodically through the rows of chained, naked slaves, cursorily checking each one for injuries or obvious weakness. Brendon watches out of the corner of his eye; he knows you can learn a lot about a new master by looking at the servants he's already got. Martin's coat is ill-fitting but obviously warm, and Brendon guesses that his slouched posture and stringy hair (which is hideously combed back from his receding hairline) have more to do with personal slovenliness than neglect on Wentz's part. That means the young lord is easy-going, which is good news.
The bad news is that Brendon's pretty sure he's about half an hour away from becoming a plantation slave, and he knows they get treated very differently from household staff.
Brendon's in the third row, so it doesn't take Martin long to get to him. When he does, he does his job quickly and efficiently, walking around Brendon twice and then making a note on his notepad. "Lift your feet," he says, and Brendon does. Martin shakes his head when he sees the mud on them. "Fucking Pete," he mutters. "All right, let's see your teeth, kid."
That's when Brendon looks up - it's pretty much impossible not to look at someone when he's checking your teeth, he's discovered, though some people make you try - and so that's when he looks at Martin properly for the first time, and he knows the brief, stunned moment of recognition on the man's face is echoed on his own -
Because it's Patrick.
Brendon knows Patrick. Brendon's sung duets with Patrick, bashed out piano compositions with Patrick, argued musical theory with him late into the night while they got steadily drunker and drunker on Lady Victoria's best wine. Patrick is a close personal friend of Lady Victoria's – though not a drone, never a drone, Brendon remembers her sighing about it once and saying, If I have to marry someone, I'd much rather it were Patrick than any of these idiots. Patrick wears well-cut but unfashionable clothes and good boots. Patrick is never seen anywhere without a hat. Patrick is a country man who likes to tease Lady Victoria about her appreciation for city life in general and the famous Angels and Kings Club in particular. Patrick sometimes turns up at the manor on horseback in the dead of night and has long, hushed meetings with Lady Victoria and Alex and Ryland in her study.
Patrick isn't a servant to anyone - especially not Lord Wentz - who, Brendon realizes, must be Lord Pete Wentz, the uncontested king of the Decaydance set, rakehell prince of Angels and Kings, and another friend of Lady Victoria's, though Brendon's never met him. Pete Wentz is the man whose stable boys used to bring Lady Victoria private messages – and something else flashes through Brendon's head when he thinks of that, a memory of pain and someone saying I knew he had to be in this somewhere and – what the hell, thinks Brendon, what the hell is going on?
"Shit," Patrick mutters. Then he takes a step back and settles back into the Martin persona; Brendon can see him do it, the way he hunches his shoulders, tucks his chin in, exaggerates his slouch. "Bit small, aren't you?" he says, light, impersonal, bored. "Got any special skills?"
"I - I'm a musician, sir," says Brendon. He wants to yell, to fling himself at Patrick's feet and beg for help or rescue or anything, but Patrick obviously has something in mind and Brendon doesn't dare.
"A musician, huh," he says. "Any good?"
"I - yes," says Brendon, and reels off the list of instruments he can play. It's second nature, by now; he's done it often enough. Patrick's - Martin's - eyebrows fly up. "Hmph. Pete had better take a look at you. My lord!" he calls. "Sir!"
It takes Wentz a couple of moments to excuse himself from the negotiations and amble over. He leaves his wife behind him still deep in discussion with the master. "What is it, Martin?" he says. "Find something interesting?"
"This one says he's a musician, sir," says Patrick.
"Does he now?" says Wentz. "What does he play?"
They start to discuss him casually, listing his possible features and flaws like he's a horse Wentz might buy. Brendon wonders for a moment if he dreamed that moment of recognition, if Patrick has a long-lost twin or something, before he notices that neither of them is actually meeting the other's eyes while they chat. They're watching each others' hands instead, hands that are moving almost imperceptibly in a flicker of sign and counter-sign.
Brendon's seen the sign language plenty of times before. He noticed Alex and Ryland using it once, and Alex grinned and told him it was for hunting, "So you can talk without talking, Brendon, and don't scare the deer." He even taught Brendon a few of the signs, and Brendon recognizes a couple of them now - trouble and keep cover - but the rest of what they're saying is a mystery. He's never seen anyone sign so fast and so fluently, not even Alex and Ryland, and he keeps getting distracted by the sounds of their voices talking about something else entirely.
Finally Patrick's hands move in an emphatic NOW, and Wentz nods carelessly. "Ashlee, my love!" he sing-songs over his shoulder. "Come look at what I've found!"
His wife picks her way over to them through the mud and puts her hand on Wentz's arm. "He looks a bit puny to me," she says with a pout. "What's this about?"
"He's a musician, my lady," says Patrick dryly. His hands flicker.
Lady Wentz squeals with sudden delight. "Ooh! I love music! Pete, darling, did I ever tell you how Daddy bought me an orchestra?"
"Many times," says Wentz. "Many, many times. I'm afraid I can't afford an orchestra yet, honeybear, but would you like a pet to sing for you until I can?"
She trills an irritating little laugh and pinches Brendon's cheek. "I'd adore it. Oh, look at him, isn't he cute? You should buy him for me right away, and we can take him home with us tomorrow morning," - both Patrick and Wentz make the urgent NOW signal again -"In fact," Lady Wentz corrects herself without blinking, "I want to take him back to the inn tonight. Look at his big brown eyes! He can sing me to sleep, can't he?"
"You heard the lady," says Wentz with a chuckle to the caravan master. "We're taking this one now, and I want you to hold the rest in reserve for me. I'll come back and close the deal tomorrow morning."
"Of course, sir," says the master faintly.
Before Brendon can so much as blink, the guards are being summoned to take him out of the line, and he's being forced back into his clothes and hustled towards Wentz's tasteless carriage. Only when the door's been slammed closed on the four of them and the carriage is in motion, when Lady Wentz has collapsed back into her seat with a tremendous sigh and her husband has unbuttoned the top three buttons on his shirt and pressed a kiss to her temple - only then does Patrick dig around underneath his seat, pull out a hat, jam it firmly over 'Martin's' greasy hair, and turn to Brendon, who's sitting gingerly on the edge of the carriage's velvet-upholstered seat, staring fixedly at the floor, not quite believing this is happening. "God, Brendon," he says, "how in hell did you end up there?"
Brendon shakes his head.
"Well, at least we got you out," says Patrick after a moment. "You can - after you're washed up and rested, you can tell us."
"What's the big problem?" says Lady Wentz.
"I think our new musician was one of Vicky-T's," her husband answers. "Right, Patrick?"
"He recognized me," says Patrick. He claps Brendon on the shoulder but withdraws his hand quickly when Brendon flinches. "Not that I wouldn't have grabbed you out of there anyway, Bren. How long have you been there? What the fuck happened to you?"
Brendon looks down. Lady Victoria vanishing, the auctions, the caravans, the last six months, everything, he doesn't know where to start.
"What's wrong with him?" asks Wentz, and then corrects himself, addressing Brendon. "What's wrong with you?"
"I-" says Brendon. "I don't -"
He's just been rescued - no, he's just been bought - and he has no idea what's going on.
"Brendon?" Patrick says quietly. "You okay?"
He wants to answer – this is Patrick, Brendon used to think he was a friend – but he's in a strange carriage, rattling through the night, and after so many months of wishing he could find somebody, any familiar face, he can't make any sense of this at all.
"The others." Brendon swallows and takes a deep breath. He wishes Wentz and his wife would stop staring at him like he's a strange, mythical creature they're found in the woods.
"The other who?" Patrick asks.
"You're going to – in the morning?"
"You mean... oh. Yeah, that's the plan. We'll go back in the morning." Patrick exchanges glances with Wentz. "Why?"
Brendon shrugs and looks down at his mud-caked feet. It's warmer in the carriage and than out in the wind, but he's still cold, still trying to hold himself tightly so he doesn't shiver. He doesn't have any friends in the caravan, not really, nobody he's got the right to ask about. Ryan and Spencer didn't even want to talk to him.
"Is the caravan master trustworthy?" Wentz asks suddenly.
Lady Wentz snorts. "I wouldn't trust that slimy man farther than I could throw him," she says. Brendon looks up, surprised. There's no trace of the preening, fluttering mannerisms anymore, and she's still looking at him, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
Wentz says, "No, I mean, will he keep his end of the deal and wait until morning?"
It isn't until Patrick touches his shoulder and says, "Will he?" that Brendon realizes Wentz is talking to him.
"I don't know, my lord," he says. He knows it's never a good idea to speak badly of a previous owner, all owners hate that, but he feels a pang of guilt at lying and adds, "I think he'll – he'll do whatever earns him the most money." If he's presented with a better option, Brendon has no doubt the master will break the deal.
Wentz nods like that's the answer he was expecting. "Well," he says to nobody in particular, "we could – "
"No," Lady Wentz says. "We couldn't. It's too dangerous."
"But if we – "
"No," she says, more firmly. "Not alone. It would never work. We have a plan, Pete."
Wentz looks like he's going to argue, but instead he sits back against the carriage seat and crosses his arms over his chest like a pouting child. "You take all the spontaneity out of our subversive adventures."
"Somebody has to keep you out of trouble," she replies easily.
"Keep me from having fun," Wentz retorts.
Patrick is smiling a little, watching them bicker, and Brendon is dying to ask what the hell is going on. A year ago, he would have, wouldn't have thought twice about pestering Patrick until he got some answers, but he doesn't know if he's allowed to do that anymore.
Patrick notices him watching, though, and says, "It's a long story, Brendon. Just be patient with us, okay?"
It sounds like a request, not a command. Brendon nods uncertainly.
The carriage slows, and Brendon hears the shout of an ostler outside. Lady Wentz pushes a curtain aside to look out and makes a displeased face. "Do they just sit around all day watching for us?" she asks, clearly annoyed.
"Are you kidding?" Wentz says, laughing. "We're the most excitement this inn has seen in twenty years." He stands up and lurches a little when the carriage stops fully. The door opens, and he leans down and whispers to Brendon, "Sorry about this, kid."
Then he grabs Brendon's arm, pulls him off the seat, and shoves him out the door. Brendon pitches face-forward unto the ground as behind him Wentz bellows, "Martin! Get this filthy brat cleaned up and out of my sight."
Brendon stays on the ground, prone and deferent, and peeks up only enough to see Lord Wentz's boots and Lady Wentz's skirts as they walk toward the inn. Warm yellow light and cheerful noise spill out when the door opens, vanish again when it slams shut.
"Hey." Somebody kneels beside Brendon and puts a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, let's get you inside."
The voice is quiet and kind. Brendon lifts his head first, then pushes himself up and rises to his feet. The man beside him is dressed like a servant and smells faintly of horses; he has dark hair and a beard and a friendly smile.
Patrick is standing a few feet away. "You okay?"
Brendon says shakily, "Yes, sir."
"Fuck, Brendon, it's only – " Patrick shakes his head and sighs. "Okay. Is there someplace he can get cleaned up? Someplace warm?"
The bearded man nods and gestures behind him. "Sure. Just take him through the stable. Tom and I'll get the horses."
Patrick looks around, then lowers his voice and says, "This is a big fucking mess we've got, I hope you -"
The man claps Patrick on the shoulder and interrupts loudly, "Go on inside, Martin. It's a cold night."
It's a lot warmer inside the stable. A pair of oil lamps hang high on posts, filling the room with soft light, and horses stomp their feet in greeting as Brendon and Patrick walk through. There's a room at the back of the stable with two narrow cots shoved against the walls and a barrel set up as a table between them. Another oil lamp hangs from a hook on the wall, and the door rattles in the night wind.
"Wait here," Patrick says.
He unlatches the door and vanishes into the darkness outside. He doesn't shut the door behind him and Brendon thinks, for one wild moment, that there's an open door, he's not chained up, it's dark and the clouds are covering the moon, he could, if he's fast, he could –
Patrick comes back inside carrying a bucket of water. "Here," he says. "It's cold, but you can get cleaned up a little."
Brendon blinks in confusion, and his confusion quickly turns into panic. He's the slave, he should be carrying the water. Patrick shouldn't have to do that even if he's pretending to be a servant, Brendon should have known, and he would have but he's just so tired and hungry and this night is too strange and he can carry water, he can –
"Brendon. Brendon." Patrick sets the bucket down with a thump and steps toward him. "Relax, okay? It's just a bucket of water. I can handle it."
"But I -" Brendon bites his lip. "Did I say that out loud?"
Patrick rolls his eyes, but he seems more amused than annoyed. "No, I've learned to read your mind. Now, if you're done talking to yourself, get yourself cleaned up."
"What, you don't like how I smell?" As soon as he says it, Brendon clamps his mouth shut. Before, at Lady Victoria's, he wouldn't think anything of joking with Patrick, but things are different now.
At least, he thinks things are different now. Patrick doesn't react any differently. He only says, "You fucking reek, and you have more mud on you than skin."
"He's right, you know."
Brendon spins around, startled. The bearded man is standing in the doorway, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest. But he's smiling still, in a way that makes it seem like his words weren't an insult at all.
"Go on," the man says, nodding at Brendon. "Patrick and I'll leave you alone for a minute."
It's been so long since Brendon's bathed he's not even sure he remembers how. The water is cold and there's no soap, but he does the best he can, stripping off his clothes and shivering as he scrubs the worst of the mud from his skin. He pauses every few seconds to listen, but the man and Patrick are speaking in voices too quiet for him to eavesdrop effectively.
Patrick. The stable boy called him Patrick, not Martin.
Brendon sighs. This night just keeps getting weirder.
He hates to put his disgusting clothes back on, but he doesn't have anything else. He dumps the water out the back door and sets it aside. He thinks about sitting on one of the cots to wait, but the stable boys might get angry to have a slave sitting on their beds. Brendon's thinking about curling up on the floor when Patrick returns, this time with both stable boys behind him.
The fair one looks Brendon over and says curtly, "Sit down before you fall on your ass."
Brendon does as he's told, sits on the side of one cot and watches Patrick. Patrick is frowning, not looking at any of them, obviously thinking about something.
"You're sure?" he asks. "Both passes?"
Both of the stable boys answer, "Yeah."
Patrick shakes his head. "Shit. Why the fuck are all these soldiers out anyway?"
"Who knows? They've been crawling around the countryside for weeks, like fucking ants," the fair one says, laughing a little, but it's not a happy sound. "I don't suppose Pete thought of that before he went and bought an entire caravan, did he? Does he think nobody will notice?"
Patrick snorts. "I don't know what the hell Pete thinks. And there's no - well, one of you has to go warn them. Leave tonight and you can get there in plenty of time to meet Eric at the border, and we just have to hope nobody's dumb enough to walk right into a fucking ambush."
"I'll do it," the bearded one says. He grins. "I ride faster than Tom anyway."
The other stable boy – Tom – makes a face but doesn't argue. "In your dreams, asshole. But, should we be..." He gives Brendon a significant glance, then looks back at Patrick with eyebrows raised in question. "You haven't introduced us to your friend."
"Oh. Right." Patrick gestures vaguely. "This is Brendon. He used to be Victoria's. Brendon, this is Tom, Jon."
"Nice to meet you," Tom says. He doesn't sound particularly friendly, but he doesn't sound like he's talking to a slave either, and Brendon doesn't know how to respond. To Patrick, Tom adds, "What the hell are we supposed to do with him?"
"Just, uh... Well. I don't know," Patrick says, scowling. "God, I don't know. This wasn't part of the fucking plan either. But I wasn't going to leave him there." Patrick sounds angry, angry like Brendon's never heard him before, but there's something else in his words, in the way he's watching Brendon. "I guess we'll just keep playing the game," Patrick says finally. "Go inside and sing a fucking song for the lady of the manor. Can you do that, Bren?"
Brendon means to say yes, yes, of course he can, he'll do whatever he's told, but somehow he blurts out instead, "You're asking me?"
"Fuck," Patrick says, with feeling. "Yes, Brendon, I'm asking – "
"Hey," the bearded stable boy – Jon, this one is Jon – interrupts smoothly. "I have an idea. He can come with me."
"I think somebody will notice if Lord Wentz's brand new purchase goes missing," Patrick says dryly.
"Pete will make something up," Jon replies easily. "He's good at that. And it'll be safer, in case something does happen. Pete will have his hands full tomorrow morning anyway."
Patrick starts nodding slowly. "That might be better. Brendon, listen, I think Jon's right. You should go with him tonight. Things might get – well, who the fuck knows, maybe nothing will happen, but just in case. Jon can get you to safety. We need a new plan anyway. A hundred and seventy fucking slaves, god, Pete, what the hell..." He turns and walks away, still muttering to himself, and after a second Tom rolls his eyes and follows.
Brendon clears his throat. "Um, sir?"
"Don't call me 'sir,'" Jon says. There's a sharp edge in his voice, and Brendon slumps a little. "Call me Jon," he says, more gently. "I'm going to call you Brendon. It's only fair."
Fair, Brendon thinks. The word echoes strange and unfamiliar in his mind. Nobody cares about being fair to a slave.
"What is it?" Jon asks.
"I have no idea what's going on," Brendon admits.
Jon looks surprised. "Patrick didn't tell you?"
Brendon shakes his head. "He bought me. I mean, Lord Wentz did, and we came here. That's all."
Jon stares at him for a moment, then rubs a hand over his beard and laughs a little. "Fuck. Well, um, this is gonna take a while to explain. We're leaving in half an hour or so. You mind if I tell you while we're riding?"