Something was different about today. Yesterday, another boatload of prisoners had arrived, the third since Tyla’s arrival. Zamarrans, going by the darkness of their skin. A mix of boys and girls of about the same age as Tyla. Slavers liked their victims to be young. With no classes or levels, there wasn’t much they could do to resist.

The new arrivals had acted much like everyone else. Fearful and subdued, they spoke quietly among themselves, and not at all to anyone else if they could help it. Nervous glances were cast at the reddish-brown skins of Tyla’s Ett brethren and Tyla was the target of unabashed staring.

She didn’t mind. The Zamarrans were invaders, but the bad blood from that was long since gone. They were neighbours now. Greedy neighbours that had to be held in check by the Confederacy, but they understood boundaries.

The Elitrans did not. Or if they did, they did not honour them. They came as they pleased, and took what they wanted. Now they had taken her.

Not for the first time since she was captured, Tyla cursed her luck. Her woodcraft was good enough to deal with either a sprained ankle or Elitran raiders. Both at once had proved too much for her. Now she was a captive, just like the Zamarran children who had huddled behind their walls for safety. This was her twelfth day of captivity. Three days on the boat, and nine days cooped up behind the bars of this cell.

Today was different, though. The guards were more alert, their ears flicking around at the slightest sound. Their fur was better groomed. They were waiting for something.

Sure enough, when the outer gate clanged open, what came through was not another small group of prisoners, but a well-dressed courl. Accompanied by a small coterie of humans and courl, he strode into the prison like he owned the place. All the guards stiffened to attention and faced him, so perhaps he did.

The cells that Tyla and the others were being kept in were large. Four people could sleep in relative comfort, and thus far that was the limit their captors had kept to. One of the walls was made up of iron bars, opening out onto a central octagonal area. It was into this area that the rich courl strode, without a care for the fearful gazes that came from seven other cells.

His fur was the most unusual thing about him. It was a rich, deep blue, that shimmered in the lantern light as he moved. Tyla had never seen a courl with fur of that colour and wondered if it was dyed. He was dressed in richly embroidered loose robes and his fingers glittered with rings.

Some of his entourage were carrying furniture: a desk, a chair and a stool. These were placed in the centre of the room, he sat in the chair and started to peruse the bundle of papers that was placed on the desk. The stool was left alone in front of him.

After about five minutes of activity, during which he got his papers, his quill and ink, and his robes all arranged just so, he finally spoke.

“Greetings, slaves,” he said, and Tyla was shocked to find that she understood him. Somehow, he was speaking the language of her tribe. From the shocked expressions on her fellow prisoners, they were all hearing something in their own languages.

To check, she sidled up to a Zammarran girl sharing the cell with her.

“What language do you hear?” she asked in the Tiatian trade tongue. It wasn’t officially spoken in the Ett Confederacy, but there were so many tribes and languages that it was often easier to speak the language of the invaders.

The girl jumped at Tyla’s softly spoken words and stared wildly at her before returning her attention to the courl.

“My home tongue— I mean, Tiatian Trade,” she murmured. “Does everyone hear something different?”

“Magic,” Tyla muttered darkly. She stared at the courl. Her tribe did not countenance the practice, but she had heard that for a mortal to cast spells they needed to be touching the corpse of a numenstone. Typically, they wore the large crystal around their neck, underneath their clothes. The courls robes were so loose and layered, that it was difficult to tell if there was a numenstone underneath them.

“Today,” the courl went on, “You will be evaluated and graded, separated into lots based on that, in preparation for being sold.”

He looked around to gauge everyone’s reaction to that.

“For your own sake, I advise you to be cooperative.” He smiled, showing his pointed teeth. “Let’s start with the Zamarrans.”

The cell next to Tyla was opened, and the first prisoner was dragged out. She was tall and slender, with dark skin and hair. She was dragged out to the centre of the room but instead of sitting on the stool clearly meant for her, she remained standing, her arms wrapped around herself, looking wildly around.

“Name?” the courl asked coldly. The girl looked at him but didn’t reply.

He sighed. “Elira Thane,” he said. “Herbalist, how troublesome. The first one off the rank has her second tier. No doubt that is why you thought to defy me.”

“What?” Elira said, confused. “How do you know…”

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“Do you think I could be an Evaluator without having an identification trait? Foolish girl. Now you get to serve as an example.”

He raised his hand and the girl started screaming. She stayed on her feet for a few moments, and then she collapsed to the ground, sobbing.

“No… no…” she cried. The Evaluator looked down on her.

“Just fear,” he mused aloud. “All it takes to break someone. I could have used a different emotion, one that made you happy and cooperative, but this is more effective. Both on you… and everybody else watching.”

He looked around at the other prisoners, emphasising his point. “Now get up and sit down.”

The girl’s sobs stopped as quickly as they started. She whimpered as she got up and obeyed.

“Good,” the courl said. “Do you speak Elitran?”

Elira shook her head. “No.”

“You will refer to me as Sir, Master or Evaluator when you respond to me. Do you understand?”

“Yes…. Evaluator.”

“Herbalism is a useful profession,” the courl said. “You will need to learn more Elitran than the average slave does to be useful, and you will have to train more to learn the herbs that actually grow in the Empire. Are you willing to make that effort?”

When Elira did not immediately respond, his smile turned cruel. “Or, you can break your path and take Concubine. That profession requires much less effort.”

“I… I don’t qualify for that Class… Evaluator.”

The courl flicked his ears. “You will, once my men have taken their turns with you. No sense making you take Doxy when you can qualify for a Tier two Class.”

The girl's eyes went wide with fear. Tyla sympathised. She would likely be making a similar choice very shortly.

“I—I’ll work hard at being a Herbalist,” Elira said quickly.

“A wise choice. Most of my men are courls, and while we enjoy sex with human women, we’re just not… shaped right for it to be comfortable for them.”

There was a murmur of laughter around the room from the guards.

He turned to one of his assistants. “Classify Lot One as containing skilled slaves and assign her to it. Next.”

The second prisoner to be dragged out was a boy with curly hair. He was tall and heavily muscled, but natural strength was no match for a difference in levels. After a brief struggle, he went quietly and sat down on the stool.

“Name?” The Evaluator asked flatly.

“Galen Drakar, blacksmith’s apprentice. Sir.” the boy said.

“Crafter’s apprentice,” the courl corrected him. “Could only qualify for the more general version, I suppose. Level four. Hmm. I suppose it would be a waste not to make use of those levels. Very well, put him in Lot One.”

The next prisoner was a girl, the youngest so far. She shied away from the guards’ hands but sat on the stool without protest.

“I’m Cheia Lucina, I’m a baker’s apprentice,” she said nervously.

“You’re not anything yet, you’re too young. When you get your first level, take Doxy— or you’ll be beaten until you do.”

Ignoring her startled gasp, he turned to the assistant again. “Put Lot Two down as Household slaves and assign her to it.”

“She’s too young for that!” The last person in the cell called out. It was a Zamarran woman, probably from the same village. She burst out of the cell protesting. The guards let her, probably because she was the next one due for processing.

“She is too young now, for the class, that’s self-evident,” The courl said. “She can’t be more than a few months away though, no?”

He gave the woman a smile that showed all his teeth. “She’s not too young to service my men, however, should I deem it necessary.”

There was another snigger amongst the guards. The Evaluator paused to let it die down and then continued.

“As a Tier one class, Doxy does not have the… rigorous requirements that Concubine does. So it shouldn’t be necessary to damage the goods as long as her behaviour is acceptable.”

The woman stared at him. She stood with a certain poise and grace that wasn’t doing her any favours. Nor were her indigo eyes, flashing with outrage. The Evaluator gestured for her to sit. She stood still for a moment but complied when the guards moved forward.

“Now,” the Evaluator said. “Name?”

“Althea Selene,” the woman replied sullenly.

“A common Server, level four,” the courl said. “Good news! You’ll be able to continue looking after your little friend, at least for a while. You can keep your class, it’s harmless enough and it will get you to Concubine sooner.”

Althea protested, but he ignored her and addressed his assistant. “Make a note, she can start work before she’s fully trained. Server doesn’t directly lead to Concubine, but we can make sure she qualifies.”

Tyla’s cell was the next one opened, and Tyla was the first one brought out. The guards were much less lax with her, each of them grabbed one of her arms, and forced her over to the stool. They must have known she had a combat Class.

She didn’t resist them, which may have helped them relax their vigilance. They were taken off guard when she reached the stool. Instead of sitting on it, she hooked her foot under it as she approached, and kicked the thing straight at the head of the Evaluator.

He didn’t blink. The stool stopped dead in mid-air, about a foot from his face. Tyla stared in shock as it fell down, clattering off the desk and falling to the floor.

“Tch,” he sneered. “At least you didn’t spill any ink. Well, if you won’t sit, you can kneel.”

At his words, the guards holding her forced her down, kicking her knees out from under her, and holding her in an uncomfortable kneeling position. She struggled, but they were much stronger than her.

“We don’t catch many of you,” the courl mused. “The rarity value will make up for what will no doubt be a difficult training regime. Name?”

“Tyla Greenwalker,” she said.

“How quaint. I don’t recognise your Class, some local specialty no doubt, but the Hunter part gives me a clue. What are your traits?”

Tyla paused, sensing a trap. She had never heard of an identification skill that gave up a person’s traits, but they might exist. And he had magic besides. She elected to tell the truth.

“Persistent Tracker and Silent Shot,” she admitted.

“Very wise,” the courl said, grinning again. “You’d do well to forget you have those. They won’t do you any good where you’re going. Put her down for Lot Two.”

Tyla narrowed her eyes. “I’m a warrior,” she said coldly. “I’ll kill any man that tries to touch me.”

“Yes, yes, you’re very fierce,” the courl said dismissively. Tyla wanted to wipe the smirk off his face, but the guards kept their grip on her. “Unfortunately, your style hardly suits our Jannisary brigades. We’ve found slaves don’t make for the best scouts, they keep on not coming back.”

The laughter around the room indicated that this was a joke.

“And there is the matter of your rarity. A sad truth of this world is that when a man buys a woman solely because of that woman’s rarity, the first thing he wants to do is stick his dick in her.”

The joke was crude, and his leer was disgusting, but it was a hit with the guards.

“To that end, I’m afraid your current class won’t do.” He leaned forward, transfixing her with the gaze from his amethyst eyes.

“Break your Class.”