Chapter 31: Hands of the Artisan XII

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[PICATRIX - The Slave Show - Flashback]

Picatrix, the Tiered Nation.

That was the name of the nation that Nameen had arrived in. A place where the divide between the classes and races were like heaven and earth, where the lower races and castes worked to their deaths to enrich those above them.

Those without power were trampled on. It was not a place of kindness, nor of safety. Not for the unfortunate. Humanity, justice, dignity, and mercy were only rights for those above a certain grade. The way it was here was not disputed. No, it was simply accepted. For many, even those in the lower castes, it was desirable.

The natural order.

It was what the nation knew. It was all the nation knew. So they continued on, keeping alive the traditions of their ancestors and their words of justification. Might made right.

Nameen had the misfortune of arriving here.

During the first day, he had spent time dazed simply walking around. He had arrived in darkness, and did not know how long it took until he finally saw the light out of the cave. He had found himself at the bottom of a ravine, and had spent the better part of a week finding a way up.

That was how he had cleared the fog from his mind, and realized that he needed neither sleep nor food. Thankfully, there weren’t any dangerous creatures about, so he was in no danger. Not from biological needs, or the world around him.

When he had finally made it out of the ravine, he had then looked around for civilization. It took him some time since he was going up from lower elevations, but he had finally found smoke on the horizon and dashed on over.

Instead of a welcome, he had come across a burning town assaulted by raiders who carried nets and bolas. Weapons intended not to injure, but to capture.

Slavers. Out to acquire more merchandise.

And so his path had been set.

In the months after, he had undergone the training of the slavers alongside other slaves his age. Etiquette lessons, obedience training, the whole nine yards. There was an entire curriculum dedicated to it. When they said slavery was an institution in Picatrix, they meant it.

Each band of slavers specialized in different things. They had brands, and pride in those brands. Competitions. Their products were spoken of in the same way. A slave bought from this band was a premium product, a slave bought from this other brand was cheap but durable and reliable.

Simple lives of no freedom. Waking up at rigid times, going to sleep at rigid times. A regimented, constant schedule. Physical punishment didn’t happen except to the most unruly and those that they wanted to make an example of - it was best not to damage the merchandise before they could get their money’s worth.

Of course, there had been attempts to escape. Every now and then the slavers would call them to the courtyard in the morning, only to show a row of crucified children who had their hands and feet nailed to wooden spikes and left there to rot.

Invariably they were beastmen.

Nameen had seen how the furred race was treated far worse than the others, although he didn’t understand why. Even amongst the slaves, there were those that looked down on them. The horribly abusive treatment caused them to decide that freedom was worth running for, no matter how many failed.

Nameen didn’t have that courage, and so he simply obeyed. He complied with everything they asked for, even if he felt his soul dying inside.

And, at the end of it all, he was now being presented in Picatrix’s famous Slave Show. A three-day festival, it was a convention for slavers and slavemasters the entire nation over. The crown jewel of the trade, they said. It was here that he and his fellow classmates would be sold off if things went according to plan.

Some for physical labour such as farming or mining. Some as household servants like maids or chefs. The luckiest ones would work in higher offices as secretaries or clerks; those were the only ones with a chance of buying or earning their freedom.

And there was one more possibility that none of them wanted to think about. One last way to exploit their bodies.

Nameen remembered how some of his classmates, especially the prettier boys and girls, went through great efforts to get into ‘accidents’ that would leave permanent marks on their faces and skin. The slavers punished them for devaluing themselves, but the accidents continued to happen despite that.

Now, it was the moment of truth. This was where they would fetch their highest prices. If they were left over after this, that was it for them. They would be packaged off and sent to some other nation, where things were far more dangerous to the slave trade. They would become merchandise that didn’t matter - their lives worth not even the baseline market price.

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Nameen looked through the bars at all the overdressed men and women that peered at him like a piece of meat. Many of them were accompanied by slave entourages. Few were the customers here that did not already keep sentient property.

“Father, father! I want this one! Oh, such silky fur! Father, I do say that I shall simply die if you don’t buy this one for me!”

“I’m looking for a strong and quiet one. I’m looking to train up a bodyguard you see. Oh, no no. I’m not worried about disobedience. I treat mine very well, and there’s always shock collars if all else fails...”

“Do you have any twins in stock? No? More’s the pity. I’ve been trying to create a collection! Only four pairs so far. They’re very rare, you know, and sometimes the acquirers only catch one. I’ve had to convince a few good men to catch the other. At quite a cost!”

“Do you have one that can cook? An older one, please. Preferably male. Yes, well I have nothing against comely young maids, but my son simply cannot control himself. It’s simply not proper, I say, so we had to get rid of our previous chef.”

Some of them reached through the bars and grabbed his arms, feeling his muscles. Others opened his mouth with their hands, intent on making sure there was no tooth disease. The overwhelming scent of perfume and cologne made him want to gag.

He dared not refuse them, his only defiance looking down and closing his eyes. He imagined his old life, what little he could remember of it.

Warm faces that he assumed belonged to his father and mother. Hiding from the midday sun in the shade with his friends. Delicious lassi. Yes. He preferred the sweet kind to the salty kind.

His memories helped him stay strong, even as they made him feel lonelier and lonelier sitting in that cage in that unfamiliar land.

It was on the third and last day that he had met the stranger.

The Slave Show was winding down. The customers had all left by this point, and there was little hope of any of the slaves left at this point being sold.

Nameen had wrapped his arms around his knees. He was the only one left of his classmates; the only one left in his cage.

Some of them had been bought by the government offices after a quick written test. He had seen the relief on their faces. Of all the possibilities, that had been the greatest one. Others hired by lords and ladies of manors had been the ones who had taken best care of their appearances, not beauty but rather dignity.

Many more went to different masters. All different kinds. Some masters were young, some masters were old. Some others had a kind face, and still others had mean ones. They were still slave masters, one and all.

Night fell. He was still in the cage. He was the only one left in his cage.

Why he was not sold, he had an inkling. Some had displayed interest, but then they had seen his eyes. Maybe they thought it was some kind of disease. A defect.

Why buy a defective product then?

He could feel the darkness; he was drowning in it.

“Hey. Let me see your eyes.”

A voice.

Nameen looked up.

A young man looked back at him. Early twenties, maybe? Medium length slicked back hair, no stubble. His features did not make his ethnicity easy to discover. If you looked at him from the side, perhaps he was Mediterranean, but if you looked at him from head-on he looked Asian. Mixed, Nameen concluded, but of what he couldn't tell.

He wore a dark blue overcoat, despite the warm weather of Picatrix. A trilby sat on top of his head. A pair of glasses completed the look.

Behind those glasses, his eyes displayed interest but not warmth. It was as if he were studying a curiosity rather than a person. Similar to the other prospective buyers that Nameen had seen in the last three days, but subtly different.

The man stared at Nameen through the bars of the cage, before leaning in closer in dark amusement. Nameen watched as the man slowly pulled his glasses down, and as he did so the man’s eyes shifted from white to black, his neon blue irises boring into his soul.

The world was silent and still for a few seconds.

Then he reared back and laughed.

“Not bad! Not bad!” said the man with amusement in his voice. “A real one you are, going for such a difficult starting position! Not what I would do, but then again I prefer easier games.”

He clapped uproariously. It seemed as if he found great fun in Nameen’s situation. The boy, for his part, could do nothing but stare at the man in front of him in equal parts shock and befuddlement.

A man with the same eyes as him, but he didn’t understand a lick of what he was saying.

And with that, the man had put his glasses back on, and the black and neon blue faded into white and brown.

“What’s your name?”

Before Nameen could respond, the man realized something and shook his head.

“Oh, but where are my manners? A gentleman gives his own name first before he asks for another’s,” said the bespectacled man. “My name is Abel. You can call me Mister Abel, if you’d like.”

“...Nameen.”

“Good, good,” said the man who called himself Abel. “That’s good. I’ve got to get going now, but wow, was it worth the detour.”

The man straightened his back before turning away from the cage and starting to walk off with a jaunty spring in his step.

“Oh! By the way, if you ever get out of there, feel free to look me up! Abel Thompson’s the name! I’m sure in a few years, you’ll be hearing it across the world!”

And with that, the man was gone.

The encounter might’ve stood out, but soon enough Nameen would be incapable of worrying about it anymore.

Devalued as goods, he was given a final tour of Picatrix along with the other rejects at a bargain price. Those that were bought were often put in the worst positions possible; those that weren’t were not sure if they were lucky or unlucky.

A year or two of this, and then Nameen had been packed up and shuffled off to the north, in the direction of Greater Goethia.

There, he would be passed off for a pittance from his then slavers into the hands of the Laughing Kings. There, he would be caught messing around with his abilities by Lesalia Romera who watched in shock from a window presiding over the courtyard.

There, he would once again encounter another pair of Player eyes - this time gold instead of blue. A momentary flashback would cause Nameen to cry out the wrong name, but once he came to his senses he knew he would never confuse Cain and Abel again.

Despite the similarities in their features, their gazes were completely different.

Amusement and apathy; warmth and kindness.