Free Planeswalker by Lynn Abbey

for Almaaz," the slave master said. Her
breath was thick with beer, but she wasn't nearly drunk.
"You know it's against the law to sell flesh here."
    By her posture, the slaver was right about the law and
ripe for negotiation.
    "I have Morvern gold," Xantcha said, which was true
enough; money was never a problem for a planeswalker or his
companion.
    The slave master hawked and spat. "Mug's getting warm."
    Xantcha thought fast. "For ransom, then. I recognize a
distant cousin in your coffle. You've kept him safe, no
doubt. I'll pay you for your trouble and take him off your
hands."
    "Him!" The slaver laughed until she belched.
    There were women in the slave string, and Xantcha was
disguised as a young and presumably curious man.
    "A cousin," Xantcha repeated, showing more anxiety than
she felt. Let the slaver laugh and think what she wanted.
Xantcha had the other woman's attention, and she'd have the
slave, too. "For ransom." She unslung her purse and fished
out a gold coin as big as her nose.
    "Five of those," the slaver said, smashing her open
hand between Xantcha's shoulder blades. "For ransom!"
    If she were truly in the market for a slave, Xantcha
would have protested that no one was worth five golden
nari, but she'd been prepared to split twelve of the heavy
Morvern coins between a likely youth and his family. She
dug out another four and handed them over to the slaver,
who bit each one. Xantcha knew the coins were true but was
relieved when they passed the slaver's test.
    "Which one's your cousin?"
    Xantcha pointed to the dark-haired youth, who didn't
blink under scrutiny. The slaver, whose eyebrows remained
resolutely skeptical, shook her head.
    "Pick another relative, boy. That one will eat you
alive."
    "Blood's blood," Xantcha insisted, "and ours is the
same. I won't leave with another."
    "Garve!" the slaver shouted the eunuch to her side. She
held out her hand, and Garve surrendered a slender black
rod. The slaver took it and turned back to Xantcha.
"Another nari. You're going to need this."
    Would ancient Ashnod be pleased by the all the
improvements Dominarian slavers and torturers had brought
to her pain-inflicting artifacts in the centuries since her
death? Xantcha bought the thing, if only to keep the slaver
or Garve from ever using it again.
    "Cut him out," the slaver told Garve and added, while
Garve walked among the slaves, "Have fun, boy."
    "I intend to," Xantcha assured her, then watched as
Garve seized the leather band around the youth's neck and
jerked him roughly to his feet.
    Garve gave the band a vicious twist, so it choked the
youth and kept him quiet while the eunuch snapped the
rivets that bound
    Xantcha's new slave to the others. The youth's face
became red. His eyes rolled.
    "I want him alive," Xantcha warned in a low voice, that
promised her threats were as good as her gold.
    Her new slave dropped to one knee when Garve suddenly
released him. Hacking spittle, he got himself upright
before the eunuch touched him again. Riveted leather
manacles bound his wrists close behind his back; he
couldn't clean his lightly bearded chin. A short iron chain
ran between his ankles. He could walk, barely, but not run.
    As he came closer, watching his feet, Xantcha counted the
sores and bruises she hadn't noticed while he was staring.
    Xantcha hadn't been comfortable owning a horse; she
didn't know what she'd do with a slave. The thought of
grabbing the arm's length of leather hanging from the band
around his neck repelled her, though that was what
everyone, including the youth, expected her to do.
    "You're too tall," she said at last, though he wasn't
as tall as Urza. She hoped that wasn't going to be a
problem further along in her plan. "You'll walk beside me
until I can arrange something more... ." Xantcha paused.
Phyrexians might not have imagination, but born-folk
certainly did, and there was nothing like silence to
inspire the use of it. "Something more