Chương 79: 32-2. Slavers

After that, Vallejo stopped pressing us to sit. He simply signaled the attendants to bring wine and cold plates, as though he genuinely intended to let us relax for a moment. I didn't touch anything. Neither did Olivia. Matthews stood half a step behind me, his gaze moving in a slow, methodical rotation between the door and the several stretches of corridor shadow best suited for concealing someone.

Jessi, characteristically, had already plucked an olive from the platter, rolling it between her teeth with the serene expression of someone who had come to watch a show rather than walk a knife's edge. As for Alvira — she wasn't here at all. Thinking about that, I felt something in my chest settle fractionally. At least if things went wrong, there was still an arrow outside. Vallejo let us sit in that quiet for about ten breaths. Then, as though he'd decided the distance was precisely right, he spoke again.

"For those visiting Angel City for the first time, I imagine the White Wing Crown presents something of a contrast to the scenery outside."

"A contrast?" I looked through the glass at the stage soaking in its own amber light, and let one corner of my mouth move.

"You mean the part where they wash the filth off before putting it up for sale?" The two nearest attendants inhaled at slightly the wrong moment. Vallejo smiled.

"Lord Cedric has a gift for clarity," he said, fingers tracing the rim of his glass with idle precision, his voice still that same smooth, oil-on-water register.

"Though in my view, the distinction isn't clean versus unclean. It's a question of worth."

"Putting a price tag on a person does make them look more valuable," I said.

"You seem to dislike this sort of occasion."

"Do you enjoy slaughterhouses just because the floor's been mopped?" A brief silence moved through the anteroom. Vallejo didn't answer immediately. His eyes settled on my face — not quite looking at a person. More like reassessing an item. Trying to determine whether it was the kind of hard that resisted cutting, or the kind that just needed the right angle of pressure to show its cracks. Olivia spoke then, very quietly.

"I'm sure Mr. Vallejo didn't go to the trouble of inviting us here to receive a lecture on ethics." Her voice wasn't loud, but it moved the conversation forward with the precision of a hand placed firmly on a rudder. Not saving me from anything — just taking natural possession of the room's direction, making it clear to the man across from us that we weren't here to be led by the nose. Vallejo's attention shifted to her, and his smile deepened by a fraction.

"Of course not," he said, with a small inclination of his head.

"I simply wanted to understand, first, how our guests prefer to see the White Wing Crown. Whether the lens is one of distaste. Curiosity. Or opportunity."

"If there were a genuine opportunity, it wouldn't be the kind displayed openly for viewing," Olivia said, her tone perfectly even. It was a light sentence. But whatever testing quality had been sitting behind Vallejo's smile — for the first time, it went a degree quieter. He'd understood. And because he'd understood, he began, for the first time, to treat her as someone worth talking to.

"Tonight's entertainment may be less tedious than I expected," he said. Jessi tilted her head from where she stood, voice unhurried.

"Depends whether you're serving wine or knives." Vallejo glanced at her — a brief pause, like the flicker of recognition — then let it pass.

"The Syndicate has always believed that if a knife can stay beneath the tablecloth, there's no need to lay it on the surface," he said.

"That usually means someone's already bled out under the table," I said. This time, Vallejo simply let it go. He raised one hand instead, gesturing toward the glass wall and the stage beyond.

"The auction is about to begin," he said.

"I'd suggest watching the first lot before deciding whether to consider me an enemy tonight." The first lot. He said it the way someone says the first course. The persistent, low-grade irritation I'd been carrying since we walked through the front door dropped all the way to the bottom of my chest and stayed there. The anteroom lights dimmed — not extinguished, just pressed down, as though someone had quietly lowered every bright surface by one degree.

The stage beyond the glass became, in an instant, the only thing in the entire field of vision worth looking at. The ambient murmur of guests finding their seats receded like a tide pulling back, leaving only the ghost-sounds of crystal and fabric rustling, trailing into nothing. The curtains on either side of the stage drew silently apart. And I saw the evening's first lot. She was brought up by two attendants. Not dragged. Not marched.

Guided — with the particular, practiced care you'd give a performer about to take the stage, as though she were simply an artist about to be presented rather than a human being about to be assigned a price. She was young. Young enough that the longer I looked at her, the less I wanted to think about how she'd ended up here.

She wore a layer of white gauze — fabric so clean it was almost aggressive about it, falling from collarbone to ankle, the silhouette beneath traced in the kind of fine lines that come from being very carefully maintained. Fine gold chains looped from her neck across her shoulders, cinching at the waist and wrists before falling down her back. Ornamental. Or possibly not. Her hair had been arranged with meticulous care, a small white artificial flower pinned at one ear. She looked docile. Quiet.

One could even say beautiful. The worst part was how steadily she walked. No trembling. No tears. No indication whatsoever that any part of her wanted to be anywhere else. She simply followed the attendants' pace, one step at a time, to the center of the stage. Stopped. Raised her chin. And folded her hands together in front of her, with the particular precision of someone who had been made to practice the gesture until it became automatic. Too perfect. Perfect in a way that made your skin crawl.

Because that wasn't composure. That was what was left after composure had been worn away. The hall held its breath for two beats. Then the low murmur of assessment spread through the seated crowd — not the sound of people reacting to another person, but the particular cadence of buyers examining merchandise. The master of ceremonies in his silver-grey formal coat stepped forward half a pace, his smile the kind of warm that makes you want to wash your hands.

"Honored guests," he began, voice carrying clearly, every syllable polished smooth, "tonight's first lot is a pureblooded handmaid from the southern territories of the Old Capital." He paused, with the practiced timing of someone who knew exactly how long to leave a silence.

"Fully trained in court etiquette, banquet service, and nocturnal attendance. Literate. Musically accomplished. Fluent in three common tongues. No prior permanent marks from previous ownership." Another pause.

"Compliant. Attentive. Loyal. With minimal additional conditioning, she can be adapted to suit any gentleman's personal preferences and domestic requirements." My fingers, inside my sleeve, slowly closed. Not because any of this was new. Because the voice he used to say it was the exact voice you'd use to describe the grain of fine wood, or the balance of a well-made blade. The glass reflected half my face back at me. And in the same surface, Olivia's silhouette, standing at my side. She didn't speak.

But the hand she had rested on my arm tightened — barely. One small, instinctive contraction. Then, in the space of a breath, she pressed it back down. Stood as still as anyone in that room. If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. Vallejo chose this moment to turn toward me, almost casually.

"This category of lot is considered a relatively mild opening for the White Wing Crown," he said, in the tone of someone helpfully explaining the rules to a first-time visitor.

"First-time guests tend to find it easier to begin with something less stimulating." Less stimulating. I almost laughed. The sound that would have come out wouldn't have been pleasant.

"Your Syndicate has a very interesting definition of mild," I said.

"The market sets the standard," Vallejo replied evenly.

"Not personal feeling."

"So when the market enjoys watching people chained up and priced, you light the room better, polish the floor, and charge admission."

"When people are willing to pay for it, someone will always provide it," he said.

"This isn't new. Some places simply keep the door closed. Others choose to open it."

"And charge more for the view," Jessi added, softly, from behind me. Vallejo smiled.

"The young lady understands commerce."

"No," she said.

"I just understand that people like you don't run unprofitable operations." On the stage, the young woman still stood with her eyes lowered, as though the voices and the rising numbers in the hall simply weren't reaching her. The first bid came quickly. Not high — exploratory, the way you test temperature before committing. Then a second. A third. The price climbed in measured increments, each addition a small confirmation from one buyer to another that yes, this was worth continuing.

The woman on stage didn't react to any of it. She simply stood. Like a finely crafted object, while others decided where she would be sent. The lights beyond the glass were suddenly too bright. Bright enough to make me want to put something through them and watch them break.

"Lord Cedric." Vallejo's voice again. Smooth and unhurried.

"You don't strike me as someone with any interest in tonight's first lot." I turned and looked at him.

"Is that your way of seeing if I'll bid?"

"Not at all." He smiled.

"I simply want to know — in a setting like this, are you the kind of person who feels genuine revulsion? Or the kind who feels revulsion, and then reaches out anyway?" That sentence landed differently from everything else he'd said. The thin, ambient pressure that had been hanging over the anteroom like low weather suddenly had weight. This was the real question. Not whether I liked the auction. But where, exactly, my line was. I held his gaze for half a breath.

"Your Syndicate has good taste in clients," I said finally.

"How so?"

"Because you know that the easiest moment to get your hand into someone's pocket isn't when they're feeling greedy." I said.

"It's when they're watching something they can't stand — and can't leave." The thing behind Vallejo's eyes that had been running estimates this whole time went one degree deeper. He knew I'd understood. I knew he'd done it on purpose. Tonight's auction had never simply been an invitation to watch the merchandise. It was an invitation to watch ourselves. To see at what point we'd frown. At what point we'd go quiet. At what point we'd reach out despite everything. All he had to do was sit nearby and take notes.

The bidding started restrained. A few men in the lower tier feeling out the temperature — adding small increments, tasting each other's resolve, establishing through careful increments whether this lot was worth pushing further. The woman on stage kept her eyes down.

Each new price the master of ceremonies announced was accompanied by an additional descriptive flourish — age, provenance, training history, language proficiency, compliance rating — delivered with the same manner you'd use to detail the grain of fine timber or the provenance of a rare vintage. Occasional low laughter moved through the crowd. Glasses were raised. Several buyers didn't even bother bidding themselves — they simply raised a finger and let their attendants speak for them. The woman never reacted.

She stood so still, so perfectly composed, that she had ceased to seem like a person standing on a stage and had become something more like a set of specifications arranged into a human shape, borrowing a body so the buyers could see the dimensions more clearly.

"You're not bidding?" Vallejo asked it without preamble. I kept my eyes on the stage beyond the glass.

"If this is your opening act," I said, "I'd have thought you'd at least lead with something worth watching." Not exactly polite. Not exactly flipping the table either. Vallejo received it and seemed, somehow, more satisfied.

"I see," he said, in that unhurried way of his.

"So it isn't revulsion. It's simply that the Lord has higher standards."

"Interpret it however you like."

"The distinction matters." He tilted his glass slightly, watching the dark-red surface slide against the crystal.

"Revulsion means we need a different approach for the evening. Higher standards means we still have room to talk." I turned and looked at him properly for the first time in a while. This man's way of speaking always felt like he was sorting your options into neat columns for you. Every column had a floor underneath it that would give way when stepped on. The only question was whether you walked through it yourself or let him guide you there. The numbers on stage kept climbing. Seventy. Eighty. One hundred.

At that point, the cautious bidders mostly dropped out. What remained were two private boxes in the upper tier and a heavyset man in the lower right wearing a white fur collar, who was bidding with the detached ease of someone tossing chips across a table — barely lifting his hand, leaning back in his chair like the whole thing was mildly entertaining at best.

"One hundred and twenty."

"One hundred and thirty."

"One hundred and fifty." The master of ceremonies' smile brightened with each number. The woman on stage gave nothing back. The fine chains at her feet caught the light coldly, matching the ones at her neck, the whole arrangement beautiful in a way that made the back of my throat feel wrong. The hand Olivia had rested on my arm tightened again — slightly. Not much. But I knew she'd heard it too.

And I knew she felt, as I did, that the air in this place had a sweetness underneath everything else — the particular sweetness that comes from rooms where lives have been assigned values and traded accordingly. Vallejo, with the timing of someone who had been waiting for exactly this moment, made a small gesture to one of the anteroom attendants. The attendant bowed and stepped out immediately. I felt my brow tighten.

"What are you arranging now?"

"Nothing significant," Vallejo said pleasantly.

"I simply want our guests to be more comfortable this evening." Before he'd finished the sentence, the attendant had returned, carrying a small silver tray. On it: a slender black wooden bidding paddle. I recognized it for what it was immediately. Naturally, Vallejo slid the tray toward me with the ease of someone offering a second glass of wine.

"A real-time bidding paddle reserved for VIP guests," he said.

"Should you change your mind at any point, there's no need to speak aloud — simply raise your hand. The White Wing Crown takes great care to preserve the dignity of its valued guests." I looked at the paddle. Didn't move. Behind me, Jessi, for once, said nothing. Even she was watching. Because the moment I touched that thing, the meaning shifted. Whether I actually bid or not was irrelevant.

The second my hand made contact, it meant I had acknowledged that I was sitting here, watching a person be priced, as a participant — not a bystander. Vallejo understood this perfectly. He wasn't trying to make me buy anything. He was trying to make me admit I had a seat at the table.

"What's the matter?" His tone remained warm.

"It's only a touch. Surely that's not so difficult." I looked at him, and something in me that had been wound tight since we walked in finally found a specific shape. I laughed.

"Your Syndicate is something else," I said.

"Oh?"

"You call it hospitality, and then you spend the whole evening trying to press a knife into your guest's hand and asking why they won't grip it." I said. Vallejo's smile didn't move.

"Sometimes," he said, "the person holding a knife is the only one with the standing to say they're not the merchandise."

"Depends whether the knife is for survival or for cutting people."

"At the White Wing Crown," he said, "those two things rarely have a meaningful distinction." He said it too smoothly. Smoothly enough that you could tell he'd stopped treating the difference as something worth keeping track of a long time ago. Beyond the glass, the bidding had cleared two hundred. A sparse, appreciative ripple of applause moved through the lower tier — not sentiment, just the particular sound a crowd makes when a number enters the range they find interesting.

The young woman still stood with her eyes down, not a tremor in her lashes. I watched her. And felt something strange move through me. Not sympathy, exactly. Not anger, exactly. More like the sensation of someone pressing a fine needle between your fingers, one slow millimeter at a time, forcing you to watch yourself and determine: how far can you pretend not to see this? Then Vallejo delivered the final cut.

"Unless—" His voice dropped to something almost conversational.

"Lord Cedric isn't uninterested. He simply doesn't want to appear too honest in front of his companions." The air in the anteroom, already held low and tight, seemed to contract by one more degree. Olivia turned and looked at him. Her smile was still there. Her voice was still steady.

"Mr. Vallejo," she said, "that was rather discourteous."

"If I've caused offense, I offer my apologies in advance." He inclined his head with flawless precision.

"But in matters of commerce, clarity is preferable. We are not from the same city, and if we are to understand how best to conduct ourselves with you — I need to know, first, what role Lord Cedric is playing tonight." He paused. Then finished it cleanly.

"Is he someone who bids."

"Is he someone who overturns the table."

"Or—" His gaze dropped to the black paddle on the tray between us.

"Is he someone who says he finds all of this reprehensible — and then reaches out and takes something home anyway." The sentence fell. Behind me, even Jessi had gone quiet. Because this had already gone past simple probing. This was forcing my hand — demanding I declare my position right here, right now. Not just to him. To Olivia. To Matthews. To Jessi. And, inconveniently, to myself. Beyond the glass, the master of ceremonies called out another number.

"Two hundred and forty!" The applause came slightly louder this time. The woman on stage still hadn't raised her head. I stared at the black wooden paddle for half a breath. Then I reached out and picked it up. The anteroom went dead quiet. So quiet that all that remained were the distant calls drifting from the auction hall, and the faint crystalline clink of someone's fingertip against a wine glass. The carefully concealed interest behind Vallejo's eyes finally, genuinely, surfaced.

He thought I was going to take it. He'd been waiting for me to take it. But I only turned the paddle over once in my hand — feeling the weight of it, acknowledging what it represented — and then, with him watching, set it back down flat and steady onto the silver tray.

"First," I said.

"I don't drive up prices for your Syndicate." Vallejo said nothing.

"Second — I have no interest in using someone who doesn't even dare lift her head on that stage to prove whether I have the right to sit at this table." The silence in the anteroom thickened. I could feel Olivia glance at me, but she didn't speak. The hand she had looped through my arm didn't loosen its grip. I shifted my gaze from the silver tray back to Vallejo's face and finished the thought slowly.

"As for what you asked earlier — whether I'm the kind who bids, the kind who overturns the table, or the kind who claims to be repulsed and then reaches out anyway." I paused.

"That depends entirely on what you decide to serve next." For the first time all evening, Vallejo stopped smiling. It wasn't hostility. It wasn't anger. Just — the flawless veneer of courtesy he'd worn since we arrived had finally, cleanly, been sliced open down the middle. He looked at me with the particular expression of someone rapidly recalculating whether what they'd just heard constituted a refusal, a warning, or something considerably more troublesome than either. Two beats passed.

Then he gave a very slow nod.

"I see," he said quietly.

"Then it seems what is truly worth seeing tonight is still ahead of us." Behind the glass, the hammer fell on the first lot. Applause rolled through the hall. The young woman was led back down from the stage with the same unhurried steadiness she'd arrived with — as though she had never, from beginning to end, been permitted to be alive in any way that counted. Meanwhile, Vallejo had already moved to rest his hand lightly against a different door — one set deeper into the far side of the anteroom.

"Lord Cedric," he said.

"Since you've made your position clear, it would be poor hospitality on my part to continue wasting your time with these opening acts." He pushed the door open half an inch. The light spilling through was darker. And colder.

"What comes next," he said, "is what I actually brought you here to see."