the regular, and that pour forth from every tavern—all male.
This is not a good place to be a slave girl.
Or a girl, period.
Sinon grunts as I trot up to his side like an obedient little waif. “That’s better. Follow close. We’re going to a special party and then I’m passing you over to your new owner.” He gives me a thin-lipped smile that shows yellowing teeth and dark gums. “So behave and I won’t bruise you up before then.”
Whee. I don’t know if I should be excited he’s not going to be my permanent owner or if I should be scared. “Who’s my new owner?”
He doesn’t answer me. Just yanks on my chain again and leads me through the crowd of soldiers.
I study him as we walk. He’s thick-looking, but that might be the layers of padded armor he’s wearing. His head is shaven bald and the stubble there is a mixture of gray and black. He’s sweaty and stinks to high heaven, and his nose has probably been broken more times than I can count. He’s got a thick jaw so his shaved head actually looks more like a pear than a circle, and he’s got questionable dental hygiene.
I really, really hope he’s going to pass me off. If the outfit I’ve been given is any sort of clue, I haven’t been sold so I can wash dishes and mend socks.
I really am gonna be a tart.
Since my pajamas were stolen, the only clothing I have now is the same as the other slave women I’ve seen. It’s a long, unbleached skirt. That’s it. No top, no bra, no nothing. Of course, I’m not about to go all bare-titty through soldier-town, so I hiked it up to my armpits and I’m wearing it like a minidress. Every soldier that passes by us stares as if I’m wearing something far more scandalous, and they leer.
So far? Not a fan of Aventine.
“This way, Tart,” my new owner tells me and jerks on my chain again.
I put my hands to the neck cuff, trying to shield my abused skin from the next yank, and trot a little faster behind him. “Where are we going?”
He ignores me. In fact, he keeps ignoring me as we leave the mucky streets and head toward rickety, stinky docks that crawl with cats and fishermen. There are dozens of small boats moored here, and one flat-bottomed barge with a bright red linen top waits at the far end. We head there.
“Where you going?” the man standing in front of the boat asks Sinon.
I wait for Sinon to ignore him. Instead, he crosses his arms over his chest in a quasi-salute. “Heading to the temple. They’re expecting me.”
The sailor glances at me. “And her?”
“Tart’s a gift.”
I wave my fingers at him in greeting. Now’s not the time to debate my name.
“Gift for who?”
“Ain’t none of your business, is it?” Sinon’s grumpy.
“It is if you bring uninvited trash to the temple tonight. Prelate’ll have my head.” The sailor crosses his arms and rocks back on his feet.
My owner snorts. “Who do you think she’s a gift for, fool?”
Oh.
Okay, so I’m going to be for the prelate. I guess he likes…tarts. Lucky me.
The sailor smirks in my direction. “If I was placing odds, she’d be a cleaver bride.”
“What’s a cleaver bride?” I ask.
“Shut up, Tart,” Sinon says, and when the sailor moves aside, he pulls me after him without answering.
We ride on the flat-bottomed boat, crammed next to a bunch of other people. Someone reaches out and pinches me, and I slap at hands, wishing medieval plagues on all these armor-wearing bastards. It’s the longest boat ride ever, but eventually we pull up to the docks of the island…and the world is different.
This place is cool and clean and beautiful. I’m surprised. There are green manicured gardens and people in long red robes watering plants from what look like helmets. There are several marble buildings, all of them columned and lovely, and there’s a scent of incense in the air. It’s nothing like dirty, overrun, soldier-covered Aventine at all.
Clearly they take better care of their temples than their city.
We head to the front of the main building. Outside is a massive statue of a man, battleaxe raised. Immediately, Sinon drops to his knees and bows his head.
I wait behind him, fidgeting.
Sinon looks up and gives my chains a furious yank, sending me staggering forward. “You kneel before the gods, Tart! Lord Aron of the Cleaver, the Butcher God of Battle,