The team was ready; everyone was in place. From his position, Hunter would have a clear view of the square. If things went sideways, Scout would take the deputy to his right. Autumn would take the boss. The rest were his to manage. If things went well, there would be no bloodshed and their mission would conclude before dawn. All they needed now was the coffle.
The slaves wore leather collars linked together by chains. Since they were children incapable of escape, this was probably unnecessary. But two centuries of tradition created habits that were hard to break. It was impractical, now that slaves were so young, to force them to march the long sad road to Siouk. So they were conveyed by wagon instead. The coffle chain persisted merely as a vestige of life before the war.
The same could be said of the deputies. In the old days, large contingents were needed to protect the coffles from forces fighting to free the slaves. But in the twenty-five years since the treaty was signed, no such attacks had occurred. So the number and role of deputies accompanying coffles had dwindled to four.
Hunter wasn’t interested in the slaves. He was not a freedom fighter anymore. He was a bounty hunter now. He, Scout, and Autumn had been trailing this coffle for three weeks because one of the deputies was a wanted man. Hunter’s objective was to snatch him from the slave train before it reached its destination. And he had only one day left to do that.
Three weeks of patient observation had attuned him to the coffle’s habits. The mounted coffle master led the way. Behind him were the wagons bearing the slaves protected by two deputies riding single file on each side. The trailing section was made up of adult slaves who supported the coffle train in a variety of ways.
As they passed the terraced rice fields, knockers jumped from the support wagons to pound on farmhouse doors seeking slaves for purchase. When they found one, a flag was raised and the train slowed to a stop. Moments later, a disobedient child, an unfaithful wife, or the progeny of a chattel slave was collared and loaded and the train moved on.
This was the last stop of the day. As it reached the intersection at the bottom of the hill, the train split into two parts. The lead segment turned and headed up the hill into town. The support wagons continued past Old Mill toward the river camp, where they would set up to spend the night.
The segment entering the town square consisted of the coffle master, his four deputies, three slave wagons, and a single wagon of support. As they neared the church, three deputies spread out. One – the one Hunter wanted – stayed with the coffle master to watch his back.
Deputy Number One cantered his horse over to the smokehouse where he circled Hunter’s daughter. She was engaged with the butcher trading a fresh kill for some sausage. The deputy was looking for warning signs. The sight of weapons or armour would immediately abort the coffle’s business. Unable to see what was hidden from his view, he backed off and took up a position nearby.
Deputy Number Two walked his horse slowly past the hitching post where Hunter was organizing the contents of his saddle bags. This deputy would not be concerned with Hunter’s wooden bow and arrows. Nor, if he could see them, would the elf’s stone blades raise any concerns. Steel was the only thing that would alarm the deputies and all of that was safely concealed.
Deputy Number Three assessed the group of dignitaries gathering on the steps of the church. The smith, a slave-owner himself, was already there, eager to greet his old buddy, the coffle master. The town fletcher – allied with the butcher and, therefore, Hunter – stood inconspicuously behind him. The collier and the millwright, who had been drinking in the tavern since mid-morning, wobbled slightly as they crossed the square to join the delegation.
The squeak of leather from the collier’s right shoe. The jingle of coins in the millwright’s pocket. The barking dogs. The coughing child. The rumbling wheels. The whispered words between Scout and the butcher. Hunter’s ears took it all in. Where most elves were overwhelmed by noisy human environments, Hunter now operated comfortably.
The sound of Amanda’s footsteps behind him announced that she, too, was on her way. As the door to the shop opened behind him, the scent of blood swirled in the eddies. Exchanging a solemn glance with Hunter, she smoothed her dress, checked her hairpin, and inhaled deeply. Raising her chin, she stepped off the boardwalk and marched across the square. He understood her sadness. He shared her shame.
*****
The church door opened as Amanda reached the steps. The minister and his wife led the set-asides out and set them in a line from tallest to smallest.
The coffle master, knowing exactly what he was looking for, got straight to work. The merchant for whom he worked had very specific tastes and had equipped his coffle master with sketches illustrating exactly what interested him. Satisfying his master’s desires was his highest priority.
Young, pretty with high cheekbones, a diamond-shaped face, and a small, upturned nose. The ceasefire that paused the Slavers’ War made it illegal to enslave non-human races, including fiendlings. But there was nothing in the ceasefire about human slaves who looked like fiendlings, so his boss had learned to make due.
Beyond that, the coffle master was watching for merchandise that would move quickly in the slave markets of Siouk. Ten-year-old boys. Nine-year-old girls. Healthy. Dark of hair with good teeth and clear skin. That was best for the market. If the buyer was a fiendling, he would need an unusually large male or a portly young lady.
“This one,” said the coffle master as he checked a girl’s teeth. “How old?”
“Nine-years, Master Lewis,” replied the clergyman. “She is trained in kitchen service primarily. But can–”
“She looks like a snake swalla’d a stick” the coffle master interrupted. “Don’t we pay you to feed ‘em?”
“Yes, Master Lewis,” replied the clergyman. “Chairman Devall is a most generous benefactor and the town provides more than enough food. But not all cows produce equal milk. At this age, some slaves grow tall before they grow thick.”
“Hmmmm,” said the slaver looking up and down the line. He knew the parson was right, but also understood the value of a coffle master’s displeasure.
*****
Autumn stepped up into the stirrup and swung his leg over the saddle. From this distance, about all he could see were colors. The deputies were a confident shade of yellow. The dignitaries were a blushing shade of red. As his horse walked slowly toward the church, the details of their faces gradually came into focus. Like the townsfolk, the wanted man’s visage was blushed with shame, but his complexion was marred by pewter veins of anxiety – as it had been for the past three weeks.
Autumn was much younger than Hunter. He had much less experience with the overwhelming noise of human settlements and was not at all a fan. How a species so practically deaf could accomplish so much absolutely baffled him. Individually, he had sympathy for humans. Collectively, he found them offensive.
Always, with these people, there was something. Today… it was coughing. If they couldn’t hear it, they were impaired. If they were ignoring it, they were heartless. Amongst his people children were uncommon. That made them precious. Humans, by contrast, seemed to take their children for granted. From his perspective, they were always ill and nobody seemed to care.
Autumn knew his assignment. He understood every detail of the plan. He knew that Hunter would be disappointed if he strayed from it unnecessarily, but he also knew that he had the power to call an audible.
The coffle master’s back was turned toward him. Their bounty stood behind his boss facing Autumn. Hunter was expecting him to stop and address the bounty, but Autumn changed the plan.
*****
LT’s assignment was to guard his boss’s back. The other deputies spread out to watch from a distance. Nobody expected trouble. It had been decades since anybody had attacked a coffle.
As much as he wanted to cut his boss’ throat for what he was doing to these children, LT knew this was not the time. In two days he would be inside. A week or two inside the Chateau was all he needed. If he found what he expected to find, it would put an end to all of this. And with any luck he could settle scores with the coffle master later.
LT saw the elf riding towards him from the livery. There were two more across the street. The woman seemed familiar. He felt like he had seen her in another town a fortnight back. The guy… who could tell? Elf hunters all dressed exactly the same way. They wore their hair the same. Whether it was religion or policy, all elf hunters looked the same.
The elf riding toward him, however, stood out. He was a petite man with red-orange hair tied up in a celtic braid. His clothing was somewhat feminine but he wore a ginger beard – neatly trimmed – beneath a thick handlebar moustache. He carried no obvious weapons and offered no hint of threat. As far as LT could see, he was just an elegant elf, in a brown leather jacket under a burnt umber cape.
LT’s eyes followed him as he rode past. For a moment, the elf made eye contact. It seemed as if he was about to say something, but a cough from one of the children distracted him. The small man frowned slightly and his head tipped to one side as his eyes moved from LT to the girl. Altering his course slightly he approached the wagon and stopped beside it.
This was a breach of protocol and everyone who saw it knew. Everything stopped instantly – the clergyman, the councillors, the adult attendants. All froze. Everyone held their breath. LT’s hand moved to his pommel. All eyes were on the ginger.
*****
The coffle master, sensing a change, turned slowly to behold a small man with a large moustache sitting on an elven pony next to his lead wagon.
“Oh, honey,” the elf cooed into the wagon. “Are you feeling poorly?”
A collared little girl nodded her head as her eyes welled with tears.
The eladrin turned slightly in his saddle before the hushed assembly to locate the coffle master. LT stepped forward to intervene, but the coffle master waved him off.
“Excuse me, sir,” said the ginger. “I’m afraid this poor child is poorly.”
The coffle master paused. There were so many ways to respond, but none of them seemed exactly right for this unusual moment.
“You’re an eladrin?” the coffle master asked with genuine curiosity.
“I am.”
“And you’re a healer?”
“My name is Autumn –” the elf said, smiling and extending a hand.
“I didn’t ask your name,” the master interrupted. “I asked if you’re a healer.”
“I am a healer, sir,” Autumn replied, withdrawing his hand and turning off his smile.
The coffle master paused, taking full measure of the ginger elf, wondering if this was a ploy.
“This kind of cough spreads like fire,” Autumn volunteered. “If this child isn’t treated today, I promise you the rest will have it tomorrow.”
The coffle master knew the healer was right. He also understood the grave consequences of delivering slaves to the Chateau only to have them die a few days later.
“How much?” he asked.
“That depends,” said Autumn. “I can cure her properly. That would take half a day. The price would be nine silver. Or… for one silver… I can give her some cough medicine. It won’t cure her, but it would buy you a day or two to get her to wherever you are going. And it would probably stop the spread… if it hasn’t already spread.”
The coffle master relaxed when he heard Autumn’s price. Medicine men in the haff-land performed an essential service, but none of them did it for free. Autumn, his instincts told him, was exactly what he seemed to be.
“Do you have enough medicine for all of them?” he asked.
Autumn frowned as he counted and then nodded when he was done. “I believe I do, sir,” Autumn replied cheerfully, climbing down from his horse and reaching into his saddle bags.
LT’s sword flashed from his scabbard the moment the healer’s hand disappeared into the saddlebag. Oblivious to this development, the medicine man withdrew a canteen, a small bowl, and a burlap bundle. He set them both on the ground and then sat cross legged in front of them.
LT hesitated, sword drawn, rooted in indecision. The coffle master, however, suppressed a smile. He secretly hated this part of his job — traveling from town to town, playing a role, collecting tribute, placing children in bondage. It was dreary work at best.
But this was new. It was interesting. Until today, he had never met an autumn eladrin. And this one, his first, was at once fearless, oblivious, charming, and entertaining.
Autumn counted out fifteen holly leaves and placed them into his bowl. He then recited a short incantation to create a tiny flame, which he carefully placed amongst the leaves. In a few moments, they smoked and quickly turned to ash.
Reaching into a pocket inside his shirt, he withdrew a small pouch from which he poured a handful of dried blueberries into the ashes. From another pocket he produced a small wooden pestle which he used to crush the berries while reciting another incantation in a comical language that nobody understood but everyone found funny.
“Keep an eye on the healer,” the master said to LT. With that, he turned his back on the medicine show and finished his business with the clergyman and the council.
*****
Noticing for the first time that everyone was watching him, Autumn spoke to no one in particular: “Children don’t like the taste of ash” he said, wrinkling his nose. “It’s yucky. The blueberries make it taste better… and the color is pretty,” he added, looking up at the children in the wagon.
By the time the contents of the bowl were blended into a smooth paste, everyone had relaxed. LT’s sword was returned to its scabbard and the entire group was curious about what Autumn was doing. All were quiet except the little girl with the green eyes; her raspy cough punctured the silence.
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry you’re feeling poorly. I’m going as fast as I can,” Autumn said as he began thinning the paste by pouring water from the canteen into the bowl and whisking in with a pair of stiff wooden sticks. A few heartbeats later, he was done. The sticks went back into a pocket in his jacket and out came a small wooden spoon.
“A little help, sir,” he said, extending a hand to LT.
*****
The wanted man hesitated, momentarily uncertain, but then extended his hand and pulled Autumn to his feet. As he rose, the small ginger smiled and said something LT did not understand.
“What?” he asked, trying to unclasp his hand. The attempt was unsuccessful as Autumn held firm to his grip, smiling and speaking an unfamiliar tongue.
LT yanked his hand to free it once, then twice. On the second pull, the healer let go causing him to stumble and nearly fall backward. The whole group, slavers, children, and onlooking townsfolk burst into laughter.
“Ooops,” the healer exclaimed, placing his thin fingers on his upper chest. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. Please don’t laugh,” he begged the children.
LT recovered his balance and looked around feeling a rush of blood to his face and ears.
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. It’s an eladrin thing,” Autumn explained. “When someone extends a hand to help us up, we offer them a blessing. It’s weird, I know. And it takes a bit longer than humans expect. So it catches people off guard. Please forgive me.”
“Sure,” said LT looking at his wet, berry-stained fingers briefly before wiping them off on his breeches. “No problem.”
When the giggling subsided, Autumn administered the medicine. One by one, each of the children was given a single spoonful of the purple liquid. Last to be treated was the little girl who gulped down the remaining contents of the bowl.
The healer carefully rinsed the bowl out with his canteen before returning it and the burlap wrap to his saddle bag.
“That will be fifteen silver pieces please, sir,” he said, turning back to the man with the whip.
Moments later, four more set-asides, recently selected from the church in Old Mill, were absorbed into the coffle. And by the time the coffle train slithered out of town toward the river camp, the Autumn eladrin, the hunter, and his daughter were nowhere to be seen.