Chapter Six: Left Behind

            The jackal called Walter Randor strode through the streets of the Tevarian city with his head held high. He knew most of the noble and merchant class looked down on him, but he didn’t care. He was Slave Master of this entire half of the city, and if the same mutts that looked down on him wanted anything done they needed him whether they liked it or not. He wore a simple outfit, leather boots with brown trousers and a white button up shirt; he was wealthy enough to afford more, but felt no need. Randor was a fur of the streets and he preferred his dress to reflect that.

            “The problem with the nobility in this city.” He’d often said drunkenly to his subordinate Slave Lords. “Is that they think themselves so damned far above the rest of us. They dress like lavish kings, and squabble over who-said-what-when-about-who. They don’t understand how the world really works, and without us they’d all starve within a week.” He demanded the fear, and therefore respect, of the commonfolk without the use of some pathetic costume. They eyed him warily as he passed, knowing that if their life took a few bad turns for the worse, he could very well end up owning them. Anyone could be made a slave; Alistair Varden had proved that much, even if most didn’t know it. Randor sighed, glancing around and drumming his paws rhythmically against his thighs. He was on the far side of the docks, walking so that the harbour lay to his right and the White Sea to his left. The stench of ocean wafted across his nostrils and he sneered at it. He hated the ocean, feared it too. Those open seas…it was as if they just went on forever, tumbling waves disappearing into the horizon and eventually dripping off the side of the world. Still, there was work to do out here, and Randor wasn’t above doing something unpleasant if it needed to be done.

            He met with his best Slave Lord outside the warehouse. Turin Depra waited in the cold, shifting uncomfortably and stuffing his paws into his large coat pockets. He, like Randor, had his Slavers belt on, a harsh wooden club resting in a small pouch to the side and an embossed bronze buckle on the front informing nosey onlookers of their station. Randor didn’t really like Turin, but he had the best workers in the Encampment, and he could be discreet. The second feature was why he was here today, instead of someone whose company Randor actually enjoyed. The warehouse was quiet, the front windows to the lobby frosted and forbidding any curious eyes.

            “Took yer time, I’ve been freezing my damned tail off here for close ‘t an hour.” Turin whined, and Randor gave him a sour look, peering at the frosted glass and trying to make out any shapes inside. He saw nothing.

            “But he’s in there though?” Randor asked. The two didn’t bother with any niceties or pretence. Turin nodded.

            “Arrived just after myself he did, alone, went inside, hasn’t come out. Looked mighty pleased with himself too.” Turin answered, and Randor scoffed.

            “Yeah, that’s about to end right quick.” He said with a short laugh, rapping his knuckles on the door. He heard a slight yell of surprise from inside, and some shuffling as the fur moved around. Turin and Randor waited impatiently, their arms crossed. Eventually they heard the lock undone, and the door opened to reveal a smaller, wiry grey fox. He had spectacles resting in front of his eyes, and wore a patterned vest over his simple clothing.

            “Um…can I help you two gentlemen?” He asked hesitantly, glancing between them. Randor smiled wickedly.

            “Yes, we’d like to come in please.” He said, pushing his way in past the fox. The fur let out a short yelp of protest, but didn’t make any move to physically stop them. Randor found himself a little disgusted by the weakness. Turin slammed the door shut, and Walter leaned against a table, narrowing his eyes at the fur. “Your name is Fergus Grant, right?” He asked.

            “Uh, th-that’s right. What can I help you with?” Fergus asked, his voice meek and laced with concern. Randor shrugged.

            “I heard you recently applied for a Slave Master license? Is that right?” He asked, noting with pleasure how the Fox paled. Fergus distanced himself slightly from the two jackals, but there wasn’t really anywhere to go in the small room. Behind the fox lay several large windows showing a long and empty warehouse.

            “Uh, yes. That’s correct…I just picked it up today.” Fergus said with a nervous laugh. Randor took a few steps forward, already annoyed with the fancy airs the fox put on as he spoke.

            “Let me tell you, Fergus…Slavery is a rough business. You have to hurt furs, gotta punish ‘em…and they deserve it you know. Slaves ain’t like us, they’re very simple minded; food for being good and pain for being bad. Truthfully, looking at you…I don’t think you really have the uh…fortitude for it.” He said, stepping up into the fox’s personal space.

            “I wasn’t…um…I mean I think I can do it…” The fox said pathetically.

            “Where is your license?” Randor asked, balling one of his paws into a fist.

            “You can’t have it.” Fergus replied unconvincingly, shaking. Randor smiled.

            “There’s only one Slave Master this side of the neutral zone, I’m afraid.” He said, ramming his fist into the fox’s stomach. The fur doubled over, air whooshing out of him as he gasped. Randor laid a meaty paw on Fergus’s muzzle, pushing back and slamming his head into the wall. The fox cried out and slid to the ground, whimpering but not daring to try and get up. Randor stepped away to begin searching drawers as Turin slipped his club out and approached the cowering fox.

            “I earned it!” Fergus cried, his voice shaky. Randor chuckled, hearing Turin deliver a blow. The fox half-heartedly tried to crawl away on his paws and knees, but Turin just kicked him under the ribs. Eventually Randor came to a locked drawer, and he smiled at it. He turned and walked back over to the fox, whose face was now bloody, his left eye already beginning to swell. He dropped into a crouch, wrapping a tight paw around the merchant’s neck and squeezing.

            “The key.” Randor said simply. The fox stared up at him with wide eyes. He reached a trembling paw into his shirt, fumbling for a moment before pulling out a small copper key that was hanging around his neck with a short string. Randor snatched it, snapping the cheap twine and returning to the drawer. Unlocking it, he found the license inside. It was a medium sized document, containing Sanrivagh Leidal’s official seal of approval. The financial advisor and Lord of Merchantry had to approve all Slave Master licenses, and Randor had masterfully bribed one of his stewards to inform him whenever one was newly approved, which in all fairness was rare these days. He lifted the deed out reverently, carrying it over to a nearby candle and holding it above the flame.

            “No…” Fergus said, but a harsh kick from Turin shut him up. Randor frowned when the paper refused to properly burn, the edge just blackening. He had expected it to light up spectacularly, but it had refused him. He shrugged, trying not to look foolish, and instead just tore the paper up into scraps. He held them in one hand for Fergus to see, and then nodded to Turin.

            “We can go now.” He said, looking down to the whimpering fox. “I don’t want to hear from you again Fergus, got it?” He didn’t wait for an answer, instead following Depra out the front door. They slammed it shut and Randor dropped the scraps of paper into the harbour’s inky black water.

            “We done here?” Turin asked as they began walking back towards the city.

            “Yeah. Though there is something I wanted to talk to you about.” Randor replied, shivering from the chill. He should have brought a coat, or at least a scarf. He eyed Turin’s jacket for a split second, wondering if he could compel the jackal to hand it over.

            “Yes?” Turin prompted, when his superior said nothing.

            “Oh. Uh, the upcoming duel? You know of it?” Randor asked.

            “I s’pose. Don’t pay much mind to duels, m’ too busy.” Turin asked. Duelling was really a sport that nobles paid the most attention to. They thought it so valuable, their little pretend fights. The younger ones didn’t understand what it was really like. Randor had been in the city when the war ended, he’d seen what the two Empire’s did to each other. He had little time to spare for play fighting after that.

            “I’ve been asked to provide workers. It’s a good payday, but the work is hard. I don’t want any of mine screwing up and making me look bad.”

            “What are they supposed to be doing?” Turin asked.

            “Mostly moving food, setting up banners, carrying armour and weapons. The whole event goes all day, but they’d need to arrive before dawn. The Lord of the Arena doesn’t want to waste money on proper servants, thinks he can cut corners having me slaves do it. It’s been a while since I checked up on you lot…whose gang is best up to it?” He asked. Turin seemed to consider the question seriously for a moment.

            “You’d want two, right?” He asked.

            “I suppose.”

            “Well, me and Derri’s would probably be ideal. We’re the fastest, but his team takes a little while to learn new things…mine can help though.” Turin said thoughtfully, as if discussing which tool would best suit a large gardening job.  

            “Do you still have that Lordling on your lot?” Randor asked. He usually assigned the slaves personally at first, but he knew it was common for his underlings to swap and change them. They traded the furs like chips, sometimes even betting them in games of chance against one another. The practice didn’t exactly thrill Randor, but he allowed it. Working as a slaver paid well, but it came at a certain cost of societal rejection. Others looked down on slavers, a trait Randor had always thought unfair. They were the ones that paid them, why try to scorn such a valuable resource?

            “’Course. He’s my personal project, besides, none of the others’d be stupid enough to take such a lowly runt.” Turin said in a cheery sing-song voice. “Almost lost him the other day though, stupid mutt wanted to help a ‘friend’ of his…almost got left out in the damned rain.” He said, scoffing. Randor let a slight growl rise in his throat.

            “We’re s’posed to have a contract with Sanrivagh, Depra.” He warned. “Don’t cock this up for me.” The jackal just nodded, jaw tightening slightly at the chiding.

            “I think it’d be fun, making him serve the lords and ladies of the court. The ones he used to dine and bathe with, thinking himself so damned untouchable. He’s an arrogant little shit eater you know.” Turin spat, contempt dripping from his words. Randor guessed it came from a place of jealousy, but he’d never be bothered investigating further than that.

            “Mhmm…right. I’ll inform the Arena Lord I’m bringin’ two crews, he won’t be happy about paying more, but it’s still cheaper than some uppity servant guild.” Randor said, and Turin just nodded. The two broke apart, and as always Randor felt relieved as he watched the jackal walk away. Most of the Slave Lords in his employ had been enticed into the slave trade by the money. They wanted to build themselves up, often spend a few years as a Slave Lord before moving to a new city and becoming a merchant. Turin Depra though…he didn’t care about the money. Not really. Randor knew the truth about the fur;

            “Is he…doing alright?” Bailey looked up to the gravelly voice, seeing Garrett standing over him, uncharacteristically dressed in both trousers and a shirt. The clothing was filthy and stained, but it was still more than the stoic fur typically wore. The Akita’s arms were crossed and he of course held a stern expression on his face. Bailey felt his own face flush, although he wasn’t entirely certain why. Garrett’s presence always seemed to make him nervous, after all the fur was nothing if not intimidating. Bailey looked back down to his friend. He was knelt over the still-injured Misha, who napped quietly. It was an afternoon and the slaves mercifully had no work scheduled today – although that fact could change at a moments notice. As was normal, most of them slept or otherwise lounged around. Bailey kept expecting to hear a chatter of conversation in the background, but things were always oddly quiet in the encampment. Finally, he shrugged in response to Garrett’s question.

            “I guess.” He said. “He’s afraid, I think. Worried that Turin will think he’s useless and get rid of him.” Bailey bit his lip. Even if the Slave Lord traded him to another crew he’d be miserable. He really liked Misha, when the two sat down and talked, he could almost forget the miserable state his life was in.

            “He won’t.” Garrett reassured. “No other crew would take an injured welp like him.” He said, and Bailey frowned at the odd display of warmth coming from the older dog.

            What does he want? He wondered, saying nothing. Garrett sighed, then moved forwards and slowly lowered himself into a sitting position. He leaned back against the wall of the slaves’ hall, staring down at his paws as if holding something terribly interesting. Bailey shook his head and looked away. He’d been frustrated with the Akita since his outburst after Bailey’s attempt to save Misha, and the younger Timberwolf been ignoring him for the last four days since then. The last time they’d exchanged any words at all was when he had begged some bandages free from the Akita’s hidden stash. Bailey liked and admired the fur; and a part of him would always desperately crave Garrett’s approval. Still, trying to get close to him had exhausted Bailey, he never knew quite what to do. One second Garrett would risk his life to save some fur he seemed to have no vested interest in, and the next he’d scream at Bailey for being an idiot. One day they’d be talking and he’d give Bailey advice, then for the next few he’d totally ignore him. He’d decided to himself that it was just easier to ignore the Akita altogether, at least for the foreseeable future.

            And yet here he is. He thought, unable to stifle his burning curiosity.

            “This place…It’s always so damned quiet.” Garrett murmured, looking over the few slumbering furs. A few were tossed onto their sides, snoring softly, while others just stared off at nothing. One or two were methodically massaging their muscles, and Bailey saw a wolf with his paw shoved down into his trousers. The fur caught him staring at the lewd gesture, but instead of looking ashamed, he just stared Bailey down and redoubled his efforts, panting as he did so. He looked back to Garrett, scowling.

            “What’s your point?” He asked tiredly. “Everyone is always so exhausted, of course they’re quiet.” Garrett winced, his ears dropping slightly. He reached a paw up to the back of his neck, rubbing the loose fur there uncomfortably.

            “I mean.” He said slowly. “Misha…he’s always so noisy. If he left…well, I’d probably miss that.” The Akita looked away, and Bailey caught hint of a blush on his cheeks. He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, just waiting. They sat like that for almost a full minute, which to Bailey felt like an absolute eternity. When it was clear Garrett would say no more, he spoke up.

            “Well…we’ve gotta pass the time somehow. Might as well talk and carry on.” Garrett nodded, looking to him. “You um...I’m going outside for some air. You look like you could use it too.” He said, standing suddenly and walking off without a second look. Bailey watched him go, feeling confusion before anything else.

            Can’t he just make up his mind? He thought. Either you want to be left alone, or you want company, you can’t have both. Stupid mutt.  He shook his head, and then turned his attention back to focus on Misha. Bailey didn’t really talk to any of the other furs, save for an occasional conversation with Resh the bear. The mutt next to him was sleeping a lot, and he’d taken up a habit of watching over him while he slept. Bailey had subsequently realised that throughout his life, including his recent time as a slave, he’d almost never seem someone sleep. It was an odd sight, he’d imagined what it must look like, but to actually study them slumbering…Misha looked so young and soft. If he’d been asked his age right then, Bailey would have guessed that the seventeen year old was in fact closer to thirteen or fourteen. He yawned suddenly, realising he felt dazed from sitting down inside for too long. Maybe Garrett had a point. He thought, groaning as he climbed to his feet. He gave Misha a quick look, before heading out of the slave hall. Outside, the sky was cloudy and a chilly breeze nipped at his ears and nose. Despite his warm fur, Bailey shivered a little as his shirtless torso was subjected to the elements. The courtyard’s social activity mirrored that of the slave hall, except with slightly more activity. Still furs littered the ground, napping in their free time, but a few wandered back and forth, pacing anxiously. Bailey had seen a few of his fellow slaves snap, spending all their available time just pacing up and down the length of the courtyard, eyes vacant and words incoherent. He wondered how long it took them to become like that, and if he would ever end up like one of them. The thought terrified him, so he did his best to ignore the fear.

            “So you came, I was wondering.” The rough voice s6aid from beside him. Bailey jumped slightly, before turning to see a pleased-looking Garrett. He smiled at the dog, although part of him had been hoping that he’d already taken off somewhere relatively private. It was not like he didn’t want to talk with Garrett; he just thought it would probably be easier to not.

            “Yeah.” Bailey said, unsure what else he could say, looking down awkwardly. Garrett began to walk, and after a moment Bailey followed. They wandered over to a corner of the courtyard, sitting down in the dirt and taking in the cool air.

            “You’ve taken to this life better than I thought some Lord’s pup would have.” Garrett said, careful not to let anyone overhear him. Bailey stared at his paws; they used to be so soft. Once he’d attended a gala with his father, and his wife-to-be, Yaris, had been there. The two had been pressured into dancing, and the poor girl hadn’t stopped remarking how tender Bailey’s touch felt. Now though…his paws were calloused beneath the fur, rough and hard like aging leather.

            It’s like I’m a different person. If I saw my own reflection, would I even recognise it?

            “Thanks.” He said absentmindedly, still thinking about his paws.

            “It was a good thing you did, saving that damned fool mutt.” Garrett said softly. “Stupid, idiotic and naïve. But…good. Our lives here could be…better, if we worked together.” He mused, surveying the courtyard of individual furs. It was like they had deliberately chosen to emphasise Garrett’s point and avoid one another. Bailey knew that some of them had friends, sharing conversations, gambling and sometimes – albeit rarely – laughter. Today however, he counted no other pairs save himself and the Akita.

            “You think?” Bailey asked, looking back. “We’d still be property, still be forced to work day in and day out. I am…not so sure.”

            “If we helped each other.” Garrett replied slowly. “We could make our lives…maybe, worth living at the least . Sometimes I wonder, why don’t we just all curl up and die? What do we live for?” Bailey shrugged.

            “What else is there to do?” He said, and Garrett smiled wanly.

            “I suppose.” He replied distractedly. “I tried to change it once you know. When I was first sold away, I tried to make them laugh, tried to get them to look after each other. A few even took to it.” Bailey felt uncomfortable, he didn’t know what to say. Why had Garrett suddenly decided that today was the right time for this? “Granted, our masters weren’t quite so brutal then and that probably made it easier, but still…it wasn’t…good, but it wasn’t hell.”

            “What…happened?” He asked carefully, unsure if it was the right thing to do or not. “I mean…why did you stop?” Garrett looked into the dirt, tracing random lines with a single digit.

            “They all died eventually. Every one.” He inhaled slowly, ears falling as he then exhaled. Bailey wanted to hug him, but he thought if he touched the Akita he might get bitten. So he stayed still and waited instead. “I came here at fourteen years old Bailey. I can barely remember what it’s like to not live like this. The only reason I’m alive still with my mind intact is…I decided to leave others behind.” Bailey bit his lip. The question was sitting on the end of his tongue; he was desperate to ask it. He knew he shouldn’t but…he couldn’t help himself.

            “What was your life before?” He blurted, instantly regretting the action. He recoiled slightly as Garrett glared at him. “I’m sorry.” He whispered, looking away as his face grew hot with shame.

            “It’s alright. Nothing special.” The Akita said gently, but he did not elaborate. They sat without speaking for a short time, before Bailey again broke the silence.

            “Why…did you want to tell me all that?” He asked softly. It hadn’t been some great speech about his life, but it was the most Garrett had ever said to him about himself and the way he did things. It was the closest thing Bailey had to an explanation or apology, at least for now. Garrett opened his mouth, then closed it again. He seemed to collect his thoughts for a second, before speaking.

            “I’m not certain. But I’m trying to give you some advice. You need to look after yourself first. You can’t help Misha if you are dead.” He said finally, making eye contact with Bailey. Garrett generally avoided that, but apparently this was serious enough to warrant it. The Timberwolf squirmed on the spot, somehow Garrett’s stare feeling incredibly invasive. “I don’t want to leave you behind Bailey.” He looked away. Bailey felt a nervous stirring inside his stomach, and he could feel his mouth was now incredibly dry. He didn’t quite understand exactly what the Akita was trying to say, but he thought it some kind of expression of fondness.

            “You’d care if I got hurt?” He asked, hating how childish and insecure he sounded. Still, if that was indeed what Garrett was trying to say in his roundabout way, he wanted to know it for sure. The Akita stared at him intensely, reaching out a paw to Bailey’s upper arm and squeezing it.

            “Absolutely. You’re a good person, and you don’t deserve that.” He whispered. Bailey just nodded, swallowing. He didn’t know what to make of the exclamation, but it was nice to know where things stood for now.

            Garrett. He thought with a slight internal laugh. Why do you work so damned hard to confuse me like this?