Chapter 91: The Slave Trader
The Town of Orlando.
A long queue had formed outside the local chapel, stretching from the heavy oak doors all the way to the corner of the cobblestone street.
Father Anchi stood behind a massive iron cauldron, wielding a wooden ladle to stir the steaming wheat porridge. Over his usually spotless white priestly robes, he had—rarely—donned a grease-stained apron.
Anchi's voice was a flatline of zero motivation. "Next."
A small child, face flushed beet-red from the biting winter wind, stood on his tiptoes to present a large wooden bowl. Seeing this, Anchi scooped up a generous portion of the scalding porridge.
However, the moment the ladle hovered over the bowl, Anchi's hand began to vibrate at a miraculous, high-speed frequency. The porridge in the spoon dissipated back into the pot at a visible rate, until barely half a scoop actually made it into the child's bowl.
The mother behind the boy bowed repeatedly in gratitude, her voice thick with thanks as they hurried away.
Anchi let out a massive yawn, feeling as though his lower back was about to snap like a dry twig. In previous winters, the church provided relief as a formality. This year was different.
Recently, Orlando had suddenly become a buzzing hub of activity. Every day, various merchant caravans passed through; it seemed everyone had been to the Evernight Empire to do business. These merchants were becoming increasingly flamboyant with their spending, and the price of grain was barely fifty percent higher than it had been in the summer—a miracle for a northern winter.
Because of this, Anchi had been forced to empty out the "private stash" he had spent half a year meticulously skimming from the church funds to keep the town fed.
An elderly woman who had just received her bowl wiped a tear from her eye. "Father Anchi, you are truly the living Saint of Orlando!"
Anchi continued to stir the pot with an expressionless face.
A Saint? A Saint wouldn't be mentally calculating which floorboards in the confessional booth he could pull up to use as firewood without the roof collapsing.
Just then, a shadow fell over him.
It was Cecilia. She stood with her arms crossed, eyeing Anchi with a look usually reserved for a particularly rare and disgusting species of mabeast.
"Oho, if it isn't our 'Great' Father Anchi," she drawled. "What brings you out here to serve the masses in person? I assumed you'd be in the tavern right now, using the donation box coppers to buy rounds for the local bards."
Anchi didn't even look up. "I'm not like certain people who hide in the warmth of the chapel, calculating how many chicken legs they can embezzle from the kitchen this month."
Cecilia's face flushed a violent red. "L-Lies! That was purely to maintain my physical stamina for prayer!"
She noticed the surrounding townsfolk giving her odd looks and huffed indignantly. "I don't have time for your nonsense." She turned on her heel and stomped away, muttering curses under her breath.
Anchi curled his lip and resumed his "Vibrating Ladle" technique.
The distribution finally ended. Anchi was bent over, cleaning the heavy cauldron, when he spotted a new procession approaching from the edge of town.
Leading the group was a portly man with a greasy smile, followed by several burly, well-armed guards. In the center of the guards were several figures in heavy shackles, their footsteps stumbling and weary.
Anchi's movements stopped.
Slaves.
Slave trading was strictly prohibited within the Holy Empire of Gusteko. However, there were always desperate men willing to risk the gallows for a high enough margin of profit.
Anchi frowned. The merchant had clearly spotted him at the chapel doors. He dismounted his horse and approached with an unearned air of familiarity.
"You must be the famous Father Anchi! An honor to meet you, truly an honor," the trader gushed.
Anchi ignored the greeting, his gaze drifting past the man to the "merchandise."
Six in total. All female.
And they weren't human.
Small, curved horns protruded from their foreheads. Succubi. Six of them.
Anchi felt a headache beginning to throb in his temples.
One of the succubi seemed to sense Anchi's gaze. She lifted her head, her eyes meeting his. She looked young—barely sixteen or seventeen. Her face was smeared with dirt, and her eyes held none of the legendary "allure" her race was known for; there was only numbness and a profound, hollow exhaustion.
The moment she saw the priestly robes, she instinctively recoiled, her body trembling.
The slave trader followed Anchi's line of sight and let out a grin that only men of low character shared. "Ah, Father has a keen eye for quality."
"It took quite an effort to secure this batch of 'Grade-A' stock. I'm taking them to Iron Fortress in the Evernight Empire. I hear the masters there have quite the appetite for exotic flavors. I'm hoping for a record-breaking price."
Anchi withdrew his gaze and looked the trader in the eye. His voice was a flat, dangerous calm. "In the town of Orlando, no slave transactions of any form are permitted."
The trader's smile didn't waver. "Oh, Father, you misunderstand. I'm merely passing through. We'll rest for the night and be gone by dawn. We won't cause you any trouble."
As he spoke, he surreptitiously withdrew a heavy, clinking leather pouch from his vest, attempting to press it into Anchi's hand. "A small 'donation' for the chapel. For your troubles."
Anchi glanced at the bag. It was thick. At least twenty silver coins.
He hesitated.
If he took the money and looked the other way, the problem would leave town tomorrow morning. It would be quiet. No one would know. He could use the silver to buy that bottle of vintage wine he'd been eyeing for months.
Just as Anchi's hand neared the bag, the young succubus who had looked at him suddenly lunged. She scrambled from the line, throwing herself at Anchi's feet and clutching his legs.
"Lord Priest! Please! Save me!" her voice cracked—high-pitched and utterly helpless.
The scene froze. The trader's face twisted. The guards reached for their hilts, ready to seize her.
Anchi's expression went dark. He looked down at the succubus clutching his thigh, weeping as if her heart were breaking. He felt his pulse thumping in his throat.
Anchi tried to pull his leg back. "You... let go of me."
But the girl held on with the strength of a drowning victim. "Lord Priest, I beg of you! I don't want to be sold to the bone-monsters! I'll serve you! I'll do anything! I'll even convert! I'll believe in the Spirits! I'll pray to the Dragon!"
This girl is trying to roast me on a spit, Anchi thought.
The trader's face was now a mask of cold fury. He stepped forward, his voice a low hiss. "Father, pay no mind to this bitch drivel!" the trader hissed, his face a mask of cold fury. He stepped forward, eyes narrowed. "She's just a flight risk looking for an opening to bolt! Hand her over, and I'll throw in a full gold crown on top of the silver!"
Anchi looked at the trader, then down at the succubus who had been violently hauled to her feet by the guards. Finally, his gaze drifted to his own white priestly robes. He let out a long, weary sigh.
Anchi turned to the guards who were preparing to "discipline" the girl. "Could you please unhand her?"
The guards hesitated, looking toward the slave trader for confirmation. The trader bit his lip, his mind racing through the profit margins, before finally giving a curt wave for his men to stand down.
Anchi knelt in the dirt, looking into the eyes of the young succubus. "What is your name?"
"I... I am Danica," she stammered.
The winter wind howled, whipping Anchi's robes around his frame, but he paid it no mind. He offered a small, rare smile and extended a hand toward her.
"I believe the Holy Spirit would never turn away a truly devoted believer, regardless of their bloodline."
He helped Danica up, then turned his head back toward the merchant.
"You keep your coin. Give me this girl, and you and your troupe may stay in town for a few extra days without further scrutiny."
The slave trader froze. A defiant, disobedient succubus—even one as high-quality as this—was a 'hot potato.' She was a liability, a risk that might escape or be 'returned' by a dissatisfied client.
This deal... actually wasn't bad.
The trader's scowl vanished instantly, replaced by a fawning, oily grin. He nodded frantically at Anchi.
"Then this wayward sheep shall be left in your capable hands for... spiritual guidance, Father."
In his head, the merchant was already doing the math. A girl of her temperament would have fetched two gold crowns at most, and she likely would have escaped before the ink on the bill of sale was dry. By handing her over now, he was effectively 'selling' her for one gold and twenty silver, while securing the protection of the local clergy.
Somehow, in the middle of a snowy street, the merchant realized he had actually turned a profit.
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