\hypertarget{fletched}{%
\chapter*{Bonus Chapter: Fletched}\label{fletched}}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{\nameref{fletched}} \chaptermark{Bonus Chapter: Fletched}

\epigraph{``To follow a principle is to ascribe value to it, and value
always has worth that can be quantified. Is to value quantifiable worth
above all, therefore, not to follow the greatest of all principles?''}{Extract from ``Bought and Sold'', a collection of the teachings of
the Merchant Prince Irenos, founder of Mercantis}



It was the second time Indrani was made to serve at an auction of the
Closed Circle and she knew better than to hope it would be the last. She
was \emph{exotic}. The word came even more often than \emph{pretty} and
\emph{mannerly} in the mouths of Honoured Guests, as if the colour of
her skin had made her some wild animal instead of a nine-year-old girl.
Merchant Lord Septim had been complimented too many times on how much of
a coup acquiring her had been for Indrani to ever think he would not
continue volunteering her as a servant for the evenings. It was rare
occasion, at least. The Closed Circle never held auction more than once
a year, and it was not guaranteed to. The nature of what was put to
auction forbade it from being regular occurrence. The masked men and
women of the Circle called it `an auction for which that cannot be
bought' but Indrani had already grown used to the way Mercantians
slathered drama over everything like honeyed glaze. The Closed Circle,
as far she understood, put up for trade things that couldn't be bought
with gold. It was barter the way slaves like her did in the pens, but
with enough goldleaf and expensive wine involved they got to pretend it
was different.

She hadn't been there when the goods for auction were announced, but by
milling around serving drinks she got to overhear enough conversations
to piece together a few. There was a letter that could ignite war in the
Free Cities, the secret to earn the love a Proceran princess and the
greatest shame of a Callowan baron. Strangers things too, a glimmer of
Arcadian moon and a sword without a blade forged by a Praesi emperor.
The last, she knew, had been traded at the last auction. She'd not seen
it, but they said the Warlock had been there looking for an ancient song
that revealed the lay of some lesser Hells. He'd offered something from
the vaults of the Tower in exchange, which had gotten the Merchant Lords
excited. The Dread Empire sat on the greatest troves of treasures in
Calernia, it was said, but these days rarely took them out from the
warded rooms where they were hidden away from Creation. Indrani didn't
give a fuck about what the Easterners got up to in their deserts, but
the owners being in a good mood was good for her as well.

Septim wouldn't sell her until she'd flowered, he'd already said as
much, but when he felt generous she got a few hours out in the city
instead of remaining bound to his estate. Once that had been one of her
rare delights, but tonight the notion she might see her leash loosened
felt empty. Indrani had been careful, hoarding what she could and
stealing when she was sure she could get away with it -- the trick was
to steal from free servants, there was almost never a tracking rune on
their possessions -- and paid for one a questor to find her parents.
She'd had to go to the lower city to find one whose fees she could
afford, but after two years of scrounging finally she had managed. It
had been pointless. Her mother was already dead, assassinated as part of
a squabble between Merchant Lords. Her father had been sold in Ashur and
died in a mine collapse as a `free' member of its lowest citizenship
tier. The questor told her that was a committee's fault, higher tier
citizens debating for a week on whether it was worth digging out the
people in the collapsed shaft or not.

Eventually, lack of air had settled the question where words failed.

Indrani wondered if she was supposed to swear vengeance on their behalf.
Feuds were not rare between Mercantians, though always short-lived, but
there were Callowan and Praesi slaves in the pens that still stole
knives to kill each other over things their peoples had done hundreds of
years ago. There wasn't much, she thought, to seek vengeance for. Her
father she'd never even met, and she barely remembered her mother.
Warmth and the smell of spices, that was all. The name she'd been given
by the woman had been kept since Merchant Lord Septim thought it would
make her more \emph{authentic}, but the way it was spoken was different
from what little she remembered. It was spoken in Lower Miezan, not
whatever tongue was spoken by the people of her parents across the
Tyrian Sea. All the girl could muster was a vague sorrow at would could
have been. It was left formless because her life already had form: she
was to sing, to learn the Three Dances and the Seven Tongues and earn
great profit for the man who'd snatched her from her mother's arms at
the cost of a small fortune.

She'd gone quiet and her smile had lapsed as she thought, she realized.
Indrani force da cheerful smile and dearly hoped no one who had rivalry
with Septim had seen her. All it would take was a single comment to
humiliate the Merchant Lord and she would have earned a caning. Luck
might be in her favour, for there were few Mercantians at Closed Circle
auctions. A third of the people in attendance were fat Merchant Lords
and Ladies, but the Consortium kept light presence at events like this.
The Merchant Princes of Mercantis had long ago ordered as much, to
ensure it would be powerful foreigners that came to the City of Bought
and Sold for the ineffable prizes offered. Indrani, a sweet smile
painted on her face, presented her silver platter to the closest
Honoured Guest. A woman, though not like she'd ever seen before. She had
the skin of the honey-coloured Yan Tei but her face was different and
her ears were pointed. Her red dress alone was proof she was wealthy
enough to be here, silks that could only be had from Praes and Ashur.
The rough leather boots stood out from the perfectly presented rest, a
stain on the jewels and beauty. The Honoured Guest considered her for a
long moment before claiming a goblet of Helikean pale.

``Well now, a \emph{yamin-ine},'' she said, ``Where did the fat ones get
theirs hands on one of you?''

``This one does not understand what you speak of,'' Indrani replied.

``I imagine your parents made it through on a Baalite ship before Fate
fucked them bad enough you ended up here,'' the Honoured Guest mused.
``Your peoples don't often cross the Tyrian Sea, girl. They never
learned the routes.''

``This one was born in Mercantis, Honoured Guest,'' Indrani said.

``You can drop the slave talk,'' the woman said, rolling her eyes. ``And
that platter as well. You're interesting enough an oddity you'll be
fetching me drinks for the rest of this bore. Send your owner to me if
they object.''

The slave swallowed noisily. She wasn't an idiot. She knew there were
men and women that were\ldots{} interested in girls her age. She was
pricey enough a commodity that Septim had never made her available for
those kinds of deals, but for an Honoured Guest? No one got in this hall
without being powerful enough to curry favour with. Could she run? The
rune carved into the back of her neck would start boiling her blood if
she went too far from the anchor, but it might be worth it if she could
avoid this. The woman drained the cup and dropped it on the platter,
reaching for another. She'd just drank, Indrani knew, a vintage worth a
boy of working age in good health. Like it was water. The waste was like
a slap in the face, utter disregard for the wheels of value and interest
she'd been taught ruled the world.

``Whoever decided there's need to mingle for an hour after the prizes
are announced should be shot,'' the Honoured Guest sighed. ``I'd burn
the invitations if they didn't occasionally have useful stuff.''

``The Closed Circle is pleased to provide for all your needs,'' Indrani
said.

The woman snorted.

``Did you know your people abduct the \emph{salamdeul} who wander too
close to the border?'' she said. ``Rip out the hearts in some pretty
grisly rituals to the Gods. Having one of you in slave livery is like
putting ribbons on a tiger.''

``This one knows not what you speak of,'' Indrani said, desperately
reaching for the phrases she'd been taught. ``Are you enjoying the
auction, Honoured Guest?''

``Praesi highborn speak just like that,'' the woman said. ``They put
accents on different parts, but you're coming from Baalite bastard talk
and they from Wasteland tongues. Their nobles think they're being
distinguished, but they forget Miezan envoys were always slaves.
Mercantis was founded by exiles, you see, you keep the traditions closer
to true.''

``This one was not taught history,'' Indrani tried.

The Honoured Guest smiled strangely.

``I know a man who once said ignorance of precedent is the doom of
empires,'' she said. ``Though you're too young for romance, I suppose.''

The girl hid her relief as well she could. Those particular duties would
not be asked of her, it looked like. The stranger patter her shoulder as
one would pat a pet. Some owners were like that, liked to think of
themselves as benevolent.

``Most of the time, more trouble than it's worth,'' the woman said.
``It's the exceptions that fuck you, mark my words.''

``This one will, Honoured Guest,'' Indrani replied.

It was toothless enough, as far as babbles went, and she'd been forced
to smile and nod and much uglier stuff.

``Ranger,'' the woman said. ``Call me Ranger.''

The slave stiffened. That was not a name, it was a \emph{Name}. The
half-drunk guest at her side had been granted mantle by the Gods
themselves, whether Above or Below. She stood in the presence of
greatness, and greatness was helping itself to another cup of wine and
downing it so quickly she must barely taste it. Indrani glimpsed a tall
silhouette coming from behind and felt cold fear course her veins.
Merchant Lord Septim was young, barely thirty, and had yet to gain the
fat that Mercantians influential enough to vie for the title of Merchant
Prince uniformly wore. His tan face was leathery and desiccated, a match
for those hungry empty eyes that she had learned to fear. Whims were
rare in the man, and generosity ever passing.

``Lady Ranger,'' Septim smiled. ``I see you've taken a shine to my
Indrani.''

The honey-skinned woman glanced at the Merchant Lord like he was waste
scrapped off her boots.

``Speak in my presence again and I'll slit your throat,'' she mildly
said.

The Merchant Lord paled.

``Shoo, copper-counter,'' Ranger said. ``My patience is already running
out.''

Indrani did not smile. When the Honoured Guest was gone, she would still
be a slave -- and one who had witnessed Septim's casual humiliation.
There was a beating for her in it, waiting around the corner. The memory
of the barely-veiled fury on her owner's face wouldn't do much to take
away the dull throb of a caning's aftermath.

``Merchant Lord Septim is said to be the foremost candidate for the
princeship, in a decade,'' Indrani warned quietly.

Ranger chuckled.

``I could open the little shit up from balls to throat and all the
Consortium would do is send me a bill,'' she said. ``Everything's for
sale here. Even the city, famously, though no one's ever had the coin
for it.''

The girl did not reply, for she had nothing to say. Mighty as the Named
was, she would be gone soon enough. The sun set every night, no matter
how warm, and never rose twice the same. Attachment to the transient was
the way of dead slaves.

``Wekesa's little trinket should be interesting, but the loafer in the
Tower wouldn't let anything too useful of her grasp,'' the Honoured
Guest said. ``The only thing worth a second glance here is the
invitation.''

``I know not of what you speak, Lady Ranger,'' Indrani admitted.

``A written invitation to Skade, made from the soul of some poet the
Winter Court took fancy to,'' the woman explained. ``I could carve my
way into Arcadia, but that takes a while, and my gate's even more
finicky.''

``This one was unaware that your hallowed self kept friendship with the
fae,'' the girl said.

``Oh, I don't,'' Ranger smiled. ``You might say I'm fond of their
jewellery, but that'll have to wait until the seasons change.''

Indrani smiled as if she understood. The woman seemed amused but not
fooled.

``So what did they train you for?'' she asked.

``This one has been taught to sing, and still learns the Three Dances
and the Seven Tongues,'' she said.

Lady Ranger laughed loudly and unapologetically, as if it was the
funniest thing she'd ever heard.

``Gods, \emph{singing},'' she gasped. ``Child, your people gouged out
the eyes of a Minister of the Left and sent them to his Emperor along a
demand for half his southern territories. My father sacked Sing Du
twice, burned An Yang to the ground and still lost to the Striped Fleet.
There was a century where the Ashokas bled the high chief of the Onogur
as their \emph{coronation ceremony}. A drop of your blood has more war
in it than half this continent put together.''

She might as well have been speaking in tongues, for all the difference
it made. Names of peoples and cities beyond a sea but a handful knew how
to cross, never to be seen or even heard of again. What did it matter to
Indrani that some kingdom she'd never heard of and she shared the
smallest sliver of kinship with was mighty? She had never left
Mercantis, hadn't even seen most the city. The stranger was marching in
with her colourful stories, and by night's end would march out and leave
a mess behind her -- a mess Indrani would pay for. She hated that, hated
it like poison. She also craved it. It was the difference between one
who had power and one who did not.

``None of those names mean anything here,'' Indrani harshly said. ``My
blood even less.''

``So you have some fire in you,'' Ranger smiled. ``Good. We've got some
fate, you and I, but I've no patience for hollow dolls.''

``We have never met before,'' Indrani said.

``My father would never have been exiled, had he not lost to your
people,'' the Honoured Guest shrugged. ``Would never have met my mother.
That gets you a second look, at least.''

``I am not for sale,'' she bitterly said. ``Will not be for years yet.''

``What the lords of this place deem to be law matters very little to
me,'' the woman said. ``Have you ever used a weapon?''

Indrani shook her head.

``Mercantians do not keep war slaves, my lady,'' she said. ``Only
Stygians do. To lay hands on a blade here is killing offense, save for
the pit fighters.''

``Let's see if you have it in you, then,'' the Lady Ranger said.
``Follow.''

They were noticed. Indrani felt like flinching. Slaves should not be
noticed, no good ever came of it. The Honoured Guest elbowed aside a
dark-skinned Praesi who bowed and offered her manifold apologies, not
that she bothered to listen, and she snatched a hilt without a blade
from atop marble pedestal. She pressed it into Indrani's hands, who
winced as she held it. Moments passed without anything more than the
sensation of cool metal against her palm. The absence stung harder than
she'd thought it would, and the girl damned herself twice for having
hoped. \emph{Hope is the bitter brew, hope is the usher of despair. One
day at a time, never looking back or ahead. I will survive this.}

``Sorcerous was a real prick anyway, as I hear it,'' the Lady Ranger
mused and dropped the hilt back on the pedestal. ``Wasteland aristocrats
always like to talk about sorcery being the best thing the Gods bothered
to shit out, like it ever saved them from a knife in the throat. Steel,
girl, always wins. Remember that.''

Indrani nodded and the worthless advice and followed the madwoman. They
came to stand in front of another pedestal, this one bearing a horn bow
with carved images along the length of the arc. The eyes of everyone in
the room where on them by now. There would be no escaping the
consequences.

``Lycaonese,'' Ranger told her. ``They've always liked these, nothing
quite like them to kill ratlings from a wall. This little piece must be
older than the Principate, back when the Iron Kings still ruled.''

She'd spoken with a degree of respect, but handled the bow like it was a
tool instead of a literally priceless artefact. She strung it casually
and pulled, eyeing the bend with a critical eye before handing it to
Indrani. The girl's fingers closed around the bow and found it fit just
right. Perfectly, as if it had been made for her hand. In the background
she heard a masked woman of the Circle tell Ranger it had been crafted
by Peerless Artisan and the enchantments on it would never lapse, but
the words passed her by without taking hold. Indrani's eyes remained on
the bow and she let instincts she should not have guide her hands. She
looked ahead and pulled the string, feeling the weight of an arrow that
did not exist take hold. It felt\ldots{} it felt like what her mother
should have felt like. Coming home. Closing a circle. She shivered, and
only returned to herself when the Honoured Guest put a hand on her
shoulder. The woman leaned close.

``If you could loose an arrow at anyone, who would it be?'' Ranger
whispered.

Indrani was careful not to look for Septim, not to remember painful
throbs and bruises that were allowed to swell before magic was taken to
them. The Named chuckled.

``And after him, the rest?'' she said.

Indrani slowly shook her head.

``A debt,'' she said. ``Not a cause.''

Ranger smiled and took the bow from her hands, placing it back on the
pedestal. The absence left her hollow.

``What's your name, girl?''

``Indrani,'' she replied.

``Indrani,'' the Ranger repeated, mulling over the word. ``It will do
for now. Come along, duckling. We're leaving.''

``I'm not for sale,'' the slave replied, alarmed.

``Consider this your first lesson, duckling,'' the Lady of the Lake
said. ``Rules should only be a concern when someone is able to enforce
them upon you.''

Indrani saw a wild glint in those eyes, and her fate writ in it.
\emph{Never looking back or ahead}, she thought.

She smiled, and for the first time in a very long while it was genuine.
