James Gardner - A Changeable Market in Slaves

In the first day of the Month of the Quill, Slavemonger TPrin finally admitted to himself he was bankrupt.

On the first day of the Month of the Quill, Slavemonger TPrin finally admitted to herself she was bankrupt.

On the first day of the Festival of Galactic Harmony, Slavemonger TPrin finally admitted to himself that the Avatar of Financial Abundance had not accepted his sacrifice.

On the first day of the Month of Joyous Struggle, Mother Machine awoke Slavemonger TPrin with the cheery message, Good morning, Citizen. In order to serve you better, your credit chip has been reduced to scrap plastic.

On the first day of the Month of Desolation, Slavemonger TPrin found no cup of blood by the coffin when he rose at sunset. The servants were dead, the chapel had been desecrated, and his possessions were gone, down to the last gold candlestick.

On the day after the orcs had been driven across the river for another winter, Slavemonger TPrin discovered the contents of his storehouse had gone with them.

On the day after his revivification, Slavemonger TPrin was informed by an embarrassed Integration Counselor that he had been reclassified as Financially Bereft, Category III (Organ Donor).

On the third day of Ragnarok, Slavemonger TPrin finally admitted to himself that business would not improve.

On the day after Judgment, Lucifer informed Slavemonger TPrin of a universal truth: you really cant take it with you.

On the day after his reincarnation, Slavemonger TPrin realized money is useless to those without opposable thumbs.

It was the first day of the Month of the Quill, a cold gray day with the wind blowing down from the hills like a banshee looking for fun, a day when the whores on Galadriel Boulevard were lowering their prices to get indoors faster and the thieves from Rudyard Alley stole gloves instead of gold; the sort of day when you long to be inside with someone wholl say she loves you and maybe for a while youll even let yourself believe it because you want to think theres such a thing in the world as warmth. Not the sort of day for sitting in your office and going over bank statements again and again, looking for anything that will tell you its all a mistake, that the money isnt really gone like a woman whos decided she needs time to find herself.

My names TPrin. I sell slaves.

He awoke, remembering nothing. They told him his name was TPrin, that hed been a slavemonger, that he was now bankrupt. They thought hed want to know what date it was and kept repeating it to him.

Hed never heard of the Month of the Quill he knew the months by other names. But hed call it Quill if they did. Hed play along with everything they said until he found out who he was this time and what the hell theyd done to his eyes.

I say, fellows, said Waddams after the sherry had been poured and the esteemed members of the Zambezi Club were settled into their accustomed postprandial positions, did you hear about old TPrinzy?

Slavemonger TPrin thought his worst problem was impending bankruptcy. Had he but known of the gibbering horror that was even now slithering from the well behind his isolated country home, had he caught the merest glimpse of its fetid claws dripping with noisome ichor or its thousands of facial

tentacles blasphemously quivering with subliminal phallic intent, had he suspected for a single moment that before the night was through he would come face-to-face with the malevolent forces that wait in a place beyond darkness for the call that will summon them into our blindly unsuspecting world perhaps the demands of his creditors would have occupied less of his mind.

As she drove along the yew-lined driveway toward the imposing Jacobean manor where she was to serve as governess to the TPrin offspring, Harmony Bellancourt thought back to the unsettling interview where she met the broodingly handsome master of the house and said to herself, I suppose it doesnt matter that hes a notorious slavemonger, as long as he pays me.

Month of the Quill. Day one. Slaves restive. Hungry. Told them I was bankrupt. They thought I was lying.

Those muties will have to learn to believe me.

Slavemonger TPrin came onstage wearing his trademark leather and leopard skins and immediately broke into his hit single Month of the Quill. The throbbing beat reached into the audience like a grimy fist, grabbed every blood-meat heart, and squeezed with a grip that tore away candy-assed restraints. It was a sonic drug, an injection of Primo Primeval that mixed with the other chemicals in the mobs bloodstream to make a groin-grinding stew. Maybe the preachers were right when they said TPrin was morally bankrupt; but bankrupt boys could still kick ass and the preachers shouldnt forget it. When Slavemonger played, the audience demanded to be slaves; and they were, by God, they were.

How many times had TPrin walked down this narrow lane? How many times had he slunk away, from the law courts, avoiding the high street for fear of meeting someone he knew, someone who would ask about the proceedings against him? How many times had he come this way with his head reeling, wondering what tricks he could use when the bailiffs served him with another summons? Yet in all those times, hed never before noticed the little shop tucked between the out-of-business bakery and the run-down travel agency: a little shop with its window caked in dirt and a door sign reading EXOTIC CURIOS.

In the land of Ithlandril, at the confluence of the rivers Udalanar and Surandimir, not far from the Plains of Occlanoue where Garth One-Finger fought the Battle of Kennings Mill against Malevon Darkstrider and the forces of Hnurn, a days march from the Jhallawel Forest so famous for Baullahnut berries and the nomadic Quinquopel horses, there was a village named FeHuulins Rest, not named after FeHuulin the Gray, as you might expect, but after his son by the beauteous Ellandewollinir, FeHuulin dEllandewollinir, sometimes called FeHuulin Vallamarn or more simply FeHuulin of the Seven Dancing Servants of Rynnhwn; and though the village had the reputation

throughout the length and breadth of Adragharzh as a place of wealth and prosperity, second only to the cities of the Diacrectic League in the Archipelago Isles of Dragon Longing, it happened that a certain slavemonger named TPrin, on the first day of the Month of the Quill (or more fully, Quillaamerxhanderzjee), discovered that, though filled with rue, he must file a writ of surrendered suzerainty before the Judges of Ulm.

One ducat and eighty-seven pence. That was all. And sixty pence of it was in coppers. Coppers saved one and two at a time by haggling with the meatmonger and the wine merchant and the temple prostitutes until ones cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times TPrin counted it. One ducat and eighty-seven pence. And the next day was the slave auction.

Listen. TPrin was a slavemonger in the last days of slaves, when everybody owned them and made excuses. Owners said they couldnt just free the slaves because they were like children in adult bodies, too nave to get along in the world. And it wasnt a good time to start paying them as hired hands, because crop prices were down. And slaves really were happier with someone else taking all the responsibilities.

TPrin was a slavemonger in the last days of slaves, when shipping embargoes by emancipated countries reduced incoming supplies, when local slave owners felt guilty about buying new slaves, when the market fell through. He had been an honest businessman in a trade that people once said was necessary. He kept his stock healthy and always gave customers good value.

Still, through no fault of his own, he found he was bankrupt. And he had no idea what to tell his family.