The Right to Die | ✓ Amby Winner 2023

18.2 Sellout

M'yu finished his plate and smiled up at them. "Thank you."

Ruslan stared, eyes wide. Dymtrus scowled at the boy, then picked up his own fork and resumed eating. "You are sending him to Washfall, aren't you?" he asked Aevryn.

"We will see when the time comes," Aevryn said evenly.

Dymtrus scoffed. "Your daughter is the only other one of eligible age to send."

"Oh, I'm sure his daughter won't fight," Xten said. "We know her infirmities keep her from participating in the Right to Sheath." He was looking past Aevryn, though, regarding M'yu. M'yu met his gaze, chin tipped up, and Xten smiled. "You know," he said, "you should come back to the Prav'sudja sometime and let me and Oluto entertain you. It takes being exposed to the finer things to get used to them, and it's evident that the Gold House is not what it once was."

"We have everything we need," Aevryn said.

"But surely you wouldn't begrudge the boy an open invitation to my home, would you?" Those baby teeth flashed Aevryn's way. "There aren't many that have that honor, especially not many of his circumstances."

A dessert course came out, and M'yu cut the pastry into tiny, invisible bites. "Then why bestow it on me, sir?"

Aevryn turned sharply, as if surprised M'yu had spoken. M'yu glanced past him at the Tsaright.

Xten grinned, eyes twinkling. "Because you seem an exceptional young man. It would be my pleasure to get to know you."

Ruslan said, "Perhaps I could escort him, sir. We could leave from school together."

Xten angled his head. "Did I invite you?"

"No, sir, I just thought—"

"Don't worry about thinking." The wrinkles around Xten's mouth deepened, turning his smile into a landscape of abysses.

Ruslan shrunk in his chair, and M'yu's gut twisted. It reminded him of the way his mother would shrink back when the Vulture first started shopping her stall—having never laid a hand on her, she knew the havoc he could wreak. "This pastry is excellent," M'yu said. It looked excellent, at least, and he was sure it was of fine quality. He just hadn't taken a bite yet.

Xten turned his gaze to M'yu, and Ruslan relaxed. "It should be," he said. "I only purchase the finest slaves after all."

M'yu's blood pounded in his ears, but he pasted a smile onto his face. His eyes flicked around the room to all the men and women hidden in serving alcoves. He hadn't really seen them the first time; they held themselves like people who didn't want to be seen: shoulders hunched, eyes downcast. They wore the platinum color of the Prav'sudja, but their clothes were ill-fit. Or fit for a different purpose. The women's dresses were sleeveless and skintight, exposing every line in their willowy frames. The men wore no shirts at all, only silver gloves and cuffs around their wrists and neck, showing off finely-tuned muscles. They were show-pieces, the garnish to the dinner. M'yu's throat burned, and he looked down at his plate, to the fluffy, exquisite pastry someone's hands had crafted in careful fear.

"Wouldn't you have been a slave if Aevryn hadn't cleared your name?" Xten asked. "It's funny how these things work out. Now you have the right to own one."

M'yu looked up at the Tsaright, eyes burning. "I have no interest in owning a person."

"No? A shame. I was planning on gifting you one." He beckoned, and one of the Tsaright's slaves opened a door. This girl wore the same demeaning outfit as the other slave women, except for two things. Platinum manacles bound her wrists behind her back, and a silver-coated rope ran across her mouth and beneath her fiery hair, gagging her. She stood tall, shoulders straight, even as two soldiers led her into the room.