Too much else at stake right now.

You ever see the trawlers come in at harbor end, Tigeth? he asked evenly. You think every fish in that net makes it to market?

Chain links rattled impatiently at Gerin s shoulder. A tight, angry voice in the gathering dark.

What are you talking about fish?

It was another city dweller, Gerin didn t recall the name, this one more gaunt and work-worn than Tigeth. He d barely spoken a word in the week they d been marching; at rest stops, he spent the bulk of his time staring off into space, jaw set and working as if he had the last shreds of a tobacco twist between his teeth.

Like most of his kind, he still didn t seem able to get his head around the enormity of what had been done to him.

Shit is what he s talking, Tigeth sneered. Doesn t know any better. I mean, look at him; he s a stunted little marsh brat just like any other you d see down at Strov market, reading fortunes or twitching for the crowd. Can t read, can t write, chances are he can t even count above five. He s got no idea how commercial concerns work.

Gerin smiled bleakly.

Well, since you and everyone else on this coffle was sold for debt, I guess that makes us about even.

Tigeth swore and lunged at him. Brief, impotent rattle of chains and a chorus of protests as the move dragged at the other men where they sat. The gaunt man grappled Tigeth back, held the fat man s twitching hands a few inches off Gerin s face until Tigeth gave it up and slumped down again.

Sit quiet, you fucking twat, the gaunt man hissed. You want a march-master on us? Want to end up like Barat?

Gerin s gaze switched involuntarily to the set of wrenched and empty manacles they still carried with them on the coffle. Big, tough Barat, a harbor-end pimp by trade, had come to the auction block the same way as Gerin through the criminal courts.