They have to sell us, Tigeth insisted petulantly.

It isn t in their interests to

They have to sell some of us, Mister Commerce. Enough of us to make it pay. Like I said before, you think a trawl skipper cares if he spills a few fish on the dock when he unloads?

How old are you, son? someone asked curiously.

Gerin skinned an urchin grin in the gloom. Fifteen. And contrary to what Mister Commerce there tells you, I can count above five. I count thirty-five coffles on this caravan, thirty-two head on each. That s eleven hundred and twenty, less Barat, and you saw what happened to him. You think any one of us is worth the extra water or the wait while they coddle us along? This is march or die, people, and Hoiran gather in the hindmost. You re not citizens anymore, you re slaves. You fall down out there, they ll maybe kick you a couple of times to see if you can get up again. But if you don t He spread his hands in the manacles, shrugged. They re going to cut you loose and leave you to die right where you fell.

Maybe that s true, said the gaunt man slowly. But maybe we just like to think it ll happen to someone else. Hell, maybe it will happen to someone else. We ve all made it this far.

There was a murmur of agreement through the huddled figures on the chain. But as it died down, the gaunt man was gazing blankly southward, and he seemed unconvinced by his own argument.

Never been in a desert, he said to no one in particular. Never seen that before.

Someone else sneezed violently.

I ve seen march or die, said another man seated farther away. Half his face was nightmarishly scarred, poorly healed burns so severe that even in the failing light you could see the puckered contours of the scar tissue as he moved his head.