“I see.” Tel Hesani broke off another chunk of bread, smeared it in drippings, then watched the fat drip off the end of the bread. When the last drop had fallen, he brought the bread to his mouth and bit into it. He spoke while chewing. “Your cur has no friends, so he wants to buy a faithful hound of his own.”

Jebel’s breath caught in his throat. His first impulse was to grab a weapon and strike the slave dead. But there were no knives on the table. As he wildly considered his options — perhaps he could use a pig’s hoof as a makeshift club — J’An said, “Your mouth will get you into trouble one day.”

Tel Hesani smiled without humor. He rubbed a long, fresh welt on his back. “I’ve lived with trouble a long time now.”

J’An winced. “I tried again to buy you back,” he said. “I met an Um Saga trader in the al-Breira who was on his way to Wadi. I paid him to bid for you, hoping your master wouldn’t realize I was behind it. But his offer was rejected. He was told that all the swagah in Abu Aineh couldn’t buy you.”

“Your enemies hate with a vengeance,” Tel Hesani noted drily.

“They have nothing better to do than hate and scheme,” J’An said bitterly. The table shook from where he gripped it. “You’ll die on the docks soon. Your wife and daughters will be sold to the vilest bordello-keepers in Wadi, and your son will perish down the mines in the al-Tawla.”

“A cheerless prediction,” Tel Hesani said softly. “But true.” He glanced at his family. They were staring at him expressionlessly.

“I can’t help you,” J’An said. “But I can save Murasa and your children.”

Tel Hesani’s round eyes narrowed. “You think that you can buy them?”

“Better. I can free them.”

Tel Hesani said nothing for a moment, a frown creasing his features. Finally he whispered, “How?”