‘Now, my friends, here is the once-in-a-lifetime slave that you have been saving all your silver for,’ although it was unnecessary, Jaskar pulled on the chain that led to the collar around Marcus’s neck and he was dragged forward a step, ‘please open the character sheet for Marcus Korol.’ The crowd of citizens in front of the wooden stage were blank-faced and Marcus presumed they were looking at his character sheet. Since he still had access to it, he did the same.

Marcus Korol

Modified human*

Str 7

Con 8

Dex 12

Int 15

Wis 11

Cha 11

*Does not age (age fixed at 27). Teeth do not decay. Perfect vision. Immune to cancers and malarial diseases.

Top Skills

Artistry 20

Crafting 7

Negotiation 2

Boxing 1

Chemistry 1

Construction 1

Foraging 1

Hide 1

Listen 1

Move Silently 1

Pathfinding 1

Research 1

Weaponsmith 1

‘My fellow citizens of Three Towers, we were lucky in capturing a survivor of the crash of a spaceship: a man with extraordinary skills and qualities. As I’m sure you noticed right away, this slave has an Artistry skill of twenty.’

Voice dropping to an intimate tone that stilled the murmurs as everyone strained to listen to him, the small slaver who had captured Marcus repeated: ‘Twenty. The Ark Andulan have possession of the greatest artist on Grimworld and, as far as we know, the greatest by at least five points.’

‘Some of you work silver. Some ivory. Some leather. Others clay. Imagine this slave in your workshop, helping you create your products. You will become famous and your goods will be sought after the whole world over. You will be able to command extraordinary prices, without incurring any extra costs in obtaining your materials.

‘This is why I start the bidding at a thousand silver ingots,’ a sudden wave of voices welled up and Jaskar held up his right hand, palm facing the crowd, until they stilled. ‘I know it is a big investment for you; for some of you, it will require your life’s savings. But your new slave will prove worth it. Look at his alien attributes: he does not age, his teeth do not decay, he has perfect vison and he’s immune to cancers and malarial diseases. Isn’t that a powerful reassurance? All of us have had slaves die on us, or become old and useless, but this one won’t age; he’ll keep going and going. Long after you hand over your workshop to your children, this artist will be there, earning you fame and wealth in such abundance that visitors from the most remote tribes will bring gifts to your large and well-furnished home, in the hope of being allowed to purchase your goods.’

Marcus had to give the little fella his due; he was a good salesman. On Earth, he would have been useful in charge of a call centre. Having respect for a talent didn’t make Marcus hate the man any less: Marcus despised all sales people, even those who had tried to sell his artworks. The avoidance of sales calls was one of the many reasons Marcus had lived as a recluse and in the relative poverty of his little cottage. All of a sudden, Marcus felt terribly homesick.

‘Who will It be? Who will become the acclaimed founder of a dynasty of master crafters? Who will start the bidding at one thousand silver ingots?’

‘I will,’ came the deep voice of a burly man

‘One thousand, one hundred!’ cried a woman.

And the bids rapidly mounted.

Marcus studied the people biding with close interest. Would he end up with a harsh owner, who kept him narrowly confined? And beat him? It was a strange and awful feeling to be in someone else’s power. Only now did Marcus appreciate that while he might have been poor on Earth – very poor – at least he had been free. More than forty years had passed since he last worked for somebody else. And even that had been for the friend of a friend who wanted a mural of St John Bosco on the gable end of a school building. Nothing too oppressive. Now, he was going to be set to work as a slave and by someone who had spent a fortune by the standards of the Ark Andulan and who therefore probably would want to get that money back as soon as possible.

The immediate future looked grim. But at least Marcus was wanted for his art. Other slaves were heading for arduous physical work, like the two from Kanagara, who had been sold to a cattle farmer and who told Marcus they would be in for hours of milking and churning every day. They had not been impressed with Marcus, because he had no plan, no allies, and no money for bribes. They did not believe in him but Marcus had resolved to escape and to bring them away with him when he ran. True, he didn’t have a plan, yet, but once he was settled under a roof and had learned the routines of Three Towers, he’d spot a way out, he was sure.

The bids halted at one thousand seven hundred. And then a tall, blonde man, whose hair was unusually short for someone of the Ark Andulan cried, ‘two thousand silver!’ And that was Marcus’s selling price.

Kregar was a pot maker and his home was one of the few buildings in Three Towers that had two floors; they were small though: the height of the ground floor roof was barely above Kregar’s head. On the ground floor were two potter’s wheels; a tall box full of clay (above the box, a funnel-shaped opening in the wall presumably allowed clay to be shovelled in from outside the house); a worktable and three stools; a variety of tools for trimming and marking the clay; several buckets of water; and shelves with unvarnished pots but also with pots that were full of glaze. At the far end of the room were three beds, if straw inside a rectangular box counted as a bed. It was here that Marcus was to sleep and he consoled himself with the thought that it had to be warmer than the cold ground on which he’d slept during the three days since his capture.

The worktable was covered in grey streaks of clay and splashes of the same dried-out clay were all over the floor and walls. The scent of the room wasn’t too bad, an earthy smell was much better than the reek of human waste that had lingered over the holding pen. Two other slaves worked in the shop, both dressed in the same ragged smocks that distinguished all the slaves of Ark Andulan from the free citizens. When Marcus held out his hand and introduced himself, the middle-aged woman he was approaching opened her eyes wide with surprise and looked over his shoulder towards Kregar.

‘This is Marcus,’ Kregar said from behind him. ‘He’s new and doesn’t know the rules. You can teach him. And Marcus?’

‘Yes?’

‘You address me as master and you do not speak to anyone, especially other slaves, unless you have been asked to do so. Now, this,’ he gestured towards the woman with grey hair, ‘is Carmella, she will show you how we do things here. And his,’ Kregar waved his hand towards a male youth, ‘is a useless boy called Farkin. He is too clumsy to learn to make pots but he can pass you the clay and pour water for you.’

To view the character sheets of Carmella and Farkin would have been useful, Kregar too. But all that remained of menu options that would open was the top menu of the Ark Andulan tribe and his own character sheet:

The Ark Andulan

Population: 418

Happiness: 45/100

Stockpile: permission not granted.

Residences: permission not granted.

Industrial Buildings: permission not granted.

Energy sources: permission not granted.

Agricultural lands: permission not granted.

Mines: permission not granted.

Armoury: permission not granted.

Prisons: permission not granted.

Kregar walked over to a wheel. ‘Let’s see what you can do.’

On Earth, Marcus had explored ceramic art for a dozen years or so, and he was therefore confident that he could produce something worthwhile. At the same time, there were pots and bowls on the shelves that were perfectly good and likely to be better than anything he could produce until he had practised with the equipment here.

‘Apologies, master,’ said Marcus carefully, ‘I have some experience at making pots but my real skill is in decorating them. Perhaps you would allow me to glaze that large pot there as my first task?’ He pointed to a jar with a wide centre but narrow neck, a receptacle for water or wine perhaps.

‘Certainly,’ nodded Kregar, lifting the pot down from the shelf with strong hands. ‘It’s a good choice, I like this one. Carmella made it; she has a crafting skill of seven, the same as yours. Mine is only five: sufficient for the small stuff but I leave the big jars for her. And now for you.’

‘May I?’ Marcus stood beside the shelves with the glazes and brushes.

‘Go ahead. But don’t forget to call me master.’

‘Apologies, master.’

Until he gained experience in using these glazes, Marcus could not be completely sure how they would turn out once fired, but there was a small tile beside each pot that was obviously a test item to indicate what the final result might look like. Choosing a teal colour and a copper one, Marcus lifted the pots down and picked up a selection of brushes.

First placing the pot on an iron-handled skillet that was clearly meant for carrying work to the kiln, Marcus looked up at Kregar.

‘You may speak.’

‘Is the kiln ready?’

‘It is always lit.’

‘It needs to be as hot as possible,’ said Marcus, adding, ‘master.’

See to it boy,’ grunted Kregar and immediately Marcus heard the response as the youth hurried to the far end of the long house, to the door opposite the one he had entered. The kiln must be out back.

For several minutes Marcus applied the teal in thick, confident strokes, until the woman made a sound, a stifled gasp. Looking up, she had her hand over her mouth. The youth had returned and was looking anxious. Kregar, on the other hand, was untroubled.

‘May I speak master?’ Marcus turned his attention back to the pot. Swift motions were needed now, catching the glaze with the tip of a brush as it slid down the clay and bring it up again, creating a thick, more-or-less even layer around the pot. To hesitate or take his attention away now would be to ruin it.

‘You may.’

‘Is something wrong?’ Marcus asked.

‘Maybe, maybe not. We will see. That is a most expensive glaze. We usually use it for thin lines only, not to slap onto entire pots and especially not such a large pot. But today, I have lost a fortune and I need to understand if I’ve been a fool or not. So you carry continue with this glaze and we will find out.’

No pressure then, thought Marcus to himself. Inside, though, he was untroubled. Far from it. The clay of the pot was a good texture, rough enough to be absorbent but not so rough as to create unwanted bubbles of glaze. The colour was promising and even the rivulets that ran unevenly towards the base Marcus could catch and turn to his advantage. Long ago on Earth he had visited Cyprus and it was a grotto he had seen there that was in his imagination now.

A few minutes more and then he hurriedly flicked lines of copper across the design and lifted the skillet with both hands, balancing the pot as he walked briskly to the far door. It was essential to fasten the glaze before it became thin at the top and thick at the bottom and before the copper colour became diluted.

Made of orange bricks, the kiln was large, its body about the size of Kregar himself and the chimney stretching up another metre. The workshop owner – his new master – grabbed the handle of the door with a gloved hand and as soon as it was open Marcus slid the skillet inside.

Beside him, Carmella gestured and put her hands on the wooden haft. Giving her room, Marcus watched with interest as she twisted and withdrew just the wooden part, leaving the metal plate inside the kiln. Kregar slammed the door. Giving Carmella a glance and a nod, to say that he understood and thanked her, Marcus stepped back and looked around. This was a yard with fragments of broken pottery everywhere. There was a chest-high wicker fence separating the yard from those of neighbours either side and a hinged piece of wicker behind the kiln looked like it would allow access to a road beyond the back. There would be no difficulty escaping this house. The problem would be the wooden stockade around the town and the patrols of guards. While in the pen, Marcus had learned that there was a curfew for all slaves. If he was caught in the streets after dark, he would be killed and painfully too, placed in a cage to die of thirst and put on show as a lesson to other slaves. He’d seen the cage all right, hanging in the main square under a pyramid made of three large three trunks.

Raising his hand, Marcus caught Kregar’s eye.

‘Now?’ his owner asked.

Marcus nodded and felt the wash of heat when the door was opened. Stepping forward, Carmella reattached the haft of the skillet with another firm twist and then brought out the pot.

‘By Torfen’s teeth, that’s magnificent!’

The pot was good, as he’d known it would be. A deep, glorious teal evoked an undersea cave, the lighter blue towards the top as natural as the sea itself on a sunny day, the darker depths requiring no justification, no apology for the thickness of the glaze. That was the realm of sea monsters. The streaks of copper ran though the lighter water as beams of sunlight, making it seem that any imperfections were simply the illuminations of bubbles and currents of lighter water within the darkness.

The woman was looking at him with tears in her eyes. The youth’s mouth was wide open.

Glowing inside with the sense of achievement that came from successfully practicing his art, Marcus found himself smiling broadly. And he wasn’t finished.

Two hours later, the underwater scene was complete, with a sinister black-tendrilled monster around the base of the pot, reaching upwards through purple fronds. In front of the workshop was a space for two tables, where Kregar displayed his wares and where he sat now, proud in his bearing and conversing with the members of a growing crowd. Marcus watched with interest through a window and was pleased with the expressions of astonishment and awe of those viewing the pot. Clearly, the Ark Andulan had never seen anything like this.

Behind him, Carmella came close enough to touch her mouth to his ear. And she whispered, ‘teach me. You are the real master in this house.’