Estienne stood on the dais, his back to Akan and the court before him. He was alone; it seemed that the monthly auctions usually only had one or two slaves to sell. This time, he was the sole offering.

Akan had displayed either a perverted sense of humour, or an astute business sense; Estienne couldn't decide. He'd been dressed in a long robe of white silk so sheer it hid nothing of his body. They'd painted his cock and nipples in silver leaf, and his eyelids and lips to match, visible through the diaphanous fabric.  A flush of violet colour had been given to his cheeks with powdered berries, and his hair coiled in ringlets on top of his head, secured with long ivory pins topped with lapis. The son of the moon, they'd styled him, and slipped shoes studded with crystal beads on his feet. They sparkled pleasingly every time he moved, and he couldn't help but admire their beauty.

But it wasn't the attire that humiliated him: He'd dressed in similar fashion enough times to be comfortable with it, to enjoy the feel of the silk on his naked skin, and to admire the glint of precious metals and the sparkle of jewels. He'd been many things to many people, and had never felt that he told any of them a lie. But he'd never been sold. Not like this. People had paid handsome sums for a night of pleasure with him, when he'd enjoyed a stint or two of work as a whore in the Carthan brothels. He knew what to do with every part of a body regardless of what form it took. And he'd made a small fortune doing it.

This was different. Then, nobody had owned him. Nobody had fastened a silver collar around his neck and left him chained to a bed, save for an hour or two while they played with his cock or explored the crevice between his buttocks. Akan had done neither of those things, nor had he ordered anyone else to do them while he watched. He had chained Estienne up like a dog, and made him sleep on a velvet cushion with a bowl for his food and another for water. Estienne vowed to stick a knife in him the moment he got the chance. 

He put as much arrogance as he could muster into the stare hecould hardly bring themselves to dare, casting furtive glances over his lewd appearance, their cheeks flushed and their eyes uneasy. Estienne could smell the sweat of nervousness on them, penetrating the pungent oils they wore, the scents of heavy incense that filled the hall. He began to wonder if Akan was wrong and he would not fetch a very high price after all. 

The bidding opened at a gesture from Akan, at twenty-thousand opinas. Estienne preened, pleased despite his distaste for the trade. In his own lands, that amount was equal to five hundred gold brochet coins. A princely sum.

His performance was artful. He let the breeze press his robe against his body, outlining his genitals and the soft curve of his chest, his taut belly and lean thighs. He fluttered his eyelashes and slicked his silver lips with his tongue so they glistened.  He waited out the bids; when his price reached a full thousand brochet, he reached up languidly and unpinned his hair. Silver locks tumbled about his shoulders. The crowd gasped. One more bid, he thought. One more bid, and that will make it worthwhile what I do next.

There was a pause; one heartbeat, then two, and three. Then a lady, veiled in green, stepped forward. She flicked her hand, filigreed in gold.

Fifty thousand opinas. 

'Sold!' Akan rose. The gong sounded, signalling the end of the auction, and the crowd clapped politely.

Estienne turned on his heel, snatched Akan's meat knife from the table, and rammed it into his throat.