Inside The Silken Rope a tall lizard, wearing fine clothes, stepped forward, bowing low before Buffy and Spike. Asking for names in a sibilant hiss, it took their cloaks and waved them into a long marble hallway. Buffy knew a little of Aurelia’s bloody past - conquering, controlling and finally trading peacefully with other planets, other life forms - but this was her first encounter with something so completely 'other.' And when had Aurelians become normal to her? Trying not to stare at the elegant reptile, she followed Spike.

There were at least fifty people - some richly dressed, some not - standing in secretive groups or reclining on the plush couches that lined the walls. A number of pretty young men, wearing thongs of coloured silk and nothing else, padded barefoot between the guests, proffering heavy goblets filled with wine or blood. Snacks on silver trays were arranged on tables and candles were everywhere, giving off a spicy, warm scent.

The newcomers found an empty seat, Brack remained standing, back to the wall, but when Buffy made as if to sit next to Spike, he growled, throwing a cushion to the floor by his feet and pointing to it. She sank onto it gracefully and kept her head lowered. Unexpectedly, Buffy felt tears pricking at her eyes. A hand snaked under her hair, stroking the back of her neck reassuringly as they waited. Spike leaned forward, giving instructions in a low voice. “Was hoping for a more respectable place, Buffy, but we’re here now and must make the best of it. Whatever happens, keep your eyes down and don’t look up. Whatever you hear, don’t react and don’t speak. Whatever I tell you to do, do. I promise I won’t let anything bad happen. Will you trust me in this?” Strangely, she didn’t even hesitate before giving a tiny nod in reply.

A series of heavy wooden doors lined the corridor. At intervals a youth would take someone inside or assist as guests, some a little unsteady on their feet, left the building.

Just as Buffy was beginning to relax, a high male voice startled her.

“Oh, how precious.” A thin, long-haired male of indeterminate age was standing before them clasping his hands in apparent delight. He regarded them avidly, eyes moist. “How exquisite you both are.”

Spike set aside the wine he’d been sipping and looked up slowly.

“You the owner of this establishment?”

“Alas, no, but it is my pleasure to be Sylvestre, the manager, and you are strangers to The Silken Rope…” It wasn’t a question. “…but soon we will be good friends, I’m sure.”

“I’m always looking for new friends,” drawled Spike. “New experiences, new treasures for my collection,” he added with a raised eyebrow.

“Ah.” Sylvestre closed his eyes, lids fluttering. “An Aurelian with breeding and taste…and such a beauty, too.”

Buffy wasn’t sure who he was referring to.

“Come, we must choose just the right room for you. Now, if you would like to tell me what you desire to collect?”

“Well, I’m thinking an ancient sword, a finely crafted dagger…perhaps an axe?”

Sylvestre gave a small moue of disappointment. “You need weapons?”

“What can I say? They make me feel all manly.”

Sylvestre cleared his throat slightly, eyes glazing, before motioning them to rise. “Come, you will join us in the red room, you and your angelic little footmaiden. Your guard will wait outside. I shall introduce you to the clients and dealers who share your passion, although,” he lowered his voice, regarding Buffy perceptively, “they are a bit of a mixed lot I’m afraid. Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Spike stood and reached down to pull Buffy to her feet. Pressing up to her back he reached an arm around her, resting his fingers lightly against her throat. Brushing his cheek against hers he spoke softly but loud enough to be heard. “What say you, my lovely, shall we go with our new friend?” Immediately pressing a finger to her lips he shook his head. “Sorry, I forgot that your opinions don’t matter.” He shrugged. “Oh well.”

Buffy breathed a little too heavily through her nose, but otherwise didn’t respond.

Sylvestre ushered them through a door at the far end of the corridor; it was stained a deep red. The room inside was a similar colour, curtained, and poorly lit. Spike glanced around, making a swift assessment of the other occupants. A dozen customers and traders, all male, were sitting in comfortable leather armchairs, forming a loose circle around a long, low table. Some appeared anxious at having a female among them; others were just gaping at her flimsily clad body. They looked unpleasant, but none were a physical threat. Another youth - this one completely naked - was standing, hands bound with red silk anchored above his head, against the wall. His eyes were dreamy. No names were exchanged and the manager simply introduced Spike as a visitor to Lossangel who was looking for something a little special. He didn’t acknowledge Buffy’s presence at all.

Leading Spike to a high-backed chair, Sylvestre motioned for one of the ever-present servants to get a soft, padded footstool. Spike sprawled into the chair, tugging Buffy down onto the stool before him. Placing a boot on either side of her he drew it close till she was kneeling sideways between his thighs, forehead resting on his leg. Accepting more wine he beamed around the room with an easy grin, waiting for someone to make a move.

One of the merchants drew closer; he had the appearance of a toad that had boiled its head then glued raisins all over it. He licked his puffy lips and stared at Buffy. Reaching out to touch her hair he croaked, “How much?”

Spike gripped toadman’s wrist in a flash, exerting enough force to make him squeal before finally letting go and wiping his fingers down his coat as if he had something slimy on them. The merchant scuttled backwards with a glare.

“My property’s not for sale, at any price. I’m after buying not selling. And, as you can see…” Spike gripped Buffy’s hair and pulled her head back so that he could give her a hard kiss on the mouth before pressing her down again and looking up slyly. “I only want the best.”

“I’ve heard of them but never seen one,” a rather flushed merchant breathed in awe. “Well don’t get any ideas,” snorted another, a hatchet faced man with a pronounced squint. “Your wife would have your nadds roasting over an open fire.”

“What can I say?” said Spike, sneering. “If you can afford it, even an Aurelian bitch will willingly place her neck under your heel.” The rest of the room joined in with laughter and the mood changed. Spike and his passive little strumpet were accepted into the group.

Spike dared a glance down, he was still smirking for his audience but his eyes were apologetic. Buffy was peeking up at him, one eye just visible through the curtain of her hair. ‘It’s okay, I’ll kill you later,’ she appeared to be saying.

***

One by one the traders pulled forth items for perusal, presented in lavish boxes or wrapped in ancient desiccated cloth. Each object was placed on the table and their provenance explained in ever more fanciful terms. The reactions of the collectors ranged from undisguised lust to downright scepticism.

“Hah! I was offered Dagon’s spear just last week and it at least looked halfway genuine. This one is clearly from the Molbovite wars, and of inferior quality at that!”

“The sword of Errik the Beast, you say? Tell me, does it really carve a body into seven pieces at a single stroke?”

Spike glanced around looking bored, his offhand comments proving that he knew at least as much as his companions. The only person not paying attention was a small, roughly dressed trader snoring quietly in the shadows, a cup of wine tipped over in his lap. Pretty soon the genuine articles were winnowed from the showy stuff and haggling began in earnest.

Spike brought his goblet to Buffy’s lips from time to time, allowing only small sips and when fresh pastries arrived he broke off little pieces and handfed her titbits. More at ease and getting a little bored now, Buffy nibbled at his retreating fingers. Spike edged his other hand down the front of her dress and tweaked a nipple in warning. Apart from a little gasp, Buffy didn’t move, but her breast swelled under his warm palm before he reluctantly removed it.

After an hour a short break was declared and more refreshments arrived. Coin and jewels were doled out in return for goods and receipts. One trader signalled a doe-eyed youth to kneel at his feet. The youth quickly slipped the offered silver piece under his thong and reached for the man's flies, the air filling with sucking noises until the man spasmed and went limp.

Toadman, who’d been feverishly staring at Buffy from a safe distance, got up, adjusted himself and strode over to the young man bound at the wall. Producing a fat purse he shook out several uncut stones into his sweaty paw and, selecting the smallest, pushed it roughly into the boy’s mouth. Grabbing a large burning pillar candle he returned and promptly tilted it against the boy’s chest. The boy arched up, fighting not to make a sound. Again and again the wax fell, forming bobbled white streaks - the pretty victim soon resembling a candle himself - while Toadman, his other hand frantically rubbing his own cock, sought release. Finally, without warning, he brought the candle down to the boy’s groin and poured the searing liquid over his genitals. As the boy screamed, and promptly passed out, Toadman gave a blissful yell and came all over him.

Buffy, smelling hot wax and hearing the boy’s whimpers and final cry, her imagination filling in the gaps, nudged even closer to Spike, heart pounding. He in turn draped his arms around her shoulders casually, but protectively. Thankfully the floor show seemed to have reached an end, and when Sylvestre returned, furious that Toadman had gone too far, the unfortunate lad was roused enough to be released and helped, stumbling, from the room, his payment swallowed and lost for the time being. The manager grudgingly accepted a second gem for ‘damages’ and left.

Finally, the room settled again for the last items of the evening. So far Spike had spent nothing and was aware that he should really purchase something with Anjell’s funds. A collection of knives came up next; plain, with worn etching along the blade and hilt, and the telltale blue sheen of weremetal. Spike held each carefully before choosing one. The secret of making weremetal had died out centuries ago and even the best forgers couldn’t reproduce the weird energy that they gave off.

A cadaverous trader, who had remained silent until now, carefully removed several items from a plain wooden box; a silver bottle containing ratbane, a cruel set of manacles, a foot long corkscrew for the removal of eyes and a small branding iron, its symbol conferring eternal pain onto the person branded. The central object was a huge silver phallus. The width of a wrist, it was covered in tiny carved faces, mouths open in silent agony. With a deft click the trader released a button and a ring of inch long points fanned out around the ridged tip.

Spike quietly prayed that Buffy wouldn’t choose this moment to disobey and look round.

Toadman, fairly fainting with ecstasy, began to stroke the object with trembling fingers. “Where did you get this?”

“I see you have a discerning eye.” The trader gave an oily smile. “This once belonged to Vlujdd the Impaler, who used it on man, woman and beast alike. I found it inside the pelvis of a female skeleton. He must have thought a lot of her to bury her with it,” he added.

Unsurprisingly, Toadman agreed to the exorbitant price for both the phallus and the iron, almost emptying his purse in the process. He sat fondling it, no doubt plotting who he could try it out on. Another buyer quietly pocketed the ratbane.

“Enough of this shit. I thought we were here to buy treasures, not trinkets,” Spike snapped. “I want to do business with real Gemhunters, for real weapons, not to haggle with peddlers over a collection of scrap.”

“And what do you consider to be treasure?” a rather rotund trader in a purple embroidered waistcoat asked Spike carefully.

“Oh, I don’t know, how about the sword of Dramaclis, a harness worn by one of the grey steeds at the battle of Lost Hope... Saya’s Axe, perhaps?”

“Well, you know your legends but sadly I have nothing like that today…although if you would like to visit me in private?” The man leaned forward conspiratorially. Just then the drunk in the corner turned in his sleep and promptly fell on the floor, breaking the chilly atmosphere.

Laughing, the portly man went to shake him awake. “Come on, Snidda, time to wake up, or you’ll sell nothing and your wife and daughters will leave you out in the yard again.” Snidda blinked owlishly then stumbled to his feet clutching a large sackcloth bag, which he unceremoniously emptied onto the table. Swaying a bit, he took one step back, idly scratching at the few remaining hairs on his head. A tiny fellow with large ears sticking out at right-angles, he looked like a bleary eyed rodent.

“I reckon there’s a few items that you’ll be needing here.”

Several massive swords, one crusted with age, a mace and a wooden spike lay there.

There was silence, and then a general snort went round the room at such paltry finds. Buffy, felt a curious tingle run down her spine and Spike, sensing something, reached down to pick one of the items up - bringing it to his lap so that she could see. It was the spike. Fifteen inches long from base to wickedly pointed tip, it was made from a substance so black that it seemed almost to disappear. It was also surprisingly heavy. “What’s this?”

“Carved from ebbon, sir, a tree so hard that a hundred blades will shatter before it will yield a single splinter. Of course, such trees are long gone. This weapon is so ancient that it may have been used to defeat the first enemies of Aurelia.”

Aware that Buffy’s pulse rate had shot up, although her expression was puzzled, Spike grinned and patted her head indulgently. “We’ll take it.”

***

As they readjusted to the biting night air, keen to forget their recent experiences in The Silken Rope, Spike fretted about Buffy. She was entirely too quiet. Brack trailed a couple of paces behind them, sensing that the couple needed space to talk and crushing the urge to bang both their heads together. In all his years he’d never met a couple so suited to each other, yet so unable to communicate; rolling his eyes up at the heavens he contemplated his own single status and wondered if Flo would welcome the advances of a certain old soldier on a more permanent basis. Contemplating a pleasant retirement, in a cosy inn with a good strong woman by his side, he turned his thoughts away from the miserable pair ahead.

“I’m sorry.”

“What?” Buffy glanced up at Spike’s words, wanting to break the awkward silence herself but unable to get the conflicting emotions running around in her head in order.

“I’m sorry that you had to experience all that. I’m sorry that I treated you as if you were a nothing, a whore. I’m sorry that it was all a waste of time.”

Unbearably grateful to Spike for understanding some of what she was feeling, Buffy turned and tugged on Spike’s sleeve till he lifted his gaze from the pavement and focused on her. He looked so sad.

“Hey, it’s no big deal, just so long as you hated every second of ordering me about.” She smiled. “Besides, I’m sure that you would have done the same for me if the mission had demanded it.”

Immensely relieved, Spike recovered enough to flash her a mischievous grin.

“I’ll be your willing slave anytime you like, Buffy.”

“Yeah, right, like that’ll ever happen.”

The silence this time was an easy one.

***

They’d barely reached the respectable part of town when trouble found them. High walls on either side prevented the trio’s escape as a group of ten mercenaries emerged from the shadows ahead. Turning, Buffy saw a similar group behind them. Each of their would-be attackers was armed with a long knife, gnarled cudgel or short sword. They converged on the three soldiers, effectively trapping them. At some signal they halted, allowing Toadman to stride to the front. Puffed up like the loathsome amphibian he resembled, the creature eyed Buffy with pure malice.

“I want the girl.” Turning to Spike he bared his teeth. “Did you think you could bring a human into my presence undetected? On my world we can tell the scent of ten thousand different species and that,” he pointed at Buffy, “is not Aurelian. As an animal she has no protection from your ridiculous laws.” He gestured to Spike and Brack. “So leave now and let me have her, or watch your lifeblood fill the gutter. You choose.”

As white-hot rage descended, Spike welcomed the burn flowing through his veins. Part of him clinically assessed the enemy, noting the left handed from the right, the sharp weapons and the blunt, the experience or lack of it revealed in their faces. Another part took in Brack at his back, changed, calm, ready, and Buffy, his wife, who he would protect till the end. He tried to express his regret for what should have been, in one long look.

A Buffy he had never met before, gazed back.

***