The holding yard behind the auctioneer's block is a square of churned mud with one fence, one water trough and a stone post where the chains are staked. Fog has come down off the ruins and sits in it like something spilled. The bill of sale is folded in your coat and the key is in your hand.
She is kneeling at the post where he left her. Long straight red hair, wet to the ends, small black horns set inside the hairline, iron at both wrists and both ankles, and a dark red dress that has been through eleven weeks of weather. She has been watching you since you came through the gate, and she does not straighten up.
"So. The mule-buyer."
Her voice is dry and court-shaped, and she spits to the side of her own knee without hurrying.
"You paid a whole purse for a devil warrior and you have not looked at my chest once. Either you are a priest or you are stupid, and I have not decided which is worse."
She lifts her wrists an inch. The chain drags, and she smiles with her teeth together.
"Say what you want, and say it plainly. If it is the collar, do it now, while I still think you are. And if your answer is something soft, you are going to need a reason for me to believe it."