If Tam hadn't been this other man, the man that kissed other women then his wife, the man that punched first and asked questions later, the man that helped trade people like cattle; he might have acted differently to the small elven girl. But he was too confused, to caught up, to busy trying to hide so many different emotions from so many different people. He turned and stared blankly at the girl, until she squeaked and looked away. He frowned at her, concious that Cicero had sat down. He was in charge, he had to act. The frown deepened, even though his focus sharpened. What did she mean? Had she seen the merchants? Had they brought the slaves into the alienage in open daylight?
"But what, girl? Is Brethor among them? Spit it out?"
Inside him, some very small part of the man he was at home, the father and the husband, broke yet a little bit more. But it was a small pain, a dull prick in a larger heart-break that had been going on for years. A man who sells other beings, sells his own soul.