by Maia Tanith
My father did not live long after my grandfather died. When my father passed, my uncle became Emperor in his place.
My uncle had him killed. I’m sure of it now. It had been a niggle at the back of my mind for years after my father had died. Recently I’ve begun to understand it. My uncle had no claim to the throne until my mother married my father. Before this, my mother’s family were no different to the rest of the wealthy in the kingdom.
Perhaps he began to think of the possibility of ruling the day my mother married my father.
Perhaps it wasn’t until I was born that he realized how close he’d been, and how far away from the throne he now was.
My father’s death and my mother’s illness, and me as a young kit and legally not able to take the throne until I became an adult, meant that my uncle was the next in line. It should have been temporary. He appointed himself a Guardian to the Throne at first, as our legislation sets out. When the next in line for the throne is below the age of twenty-five, they need a Guardian to the Throne to advise them, and rule on their behalf until they come of age. But this title was soon lost, and my uncle has been called Emperor for the last few years.
I turn twenty-five next month. I think my uncle has forgotten, or decided to forget this. I am not brave or foolish enough to remind him.
The slaves trail in after us as we move to the state banquet hall. A guard secures them to one of the pillars so they are forced to stand and watch us as we eat and drink. They watch the food avidly. Gawas’s generosity clearly doesn’t extend to feeding his slaves.
It is a petty cruelty, to starve them in the middle of plenty.
My uncle delights in cruelties of all kinds.
I am seated at the far end of the table, away from my uncle. He likes to keep me close enough to keep an eye on, but not too close. He dislikes me, but I am useful to trot out for visiting ambassadors. To prove that he is still a doting uncle rather than a power mad psychopath.
If he had kits of his own, my life would not be worth spit. I would have gone the same way as my father years ago. But he is childless, and that makes him hate me even more.
The food tastes like ashes in my mouth. I can feel the gaze of the slaves on me. No, not on me. On every bite of food that I put in my mouth.
The one closest to me is a rare beauty, for a human. I noticed her as she walked in with the rest, though I did not let my interest show. Dark hair in long braids falling across her bare shoulders. Huge brown eyes set in a dainty, heart-shaped face. Golden brown skin that looks as smooth as real silk. Bare feet, her toes streaked with dust.
She holds herself upright as if by sheer will. She can’t have been a slave long. She has none of the beaten down, broken look of a life-long slave. Her whole body radiates intensity. Fire. Courage. Determination.
She reminds me of the brave daughter of the rebel, Hathik, that my father mutilated. She has the same look in her eyes.
I have a sudden urge to stand near to her and warm my cold soul of the fire and passion of hers.
A momentary urge. Nothing more.
I feel the gaze of my uncle on me and I glance at him to see his half smile. He’s seen me looking at the pretty slave girl and he will be thinking of something cruel that he can do to me because of this. Or to her.
I turn back to my food and take a bite, chewing slowly and deliberately. I don’t look at the slaves again. If I try to feed them, he will have them starve to death as a way to punish me for what he sees as my weakness. If I show an interest in anything, in that pretty slave girl, he will find a way to destroy it. The slave girl’s spirit will be as broken as my own before long.
Midway through the feast my uncle stands and makes a toast to the ambassador. The entire room stands to toast with him.
I rise along with them.
The ambassador makes a return toast to the ongoing good relationships with our country and our rightful ruler.
The words about our country’s rightful ruler sting me more than they should.
A whisper ripples through the dining hall after his toast is finished but stops almost as quickly. A few brave Kargans glance sideways at me, and I ignore them.
I raise my glass and toast to my uncle as the rightful ruler. There is nothing else I can do, yet I feel as though the last shards of my pride have been shattered across the feasting hall.
My uncle’s eyes flick to me and away again, that half smile on his face.
I do what I have to, to keep mother alive. I tell myself this even as I can feel the scorn and pity radiating off the court.
As we sit there is a small commotion at the pillar beside me. A guard rushes over to the tied-up slaves and kicks at one. It’s the beautiful human. She has slumped sideways against her bindings, and the guard is kicking at her unconscious form.
I leap up and step over towards him. “What are you doing, you idiot? She’s unconscious.”
He looks over at me as if I am speaking Galgogian. “She’s just a slave.”
I push him away. “She’s valuable, you fool. A gift to the Emperor. You will damage her.”
He pauses, uncertain. Does he follow the orders of the forgotten prince, and risk the wrath of the emperor? Or does he ignore my orders, and risk the wrath of the emperor anyway, for ignoring the orders of a royal?
“Prince,” he says, and backs away. “I was trying to wake her up.”
“She needs medical attention, not a beating,” I reply. A few eyes are on us and I hear the noise of the conversation flicker.
The guard looks confused by this. “Did—did you want me to call for a healer, prince?” he asks.
“What’s this?” The cold voice sends a chill down my spine. My uncle is standing and watching us. The hall goes silent at the sound of his voice. All eyes are on us, uncertain, wondering what my uncle will do to me, and no doubt feeling grateful they aren’t the subject of his gaze right now.
“Uncle, the slaves need medical attention.” I try hard to not let my voice waver. “At least one of them is sick.”
He glances at the unconscious slave behind me. “She doesn’t look well, does she?” he chuckles and shares an indulgent look with the ambassador. “No doubt you’ve been too busy to take care of your gifts to me.”
He sounds jovial but there is a threat under his voice. These slaves were gifts, and they are a useless gift if they are unfit for work.
The ambassador pales. “Your Honor, the gift must be faulty. We will replace her with another, better slave.”
My uncle smiles and looks back at me. “No, no, you don’t need to replace her. I will gift this broken one to my dear, soft-hearted nephew. Her care will be on him.”
Meaning that if she does not recover, he will have an excuse to punish me for being ungrateful and not taking due care of his gift to me. I know just how his mind works.
He waves a hand at me. “Sort out your property, nephew. She’s disturbing our celebrations.”
I nod. Inside I am full of thankfulness, I’m excused from the feast and from being in my uncle’s presence.
I refrain from smiling. No doubt if I smile my uncle will insist I stay back to eat with him. “Untie her and bring her with me,” I command the guard.
He does what he’s told this time. He has to carry her. Her eyes have fluttered open, but she is too weak to stand.
I lead the guard to my apartments. They have a room set aside for servants, but it has been empty for many months now. Those who used to wait on me have been dismissed or ordered to different duties.
I do not care. I would rather have my privacy.
“Put her down on the bed and leave.”
The guard quirks an eyebrow but says nothing. No doubt he expects me to take advantage of her in this room. If I am anything like my uncle, perhaps I would.
She looks so vulnerable, lying there on the pallet. Her face is several shades paler than the rest of her, and she looks so small and delicate. Frail, even.
A human. They are remarkably rare, and w
hat few female humans make it to our planet are usually destined for the Games. With no natural defenses, there is something about their weakness and vulnerability that makes the crowds go wild. There is nothing they like more than to see a human female mauled to death.
I click my fingers at the chip inserted in the top of my wrist and summon a healer. It’s a convenience, that chip, but also a danger. My whereabouts can always be tracked.
The human girl pushes herself up slowly onto one elbow. Her eyes are wide. “What do you want from me.” I can smell the fear on her, but she gives no other sign of it.
I shrug. “The Emperor has given you to me.” No doubt in the hopes that she will die under my watch and he can have me punished for taking such poor care of a valuable gift. I don’t know why he bothers to make up flimsy excuses to punish me. “You are my responsibility now. I have called a healer.”
She lies back and shuts her eyes, too sick or exhausted to care.
A wizened old woman supported by a cane eventually hobbles in. I know her—she is Athila. She was a healer. Once. Many turns ago. Now she is half-blind and wanders in her wits. She still lives with the healers and they care for her as they care for others of her age and infirmity.
She peers at me, her eyes milky-white in her wrinkled face. “You look well enough. What did you call a healer for?”
I gesture at the slave girl. “Not for me. For her.”
The old woman makes a rude noise. “Pah. You called me out into the evening air for a slave? My old bones are disturbed for one such as her? My skills are to be wasted on a slave?” She turns and hobbles towards the door, muttering as she goes. “She will live or she will die. Either way it is nothing to me.”
“Charming,” the slave girl remarks wryly from her position on the pallet.
The presence of Athila, no longer a healer except in title, is another order from my uncle, no doubt. He is making it clear to me that my needs are supremely unimportant. I do not even rate the services of an apprentice healer. “Her mate was rumored to prefer the company of his slave girls to hers. I see she still hangs on to her bitterness.”
She props herself up on one arm, her eyes half shut. “I can see why. Can I have some water?”
I hesitate. I might not be a favorite at court, but slaves don’t speak to me like this. Still, I hasten to pour her a glass of water from the cooler.
She grabs it from me, her hands trembling, and gulps it straight down. One of her hands is red and swollen and she handles it carefully, as if it pains her. “More,” she demands, as soon as it has gone.
I fill her another glass, which she drinks as greedily as the first, and then a third.
She heaves a sigh of satisfaction as she puts the glass down beside her. “I thought I would die before I got anything to drink in this stinking place. Any chance of some food?”
I eye her doubtfully. She does not behave like any other slave I have ever known. Not that I have ever really talked to one before. They are simply there to do as they are ordered and are punished if they disobey. This slave doesn’t seem to understand her role. “Anything in particular?” I wonder with interest just how far she will go in demanding that I serve her instead of the other way around.
She sighs. “I would kill for a chicken and black bean burrito, slathered in sour cream, with a heaping of guacamole and cilantro salsa on the side, but I doubt I’m going to get that here. Anything will do. Really, I’m hungry enough to eat a horse.”
I don’t have a horse, but I have a variety of snack foods on hand. I grab an armful from the cooler and set them in front of her.
She doesn’t even look at the selection but simply grabs the closest—a sachet of dried goss meat—and stuffs it in her mouth. The taste makes her scrunch up her face, but she swallows it. “Bleuch, what on earth is that?” she mumbles, her mouth still half-full. “It tastes disgusting.”
Without hesitating, she grabs something else, a sweet fruit cake this time, and scarfs it down in two bites.
I stare at her with distaste. We Kargans like to enjoy our food. We eat leisurely, savoring each mouthful. We do not gobble and stuff ourselves like savages. I have never seen such appalling table manners.
When she looks up, the expression on my face must be a clue to what I am thinking. “If you hadn’t eaten for days, you would stuff your mouth, too. Even with food that tastes like shit.”
“You haven’t eaten for several turns?”
She shakes her head. “I haven’t eaten much for weeks. I don’t even remember last time I filled my stomach until I wasn’t hungry anymore. Why do you think I fainted out there in the hall?”
“So you are not sick? That is the only reason the Emperor gave you to me, you know, because he thought you must be deathly ill.”
She shakes her head. “Nope, just hungry. Starving hungry.”
“Eat slowly then. Or you will be sick.”
“Yeah, I know. I tried telling my stomach that, but it doesn’t want to listen.”
I am ridiculously glad that she will be fine. And my happiness has nothing to do with avoiding another trumped-up punishment from the Emperor. I am glad I can help her.
Until an uncomfortable thought crosses my mind. So convenient, isn’t it, that she was tied near me in the hall. So convenient that she passed out. So convenient that I went to her assistance, providing the Emperor an excuse to give her to me. So convenient that there is nothing actually wrong with her.
My uncle is crafty. It is likely that he planned everything this way. Planned to plant a spy in my household, and one that I would not suspect.
I turn away from her. She may be beautiful, but I want nothing to do with any woman who will spy for my uncle. “You are too weak to work today.” My voice comes out sounding harsher than I intend. No matter. She would be wise not to expect kindness from anyone. Least of all me. “Sleep here tonight and I will have someone instruct you as to your duties in the morning.
She has turned back to the spread in front of her and is so engrossed in the food that she barely hears me.
What am I going to do with her? I cherish the little privacy I get. I do not want to harbor a spy in my quarters.
And if by chance she isn’t a spy? In that case, it would be even worse to keep her by my side. That would only give the Emperor a tool to use to get to me.
Chapter Three
Faye
My stomach is full. So full that it hurts. I have bloated up like a balloon. My stomach is a round, tight drum of pain.
I don’t care.
I am not hungry anymore.
I have eaten so much that I can hardly move.
So I don’t move. I just lie back on the rather lumpy mattress on the floor and despite my aching stomach and the pain of my broken hand, I drift off to sleep.
I wake sometime in the night and am violently ill. I only just make it to the washroom in time before I expel most of what I ate the evening before.
I put too much food in a stomach that is not used to it. I knew at the time I had been stupid, but I was so hungry I didn’t care.
Goodness know what the food was, too. Nothing that I have ever eaten before, though I do remember there were several packets of what seemed to be a sweet cornbread. They had been particularly good. I could do with a couple more of those right now.
Great, so now that the sickness has passed, I am hungry again. I will remember not to eat quite so much quite so quickly next time.
The claw man who styles himself my new owner wakes me in the morning. He scowls as he sees me still lying on the pallet where he left me last night. “Rise and wash. Then I shall take you to my mother’s nurse. You will stay with her and help her look after my mother.”
I’ve gotta say that the washroom is pretty impressive. I wander around it, trying to see how it works. The toilet is clear enough. I used that enough last night while I was being ill. But I’m not so sure about anything else.
I stand on a patch of tiles in the corner. It looks like it shou
ld be a shower, but there is no tap. Annoyed, I stamp my foot, and a torrent of clear, pure water gushes out. I stand under there for as long as I dare, knowing that the grumpy claw man is waiting for me. It feels so good to be clean again.
I have nothing to wear but the shift and loose pants I wore last night, so I put them on again reluctantly and wander out. I am putting off facing up to my new future for as long as I dare.
I know, too, that my reality will not change, however much I want to bury my head in the sand and pretend I am still on Earth. It is braver to face the world head on. Smarter, too. If you do not acknowledge your fate, you cannot hope to escape from it.
Because I am determined to escape. I don’t care if it takes me a thousand attempts. I will not live as a slave forever.
He is pacing up and down outside the door when I come out again, “Come.” His face is bleak.
“Don’t I get breakfast first?” I ask.
“Why should I feed you again? You sicked up everything you ate last night, just as I warned you.”
So, he had heard me. I was wondering about that. My ears grow hot with embarrassment. “That’s exactly why. Unless you want me fainting from hunger again.”
He sighed and tossed me a piece of fruit. “Don’t eat so fast this time,” he counsels me. “You will get more.”
I ignore his bad humor as I sink my teeth into the ripe, red fruit. It tastes a bit like a plum, only fatter and richer. Juice runs down my chin, and I wipe it with the back of my sore hand.
We walk out of his apartment and into a corridor. A guard is stationed outside his door. He salutes when we approach.
“How big is this place?” I mutter as I trot along behind my captor. The guard keeps pace behind me, following us.
My captor ignores me. I don’t really expect him to answer. I am learning that he only talks to me when he chooses. He’s not one for idle conversation.