Slavemaster's Woman, The

by Angelia Whiting

  Kleb…Kleb? Her lips mouthed the name silently as she angled her head and studied his face. She realized there was something familiar about that name—about him. Who was he? One of Mecor’s guards who would turn her in or…or maybe he’d had his way with her at some time? Perhaps someone from another planet—a former owner. No, no he too is a slave, so that couldn’t be…

  The man chuckled. “Fear not little bird. Your enemy, I am not.”

  Little bird…Cushla’s lips parted slightly. She froze, her breaths becoming quick and shallow—little…bird...Grandfather! “Grandfather?” Joy filled her, and Cushla could barely contain herself. “Gran—!”

  Kleb cupped his hand over her mouth and looked around quickly. “Sh-h-h,” he shushed her, pressing his finger to his mouth. Cushla nodded and he removed his hand. “There are eyes and ears everywhere, little bird,” he told her. Turning, he spread the seed she’d poured into the dirt and then picked up the small canister the seed had been contained in. He pried off the bottom.

  Cushla watched his actions curiously and then realized the container had a false compartment in it.

  Inside, there was a metal piece that fell into his hand. Nonchalantly, Kleb dropped it into the dirt with the seed, his head unmoving remaining in a downward position, though his eyes darted around.

  Cushla did the same, her gaze shifting to the other slaves who were busily working the fields and the guards who seemed to pay them little heed. Her attention returned to the ground as Kleb covered both the seed and the piece of metal, and she finally figured out what she was seeing—a trigger piece. “That looks like a part to a—”

  “Sh-h-h,” Kleb whispered low, his eyes darting around once more. “Say nothing, follow me.” He then shifted down the crop’s row.

  Cushla followed him.

  Next to them, another slave shuffled into the space, and he made quick work of removing the stunner trigger from the dirt and concealing it within his clothing.

  Tucking her chin close to her chest to hide the movement of her mouth, Cushla mumbled, “You’re arming yourselves.”

  “Piece by piece, little bird,” Kleb returned. “For many, many dawnings now we have gathered the pieces to assemble, our plans taking many phases.”

  Cushla felt her heart sinking as she thought about her parents. “Father—”

  “Hush.” Kleb stood and held out his hand. “Come with me.”

  Without hesitation, Cushla placed her hand into his and stood. He led her from the fields and they strolled along the length of a cobbled path until they reached a cluster of buildings. Cushla remembered the place. It was where transportation was stored.

  “Wait here.” Kleb released her hand and then entered one of the buildings. He emerged shortly after, standing on the small platform of the familiar scooter supported between two wheels.

  Cushla angled her head and smiled when she realized the open cart he towed behind him was the very same one he used to ride her around in when she was a child. The memory filled her with a delight she thought had forever faded, and she was pleased that some things on Buranis had remained unchanged.

  Kleb depressed the break lever on the cross bar handle that steered the self-balancing vehicle. With a tip of his head, Kleb indicated the wagon.

  Still smiling, Cushla climbed in. “Where are we going?” she asked her grandfather.

  “To town.”

  Cushla’s eyes widened. “You can leave the castle grounds?”

  “I am trusted to buy the goods we need there.” With that, Kleb depressed a button on the handle of the scooter and within moments they were moving, the small engine humming low.

  They reached the castle gates, but were immediately stopped by two of the guards there.

  “Who is this slave?” One of them reached toward Cushla and grasped her beneath the chin, turning her head from side to side to examine her like one would look over chattels, which she supposed she was.

  Even so, it irritated Cushla, though she kept quiet, biting back the urge to snap her teeth down on the hand that held her.

  “New to Buranis, a textile expert,” Kleb responded. “She goes with me to choose the cloths for the king’s new garments.”

  Oh…Cushla groaned inwardly. Had her grandfather lost it? They would never fall for such a lame design of an explanation, especially since she knew little about textiles. What if they questioned her?

  “We should check this with the king,” the other guard suggested while reaching for his communicator.

  “No need,” a third voice spoke. “The king knows nothing about this.”

  “My lord.” The guard who’d been grasping Cushla’s chin released her and nodded his head to the royal who was approaching them.

  As required of all slaves, Kleb lowered his gaze, but not Cushla, of course. Instead, she turned her head and looked directly into the royal’s eyes. She wrinkled her brow at the very subtle, almost undetectable smile the royal gave her.

  It was Rube.

  “My lord,” the first guard began. “If the king knows nothing about this, then how might we allow her to pass?”

  Rube stalked to nearly a hairsbreadth from the guard, the expression on his face turning threatening, his voice concise and low. “Because I authorize it.” His gaze shifted quickly to the other guard and he narrowed his eyes.

  Cushla watched the whole scenario unfold and felt her heart begin to pound. Rube knew her, so why would he allow her and her grandfather to exit the grounds?

  “I still think we need to check this with the king,” the second guard commented.

  “Not that it’s any of your concern,” Rube continued. “But the garments from the textiles this slave will choose are intended to be a gift for Mecor from one of his mistresses. Now open the gate.”

  “Still,” the first guard snipped back, “I think we should check—”

  What transpired next occurred so fast that Cushla barely had time to process it.

  Rube pulled his stunner and fired, as the second guard reached again for his communicator.

  Simultaneously, the first guard drew his weapon.

  Suddenly, and to Cushla’s surprise, her grandfather was now holding a weapon he’d been concealing.

  She ducked within the cart, taking cover. It was over quickly, two whirs, two thuds and then silence. Peeking cautiously over the edge of the cart, Cushla blinked a few times as she registered what had happened.

  Both guards were sprawled on the ground, Kleb and Rube staring down at them.

  “Are they dead?” she asked.

  Rube turned to gaze at her. “Do you care?”

  “Ah—no.” Cushla sat fully upright in the cart. Scanning the area around them, she was sure there would be an onslaught of other guards ready to take them down, but they were a distance from the castle, out of sight of the quarries, orchards and fields, and the discharge from the stunners were quiet enough that it was likely no one had heard.

  “I’ll take care of the bodies. Get your ass out of here,” Rube told Kleb.

  With a nod, Kleb tucked his stunner to the inside of the vest he wore over his shirt, and it was secreted away once more. He glanced over his shoulder and smiled at Cushla and then turned forward.

  Rube opened the gates, and Kleb drove through.

  Once outside the castle walls, Cushla looked behind her to see Rube dragging one of the bodies into the forest.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Tarken jerked awake when the door opened, the crimp in his neck from sleeping in the chair made it hard to turn his head. Shre Vialin and Ayia entered his line of site. Stretching out the stiffness in his muscles the best he was able, he then shook off the grogginess from dozing. He then noticed that Cushla’s father wasn’t with the two women. “Where’s Bazil?”

  “Not here,” Ayia stated plainly as she seated herself on the couch. Shre took a seat in another chair.

  All three stared at each other, saying nothing until Tarken finally spoke up, “So, Are you just going to
keep me bound?”

  “Probably.” Ayia leaned back against the shabby couch and closed her eyes.

  “I’m no threat to you or whatever dim-witted conspiracy you’re scheming. Cushla is my only concern and rescuing her from Mecor’s grip.” There was no reply to this statement, so he attempted a different approach. “I might be able to help you.”

  Shre looked up from filing her nails. “Listen here Slavemaster…” She rose from the chair and moved to stand in front of him. “Things are much more complex than you can imagine, and we have all the players we need.”

  “And how is Cushla involved with this?” Tarken waited for her to answer, but when no answer was forthcoming, he continued, “What is her father’s connection?”

  Shre walked back to her chair and sat again, tossing the file onto a nearby table.

  Tarken began to chuckle, “Ah…now I understand.”

  “What do you understand Slavemaster?”

  “There is no plan,” Tarken taunted, his motive to rile one of them enough to accidentally say something that might give him another piece to the puzzle. “Perhaps some idea of what you want but no actual plan on how to get it.”

  Shre narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t even attempt to pull that reverse, psychological bullshit with us, traitor.”

  “I can assure you I hold allegiance to no one, and particularly Mecor,” Tarken returned.

  Ayia stalked toward him, planting her hands firmly atop the arms of the chair. Leaning in, she sneered at him. “We have no affirmation of that, slavemaster. Greed often drives motivation and we are well aware of the handsome compensation Mecor bribes you with to keep your loyalty.”

  “The king compensates well, yes.” Tarken glared at her in return, but kept his expression flat. “But it is no indication of allegiance. I’m sure Rube has enjoyed a fairly lavish life style living as he does, yet it’s quite clear his loyalty is to your cause and not to the king.”

  Ayia and Shre exchanged glances.

  “And Bazil…” Tarken added. “It’s no accident he was on the same planet as his daughter. He was employed by Mecor’s brother and was on Buranis as was Cushla when the throne was toppled. I know you’ve been assisting Bazil.”

  “And what plans do you assume those are?” Shre leaned against the table, folding her arms.

  Ayia snickered. “I must commend you for figuring it all out. You’re not as stupid as you look slavemaster. You’re absolutely correct. Bazil is here to retrieve his daughter and nothing else. We are helping him, and as soon as we have her we will be gone, and then you can return to your simple, disdainful life oppressing and torturing the once free citizens of Buranis.”

  Tarken shook his head and snorted. “Even a fool has eyes, Ayia! I have overseen the slaves for solar after solar, studied their behaviors, their patterns. I am military trained. Did you think you think it would go unnoticed?”

  “You amuse me, slavemaster.” Ayia flashed a smug grin. “Please continue. What fantasy swims your head?”

  Tarken glared directly into her eyes and then spoke, his voice even and low. “Tell me, when is this rebellion to take place?”

  Ayia’s grin vanished and her eyes narrowed on him briefly before her head snapped toward Shre, giving the woman an unidentifiable look. She then said nothing and pivoted away from him. With her boots clanking rhythmically against the bare floor…purposefully, she paced slowly toward the opposite wall where she halted without turning around.

  “Trying to avoid giving yourself away, Ayia?” he commented, regarding her move to turn away from him.

  “You really need a more fulfilling life, Tarken.” Ayia feigned interest in the torn, poorly replicated abstract painting hanging on the wall. She skimmed her fingers across it and then turned to face him and laughed mockingly. “Such nonsense you seemed to have convinced yourself of. Who in their sanity of mind would dare such a thing? Unarmed slaves attempting to overthrow a king as powerful as Anzer Mecor, it would be a mass slaughtering…pure suicide!

  It was Tarken’s turn to grin smugly. Having been bound for so long he’d been able to speculate on several things. “I’m aware of the weapons the slaves are harboring in Mecor’s hold.”

  “Argh!” Shre threw her hands in the air. Drawing her weapon she stalked toward Tarken and pressed the end of her stunner to his head. “I suppose we’ll have to kill the fucker now!”

  “Your plan is reckless,” Tarken continued. Her reaction confirmed his suspicion and he was now sure he had speculated accurately. “They wear the slave bands. The whole lot of them will be wiped out with a press of a button.”

  “No need to concern yourself. “ Ayia returned. “Our insider is taking care of that dilemma.”

  “Shut your mouth, Ayia!” Shre spit angrily.

  “Does it matter, Shre?” Ayia retorted. “We’re going silence him permanently anyway. What difference does it make at this point how much he knows?”

  “If you believe your insider will be able to accomplish this task,” Tarken went on. “You are sorely mistaken. Mecor may be a ruthless tyrant, but he’s no fool. Free me, and I will help you defeat him.”

  Shre poked Tarken harder with her stunner. “And how do you think you can help?”

  “I can roam the castle grounds freely…” Tarken told her and paused momentarily, allowing his words to sink in. “…It seems to me you should take advantage of any inside assistance you can get, and I doubt Rube can accomplish the task alone.”

  Shre lowered her weapon, now interested in what Tarken had to say, though by the expression on her face, on Ayia’s face as well and by the way they exchanged looks, he could see the internal battle they struggled with. Ayia indicated to the other woman to follow her to a corner at the far end of the room, Shre followed her.

  Tarken sat quietly and waited, saying nothing more, as the two woman muddled over their options, speaking in whispers, arguing with each other. He strained to hear what was being said, but could only make out the tone of their voices, rather than the words being spoken.

  While they debated the door quietly opened, and then closed again, but the two women were so busy debating his fate, it appeared they were oblivious.

  “Ladies?” Tarken called trying to get their attention as he pondered how he was going defend himself if the intruders were hostile.

  “Shut it…Slavemaster!” Ayia snapped without turning to look at him.

  “Ayia.” A low male voice called out.

  Whipping their heads around, Ayia and Shre both looked toward the door. “What are you doing here?” They asked in unison.

  Two more joined their little party, two with whom Tarken was quite familiar—Kleb and with him, Tarken’s heart nearly halted in his chest when he saw her—Cushla.

  “Ayia!” Cushla rushed toward her and threw her arms around the woman. “You’re safe! I was so worried you were—”

  “Dead?” Ayia hugged her back. “Hades no, I’m made of sterner stuff than that I assure you.”

  Kleb’s gaze fell to Tarken and his brow lifted in surprise at seeing him. “Where’s Bazil?” he asked the women while still staring at Tarken.

  “Bazil’s gone to the palace to get her.” Shre nodded toward Cushla.

  “Tarken?” Cushla gasped, her fingers pressing against her chest. Releasing Ayia, she crossed the room and began looking him over from top to bottom. She tugged on the cuffs that bound him and then snorted. “It seems you’re in a predicament.”

  “A predicament I hope to resolve soon.” Tarken smiled warmly at her despite her mocking tone. She was a delight to his tired eyes and a refreshing breath that brightened the dark, musty room. “It’s good to see you.”

  Angling her head and bending so he could see her face she lifted a brow? “Ach, really?” She pulled and twisted the cuffs as if trying to yank them off.

  Pain shot up Tarken’s arms and he grimaced. “Cushla, they won’t come off without the releasing device,” he told her through clenched teeth.

  �
�Who says I’m trying to get them off?” The smile she gave him was filled with wickedness as she twisted the bands.

  “Agh!” Tarken growled. His muscles snapping with shocks of pain that whipped through both arms, culminating in his neck and then piercing his skull, told him that she might still be just wee bit pissed off at him. She also understood the proper use of the cuffs well—maybe a little too well.

  Tarken supposed he deserved her retribution. He also hoped that her need for such retribution ended before she caused his arms to be ripped from their sockets. Hope wilted when she twisted the cuffs even harder.

  Shre snorted.

  “Cushla, enough!” Tarken’s head snapped back. He gritted his teeth, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. His beautiful freebird was a devious little thing. She might even be useful as an interrogator. Abruptly, the pain retreated, the instant relief causing him exhale heavily, gratefully.

  “Give me the key,” Cushla demanded.

  “We might release him in due time, princess,” Shre told her.

  “I’m no princess and don’t call me that,” Cushla replied harshly as she stepped to the front of the chair and into Tarken’s view, planting her hands on her hips while looking him up and down.

  “Kleb,” Ayia asked, “Why did you come? I thought you were at the castle?”

  “When I found Cushla wandering outside I thought it was an opportune time to bring her to Bazil. I had no idea he’d gone to the castle. We didn’t pass him on the road here.”

  “He likely took one of the back roads,” Ayia suggested. “To keep from being seen.”

  Kleb turned his attention to Tarken. “What has the master done to be bound like this?”

  “He saw me enter the alley and followed. We caught him snooping around,” Shre answered. “We’re not quite sure of what to do with him, but I have no reservations about killing him.”

  “You know him better than we do, Kleb,” Ayia interjected. “Do we kill him, or set him free?”

  “Kleb,” Tarken spoke up. “This plan will fail unless the slave bands are deactivated. If you begin this revolt, many innocents will be killed. If they activate all the slave bands they will use the highest setting and will connect all of them, even those for the children.”