“Still hurts, does it? How have they been treating you in here?”
Khyff grimaced, but said nothing.
“I see. That,” he added, lowering his voice, “will be taken care of.”
No one had to tell him that tone meant trouble. “How's Senth, sir?”
“No word, yet. Did no one tell you you're due in court in an hour?”
Khyff ran a quick hand through his hair. “No, sir! What do I do?”
The Harbinger motioned calmly. He leaned back a bit, looking past the bars. “Not to worry. I've arranged for representation.”
“You got me a lawyer?”
“No.” Saint-Cyr showed teeth in what might be a smile. With those inscrutable eyes, one could only assume. “I've gotten you myself.”
“You, sir? You're representing me? You know the law?”
“Know the law?” The Harbinger laughed, obviously enjoying himself. “Son, I've been breaking it for so many years, I know it better than any of those high-priced courtside braggarts. Besides, none of the lawyers I contacted had enough clout with the judges. Ah, finally.” He stood when a guard showed up with several boxes. “About time. I brought you a passable suit, Son. You!” He snapped his fingers at the jailer. “Put those on his bunk and be careful with them, then you can go.”
Khyff waited until the guard was out of sight. “He's not going to make it easy on me after the way you just treated him, sir.”
“Understand something, Khyffen. When I finagled you a fair and impartial judge I had no intention of letting you stay in here.”
Oh, that kind of fair and impartial. Khyff cracked his first true smile in two days. “Thank you, sir.”
“You can thank me later. Prison clothes make for a bad impression, Khyffen, and we need you as impressive as possible.” Saint-Cyr opened boxes and pulled out business attire and shoes. “Get out of that ugly yellow jumpsuit and let's get you into some decent clothes. We have a case to win.”
* * * *
Tarth, Tarth City
Imperial Armada Military Storage and Weigh Facility Tarth-F
Senth stepped back and shone his light on the digital door number: 323. A fast check of data from his cloak read the same.
NarrAy turned off her light. “This is the wrong room.”
“Nice guess.” He tucked his light in a pocket and touched his earpiece to contact Broxus. NarrAy joined the conversation.
Advised of the situation, Broxus checked another data source. “Senth, the third floor has to be right.” His voice sounded as if he were in the same room. “The others have military supplies. Three is the only one with civilian goods. Maybe the crates are misnumbered.”
Senth tapped the fingers of both hands together. “What do you suggest, Brox? That we open them all and rummage for something familiar?”
NarrAy blew out a harsh breath. “Why are you being so sarcastic? I'm the one whose stuff is missing.”
“Sorry. That was out of line.” He held out a hand. “What do you want me to do, NarrAy? We've got twenty minutes before the Vassindorf resets.”
“Twenty minutes!”
“You told me you needed no more than five.”
She fumed. “Fine! Let's try that one.”
“Why not?” He pulled out his lockpick and went to the door.
NarrAy crossed her arms, foot tapping. “I knew this was too easy.”
“Easy?” Senth let go of the lock. “You think shutting down that Vassindorf was easy? Do you know how…” He turned back to the job at hand. “Never mind.”
Focus, Senth. You're doing this for Khyff, not you. He opened the door and stood back.
She shone her light inside. “Nothing.”
Touching his ear, Senth waited while NarrAy and Brox went over details. Again. He looked around the warehouse full of identical containers. “Wait a minute. Brox?”
“Copy.”
“After the stairs, is 323 a sharp right or a gradual one?”
“Sharp.”
Senth pointed with the light. “We went by the numbers on the containers, not by their locations. We should have gone hard right. Brox, how many crates over from the door?”
“Twelve.”
Senth paced them off. “It should be this one.” He opened it.
NarrAy turned her light into the room. “This is my folks' stuff. I recognize things!”
“We're in,” Senth told Broxus. “NarrAy, I'll keep watch while you search. We can't risk being locked inside. Hurry.”
He waited in the dark, hearing muffled clinks and thumps from inside the cargo area. It reminded him of waiting in the alley for Khyff. The same sense of urgency nipped at his patience, but with NarrAy a whole different set of emotions set him on edge. Thoughts surfaced that he'd never had before.
He kept seeing her in that red dress, on the dance floor with the lighter gravity. She moved like water. Her arms over her head and her hips swaying back and forth. And her breasts—well, how did you describe those in lighter gravity? They didn't bounce, exactly. No, they were buoyant. Like in water. Yeah, water. Floating. All wet and—
“Senth?” Brox's voice in his ear brought him to attention. “NarrAy. You there?”
“Copy,” he and NarrAy said together. Five minutes had passed. Too long. Focus, Senth! What's wrong with you?
“Status?”
“It's a mess in here,” she said. “Everything's jumbled together.”
“Hurry.”
“I am, Brox!”
Senth heard her grunt. A dull scrape from inside said she'd moved something heavy.
Senth took a few steps away, listening for other sounds.
His thief's eyes took in the sheer quantity of containers in the warehouse. Oh, the possibilities. Wonder what's inside all these? He let his light travel over the closest.
His neck tingled suddenly, as if every tiny hair had stood on end. Digital. He swept the overhead area with his gaze, assuring himself once more that no active spyware watched.
“Got it!”
NarrAy's voice right next to him made him jump.
He took her arm. “NarrAy, these numbers were changed.”
She clutched the locket she'd hung around her neck.
“Say again,” Broxus demanded.
“The numbers on these crates are digital. There's no way we misread data, or the layout.”
“Get out!” Broxus ordered. “Go! Go!”
They ran down the stairs.
Headlong in flight, Senth heard the fire door below them slam open. He and NarrAy halted, started to climb back, and heard the one above slam, too. The clanging and pounding of hard boots on metal stairs ricocheted around the concrete stairwell.
“Halt!” The shouted order boomed off the walls. “Hands behind your heads! Don't move!”
White light flooded everywhere. Blinded after the darkness, Senth squinted. He linked his hands behind his head. Beside him, NarrAy did the same.
“Brox,” she whispered. “Taken. Go silent.”
A dozen black-uniformed Kin crept up on them. Pinpoints of red light from their multi-barreled guns swept the stairs.
Senth went rigid, sure of death as those red points flashed across his face and targeted his forehead. The laser sights cast a scarlet aura across his view of the males circling them. Golden fists emblazoned on each uniform marked them as more than simple armada soldiers.
This was the elite squad, assembled to enforce the Conqueror's will, selected for their consummate ability to kill with any weapon or to rip apart the enemy with their hands or their claws.
Or their teeth.
Praetorians.
Chapter Eight
Kelthia, Miraj City
Miraj City Central Court
Taking the Harbinger's advice, Khyff made limited eye contact with the Honorable Judge Alderon, but he felt the judge's gaze on him. Blond like all Androgs, Alderon glowed like an angel in the judicial white robes of the Chiasmii court.
Glad for his fine suit of clothes,
Khyff sat still, hands resting on the arms of the chair. As Saint-Cyr had coached him, he was careful not to react to his master's tale of robbing him of clientele by working outside his license.
Stalkos gestured grandly, jabbing a finger in Khyff's direction at every opportunity. The man's permanent sneer twisted an already cruel mouth and narrow eyes deepened his expression of hate.
The Harbinger, with his quiet authority, dark clothing, and whiteless eyes, appeared menacing even when smiling. Stalkos came across as simply mean-spirited.
When it was Saint-Cyr's turn to question the man, the Harbinger directed his testimony in an entirely different direction. “How many scars did Khyffen Antonello have when you agreed to monitor his parole?”
Stalkos snorted. “I have no idea.”
“Twenty-seven.” The Harbinger picked up a note reader, which he handed to the judge. “As required by law, all sex workers undergo a physical examination when purchased. Khyffen Antonello had twenty-seven scars: Two on each wrist and ankle, nine across his back, and seven on his buttocks. Three on the knuckles of his right hand. Your Honor will find pics of these scars within the notes.”
Khyff tightened his right fist. Self-defense in prison. The judge was thumbing through the screens, not looking his way.
“The eight ankle and wrist scars are from being restrained. Khyffen doesn't remember which are from restraint during punishment and which came from rough bondage sessions.”
At that, the judge looked straight at Khyff, but addressed the Harbinger. “Mr. Saint-Cyr, how old was your client when these scars were made?”
“Begging your pardon, Your Honor. Which ones?”
“Wrist and ankle.” His gaze slid toward the Harbinger.
“He was fifteen at that time, Your Honor.”
“Fifteen?” His expression became shuttered. He lifted a hand. “Continue.”
Khyff tightened his grip on the armrests.
“Master Stalkos?” The Harbinger stood in front of the man. “How many scars does Khyffen have now?”
Stalkos fidgeted.
Khyff chewed the inside of his mouth to keep from smiling, and loosened his death grip on the chair.
“I'm not sure.”
“Sixty-one.” Saint-Cyr gestured to the notes. “The current pics are included, Your Honor. Section Two. Adding the twenty-four lashes Master Stalkos inflicted two days ago, six of which will leave scars, he has a total of sixty-seven. Khyffen Antonello has been subjected to frequent and rigorous beatings over the entire two-hundred and seventy days this man has held him captive.”
“Objection.” Stalkos' lawyer stood. “Antonello is a slave. He cannot be held captive.”
“Sustained. Please rephrase, Mr. Saint-Cyr.”
“Yes, Your Honor. Khyffen Antonello has been subjected to frequent and rigorous beatings over the entire two-hundred and seventy days this man has enslaved him.” He made a polite bow to Stalkos' lawyer, who ignored him. “Your Honor,” the Harbinger continued, “based on this type of abuse, I move to have all charges against Mr. Antonello—and his clients—dropped.”
“Objection!” Stalkos' lawyer stood again. “Antonello is a slave. Master Stalkos is within his rights to apply up to ten lashes as necessary to instill discipline.”
The judge set down the reader. “The law also states that no discipline by a master shall leave permanent marks or scars. Are you implying that these scars came from bondage sessions? Do you have the required invoices for service and documentation from a physician to prove they resulted from that?”
The lawyer looked at his notes, leaned toward his client and conferred in whispers. “We do not, Your Honor.”
“So, the scars are from disciplinary action on the part of Master Stalkos.”
More conferring. Khyff turned his head to hide the smirk he couldn't wipe away.
“It would seem so, Your Honor.” The lawyer sat down.
“One moment.” The scratching of a stylus was followed by the squeak of the judge's chair as he leaned back. “By my calculations, Mr. Antonello would have had to receive a whipping serious enough to leave a scar an average of once every seven to eight days. This sounds like a serious discipline problem.”
“That's right, Your Honor,” Stalkos answered.
Khyff braced an arm against his stomach.
“Odd,” Judge Alderon said. He picked up the note reader. “I find no evidence you ever reported him as unruly to his parole officer. Your financial reports indicate he's your highest source of income on weekends. Hardly sounds like the problem you make him out to be. How do you reconcile your written statements with your testimony here today?”
Stalkos and his lawyer exchanged meaningful looks.
Khyff clutched the chair, a surge of wild hope flaring in his heart. He saw the subtle hand sign the Harbinger gave him and obeyed it. He looked right into the judge's eyes and let him see his fear, waiting to answer the question Saint-Cyr assured him would be asked.
“Mr. Antonello.” Judge Alderon folded his hands. “Do you have anything to say in defense of these charges?”
There it was. A chance to reveal the one thing that would land Stalkos in jail and keep him in taxpayer hell for years. He took a deep breath. “Yes, Your Honor. Master Stalkos forces me to work without pay, and doesn't report the income.”
“That's a lie!” Stalkos jumped to his feet. “Khyff! You're a damn liar! You son of a bitch!” His lawyer grabbed him and sat him down again.
“Bailiff,” the judge ordered, “set a guard on Master Stalkos. If he makes another outburst like that, escort him from the courtroom.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” The Bailiff cast a harsh look in the slavemaster's direction. A guard moved to stand behind the man's chair.
Judge Alderon motioned to Khyff. “Continue, Mr. Antonello. Pay no attention to Master Stalkos. He cannot harm you in this room.”
Khyff had gone too far to be intimidated now.
“Thank you, Your Honor. I'm not lying. Stalkos does it to all the parolees at the slakehouse. If we refuse, he uses a cane or a whip on us. On top of that, he's addicted all of us to Thrust. If we won't do what he says, he withholds the drug until we beg for it. I started working the streets so I could make up the difference in my freedom savings account and get out of there. When he found out the first time, he started chaining me to my bed and threatened to have my parole officer send me back to prison.”
“You said, 'the first time'. You've worked the streets without permission before?”
Saint-Cyr had drilled him on what to say. “Yes, Your Honor, every chance I got. Every drak went into my savings so I could get out of there.”
“I see no notes from your parole officer about abuse. Why didn't you tell him what was going on?”
“He knew about it, Your Honor. Stalkos paid him a fee to get new parolees for his house and gave him free use of any slake he wanted once a week.”
The judge gestured to the Bailiff. “Have the PO arrested.”
“With pleasure, Your Honor.”
“Anything else I should know, Mr. Antonello?”
Khyff glanced at the Harbinger, received a nod. “Yes, sir. About a month ago, I was reunited with my brother. I'd been told he died at birth. Finding him again…” His voice had gone all squeaky. He paused, cleared his throat. “I knew if I ran, I'd get thrown back in prison and lose out on seeing my brother altogether. So, I stuck it out with Master Stalkos. My brother's been helping me save for my freedom. I wasn't trying to cheat my master out of anything. I just wanted to be with my family, and I don't…” Saint-Cyr had warned him about talking too much.
The judge waited a moment before prompting gently, “Go on.”
Khyff schooled his face into passivity before continuing. “I don't want to be a slake the rest of my life.” He added hastily, “Your Honor.”
“While I applaud your desire to improve yourself, Mr. Antonello, I must ask you to remember that sex work is considered an honorable profession in the Tarthi
an Empire.”
He barely breathed. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“Still, I would not want to do it myself.” Alderon smiled at him. “I see ample reason why you would seek to purchase your freedom, by any means available. In fact, I commend you for your considerable restraint in remaining in such deplorable working conditions. This demonstrates to me that you have more than learned to abide by the law. I find therefore that your parole is no longer necessary and terminate your original sentence.”
Terminate?
The Harbinger lifted a brow and nodded.
Khyff grinned. Yes!
“Bailiff,” Judge Alderon said, “take Master Stalkos into custody for failure to comply with his parole monitoring license. I also order an inquiry into the treatment of slaves in his employ. Master Stalkos, you are hereby ordered to pay restitution for abuse. Bailiff, find the price of Mr. Antonello's slave contract. Restitution shall be set at one and a half times that amount, payable in full into Mr. Antonello's freedom account. Master Stalkos will pay for all scar removal and physical restoration of normal skin. Funds in Mr. Antonello's freedom savings account will be released to him immediately. This case is dismissed. Mr. Antonello, please stand and remain a moment.”
The gavel sounded.
Malice gleamed in Stalkos' eyes as the Bailiff marched him past Khyff and out of the room.
Judge Alderon stood. “Khyffen Antonello, by the power vested in me by the Empire of the Tarthian People and Her Majesty Rheyn Destoiya, I publicly declare you a free person. Congratulations.” He leaned over his desk and stretched out a hand.
Khyff slipped his hand into the judge's, smiling into friendly eyes.
The judge left the bench.
“Yes!” Khyff pumped both fists into the air. He shook hands with Saint-Cyr. “Sir, I can never thank you enough! I'd do anything for you.”
“Don't say that, Khyffen. You don't know what I want.”
The chill of those words splashed over his soul, dampening his joy. Try as he might, Khyff could not discern Saint-Cyr's expression. Resolved to honor his word, he tamped down the fear that made his stomach quiver.
“I mean it, sir. Thank you.” He dropped his hands at his sides and lifted his head, quietly offering himself. “I will give you anything you want.”
At the Mercy of Her Pleasure Page 7