by Viola Grace
He didn’t like the fact that slavery was an institution on Attigua, but no culture was perfect—his included. This planet didn’t have prisons—violators became property, often for their entire lives. They were marked according to their crime. Given her limp, she might have been a runaway servant or a thief... one who’d stolen shoes. He grimaced at the thought. Cruel as it seemed, he’d seen worse. She was an anomaly, as she appeared to spend time with the king, who was infamous for his disgust at physical imperfection. When Brock had been presented, King Jamis had glanced at him and turned away, repelled by the dark marks and arm-ridges that had still been visible back then.
Alone again, he paced the room, bored and lonely. He had a party later that night, but today stretched before him, empty. He had one day a week away from training and the gym. He could visit the city, where someone was bound to recognize him. He could visit an entertainment house, or dine at a kiosk, or even take a boat out onto the choppy ocean and search for an elusive bit of sky.
He could hike into the mountains in search of a dry spot. He could visit the library in the palace and catch up on events in the system. Or he could sleep. Because when he slept, he flew home, seeing the green fields, the gentle sun, and the rich, dark soil of his family farm.
He lay on the freshly made bed, noting the silk was now vibrant green. Like her eyes.
Minutes passed, and he lay quietly, willing the faces of his loved ones to come to mind, but they remained stubbornly elusive. He clasped himself through the rough toweling he still wore, but his body refused to be lured to response. He let his mind wander, touching lightly on the last match he’d fought, feeling the ghostly pain of a bruise to his ribs, the fire of a slash to his upper arm. Fontet was his friend in training, but in the arena, he’d become a formidable foe. Brock was afraid he’d soon be forced to eliminate the other man completely. More and more fights were ending that way, with Brock bleeding and his opponents unresponsive. They woke badly damaged and unable to fight.
Another cost to the royal budget.
With a sigh, he rose and dressed quickly, without care. In a few hours, dressers would come and prepare him for the event that night. Afterward, he’d be praying for alone time again.
He left his rooms and strode to the library, determined to pass the long morning in a constructive fashion, one that didn’t involve blood, sweat or pain.
Or rainwater, either. He was sick of the rain.
* * * *
Outside of the giant’s rooms, Verda stepped aside, letting Val walk past her. Though burdened with laundry, he’d move faster than she. Stooping, she picked up the buckets full of brushes and rags and hobbled down the corridor to the supply closets.
Housework wasn’t her job. Her body wasn’t suited to labor. Oddly, the royals hated a cripple clattering around their private spaces, tending to their private needs. She supposed it was strangely uncomfortable for them to view imperfection. She wished it was guilt they felt, but that would be overly optimistic. They knew no guilt.
She leaned against the wall for a brief, forbidden moment, her hand resting over the center of her chest. Her heart raced, and her breath came fast. She’d seen him! Right there, just yards away, and he was as big, beautiful, and vibrant as she’d been told. He moved like a beast... not like a great, lumbering animal, but smoothly, so swiftly that it was hard to track the tiny movements that telegraphed his intent. And she relied heavily on such cues to manage her survival. He was dangerous in his stealth, and in his beauty.
She pushed off the wall and hobbled down the corridor, automatically smoothing her expression, careful not to betray the agony that accompanied every step. She folded her hands, cast her eyes to the floor and did her best to blend into her surroundings. The residences weren’t her normal territory. She usually stayed to the web of corridors leading from the archives to the research library, and up to the royal residence. When she was lucky, one of the small, personal shuttles was at her disposal. Today, she was denied such assistance. She was being punished. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe she hadn’t bowed low enough or effaced herself to some royal’s satisfaction. She didn’t care. It would soon end.
She averted her mind from the pain by imagining the powerful warrior she’d encountered. She’d never seen him fight... not in person. Such entertainments were forbidden to her. But in the city, his image was displayed in shop windows, and moving vid captured some of his more notorious moves. Great leaps through the air, twisting rolls, and near-suicidal attacks. Training manuals bristled with statistics and drawings, all promising to unlock the mystery of his fighting style. Gossip sheets speculated about his lovers, his fortune, and rather breathlessly speculated about the fate of his upcoming contract. Would he sign again? Would he travel off into space, to his mysterious home on a distant planet?
Brock Uhern was a fantasy, a hero. He was nearly a legend, and as she’d seen, he was very, vividly real. And there was no mystery to his fighting style. He was simply a slightly different species of humanoid—he’d been raised in higher gravity than existed here. His body was large, his bones and tendons and sinews functioned to support his mass. She saw nodes on the outside of his forearms, indicating some sort of boney growth. He didn’t feast on raw flesh. He ate fish and porridge, and he drank red tea. He was a good fighter, not really brilliant. His training was limited, and his advantages were those of birth. If he faced off with another of his own species, his wins wouldn’t come so easily.
Rather than being arrogant and cocky, the fighter seemed wistful and sad. He was a creature of the light, and out of place here on a rainy planet. Verda didn’t think he’d renew his contract. The man was aching for something he hadn’t found here. He’d be leaving soon. If he was allowed to leave.
She paused, catching her balance as a mild tectonic shift rolled through the ground below. No one seemed to notice the gentle quakes these days, but they were growing more frequent. She had no way to measure the intensity of the quakes—the king refused to invest in technology to monitor the seismic activity of the planet. But lately, dishes toppled from shelves, and it wasn’t unusual for an object too close to the edge of a table to fall. She could time them, though, and they were lasting longer.
She hurried down the hall, hoping to avoid Ser Lanham, who’d taken a caning from Princess Maghe. She was angry now, and eager to pass her humiliation on to an easy target like Verda. Winding through corridors, she passed from the spacious guest quarters where Brock Uhern resided, to the less elaborate rooms reserved for visiting dignitaries. From there, she took a downward curving passage that was far narrower than those above. The walls grew closer, the ceiling lower, and the air was dank and moist.
Just yards from the room she shared with Yala, the laundress, she came to an abrupt halt. Ser Lanham paced the corridor, her stride jerky and abrupt. She was still angry but managed to contain her emotions.
“He wishes to see you.” Her thin lips twisted. “Now.”
Verda’s heart dropped. All she wanted was to sit for a minute, to ease her leg. The journey to the audience room was not only long, she’d face a curving ramp that rose to the royal heights. She wasn’t allowed to use the lifts to climb to the higher levels. She fought back a sigh and nodded meekly.
“I’ll be there as quickly as possible.” She turned, ignoring Ser Lanham’s stifled snort.
“I’ll take you. He’s in a hurry.”
Damnation. She spent so much of her time in and out of his favor—they should just assign her a dungeon cell with a direct lift to his apartments.
She hated riding double on the trolley with the slave mistress but was grateful for the ride up. It was little more than a wide board with a steering handle, elevated by a magnetic reaction to the iron in the stone beneath them. It hummed along quietly, almost silent, which is why Ser Lanham left a few unsuspecting servants sprawling as they passed. Verda grasped the brace behind her, straining to avoid contact with the thin, rigid woman in front of her. Ser Lanham wouldn’t wish to be a
ctually touched by one of her charges.
In less time than it took for her to walk from Brock Uhern’s lodging to her own, they negotiated the guest wing of the palace, then crossed out through the gardens until they arrived at the royal wings.
They bypassed the library and archives, and she released a small sigh at being denied her normal workplace. That was the real punishment. Not the labor.
He knew her too well.
Another minute took them up the various curving ramps to the receiving rooms. To her surprise, they continued to the private level where the royals actually lived and moved. They turned down a corridor, bypassing one hall that Verda recalled all too well. Rigidly, she avoided gazing that direction. There was no point in looking. That life was now dead and gone.
Ser Lanham slowed, allowing Verda to step off, leading with her good right leg. Well... her better leg.
“I’ll be nearby, just return here when you’re finished.” She sounded like she was talking through stinging, sour spite. The Ser didn’t particularly like any of her slaves, and perhaps disliked Verda more than the others. It made no sense to keep a lame slave alive, but the Ser didn’t question orders from above. She followed directions to the letter and found her pleasures in punishment when she could.
Chapter Two
As always, Verda counted every step to the door, using that time to mentally compose herself, to shove away emotion and cloak herself with an extra layer of humility. She straightened her shoulders, lengthened her spine, and bowed her head appropriately. Before she could touch the door of the king’s private apartments, they swung open.
She entered, sizing up the room, looking for hidden dangers. There were no clerks or courtiers; no other members of the family. The door closed behind her, and she felt the absence of the bodyguards.
Her skin prickled in warning, but nothing happened.
She was tired. The continual flow of adrenaline into her system suddenly failed her and Verda struggled to maintain the posture and the quiet dignity she wore like armor. Belatedly, she lowered her gaze. King Jamis hated her eyes. Thankfully, the king was preoccupied with a large ledger. Which was odd, given his revulsion of the written word.
She arrived and stopped precisely six feet away, sinking awkwardly to the floor, braced on her fists, her head dropped forward.
He left her there until the pain in her leg was unbearable. But she bore it. Her vision grew hazy as she waited. She counted down the seconds, forcing control over her pain.
“Ah. You’re here. Get up, Verda. That’s just embarrassing.” His mouth twisted as she rose awkwardly to her feet. He drew some pleasure from her discomfort. He always did.
He was a large man, a head taller than she, wider through the shoulders than the middle, though that part was catching up. His short chestnut hair was greying in an artful fashion. His narrowed eyes were an odd shade somewhere between brown, green, and blue. Strange eyes, she’d always thought. Suitable for a strange man. He was only partially dressed, still in only pants and his fine silk shirt, though a more suitable outfit was probably waiting him in his dressing room.
No need to dress presentably for a slave.
He continued to study the ledger, and she stood quietly, not letting her guard slip for a moment. She studied him, though her gaze was directed downward. Abruptly, he slammed the book closed and stood. She clenched her teeth and stood her ground.
He opened the book again, turned it in her direction and rose, arms behind his back, turning away from her.
Bold move. Or just stupid. Or totally confident that this particular slave lacked any ability to harm him.
“Tell me what you see in there.”
He strolled to the window, gazing out at the grey-green vista, out toward the mountains in the distance. Verda walked to the desk and careful to touch nothing, looked at the open page. Numbers were neatly inscribed in rows... handwritten. Archaic.
“Profits and losses. I’m sorry, I can’t venture more than that.” There were dozens, hundreds of notations. It meant little to her without time to study. Many statisticians had their own secret methods of recording numbers.
“Profits and losses.” His voice carried contempt. “I’d think one as brilliant as you could see more clearly.”
Her cheeks went warm. She was grateful he wasn’t looking at her face. She continued to study the page.
“These appear to be numbers from the Games.”
“Aha,” he murmured.
“Profits are on the rise.” She then saw the pattern. Every Seven Day, the numbers spiked. That was the main night when the most popular fighters appeared. She went back through the weeks, noting a steady rise in attendance. The previous two weeks, that number rose on Third Day as well.
“Brock Ahern is fighting twice a week now,” she said. “The numbers are rising in conjunction with his appearances.” And Brock was unhappy. And tired. And his contract would soon end. Again, her skin prickled. Perhaps her labor that morning hadn’t been punishment. Perhaps it was surveillance.
“Yes. And you know what will happen when he leaves.”
He didn’t say it, and she didn’t need to. The kingdom had a fierce hunger for money. Every week, seawalls crumbled, and rather than build new walls and relocate citizens, structures were repaired, patched and cobbled together while the family and their courtiers adorned themselves in exotic goods from off-planet. The loss of the planet’s most popular fighter would cost millions. Perhaps more.
“You tended his room. Was he there?”
“Yes, my King.” She stepped back from the ledger, turning to fully face him.
“His mood?” The king examined his immaculately polished fingernails. The nail on his smallest finger was chiseled to a sharp point, as was the current fashion. A fashion he’d set and would soon abandon.
“He appeared... melancholy.”
The king didn’t reply. She glanced at him, gauging his mood. He appeared to be in tolerable control of his temper. But there was that shirt, not fully fastened. His hair wasn’t quite styled. He’d not tolerated his servants that morning. This was a dangerous moment.
She tried again. “He paid little notice to me, but I believe he realized I wasn’t his normal attendant. He gazed out the window all morning. He ate because he had to, not because he relished his food, or even hungered. The only trace of enjoyment I noted was when he sipped his red tea.” And there was that moment he saw her. Looked into her eyes and for a second, seemed diverted. “A stack of papers was placed beside his food. He ignored them.”
The king growled slightly. She fought the urge to step away. If she did so, he’d follow, and fate only knew what punishment he’d lay on her damaged body this time. She remained perfectly still, reining in her urge to flee.
Or to fight. She’d rather fight. She’d like to sweep his feet from under him, twist his arm and—
“What of the rains?”
She swallowed, smothering her impotent fury. “This spell is projected to last approximately ten days. The readings show enough sun after that to encourage the grain to germinate at the proper time. Ser Felden tells me the fields aren’t draining as well as he’d wish, but the modified grain he integrated into the seed stocks should improve the yield.”
He was losing interest. His gaze skittered about the room, and Verda knew she should cease. But still...
“The seismic events—”
“What of them,” he said snappishly. “They’re nothing new.”
“I’ve recorded their frequency and the duration—”
He waved her off, and she promptly backed away, knowing she was risking a flare of his temper. But still—
“They grow stronger. Yesterday’s tremor brought down a section of seawall—I was told—”
“Enough. Out.”
Backing up, she did her best to hide her limp but knew the effort was to no avail. He didn’t want to hear her theories. Didn’t care to know of the hours she’d studied, the maps and measurements she’d consu
lted. He didn’t care to know the source of the rain and the flares that took down their energy grid. He did not care. He’d focus on the limp. It fascinated him. She turned to leave.
“Verda.”
She stopped, not looking back.
“Brock Uhern must sign the contract.”
She turned slowly. “I have no influence on him.”
“Then figure out how to influence him. If he doesn’t sign...” he trailed off ominously. “Befriend him if he’s lonely. Fuck him if you must. Your failure is your life.”
The words echoed in her ears. “But unc—Highness—” Oh fate. That error would cost her. She rushed to continue before he comprehended what she’d almost said. “I have no beauty. I’m lame. Ungainly. Without appeal.” She’d been told that so many times before. She didn’t even own a scrap of a mirror and ignored the one hanging on the other side of the room she shared. Her appearance was irrelevant. It did nothing to ensure her survival.
Or it hadn’t in the past. How was she to charm the fighter into friendship?
“Out.” He turned away, already forgetting her, and for the briefest moment, she saw him as vulnerable. His guard was down. He’d never expect an attack from her. She clenched her hands and narrowed her eyes.
She’d never survive the attempt. And survival was very much on Verda’s mind these days. Somewhere off this planet, somewhere in another world, there were people she needed to find. There were people she’d kill to find. But not today.
She walked to the door, ignoring the biting pain in her leg, ignoring the massive bodyguard waiting for her.
She stepped on the trolley behind Ser Lanham and leaned back, again avoiding brushing against the grumbling Ser. She dropped Verda in a service corridor a painful distance from her quarters. Verda walked slowly from the soft carpets to hard stone floors, entered her room and noticed the dampness at the edges of the room and shivered. She sat on her narrow bed and studied the grey walls, and made a plan.