So it isn’t me. He hadn’t realized how much he had been hoping for it until now. I really thought I had a good chance. So much for all the extra privileges that went with the position. The salary raise would have been especially welcome at the moment.
“Any issues with the schedule before we send out the final version to all the students tomorrow?”
Steene tried to keep the disappointment from his voice. “It looks okay to me.” He saw that he started late — not till 12:30 — on Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, and ended early — 6:20 — on Saturday and Sunday evenings. At least he would get to sleep in most days. “Do I get an aide this semester?”
“Unfortunately, you don’t. We had a few students drop out or transfer to other trainers over the break — you know how that goes — and none of your classes are big enough to justify the extra expense this time.”
That was a pity. A good aide made all the difference when you taught martial arts. It helped to have someone demonstrate the moves while you were describing them.
“Here are your class lists and the stats on the students.” Drogum handed over another set of papers. “Obviously the beginners are mostly coming in new this semester — except those repeating from last time — so you’ll need to run their preliminary tests next week to determine their starting levels and goals.”
I know, I know. After eight years here, Steene didn’t need to be told how to do his job. But Drogum liked to give orders and make it sound as though he controlled every little thing that happened in his domain.
Scanning the class lists, Steene frowned. “Wait a minute. Is this a mistake? I don’t see Jayce Torro here in my Youth Advanced Cavvara Shil class. Oh yeah, and his private lessons with me aren’t on the schedule either.” Though most classes at the CSF met twice a week, the really serious athletes often paid for additional one-on-one daily practice with a coach. Steene had been working with Jayce every day for four years now. My last best hope for the Grand Imperial had better not have moved away or gone and injured himself over New Year’s break. That would be just what Steene needed to put the finishing touches on his ruined life.
Drogum shifted his bulk in his throne, an uncomfortable expression crossing his expansive features. “Yes, I was going to tell you about that. Jayce and his mom came to me just before the break and asked me to place him in a different class.”
“What? What different class? The kid’s a pro! Probably the best I’ve ever trained. I’ve been getting him prepped for the Grand Imperial this spring, and I really think he has a good chance of qualifying for it, maybe even placing. This isn’t the time for him to be making a big change in his training plan.”
“Actually, that’s pretty much what he said when he sat right here in that chair two weeks ago.” Drogum folded his hands and leaned across his empty desk with a fatherly expression. “Don’t take this personally, Mayvins, but that’s exactly why he wanted to switch.”
“Huh?” This wasn’t making sense. Jayce wasn’t the easiest kid to get along with, but Steene tolerated his attitude, and he had thought the boy looked up to him. Why would he ask for a different trainer?
“Your head hasn’t been in the game the last couple months, Mayvins.” Drogum obviously intended for the words to come across as both firm and compassionate, but they hit with the force of a cavvarach blade on bare skin. “I know you’ve had a lot to deal with, and I know it’s over now and everything’s probably going to get better after this week, but Jayce didn’t want to take that risk. He’s on fire about the Grand Imperial too, and he doesn’t want anything standing in his way. Not even a coach he likes but who’s not up to the job.”
“Not up to the job? Not up to the job? I’ve gotten students into the Grand Imperial nine separate times,” Steene protested. “Two of them stayed in all the way to the final day: one came in fourth in her age group; the other was third! I’m as up to the job as any trainer here, and more so than most; and I’m not saying that to brag!”
“I know, Mayvins; I know. There’s no denying you’re good at what you do. But so is Brinks, and Jayce has made his choice.”
Brinks?
“Frankly, I support it,” Drogum went on. “None of our students have placed in the Grand Imperial in the last two years, and the CSF is going to start losing business to some of the training centers with better records if we don’t change things. You’ve been going through a hard time, and I understand that, but I couldn’t guarantee to Jayce or his mom when you would be over it.”
“I’m over it now!”
“I’m sorry. The decision is final.”
Steene walked out of the office feeling as though he had been kicked in the gut after already losing a match. My best pupil defected to my biggest rival. Could his life possibly get any worse?
Ignoring Marj’s cheery “See you next week,” Steene shut her office door behind him, stuffing the papers into his backpack along with the notebooks where he kept track of student levels and progress. He had intended to go up to his classroom and look over the new information, plan out his first few days’ lessons, but he couldn’t seem to muster up the motivation.
Rounding the corner into the lobby, Steene stopped short. The usual framed posters depicting the center’s athletes in action or proudly showing off awards earned in various competitions covered the walls, but above the entrance was a brand new portrait in a gleaming frame. Slowly, Steene crossed the room and stared at the face looking down at him. It was serious, with just a hint of smugness. The man in the picture might as well have been saying, Here I am to train you to be the absolute best, because I’m the absolute best. The plaque underneath read, “Markus Brinks, West Jarreon Center for Sports and Fitness Employee of the Year, 154.”
Okay, my life just got worse. Steene flopped into a chair in the lobby, thankful no one else was around. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this low.
“What’s the point?” he muttered. “What am I doing here?” He couldn’t have said whether “here” meant the CSF, the continent of Imperia, the Krillonian Empire, or life.
The sun streaming into the glass-fronted lobby finally got to be more than he could take without air conditioning. Besides, he didn’t feel like sitting there under Markus’ smug gaze any longer. Steene rose to his feet, feeling heavy and dull. But what was the point in going back to his apartment? It was even more depressing there.
I’m too young for a mid-life crisis. If that wasn’t what this was, he didn’t know what else to call it.
Trudging toward the doors like an old man, Steene caught sight of the community bulletin board on the left-hand wall. Remembering that he had been hoping to hire some slave labor — not that he could afford it — he changed directions.
He spotted a few ads he didn’t remember from before the break. Someone must have come in during the vacation and been lucky enough to catch Drogum in his office. Sometimes Steene wondered if the boss ever took a day off.
There were the usual fliers about used cars, private tutors, and babysitters. But Steene’s attention was caught by a sheet with “SLAVE FOR SALE” printed in bold letters across the top. “Bensin, age 14,” the ad announced. “Proficient at cavvara shil, trained at CSF. Experienced in housework and yardwork; can read and write. 24,000 imperials or best offer.” The color picture featured a boy with light skin, short blond hair, and green eyes, his faded tank top conveniently showing off an impressive set of muscles for a fourteen-year-old. He was Tarnestran, by the looks of it, like so many of the slaves in Imperia. Thirty years ago Tarnestra, an independent nation at the time, had fought violently against annexation by the Krillonian Empire. Bensin’s parents had likely been among the tens of thousands of citizens ripped away from their homeland and enslaved as a warning to anyone else who might try to oppose imperial progress.
The expression in those green eyes was sullen, bordering on insolent. Did the boy resent having his picture taken or being offered for sale? Or was that his normal attitude toward the world? He looked vaguel
y familiar, and Steene supposed he must have seen this Bensin around, if he had been trained here. I wonder who his trainer was and why his owner is selling him now.
He didn’t need or want a slave of his own, just someone to come in a couple times a week and keep his apartment from looking like a dump. Besides, Steene opposed slavery on principle; always had. It wasn’t right to own another human being like you owned property. Not to mention that he couldn’t afford the price; not without emptying his retirement savings account, which was pretty much all the money he had left to his name.
But he found himself reading the ad a second time, and then a third. “Proficient at cavvara shil.” How proficient? Proficient enough to be an aide?
Proficient enough to compete in the Grand Imperial Cavvara Shil Tourney?
Serra would never let me hear the end of it. Then again, his life wasn’t any of Serra’s business anymore. Who cared what she thought? A surge of defiance — or maybe the feeling was freedom — found its way past the pain and anger and betrayal that had been his companions for the last two months.
Without really thinking about what he was doing, Steene pulled out his phone and keyed in the number on the sheet.
Chapter Four: The Best Slave You Could Ask For
Bensin was in the kitchen washing up the breakfast dishes when he heard the phone ring.
Mrs. Creghorn had gone out to buy new clothes for herself and Baby Willem, a popular custom the week after New Year among those who could afford it. She had brought Ellie, encumbered with a shiny new collar, to keep an eye on the baby while she shopped. If she was in a good mood, she might stop by the second-hand store on the way back and buy Ellie a pair of flip-flops or a new used T-shirt. Bensin knew that after what he had done the other night, the Creghorns would probably never buy him anything again.
Mr. Creghorn, who had taken time off work this week, was watching TV in the living room. He muted it to answer the phone, and though Bensin tiptoed closer to the open door and strained his ears, he couldn’t hear enough of the conversation to figure out who it was. He could guess what they were calling about, though: the same thing almost every phone call this week had been about.
When he heard, “All right, see you soon. Bye,” he darted back to the sink. He was hard at work washing dishes once more when Mr. Creghorn’s shadow darkened the doorway.
“That was another potential buyer. He’ll be here in a few minutes, so make a batch of iced coffee and bring out a plate of the cookies you made yesterday. Then go change into your sleeveless shirt so he’ll see those muscles I’ve been paying good money for. And this time you’d better be on your best behavior to impress him.”
“Yes, sir.” Without turning around, Bensin dried his hands on a dishtowel. Bracing himself against the soreness in his back, he bent to pull the package of coffee out of the cupboard.
“I mean it,” his owner warned. “If you spill coffee on him like you did with the last guy, I’m upping it to ten lashes the moment he’s gone. And no more of that attitude of yours, either. Don’t think that if you can make everyone dislike you, you won’t get sold. You’re leaving here one way or another, even if I have to cut the price in half. I’m sick of you wasting my time making every likely customer think they’d be getting a bad deal. If you don’t put your best face forward this time, I swear by the emperor your sister’s going to suffer for it!”
Bensin turned. He pictured using the package of coffee as a club and smashing it with all his strength right into the center of that ugly face. For an instant he actually considered it, but he managed to control the urge in time. It wasn’t worth the risk that Mr. Creghorn would implement the full penalty the law allowed — and still make his sister suffer for it.
“I understand, sir,” he said stiffly, and turned to pull out the coffeemaker.
When his owner had left the room, he paused to consider his options. Apparently his plan to make sure no one wanted to buy him wasn’t going to work, so he had to figure out the next best course of action. There must be something else he could do to ensure he and Ellie didn’t get separated forever. Maybe if someone does buy me, I can convince them to at least let me come visit her on my days off.
But Bensin dismissed the idea almost immediately. It would be better, if possible, not to let whoever bought him know that he even had a sister. That way, the person would never have any reason to suspect that Bensin was planning to help Ellie escape.
Because he had thought of another idea. It wasn’t a complete plan yet, but he would turn it into one once he had more information. True, it was risky — though no more so than his other schemes — and this one would probably be expensive, which was a bigger problem — but it might just work.
If his new owner were reasonable, though, perhaps Bensin could work out a deal with him or her. Something along the lines of I’ll be the best slave you could ever ask for if you just let me earn money on my days off and come back to visit my friends in this neighborhood. It was worth a try. If whoever was about to come over seemed like a decent person, Bensin would do his best to make a good impression and convince the man or woman to buy him.
It wasn’t long before the doorbell rang. Off went the TV again, and Bensin heard Mr. Creghorn greet the newcomer and welcome him in. Bensin made sure the coffee and cookies were ready on a tray, and then he hovered by the kitchen door, waiting.
The two talked for a moment, and then Mr. Creghorn raised his voice. “Bensin?” Bensin picked up the tray and walked out through the dining room and into the living room beyond.
The newcomer was apparently an ethnic Imperian like both the Creghorns, with the same medium dark skin and straight black hair. Unlike them, he didn’t have frown wrinkles on his forehead; and his build was athletic, not pudgy. Bensin wondered if he lived around here. There was something familiar-looking about him.
Bracing himself against the pain once more, he bent to set the tray carefully on the coffee table before the two men. “May I pour you some iced coffee, sir?”
“Actually, I try to avoid caffeine most of the time. I’ll take some water, though.”
“Just a moment, if you please, sir.” Bensin filled a glass in the kitchen, dropped in a couple of ice cubes, and hurried back out. The stranger accepted the cup as Bensin poured coffee for Mr. Creghorn and added his usual three spoonfuls of sugar.
“So, this is Bensin,” his owner announced with a broad smile, gesturing as though displaying some rare piece of merchandise. “Bensin, this is Mr. Steene Mayvins. He works at the West Jarreon Center for Sports and Fitness, where you have your lessons twice a week. Maybe you two have seen each other around.”
“Nice to meet you,” Mr. Mayvins said, eyeing Bensin over the top of his glass.
“You too, sir.” Bensin took a step back and stood with hands clasped behind him, eyes respectfully lowered, the picture of an obedient slave waiting for orders.
“Try one of the cookies,” Mr. Creghorn urged his guest. “The boy made them himself. He’s quite a good cook.”
“I’ve been eating too much junk food lately.” But Mr. Mayvins bit into one and nodded agreement. “Not bad. What else can you cook?” he inquired of Bensin. “Healthy dishes too, I hope?”
“Pretty much anything, sir, if I have a recipe to follow.” A recipe written in easy words, he added silently.
“And he’s quite literate,” put in Mr. Creghorn. “He went to slave school five whole years, after all. Bensin, show our guest how well you can read.” He pulled a random book from the rack under the coffee table and handed it over.
It was a history text, one of the ones Mrs. Creghorn used for research with the books she wrote. Bensin opened it and turned the first few pages until he got to one that said Preface at the top. He cleared his throat nervously. Reading was not his strong suit.
“For over a century and a half, the Krillonian Empire has brought civilization, culture, security, and financial prosperity to its hundreds of millions of citizens. Originating on the continent w
e now know as Imperia, it has grown to include a total of eight separate provinces on two additional continents. Overseen from the capital city of Krillonia by our powerful but benevolent emperor, each province elects its own legislature and is permitted to decide on many of its own laws.”
Bensin faltered a little over the hard words and was pretty sure he had mispronounced several, but he managed to get to the end of the paragraph without skipping any.
“As you can see, he’s quite good,” Mr. Creghorn chuckled, taking the book back. “And as I mentioned, he’s excellent at housework, too. Dishes, cooking, laundry, floors, bathrooms — he keeps the house spic and span. Even my wife can’t find anything to complain about when it comes to his chores, and that’s saying something!”
Actually, Mrs. Creghorn found plenty to complain about, but Bensin wasn’t going to say so.
“And yardwork. He mows the lawn, trims the hedge, weeds my wife’s flowerbeds, keeps the rose bushes nicely pruned — you probably saw some of them on your way in.”
“Well, I live in an apartment,” Mr. Mayvins told him, “so I don’t actually have a yard. But what I’m most interested in are his cavvara shil skills. Your advertisement described him as ‘proficient’.” He turned to Bensin. “Who was your trainer at the CSF, and what level were you at?”
“I was in Mr. Brinks’ advanced class, sir.”
Judging by the Imperian’s expression, Mr. Mayvins knew Mr. Brinks and was startled to hear this. Was there some sort of tension between the two of them?
“The boy’s good,” Mr. Creghorn bragged. “The first year I got him, I put him in beginning kickfighting and cavvara dueling classes, and he placed in competitions in both sports the first semester. Even came in first once. Learned so fast he got promoted early in both, and ended up starting the advanced classes before the end of the year. The next year I signed him up for cavvara shil, and he passed the tests to move up the levels real fast there, too. He’s only been doing it two years, but already he’s placed in several local tournaments, and he even qualified for the Grand Imperial last spring.”
The Collar and the Cavvarach Page 5
