A minute later, Tarke walked past. She fell into step beside him, and he went to a patch of flora and stopped. A golden nimbus sheathed him, and she followed. She found herself alone on Shadowen’s bridge, and poured a drink while she waited for Tarke to join her. He did several minutes later, without his Torvark disguise. Rayne sat on the pilot’s seat and stared at the grey planet in the screens, several visible bio-domes like tiny, sunken pearls on its surface. Tarke helped himself to a frothy pink drink and leant on the console beside her, sipping it. She wondered at the thick silence that hung between them, partly understanding it, and not liking her conclusions.
“What’s a tralack merdan tran?” she asked.
He scowled at his drink. “You know what those words mean, surely?”
“Timeless torture pit. That doesn’t really tell me much.”
“Sure it does. It’s a place of never-ending torture, where clients get to watch slaves performing the most abhorrent acts on each other. It’s pretty much the only way two solid-mark untouchables of the opposite sex would ever learn to trust each other.”
She swallowed bile and took a gulp of her drink. “Those people... hate everyone.”
“Yup.”
“But you’re not like them.”
“I was, for a while.”
“What happened?”
He glanced up. “I went back to Elliadaren.”
She stared at him in horror, numbness nibbling at her mind despite Scrysalza’s healing. The doors remained sealed, but the memory of the Envoy’s grinding roar echoed through her mind.
“Hey.” Tarke put down his drink and stepped closer. “Are you all right?”
She focussed on him. “How could you stand it?”
“I couldn’t. That’s why I killed them.”
“But... how did that make you care again?”
He leant against the console once more. “I learnt more about true torment than I ever wanted to know, and that anyone can fall prey to it. They were freemen, but they were tortured too. It took me two days to do it, though. Partly because they were my people, but also because at first I didn’t care. Then I realised that, although some people are cruel, even they can be made to suffer.
“Not that Antians were cruel, mind you, but at that stage I was like those guys in the club. No one deserved my help, since no one had helped me. But I realised that everyone deserves pity, if they suffer, and, just because no one had helped me, it didn’t mean I shouldn’t help others, or pity them. I realised that I could be the one who helped them, and others, as much as I could. I could be the saviour I hadn’t had. I could make a difference.”
Rayne put down her glass and rose to step closer to him. He blinked when she cupped his cheek, and she resisted the urge to embrace him. This was what made him so different from all others, she realised. His ability to see beyond his pain and try to do for others what no one had done for him. It made her love him even more, and she wished yet again that the gulf of his horrendous past did not yawn between them.
“How long after that did you start saving slaves?”
“The slaver was the next ship I attacked.”
“How many have you saved?”
He shook his head with a slight smile. “I have no idea. I don’t keep count.”
“You’re...” Her throat closed, and she gulped.
“Hey, don’t cry.” He clasped her hand to his cheek. “Come, I want to show you something. I think it will cheer you right up.”
“What?”
He contemplated her for a moment. “You found those people hard to bear because of their indifference, I know. I want to show you how different they can be.”
“Do I need to change?”
“Not unless you want to.”
“I think I do.”
“Okay, I’ll be back shortly.”
Tarke stepped back. The transfer Net enveloped him, and she went to her cabin to wash her face and don her black and grey coverall with its silver hawk emblem. She had learnt more about her strange husband than she had bargained for, and she had her suspicions about what he wanted to show her. Part of her wondered why he did it, another part suspected that she knew, deep down. Why he thought he needed to impress her, she could not imagine. Had it been anyone else, she would have thought he was showing off, but not Tarke. Then again, was she assigning lesser motives to a man who was above such things?
When he returned, she was no closer to figuring him out. He appeared from the golden light like a shadow on the dim bridge, his grey coat relieving the gloom. He smiled when she came to his side and raised gloved hands to unclip her slave collar, dropping it on the pilot’s seat. She got the impression that he liked removing it, and that was why he had not shown her how to do it herself. Hers was the only one he could take off, much as he wished he could do it for all his people, and himself. He clipped on his mask and took her hand.
She asked, “Will they believe it?”
“Yes.”
The light surrounded them, and when it dispersed, they stood outside the Rosh club. She stepped back, tugging on his hand. “They’ll recognise me.”
“So? They don’t know the rashone you were with earlier was me. They may suspect, but they can’t be sure. Nor do they know what I really look like, and, last but not least, none of them would betray me, even if they did. It’s okay, come on.”
Several pedestrians stopped to stare, and some approached, looking stunned. Tarke led her into the club, and the patrons regarded them with dispassion that changed to wonder. He headed for a vacant table and settled on a seat. Rayne sat opposite. Every eye in the club was on the Shrike, and a complete hush fell. Women crowded the edges of their booths, and, to her surprise, some wept. The same serving girl approached, her eyes wide. She stopped several paces away and chewed her lip. Tarke beckoned her over, and she came closer, clutching her scribe pad. Rayne was not sure what she had been expecting, but this was not it. Whereas before the ex-slaves’ indifference had been unpleasant, now the Rosh club was filled with overpowering adoration.
Tarke looked up at the serving girl. “Are you happy, Cherin?”
“Now that you’re here, we all are, Dalreen.”
“Ah.” He ordered drinks, and she hurried away, glancing back so often that she almost fell over a table.
Tarke turned his head, raised a hand and beckoned. A man at the back of the club jumped up and strode over, stopping a few paces away, as the serving girl had. Rayne recognised him as the angry young man who had questioned them earlier. He bowed, then drew himself up, raised his chin and squared his shoulders.
Tarke rose and stepped closer to him, and the man’s Adam’s apple bobbed. The Shrike clasped his hands behind his back, his action pushing back his coat to reveal the fact that he was unarmed. Many of the men wore weapons, including the one who faced him.
Tarke said, “It’s good to see you so proud, Shason. Revel in your freedom. What do you do on Dreamish?”
“I...” He hesitated. “I... enjoy my freedom, Dalreen.”
“In other words, nothing.”
“I was -”
The Shrike raised a finger. “I know what you were, and what you are now. What will you be in the future, though? Will you always be as you are? Angry? Judgemental? Dismissive? What have you done to help others?”
“They -”
“No. Don’t tell me what they are. Tell me what you are.”
The man shifted, his eyes darting. “I... I’m just a... Just trying to... be happy.”
“And yet, you fail. You squander your freedom on idleness and indifference.”
“What should I do, Dalreen? Tell me and I will.”
Tarke shook his head. “It’s not for me to tell you that. I’ll tell you what I think you shouldn’t be doing, though, and that’s sitting around here on your backside feeling sorry for yourself and taking out your bitterness on others.”
Rayne almost smiled at his sudden change of tone, going from knowledgeable mentor to scathing peer
without missing a beat.
Tarke turned his head, his soft voice carrying in the stillness. “All of you. Do something with your lives. Make them count.”
“But...” The young man hesitated. “We’re rashone.”
“So what? Does that mean all you can do is sit around? My ships need crews, Shason. There are so many who need saving. Will you let them die in slavery? You are slaves still. All of you. Slaves of your bitterness and hatred. Why did I free you, if you do nothing with it? I did it for pity’s sake. Where’s yours?”
The man’s shoulders slumped, and he hung his head. Rayne could almost see the shackles on him again, draining his spirit. Tarke clasped his shoulder, causing a collective indrawn breath to go around the club. The man stiffened, his hands clenching.
Tarke nodded. “Strike me. I’ve touched you.”
“Never, Dalreen.” His face twisted.
“Your name.”
“Grambol.”
“What’s mine?”
Grambol raised his eyes to the mask, and Rayne was astonished by the tears that ran down his cheeks. “You are the Dalreen. The Shrike.”
“I am. And I’m just a man, like you. I, too, am rashone. You all know this.”
Grambol shook his head. “You’re not just a man, you are -”
“No. I’m just a man. I’ll never ask anything of any of you. I know you. You’re not free. Look within yourself and find what it is you need to free yourself from the chains you’ve donned. I can’t free you from your pain. Only you can do that.” Tarke released him and returned to sit opposite her again.
Grambol gawped at him, his eyes bright.
The Shrike gestured. “Go. And you can all quit staring at me.”
Rayne was reminded of the way everyone in the hangar had turned away when Tarke had been unmasked, as every patron looked away. Grambol backed off, bumped into a table and edged around it, his eyes on the floor. Another rashone gripped his arm and steered him to a table.
“They do anything you say,” Rayne murmured.
“That’s why I almost never tell them to do anything.”
“Except stop staring at you.” She smiled.
His sigh hissed through the mask. “It bothers me, even with the mask.”
“Will they all join your ships’ crews now?”
“No. Only some will. Others will want to, but never find the courage. They’re afraid of being out there, where the slavers are.”
“What does ‘dalreen’ mean?”
Tarke turned his head away, and she sensed his frown. “Nothing important.”
His reticence puzzled Rayne, and she jumped as a man at the table beside theirs leant closer to mutter, “Excuse me, Rasheer. It means ‘emperor’.”
“I’m not a damned emperor,” Tarke said.
“You are to us, Dalreen.” The man stared at his amber drink.
“And my wife is not rasheer; she’s freeman.”
The man cast a shocked glance at Rayne’s bare neck. “I apologise, Lady Shrike.”
Rayne was even more puzzled. “I thought being freeman was an insult.”
“Did you?” Tarke shook his head. “It isn’t. Not to me, anyway. Some of these hate freemen, but they have no right to. Not all freemen are slavers.”
The serving girl brought their drinks, placing Tarke’s in front of him as if it was made from spun crystal. Raw adoration shone in her downcast eyes. He, Rayne knew, was above any hatred; he was their saviour, and he had shared their suffering. She noticed that the atmosphere in the club had changed drastically. Soft conversation had resumed, but, whereas before there had been a lot sullen faces and frowns, the mood now was almost festive. No one so much as peeked at Tarke, but many shot her furtive looks, clearly amazed that a rashone would have a wife. She sensed their pity, and disliked it.
Tarke sipped his drink. “What’s bothering you?”
“They pity me.”
“Of course. Who would want to be married to an untouchable? And most of them are trying to imagine why I would want a wife.”
She contemplated this with a frown, glancing up in surprise when he stretched his hand across the table to her. She took it, smiling.
“But I know why,” he said. “And so do you.”
The club had become considerably fuller since their arrival, and almost all the tables were now occupied. Evidently the Shrike’s presence was like a magnet, and newcomers gazed at him for only as long as it took someone to whisper to them.
Tarke drained half his drink. “We can’t stay here too long.”
“Why don’t you have a weapon?” she asked. It had been bothering her since she had noticed his lack earlier.
“You really think I need one here?”
“You were almost assassinated on Ironia.”
“That’s where assassins expect to find me.” He leant closer. “If anyone tried to draw a weapon in here now, they’d be dead before they got it out. Same on Ironia, which is why they always try to poison me. No one here will even come close to me, as you may have noticed.”
She nodded. “I did.”
“It’s not because they fear me. It’s the others they’re afraid of.”
“They love you. You saved them.”
He inclined his head. “What do you think of them now?”
“I find it sad that the only person they can love is you. They’d be so much happier if they could love each other, too.”
“They’d have to be normals for that, or compatible two-third marks. Rarely, a solid mark will fall for a two-third and try to regain his or her normality. Most of the time, it doesn’t work.”
She gazed around. “Do you provide counselling for them?”
“There are counsellors, but they have few clients. Untouchables don’t talk about their past, not even to each other. That’s why Grambol was so shocked when I told him we’d been in a tralack merdan tran together. It’s one of the worst things that can happen to a slave, and those who do suffer that fate never speak about it. Those who survive, that is, which is few.”
“But you’ve never actually been in one, have you?”
“No.”
“What does he think we did for each other that made us trust each other?”
He turned his head away, clearly reluctant to talk about it, then he sighed. “Can you imagine what happens when people who are as angry as these, and who hate people as much as they do, are thrown together in a pit and expected to hurt each other in horrible ways?”
“I’d rather not.”
“Exactly. Even though they’re all slaves, when someone hurts you, you want to hurt them back. It’s only natural. That tends to escalate in a torture pit until one dies.”
“Why can’t they refuse to hurt each other?”
He shook his head. “The collar, remember?”
“Right. So what does he think we did?”
“He thinks we pretended to hurt each other. It only works if both parties agree, and stick to their pact. The moment one breaks it, the cycle of violence resumes. The slaves in a pit aren’t given weapons, so there’s generally not much blood. It’s... gouging, beating and biting, mostly.”
Her bile rose. “Why would anyone enjoy watching that?”
“Why do some people enjoy watching animals fight to the death, or gladiators? It’s not about who wins, or the money they can bet on the fight. It’s the fight itself; the pain and blood, and ultimately, the death. Some people enjoy it.”
“Sick bastards.”
“Yes.” He leant forward again. “The ones who are even sicker are those who enjoy doing it themselves. There are plenty of those, too.”
“Sadists.”
He nodded. “Mostly the slaves put into a torture pit are worthless. They’re burnouts, cripples and the diseased. You don’t really fit the profile.” He drained his glass. “Come, let’s go.”
Silence fell as they headed for the door, and once again she was glad to be out in the fresh air. As they wandered along the street, pedest
rians paused to gaze at Tarke, some with smiles, others with anguished expressions.
She glanced at the inscrutable mask. “I’m surprised you’re not mobbed.”
“No chance of that. My people know better.”
“Where are we going now?”
He shrugged. “You choose. It’s your honeymoon.”
“I chose last time, and it’s your honeymoon, too.”
“Okay.”
The Net shell dispersed on Shadowen’s bridge. She was a little surprised that he had chosen her ship. He pulled off his gloves, unclipped his mask and tossed it on the pilot’s chair, then removed the hood and skullcap and leant on the console.
“A drink?” she asked, moving past him to go to the galley.
“No. Wait.”
Rayne stopped, surprised, and he took hold of her hand, drawing her closer. Her breath caught as he studied her with a strange intensity, and she wished the bridge was brighter, so she could see him clearly. He seemed to be wrestling with a dilemma, and she waited as seconds ticked past, hoping he was going to do what she had wanted him to do for so long. He raised his other hand and brushed her fringe aside, trailing his fingers down the side of her face to her cheekbone. He seemed uncertain, or undecided. She swallowed hard, her heart hammering, as he cupped her jaw, his fingers caressing the soft spot behind her ear. He leant forward, releasing her hand to clasp her face.
Rayne gulped again as he drew her closer, and she closed her eyes. She shivered when his lips brushed hers, and the rest of reality seemed to recede. He hesitated, as if gauging his reaction and deciding whether or not he actually wanted to go through with it. Her heart skipped a beat as his mouth captured hers ever so gently, a zephyr’s caress that made her stomach try to turn over and her knees almost buckle.
Somehow, she managed to keep her hands off him, even though the effort was almost unbearable. His slow, lingering gentleness was intensely seductive. His powerful allure took her breath away, and there was no mental coercion with it this time. This was just his natural charm, but ten times more potent when combined with the exquisite tenderness of his touch. She was determined she was not going to spoil it. She would remain frozen in place for a year if he would just carry on.
Slave Empire III - The Shrike Page 19
