Rogue

by Cheryl Brooks

  Tychar looked up just then, and seeing my tragic expression, he must have assumed that it was Zealon’s less than beautiful efforts at the piano which were responsible.

  Chucking in amusement, he said, “Her playing is not so bad, Kyra. She will improve.”

  “I know,” I said quietly. “It isn’t that.” Actually, it was thinking about him that was making me sad, but it wasn’t something that I felt I could admit at the time. “I heard you humming,” I said instead. “Do you enjoy music?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “But not Darconian music.”

  “I haven’t heard any,” I remarked. “Is it really that bad?”

  “I don’t believe you would call it music,” he said with a glimmer of a smile. Noting my look of surprise, he added, “I heard you playing this morning. Darconian music is very… different.”

  “You liked what I played, then?”

  “Yes, I did,” he replied. “You play very well.”

  “Thank you,” I said, the warmth of his smile causing me to blush. My playing had been praised before, but for some reason, it meant more coming from him. “Do you—” I paused as I considered the best way to ask, but decided that there was no easy way. “Do you remember any songs from your own world?”

  He nodded, but gave me no clue as to how he might feel about sharing them.

  “Would you sing them for me sometime?” I went on. “I’d like to hear them.”

  He looked at me curiously, as if not quite sure why I would ask, but I thought I saw a trace of suspicion there, too. “I don’t remember them very well,” he said evasively.

  “Well, just think about it, then,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere—at least, not for a while. You know where to find me.”

  Tychar left the bedside and crossed the floor to where the pitcher stood, pouring out a glass of water which he then brought to me, his own expression carefully neutral. “You did not drink when you arose,” he said.

  “What? Oh—no, I suppose I didn’t,” I said, momentarily confused. “No, wait a minute, I did, but you were still asleep. Thanks for reminding me, though, because I sure don’t want Wazak fussing at me all the time!”

  “He was not fussing at you,” Tychar said, borrowing that distinctively Terran expression from me, though I doubted he’d ever heard it before. “He was fussing at me.”

  “Humph! Like it was all your fault.” I took the glass anyway and took a long drink, only then noticing how thirsty I was.

  “Your welfare is my responsibility,” he said in a wooden voice.

  I took another sip and decided to find out why he was acting so stiff. “Is something wrong? You changed the subject just now,” I said, scrutinizing him closely. “Why?”

  A variety of emotions washed over his feline features before he seemed to withdraw further into himself, his eyes not quite meeting my own. “I am… uncomfortable discussing what I remember of Zetith,” he said.

  Only then did I recall our earlier conversation. “And stupid me, I forgot I wasn’t going to mention it again!” I said ruefully. “I’m sorry, Tychar, I—I wasn’t thinking! But you know, even though music might be one of the more painful things to remember about a lost world, it’s also one of the more meaningful things to try to preserve.”

  He appeared to consider this, but then winced as Zealon hit another sour note from the adjoining room.

  “You’ve obviously got a good ear,” I remarked. “Can you sing?”

  He shrugged in reply, as nearly everyone does when asked that question. No one ever thinks they can sing—even some highly paid professionals.

  “Well, what if I teach you some Earth songs,” I suggested, “and then we’ll see about the songs of Zetith.”

  He nodded briefly and went on with his work. He would do whatever I told him to, of course—would sing every song he knew if I demanded it of him—but I thought it best to let it be his idea, rather than mine. And since we’d be together for the greater part of each day, there would be plenty of opportunities for me to encourage him to change his mind.

  Meanwhile, I thought Zealon had gone on long enough for a first lesson, so I sent her on to do whatever it was she normally did at that hour, but, surprisingly, she elected to stay there in my room. I thought it was a bit odd, but perhaps it was simply because she was lonely.

  “Ever go out?” I asked her. “Or is a princess stuck in the castle all the time?”

  “Takes an armed squadron for me to go out,” she grumbled. “The closest I ever get to freedom is sneaking off to visit the slave quarters.”

  “I think that’s just about the best example of irony I’ve ever heard,” I said dryly. “But it is a nice place. Tychar took me there this morning,” I added.

  “Yes, it is beautiful,” Zealon agreed. “And you’re right, it’s pretty ironic that I would feel free in one of the most secure areas of the palace, but that’s the way it is. Maybe it’s because Mother doesn’t want me spending time with her slaves—or even to know they exist—but it’s about the most fun I ever have.”

  “A touch of rebellion always adds spice to a young person’s life,” I conceded. “But surely you aren’t alone all the time.”

  She shrugged. “I see a few people from outside sometimes—we get the occasional visitors from other planets, which are becoming more frequent nowadays—but I don’t get the chance to spend much time with others of my own age.”

  I nodded. No wonder she seemed so mature! “And slaves, guards, and servants are all you’ve got as companions?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “But not like having friends of your own, is it?”

  “No, but I’ve learned lots of interesting things from them. For instance, did you know that Trag used to be a pilot on a space freighter?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Well, he was,” she declared. “Says he can fly anything.”

  Tychar was on the other side of the room, dusting the furniture with a scrail cloth, but I heard him make an odd sound. I couldn’t tell if he was laughing or had choked on the dust he was raising—though there didn’t seem to be much of it in the air, since scrail was pretty effective at trapping dirt.

  “Care to comment on that, Tychar?” I asked.

  “Trag might have been able to fly anything twenty years ago,” he replied. “But I doubt if that would be true now.”

  “Technology does change,” I agreed. “But the basic principles would stay the same, wouldn’t they?”

  “Possibly,” he conceded.

  “And you were a soldier, weren’t you?” Zealon ventured. Tychar nodded his reply, and she went on. “So if someone handed you a pulse pistol, you’d know what to do with it, wouldn’t you?”

  “It’s true that I was once a soldier,” he said warily. “But that was a very long time ago.”

  Looking at him then, I’d have had to say he didn’t look as if he’d ever been one. Oh, sure, the strong-looking muscles were still there, and there was something about the way he carried himself that suggested it, but, let’s face it: he had hair down to his waist, was nude except for his two jeweled collars, and he was dusting my room, for heaven’s sake! He looked fabulous, of course, but certainly not like any soldier I’d ever seen. Still, looks can be deceiving.

  Tychar must have noticed me staring at him, because his eyes met mine just then and, lowering his eyelids ever so slightly, sent a suggestive little grin in my direction—which hit me right between the thighs and made me wish that Zealon would disappear so I could spend the rest of the afternoon playing with my new slave boy. That smile of his did the strangest things to me! I decided I would simply have to forbid him to smile at me anymore, but that would mean depriving myself of one of the few perks that went along with this job. Living in the palace and having plenty of free time was okay, and the Steinway was a dream, but I had an idea that once I’
d learned my way around and wasn’t fainting all the time, it could get pretty boring. So far, having Tychar and Trag around was what had made it interesting. I’d have to do a lot of piano playing myself or develop some other sort of hobby; otherwise, I’d be as lonely as Zealon. This was possibly why Scalia had hired me to begin with—not as a subject in a breeding program, but as a companion for her daughter. Still, she’d given me Tychar…

  My mind wandered a bit. Zealon had changed the subject and was now chattering on about the piano and how much she liked playing it. I nodded absently, because what I was thinking about was playing a different instrument entirely. In my mind, I was exploring Tychar’s body, massaging his back and shoulders, pinching his buns, running my fingers through his hair—and that was just the back side of him! Rolling him over, I would find even better parts: his lips, his eyes, and, of course, that incredible cock. I imagined lying on the bed between his legs, licking and sucking and pumping it with my hands until he came in my face. I could almost feel the heat of his thick, luscious semen as it hit me right in the mouth and ran down my chin. Then it occurred to me that this was probably the part of him that would taste sweet…

  All at once I became aware that Zealon had stopped talking and was now looking at me expectantly. She’d obviously asked me something and was just as obviously expecting an answer—and I had no idea what the question was.

  “Forgive me,” I said quickly. “My mind must have wandered—crazy from the heat, I guess. What did you say?”

  “I said, how long before I can play a real song?” she repeated.

  “Sooner than you might think,” I replied. “There are lots of short little songs that will help you learn.”

  “What about the one you played this morning?”

  “I hate to disappoint you, but you won’t be playing that one anytime soon. Sorry.”

  “Oh, I’m not,” she said, actually seeming to be rather pleased by this. “That just means you’ll have to stay here until I do.”

  Like I said before, she was lonely.

  We talked for a while, and she told me I’d be having dinner with the Queen again. But they had other guests, so it wouldn’t be just the family.

  “Who is it?” I inquired. “Do you know?”

  “Oh, just some government people,” she said dismissively. “Nobody special.”

  Nobody special. That may have been true, but they were undoubtedly people who weren’t supposed to know about Scalia’s harem, so we probably wouldn’t be served by any of the slave boys—at least not the two tigers, since their existence seemed to be one of the more closely guarded palace secrets. Scalia probably had other Darconian servants on hand for such occasions, which meant that I’d be the only offworlder in a room full of Darconians—and they all looked pretty much alike. So far Wazak, Scalia, Zealon, and maybe Cernada were the only ones I could identify on sight. There were always some about, of course, but if I’d ever seen the same ones twice, you couldn’t have proved it by me. I’d have to start paying more attention to them and look for differences in size, coloring, speech patterns, etc. Of course, if none of them ever introduced themselves, I might have to come up with my own names for them. The best I could tell, most of them weren’t what you’d call gregarious—unless they were flirting with Tychar. It was no wonder Scalia liked her slaves so much.

  Zealon left us then, promising to see me at dinner, and I was alone with Tychar again. Fortunately, he wasn’t smiling, because if he had smiled at me again—or made a move of any kind, I think I would have been on him like white on rice. At least that would give me something to do with my time, but I really did need to get in some piano practice. I was only speculating, of course, but Tychar looked as if he could keep me busy for hours on end—days, even. I wondered just how I would go about asking him to do that—I was such a wuss, after all. Getting him to sing for me was going to be tricky enough.

  I left him to his work and went into the adjoining room and sat down at the piano, playing little melodies at random and thinking that perhaps I could try my hand at composing again. I’d done a little bit over the years, but hadn’t finished anything as yet—nothing good, anyway.

  Pulling my music tablet out of my bag, I set it up for a blank score. I thought I’d start off with a song or two, work up to a sonata, and then I might even attempt a symphony. God knows I’d have plenty of time…

  I’d been playing for a short while, but was no closer to coming up with anything worth saving than I’d been when I began. I needed some inspiration, though the piano itself should have been enough. How many worlds had it been to, how many different species had played it, and in what style? If only it could speak…

  It was rather dusty, I noticed. Besides rocks, dust was another thing they had in abundance on Darconia. Even in the middle of an oasis, there was dust. I suppose it blew in from the desert all the time, because there always seemed to be a breeze through the windows, which was nice, but it must have carried a lot of desert along with it. The piano must have been cleaned right before I’d arrived, because it had been gleaming that morning, but was now coated with a thin, slightly gritty film.

  Tychar came in and began to work on cleaning the music room. Using a dust mop made of scrail cloth, he went over the floor quickly—like he’d done it a million times. After twenty years of doing light housework and not much else, he must have been bored stiff! He’d said he wanted love, but did he also long for adventure? Tychar might have claimed to have adjusted better to being Scalia’s slave than Trag had, but just living out your life with nothing much happening had to wear on you after a while, and I began to see why he’d thought being assigned to me would be such a good thing. I was simply something new, a new person to be around and get to know. I was a diversion to him—he’d said being near me pleased him—and the reason for that was fairly obvious. Being sexually aroused after a twenty-year dry spell had to be a noteworthy event.

  Having finished with the floor, he asked, “This will not disturb you?” before he began cleaning the piano.

  “No,” I said ruefully. “It won’t bother me a bit. I’m just fiddling around anyway. I thought I might try to write something new, but so far, I haven’t come up with a damn thing! You go right ahead—you can even whistle while you work if you like, I don’t care. Actually, that might even help.”

  “Whistle?”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “You know—” I didn’t know the Stantongue word for it, so I had to demonstrate, whistling the first few bars of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.”

  “That is very interesting,” he remarked. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard anyone make such a sound.”

  “Oh, come on!” I protested. “Surely you can whistle, Tychar! Anyone can do that!”

  “Can you purr?” he countered with a wry smile.

  “Well, no,” I admitted, “but you’ve got—let me see your tongue. Open your mouth.”

  He did as I asked, sticking out his tongue. He was nothing if not good at following orders. Unfortunately, the words “lick me” ran through my mind just then, and I gasped as a bolt of desire hit me full force.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked, noting my odd reaction.

  Swallowing hard, I shook my head. “Well, it looks just like mine,” I said, trying to regain my composure, “and you can purse your lips. I bet you could do it if you tried. It just takes practice.”

  “Perhaps you could purr if you tried,” he murmured. “It’s done with the muscles of the throat and neck.”

  I watched him carefully, but when I tried it, I couldn’t even begin to make the same sound. Chuckling softly, he ran his fingers down the side of my throat. “It is done here,” he said. “And it only requires practice.”

  His touch was gentle but sent waves of delight coursing throughout my body.

  “You have such lovely skin, Kyra,” he purred. “Soft, beautiful…” As he leaned clos
er, his lips brushed my neck, leaving a trail of heat in their wake, and his purring grew louder. “I will try again,” he said.

  “To do what?” I asked hoarsely.

  He held his reply until his hot tongue had blazed a trail from the base of my neck to my ear, pausing to tease the lobe with the tip of his tongue before blowing gently.

  “Whistle.”

  I’d never known teaching someone to whistle could have such erotic consequences. “You aren’t really whistling,” I argued, trying to push him away but failing miserably. “You’re just blowing. I think you need to practice more.”

  “I believe I would rather make you purr,” he said. “It is more… pleasing than whistling.”

  “Well, maybe. But you still haven’t taught me how,” I reminded him.

  Tychar shook his head slowly. “I said I would make you purr, not teach you how.”

  Being unable to phrase an articulate reply, my “Oh,” came out as more of a moan.

  “You would like this?” he asked. The purring sound deepened along with his voice. “I will give you joy.”

  Which no doubt translated to “I will fuck you senseless” in any other language—something that I wasn’t sure I was quite ready for. I shook my head in an attempt to clear his “essence” from my senses. “Okay, so you can’t whistle,” I said briskly, pushing him away with a surprisingly firm hand, “but I know you can hum! You were humming while Zealon was playing. So hum something.”