Jane Carver of Waar (27 page)

Twin Blades took the winning bid on both me and Lhan, as well as seven other hard cases. Our buyers were a couple of thin, sad-looking guys in dark blue togas. They looked so much alike they had to be brothers; both balding, hawknosed and stringy necked. They sat in a open coach mumbling to each other, pointing from slave to slave, and sending a tough, dark purple goombah with pig-tails and a face like an all-weather tire to do their business for them.

Pig-Tails felt my arms, checked my teeth and my legs as bored as a housewife squeezing produce in a supermarket, but he gave a dirty chuckle when he honked my tits. “Deadly weapons indeed.”

Even chained up I could have got him, but Burly must have read the tension in my back. He came up behind me and talked me up to Pig-Tails while pressing his knife between my shoulder blades. “She be spirited as well.”

“Aye. Well, we’ll break that.”

I played shy and wouldn’t let him look me in the eye. If I had he would have known I was going to kill him. Another one added to the list. What the hell was I turning into?

***

The brothers bought us along with our weapons and armor. We were packed in rolling wooden cages and taken on a long ride across the city. I tested the wooden crossbars, but there were plenty of guards riding beside the cages to keep me from getting any ideas.

Lhan was still cursing under his breath like a street loony. “Filthy slavers! To sell an Aldhanshai and her noble Dhanan like mere kraes. Have they no respect? No compassion? Poor, innocent Sai.”

Maybe I should have left him alone to be miserable, but some of the stuff Captain Kai had said was twisting around in my brain and when it bumped against the stuff Lhan was saying it made my head hurt.

“Lhan, you own slaves, right? And so does Sai?”

He was only half listening. “Yes.”

“So what’s your beef with the slavers? You’re as guilty as they are.”

His eyes flared. “I have never bought or sold the Dhans or Dhanans of any land. Nor would I.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then I fail to understand you.”

“Slavery. You’re guilty of slavery.”

He raised a confused eyebrow. “Yes, I am guilty of slavery, and of breathing, and of wearing a beard on my chin. Are these things prohibited?”

“I... well, don’t you think they oughta be? Er, slavery I mean. Not that other stuff.”

“Why?”

“Why?” I didn’t have an answer ready. I mean, like every American, I’d been told since I was born that slavery was bad. Nobody’d ever asked me to explain why before. “Well... well... men shouldn’t own other men. All men are created equal, and all that stuff. You and Sai sure as hell don’t like it much now that it’s happened to you.”

Lhan smirked. “No man likes it when his fate turns on him, and really I rage more for Sai and Wen-Jhai, who are of a more delicate nature than I. But this curious notion that all men are created equal? Perhaps ’tis true in your lands, but not here. Yes, one soul in the great sea that all return to in death has as much chance of being reborn an Aldhanan as a peasant. But once the Life Giver judges you and choses your birth, you are entitled to the privileges or shackled with the misfortunes that come with your place in life. One of the privileges of a noble birth is that, though we may be ransomed or killed, there is an unwritten law among civilized peoples that we are never enslaved.”

“And you’re okay with this?”

“’Tis as the Seven intended.”

I shook my head. “Sorry. I mean you’re the nicest guy I’ve met on this shitball planet, but at the same time you’re a whip-cracking slave driver. It just don’t add up.”

Lhan’s head jerked up. “Lady, no slave of my family’s has ever been beaten. Well, not since the time of my grandfathers. We are a modern family. We treat our slaves with firm kindness, as we would any livestock. If they are incompetent they are sold. If they provide good service, we free them after eighteen years and give them money to start a life, if that is what they wish.”

I looked around at our fellow slaves to see if they were buying any of this stuff, but they just stared out through the bars, oblivious.

Lhan wasn’t done. “You seem to think of slavery as some unbearable hardship. While ’tis true ’tis not easy, and I cannot say I am happy to have become a slave, ’tis often a better life than that of a free peasant in some destitute backwater. In fact there are educated men from impoverished lands who sell themselves as tutors or house servants on the promise of later living free in Ora.”

I tried to get my head around it. “So you’re telling me all the slaves in Ora are happy as clams and all the masters are big, friendly sugar daddies who pat their slaves on the head and hand out lollipops?”

Lhan hesitated. “Again your metaphor eludes me, mistress, but I take your meaning. No, I would not go so far as to say that all slaves are happy. Cruelty is not unknown. There are bad masters everywhere, but Ora is more enlightened than many lands. Here in Doshaan, of an instance, I hear that their royal smiths cure the steel of their swords by running them through slaves while the blade still glows from the forge.”

He shivered, horrified. “Poor Sai. Poor Sai.”

I sat for a while. I didn’t know what to think. I tried to work up a hate for Lhan as a slave-driving fuck. It didn’t work. It was like trying to hate Thomas Jefferson for owning slaves. It was part of his culture. Lhan didn’t think he was evil, and by Oran standards he wasn’t. He was good to his slaves and hated people who weren’t. What was I supposed to do? If I stopped being his friend because he owned slaves, who else was I going to pal around with? Who on this planet was any better? Everybody who could owned slaves. Even the slaves were just hoping to get free and rich so they could buy slaves of their own.

I gave up. I wouldn’t go as far as, “When in Rome.” No way was I planning on owning slaves myself, but until someone started a revolution and freed ’em all, I’d just have to lump it.

Maybe you think I compromised my morals or something. Maybe you wouldn’t have hung out with slavers. I ain’t saying you’re wrong. Maybe I was taking the easy way out. Just don’t give me shit for it ’til you’ve had
your
vacation on Waar.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

GLADIATORS!

W
e got a bath as soon as we got to the school, and my new bosses, Sketh and Skir, got a surprise. My purple washed off. It was the first wash I’d had since we’d put on the stinky priest robes, and weeks of sweat and dirt must have loosened the dye. I went in a grimy purple gray, and came out pink with red hair again. I thought the jig might be up, but the brothers, when Pig-Tails called them in to have a look-see, were happier than pigs in shit. They’d already planned on billing me as the Savage Barbarian Giantess. Now they could call me the Savage Demon Giantess. I’d doubled my freak appeal with one bath. As far as they were concerned they’d pulled a fast one on the pirates.

They gave us simple beige tunics to wear—the local version of prison blues, and once we put them on, Pig-Tails, whose name was Hesh, by the way, herded me, Lhan and the other new recruits out to bake on a hot, sandy practice area while our new owners figured out where to put us. Just like boot camp. Hurry up and wait.

I cased the joint.

The school was a square, high-walled compound, with grass-roofed bunkhouses built around the central training ground. There was a cookhouse on one side with a mess tent next to it. The trough where we’d had our splash and scrape was behind it. The trainers lived in a stone building where the weapons and armor were stored.

Over the walls of the compound I could see the arena, just across the street. It was a gray stone hexagon about the size of a minor league baseball stadium. It made me shiver. It felt like some huge animal staring down at me, waiting to eat me up.

Hesh got Lhan and the rest of the new guys squared away pretty quick, but I was a special case. The school had never had a chick gladiator before, so of course they didn’t have a woman’s bunkhouse. Personally I wouldn’t have had a problem bunking with the men. I’d spent years sleeping rough with bikers, and some of them had no manners at all. If these guys bothered me they’d draw back a stump. But the brothers—the same guys who trained people to kill each other for entertainment—had
some
morals, and they wouldn’t think of it. They put me in what I ended up calling the Ho House.

This was another one-story shack with a grass roof, wedged between the cookhouse and the guard’s quarters, and it was filled with sluts.

Gladiators who won their fights got a fuck bonus, the “Reward,” they called it. The brothers kept a small stable of whores to cook, clean, and service the men.

Pig-Tails led me to the shack. “You will sleep with the comfort women.”

I almost laughed out loud. I had to stop myself from saying, “You bet I will.”

He was putting a cat in the pigeon coop. I’ve known a few streetwalkers in my time, and when they’re off the clock they’re usually pretty sick of men. At this point, so was I. After all the frustration I’d been through I was finally going to get some.

Or so I thought. Sometimes things don’t work out like you plan ’em.

***

Me and the girls got off on the wrong foot right from the start. Hesh barged into the room, dragging me by the wrist. All the cots were taken. He didn’t care. He found me one by dumping some poor girl out of hers and throwing her stuff across the room. He shoved me at the empty cot. “You sleep here.”

“Aw man, you didn’t have to do that. I don’t need a bed. I’m used to—”

He slapped me. “You do not speak. I speak. Gladiators need good sleep. If I find you on the floor, you’ll regret it.”

I nearly clocked him right there, but he was already heading for the door. He looked back. “Rest. Tomorrow you begin training.”

Then he left.

It got real quiet. I turned to the women. Even though I’d just had a bath, the way they looked at me, I felt like I needed to wash again.

I stepped forward. “Listen, I’m sorry. That was totally...”

They shrunk back like I was a leper. I moved toward the girl Hesh had dumped on the floor. “You alright? You need a hand or—-”

She crabbed backward, screaming.

I stepped forward again. “Wait. Stop. I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

She crammed herself against the wall, shrieking like I was peeling her skin off.

A woman at the back barked something, and the rest stepped in to defend the chick on the ground. One of them had a knife made from a sharpened wooden bed slat.

I raised my hands in surrender. “Goddamn it, stop! Listen to me!”

A little one leaped on my back and stabbed me in the trapezius with some kind of pointy hair stay.

“Fucking bitch!” I grabbed her and slammed her one-handed against an overhead crossbeam, knocking the wind out of her with a squeak like stepping on a mouse.

The rest fell back, eyes like Ping-Pong balls. I was doing something impossible. I
was
something impossible; a chick strong enough to lift a girl to the ceiling one-handed. They were paralyzed.

I put the girl down, using the most non-threatening movements I could. “Listen, I’m sorry—”

Hesh had heard the screaming. He slammed in with a couple of guards. They saw blood running down my back and weapons in the women’s hands and started laying into them with long paddles like frat-boy pledge-wallopers, cracking heads, shins and asses.

Hesh screamed at them. “You dare damage the masters’ property! I’ll have you diced for this. I’ll shave your heads and make you fuck vurlaks for a copper rill!”

I stepped to him. “Dude. Hesh. Sir. Please. It’s only a scratch. Leave them alone.”

“Silence!” I got another slap for my trouble. “Those who damage the masters’ property must be punished.”

Pretty funny coming from a guy who was giving the masters’ property a world class smack-down. Every girl got a head-to-toe beating, and the girl who stabbed me got double. The paddles didn’t leave a bruise, but they smacked as loud as firecrackers and left red welts that must have stung like bejezus.

When it was over, Hesh and his stormtroopers left without a word. You thought it got quiet the first time I was alone with these chicks—this time it was quieter than a funeral home after quitting time. The women stared at me like those kids in
Village of the Damned
. I tried again. “Listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t want...”

As one, they turned their backs and started taking care of their wounds. Welcome to the sorority.

***

Needless to say, I wasn’t feeling real friendly toward my owners the next day. Lucky for Hesh, he was front office. He didn’t have anything to do with training the gladiators. He would have been dead before we got through roll call.

I was afraid our trainer was going to be worse than Hesh, but the bosses obviously cared more about the fighters than the whores. Zhen was an old ex-gladiator with one arm, and so many scars he looked like a patchwork quilt. He was short, even by Waarian standards, but he stood up ram-rod straight and walked with a bounce even though he had a limp and a cane. He was clean and tidy and as brisk as April in Alaska, talking fast in a voice that hissed like a high pressure air hose. You could see why. His neck looked like somebody’d got ninety percent done beheading him awhile back. He reminded me of my boot camp drill sergeants who, even when they were bawling you out in hundred degree heat, had a crease on their khakis you could slash a tire with. I liked him as soon as I saw him.

After a ten-minute breakfast of grain mash, rare meat and fruit, they lined us up on the practice ground—newbies in front, old hands at the back. Zhen reviewed us like a general, scowling. “Great fire from the sky, what gutter trash have they saddled me with now?”

He went down the row, ticking off our faults one by one. “Blind. Fat. No spirit. Weak. Clumsy.” He sneered at Lhan’s perfect posture. “School boy.” Moved on. “Lack wit. Yellow guts.” And then he got to me. He stepped back and stared. “Tits? Tits on a gladiator? And what can you do, my dainty darling?”