Slavemaster's Woman, The (29 page)

Voices just a little way down caught his
attention and he moved to the next entrance. He heard murmurs
coming through, that of a male and female.

The voices faded, and when they did, Tarken
cautiously tried the lever on the door and found it unlocked. He
entered a dimly lit corridor, a dank, musty odor permeating the air
around him, the smell of too many unwashed bodies and the fluids
that excreted from them.

He stepped over one of the bodies, a drunk,
slumped to the floor and passed out against the wall. It brought
back memories of a darker time of his life just after the death of
his wife and child, memories best left buried.

Doors, worn and splintered, lined each side
of the hallway, and he stepped lightly, listening and finally
stopping at one them, pressing his ear against the scarred wood
trying to interpret the words of speakers inside. Quietly, he tried
the door. It opened and he peered inside. He’d chosen
correctly.

Vialin stood with her back to him, speaking
to someone.

Someone Tarken recognized when she shifted
to the side.

Bazil.

She handed him a device, a portable viewer,
which he began to study, and then she sat beside him and they
studied it together, their heads tipped toward each other in close
proximity.

Tarken must have made a noise or perhaps
exhaled too loudly, because just then their heads snapped up.

Vialin jerked her stunner free and pointed
it in his direction.

“You!” Bazil growled the fury in his eyes
palpable as he glared at Tarken.

Undaunted by the stunner and Bazil’s
threatening expression, Tarken stepped inside of the room. He was
caught unaware however when Bazil charged him, even more so at the
brute force with which the older man slammed into him, grabbing him
by the throat.

Tarken’s arms came up and he broke the hold
only to be met with a fisted hand that came flying at his nose. He
dodged the oncoming blow and lobbed a punch of his own, missing the
man.

Bazil ducked and then threw the entire
weight of his body into Tarken’s gut.

They both went down, rolled, knocked a
chair, which tumbled over them, hit the table and caused the mugs
atop of it to fall over. They crashed to the ground. “I’ll kill
you, bastard!” Bazil dug his fingers into Tarken’s mane and yanked
hard. “This is for my daughter.” Bazil smashed his head into the
floor.

Tarken grunted at the pain shooting through
the back of his head, but retaliated by flattening his palm against
the man’s face and pushing at him. At that point, he had an opening
to bring both arms up and snap the man’s neck, but the last thing
he desired was to hurt Cushla’s father. Tarken kept his
silence.

Bazil pulled a blade, holding it against
Tarken’s throat.

Most certainly Tarken was far from gutless
but he also wasn’t stupid. Cushla’s father had no reason to refrain
from splaying him open.

“Enough, both of you!” Vialin snapped.

Bazil ignored her. “Give me one reason, one
reason, as to why I shouldn’t slice you from end to end,
slavemaster.”

“Because I’m in love with your daughter.”
Tarken fixed his eyes on Bazil’s. It was all he could say, the
words coming straight from his heart and shining as a testament
from his gaze as he hoped Cushla’s father would see the truth in
them.

Bazil narrowed his gaze and pressed the
knife harder to Tarken’s throat, causing a bead of blood to form
from the puncture. “I saw how well you love my daughter. You love
her so well that you activated that damn slave band she wears so it
caused her to pass out. She doesn’t need that kind of love!”

Tarken dared not gulp less the motion cause
the blade to go deeper. “That was an error on my part. I had no
intention of stunning her with such a high dose,” he growled
through clenched teeth. “At least I didn’t lose her as you did.
What kind of father hands his only child over to an untrustworthy
gamester?”

“You know nothing of our plight, you
slopsucker.”

“I know enough. I know that Cushla was sold
into slavery at the first opportunity by your supposed trusted
friend. I know of the harshness she suffered because of it!”

A blast from a stunner exploded against the
wall just above Bazil’s head. Both men turned their gazes to see
Ayia and Vialin standing side by side, Ayia’s stunner pointed at
them. “Get up, both of you. We don’t have time for this
nonsense!”

“This man al—” Bazil began.

“Enough!” Ayia shouted. “We have work to
do.”

Bazil looked between Tarken and Ayia,
debating with himself whether to go ahead and slice Tarken’s neck
or do as he was told.

“Don’t try it old man,” Ayia advised. “I
would hate to kill you. That would really ruin our plans.”

Tarken felt the blade leave his neck.

Bazil stood and walked away, though he kept
an angry gaze keenly on Tarken as he did so.

Tarken then stood as well, trying to make
sense of what was going on. “What are you doing here?” He dabbed at
the area of his throat where Bazil had pressed the knife blade. He
examined his fingers, which came away red and sticky with blood and
then rubbed the tip of his thumb and fingertips together before
brushing them against his trousers to wipe the blood away. “I
thought you were trapped in the castle.” He looked over at
Ayia.

“It’s none of your business Slavemaster, I
am a free person and I can go where I will. The real question, is
what are you doing here?”

Pausing, Tarken considered how much
information he would choose to offer them, but decided he would get
nothing if he had nothing to offer. He pointed toward Vialin. “I
saw her slipping down the alley way and I followed.”

Ayia glanced at Vialin, flashing a disgusted
looked for her carelessness.

Vialin merely shrugged at her.

“Have a seat, slavemaster.”Ayia motioned to
a chair with her chin.

Tarken looked at the hard straight backed
chair and back at her. “I prefer to stand.”

Stepping up to him, she placed the stunner
against his chest.

Tarken’s brow lifted as he glanced briefly
at the weapon and returned to stare at Ayia almost daring her to
zap him.

“Sit,” she demanded her voice tight and
low.

“I say kill the bastard and be done with
it,” Bazil growled. He pulled his own stunner and aimed it at
Tarken.

“No!” Ayia poked her weapon beneath Tarken’s
chin. “We may need him later.”

“Why would we expect him to help us? He
works for the king.” Vialin dragged a chair from the table and
pushed it behind Tarken.

“Well it doesn’t matter now. He’s found us
out and we can’t let him return. He may go directly to Mecor and
inform him of our presence here.”

“Your assumption as to what I might or might
not intend to do Ayia, is a matter of question,” Tarken returned,
trying to stall them. “If you’d explain your reasons—?”

Bazil pressed his stunner to Tarken’s
temple. The two women were one issue, but he had no doubt that
Cushla’s father wouldn’t hesitate to blow his brains from his
skull, given the chance. He lowered to sit in the chair.

“Tie him,” Ayia instructed Vialin.

With a sadistic smile, Vialin produced four
cuffs from a sack on the wall and then pulled Tarken’s arms around
the back of the chair. She snapped the cuffs around his wrists and
then did the same to his ankles, binding them to the legs of the
chair. Grabbing a wider band, she wrapped his chest.

Tarken glanced over his shoulder and watched as she
anchored the ends to a hook on the wall so the chair could no
longer be moved. He tried to move his limbs to find any play in the
bindings but she had done her job well. He was firmly bound without
cutting the circulation.

They were clearly experienced and prepared for
obstacles that might prevent them from completing whatever they
were plotting.

“What are you doing in this area,
Slavemaster?” Vialin asked, as she came to stand in front of him.
Crossing her arms while she glared down at him. “Or do you just
happen to have a taste for the seedier side of town?”

“What in the hell does it matter?” Bazil
barked. “He almost killed my daughter!”

“I don’t think he did, sir.” Ayia turned to
Bazil. “Following Cushla’s purchase—”

“Where is my daughter being held?” Bazil
visibly winced at Ayia’s comment about his daughter being
purchased, but continued to stare daggers at Tarken, the rage in
his gaze burning hot and barely repressed. “If Mecor has harmed
even a strand on her head…”

“He hasn’t,” Tarken answered.

“How can you be sure?” Once again, Bazil
pressed his stunner to the side of Tarken’s head.

Tarken blew out a gust of air. “I have
sources, more than you know, and if I thought for even a flash that
the tyrant was harming her in any way, I would scale the damn wall
of the castle and snap his neck with my bear hands. In fact, Cushla
is the reason I am here in this part of town.”

“How so?” Bazil demanded.

“She’s furious with me, Bazil. Enraged,
because I failed to protect her as I promised—bitter that I kept
her from you. Angered that I caused her pain after I gave my word
that I would not. I came into town to think, to come up with a plan
on how to escape with her, and how to return her to you, although
it seems your presence here has now made that part of my plan a bit
simpler.”

Tarken’s admission was met with silence.

“I believe him,” Ayia finally said. She
lifted her hand pressing it to the top of Bazil’s stunner, urging
it downward and away from Tarken’s head. “I watched him carefully,
and despite your daughter’s rebelliousness, despite her resistance
to his orders, and even when Vialin almost escaped with her, not
once did the slavemaster activate the slave band to punish her. I
believe him.”

“Maybe,” Bazil mumbled, seeming to consider
that it was the truth. Still his eyes remained narrowed with
anger.

“I’ve answered your questions,” Tarken
turned his attention to Ayia. “Now perhaps you can offer me a token
since I am now your prisoner and obviously going nowhere.”

“I might, slavemaster,” Ayia answered. “It
would depend of course on what token you request.”

Getting the answer was likely a long shot,
but Tarken asked anyway, “What are these plans you’re talking
about?”

Ayia and Vialin exchanged glances, silently
communicating something Tarken couldn’t read. Ayia turned and
walked the small circumference of the room, as if considering how
or if she would answer. Turning, she studied Tarken for a long
moment.

Tarken did nothing but steadily return her
gaze.

“How loyal are you to the king Tarken?”

“I have no loyalty to Mecor, and I have not
always been a slavemaster.”

“Then, why are you a slavemaster now?”

“I was trainer for the military troops in
the fifth zone. Mecor, I’d heard needed a trainer. I came to
Buranis without realizing at first exactly what he needed a trainer
for.”

“Then why did you stay once you became
aware?”

“I witnessed the results of Mecor’s cruelty.
I couldn’t give the slaves their freedom but I could perhaps make
their plight more tolerable.”

“How noble of you” Vialin sneered.

“And you would give up this—noble work…”
Ayia snorted. “For one slave?”

“I owe you no more explanation than that,
Ayia
.
” Tarken tipped his head askew. “So, am I wrong in
guessing that you are something other than a pleasure worker?”

Ayia shrugged. “Sometimes, extreme measures
are necessary for the sake of a cause.”

“And what might that cause be, Ayia? Who are
you?”

“Do you know the Royal who ruled this planet
before Mecor came to power?” She countered.

“No, when I arrived he was already on the
throne.”

“Take heed, Ayia,” warned Vialin. “We’re
still unsure of whose side he’s on.”

Tarken’s head snapped toward her, “The only
side I care to take Vialin is the side of justice. Which side are
you on?”

“Enough of this! At the moment, I couldn’t
care less about whose side anyone is on!” Bazil’s glare shifted
between Ayia and Vialin. “The only thing I care about is getting my
daughter away from that sick bastard before he does harm to
her!”

“In due time, Bazil. We can’t afford to make
any mistakes by reacting on emotion rather than logic!” Ayia
retorted, irritation rising in her voice. She glanced at her time
piece. “It’s time. The slavemaster’s fate, we’ll need to decide
later. For now, we have to go or we will miss our contact.”

“Would someone tell me what the hell blazes
is going on!” Tarken shouted. His patience was growing thin, and
their allusiveness was causing him to feel angst at leaving Cushla
overlong. He had no idea if this thing they were planning was
well-constructed or if it was the lame-brained, reckless scheme of
three fools. What if it resulted in Cushla being hurt, or worse and
he wasn’t there to help her? With mounting concern, Tarken
struggled against the bonds but to no avail and he stared in
surprise as the three of them walked out the door.

He went still. For a several moments, he
fixated on the closed door, waiting, sure that at least one of them
would return but it appeared that no one was going to. Tarken
snorted and shook his head, his opinion now leaning heavily toward
the side of fools.

Had they really just left him alone and
unguarded?

Chapter Twenty Two

He left her.
Tarken was gone. For
several dawnings Cushla peered through her curtain seeking him out,
waiting to see him appear on hill, his usual place when overseeing
the field of slaves, but Tarken was nowhere to be found. “He left
me.” The sob she released was unintentional but it rammed such a
painful tightness in her chest that she was having trouble
breathing.