Chapter Thirteen
I blink, slightly disoriented, and glance around my unfamiliar surroundings when I remember where I am—what I am.
The coughing draws my attention to the far side of the room, where someone lies curled in the blanket on their cot. Every cough pierces my heart, reminds me how sick Mom was when I left, how little time she has to live. And I have to know—have to know if this is the same ailment that plagues Mom.
I cross the room, staying quiet so as not to disturb them. The blanket is pulled over the slave’s head, but the fingers clutching the blanket I can see. And sure enough—lesions. At least two. My hand flies to my mouth, because this—it’s so painfully familiar.
The slave’s coughs cease, and I slip away before they catch me staring at them.
I step into the kitchen and sink into a stool at the table. I wonder if the Rydells have a cure for the slave but haven’t given it. If they even care that their slave is deathly ill.
A heavenly scent fills the air—like freshly baked bread. Vermilia scurries around, taking rolls out of the hot oven, fixing juice straight from some large blue fruit, cooking up eggs three times the size of those we had on Earth—all at the same time. Something about her reminds me of Mom, before she was ill. Maybe it’s the way she has so much energy at the crack of dawn. The other maids scramble around the kitchen, but none of them as efficient as Vermilia.
I wonder if I’ll be assigned to the kitchen. That wouldn’t be so bad. The slaves here seem happy. But I don’t want to get too comfortable here, either, and accept it as a better fate than what I could have had, or worse, forget why I need to leave.
All the possibilities whirl around in my head, when a loud clanging makes me jump. Vermilia hisses and pulls her hand to her chest while a pan clatters across the tile floor, rolls bouncing off of it. I grab a cold rag and wrap it around Vermilia’s hand.
“You’ve got too much going on,” I say as I help pick up the bread. “Hold your hand under cold water, and I’ll clean this up.”
“Eternal Mother bless you’s,” she says as she hurries to the sink. “I’s not gonna be useful with a burnt hand.”
“I can help you. Just tell me what to do.”
Briala steps into the room from the slaves’ quarters, her tired eyes taking in the mess. Then she glares at Vermilia. “I thought it was you who woke me. Blazing stars, Vermilia, trying to wake the entire household?”
“She burned herself,” I say. “Maybe you could help with the breakfast.”
She smirks. “Do I look like a kitchen slave?” She crosses the room and exits into the courtyard.
“She’s got a mind of hers own, that one,” Vermilia says. “She’s a favorite around here.”
“To who?”
“Lord Kalen, of course,” one of the other, older maids says. “And she’s manager of the dancers.”
Vermilia takes over cooking the eggs with her good hand. “Melata is right. Kalen’s partial to Briala, so she thinks she’s some kind of supervisor to all of us, not just the dancers.”
“And perhaps she is,” Melata says. “One word from her to Master Kalen and we’ll lose our heads.”
I roll my eyes. “We had a girl like her on Earth. Thought that since all the guys drooled after her, she was in charge.” Like Ariana.
“Life as a slave isn’t fair.”
I open my mouth to tell her we weren’t slaves, but then think better of it. I’m not free anymore, so why does it matter?
“I’s running slow with one hand,” Vermilia says. “The masters are already awake. Could you’s serve them breakfast?”
I nod and pick up the trays, carrying them through the sliding doors into the dining hall.
The dining hall is one of the most elaborate rooms I’ve seen in this estate, apart from Kalen’s bedroom. The floor is made of slate tiles smooth as glass. Large framed paintings harbor the walls. Abstract pictures of spaceships, stars, constellations, moons, planets, and they’re so vivid, so beautiful they make me feel like I’m looking through a window at the cosmos.
A glass wall peers out to the central courtyard. A long black table harbors the center of the room, laid out with three ceramic plates and strange tableware that glints in the light like silver.
A robust Tavdorian man with gray streaks in his hair sits at the head of the table. I recall hearing people refer to him as Lord Timeos. I serve up his dish, careful not to draw too much attention to myself. The glass door on the opposite side of the room slides open, and Kalen steps in, with the biggest black dog I’ve ever seen trailing behind him.
“Morning, Father.” His gaze catches mine, and his brows shoot up. He gives a quick shake of his head as he slides into a chair opposite of Timeos, then lifts his index finger to his lips, telling me to keep quiet. The bear-dog plops down at his feet, drool splattering on the floor by his muzzle. I wonder who the unfortunate slave is whose sole job it is to clean all that slobber.
Timeos leans in toward Kalen. “I want you to work with Zimri again today.”
Kalen groans. “You can’t be serious, Father—”
“Did you think I wouldn’t find out while you were gone? I heard about Bioluminescent Beach.”
“May the Red Moon minions devour me. Is sending me to work with Zimri a form of sick punishment for trashing the beach?”
“You broke into one of the most renowned beaches of Neket and got drunk.”
Kalen lifts an index finger. “Not drunk, Father.”
“Drunk or not, your actions were irresponsible and fatuous.”
“Fatuous?” Kalen smirks and pops a grape-like fruit into his mouth. “An interesting word choice.”
“Do you have any idea how humiliating it is that your actions made the top news last week?” Timeos’s voice is laced with utter annoyance.
“Are you serious?” Kalen asks. “With everything going on between the two countries on Tavdora, they still chose to feature me in the headlines?”
Timeos switches his tablet on and shoves it in front of Kalen, who leans forward to read it. “I don’t know why, but the world is fascinated by you, Kalen.”
I meander around the table and begin filling their glasses with blue juice while Melata enters the room and places their plates in front of them.
“‘Rydell Riddance?’” Kalen reads aloud from the tablet. “‘Heir to Tavdora’s interplanetary trading Port caught breaking into private beach after midnight.’”
I nearly choke. Heir? Kalen is heir to the trading Port? Which would make his father the owner. No wonder Kalen answers to his father. His father is his boss. And this estate…what sort of information could I garner in passing conversations—information that could help me get home?
“Kalen.” Timeos bristles. “What were you thinking?”
“Edan and I were just taking a quick drink on the beach,” Kalen says. “I called Ket, and well, one thing led to another.” Kalen clears his throat. “Honestly, Father, we didn’t intend for so many people to show up.”
“You probably didn’t intend to trash the beach like a group of savages, either, hm? Or for Edan to carelessly fly his spacecraft onto the shore and dent the main building? Bioluminescent Beach is private property, Kalen. Its owner is one of our most valued customers. It’s not some public beach where you can get wasted with your friends and take”—he flips his hand in the air—“space tours with your best friend.”
I cringe at the harshness in his voice, doing my best to stay invisible.
“Didn’t I already clarify that I wasn’t wasted?” Kalen asks, his voice mocking.
Timeos slams his fist on the table, and silverware sitting too close to the edge falls off, clanging onto the tile floor. I hurry to pick it up.
Kalen straightens, his smile gone. “Edan works there. He said everything would be fine if we got it cleaned up by morning. None of us saw the police or media coming before then.”
“Edan doesn’t work there anymore,” Timeos mutters. “He was fired shortly after the police found you out. He won’t be taking anyone out on space tours anytime soon.”
“He’s a good pilot. He won’t have any problem finding another job.”
“I would certainly never hire him. Not after that sort of behavior. Could you imagine if he snuck a party into the Rydell Trading Port? And you—you’re just as destructive as he is. I should fire you just for putting a bad name on our business.”
“Ah, but I’m your son.” Kalen’s mocking grin returns, and it’s so arrogant but so, so brilliant.
“That wouldn’t stop me.” Timeos leans back in his chair, pinches the bridge of his nose. His eyes are tired, the wrinkles on his face prominent. “I’d hoped that when you started working here, you’d show a little more appreciation, instead of going around making a bad name for yourself and our company.”
Kalen stares at him one second. Then two. Then blinks, leans back in his chair, takes on a less threatening pose. “If it’s growing the popularity of the business that interests you, Father, then you should be appreciating all this attention.” His dazzling smile returns.
His father stares at him, dumbfounded. “Excuse me?”
“Despite my”—Kalen waves his hand in the air—“fatuousness, the people of Neket love me. Prince Fyroh himself invited me to a personal meeting next week. This isn’t the first time. Not to mention I’m best friends with his royal cousin. And do you know what I often do at these meetings with the prince and his cousin and other royals like him? I talk about the Rydell Trading Port. Our freshest imports. Our sales.” His father’s expression alters as Kalen continues, “You and Zimri might be the men running this business, but don’t you forget, Father, I’m the one selling the business.”
His father nods and leans back in his chair. “You do sell the business, I’ll give you that. And perhaps that’s what keeps me from firing you.” He clears his throat, lifts his empty glass. I hurry to fill it. “While we’re on the subject of business, there is another matter concerning the last shipment that I’m sure you’re already aware of, and that’s the import of slaves. I know how you feel about trading slaves.”
Kalen’s hand forms into a fist on top of the table. “It’s a bad move, Father. We’re making perfectly good business selling livestock and resources. We’ve enough money in our stores to keep our whole family living comfortably for the rest of our lives.” He releases a half-hearted laugh. “Why sell slaves?”
“To increase sales!” Timeos says. “Do you have any idea how hard your grandfather worked to bring your family up to this position? And when your mother inherited her family’s business, she excelled. In a few decades, the Rydell Trading Port has grown from a tent at the market place to a universal company. When I married into the Rydell name, I was determined to honor your grandfather and build on the empire they created. How could you dismiss our work so easily?”
“Mother would never approve.”
“If she saw our tripled income and how much popularity our company has acquired since importing slaves, I guarantee she would.”
Kalen’s jaw clenches visibly, but he says nothing.
The incessant coughing from the slaves’ quarters starts up again, and though the slaves’ quarters is through the kitchen, the faint sound of the coughs still makes me wince. Kalen flinches and sets his eating utensil down while he stares at the table.
“She’s getting worse,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Have you not found a doctor yet?” Timeos asks.
“I’ve had several of the best physicians brought in to see her. None who have a cure.”
“So much money wasted on a slave.”
Kalen pins his father with those piercing eyes. “Not wasted, Father.”
Timeos sighs. “It might be…time to let her go, son.”
“You say that like she’s some pet.”
Timeos drags his hand across the back of his neck. “You’ve always sympathized with slaves, Kalen. Our slaves. The slaves we’ve begun importing. I honestly don’t understand why you care so much.”
“These are people, Father, not chattel.” Kalen’s low, clipped tone makes me look away.
“But like chattel, they don’t understand their circumstances,” Timeos says. “They do the work expected of them and accept it contentedly.”
Heat pours into my face, and for once I wish I had the courage to speak up for my people and be heard. But Kalen told me to remain unnoticed by his father so he would forget I was here. He motioned for me to be quiet when he first walked in. Keeping a low profile is the best way to stay in this estate.
“Tavdorians can be…cruel.” In a blink Kalen’s rage is gone, replaced with that mocking amusement. “If we don’t start treating slaves with more kindness, they may decide slavery isn’t all that great and rise against us.”
There’s the facade. Kalen pulls off the act of a heartless slave trader well when he’s not defending slaves.
“The aliens aren’t that bright.” Timeos bellows out a laugh. “They wouldn’t know how to rise up even if they decided to do so. I don’t understand why you worry about such nonsensical ideologies.”
Kalen arches a brow and picks his utensil back up. “They’re more intelligent than you think, Father. There are Humans and Onmarians who roam freely on their home planets.” Kalen’s eyes flit to mine. “Word has it many of them have already begun conspiring.”
“I’m all too aware of the rumors, Kalen. But the Onmarians are brutal savages incapable of reasoning long enough to make a plan. The Ve’occs and Humans are too submissive, too passive to strike war, and they would never win.”
Kalen leans back in his chair. “They’re more aware than you think. I personally believe it’s in the best interest of everyone if we set all slaves free.”
Timeos shakes his head. “Where’s the benefit to us if Tavdora freed their slaves? How would our company run on the labor of paid Tavdorians? We would end up losing money to employees just to keep the Rydell Trading Port functioning.”
Kalen rolls his eyes. “It’s because of this new interest in slave trade that I want no part in the company anymore.”
“Just another way you’re setting a bad example for your sister. Because of you, she has no desire to take over the company, either. No ambition. Why can’t you at least show a little interest in the inheritance? For her sake?”
Sister… So far, I know of the father, two brothers, and now a sister.
“Sarka’s a good girl, Father,” Kalen says. “She has a straight path laid out for her, and a good head on her shoulders. I don’t think you need to worry about her getting into trouble.”
“But you’re her role model, Kalen. After your mother passed away…”
His voice cuts off, and my heart cracks. Kalen’s mother died. Though these people are slave traders, I still feel a stab of empathy.
“Sarka’s closer to you than me or Zimri,” Timeos says, more quietly now. “She looks up to you. Any decisions you make affect her outlook on life.”
“I doubt I have that big of an influence on her.”
“You’re a bigger influence than you think.”
Kalen stares at the table, his jaw working. “I’ll work at the Port until I earn enough to start my own business. Or until you fire me.” His lips twist mirthlessly.
“Please, Kalen. At least act interested, if only until your sister is old enough to help manage it. This company was your mother’s passion. If I can’t get all three of you to take a part in it, I would at least like to see Sarka and Zimri take interest.”
Kalen releases a choked laugh. “You’ll have no problem with Zimri.” He sighs. “And it was Mother’s passion because she ran it on ethical terms. She was well-known for being able to keep the company flourishing without resorting to slave trade. Bringing in slaves now is a slap to her face.”
Timeos flinches, then his eyes widen with rage and he begins moving his lips, as though trying to find the right words to put his son in his place, when Kalen speaks first.
“I’ll have a talk with Sarka,” Kalen says. “Perhaps I could try to feign interest, if only to secure her future once she’s out of school. But I can assure you, Father, as soon as I have means to start my own business, I will leave.”
The rage slowly ebbs from Timeos’s features. “You may change your mind about slaves by then.”
“I highly doubt it.”
The kitchen door creeks open, and Vermilia gestures for me. I cross the room toward the doors. I can’t believe everything I’m hearing. The way the Tavdorians talk about slaves…right in front of slaves. Right in front of me. Like I wasn’t even there. And Timeos’s indifference… A shudder rushes down my spine. This is my new master. This cold, insipid, arrogant son of a stray dog. He sees us as nothing more than cows, just like his son, Zimri. And that thought alone makes a hard fist form in the pit of my stomach.
“Have some breakfast,” Vermilia says, setting a plate of food in front of me.
I sit across from Vermilia at the kitchen table and take the plate of eggs and fruit she offers. But I’m not hungry. So I push the food around on my plate.
“Crecian Crane eggs,” Vermilia says, seeming to sense my discomfort. “And harrots.”
I poke my fork into an orange harrot and pop it into my mouth, but it’s soft and tasteless. “So, our masters actually own the slave-trading Port?”
Vermilia chuckles. “Of course, simling. They’s last name is Rydell, the name of the Port. It’s a family-owned company.”
I clear my throat and stuff a bite of Crecian Crane eggs into my mouth. Now that tastes divine.
“How often does, um, Kalen work?” I ask.
“Master Kalen works almost every day. And if he’s doesn’t go to the Port, he’s usually working in his office here at home.”
“A home office? Where?”
She gestures outside. “That hall across the courtyard leads to his and his father’s studies. But they’s off limits to slaves like us. Only the personal servants are allowed there.”
“Like Tarik?” I remember the tall dark Human who brought me here and follows Kalen everywhere.
“Yes. And Lord Timeos’s Onmarian steward. The rest of us are to stay out of the masters’ way unless summoned.”
I return to the dining room a few minutes later to clear the dishes. Timeos and Kalen are still in heated discussion about work. I reach in front of Timeos and pick up his empty plate and load it on the tray. He glances at me, then looks at me again, as if noticing me for the first time.
“What’s this?” he asks, his voice short and cold, then he looks at Kalen.
Kalen’s lips twitch. “My purchases are none of your concern, Father.”
“You purchased her, huh? From our company?”
Kalen’s gaze flits to mine, and I think I might see a hint of fear.
“Take off your bandage,” Timeos orders me. I glance at Kalen, and he gives a brief nod. Slowly, I peel back the tape, revealing the company insignia.
“Sure enough, one of our own,” Timeos mutters. “And no other markings before ours. A native. Tell me, Kalen, did you even bother paying for her out of your own pocket? Or did you take it out of the company’s revenue?” He turns toward Kalen. “I can’t have you taking from the company. We paid for her, and I would like to see the receipts.”
My hands are trembling, making the dishes on the tray clink together as I continue loading it with dirty dishes.
Kalen just stares at his father. “Zimri,” he finally concedes. “Because she tried to run away, he thought to kill her, which, by the way, would have also been a waste of money. But I didn’t think her death was necessary.” He shrugs. I wonder why he didn’t tell his father about how I nearly choked his brother. “Zimri thought it a good prank to pull on me—handing over a slave who is foolish enough to run.”
“If you have no reason for her, then returning her to the Port shouldn’t be a problem.” Timeos studies me as I walk around the table to pick up Kalen’s dishes. “A native alone is well worth six hundred pecarrii.”
“Would she still be considered a native now that she’s marked?”
Timeos shifts his gaze to Kalen. “Her first markings are those of the Port, not a master. She’ll be worth just as much as any native. And a young female like her would double that.”
Kalen chuckles. “Not with those looks. Sunken cheeks? Eyes too large for her face? No one would want her.”
“A little meat on her bones would fix that,” Timeos says. “Her cheeks would fill out, as would her curves.”
Gods. My entire body flushes at the way he talks about me, like a horse assessed for the market.
He strokes his jaw in thought. “Given the right treatment, she could easily sell for a thousand pecarrii, or more. You return her to the Port tomorrow, son. No more questions.”
My heart sinks at the resignation on Kalen’s face when his eyes meet mine. He shrugs one shoulder, and I feel like I’m drowning. The nightmare of the Port rumbles through my memory, and my throat closes.
Picking up the last dish, I step back into the kitchen, nearly dropping the tray into the sink. I squeeze the sink ledge to keep my hands from trembling.
“You’s okay, simling?” Vermilia asks. “You’s look like you’s seen a ghost.”
“They’re taking me back,” I whisper. “To the Port.” I look at her and shrug. “Briala was right. I didn’t stand a chance.”