Chapter Fifteen
The rest of the day, I stay busy helping Vermilia. There’s apparently a big party to prepare for.
“The Rydells are very social people,” Vermilia says as she leads me through the servants’ corridors to the banquet hall. “They’s host parties almost every weekend. Things get a little crazy when Kalen and Sarka host, but if you’s stay busy, you’s got nothing to worry about.”
When I was little, Mom used to tell me a story about a servant-girl named Cinderella who danced with a prince and then was lifted from the place of poverty to princess. The Rydell’s banquet hall is like the ballroom I imagine Cinderella danced in. Alabaster pillars occupy corners of the hall, carved with intricate designs of the sea goddess Harthu, according to Vermilia. The ceiling is a giant fish tank, containing exotic fish and two blue sea turtles swimming in the purple water. The silver floor mirrors the lavender hue of the water above. White couches cluster around the perimeter of the room in small circles, with black glass tables in the center of their circles. A glass wall looks out toward Neket.
I help Vermilia open the last window along the wall, and a warm breeze whisks in, ruffling the long sheer white curtains. Preparations for the party take most of the day. Tables are laid out on the opposite side of the room as the windows, and glasses of all shapes and sizes grace the tables. Bottles are set out, and then platters where the refreshments will be laid.
“This table is for Tavdorians only,” Vermilia says. “You’s will serve drinks from the kitchen.”
“Why can’t I stay in the kitchen with you?”
“We’s don’t need any more cooks. Don’t worry. Nobody ever notices the servers.”
When we finally finish, Vermilia turns to me. “We’s have two hours before the party, and it will go on past midnight. Get some rest, and come back when the party begins.”
I glance away. Rest has been non-existent since I was taken from my home.
“Cheer up, simling.” Vermilia chucks my chin then begins leading the way back to the kitchen. “Slavery—it’s not as bad as you think it is.”
My mouth drops open. I want to tell her about the emaciated slaves on the plantation on Earth. I want to tell her what happened to Rika. I want to tell her about what Zimri did to me at the Port.
“Granted,” she says, as though reading my mind, “there are slave owners who are brutal, who find pleasure in beating they’s slaves. But they’s are few and far in between. If you’s obedient and stay in the shadows, you’s nothing to worry about. I’s been where you’s are. I’s, too, was stolen from my home at a young age. Terrified of what my future held. I’s learned to stay quiet as a mouse. And when Master Helana Rydell took me in, life became significantly easier. I’s met Bram. We’s had Crespo, our son. And now I’s happier than I would even be on Cupa.” She stops in the hall, reaches out, cups my cheek with her hand, and searches my eyes. “Right now you’s in a dark pit, looking up and finding no way out. You’s feel alone and stranded. But it doesn’t have to be that way, simling. One can find happiness in every circumstance. One can find freedom, if only one tries. I’s overheard Master Kalen tell you’s he would try to let you stay. That is a blessing, child. A blessing indeed.”
I admire her ability to see light in her dark circumstances. I could never accept my lot as a slave, but even in this grim chapter of my life, there has to be some beauty. Sometimes one only has to slow down to find that beauty.
…
It’s past dusk when Kalen comes home, and he brings half the party with him. More guests keep pouring into the estate until the banquet hall is packed. Tavdorians—tall, intimidating Tavdorians—fill the room. Loud music bombards my ears. The hall is dim, lit only by blue-green globes.
“That there is Miss Sarka, Lord Kalen’s younger sister,” Vermilia shouts above the music.
I follow her gaze to a lovely Tavdorian girl sitting on a divan by the window. She looks younger than me. Fifteen, maybe. Frail and petite, she is beautiful, with long ebony hair flowing down her back, and crystal studs lining her pointed ears.
“Now,” Vermilia continues. “Time for you’s to serve the wine.”
I follow her into the kitchen and grab a tray full of wine and shot glasses. My job is easy, really. Carry the tray, take everyone’s empty glass and replenish them with a full one. It’s not like I have to dance or anything.
Silver smoke fills the air with a lovely smell when I return to the guest hall. I inhale deeply, and the sweet scent immediately calms my mind and loosens my tense muscles. Upbeat music continues to play. Dancers wearing sheer garments move provocatively on a stage.
Keeping my eyes averted to avoid attention, I make my rounds through the room. If I keep working, the night will pass quickly. I approach one of the clusters of couches with a tray of wine. Kalen’s sitting on a couch, two other men sitting across from him. Kalen wears a gray V-neck shirt, and his sleeves are casually rolled up to his elbows. He has on black shorts, and his leather sandals are strapped around muscular calves.
“So, why are you importing Humans now?” one of the men asks. He’s taller than the average Tavdorian. Eight feet of pure muscle. He wears a red cloak like the ones the guards on Earth wore, and looks to be about Kalen’s age.
The other man with a black disheveled beard smirks and rolls his eyes. “Because, Tythoe, the business will make three times as much peccarii with the sale of slaves.” He swivels his gaze to Kalen. “Isn’t that right?”
“Right, Edan.” Kalen’s lips disappear in a firm line. “Father is focusing on selling more slaves, hoping Rydell Trading Port might become more successful. Since Incoming’s Trading Port has become so popular with their slave trade, Zimri suggested we do the same.” His voice is flat. “Can’t say I agree with him on that matter.”
Tythoe, the tall built one, frowns. “Didn’t your mother want to live independent of slaves, like the Ogans?” He leans forward, lowers his voice. “I mean, if we could’ve worked with our own hands hundreds of years ago, before capturing slaves, we could find a way to do it again, yes?”
Yes! I want to shout. Finally, a voice of reason.
Kalen’s eyes light up, and he opens his mouth to speak, but Edan cuts him off.
“Oh, please, Tythoe,” Edan says. “Don’t tell me you’ve succumbed to the prehistoric way of thinking. If we set slaves free, the government would collapse.”
“Do you think this is a permanent change for the company?” Tythoe asks, ignoring Edan.
Kalen’s shoulders sag. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“It would be a bad move for business to stop slave trade once you started,” Edan says.
I take Tythoe’s empty glass and pass him a new one, but he gives a brief shake of his head, so I turn and offer it to Edan, resisting the urge to throw the contents in his face for his support of slavery. He takes it, his gaze lingering on me longer than necessary, then traveling down my body. I quickly take his empty glass and set it on the tray, heat creeping up my neck. He grins, his hungry smile chilling my bones. Spinning around, I offer a drink to Kalen. His eyes meet mine briefly, and he nods his thank-you as he takes the glass off the tray. I turn and step out of the circle when I hear Tythoe say, “Did you hear about the slaves who escaped?”
Stop. Escaped slaves? Stepping into the shadows, I try to hear what they’re saying.
“They were in the Rebel Prison, weren’t they?” Kalen says. “Weren’t they bound for the teeranies in a couple days?”
Black hole devour me! Maybe I should have been sent to the teeranies yesterday, after all.
“They disappeared last night,” Tythoe says. “My father and his company of guards found tracks leading from the city to the Crecian Desert, but they faded by the time they reached the cliffs. A few sightings of that cutthroat, Neptune, have been reported in the past month. My father speculates he was a part of the escape.”
“Neptune?” Edan rolls his eyes. “A mere Human couldn’t help that many people escape. I bet it was the Renegade that broke into the prison.”
“Perhaps this Neptune works with the Renegade,” Kalen says. “Wouldn’t surprise me if those space pirates promised him riches to do their bidding.”
“Or he could just want to free his people.” There’s no denying the humorous spark in Tythoe’s eyes.
“The Renegade doesn’t free aliens, Tythoe, as you well know.” Kalen looks down. “They use them in the most degrading way and then resell them. If Neptune is working for them, he’s either heartless or has ulterior motives.”
I wonder who this Neptune is, who has apparently stirred up enough trouble to make a name for himself.
“I bet it was the Ogans who picked them up from the desert, then,” Edan says. “They want the world to live as they do, don’t they? Complete freedom and equality for all.” He smirks and shakes his head as though that was the most ridiculous thought he’s ever heard.
“The Ogans rescuing them would explain why the footprints simply disappeared,” Kalen says.
“Those xeno-lovers claim to be a peaceful country, yet use passive aggression to get their way.” Edan drains his drink, then looks at an Onmarian dancer undulating before him.
“Please, Edan.” Tythoe doesn’t even seem to notice the dancer. “Extrinsic Enthusiast is the correct term.” He offers a polite smile. “Let’s not get too offensive.”
Kalen looks past Tythoe, and his eyes lock with mine. I freeze. Here I am, standing like a fool, listening in on their conversation. He lifts a brow in question, and my heart stops. Tightening my grip on the tray, I hurry out of the room. Glad when he doesn’t stop me.
I keep going back and forth between the kitchen and party, taking a tray of empty wineglasses and returning with full ones. When is this party going to end? I’m ready to collapse. Whatever is in that smoke, it’s completely relaxed me—my body, my mind—and all I want to do is sleep. I step into the kitchen where there’s a silver tray full of multicolored drinks waiting for me.
“What happened to the wine?” I ask.
“Every party has a three-part anatomy, like a song,” Vermilia says. “Phase One: the intro, or small talk with wine. Phase Two: the crescendo, or dancing and craziness with shots. Phase Three: the closing, or when everyone passes out or leaves.” She smiles and hands me the tray. “We’s just now entering crescendo.”
What? It’s been hours. I grab the tray and head back up the stairs and down the narrow slaves’ passageway. The music is cranked up to a deafening level when I return, and bright lights blink throughout the room until I can’t see where I’m going. People are everywhere, pressed up against each other, dancing to the beat of the music. Vermilia was right. Dancing and craziness about sums it up.
I push my way through the crowd, and I suddenly have the urge to get out. The Tavdorians. They’re everywhere. And they don’t even know I’m passing through them with a tray full of drinks. Until they do. And then they help themselves until the tray is almost empty. I try to maneuver through the sea of people until I reach the other side of the room, my empty tray in hand. Finally. Something to grasp onto. I press my back against the wall. Take a deep breath. Watch the chaotic ritual before me. At least what I can see of it with all the blinking lights.
Breathe.
Just. Breathe.
This is a dangerous place to be—surrounded by Tavdorians. Drunk, indulgent Tavdorians. Thankfully they’re too drunk to notice me lingering against the wall. I take a moment to myself before the overseer finds me and shouts at me for not working or something.
I haven’t heard much music in my lifetime. Josiah and his guitar, and Mom’s lullabies that she sang to me as a child, are about the extent of my musical culture. But the music here is different. Wild and upbeat and exotic and almost…alive. A symphony of strange, foreign instruments merging together with a beat that encodes with the rhythm of my heart. It wakes me up. It flows through my veins like a raging river. Filling. Rejuvenating. Mesmerizing. I close my eyes, allow my heart to pump to the rhythm of the beautiful beat.
Someone slams into the wall right beside me, and my eyes fly open. A Tavdorian girl. She wears a skintight dress with gaps in odd places, revealing her smooth, olive skin. Her hair is bundled on top of her head in a mountain of curls. She looks drunk, her eyes rolling back in her head. But then a boy merges out of the crowd and pins her against the wall before devouring her mouth.
Another flash of lights, and I realize it’s Kalen who’s kissing her. The girl leans her head back as Kalen’s hungry kisses make their way down her neck. A drunken smile creeps onto her lips, and her eyes flutter shut as his hands roam down to her hips. My cheeks burn and I look away. I don’t know why I’m surprised. Kalen is a free spirit, and with his looks, he could get just about any girl he wants, slave or Tavdorian. Besides, everyone here seems to be indulging in a partner or two. From what I’ve learned from Briala, open relationships are culturally acceptable both in Tavdorian and Onmarian traditions—so long as both parties are consenting. So Kalen making out with a Tavdorian now, and sleeping with Briala later, is apparently no big deal.
“You’re a new addition.”
I glance to my other side where the man who’d been disparaging slaves moments ago leans his shoulder against the wall, a drink in hand. Edan. He takes a sip, not allowing his gaze to leave mine. “You one of Kalen’s?” he asks. “Or a plus one?”
My breath hitches. I heard Edan supporting slavery not minutes ago. And my blood runs cold. His eyes are dark. Hungry. He’s incredibly attractive, with short-cropped black hair, his eyes more indigo than violet. And dangerous. That’s obvious enough when he reaches out and strokes his knuckles down my bare arm.
“You’re certainly different than the usual volunteer Kalen hires. He has an affinity for Onmarians.” He leans in close until I can smell the alcohol on his breath. “He must be adding more variety to his parties. Good thing. Because I have an affinity for Humans.” He steps in front of me now; I can scarcely breathe. Viperous snake. Panic settles into my nervous system like an unwelcome guest, and without thinking, I shove him away and slip into the crowd of dancing Tavdorians.
I blindly make my way through the crowd, slipping through the gaps of sweaty bodies until I arrive at the slaves’ passageway to the kitchen where I grab another tray of drinks. When I return, I pass a cluster of couches, all empty save for Kalen. He sits alone, a bottle in hand, staring off into space with a haunted look in his eyes. He doesn’t look like someone hosting a huge party who just got done making out with a beautiful Tavdorian girl. No, he looks like someone who should be sitting at a graveyard, mourning the death of a loved one. The emptiness in his eyes tugs at my soul. Before I know it, I find myself approaching him.
“Can I…get you anything?” I ask.
Broken from his trance, he looks at me. His haunted expression dissolves into a friendly smile. “How are you enjoying your first Tavdorian party?” He glances at my tray. “Keeping up with the supply and demand on drinks?”
His quick change of mood throws me off. “Hardly. Your guests flock to my tray like dehydrated fish every time I step into the hall.” I start to laugh at my own joke, but the shocked look in his eyes stops me.
Then he grins. “You are a piece of work. Tell me this, little native. Do you have good drinks where you come from?”
“I mean, we have water. And…and milk. Tea.”
He laughs, his dimples deepening. “I mean adult drinks. Like…alcohol?”
“Like this stuff I’m serving?”
“Exactly.”
I look at the drinks on my tray. “No.”
“Try one,” he says.
My eyes flicker to his. “Here? Now?”
He nods. I study the drinks again. All small glasses with green, blue, or red liquid inside.
“Here,” he says. “This one’s a good start for a first-timer. It’ll set you at ease.” He selects a pink one and hands it to me. “Have a seat, Human. Put your tray on the table.”
I hesitate, half terrified that an overseer, like Tarik, will see this and reprimand me. Setting the tray down, I perch on the ledge of the couch and sip the pink concoction. The first sip burns my throat and makes me cough.
“What do you think?” Kalen asks, amusement glittering in his violet eyes.
“Not at all what I was expecting.” I take another sip. This time it tastes fruity. “Not bad, either.”
“It’ll help take the edge off during the rest of the party.” He winks, and that wink completely throws me off. I think I like alcohol-influenced Kalen. He’s certainly not drunk, but he is a lot more laid-back than what I’m used to.
“Your party’s getting a bit slow, Kalen.” The devastatingly familiar voice cuts through the music, making my blood go cold, and I look up, horrified to find Zimri.