She’s going to pay prettily for this, I promise you that.”
“All right, barring that opportunity at the moment, I have a question for you,” Sozo posed, giving Wheyn a crooked grin. “Rhou has peddled flesh to you for years. He knows damn well what you like and that you will pay those pretty prices he so enjoys. All he has to do is send you an invitation to the auction when he knows the right tidbit has come along.”
“You said there was a question,” Majum grumbled irritably.
“He’s made a great deal of gem off of you over the years, Wheyn. Inviting you guarantees him a sale. He knew you’d come and you’d buy. So why would he extend an invitation to your bitterest enemy?”
The Baron frowned as he pondered that for a moment. “It was a public auction. She needed no invite.”
“Fair enough,” Sozo agreed, “but Drakoulous hasn’t been seen at an auction since she bought her last confection. Now, how do you suppose she knew she would want exactly what was at this auction at this precise time?”
“Because she’s a spying little whore who needs to have her head hung from the High City walls!” the Baron hissed. “Gods! What I wouldn’t give to get that woman in my dungeons!”
“She isn’t your type,” Sozo reminded him dryly.
“Oh, she’s exactly my type. She can feel pain, can’t she? After that, the rest is details.”
Captain Sozo watched the Baron’s aristocratic features very carefully as the acting Master of House Majum took a seat in his chair, stretching out his athletic frame a moment before kicking up his feet. Sozo had been protector and companion to the Baron for the better part of fifteen summers now, and he knew just about every expression the man had and knew exactly what it meant. Right now, it meant Majum was plotting something. That was the only time he ever looked so smugly thoughtful.
“Careful, Wheyn. The Chamber has sanctioned feuds between the Houses. They still go on, everyone knows that, but you have to make sure anything you do can’t be proven back to you or you’ll pay the price of exile.”
“I know. I have a few ideas nonetheless. And I know you’re always willing to help me out.”
“That’s my job,” Sozo chuckled. “Besides, it’s fun to watch you work. You are a true artist.”
“Thank you, Hyde. It’s so good to have one’s skills appreciated.” The Baron grinned at his companion as he toyed with his glass. “But it’s your skills I’m looking forward to utilizing. Tell me, old friend…you wouldn’t happen to know anyone exploitable in the Drakoulous House, would you?”
“Are we talking exterior guard or internal servant? Any slave will turn on their Master given the right motivation. Commoner servants are always buyable. But her House is notorious for being tough to sway. Loyal bunch of bastards. Luckily, you and I both know no amount of loyalty is foolproof.” Hyde’s expression turned deeply thoughtful. “Give me a couple of days. I’ll find some cracks and see where we can stick a wedge. What do you have in mind?”
“Just find me that wedge and we’ll go from there.”
Vejhon tried to draw open his eyes for the billionth time, and to his shock they actually began to obey the command. Feeling heavy, as though he were working against an intense gravitational force, he blinked open his eyes and tried to focus on anything he could. At the same time, he attempted to assess himself for any new damage or any further undesirable circumstances.
It was easy enough to remember the situation he’d found himself living in ever since he had been drugged, taken captive, and spirited away from his home planet so many months ago. Back before all of this, he’d been Vejhon Mach; Colonel Mach of the esteemed Valiant Forces, to all those who knew anything about the war ravaging his homeworld of Wite. The Valiants were the glory of Wite’s global armed forces. They were the lead victors in some of the most decisive battles fought against the Creet alien invasion. Vejhon was a warrior born and bred, a notorious hero and leader who had very few equals in both his prowess and the cunning of command needed to outsmart the unwelcome Creet bastards.
He had become a target because of it.
It would’ve been better had the motherless Creet simply assassinated him, but he supposed that was the point. The Creet knew the fate they’d consigned him to would cause him far more suffering; payback for all the Creet lives he’d taken and destroyed with such relish as a patriot of Wite, while at the same time robbing his homeworld of a much needed commander.
He had been on his way home, actually, for the first time in months, when he’d been ambushed. He took pride in the fact that despite being pumped full of tranquilizing narcotics, he hadn’t gone down easily. He had fought his attackers hard, breaking a few necks in the process, searing faces and descriptors into his memory for later use when he would exact his revenge for this atrocity against him.
When he’d awakened in a holding cell aboard the first in a series of cargo transports, to say he went a little bit crazy was an understatement. He had known the minute he’d woken up in that cell, staring down at a long line of cells filled with other captives, exactly what was happening. The slave trade in other quadrants of the galaxy was lucrative and rampant, enough so that kidnappings and pirating were a realistic fear for anyone traveling the spaceways. The idea that he, the colonel of the Valiants, was now reduced to being enslaved and on his way to be sold in some distant market, was horrifying and absolutely untenable.
He had fought it every step of the way.
So much so that they had been forcing him into stasis now for long periods of time to keep him tame. During these times he was aware of very little and recalled almost nothing, but he still fought for consciousness at the very least. It was not in his nature to relinquish control of himself, and anyone who thought to teach him otherwise was in for a damn nasty surprise.
But Vejhon wasn’t all brawn and bluster, so he was extremely cautious as he came awake slowly this time. He felt as though he had been sleeping for ages, the hangover effect from being in stasis longer than recommended. When he’d last been brought awake, he’d been in yet another cell and on display for yet another trader. The trader had demanded consciousness as proof of Vejhon’s senses being fully intact. The flesh peddler had almost lost a limb when he had tried to touch the merchandise and the merchandise had taken a good gnash at his arm.
But who knew how long ago that had been, and how many trades had taken place since then? Fury broiled up beneath Vejhon’s skin, pumping adrenaline into his rousing systems and speeding up the waking process. He knew full well the things that could be done to him while in stasis, against his will and desire and he none the wiser for it. It sickened him to think of all the possibilities, and it fueled his outrage as he opened his eyes to view his latest prison.
It was so opposite of what he had expected, Vejhon began to doubt he was even awake. After months being trapped in small seven-by-seven-by-seven cubicles, stark but for the warped reflections of himself in the metal plating, the vast expanse of a well-appointed and outrageously large room was completely opposite in scale. Wary of the luxurious trappings, his belly tightening as his mind began to deduce the meaning of the change, Vejhon slowly took in the room, its obvious exits, and anything he could use as a potential weapon, should he find opportunity to escape.
The central piece of furniture in the cell—and it was a cell, he realized, as he flexed his hands and wrists in the manacles binding him tightly to the wall—was an enormous bed, covered in rich, dark furs that looked lustrous and soft
