Slave Empire III - The Shrike (25 page)

“Yes.”

The man
returned to a distant table, where his companions leant closer to
listen to his story. A minute later, they drew apart, shooting
shuttered looks at Tarke and Rayne. She frowned, embarrassed by the
attention. All she wanted was to leave. Gulping the last of her
drink, she jumped up.

“Let’s go.”

Tarke picked up
his glass. “I’ll meet you outside.”

Rayne was glad
of the fresh air when she exited the club, which had become
oppressive. Leaning against the wall, she tried to relax, unaware
of how much of the tension had soaked into her until now.
Pedestrians wandered past, casting her incurious glances. That was
what she had noticed the most about Roshnar. They were all
indifferent. She had the horrible feeling that if she dropped dead
they would merely step over her corpse and continue on their way.
On Rimon,
rashone
and
rasheer
had stuck together
against freemen and
drantoor
, but here they were all the
same. With no common enemy, the dominant emotion was indifference.
She never wanted to be amongst such emotionally damaged people ever
again, and was tempted to order Shadowen to transfer her.

A minute later,
Tarke walked past. She fell into step beside him, and he went to a
patch of flora and stopped. A golden nimbus sheathed him, and she
followed. She found herself alone on Shadowen’s bridge, and poured
a drink while she waited for Tarke to join her. He did several
minutes later, without his Torvark disguise. Rayne sat on the
pilot’s seat and stared at the grey planet in the screens, several
visible bio-domes like tiny, sunken pearls on its surface. Tarke
helped himself to a frothy pink drink and leant on the console
beside her, sipping it. She wondered at the thick silence that hung
between them, partly understanding it, and not liking her
conclusions.

“What’s a
tralack merdan tran
?” she asked.

He scowled at
his drink. “You know what those words mean, surely?”

“Timeless
torture pit. That doesn’t really tell me much.”

“Sure it does.
It’s a place of never-ending torture, where clients get to watch
slaves performing the most abhorrent acts on each other. It’s
pretty much the only way two solid-mark untouchables of the
opposite sex would ever learn to trust each other.”

She swallowed
bile and took a gulp of her drink. “Those people... hate
everyone.”

“Yup.”

“But you’re not
like them.”

“I was, for a
while.”

“What
happened?”

He glanced up.
“I went back to Elliadaren.”

She stared at
him in horror, numbness nibbling at her mind despite Scrysalza’s
healing. The doors remained sealed, but the memory of the Envoy’s
grinding roar echoed through her mind.

“Hey.” Tarke
put down his drink and stepped closer. “Are you all right?”

She focussed on
him. “How could you stand it?”

“I couldn’t.
That’s why I killed them.”

“But... how did
that make you care again?”

He leant
against the console once more. “I learnt more about true torment
than I ever wanted to know, and that anyone can fall prey to it.
They were freemen, but they were tortured too. It took me two days
to do it, though. Partly because they were my people, but also
because at first I didn’t care. Then I realised that, although some
people are cruel, even they can be made to suffer.

“Not that
Antians were cruel, mind you, but at that stage I was like those
guys in the club. No one deserved my help, since no one had helped
me. But I realised that everyone deserves pity, if they suffer,
and, just because no one had helped me, it didn’t mean I shouldn’t
help others, or pity them. I realised that I could be the one who
helped them, and others, as much as I could. I could be the saviour
I hadn’t had. I could make a difference.”

Rayne put down
her glass and rose to step closer to him. He blinked when she
cupped his cheek, and she resisted the urge to embrace him. This
was what made him so different from all others, she realised. His
ability to see beyond his pain and try to do for others what no one
had done for him. It made her love him even more, and she wished
yet again that the gulf of his horrendous past did not yawn between
them.

“How long after
that did you start saving slaves?”

“The slaver was
the next ship I attacked.”

“How many have
you saved?”

He shook his
head with a slight smile. “I have no idea. I don’t keep count.”

“You’re...” Her
throat closed, and she gulped.

“Hey, don’t
cry.” He clasped her hand to his cheek. “Come, I want to show you
something. I think it will cheer you right up.”

“What?”

He contemplated
her for a moment. “You found those people hard to bear because of
their indifference, I know. I want to show you how different they
can be.”

“Do I need to
change?”

“Not unless you
want to.”

“I think I
do.”

“Okay, I’ll be
back shortly.”

Tarke stepped
back. The transfer Net enveloped him, and she went to her cabin to
wash her face and don her black and grey coverall with its silver
hawk emblem. She had learnt more about her strange husband than she
had bargained for, and she had her suspicions about what he wanted
to show her. Part of her wondered why he did it, another part
suspected that she knew, deep down. Why he thought he needed to
impress her, she could not imagine. Had it been anyone else, she
would have thought he was showing off, but not Tarke. Then again,
was she assigning lesser motives to a man who was above such
things?

When he
returned, she was no closer to figuring him out. He appeared from
the golden light like a shadow on the dim bridge, his grey coat
relieving the gloom. He smiled when she came to his side and raised
gloved hands to unclip her slave collar, dropping it on the pilot’s
seat. She got the impression that he liked removing it, and that
was why he had not shown her how to do it herself. Hers was the
only one he could take off, much as he wished he could do it for
all his people, and himself. He clipped on his mask and took her
hand.

She asked,
“Will they believe it?”

“Yes.”

The light
surrounded them, and when it dispersed, they stood outside the Rosh
club. She stepped back, tugging on his hand. “They’ll recognise
me.”

“So? They don’t
know the
rashone
you were with earlier was me. They may
suspect, but they can’t be sure. Nor do they know what I really
look like, and, last but not least, none of them would betray me,
even if they did. It’s okay, come on.”

Several
pedestrians stopped to stare, and some approached, looking stunned.
Tarke led her into the club, and the patrons regarded them with
dispassion that changed to wonder. He headed for a vacant table and
settled on a seat. Rayne sat opposite. Every eye in the club was on
the Shrike, and a complete hush fell. Women crowded the edges of
their booths, and, to her surprise, some wept. The same serving
girl approached, her eyes wide. She stopped several paces away and
chewed her lip. Tarke beckoned her over, and she came closer,
clutching her scribe pad. Rayne was not sure what she had been
expecting, but this was not it. Whereas before the ex-slaves’
indifference had been unpleasant, now the Rosh club was filled with
overpowering adoration.

Tarke looked up
at the serving girl. “Are you happy,
Cherin
?”

“Now that
you’re here, we all are,
Dalreen
.”

“Ah.” He
ordered drinks, and she hurried away, glancing back so often that
she almost fell over a table.

Tarke turned
his head, raised a hand and beckoned. A man at the back of the club
jumped up and strode over, stopping a few paces away, as the
serving girl had. Rayne recognised him as the angry young man who
had questioned them earlier. He bowed, then drew himself up, raised
his chin and squared his shoulders.

Tarke rose and
stepped closer to him, and the man’s Adam’s apple bobbed. The
Shrike clasped his hands behind his back, his action pushing back
his coat to reveal the fact that he was unarmed. Many of the men
wore weapons, including the one who faced him.

Tarke said,
“It’s good to see you so proud,
Shason
. Revel in your
freedom. What do you do on Dreamish?”

“I...” He
hesitated. “I... enjoy my freedom,
Dalreen
.”

“In other
words, nothing.”

“I was -”

The Shrike
raised a finger. “I know what you were, and what you are now. What
will you be in the future, though? Will you always be as you are?
Angry? Judgemental? Dismissive? What have you done to help
others?”

“They -”

“No. Don’t tell
me what they are. Tell me what you are.”

The man
shifted, his eyes darting. “I... I’m just a... Just trying to... be
happy.”

“And yet, you
fail. You squander your freedom on idleness and indifference.”

“What should I
do,
Dalreen
? Tell me and I will.”

Tarke shook his
head. “It’s not for me to tell you that. I’ll tell you what I think
you shouldn’t be doing, though, and that’s sitting around here on
your backside feeling sorry for yourself and taking out your
bitterness on others.”

Rayne almost
smiled at his sudden change of tone, going from knowledgeable
mentor to scathing peer without missing a beat.

Tarke turned
his head, his soft voice carrying in the stillness. “All of you. Do
something with your lives. Make them count.”

“But...” The
young man hesitated. “We’re
rashone
.”

“So what? Does
that mean all you can do is sit around? My ships need crews,
Shason
. There are so many who need saving. Will you let them
die in slavery? You are slaves still. All of you. Slaves of your
bitterness and hatred. Why did I free you, if you do nothing with
it? I did it for pity’s sake. Where’s yours?”

The man’s
shoulders slumped, and he hung his head. Rayne could almost see the
shackles on him again, draining his spirit. Tarke clasped his
shoulder, causing a collective indrawn breath to go around the
club. The man stiffened, his hands clenching.

Tarke nodded.
“Strike me. I’ve touched you.”

“Never,
Dalreen
.” His face twisted.

“Your
name.”

“Grambol.”

“What’s
mine?”

Grambol raised
his eyes to the mask, and Rayne was astonished by the tears that
ran down his cheeks. “You are the
Dalreen
. The Shrike.”

“I am. And I’m
just a man, like you. I, too, am
rashone
. You all know
this.”

Grambol shook
his head. “You’re not just a man, you are -”

“No. I’m just a
man. I’ll never ask anything of any of you. I know you. You’re not
free. Look within yourself and find what it is you need to free
yourself from the chains you’ve donned. I can’t free you from your
pain. Only you can do that.” Tarke released him and returned to sit
opposite her again.

Grambol gawped
at him, his eyes bright.

The Shrike
gestured. “Go. And you can all quit staring at me.”

Rayne was
reminded of the way everyone in the hangar had turned away when
Tarke had been unmasked, as every patron looked away. Grambol
backed off, bumped into a table and edged around it, his eyes on
the floor. Another
rashone
gripped his arm and steered him
to a table.

“They do
anything you say,” Rayne murmured.

“That’s why I
almost never tell them to do anything.”

“Except stop
staring at you.” She smiled.

His sigh hissed
through the mask. “It bothers me, even with the mask.”

“Will they all
join your ships’ crews now?”

“No. Only some
will. Others will want to, but never find the courage. They’re
afraid of being out there, where the slavers are.”

“What does
‘dalreen’
mean?”

Tarke turned
his head away, and she sensed his frown. “Nothing important.”

His reticence
puzzled Rayne, and she jumped as a man at the table beside theirs
leant closer to mutter, “Excuse me,
Rasheer
. It means
‘emperor’.”

“I’m not a
damned emperor,” Tarke said.

“You are to us,
Dalreen
.” The man stared at his amber drink.

“And my wife is
not
rasheer
; she’s freeman.”

The man cast a
shocked glance at Rayne’s bare neck. “I apologise, Lady
Shrike.”

Rayne was even
more puzzled. “I thought being freeman was an insult.”

“Did you?”
Tarke shook his head. “It isn’t. Not to me, anyway. Some of these
hate freemen, but they have no right to. Not all freemen are
slavers.”

The serving
girl brought their drinks, placing Tarke’s in front of him as if it
was made from spun crystal. Raw adoration shone in her downcast
eyes. He, Rayne knew, was above any hatred; he was their saviour,
and he had shared their suffering. She noticed that the atmosphere
in the club had changed drastically. Soft conversation had resumed,
but, whereas before there had been a lot sullen faces and frowns,
the mood now was almost festive. No one so much as peeked at Tarke,
but many shot her furtive looks, clearly amazed that a
rashone
would have a wife. She sensed their pity, and
disliked it.

Tarke sipped
his drink. “What’s bothering you?”

“They pity
me.”

“Of course. Who
would want to be married to an untouchable? And most of them are
trying to imagine why I would want a wife.”

She
contemplated this with a frown, glancing up in surprise when he
stretched his hand across the table to her. She took it,
smiling.

“But I know
why,” he said. “And so do you.”

The club had
become considerably fuller since their arrival, and almost all the
tables were now occupied. Evidently the Shrike’s presence was like
a magnet, and newcomers gazed at him for only as long as it took
someone to whisper to them.