Slave Empire III - The Shrike (22 page)

“Why not?”

“He would think
it very strange. You hate men, remember?”

Rayne sampled
her drink, finding it pleasant, and glimpsed the man who had given
it to her out of the corner of her eye, gazing at her. She shot him
a glare, and he retreated into the crowd.

Tarke said,
“That’s it. Treat him like dirt.”

“But why? He’s
an ex-slave, too.”

“He was
probably a labourer or servant. He might have been whipped a few
times. If he was a labourer, maybe a lot, but that doesn’t compare
to what a pleasure slave has suffered. It’s not that he deserves to
be treated like dirt, but that’s how an ex-pleasure slave would
treat him.”

“But you
thanked him,” she said.

“No, I
commended him for his generosity and deference. I was being
polite.”

“Isn’t it
strange, us being together?”

“No, it’s quite
normal. We’re both burnouts; therefore we’re not a threat to each
other, and we can watch each other’s backs. Also, new arrivals
always have a sponsor of the same ilk, to teach them.”

Rayne sipped
her drink. “A threat to each other? What do you mean?”

“Well, I don’t
allow advances from women, and you don’t allow advances from
men.”

“Ah. So an
ex-pleasure slave sees an advance as a threat.”

“Of course.
Having been used and abused in the most depraved ways imaginable,
the last thing one of us wants is...” He looked away, frowning.

“Anyone making
advances,” she finished for him.

“Yes. Sorry,
but you already know this.”

“I hadn’t quite
thought of it in those terms. I understand better now, though.”

He sat back,
picking up his glass again. “I hope so.”

Sensing that
she was being watched, Rayne glanced across the dance floor. The
men with the solid marks stared at her. They met her eyes and
inclined their heads; one even managed a faint smile.

Tarke followed
her gaze. “You can smile at them if you want, but not too
much.”

Rayne cast the
men a slight smile. One looked away; the other raised his
glass.

“Don’t react,”
Tarke advised.

She sighed and
picked up her drink. “This is all very complicated.”

“Yep.”

A slight
commotion drew her attention to the marked men again. An unmarked
patron had evidently stumbled into one, probably shoved by the
crowd that detoured around their table, or perhaps he was drunk.
The offender sat on the floor, nursing his jaw, and one of the
marked men stood over him, glowering at him. The unmarked man
climbed to his feet and retreated into the crowd, and the marked
man sat down.

Tarke shook his
head. “That fool learnt the hard way.”

“It looked like
an accident.”

“Absolutely,
but you don’t do that to an untouchable if you value your
head.”

Rayne watched
the marked men. “Does that happen a lot?”

“Unfortunately,
in a crowded place like this, yes. Untouchables don’t come here
much, it’s too jammed. When we’ve finished these drinks I’ll take
you to an untouchable club. You’ll find it very different.”

One of the
marked men’s eyes became intent on something behind Tarke, and she
followed his gaze. An unmarked patron came up behind Tarke, who
noticed Rayne’s attention an instant before the man brushed against
him, but the warning was too late. Tarke whipped around and punched
the man in the chest, sending him sprawling. Rayne gasped, stunned
by the speed of his reaction. Tarke left the table and knelt beside
the man, pulled off his right glove and felt for a pulse in his
neck as the muttering crowd retreated. A middle-aged man pushed
free of the throng and knelt on the opposite side of the prone man,
examining him.

He said, “He’ll
be all right,
Rashone
. He’s just unconscious.”

Tarke returned
to the table, and two men carried the man away. Tarke frowned at
his drink, and Rayne bit her lip.

He looked up at
her. “Now you know why you shouldn’t sneak up on me.”

“God, you guys
are like... land mines.”

“Land
mines?”

She nodded.
“Weapons used on Earth. If you step on one, it explodes and blows
your legs off.”

“Ah. A good
analogy.”

“You thought
you’d killed him?”

“I might have.”
Tarke drained his glass. “Let’s get out of here.”

Rayne gulped
down the last of her drink and rose, heading for the door with
Tarke close behind. Patrons stepped aside, shooting them wary
looks, and she noticed that the two solid-mark men had left. Tarke
guided her to a dark alley, where they entered an even darker club
with an unguarded door and free entry. It also reeked of narcotic
smoke and reverberated to the throb of exotic music. Soft light
brightened the interior, and only a few dozen people sat at widely
spaced tables. A huge vidscreen showed a variety of pleasant
scenes, from bright landscapes to pretty birds and beasts, children
playing and waves breaking on a beach.

They sat at a
table, and a waitress with a tray approached from the side to take
their order. Tarke looked more relaxed. The mark on his brow glowed
in the dim light, ensuring it was always visible, even in the dark.
Their drinks arrived, and a few minutes later a shout made Tarke’s
head jerk around.

“Torvark! You
old reprobate!”

A well-built
man in a grey outfit studded with silver approached their table,
smiling. His red and gold hair indicated Atlantean descent, and an
ugly scar on one cheek ruined his good looks. Tarke nodded,
signalling for him to join them. The newcomer pulled up an empty
chair, placing it closer to Tarke than Rayne, sat down and inclined
his head to her.

“Greetings,
Rasheer
.”

She noted the
solid circle on his brow. “Greetings,
Rashone
.”

“This is
Dravore, a friend,” Tarke introduced the stranger. “Dravore, this
is Rellyn. She’s new.”

“I can see by
the lost look. Just arrived?”

Tarke nodded.
“Today.”

“First time
I’ve seen you sponsoring. Good for you.”

Tarke shrugged.
“It’s a duty.”

“But a good
one.” Dravore turned to Rayne. “Do you speak to men?”

She inclined
her head. “Only
rashone
.”

“Of course,
that goes without saying. Some
rasheer
will do no more than
greet a
rashone
, apart from their sponsor. But I have to ask
why you chose a male sponsor.”

“Protection.”

“Your mark is
protection enough, but then, you’re new here. Interesting that you
see men as protection, considering.”

“Only
rashone
.”

Dravore nodded.
“Again, obviously.”

Rayne frowned.
“So I’m new here, like he said. There are a lot of men around. A
rasheer
wouldn’t have been able to provide enough
protection.”

“On Rimon, you
don’t need any.” Dravore shrugged. “You’ll learn. I understand.
Well, you couldn’t have chosen a better protector, that’s for
sure.”

“How so?”

“Torvark has a
reputation for breaking heads, more so than any other
rashone
. He’s to be avoided.” Dravore looked at Tarke. “How
many have you broken tonight?”

“Only winded
one stupid drunk
drantoor
.”

“A good night
then, so far. Keep this
rasheer
in your sights; she looks
too fragile to handle one of your punches.”

Rayne said, “If
he so much as -”

Dravore held up
a hand. “Relax, I’m joking,
Rasheer
. He won’t.”

“Your joke is
in poor taste, Dravore. I resent it.”

Tarke thumped
the table. “You address him as
Rashone
. You don’t use his
name.”

“It’s okay,”
Dravore drawled. “She’s new.”

“She must
learn.”

Rayne scowled
at him. “He used your name, and you used his.”

“We’re
acquainted. From a strange
rasheer
, it could be mistaken for
an advance.”

Rayne’s mouth
dropped open in amazement, then she closed it and glared at him.
“As if a
rasheer
would make such an advance!”

Tarke nodded, a
slight smile tugging at his lips.

Dravore looked
puzzled, frowning at him. “You insult her, Torvark?”

“She must
learn. She’s young. Foolish. A mistake like that could earn her
many bruises, made to the wrong
rashone
.”

“That’s true,
but only if she didn’t have a sponsor.” He turned to Rayne. “Should
you become separated from Torvark, I would be honoured to protect
you.”

Rayne
hesitated, unsure of whether she should thank him, and Tarke said,
“Yes, you may thank him. He’s
rashone
, not
drantoor
.
We just came from the Hot Zone,” he explained to Dravore. “A
drantoor
bought us drinks.”

“Ah.”

Rayne inclined
her head to Dravore. “Thanks for your offer,
Rashone
.”

“The honour is
mine.”

Tarke focussed
on something behind her, and the hairs on her nape prickled at his
expression as he muttered, “Ah, now that’s just stupid.”

Dravore looked
around. “Freemen. In a Rosh club? They must have a death wish.”

Rayne turned to
find two men entering the club, their bare necks setting them apart
from the rest of the patrons, who watched them pass with frowns.
They appeared to be rather drunk, and banged on the bar counter,
demanding drinks. A frowning unmarked barman served them, and they
surveyed the club, sipping their drinks.

“How can there
be freemen on Rimon?” Rayne asked.

“They’re the
children of slaves,” Tarke explained.

“Right. Of
course. Then they should know better than to cause trouble,
surely?”

“Usually, but
if they weren’t so drunk they wouldn’t be in here, so trouble is
what they’re looking for, I think.”

One of the men
smiled at Rayne and raised his drink when she frowned at him, then
started towards her. His friend tried to hold him back, but the
young man would not be deterred, and approached her.

“Greetings,
Rasheer
,” he said.

Rayne raked him
with a scathing look, then met Tarke’s angry eye.

The man leant
closer, smiling. “No need to be rude, when I’m being polite.”

Rayne ignored
him, sipping her drink. Dravore frowned at Tarke, who studied his
drink. Two
rasheer
at a nearby table glared at the man, and
the tension rose. The freeman leant over a bit further, swaying,
and his hand clamped onto Rayne’s forearm as he overbalanced.

Rayne wrenched
free and swung around, intending to clout him. Tarke leapt up, and
his punch sent the freeman flying into the unoccupied table behind
her. It splintered under him with a crash of breaking glass and
shattering plastic. Rayne jumped up and retreated as Tarke went
after the man, Dravore following. Tarke gripped the freeman’s
shirt, dragged him upright and slapped him with a resounded crack.
Dravore went after the other freeman, who backed away, his eyes
wide.

“Shit,” he
muttered, and fled.

A touch on
Rayne’s shoulder made her whip around, and her hand cracked into
the face of a
rasheer
, who recoiled. Rayne gaped at her in
shock, stepped back and bumped into someone else, who gripped her
shoulders with iron hands and pushed her aside without allowing her
to turn around. She glanced up at Tarke, who faced the assaulted
rasheer
and her female companion. Dravore seemed to have
gone in pursuit of the other freeman.

“She’s new,
Rasheer
,” Tarke stated.

The woman
rubbed her cheek, nodding. “The mistake was mine,
Rashone
. I
touched her.”

“Then you did
indeed blunder, but still, regrets are in order.”

“I accept. It
was thoughtless of me.”

“The
mertaan
are more sensitive.”

The woman eyed
Tarke’s grip on Rayne’s shoulders. “You must be her sponsor.”

“I am.” He
released Rayne. “I didn’t want my face smacked as well.”

The
rasheer
almost smiled, but controlled it, nodded and turned
away with her friend. Tarke smiled at Rayne, then turned to the
freeman who struggled from the table’s wreckage. Striding over to
him, he dragged the cowering man to his feet and sent him
staggering towards the door with a kick. Another
rashone
nearer to the door helped him on his way with a shove, sending him
reeling out of the club.

Tarke swung
back to Rayne and motioned to the door. “Let’s go. That’s enough
for one night.”

Chapter Eleven

Rayne led the
way back to the apartment, guided by Tarke’s directions, and was
glad when the door closed behind him.

She said, “Wow.
That was intense.”

He nodded,
sitting on the sofa. “Sometimes it is. You chose a lively night. Of
course, slapping a
rasheer
didn’t help.”

“You told me to
slap anyone who touched me.”

“You reacted
perfectly. She was in the wrong, and she knew it.”

Rayne sat
beside him. “What’s a
mertaan
?”

“A ‘newly
arrived’ or ‘newly redeemed’.”

“So there are
still a lot of broken heads, even with the marks.”

“There would be
a lot more without them.”

She nodded. “I
understand so much better now. It’s... amazing. Will you take that
awful patch off, please?” He removed the patch and peeled off the
piece of leather, and she asked, “So this whole untouchable thing
is an ingrained part of slave culture, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Ex-slave
culture. There are no untouchable slaves.”

“Are there
untouchables on Ironia?”

“Very few,” he
said. “The uniculture doesn’t suit them. They don’t usually stay
long. Most of them really need the pluroculture of Rimon, or the
monoculture of a place like the Serian Moon.”