Marcus grunted softly. "Are you sure you want one of the slaves?" He glanced at Ashlynne. "It might be wiser to hire someone from the city."
"Why spend good money for hired help when we have slaves at our disposal?" Jadeleine countered. "I dare say slaves are easier to control at any rate."
"Without doubt," Marcus said agreeably. "I shall go down tomorrow and look them over."
Ashlynne sat up in her chair, her foot tapping nervously as she listened to her parents' conversation. One of the slaves, here? She bit down on her lower lip, wondering if there was any way she could persuade her father to pick Number Four. Six weeks had passed since the incident with Dain. She wondered how Number Four had endured the long weeks of solitary confinement. Magny had told her that slaves sometimes went insane after being imprisoned in the hole for more than a week. How did anyone endure a month? Was he glad to be back in the mine? Did even his dismal cell seem welcome after four weeks of being buried alive?
She glanced around the room, its opulence unmatched anywhere on Tierde, and tried to envision being trapped in a dark hole in the ground, with nothing to see but darkness, no voice to hear but her own.
"We've never had a slave in the compound," she remarked casually.
"Does the idea bother you, daughter?" Jadeleine asked, her voice holding a faint note of concern.
"No, of course not," she replied quickly. "Will you pick him out yourself, Father, or let Parah make the selection for you?"
"I don't need anyone to make my decisions for me," Marcus replied. He looked at Jadeleine. "I will, of course, take Parah's recommendation into account, since he is more familiar with the slaves than I."
Ashlynne smiled at her father. "Of course."
"I'll go tomorrow morning," Marcus decided. "I've been meaning to speak to Parah about the recent decrease in production."
Ashlynne sat forward, trying not to look too eager, too anxious. "May I ride with you?"
"To the mine?" Marcus asked, astonished. "Of course not!"
"But, I mean, I just thought how nice it would be if I could go with you. I could wait for you at the bridge, and when you're finished talking to Parah, we could take a ride along the beach." She smiled her most winning smile. "It's been months, Father, since we've had any time alone together."
"She's right," Jadeleine said. "You haven't spent much time with Ashlynne lately. I don't think it would hurt for her to accompany you, this one time."
Ashlynne held her breath, waiting for her father's decision.
"I'll be wanting to leave immediately after first meal," he said gruffly.
Jumping up, Ashlynne threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. "I'll be ready! Thank you, Father."
Walking around the table, she bent down and hugged her mother. "Thank you," she whispered.
Ashlynne glanced at her father as they rode along the narrow tree-lined path that wound down the hillside to the mine compound. He was a handsome man. He wore his dark hair cropped close to his head. Clad in dark gray breeches, a light gray shirt, and black leather boots, he cut a dashing figure astride his favorite mount, a high-stepping black stallion. Both his horse and hers had been imported from Earth.
Her father had taught her to ride almost before she could walk. He was an excellent horseman. She knew he was proud of her, had overheard him bragging about her good seat and light hands. Her mother had been thrown when she was a child and as a result she had a deep-seated fear of horses. Marcus had bought her a gentle gelding, but Jadeleine refused to ride, declaring she much preferred her small shuttle cart, which had no mind of its own, didn't buck and didn't smell. But Ashlynne and Marcus went riding every chance they got.
"How's the new mare working out?" Marcus asked.
"Wonderful, Father. I love her. Thank you." The chestnut mare had been her father's gift to her on her seventeenth birthday six months before.
Ashlynne ran her hand over the mare's sleek coat. Before her birthday, she'd had to ride one of the native karu-atar, which, though pleasant to ride, had none of Artemis's speed or beauty. The karu-atar roamed wild up in the north. They were horselike in appearance, with long coarse hair, clawed feet, and a whiplike tail.
"You should start making plans for the wedding," Marcus remarked. "It will be year's end before you know it. Perhaps you should redecorate the two corner suites upstairs for our guests. I've asked his parents to stay on after the ceremony. It's been a long time since I've seen Rugen and Zahara."
Ashlynne nodded. "I'll talk to Mother about it."
"I know you don't want this marriage, Ashlynne, but Rugen is my closest friend."
"I know." Rugen and her father had fought together in the last Tierdian war years ago, and had pledged their children to each other when Ashlynne was born.
"Niklaus is a fine young man, with a brilliant career ahead of him."
Ashlynne nodded again. Few girls of her class were permitted to choose their own husbands. Women were pawns, traded for land, offered in marriage to secure peace between feuding families or forge alliances between worlds; or, in her case, to fulfill her father's pledge to his best friend.
"I want you to keep silent while I examine the slaves. Most of them haven't seen a woman in quite some time."
"Yes, Father."
Parah had been advised of their imminent arrival and he hurried forward to greet them. Marcus dismounted near the bridge and handed the reins of his horse to Ashlynne. From her vantage point on her horse's back, she watched her father and Parah cross the narrow wooden bridge to the compound that housed the prisoners. The small stone cells looked like blocks set in a row.
It was Sunday, and the prisoners were all locked inside their cells. On any other Sunday, they would have been toiling in the bowels of the mine, but not today. Today her father was going to look them over.
Parah started at the far end. Unlocking each door, he ordered the occupant to step outside. As soon as the prisoners emerged from their cells, the shackles on their hands and feet were activated, rendering them immobile. They were a motley crew, she thought sadly. Eyes empty of life, of hope, they stood like so many sheep waiting for the slaughter. Dressed in coarse leather breeches and sleeveless vests, their hair long and unkempt, they all looked alike.
Except for Number Four.
Ashlynne leaned forward in the saddle as the tall, dusky-skinned slave emerged from the darkness of his cell to blink against the early morning sunlight. She saw the way his jaw clenched as the bands encircling his hands and feet snapped together. They had not yet broken his spirit, she mused. Even after months of captivity and four weeks in solitary confinement, his eyes still blazed with anger and defiance.
She wished she could hear what was being said, what questions her father asked as he walked up and down the row of prisoners, what answers they gave. None of the prisoners dared to meet her father's eyes. Even Number Four looked properly subdued when her father stopped in front of him. She watched Number Four nod curtly, once, twice. Saw her father take Parah aside for a moment, and then her father was walking back toward her, his military upbringing obvious in the square set of his shoulders, the length of his stride, the self-confidence that was so much a part of him. She had always been proud of her father, proud of his many accomplishments, of the fact that he had been decorated for bravery above and beyond the call of duty.
She handed him the stallion's reins, and he swung into the saddle effortlessly, gracefully.
"Ready for that gallop on the beach?" he asked.
"Yes, sir!" She glanced back at the compound. The prisoners had been returned to their cells. "Did you make a choice, Father?"
"We'll talk of it later," he said, and touching his heels to the stallion's flanks, he raced over the bridge and headed for the beach.
With a wild cry, Ashlynne sent her mare after the horse, delighting in the heady sense of freedom that engulfed her as they raced across the hot golden sand, reveling in the wind in her face and the scent of the sea, the thundering power
of the chestnut mare.
Leaning low over the mare's neck, she drummed her heels against the mare's flanks. "Let's go, girl!" she cried, and let out a shout as the horse jumped a large piece of driftwood.
Oh, to be free! To be able to ride forever. To be able to live her life as she pleased. To pick a man of her own choosing, a man with long black hair and eyes as turbulent as a storm-tossed sea…
Why couldn't she get that man out of her mind?
"Did you find a slave that suited you, Father?"
Her father had won the race, and now they were sitting on a patch of grass near the shore while the horses rested. It was a pretty spot. She loved the sound of the ocean, could sit for hours watching the waves lap at the shore. Tiny little birds with gold-and-black wings scurried along the sand, chirping merrily.
Marcus nodded. "I believe so. Parah tells me the man has caused some trouble in the past, but he seems fit and appears to have been brought to heel." He shook his head ruefully. "Not much of a choice, really. So many of them lose the will to live after a few months in the mine."
"Does the man you've chosen know horses?"
"He claims to."
Ashlynne plucked a long blade of grass and twirled it between her thumb and forefinger. There was no way to ask if it was Number Four, not without fear of revealing that she knew more about the man than she should.
"Well, shall we go?" Marcus asked. He stood up and offered Ashlynne his hand. "Midday meal should be ready by now, and you know how your mother hates for us to be late."
With a smile, Ashlynne took her father's hand and let him pull her to her feet. She would find out soon enough who her father had chosen. Until she knew, she could hope.
And then she frowned. What if her father did pick Number Four? And what if Number Four told her father about her little adventure with Magny the other night? Her father rarely got angry with her, but she had never forgotten the few times that he had.
She told herself she was worrying needlessly. There was no reason for Number Four to mention it, no reason at all, but try as she might, she couldn't put the thought out of her mind. Her father had warned her that she wouldn't be allowed to see Magny if they got into any more mischief. And she had a feeling that her father would consider sneaking down to the mine in the middle of the night much worse than any of their other pranks.
Suddenly, she hoped he hadn't chosen Number Four at all.
Chapter Six
Falkon stood in the center of the floor, his gaze roaming around the room. It was sparsely furnished, containing only a narrow bed covered with a light brown spread, a small square table and a single chair. The walls, painted a muted shade of sea green, were bare of any decoration. There was a small window covered with a dark green shade. Still, his new quarters seemed like an abode fit for a king compared to the cell he had left only a short while ago.
And yet it was still a prison.
He lifted a hand to the thick collar around his neck. And he was still a prisoner.
Muttering an oath, he began to pace the floor, his footsteps muffled by a deep brown carpet. He had been taken from the mine, bathed with a strong-smelling disinfectant, dressed in a pair of black breeches and a loose-fitting white shirt. His hair had been thoroughly washed, deloused, and trimmed. He'd even been fed a decent meal. It was the first time in months he'd had enough to eat. He had forgotten how good bread fresh from the oven tasted, forgotten the taste of coffee.
He swore again, remembering how the slaves had been lined up in front of their cells that morning so that the owner of the mine could examine them. The man had walked up and down the line, inspecting each prisoner, checking their teeth as he might have examined those of a horse he was thinking of buying.
It had been degrading, humiliating, and yet, with the bands at his wrists fused together and the overseer standing at the ready, lightly tapping the pommel of his whip against his hand, there had been little choice but to submit.
And now he was here, in a small square room located in the back wing of the main house. No longer would he toil deep in the bowels of the mine, deprived of sunlight and fresh air. His lot in life had improved, Parah had informed him. In the future, he would work in the mine owner's jinan, where he would be expected do whatever he was told, without question or complaint. Any attempt to escape would see him back in his cell, locked inside without food or water, until he died.
Falkon had nodded that he understood.
And now he paced the floor. The room was not large by any means, yet it was more than twice the size of his cell at the mine. It seemed odd to be able to take more than a few steps in any direction, to look out the window and see the sun shining, to have a real bed to sleep in, clothes that weren't torn and stained, that didn't reek of his own sweat.
He heard footsteps in the hall, and then the door swung open and the owner of the mine stood in the doorway, one hand resting on the controller at his belt.
"I trust Parah has told you of the consequences should you try to escape?"
Falkon nodded.
"Your escaping is not my primary concern," Marcus said tersely. "The security walls are more than adequate to keep you in. Should you somehow manage to slip past them, the collar you wear will lead us to you." He paused, his expression hard. "My concern is for my family. I have a wife and an impressionable young daughter. Should you show either of them the slightest disrespect, should you dare to lay a hand on them, you will loose that hand, and then your life. Is that clear?"
"Quite clear."
"The last storm has played havoc with the foliage. Your first task will be to trim the shrubs and clean up the debris left by the storm."
Falkon nodded. He saw no reason to tell the man he had been here before, or that he had seen the man's daughter only a few nights ago, peeking into his cell in the middle of the night. He didn't know what the devil she had been doing in the compound, but he was reasonably certain she wasn't supposed to be prowling around the mine after midnight, or at any other time.
Marcus regarded the prisoner for a few moments. He wasn't sure why he had chosen this particular slave to work within the compound. The fact that the man appeared to be the youngest and the most physically fit of the prisoners had certainly been a factor. He had almost changed his mind when Dain had informed him of the prisoner's attack. When confronted, the man had not denied it. When asked why he had tried to escape, the prisoner had glanced at his surroundings, then looked Marcus in the eye and said, "Wouldn't you?"
At the time, Marcus had been impressed with the man's candor. He shook his head, hoping he hadn't made an error in judgement. "Come. I'll show you the way to the yard. You will stay there until someone comes for you. Is that understood, Number Four?"
Falkon choked back an angry retort. He wasn't an idiot. Hands clenched at his sides, he nodded curtly.
Without another word, Marcus turned and walked down the hall, confident the slave would follow.
Falkon rested his back against a tree and closed his eyes. It was good to be outside. He had removed his shirt, hungry for the touch of the sun on his skin, on his face. He took a deep breath, drawing the scent of sun-warmed earth and grass into his lungs. He had been working for several hours, trimming trees and bushes, raking leaves, cleaning debris from a small blue pond. Never in all his life had he seen a place such as this. Even the royal residence on Riga Twelve paled in comparison. The house was of white stone that seemed to glow in the sun. There was a large pool surrounded by graceful ferns and flowers and small groups of tables and chairs. Birds with bright plumage chirped in the treetops; colorful fish swam in a small manmade lake on the far side of the grounds. There were flowers everywhere— large brightly colored blooms, delicate buds, lacy ferns. His home planet was a dreary place, plagued by wars and drought. And yet it was home, and he longed to be there, fighting for freedom with his kinsmen.
Freedom… He stared at the shackles on his wrists and wondered if he would ever be free again.
Mutterin
g an oath, he followed the narrow path that led toward the main house, intending to weed the gardens that grew along the south side of the building.
Rounding a bend in the path, he came to an abrupt halt. The girl was sitting beside the pond, one hand dangling in the water. Dread welled up inside him when he saw the controller lying beside her.
Ashlynne looked up, suddenly aware that she was no longer alone. Seeing Number Four reminded her of the last time she had seen him. Instinctively, her hand closed over the controller.
Her gaze clashed with his, and time seemed to stop as they stared at each other.
Ashlynne frowned. Cleaned up, with his hair washed and trimmed, and clad in a decent pair of breeches, he didn't look so wild and ferocious, yet he was a slave, a prisoner, and she couldn't help being afraid of him. In all honesty, she knew she would have been afraid of this man no matter what he was. In her sheltered life, she'd had little contact with men, had never associated with a man like this one. The men who came to visit her parents were businessmen, diplomats, couriers; they weren't warriors. They weren't fighters, like Number Four had been. The number four branded on his upper arm was clearly visible, another reminder of the kind of man he was. Her fingers tightened around the controller.