Consorts of the red king, p.8
Consorts of the Red King, page 8
He’d go to the Coalition, ask for their help, form an alliance if he must, but he would free this world of the evil determined to strip Akiak of all resources.
Along with his conniving uncle.
Until then he’d put up with these horrible brutes, with their horrible ideas and horrible language. As soon as possible he retreated to the kitchen, only to be shoved out onto the floor again.
Matron! He needed Matron. She’d never let him go into the common dining area where a guard or, worse, his uncle might recognize him.
No, Prince Jorvik died. Even if he managed to reach the Coalition, would anyone believe his claims?
He pulled the thin blue gauze of his attire more tightly over his body, hefted a bread tray, and made his way between the tables as he’d seen servers do before. He barely restrained wrinkling his nose as more off-worlders shuffled into the hall.
The unwanted pests lounged on cushions at each table, without proper manners enough to know the correct sitting position, or not to discuss business over a meal.
His father wouldn’t have allowed these thieves in the palace.
The ambassador’s days were numbered. As were his uncle’s.
At the head of the table the traitor himself sat, a fearful-eyed serving girl at his side.
Father’s pendant hung from his uncle’s neck: the red crystal gifted to the family by the other inhabitants of Akiak. Heat flared through Jorvik. Oh, to charge the head table and plunge a knife into the usurper’s throat. No. The off-worlders would simply kill Jorvik and take what they wanted. Above all, he must protect his people.
All of his people, even those who concealed their nature.
His line, kings with great purpose, passed the truth from one generation to the next. He knew the secret, would protect the secret with his very life from these despicable bandits, who used charm and false promises to get what they wanted. Without a doubt they’d turn to brutal force if not given their way.
His uncle chief among them.
What word did off-worlders use? Bastard. Yes, his uncle prized the aliens over his own people, he deserved to be called one of their insults.
How much anger belonged to Jorvik, and how much to the changes designed to make him the red king he’d soon become?
Each night on his pallet he lay awake long after the other servants slept, gazing up at the glowing crystals overhead and plotting his revenge. Each morning more and more alterations became apparent: stronger muscles, taller height, seething anger bubbling beneath the surface of his outward calm. So far no one commented on the differences, yet each change set him farther apart from the prince he’d once been.
One day the anger would explode, once the serum broke through the non-violent tendencies bred into his race over the course of generations.
He steered clear of the upper table, lest he draw his uncle’s attention. Though Uncle might not recognize his nephew, he often preyed on the men and women who served him.
If his uncle summoned him to bed, he’d strangle the bastard, especially if the ambassador joined in. Brrr…
What the…?
A hand slipped inside his uniform, cupping his ass cheek.
The nerve! Jorvik whirled. “Unhand me!”
He recalled his place a heartbeat before plunging the bread knife into one of the strangers.
Things changed since his father’s passing. Many young men and women found themselves herded toward the northern caves to mine crystals for the off-worlders, or never to be seen again. Sons and daughters torn from their parents, parents torn from their children, mates and lovers from their partners.
Even without open war, his uncle’s machinations cost many an Akiakian their lives. Those found still loyal to Jorvik’s father paid the ultimate price. Not a single soul remained unscathed without losing someone they loved.
Though Matron tried, she could no longer protect the household staff from unwanted advances. Jorvik would never have grabbed a servant without permission. Why would anyone want an unwilling lover?
He glared in his uncle’s direction. Power. Controlling another. Something his people tried so hard to leave behind.
He’d started the process to become red king, and once the full effects manifested, he’d challenge his uncle for leadership, banish the greedy off-worlders, and take back his world.
Then…
No. Not the time to contemplate a distant future.
For now, he needed a way off this planet. Though the Federation claimed the Coalition as enemy, his father respected those who’d offered honest trade. The few Coalition members present the day Jorvik’s life changed forever likely now lay with Sika in a mound of the dead. They’d spoken highly of the Coalition leaders. Of course they had, like the Federation praised their “great vision.” Bah. Outsiders earned his distrust one thousand times over.
But perhaps they’d prove useful—for a time, to help him defeat the current regime.
He’d find the Coalition, ask for their help. More importantly, he’d declare himself rightful king.
Matron’s spies hadn’t yet found a suitable ship for his escape. He needed someone not fond of the Federation, someone who’d accept a handful of crystals and promises as payment for passage.
And he needed to find suitable leadership for… after.
He served bread, dancing away from overly eager hands. His gaze fell upon a lone man, somehow projecting an air of sitting apart from the others, brushing off any attempts at small talk, yet tuned into the conversations swirling around him. The stranger turned down offers from the servers who found him appealing with a curt headshake.
Most importantly, he remained alert, wary eyes sweeping right and left, not succumbing to drink and fine food.
Something about this off-worlder commanded attention. Closely cropped orange hair and skin the oddly tan color of long-term spacers exposed to artificial sunlight, the tightly packed muscles of someone familiar with manual labor and not surgical enhancement.
The stranger wore tight fitting breeches and a shirt stretched firmly over his broad chest. A pair of sturdy boots covered his feet. Scars on his face and hands declared him a fighter. His clothes weren’t new, but the attire of a man used to work. He hadn’t adorned himself with jewels, and short hair covered his cheeks and chin, an oddity Jorvik rarely saw. Akiakians didn’t grow facial hair, and few visitors failed to shave.
An off-worlder, yes, but not of the kind who swarmed around his uncle, taking what they could get. Why was he here? What did he want?
The man glanced at Jorvik with eyes the color of the crystals in Jorvik’s former rooms, and far more intense. Interesting. He also wore a comm link on his wrist, which only ship’s officers tended to do.
Jorvik handed out bread to even those who didn’t ask, and once he’d emptied his tray, rushed back to the kitchen to find Matron.
In weeks of searching, he’d found no one to help his cause. Perhaps he’d found his ticket off-world. He’d have Matron check the guy out.
And try not to be disappointed, like the last four times he’d thought the same.
He’d nearly made the kitchen door when one of his uncle’s guards blocked his path. “You!” the guard shouted, stepping far too close to Jorvik. The wall at his back prevented his escape.
Oh no! Not him! The monster who’d dragged Jorvik from his father’s rooms, and whose cloak Matron took to cover Jorvik’s nakedness.
Which Jorvik later burned.
His heart pounded. Surely the man hadn’t figured out Jorvik’s true identity, not with all the changes he’d been through lately.
The man leered and crowded Jorvik against the wall, out of sight of both the kitchen and dining areas. He ripped the bread tray from Jorvik’s grasp—his only weapon. The polished metal clanged to the floor.
Jorvik gulped and glanced from one side to the other, slipping his hand to his waist—where he no longer carried a dagger. No one appeared to help him. Servants didn’t know how to fight, and saving himself might give too much away. Why hadn’t he kept the bread knife? Unless more servers came out bearing platters, none might see him.
Only extreme effort kept his breathing even. A servant, only a servant, with nothing to fear, other than a night spent unwillingly in this foul man’s bed. He shot a panicked glare toward the kitchen door.
“I recognize you.” The guard sneered into Jorvik’s face, fetid breath making Jorvik wince, and grabbed his wrist. “You’re the little whore who took my cloak. Matron isn’t around to defend you this time. You owe me. Time to pay up.”
Chapter Ten
What a clusterfuck. Van avoided asking questions; he didn’t need to. Those at his table lived for gossip, if tonight set the normal pattern. Still, he’d learned very little of use.
The yellowish light didn’t let him see too many faces clearly from a distance, but the man seated at the head table, drinking too much and laughing too loudly, barely resembled the king in the photovids the commander sent. The king’s younger, much-less-attractive brother, with an airlock reserved in his name.
The more Van observed, the more he understood why Commander wanted him permanently lost. Most likely, he’d killed the king the Coalition hoped to trade with.
This atmosphere wasn’t what he expected after studying up on Akiak, reminding him more of a culture his father once told him of Old Terra. Romans, he’d called them, describing drunken revelry.
Rome eventually fell. Didn’t take a genius to figure out why.
He’d also heard whispers of forced labor, though no word of any other of the royal family reached his ears. Damned faulty translator. While he knew the king’s image, he wouldn’t recognize the prince, not in a place where pale skin, white hair, and dark, single-colored eyes were the norm, or rather, eyes so dark the enlarged pupil matched the rest of the coloring.
Where would the prince be if he’d escaped with his life? Though given the lack of mention of him at the table, chances were, he’d joined his father in permanent “exile”.
This wasn’t the first coup of Van’s experience. The old king died, plain and simple, and likely the prince with him.
Such a fucking waste. Van needed those credits.
He kept quiet. He’d not found anyone here with his particular space rat accent, though he understood most of the dialects. The servants whispered to each other in a language he didn’t recognize, even with translator implants in his ear. Not a widely known language then, though his translator implant tried its best. Enough came through to get the gist of the conversation, and each day he learned more and more words.
At this rate he’d be fluent in, say, ten years or so. Not happening. He’d have relegated this place to a mere memory by then, if he recalled his visit at all.
None of the commander’s people were anywhere to be seen. Tayn’s scans picked up Terran remains burned beyond recognition near the ruins—three of them.
The Federation must’ve discovered the Coalition spies. Which meant they’d probably be on their guard. Too bad he couldn’t get samples from the corpses for cellular testing.
The heady scents of unfamiliar foods, cloying colognes, and a few unwashed bodies churned Van’s stomach. At least he found the wine tasty, and of a vintage he’d likely never afford, though he drank sparingly to keep his wits about him.
To those around him, he ran an import/export business, seeking to sell wares from faraway places, and he’d brought enough trinkets, fabrics, and spices to back up his claim.
Some idiots even bought his stock. All of it, clean down to the display cases. Too many credits and not enough brains. Unless something happened soon, he’d be leaving here empty-handed except for all the credits he earned—honestly. He shivered. Making an honest living. Who’d have ever imagined?
Unless Commander supplied him with stolen goods to begin with.
A young woman approached with a bashful grin, wearing the sheer clothing of a server. Throughout the night he’d witnessed such women, and men, approaching a diner and the two disappearing together. Many came to him with coy smiles and intent in their eyes. Whores?
Then again, the same men and women took serious offense when someone groped or grabbed them.
Movement caught his eye and he rolled his gaze slowly upward. A slender young man stood a few feet away, a tray of bread in his hands. His flimsy attire did nothing to hide his unblemished skin and wiry build. White hair, the same color as many of the locals, fell past surprisingly wide shoulders, with only a portion twisted up into a knot on top of his head, and almond-shaped eyes black as the darkness of space. So black Van couldn’t tell if those eyes were focused on him or across the room.
The male must’ve worn additional clothes under the garment, as no amount of staring gained Van a look at any genitalia. Then again, he’d never seen an Akiakian naked. Maybe, like the commander’s, the guy’s equipment only came out at night, so to speak.
Definitely humanoid, though, or a close relative. Van even spotted what might be nipples on a firm chest.
The same offer Van witnessed many times tonight shone in the young man’s eyes, now definitely turned his way.
Oh, to take him back to the ship and share him with Tayn. Tayn would love him.
Van gave a hard swallow and glanced away. Tayn no longer possessed a body to indulge with, and they’d never risk exposing their weakness by jacking a stranger into the system. If it were even possible.
What the fuck? Van hadn’t come here for pleasure, but to work, and didn’t plan to leave without something tangible to show for his efforts.
Still…
As unobtrusively as possible, Van brought his communicator up, captured an image of the beauty, and uploaded to the ship. He sat close enough to a ceiling opening for at least a minimal signal.
Oh, he’s nice, Tayn replied a moment later.
Van watched what he’d like for dessert sway across the floor, so graceful, so used to the gravity difference. Even after a few days Van still stumbled every now and then.
What would Tayn do if he sat here and Van waited in the ship?
He’d have the server over his shoulder and be hauling ass to the nearest private alcove.
Tray now empty, the server strode down a corridor, out of sight, casting one last come-hither glance over his shoulder.
Van rose and stalked after his prey to accept the offer.
“Unhand me!”
Every instinct screamed at Van, “Not your business!”
The slap of skin hitting skin escalated matters. If trouble walked through an airlock, it pushed everyone else out of the way to get to him.
Why should tonight be any different?
Might as well go on and face the shit hitting the fan, as his grandfather used to say, though he’d never quite explained the use of a fan. And figurative shit always managed to find Van at some point anyway.
At least a confrontation might liven up an otherwise boring trip.
He rounded the corner. The bread server stood backed against the wall, a brooding hulk wearing the robes of the king’s guard gripping his wrist. The guard stood a good half-foot shorter than Van. The man Van sought topped the guard by a few inches, but lacked the guard’s bulk.
Likely not as much of a dickhead, either.
“There you are!” Van cried out, trying his best to wrap his mouth—and universal translator—around the native language. “I’ve been looking for you.” He winked at the scared young man, who didn’t relax. Van smirked at the guard, slipping a hand behind him to grip the blaster he’d snuck past security. “Sorry, pal. This one’s taken. Go find your own.” He hid the server with his body, taking one step and another, using his size to force the guard back and break the asshole’s hold on the server’s wrist.
“What is going on here?” An imposing woman bustled forward, slightly larger than the normal Akiakian. Damn. She’d come in a close second to Commander for intimidation.
The server spoke up. “I’d already received an invitation from my guest… the king’s guest”—he nodded toward Van— “when this man”—he glared at the guard—"who should be on duty guarding the king, tried to make a claim.”
Van issued an invitation? News to him, but still, he’d play along.
The woman turned a scowl on the guard. “Be gone with you, or I’ll report you myself.” Interesting how she didn’t ask the guard for his side of the quarrel.
Growling, the stalker held his ground.
Van stepped forward, shoulder to shoulder with the woman, hand on the holster at the small of his back. He didn’t recognize the glittery stick-looking things at the guard’s side, but he’d bet good money he’d be faster with his weapon than the guard. “She’ll report what’s left of you.”
The guard cut his gaze from the woman to Van, trailing up Van’s full height. He paled—a surprising feat for someone with frost-white skin—and backed away. Once he’d gotten out of reaching distance, he turned and fled.
The woman ran her hands over the young man, concern in her eyes. “Your hi… Dooren, are you harmed?”
The nearly naked man shook his head, the strands of his hair slithering over his shoulders in a mesmerizing way, like the silk of his garments. “No, Matron. He did not hurt me.”
Dooren. The guy’s name.
Not one of Commander’s contacts or the prince. Well, no, the prince would hardly be handing out bread, would he? A shame this wasn’t one of the bounties he’d been sent to find. Van wouldn’t mind being in close quarters with this beauty.
The man, Dooren, spoke to the woman in the strange, clicking syllables the translator, and Van’s vocal cords, struggled with.
Well, there went Van’s evening plans, but at least he’d kept someone else from having an awful night. He’d been preyed upon in the barracks as a new recruit, before he’d learned to discourage aggressors with his fists, and Tayn nearby.
