Between Two Evils - Chapter 11
Jan. 22nd, 2009 08:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
botiasHow to rate this chapter? Some mild violence and peril. Allura's night gets worse; Lotor has an encounter with a non-sentient.
Previous Chapters Here
Allura stood, trembling inwardly, as Jarvis stepped over the threshold. She smoothed her dress with her good hand, careful to hold the other so that Jarvis could see that it was empty.
Jarvis stopped well out of her reach, his body turned to provide the smallest possible target; his weapon was pointed at the floor—for now. “I'd say you were a con artist,” he said, “but this is hardly the way to a wealthy owner. So, what? Do they keep you until they get tired of your crazy?”
Allura fixed him with her most frosty stare. “I'd rather be crazy or a con artist than an abuser of children.”
Jarvis' expression darkened noticeably, but he said only, “Am I going to have to stun you or are you going to walk out of here?”
The prostitute on the floor seemed to want in on the conversation—Allura had an idea of what she might have to say—but her muffled cries were ignored. Allura saw Jarvis reach the end of his patience. She said, very clearly, “I am not going anywhere with the likes of you.” She made no attempt to hide her contempt.
Jarvis made an angry sound and lunged for her.
Allura fell to her knees, holding up her hand in a useless attempt to ward him off. He grabbed her by the wrist and hauled her up just as her fingers closed around the prostitute's stun gun. She jammed it against his diaphragm and thumbed the trigger.
He shouted and jerked back from her. Allura stumbled forward, her feet tangling in his as he faltered—and then went down, twitching and grunting. She dropped the device and scrambled across him, scooping up his fallen weapon. Standing, firing one-handed, she shot him once, then twice more.
His convulsions lessened, then stopped. The muffled cries from her other captive took on a frantic pitch.
Now what.
Allura looked at the open door. The 'waiting for rescue' plan had lost its appeal. With this weapon and the advantage of surprise, she thought she had a very good chance of getting out and finding help.
Allura looked back at the children, all of whom were staring at her with round, round eyes.
After a moment she stepped over Jarvis, walked to the door—and pushed it shut. She stepped back and wrestled with the weapon, noting that it had in fact been set to stun, though she doubted it was healthful to be shot thrice while already incapacitated. She set it to full power and fired at the door until it was melded to the frame at several points. Then she turned and rested with her back pressed against the door, every breath laced with the scents of hot metal and laser fire.
She frowned when she happened to look down and notice that the woman was again pressing on that ring of hers.
Allura lifted her head, scanning the walls of her prison-turned-refuge. The walls were bare; there were no light switches or other controls. Up on the ceiling, she saw what she was looking for.
Because she was using her off-hand, she aimed the weapon with a beginner's care, her movements conscious rather than smooth. Bracing the weapon on her forearm to spare her injury, she fired.
There was no waiting or wondering if she had been successful; there was a piercing whistle, and she ducked as she was hit with a shower of cool water.
The water and the alarm shut off after a time, and for a while everything was quiet—relatively. The dousing and the loud noise had had a predictable effect on her fellow inmates, but she got them huddled together, settling herself at the edge of the group between them and the door.
When they quieted a bit, she began to tell them a story.
This inspired the boy who had called her crazy to come up with more choice words regarding her sanity—he'd had a few things to say about her setting off the fire alarm as well. Finally, she pointed out that antagonizing the armed crazy woman was hardly wise. After that, he listened in silence as she spun a tale of her home, of her ship, wishing she could offer them blankets instead.
A sharp blow struck the door, making her jump.
Bang! The second blow propelled her to her feet. Behind her one of the children cried out, another began to cry. She raised her weapon.
After a few moments she saw it waver, then she lowered it again. She could hardly engage in a fire fight here. She had bought herself a little more time, and now that was nearly up.
She stared sightlessly at the door in front of her as the implications danced on the edge of her awareness.
Her gaze turned to the bodies on the floor: Jarvis's splayed form, perhaps stunned—perhaps not—the bound prostitute whimpering softly into her gag. For one wild moment, she wondered if she were just as crazy as they had all accused her of being.
Bang! Bang! She flinched when she heard one of the makeshift welds give, the sharp report pricking her skin.
Lotor got as far as the landing before he turned on his heel with a snarl. The unfortunate soldier who had been following close behind found himself shoved into one of the brothel's double doors; the etched glass panel shattered with a satisfying crash. Thus forewarned, the others leapt out of his way, pressing themselves against the wall as he passed.
He'd been imagining himself returning to the military outpost that was as much a home to him as anywhere; he had seen himself walking into his quarters free and unencumbered. All the while he'd been aware of some building emotion.
It had not been relief.
He entered the lobby to see the brothel keeper hunched behind his desk, an expression of terror on his shiny face.
Lotor drew his sword. Ignoring the man's babblings of innocence, Lotor stalked behind the desk, tipped him out of his chair and sped him shrieking out of the room with a boot to the ass. Then he slashed the sword across the man's viewscreen and its accompanying camera and microphone, turning it to a smoldering wreck.
He had not become bored in familiarity these past weeks.
In fact, Allura's presence had only pleased him more and more; it had been some time since he had thought of her anywhere but at his side, in his bed. He had never tired of looking at her, of touching her, of pleasing her and making her angry—of making her angry by pleasing her.
If he left without her, there would be none of that, ever again. Instead there would be emptiness in all the places she had filled with such perfection, with her vivid spirit and her beauty. He would wake without her, bathe without her, eat without her, see the face of some other female every time he looked at his heirs.
It was not what he wanted; he couldn't begin to express how much it was not.
Cursing under his breath, he flung himself down into the recently vacated chair and spoke into his comm.
“Commander.”
“Yes, Sire.”
“It's beginning to look like I may need leverage. Be ready.” Dangerous games.
He closed that connection and made another.
“You have a deal,” he said.
His pride was much easier to swallow than he had expected, his vengeance easier to relinquish; it helped that Admes showed no inclination to gloat. Still, it wasn't very long before Lotor found his temper sorely tested.
“You told me that he would SELL her,” he snarled at his comm.
He could only imagine how he must look, but Admes met his gaze, a little pale and drawn but unruffled. The gown and jewels were gone now, replaced by a beautifully cut suit, the dark curls tied back at the nape. “I said it was likely given the rumors I'd heard—the face is too battered but otherwise it—”
“It's not her. What else do you have for me.”
Silence.
“I know it's hard, but you should at least look—”
“What. Else.”
Admes sighed, and gave up trying to get him to look at the images of the dead woman. “Not a great deal, actually. A watchman just in from patrol said that he saw someone of her description claiming to be your wife, but that was hours ago now.”
Again the tormenting emotions: relief that she had been seen alive, rage at the lost opportunity. He thought he might be beginning to become accustomed to them.
“But they are looking, and there have been notices sent out.”
Lotor scoffed at these efforts. “That old hag has her 'town' in an iron grip. If I'd given her the proper motivation right from the start, she would have produced her by now.” And if Admes failed to provide results very quickly, he would be testing the truth of that.
His words—spoken and not—earned him a hard look, but no denial, at least, not about the Regent's leadership style. “My aunt is not an old hag.”
Admes looked aside then, a small line forming between the dark brows. “It seems there's been a fire alarm at Merta's. I do hope you aren't causing trouble with people getting out; it's as exclusive as it ever was—very highly placed— Mmm, false alarm.”
Lotor frowned.
He had heard nothing of this from his side.
He cut Admes off, probably not for the first time.
“Commander, tell me the situation at Merta's. Why haven't there been requests for orders or reinforcements?”
“Merta's, Sire?”
“Look it up,” he snapped. A few moments later the response was no surprise. “There's no one there, Sire. It must have— I have men on the way—”
Lotor's only response was to cut the connection; he was already halfway to the door. Hope coursed through him, heady and intoxicating; at some level he knew it had no real grounds: a fire alarm was hardly conclusive—not the way a slave uprising would have been, for example.
When he reached the landing, he stopped short. His hands clenched into fists.
There had been two developments in his absence: a faint glow on the horizon, just enough to give the city a silhouette—and his new 'security detail'.
An entire unit of the Watch was arrayed in a tight, but still sizable, semi-circle around the base of the stairs.
Only the highest echelons of the nobility could use vehicles on the streets of Nephalem, and only the Watch could use beasts. This was one of the mounted units, probably part of the Regent's own guard, their uniforms blending seamlessly with their animals' sable coats; they made an arc of darkness in the pools of golden light from the street lamps. There was an occasional flash of silver when the light caught a buckle or bauble on a tossing head.
None of the upturned faces looked friendly, but their weapons were held in the crooks of their arms rather than pointed at him—for now.
The first time he tried to get the thing to turn it spun in a complete circle twice, almost unseating him.
But once he got it pointed the right direction, all he had to do was lean forward, tighten the grip of his legs in anticipation and let loose on the straps to send the animal lunging forward with rather exhilarating suddenness.
Lotor smiled, the night air rushing past his face, pushing through his hair, and let it run, its hard feet making an urgent rhythm on the stone. How thoughtful of the Regent to provide this transport for him, complete with a belligerent human that he could knock off of its back.
The rest of the unit were still behind him somewhere, but it seemed that his actions had caught them by surprise. It wouldn't be long before they caught up to him, but he didn't care—as long as they didn't get in his way. Here and there, people scattered from his path, though the streets were more empty now than they had been at the height of the revelry. From time to time he saw some his own men staring at him as he passed.
It was with some relief that he saw the sign that marked his final turn. His activities tonight had given him a refresher course on Nephalem, but it had been a long time. He guided the animal into the dark narrow passage and ordered it to run faster.
It seemed but a moment before they shot out into a small square, its details murky-blue and indistinct in the pre-dawn light. Lotor pulled back on the straps—and nearly bloodied his nose on the crest of the beast's neck as it sat back on its heels in a snorting, sliding stop.
Lotor pushed off from the dancing animal's back without regret and strode forward on legs that felt a little odd.
It looked as though he'd missed the excitement.
The famous carved and gilded door was standing uncharacteristically ajar, unguarded except for two of his own men. Light from within created a long rectangle of bright color on the brick outside. A group of damp, muttering people wearing blankets were huddled together a little way off; other people in reflective clothing conferred next to an emergency craft with flashing lights further away.
The field commander himself stepped forward, executing a quick bow.
“Talk,” Lotor said. He didn't slow, leaving the man to follow in his wake as he stepped through the door; their boots squelched on the wet carpet as they passed through the entryway and into a spacious, high-ceilinged salon. The air was clammy and cool. Lotor looked around; most of the lamps were out, but the chandeliers were working, illuminating the dark stains and the beads and puddles of water on the expensive furnishings. Except for the faint sound of dripping, all was quiet, empty; no one came to greet or challenge them.
“We've just begun our search of the premises, Sire. Most of—”
The commander was interrupted by a soldier hurrying out of an adjoining hallway. In his upraised hand he held a mask; the light caught it, sending a flash of red fire.
Lotor stepped forward and snatched it away from him. He had just turned it over in his hands—looking for what, he didn't know—when all of their heads were turned by a muffled bang, followed by another, and then two more in quick succession.
The next seconds passed in a rush of adrenaline, traversing empty hallways in pursuit of the sounds reverberating in his ears. His quarry turned out to be a woman with a blanket around her shoulders supervising two men with sledge hammers. She turned at the sound of their approach, and one of the men paused in his work. Her angry challenge was lost in the sound of the other man's next blow.
Merta's eyes widened when she recognized him.
Too full-up for words, Lotor held up the mask clenched in his fist.
Merta went pale; strands of her hair, dark with water, stood stark against her skin; she seemed speechless, but her gaze turned tellingly toward the battered metal door.
Two blows with the hammer, torn from an unresisting grasp, and the door was open.
He stepped through into the dimly-lit space, too driven to be cautious.
She was the only thing standing in the unfurnished room.
Her hair was hanging in bedraggled curls around her resolute face. Her dress was elegant no longer: one of the tiny shoulder straps was broken, and there were wet, grimy blotches over the knees; the big, blunt-nosed weapon she cradled was hardly a charming accessory.
It had occurred to him, during his long and frustrating search, that perhaps when he did find her, then he would truly be free. He would find her and discover that the reality was an anticlimax after so much effort, and he would never again find her so enthralling.
His luck had always been poor where Allura was concerned. He stood there like an utter fool, drinking her in.
It wasn't the first time he had stood directly in her sights as she faced down an enemy, but this time proved to be unique. Allura blinked and her expression changed, brightening like the sky outside, taking his breath the way no dawn had ever done. She lowered her weapon, then let it slip to the floor.
Then she was in his arms, fitting there just as perfectly as he remembered. He lifted her up. Squeezing his burning eyes shut, he pressed his face against the cool skin of her throat and felt her arms clasp his shoulders with surprising strength. He stroked a hand up her back, pressing her closer yet.
He could have stood there, just that way, for much longer, but this was not the time or the place. He turned and walked out of the room.
As he stepped across the threshold, he felt Allura stiffen in his arms.
“Lotor, no! We can't! Not without the children—”
He glanced back over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the huddled figures before he turned to walk down the hallway. His men had been keeping Merta and her houseboys under guard, but when he gave no further orders, they fell into place behind him. He was still a little dazed by the events of the past few minutes, his thoughts flickering between the reality of the woman in his arms and the demands of the world waiting outside.
Mistaking his silence for disagreement perhaps, Allura changed tacks. “I want you to buy them for me! All of them. You said you would buy me things if I wed you!”
Lotor frowned.
Allura wanted him to buy her something. To buy her slaves—half-grown sex slaves.
Did he have the right woman?
“Those are for brothel work, Allura. Why would—” Then the situation clicked into focus.
“NO,” he said, outraged. “Absolutely not. I have had a very VERY bad evening. I am in no mood for any idiotic, bleeding-heart—” His words ended in a frustrated growl.
Allura made no further argument. She seemed to relax in his arms; her head came to rest against his shoulder.
Then she burst into tears.
The anguished sounds filled his ears; for a moment Lotor felt like he'd been socked in the gut with one of the sledge hammers. She had never done such a thing before, always so composed, so aloof, even when he provoked her to anger.
Allura pulled away from him and began scraping at the tears with the edge of one shaking hand, but still they coursed down her face; she couldn't seem to stop their flow. He kept glancing at her as he walked, but she kept her face turned away from him.
A chilling suspicion made Lotor stop and take hold of her chin, turning her to face him.
“Allura,” he said, in a hard voice, “Did anyone here hurt you?” He searched her face, afraid of what he would see.
Allura looked up at him—he had given her little choice in the matter—she shook her head a little.
Her expression was sorrow itself, and her blue eyes swam with tears, but her gaze was just as clear and direct as he remembered; there was no flinching or evasion. After a moment, he saw the beginnings of anger. She was defeated for the moment, but not violated, not broken.
This really was all about those slaves. Lotor felt a mix of irritation and the most profound relief.
She had stifled her sobs, but he could still feel them shaking her body.
“I don't have time for this,” he muttered, as he released her chin and start walking again.
Still, the problem was so comparatively easy to fix.
“Commander,” he ordered, without looking back, “I want all of the slaves in that room.”
“Yes, Sire.”
Allura went still, her sudden interest in the goings-on almost palpable. Her arms came around him again as she peered back over his shoulder. There was a sniffle—but no more sobs. Lotor felt a certain grim satisfaction.
“Tell Merta to put them on my tab,” he added dryly.
“Th-they need blankets,” Allura said, after a moment, her voice soft next to his ear.
“—and tell her to gift wrap them.”
Lotor ducked his head a little and looked out past the gilded door, arms crossed over his chest.
The courtyard in front of Merta's was full and buzzing, more so than any place had a right to be at dawn after the first night of festival. The Watch had caught up with him, and they had invited some friends along; there was a crowd of gawkers as well. A craft with a discreet crest had landed a short time ago, no doubt with someone of the Regent's staff aboard.
Through the line of his own men, standing at attention, Lotor saw one of the Watch checking over the animal he had commandeered, running careful hands down each one of its legs. The animal shook its dark head, setting shiny bits jingling, and made a rather rude noise with its nostrils. The man took his attention from this task long enough to send him a nasty look. Lotor gave him a wide smile in return, and then turned away to inquire impatiently about the awaited transport.
Allura stood a little way inside, her back to the door. She must have been tired, but she seemed quite content bundled in his cloak, looking over the new acquisitions. A hint of a smile curled her lips. Lotor didn't look at them himself, knowing he would not see whatever it was that pleased her so. He returned to her side, though he remained facing outward, and put an arm around her just because he could.
After a moment, he felt her head come to rest just below his shoulder, then she gave him some of her weight, leaning against his side. Looking down at the top of her golden head, Lotor felt his impatience fade.
Once the vehicle arrived, and they had all filed out under the rose and aqua dawn and were loaded inside, there was no avoiding looking at the slaves. They filled the other seating spaces and the floor besides. Some were indifferent, others looked him with varying shades of fear or suspicion. At least they were good slaves, quiet and quick to obey. That was all that could be said in their favor.
He shook his head at his wife's folly.
“Just because they are young in years does not mean they are innocent, Allura,” he murmured. “Or harmless. Half of them would cut your throat without a second thought.” Though probably not the half that were looking at her as though she were some sort of shining wonder.
He said the words without any heat or tone of argument. Once his initial outrage had passed, he could almost find it amusing.
Allura stirred against him and made some non-committal sound. He stroked a hand over her hair; it had dried very curly, untamed by comb or brush, the waves crisp and silky and a little cool under his fingers. The ride home was nothing like his earlier imaginings, but things could have been much worse. Allura had been recovered; she was here with him now; his troops were being withdrawn without incident, and he had yet to hear from his father; the Regent despised him, but no more so than usual, and Admes... Admes did not despise him.
He was glad of that, though he couldn't have said why it mattered—however, recalling the cost of Admes' good will and assistance caused a dark stirring of anger and discontent.
Things could have gone very badly indeed, and he knew exactly who to blame. He had gotten much of what he wanted, but not all. Vengeance would have made a nice addition to the list.
On to Chapter 12
Previous Chapters Here
Chapter 11
Allura stood, trembling inwardly, as Jarvis stepped over the threshold. She smoothed her dress with her good hand, careful to hold the other so that Jarvis could see that it was empty.
Jarvis stopped well out of her reach, his body turned to provide the smallest possible target; his weapon was pointed at the floor—for now. “I'd say you were a con artist,” he said, “but this is hardly the way to a wealthy owner. So, what? Do they keep you until they get tired of your crazy?”
Allura fixed him with her most frosty stare. “I'd rather be crazy or a con artist than an abuser of children.”
Jarvis' expression darkened noticeably, but he said only, “Am I going to have to stun you or are you going to walk out of here?”
The prostitute on the floor seemed to want in on the conversation—Allura had an idea of what she might have to say—but her muffled cries were ignored. Allura saw Jarvis reach the end of his patience. She said, very clearly, “I am not going anywhere with the likes of you.” She made no attempt to hide her contempt.
Jarvis made an angry sound and lunged for her.
Allura fell to her knees, holding up her hand in a useless attempt to ward him off. He grabbed her by the wrist and hauled her up just as her fingers closed around the prostitute's stun gun. She jammed it against his diaphragm and thumbed the trigger.
He shouted and jerked back from her. Allura stumbled forward, her feet tangling in his as he faltered—and then went down, twitching and grunting. She dropped the device and scrambled across him, scooping up his fallen weapon. Standing, firing one-handed, she shot him once, then twice more.
His convulsions lessened, then stopped. The muffled cries from her other captive took on a frantic pitch.
Now what.
Allura looked at the open door. The 'waiting for rescue' plan had lost its appeal. With this weapon and the advantage of surprise, she thought she had a very good chance of getting out and finding help.
Allura looked back at the children, all of whom were staring at her with round, round eyes.
After a moment she stepped over Jarvis, walked to the door—and pushed it shut. She stepped back and wrestled with the weapon, noting that it had in fact been set to stun, though she doubted it was healthful to be shot thrice while already incapacitated. She set it to full power and fired at the door until it was melded to the frame at several points. Then she turned and rested with her back pressed against the door, every breath laced with the scents of hot metal and laser fire.
She frowned when she happened to look down and notice that the woman was again pressing on that ring of hers.
Allura lifted her head, scanning the walls of her prison-turned-refuge. The walls were bare; there were no light switches or other controls. Up on the ceiling, she saw what she was looking for.
Because she was using her off-hand, she aimed the weapon with a beginner's care, her movements conscious rather than smooth. Bracing the weapon on her forearm to spare her injury, she fired.
There was no waiting or wondering if she had been successful; there was a piercing whistle, and she ducked as she was hit with a shower of cool water.
The water and the alarm shut off after a time, and for a while everything was quiet—relatively. The dousing and the loud noise had had a predictable effect on her fellow inmates, but she got them huddled together, settling herself at the edge of the group between them and the door.
When they quieted a bit, she began to tell them a story.
This inspired the boy who had called her crazy to come up with more choice words regarding her sanity—he'd had a few things to say about her setting off the fire alarm as well. Finally, she pointed out that antagonizing the armed crazy woman was hardly wise. After that, he listened in silence as she spun a tale of her home, of her ship, wishing she could offer them blankets instead.
A sharp blow struck the door, making her jump.
Bang! The second blow propelled her to her feet. Behind her one of the children cried out, another began to cry. She raised her weapon.
After a few moments she saw it waver, then she lowered it again. She could hardly engage in a fire fight here. She had bought herself a little more time, and now that was nearly up.
She stared sightlessly at the door in front of her as the implications danced on the edge of her awareness.
Her gaze turned to the bodies on the floor: Jarvis's splayed form, perhaps stunned—perhaps not—the bound prostitute whimpering softly into her gag. For one wild moment, she wondered if she were just as crazy as they had all accused her of being.
Bang! Bang! She flinched when she heard one of the makeshift welds give, the sharp report pricking her skin.
***
Lotor got as far as the landing before he turned on his heel with a snarl. The unfortunate soldier who had been following close behind found himself shoved into one of the brothel's double doors; the etched glass panel shattered with a satisfying crash. Thus forewarned, the others leapt out of his way, pressing themselves against the wall as he passed.
He'd been imagining himself returning to the military outpost that was as much a home to him as anywhere; he had seen himself walking into his quarters free and unencumbered. All the while he'd been aware of some building emotion.
It had not been relief.
He entered the lobby to see the brothel keeper hunched behind his desk, an expression of terror on his shiny face.
Lotor drew his sword. Ignoring the man's babblings of innocence, Lotor stalked behind the desk, tipped him out of his chair and sped him shrieking out of the room with a boot to the ass. Then he slashed the sword across the man's viewscreen and its accompanying camera and microphone, turning it to a smoldering wreck.
He had not become bored in familiarity these past weeks.
In fact, Allura's presence had only pleased him more and more; it had been some time since he had thought of her anywhere but at his side, in his bed. He had never tired of looking at her, of touching her, of pleasing her and making her angry—of making her angry by pleasing her.
If he left without her, there would be none of that, ever again. Instead there would be emptiness in all the places she had filled with such perfection, with her vivid spirit and her beauty. He would wake without her, bathe without her, eat without her, see the face of some other female every time he looked at his heirs.
It was not what he wanted; he couldn't begin to express how much it was not.
Cursing under his breath, he flung himself down into the recently vacated chair and spoke into his comm.
“Commander.”
“Yes, Sire.”
“It's beginning to look like I may need leverage. Be ready.” Dangerous games.
He closed that connection and made another.
“You have a deal,” he said.
***
His pride was much easier to swallow than he had expected, his vengeance easier to relinquish; it helped that Admes showed no inclination to gloat. Still, it wasn't very long before Lotor found his temper sorely tested.
“You told me that he would SELL her,” he snarled at his comm.
He could only imagine how he must look, but Admes met his gaze, a little pale and drawn but unruffled. The gown and jewels were gone now, replaced by a beautifully cut suit, the dark curls tied back at the nape. “I said it was likely given the rumors I'd heard—the face is too battered but otherwise it—”
“It's not her. What else do you have for me.”
Silence.
“I know it's hard, but you should at least look—”
“What. Else.”
Admes sighed, and gave up trying to get him to look at the images of the dead woman. “Not a great deal, actually. A watchman just in from patrol said that he saw someone of her description claiming to be your wife, but that was hours ago now.”
Again the tormenting emotions: relief that she had been seen alive, rage at the lost opportunity. He thought he might be beginning to become accustomed to them.
“But they are looking, and there have been notices sent out.”
Lotor scoffed at these efforts. “That old hag has her 'town' in an iron grip. If I'd given her the proper motivation right from the start, she would have produced her by now.” And if Admes failed to provide results very quickly, he would be testing the truth of that.
His words—spoken and not—earned him a hard look, but no denial, at least, not about the Regent's leadership style. “My aunt is not an old hag.”
Admes looked aside then, a small line forming between the dark brows. “It seems there's been a fire alarm at Merta's. I do hope you aren't causing trouble with people getting out; it's as exclusive as it ever was—very highly placed— Mmm, false alarm.”
Lotor frowned.
He had heard nothing of this from his side.
He cut Admes off, probably not for the first time.
“Commander, tell me the situation at Merta's. Why haven't there been requests for orders or reinforcements?”
“Merta's, Sire?”
“Look it up,” he snapped. A few moments later the response was no surprise. “There's no one there, Sire. It must have— I have men on the way—”
Lotor's only response was to cut the connection; he was already halfway to the door. Hope coursed through him, heady and intoxicating; at some level he knew it had no real grounds: a fire alarm was hardly conclusive—not the way a slave uprising would have been, for example.
When he reached the landing, he stopped short. His hands clenched into fists.
There had been two developments in his absence: a faint glow on the horizon, just enough to give the city a silhouette—and his new 'security detail'.
An entire unit of the Watch was arrayed in a tight, but still sizable, semi-circle around the base of the stairs.
Only the highest echelons of the nobility could use vehicles on the streets of Nephalem, and only the Watch could use beasts. This was one of the mounted units, probably part of the Regent's own guard, their uniforms blending seamlessly with their animals' sable coats; they made an arc of darkness in the pools of golden light from the street lamps. There was an occasional flash of silver when the light caught a buckle or bauble on a tossing head.
None of the upturned faces looked friendly, but their weapons were held in the crooks of their arms rather than pointed at him—for now.
***
The first time he tried to get the thing to turn it spun in a complete circle twice, almost unseating him.
But once he got it pointed the right direction, all he had to do was lean forward, tighten the grip of his legs in anticipation and let loose on the straps to send the animal lunging forward with rather exhilarating suddenness.
Lotor smiled, the night air rushing past his face, pushing through his hair, and let it run, its hard feet making an urgent rhythm on the stone. How thoughtful of the Regent to provide this transport for him, complete with a belligerent human that he could knock off of its back.
The rest of the unit were still behind him somewhere, but it seemed that his actions had caught them by surprise. It wouldn't be long before they caught up to him, but he didn't care—as long as they didn't get in his way. Here and there, people scattered from his path, though the streets were more empty now than they had been at the height of the revelry. From time to time he saw some his own men staring at him as he passed.
It was with some relief that he saw the sign that marked his final turn. His activities tonight had given him a refresher course on Nephalem, but it had been a long time. He guided the animal into the dark narrow passage and ordered it to run faster.
It seemed but a moment before they shot out into a small square, its details murky-blue and indistinct in the pre-dawn light. Lotor pulled back on the straps—and nearly bloodied his nose on the crest of the beast's neck as it sat back on its heels in a snorting, sliding stop.
Lotor pushed off from the dancing animal's back without regret and strode forward on legs that felt a little odd.
It looked as though he'd missed the excitement.
The famous carved and gilded door was standing uncharacteristically ajar, unguarded except for two of his own men. Light from within created a long rectangle of bright color on the brick outside. A group of damp, muttering people wearing blankets were huddled together a little way off; other people in reflective clothing conferred next to an emergency craft with flashing lights further away.
The field commander himself stepped forward, executing a quick bow.
“Talk,” Lotor said. He didn't slow, leaving the man to follow in his wake as he stepped through the door; their boots squelched on the wet carpet as they passed through the entryway and into a spacious, high-ceilinged salon. The air was clammy and cool. Lotor looked around; most of the lamps were out, but the chandeliers were working, illuminating the dark stains and the beads and puddles of water on the expensive furnishings. Except for the faint sound of dripping, all was quiet, empty; no one came to greet or challenge them.
“We've just begun our search of the premises, Sire. Most of—”
The commander was interrupted by a soldier hurrying out of an adjoining hallway. In his upraised hand he held a mask; the light caught it, sending a flash of red fire.
Lotor stepped forward and snatched it away from him. He had just turned it over in his hands—looking for what, he didn't know—when all of their heads were turned by a muffled bang, followed by another, and then two more in quick succession.
The next seconds passed in a rush of adrenaline, traversing empty hallways in pursuit of the sounds reverberating in his ears. His quarry turned out to be a woman with a blanket around her shoulders supervising two men with sledge hammers. She turned at the sound of their approach, and one of the men paused in his work. Her angry challenge was lost in the sound of the other man's next blow.
Merta's eyes widened when she recognized him.
Too full-up for words, Lotor held up the mask clenched in his fist.
Merta went pale; strands of her hair, dark with water, stood stark against her skin; she seemed speechless, but her gaze turned tellingly toward the battered metal door.
Two blows with the hammer, torn from an unresisting grasp, and the door was open.
***
He stepped through into the dimly-lit space, too driven to be cautious.
She was the only thing standing in the unfurnished room.
Her hair was hanging in bedraggled curls around her resolute face. Her dress was elegant no longer: one of the tiny shoulder straps was broken, and there were wet, grimy blotches over the knees; the big, blunt-nosed weapon she cradled was hardly a charming accessory.
It had occurred to him, during his long and frustrating search, that perhaps when he did find her, then he would truly be free. He would find her and discover that the reality was an anticlimax after so much effort, and he would never again find her so enthralling.
His luck had always been poor where Allura was concerned. He stood there like an utter fool, drinking her in.
It wasn't the first time he had stood directly in her sights as she faced down an enemy, but this time proved to be unique. Allura blinked and her expression changed, brightening like the sky outside, taking his breath the way no dawn had ever done. She lowered her weapon, then let it slip to the floor.
Then she was in his arms, fitting there just as perfectly as he remembered. He lifted her up. Squeezing his burning eyes shut, he pressed his face against the cool skin of her throat and felt her arms clasp his shoulders with surprising strength. He stroked a hand up her back, pressing her closer yet.
He could have stood there, just that way, for much longer, but this was not the time or the place. He turned and walked out of the room.
As he stepped across the threshold, he felt Allura stiffen in his arms.
“Lotor, no! We can't! Not without the children—”
He glanced back over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the huddled figures before he turned to walk down the hallway. His men had been keeping Merta and her houseboys under guard, but when he gave no further orders, they fell into place behind him. He was still a little dazed by the events of the past few minutes, his thoughts flickering between the reality of the woman in his arms and the demands of the world waiting outside.
Mistaking his silence for disagreement perhaps, Allura changed tacks. “I want you to buy them for me! All of them. You said you would buy me things if I wed you!”
Lotor frowned.
Allura wanted him to buy her something. To buy her slaves—half-grown sex slaves.
Did he have the right woman?
“Those are for brothel work, Allura. Why would—” Then the situation clicked into focus.
“NO,” he said, outraged. “Absolutely not. I have had a very VERY bad evening. I am in no mood for any idiotic, bleeding-heart—” His words ended in a frustrated growl.
Allura made no further argument. She seemed to relax in his arms; her head came to rest against his shoulder.
Then she burst into tears.
The anguished sounds filled his ears; for a moment Lotor felt like he'd been socked in the gut with one of the sledge hammers. She had never done such a thing before, always so composed, so aloof, even when he provoked her to anger.
Allura pulled away from him and began scraping at the tears with the edge of one shaking hand, but still they coursed down her face; she couldn't seem to stop their flow. He kept glancing at her as he walked, but she kept her face turned away from him.
A chilling suspicion made Lotor stop and take hold of her chin, turning her to face him.
“Allura,” he said, in a hard voice, “Did anyone here hurt you?” He searched her face, afraid of what he would see.
Allura looked up at him—he had given her little choice in the matter—she shook her head a little.
Her expression was sorrow itself, and her blue eyes swam with tears, but her gaze was just as clear and direct as he remembered; there was no flinching or evasion. After a moment, he saw the beginnings of anger. She was defeated for the moment, but not violated, not broken.
This really was all about those slaves. Lotor felt a mix of irritation and the most profound relief.
She had stifled her sobs, but he could still feel them shaking her body.
“I don't have time for this,” he muttered, as he released her chin and start walking again.
Still, the problem was so comparatively easy to fix.
“Commander,” he ordered, without looking back, “I want all of the slaves in that room.”
“Yes, Sire.”
Allura went still, her sudden interest in the goings-on almost palpable. Her arms came around him again as she peered back over his shoulder. There was a sniffle—but no more sobs. Lotor felt a certain grim satisfaction.
“Tell Merta to put them on my tab,” he added dryly.
“Th-they need blankets,” Allura said, after a moment, her voice soft next to his ear.
“—and tell her to gift wrap them.”
***
Lotor ducked his head a little and looked out past the gilded door, arms crossed over his chest.
The courtyard in front of Merta's was full and buzzing, more so than any place had a right to be at dawn after the first night of festival. The Watch had caught up with him, and they had invited some friends along; there was a crowd of gawkers as well. A craft with a discreet crest had landed a short time ago, no doubt with someone of the Regent's staff aboard.
Through the line of his own men, standing at attention, Lotor saw one of the Watch checking over the animal he had commandeered, running careful hands down each one of its legs. The animal shook its dark head, setting shiny bits jingling, and made a rather rude noise with its nostrils. The man took his attention from this task long enough to send him a nasty look. Lotor gave him a wide smile in return, and then turned away to inquire impatiently about the awaited transport.
Allura stood a little way inside, her back to the door. She must have been tired, but she seemed quite content bundled in his cloak, looking over the new acquisitions. A hint of a smile curled her lips. Lotor didn't look at them himself, knowing he would not see whatever it was that pleased her so. He returned to her side, though he remained facing outward, and put an arm around her just because he could.
After a moment, he felt her head come to rest just below his shoulder, then she gave him some of her weight, leaning against his side. Looking down at the top of her golden head, Lotor felt his impatience fade.
Once the vehicle arrived, and they had all filed out under the rose and aqua dawn and were loaded inside, there was no avoiding looking at the slaves. They filled the other seating spaces and the floor besides. Some were indifferent, others looked him with varying shades of fear or suspicion. At least they were good slaves, quiet and quick to obey. That was all that could be said in their favor.
He shook his head at his wife's folly.
“Just because they are young in years does not mean they are innocent, Allura,” he murmured. “Or harmless. Half of them would cut your throat without a second thought.” Though probably not the half that were looking at her as though she were some sort of shining wonder.
He said the words without any heat or tone of argument. Once his initial outrage had passed, he could almost find it amusing.
Allura stirred against him and made some non-committal sound. He stroked a hand over her hair; it had dried very curly, untamed by comb or brush, the waves crisp and silky and a little cool under his fingers. The ride home was nothing like his earlier imaginings, but things could have been much worse. Allura had been recovered; she was here with him now; his troops were being withdrawn without incident, and he had yet to hear from his father; the Regent despised him, but no more so than usual, and Admes... Admes did not despise him.
He was glad of that, though he couldn't have said why it mattered—however, recalling the cost of Admes' good will and assistance caused a dark stirring of anger and discontent.
Things could have gone very badly indeed, and he knew exactly who to blame. He had gotten much of what he wanted, but not all. Vengeance would have made a nice addition to the list.
On to Chapter 12
