Page 4 of The Omega Slave

“Do you want me to see if I can jog his memory, my lord?”

Tsaria’s stomach dropped to the floor. This was the soldier who had smacked him earlier, and Tsaria doubted he needed an excuse to do so again.

“Not yet, but it may come to that.”

“The fever white would loosen his tongue, my lord,” and Tsaria turned to see yet another man. This man wasn’t in uniform, but he could guess at his role, seeing the small, coiled whip at his belt. He had an ornate blue embroidered jacket, split at each side to show black breeches, but he wore a powdered wig signaling he was some sort of clerk. Wigs were a step up, a sign of revered employment, but still just that. It meant they weren’t of the noble class, but usually held a trusted position in some noble’s house.

Hair was usually an indication of position. Chamber-slaves, those that were supposed to remain invisible, generally had shorn hair, and wore skull caps marking the house they belonged to. Other positions like gardeners, cooks, and the housemaids wore short, neat locks that could be pinned back. Positions of power within the slave circles, those that had some sort of supervisory position, wore wigs. The aristocracy—males and females— had long hair to show that they could afford the body slaves needed to dress their hair every morning.

The only exception was the pleasure slaves and while they had to dress their hair themselves, they were allowed elaborate styles to further entice customers. Tsaria had begun to grow his out the day he entered the pleasure house, and it was now a vanity for which he was probably going to get punished as well.

The shopkeepers and those employed outside the circle of the rich had fewer restrictions, but short hair was more manageable.

Tsaria had no idea why his mind was rambling with such inane thoughts. No, no, he knew. It was the threat of the drug his mind had shied away from. The one thing that terrorized him above all else.

“Not yet,” the nobleman mused. “I require his mind clear.”

“My lord,” the servant bowed.

“Wait,” the nobleman had turned to leave but paused and looked at Tsaria’s jailors. “He is to be chained by the ankle only and given the basics.” He glanced at Tsaria. “We will talk a second time tonight to give you a chance to regain your wits. If you fail to do so, I will make you wish you could forget every single day of what I will ensure is a very long and very miserable life.”

Tsaria was taken back into the same cell and a manacle was fastened around his ankle. They gave him a dry, hard crust of bread and a larger bowl of some watered-down beer, then through the bars, he saw them pass out smaller bowls of what looked like slop the pigs would turn their noses up at to the other prisoners. It was disgusting, but it was food, and there had been many times as a child he’d had worse, or none at all.

All the prisoners turned away from him as if they were worried the guards’ attention would fall on them, and Tsaria didn’t look either. Then the sconces were snuffed out, and the room plunged into darkness. To his left he caught a quick inhale and a whimper, and then a shushing noise, but one attempting comfort, not a reprimand.

“M-Ma,” a whisper came, and his heart clenched.It was a child?

“Drink this,” he heard the barely there reply, and then another sniffle.

“But I had yours yesterday,” the little voice mumbled, and he knew that the mother was giving her share to the child. The firstbite of bread turned to ash in his mouth, and he shuffled over to the side he could hear the voices coming from.

“I can’t see you,” Tsaria whispered, “but I have hard bread and some ale. Take it for your little one so you can eat the other.”

The astonished silence was telling, and he caught movement now that his eyes were adjusting. He felt rather than saw fingers snatch the bread as he pushed it through the bars. He tried and failed to push the bowl of ale through the small gap. If he tipped it, it would spill. “It’s too wide,” Tsaria hissed in annoyance.

More shuffling and he could tell there were two shadows near the bars. “Son, put your face to the bars and open wide.” He caught on straight away and little by little tipped the liquid into the child’s open mouth, giving him a chance to swallow and eat the bread in between.

The child fell asleep almost immediately afterwards and after being offered the female’s gruel and turning it down, she thanked him profusely and shuffled back to the corner, holding her child.

It didn’t seem too long after that the door suddenly banged open. The same two guards headed straight for Tsaria and because of the torches they carried he could see the cruel gleam in the eyes of the one that had asked to make him talk before. Tsaria wasn’t given a chance to speak, merely dragged to his feet, and the guard leaned forward so close, he smelled the stale beer and old food that probably festered in between his black teeth. “His lordship has decided to give you another chance,” he said, “but I really hope you turn down his offer because he says if you don’t behave we can have you for as long as we manage to keep you alive.”

Tsaria turned his face away, not just because his breath was rancid, but so the disgusting excuse for a human didn’t see the fear he was sure would be stark in his eyes.

Not for the first time since he had woken up, he wondered what was going to happen to him now.

Chapter three

Kamir couldn’t remember ever being so cold and for far too many long minutes, he didn’t remember where he was, even with the silken sheets wrapped around his shivering body.

“Have the guards been taken care of?”

The voice of his uncle hit him like a cudgel, but by some miracle he kept his eyes closed and while he couldn’t control the tremors, his breathing never changed to give him away.

“And the few attendants. It has been arranged as you requested, my lord.” He also recognized the second voice, much to his disgust. Ibrahim was one of his uncle’s right-hand men. Not that Ibrahim’s hand would ever hold a sword, but it had no need, he did enough damage with a pen.

“My lady—”

The other voice registered in Kamir’s brain as one of his chamber guards, but then he could have cried in relief at the next one.

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