Desert World Allegiances (15 page)

Once Ben was done, he pulled a nightshirt off the headboard. Pulling it over Temar’s head, he smoothed the fabric with his palms. His gaze traveled up and down, and he reached down and traced the bare thigh just under the hem of the shirt. “Be quick,” Ben said, and then he gave Temar a kiss on the forehead and a slap on the hip. “I’ll be waiting.”

Temar’s eyes grew warm, but he blinked the emotion away and turned. So much for wanting to escape the feeling of being trapped, for even one moment. Temar walked slowly down the narrow stairs to the first floor and the small bathroom next to the kitchens. He would have been better off lying in bed, turning his back, and pretending that he had some lover behind him. Maybe he could get really good at pretending… good enough to see someone else’s face when Ben stroked him until he came.

When Temar came out of the bathroom, the double moons were shining through the back windows. On the other side of the house, the side that faced the workers’ area, the windows were set high into the wall or were covered for privacy. But on this side of the house, the windows overlooked fields with long, green lines of crops. Temar wandered to the window and leaned against the cool glass. The heat from the day had lifted, and now the night breezes made the plants sway.

Letting his eyes lose focus, Temar turned the world into a swirl of colors. Green plants and brown soil, gray rock and deep blue sky, all merged into a blurry world. He leaned his forehead against the glass, letting the cool surface leech Ben’s heat from his skin, and for a second, he considered standing there until Ben came to find him. He’d pay for it, but right now, looking out onto this world of color, Temar just wanted to slip away into it and never come back.

But something wasn’t right in this world. Temar stood up and looked at the far corner of the field, near the waterline spigot. A shadow was moving along the edge of the field, crouching low to the ground and moving slowly. While Temar could imagine a dozen reasons for a worker to be out in the field—checking the ground temperature, night watering, slipping away from the workers’ quarters to have sex somewhere with a little privacy—none of those excuses matched the shadow’s movements.

Temar glanced up toward the bedroom. Ben would start looking for him soon. But if he went up there, he had no way of telling Ben there was a problem in the fields. Experience had taught him that once Ben had tied him up, he didn’t want to hear anything from Temar until he had finished.

The shadow reached one of the tanks and stood up in the shadow of it. It was a man, and he was tampering with the water tap. Temar remembered the feeling of the tap under his fingers as he’d tried to check the pressure on George Young’s lines. The gear had jammed, and then, as Temar had tried to pry the broken piece free, the seal had broken, and water had gushed over his hands, more water than he had ever seen.

The part of Temar that had worked the land never wanted to see water wasted like that again. A darker, weaker, more corrupt shadow self whispered tempting thoughts about how Ben would have someone else to torture if another thief tried to steal his water. To his shame, Temar wasn’t sure what dissuaded him from that thought—the immorality of wishing his life on someone else or the fact that it wasn’t likely to work. Anyone condemned to a few work days or weeks for a little thievery was going to see Ben’s charming side, not the monster within.

So, he would scare this thief away. Temar moved to the door. He had to shift around awkwardly to lift the hem of the nightshirt enough to reach the door, and even then he had to stand on his toes to work the handle. Dropping his shirt back down to cover his bound hands and his cock, Temar moved far enough out onto the porch for the stranger to see his shadow, and clearly he did. The shadow froze.

Instead of running away, the shadow slowly stood up, his face turned to the brightest moon as he looked at Temar. Clearly, Temar was either dreaming or insane, because the man looked like Shan. He was dirty and had days of beard growth, and his torn clothes hung loosely, but he was the image of Shan Polli. Shocked and more than a little confused about seeing a ghost in his owner’s fields, Temar took a step forward, out of the eaves of the porch and into the moonlight.

Could the figure be Naite Polli? Naite worked for the council and might be checking for illegal water use, particularly if George and Ben had started suing each other, as each threatened. But Naite was larger. His shoulders were so wide that Temar could identify the man from three fields away. This stranger had Naite’s features, but he had the smaller body of the priest. Actually, he was smaller than Shan. This man looked like a scrawny younger brother to Shan, and for a half second, old stories of ghosts drifted through his memory.

“Temar?” the man asked as he started walking toward the house. He moved like Shan Polli, the same sharp, deliberate steps that Temar would often count when Shan gave sermons. He always took six steps toward the choir and then seven steps back to the pulpit. Temar could never quite figure out why he took more steps one way than the other, but he’d never taken more than six steps away from the pulpit, and never less than seven back to it.

“Temar?” the man asked again, and now he was quickly closing the distance between them. Only then did Temar realize he was half naked, tied, and gagged. Horror vids were made out of scenes like this, and Temar would have been shouting at the main character’s stupidity by this time. He stumbled backward toward the house—better the devil you know than the ghost you don’t. But his tied hands kept him from pushing the door closed.

Shan-ghost’s boots thudded against the heavy plastics of the porch, and Temar didn’t have time to do more than wonder about the probability of a ghost wearing boots when he was pulled back outside. Having already learned what happened when you fought and lost, Temar stood staring at the ghost and smelling the sour breath of someone drunk on pipe juice.

“I hate seeing you in that.” Shan stared at Temar, his mouth a thin, hard line. The gaze made Temar feel even more naked than the short nightshirt did.

“Boy, hurry up,” Ben’s voice called from upstairs. Shan was weaving, and he was obviously using his tight grip on Temar’s arm to keep his balance. So, when Ben called, Shan twisted around so fast that his knees went out from under him, and Temar got pulled down on top of him.

“Oh God,” Shan said. Temar looked down and realized that the nightshirt had lifted, showing hand-sized bruises on his thighs. “That’s not right. I never saw that, or I would have done something. But I didn’t see that, and I never did anything.” Shan reached out and traced the edge of the bruise with his finger, and Temar forgot to even breathe for a second.

Temar blinked. This wasn’t quite his fantasy rescue. Shan was clearly drunk—too drunk to take on Ben. Up close, Temar could see that he was half starved and red from sun exposure, and if he said one word, Ben Gratu was going to call his friends and have them kill Temar’s sister. Shan might have survived an attempt to kill him, but Cyla wouldn’t.

Awkward and still off balance, Shan climbed to his feet only by hanging onto the doorknob. “You could have told me, Naite. You wouldn’t have been as blind… or as determined to not look at him too long.” Shan’s words didn’t make any sense. He was looking at the doorjamb as if he expected it to talk back, and he was blinking fast. Temar’s father sometimes did that when he drank too much and the world wouldn’t focus.

Again, Temar shook his head, and this time he climbed to his feet and tried to push Shan out. The man was no match for Ben. But Shan clung to the doorknob, and Temar couldn’t do much with his hands tied.

“Boy, if you make me come down, my plans will change,” Ben called again, and Temar knew that Ben’s plans had already changed. He was probably fingering his belt right now—trying to decide whether to whip the back or the thighs. Desperate now, Temar took a step back and practically charged Shan, hitting him on his shoulder. Sure enough, Shan wheeled around and stumbled out the door. If Temar could have run for the stairs, for Ben, for the safety of a known world where his misery bought his sister’s place learning a skilled trade, he would have. Ben was sick, but he did offer a type of protection. Temar hated the price he paid, but he wouldn’t jeopardize the balance they had reached.

However, life never treated Temar fairly. With his hands tied, he couldn’t balance much better than Shan with his pipe-juice-addled brain. Temar stumbled out after Shan, falling to one knee on the back porch.

“Damn.” Shan clung to one of the porch posts. “And I am not saying that in a profane manner. I am praying. I hope God damns any parent who could do that. And that’s not very priestly of me, but I think it anyway.” Shan started stumbling back toward the open door, and Temar stood up, putting himself into the drunk’s path. Temar had already put Shan in danger’s way once, and he wasn’t going to let the man throw his life away after escaping Ben’s friends in Red Plain.

“I really don’t have time for this,” Shan muttered. Considering how drunk he was, Temar was surprised Shan had managed to stay focused for this long. But now he looked around, like he was searching for something new to capture his attention. Temar carefully and silently backed up toward the house. If he could kick the door closed, he was guessing that Shan would wander away in a drunken haze. And maybe, if he sobered up, he could defend himself, because if he confronted Ben, he was going to have to defend himself.

Temar was almost to the door when Shan repeated his words. “I really don’t have time for this.” Turning to face Temar, Shan reached out, caught Temar’s arm, and pulled him back out onto the porch. Captivity had taught Temar not to fight, but he couldn’t resist kicking as Shan bent over, put his shoulder in Temar’s stomach, and lifted him. Thinking of his sister and nearly blind with fear, Temar kicked and squirmed, but Shan put an arm around Temar’s legs and then started running for the fields. Temar could only sag helplessly and grunt as Shan’s shoulder dug into his stomach and get annoyed by the small trail of spit that was dribbling from the side of his gag.

Chapter 12

S
HAN
had run nearly the length of the farm before he stopped and fell to his knees. Temar tumbled off to the side, unable to catch himself. Behind the gag, he grunted and nearly choked on the smell of pipe juice. While his father always had a sour smell that lingered under the scent of dirt and sweat, Shan stunk like he’d soaked in the juice.

“Sorry,” Shan said, his voice bleary. “You’re right. I keep hurting you. No wonder you get so frustrated with me. Wait, I’ve never been able to touch you before. I don’t think this is a good sign.” Reaching over, Shan caught Temar by the arm and pulled at him. The fact that Shan was clearly not gripping with reality made Temar’s stomach tighten in panic.

“And I wish you would take that gag off. You have a right to be angry. God. If Div had still been doing the sermons and shaking the hands, he would have noticed what was going on.” Shan’s face twisted with some dark emotion Temar didn’t understand, but then he didn’t understand most of what Shan was saying. He’d seen people drunk on pipe. He’d seen his own normally quiet father screaming at the sky and waving his arms in the air. He’d seen Cyla drunk once, and the entire house had suffered for that binge as she flung half their belongings around the house. But he’d never seen anyone this drunk or this lost in his own delusions. It was like reality didn’t even exist for him.

Shan threw his hand up in the air, like he was trying to stop someone, but there wasn’t anyone else in the field with them. “Enough. If you want to give me the silent treatment, I accept that. You have reason enough to blame me, but you don’t have to wear that gag. The Lord knows you shouldn’t suffer because others failed you.” Shan reached for him so fast that he couldn’t control the jerk of surprise, and a small part of him expected punishment. Instead, Shan pulled at the buckle. The edges of the gag dug into the corners of his mouth, and Temar grunted in pain, but Shan finally managed to fumble the buckle loose.

“Metaphor is one thing, but you don’t need to rub it in.” Shan’s voice was soft as he reached up and touched his thumb to the corner of Temar’s mouth. Temar’s lips burned at the touch, the sore skin protesting the salt from Shan’s sweat, but it was a small pain, and Temar endured.

Shan jerked back, his eyes wide with panic. “We need to hurry. I can’t let them find me. Do you think they found the cycle?” Shan reached out, and Temar held himself stiffly still. His mind spun with a dozen different arguments, but he wasn’t sure any of them would get through. Clearly, Shan’s brain was pickled in pipe juice, and Temar couldn’t defend himself if he turned violent.

Looking over his shoulder, Temar could swear he saw a glimmer of light in a third floor window. The house was a long way off, the length of a full field, but if he could just convince Shan to let him go back, he could lie and tell Ben that he’d panicked, but that he’d decided to come back. A small imitation of a laugh escaped because it was a little ironic. Ben would probably enjoy the chance to punish Temar for something real. Normally Ben had to order Temar to act up and then punish him for it.