CHAPTER 27

As Jack had expected, the Brummgas took him in through the kitchen door. Also as expected, the kitchen was bustling with slaves preparing breakfast.

Not quite as expected, though, the Brummgas did not take him directly to Gazen.

Instead, they turned him over to Heetoorieef. "I have been told to make you presentable," the Wistawk informed Jack coolly. "A breakfast has been prepared for you, as well. Do you wish food or a cleaning first?"

"I think I'll go with the cleaning," Jack said, watching as the Brummgas stomped their way out through the kitchen, the slaves scattering out of their path as they went. "It's okay—I know the way to the bathroom."

He started toward the stairs to the slave quarters. But Heetoorieef stepped into his path. "I have been ordered to keep you in the kitchen until you are called for," the Wistawk said. "There is a cleaning facility over here."

The "cleaning facility" turned out to be a slightly oversized sink with a spray nozzle. Standing beside it, Jack cleaned himself up as best he could, trying to keep out of the way of the hurrying slaves.

After the common shower rooms at the Whinyard's Edge training camp, and the even more open showers back in the slave colony, he knew he should be used to this by now. But he wasn't. Here, especially, it felt like he was taking a bath in the middle of a city park.

Though again the rest of the slaves seemed to have developed the knack of turning off their eyes to such things. No one even seemed to notice his full-sized dragon tattoo. Or if they did, they didn't mention it to him.

Heetoorieef had left a pile of clean clothes by the sink. Not a clown outfit, this time, or even the artificially cheerful household slave uniform. These were normal, everyday street clothes.

That all by itself was ominous, especially coming off of a night in the frying pan. Had Gazen decided to take Jack up on his offer to do some burglary for him?

Or was this a subtle signal that Jack had already been sold?

He was nearly dressed when the outer kitchen door was again flung open. He looked over and saw a half dozen Wistawki slaves stagger inside, with two Brummgas in the rear herding them along.

His first thought was that the whole lot of them were drunk. His second thought was that they were so utterly fatigued that they were asleep on their feet.

It was only as the first one nearly tripped and turned halfway around that he spotted the bright red lines crisscrossing his back.

The bright red of fresh blood.

Jack caught his breath, his eyes darting to each of them in turn. All six of them had been savagely whipped.

Heetoorieef was just passing by. "Heetoorieef," Jack hissed, grabbing the other's arm and jerking his head toward the bleeding Wistawki. "What happened?"

Heetoorieef looked toward the others, his alien face unreadable. "They are thieves," he said. "They stole from the slaves' food locker."

Jack felt something catch in his throat. Oh, no. "You're sure it was them?"

"The Brummgas are sure," Heetoorieef said. "That's all that matters."

"But—" Jack broke off. "Suppose they're wrong?"

"And what if they are?"

"What do you mean, what if?" Jack retorted. "They'd have beaten them for nothing."

Heetoorieef turned his eyes onto Jack. "And what if they did?"

Jack stared up at him. "Don't you even care?" he demanded.

The Wistawk looked away. "They are slaves," he said, very quietly. "I am a slave. Come, your food is ready."

Numbly, Jack followed, not even bothering to fasten his shirt all the way up.

He felt sick to his stomach, sicker than he'd felt about anything that had happened since he'd arrived in this place. Sicker even than he'd felt watching two innocent bystanders get shot back on the Vagran Colony, right after he'd first met Draycos.

Because this one was his fault. One hundred percent his fault. He was the one responsible for that stolen food, not them. That whipping should have been his, not theirs.

In the old days, Uncle Virgil would have had a good laugh over seeing someone else get nailed for a job he and Jack had pulled off. Uncle Virge would probably be less openly cheerful, but even he would congratulate Jack on his good luck at avoiding the blame.

Draycos, in contrast, probably felt every bit as sick as Jack did.

The worst part was that there was nothing in the universe he could do to fix it.

Even if he jumped up on the table right now and announced his guilt to the Brummgas, it wouldn't make any difference. The slaves would still be bleeding, the skin of their backs still torn.

For almost three months now Uncle Virge had been warning Jack against Draycos and his K'da warrior ethic. He'd told Jack over and over again that he should stick with looking out for himself, and not worry about other people.

Jack had mostly ignored him, following Draycos's lead and letting the dragon make most of the moral decisions. And up to now it hadn't really cost him very much.

But the guilt now twisting through his stomach was a cost he hadn't counted on.

Maybe a cost he wasn't willing to pay.

A small table and chair had been set up near the slaves' food locker, with a bowl full of steaming breakfast stew waiting. "There," Heetoorieef said, gesturing toward it. "Your meal. The Panjan Gazen commands that you eat."

Of course Gazen would command it. Jack was a slave, too, after all. Commands, hotboxes, and whippings were all part of the package. "Sure," he muttered.

He sat down. Whatever appetite he'd brought in with him this morning had vanished like Alice down the rabbit hole. Even if it hadn't, he would have felt awkward helping himself to a hearty meal with the rest of the slaves still hard at work around him.

Still, this might be the only decent meal on today's schedule. Maybe on the whole week's schedule, the way Gazen played things. Whether he had an appetite or not, he needed his strength.

Besides, the aroma rising with the steam had already set his stomach growling.

Giving up, he picked up the spoon and carved out a small bite.

"Wait," Draycos's voice whispered from his shoulder.

Jack froze, the spoon halfway to his mouth. "What?" he whispered back.

"Let me smell it more closely," Draycos said. He shifted lower on Jack's chest, and the end of his snout rose from the skin.

Jack moved the spoon to the protruding snout, pulling the edges of his unfastened shirt forward a little with his free hand to help hide the dragon from view. "Well?"

Draycos's only answer was to keep sniffing. "Come on, come on," Jack said impatiently. This had better not be something stupid, like the kettlespice balance not being quite right. "What, is it spoiled or something?"

"No," Draycos said. "It is poisoned."

Carefully, Jack lowered the spoon back into the bowl. "You sure?"

"I am positive," Draycos said. "I cannot identify the exact type. But I am certain it is a poison."

Jack took a deep breath. So that was how Gazen planned to do it. "A squatter poison," he said. "Bet you aces to deuces it's a squatter poison."

"I do not know that term."

"It's a type of poison that gets into a person's system and then just sort of sits there," Jack explained bitterly. "Sometimes for years. They're mostly used for big-animal control, like that touring show with the reconstructed dinosaurs."

"What do you mean, it sits there?" Draycos asked. "Where does it sit?" "All through the tissues," Jack said. "Muscle fibers, lungs, maybe the heart lining. And as long as you take a daily dose of the right antidote, you're fine."

"And if you do not?"

"Then you're dead."

For a moment Draycos was silent. "That is how Gazen plans to keep you under the control of your new buyer," he said. "But can you not find your own supply of the antidote?"