Chapter 25

When evening rolled around, Sheppard was ready for his piloting duties. He'd spent the day polishing the craft Magister Tranaedan had indicated, intermittently helped by Ronon when his duties didn't take him elsewhere. That had given them a chance to talk about everything Sheppard had found out about the planet and the difficulty they would face getting out, along with the difficulties Atlantis rescue teams would have getting in. After that, he'd told him all he could about the Tranaedans, including the magister's psychotic jealousy and his theory that the magistra could read minds like a Wraith queen, hence the smart thing to do being to stay away from both of them as much as was possible. Then finally, he'd updated him on everything he knew about Teyla and Rodney and...well, about the fact Ronon needed to stay near Sheppard because some mystical red-eyed man had told him he would be able to escape soon. Ronon had just arched an eyebrow at Sheppard's explanation, then shrugged and said, 'Whatever.' The colonel assumed that meant he was on board with the plan.

It helped that Ronon was to come along when Sheppard flew the couple to dinner tonight. Tranaedan was apparently feeling extremely vulnerable without his sensory to tell him what might happen to him, and meant to take no chances. If someone was going to attack them as they travelled, he wanted Ronon there to defend him.

Sheppard had washed, shaved and changed his clothes, and other than the bruises was looking pretty sharp, thanks to the constant soothing effects of his medication. Without them, he doubted he would look quite the picture of respectability he did right now. Ronon, too, had tidied himself up, tying back his dreadlocks and donning some clothes the magister himself had discarded and Raelzine had kept to alter to make garments for the male slaves. She'd done an admirable job of adjusting them to Ronon's slimmer build, and although they came up a little short in the limbs, she'd extended the sleeves and legs with matching fabrics so that he still looked smart enough to be seen in public.

They waited at the designated ship for their owners to show up, the magister arriving first in a smart suit with a heavy black overcoat thrown on top, and then a few minutes later his wife arrived, wearing a vibrant blue dress that set off the colour of her piercing eyes. The look she gave Sheppard on her approach could have withered a tree, so he figured he wasn't forgiven for not answering her questions yet. He jumped aboard and offered her his hand to assist her, but she was having none of it, insisting Ronon do so because Sheppard wasn't strong enough to help her safely yet. Though she'd clearly intended it as a slight, he refused to be riled by her and instead got the craft ready for the flight.

Tranaedan sat up front with him, while the magistra seated herself behind them with Ronon, making small talk. Sheppard kept himself tuned into the conversation, listening to the various questions about his friend's previous owners and position, all of which Ronon answered in his usual monosyllabic way. Sometimes, being naturally uncommunicative could definitely be a plus, and although it seemed Ashnael had primed him well for his transfer to the Tranaedan household, his lack of verbosity made it all the more believable to his ear.

The journey to Traginta, where the Callaedin's resided was plotted into the navigation system via an information disc provided by the magister. Now that Sheppard knew Magister Callaedin was a government official it made sense that the Tranaedan's appeared to gain permission to travel almost freely between the cities. Having an inside contact in your pocket had to make getting the appropriate permissions a whole hell of a lot easier.

At Traginta's gates, Ronon experienced his first conscious transition through the three gates from the lands between. When the facilitators offered him the goggles and mask, he at first looked at them as if he might punch them before trusting them, but a nudge from Sheppard told him he should do as they asked, and he was no doubt glad he had by the end of the entire buffeting process.

Tranaedan guided Sheppard the rest of the way from the gates to the Callaedin property, a huge house with a magnificent metallic facade that rivalled that of the Tranaedan household itself. Tranaedan communicated with the staff inside the household, and the gates protecting the property retracted to grant them access to the frontage. Sheppard steered them in and set them down at the foot of the large stone steps leading up to the now open doors, where two servants had already appeared to greet them.

By the time Sheppard had also disembarked – carefully to avoid exacerbating his injuries – the Callaedin's themselves had assembled on the top step.

'Well, Alathael, you have another new slave!' the other magistra gushed, tripping lightly down the steps to take a closer look at Ronon. 'Another fine looking beast he is, too. Where do you keep finding them?'

Ronon's expression was a picture, and Sheppard struggled not to laugh. The man had a way of remaining completely emotionless that could crack him up under the right circumstances.

The magistra's attention shifted to him, and he immediately forced the smirk off his face. 'They both look a little the worse for wear, though. Have you two been fighting?'

'Certainly not,' Tranaedan scoffed, slapping a hand down on Ronon's shoulder. 'This one arrived in this condition. We only acquired him today. And Jadrael,' the man looked at him, the first time he'd really met his eye since their encounter. 'Jadrael slipped on the stairs, but I'm sure he's learned to be more careful so it doesn't happen again.'

'Awww, clumsy,' Magistra Callaedin laughed, chucking him under the chin. 'Though it makes him all the more endearing somehow.'

Ronon raised one quizzical eyebrow behind her, but Sheppard couldn't react. He had to show respect, at least while everyone's attention was on him.

'Well, these two can wait in the kitchen for you. I'm sure my people can keep them out of any further trouble,' Magister Callaedin offered, taking Sheppard's arm and steering him toward the steps.

'I think one of them should stay with the craft,' Magistra Tranaedan interrupted, just as her husband was about to lock things up. 'This isn't meant to be a night out for Romaed, after all. He can watch the craft and the door from out here to ensure our safety.'

'We could both stay with the craft, Magister,' Sheppard quickly suggested, wondering whether this was the opportunity he was supposed to seize. With so little detail forthcoming from the sensory, he'd been analysing every passing moment all day, wondering if he was missing something vital. This, however, seemed like a huge flag waving "Come and get me!".

'I don't think that's a good idea,' the magistra once again intervened, shooting a sharp look her husband's way. You two have been fraternising most of the day. Friendship isn't something we encourage.'

'Absolutely not!' Magister Callaedin agreed. 'Slave's should be working, not chattering. Next thing they'll be wanting time off.'

They all snuffled out an annoyingly patronising peel of laughter while Sheppard prayed to whatever powers were up there that Ronon didn't lose it right now. Though he saw a dangerous flash of anger momentarily light his friend's eyes, the Satedan kept a lid on it, the slight flare of his nostrils and the thin line of his lips the only clues to his simmering ire.

'Very well. Romaed, you stay out here with the craft and watch this doorway. Jadrael, you go inside and stay out of the way until we're ready to go home,' Tranaedan ordered, following their hosts inside. 'The cold is probably too much for you at the moment, anyway.'

The two Callaedin slaves, immaculately dressed as was probably required of them when entertaining guests, remained in the doorway a little longer once the guests had gone inside. The older of the two, a silver haired man, took charge of the situation. 'Malaeda, take the pilot inside to the kitchen and then get this young man,' he said, dipping his head in Ronon's direction, 'the biggest outdoor cloak we have and warm meal and drink. You may shelter under the awning where the air is less crisp. The heating runs through the walls and you should feel the benefit there.'

'Thanks,' Ronon grunted, and the man, who had already turned away, stopped and looked back at him as if he'd never received such gratitude before.

'You're very welcome,' he replied, then gestured for the woman with him to show Sheppard the way into the house.

oooOOOooo

Sheppard estimated that at least a couple of hours had passed as he stretched his arms out, enjoying the warmth emanating from the ovens while the kitchen staff rushed to complete the final course. A kindly young woman had slipped him a few pieces of food, even though he knew food like this would be in limited supply for slaves like her. He thanked her and hoped once again that Ronon was doing okay out in the cold. But Ronon was tough, seven years on the run from the Wraith in all kinds of terrain had made him that way. No doubt he'd be okay out there even if the party went on for another couple of hours yet. If he was still there, of course. That thought awoke a twinge of panic in his stomach. He'd only just rescued his friend from Ashnael. What if he'd decided he couldn't hack being a slave to anyone else either, and had bolted over the gates? The man was fit and agile. If anyone could climb those gates, Ronon could.

A couple of serving staff bustled in then, carrying trays full of dishes that they set down near the sink for cleaning later, no doubt when their demanding guests had gone home. There were also some leftovers, and the two women snatched up small portions before heading back out with steaming pots of this planet's equivalent of coffee, he supposed. It smelled good, and he hoped he might be able to snatch a cup before heading home. Home? What the hell was he saying? That place was a prison...he couldn't allow himself to start feeling comfortable in his role.

'I hope my staff have been looking after you.'

The skin the full length of Sheppard's spine prickled at those words. He peered over his shoulder to find Magistra Callaedin sauntering into the kitchen, sucking dessert from a spoon. She smiled coquettishly, pulling off a convincing Jessica Rabbit walk in her figure-hugging green number and making his stomach do a full somersault. He really needed to find an excuse to leave the room...now.

Even as he thought that, he felt his left cuff attach itself to the tabletop, which meant he was going nowhere. Maybe she could read minds, too, although he suspected something about his expression might have told her he was about to run.

He watched warily as the woman passed him, heading over to where the remainders of their dessert course sat. She found herself a clean bowl and helped herself to a serving, spooning a little into her mouth as she wandered his way again.

'There's been a lot of talk this evening about what a fine pilot you are,' she told him, pulling out the seat beside his. 'Magister Tranaedan seems very impressed with you, and, believe me, he isn't easily pleased.'

Sheppard shrugged. 'It's a gift.'

'Yes, I suppose it is.' She sucked on her spoon again, her eyes smouldering. He looked away, out of the window at the dark sky that rippled with the power of the shield, the very thing that held him in that city for people like this to plague and torment.

'Would you like some?'

He glanced at her, seeing the offered spoon of something that smelled like melted chocolate. 'Uh, no...thanks.'

She shrugged and sucked on the spoon herself again, apparently indifferent to his refusal. 'Looks to me as if your owners don't know quite how to take care of their pilot. We both know you didn't fall down any stairs, don't we?'

'Actually, I did,' he replied, because it was pretty much the truth.

'It wasn't the stairs part I was questioning, more the fall.'

So, this woman was sharper than he'd given her credit for. He could see from her expression that she knew his fall hadn't been accidental. There was no point in denying it, so he didn't reply.

The magistra set her bowl down for a moment, and edged her seat a little closer to whisper to him, 'If you were my pilot, you'd never fall down any stairs,' she whispered hoarsely, her grin developing into something far more wanton now. 'I wouldn't let you out of my bed for long enough.'

He raised his eyebrows, then threw her a cocky smile as he replied, 'But I'm not your pilot, am I? I belong to your friends, the Tranaedans.'

'Who clearly don't know how to treat you. I would be far nicer.'

He stopped smiling as her hand slid up his trapped arm to his shoulder, her finger stroking at his earlobe. 'I think you and I have very different ideas of what "nice" means,' he told her, leaning away.

The sensation of her other hand running across his stomach made him hiss, especially when she hitched up his jacket and vest and ran her fingernails across his recently stitched lacerations. 'And I suppose you got these cuts from those razor sharp steps you servants use?'

He tensed as she pulled his garments up at the back as well, aggravating his wounds with the fabric as it dragged across them, then more so by stroking at his bruised skin and raw welts.

'Strange. This one looks just like a belt buckle,' she muttered, following the line of the injury with her fingertip.

He twitched and flinched, but the cuff prevented him from moving away. All he could do was glare and growl, 'Weird. I wonder how that happened.'

She pulled away, letting his clothes fall back in place and picking up her bowl of dessert, scooping some up on her finger. 'Are you sure I can't tempt you?' she asked, holding it out toward him.

'Very sure,' he said to that question, and the insinuation accompanying it.

She tried to force him to take it, and when he refused to open his mouth, she trapped his second wrist to the table and smeared the dessert on his lips and down his neck from behind his ear down to his collar instead. Then, she leaned in and began to lick it away, slowly, deliberately, trying to evoke a positive reaction from him. All she succeeded in doing was make herself even more repulsive in his eyes, and again he found himself silently swearing that one day soon he would make people like her pay for treating him this way.

She hitched up her skirt and climbed up on the tabletop, facing him while lying flat on her stomach as she daubed him with more of the sticky sweet. 'Are you absolutely sure?' she whispered against his lips, before ridding him of more of the chocolate. He didn't answer this time. He didn't need to, certain she could work out his feelings from the stiffness of his body language and the lack of his response. 'You know, my husband would be very jealous if he saw me doing this,' she smirked, curling her legs up behind her, ankles crossed, and swinging them back and forth.

'Then maybe you should stop...Magistra,' he mumbled out through clenched teeth as her tongue now worked its way up his neck.

'Stop? I think you mean wait,' she giggled, pulling back and fixing him with a playful stare. 'He hates it when I start without him.'

Sheppard knew his expression would show just how he felt about that idea, and he didn't care. If she was offended she could just suck it up...though he was glad he hadn't voiced that particular thought out loud.

'You see, the sickness that ails our people might be a blight to some, but to us it simply means no consequences. My husband would never beat you for your dalliances with me, nor vice versa. We're bored with being sensible and proper. What's wrong with us having a little fun?'

'Nothing, as long as both parties feel the same way,' he growled as she began nibbling away at his neck again.'

'Both parties do,' she said into his ear, gently licking behind it. 'I've already asked him.'

'I wasn't referring to your husband,' he pointed out, helping her past her utter selfishness. 'He isn't here.'

She pulled back again, looking somewhat bewildered. 'You mean you? But you're a slave. Your role is to serve. Your feelings don't matter.'

Okay, he supposed they really didn't matter to someone like her. But surely he could think of something would put a stop to all this. 'And like I said before, I'm not your slave. I don't think your friend, Magistra Tranaedan, would be too happy to know you were helping yourself to her property like this.'

'She didn't mind the other night.'

'That's because she thought I deserved punishment the other night. I don't think punishment is quite what you have in mind right now.'

She sat back again with a sigh and a pout, her good mood apparently spoiled by his chatter. 'You talk too much, boy. Has anyone ever told you that?'

She slipped back off the table and wandered over to the other side of the kitchen. 'Well, even if you don't want to come live with us voluntarily, maybe we should just take you,' she said, toying with a frighteningly sharp looking knife lying amidst various scraps of fruit on the chopping block one of her kitchen staff had been working at. 'Isn't that how you came to be with the Tranaedans anyway? Wasn't you previous home sacked and your owners killed?'

For a moment or two he thought she was joking, but then he realised she wasn't smiling any more, not even a slightly teasing smirk.

'My husband is a very powerful man. And he adores me. One word and he does whatever I wish. If I tell him I want you, he'll get you for me.'

She sauntered his way, the knife still in her hand.

'Any hired thug would be willing to slit throats for a few thousand tallots.' She pressed the knife flat against his throat, but he forced himself not to flinch or show any signs of the nerves now raging inside him. Without the cuffs, he could probably take her, but as things were, he had to hope she still harboured some mercy in that cruel, lust-filled heart of hers. This woman was every bit as crazy as the magister. Had everyone in this city lost their minds when the sickness struck?

'Two quick cuts,' she drew the blade across just millimetres from his skin, miming the murderous act, 'is all it would take, and you'd be mine. And I know my husband would do it. He's always had a thing for dark hair.'

She grinned then, and returned the knife to where she'd got it from, jabbing it into the board. Then she walked away, releasing his cuffs just as she reached the door and left. Sheppard proceeded to wipe the sticky remnants of chocolate and saliva from his skin. He felt...dirty, in more than one sense of the word. How the hell did the people working in this place put up with their owners' crap every day of their lives? The knife wobbled temptingly in the wooden board where she'd stabbed it. He could grab that and cut her throat before she reached the others, and he was sorely tempted to do it, but to what advantage? He'd be dead before he could get out of the place, and Ronon would probably be killed trying to help him.

He took a deep breath, wondering what he should do. This couldn't be what the sensory was talking about, could it? He didn't want to fall into the hands of the Callaedins; that would be even worse than the Tranaedans. And he couldn't see how that would help the plight of the slaves or the afflicted. Changing households couldn't be his way out...but the sensory had said something would happen soon and he had to seize the opportunity. If only the old man had trusted him to withstand the magistra's mind probing and given him more details. Instead, he had him second guessing his own instincts, something he never normally did. Well no...no more. The sensory was gone. He had to get himself and his friends out of this city without his guidance, so he would follow his heart from now on...and falling into Callaedin hands was definitely a big no as far as he was concerned. He was pinning his hopes on the jumper back at the Tranaedan house. That had to be his key to freedom.

He hoped that was the right decision to make...

...and now he was second guessing himself again. Dammit!