The chime from the pantry sounded.

“The cooks have arrived, Mistress,” Lahs informed Ve’el quietly.

Ve’el clapped her hands smartly. “Dinner is served,” she announced. “If we can all take our places at the table?”

Joron immediately stepped forward to escort Holsa to her chair. She beamed at him, not quite as non-sexually as one might have thought proper for a married matron to a Warrior Bond. Deron took one pace forward, prepared to offer his arm to Ve’el, but Ramok moved ahead of him. With only a mild scowl, the Centurion glanced down at his slave.

“Be of use to Lahs, Wen,” he said, and if there was a heavy innuendo there, no one commented on it.

“You help serve, too, Krel,” Holsa put in, almost as an afterthought.

Ve’el was, of course, seated at the proper place for the Lady of the House; in the middle of one side, flanked by Ramok on her right and Deron on her left. Holsa commanded the place of honor on the opposite side, with Joron on one side of her and Tarvak on the other. Ve’el had, in the name of working out the social logistics of the seating arrangements, discovered everything she could about her guests. She wanted to honor Holsa – but not too much. Ve’el was, after all the Mistress of the house, and Holsa, while the most influential woman in Kol-ran and the wife of the provincial governor, was, in Ve’el’s opinion, a lazy, vain creature who rested too much on her laurels. And flirts with a Warrior Bond, she added with private disdain. It was a waste of time, she considered, to vie for the attention of a man one had no hope of bedding.

Ramok, as the overall Legionary commander of the province, merited special attention. She was well aware that MacEntyre considered him the key to her mission. Deron, she knew, was still on active duty, though his position as the Centurion for the local cohorts made him an important man as well, and likely well-connected – though, as she now knew first-hand, the rumors of his obsessions were not in the least exaggerated. There was one other fascinating rumor – that Deron and Ramok, when serving together as young men, had contemplated joining in a Warrior Bond. Ve’el had dug into her private resources to discover the truth of that, and was not at all surprised to find the petition had been dropped soon after Ramok had been introduced to Deron’s family – and his older sister. While Warrior Bonding would have made for an honored military career, Ramok was a man of political tastes – and those ends were served much better by having a wealthy and influential woman as one’s wife.

Accordingly, she had put herself between the two Warriors, leaving Holsa in the still honored but lesser place of sitting with Ve’el’s own husbands. Not that they are, she thought with a privately amused chuckle. She knew Tarvak had accepted the imagined relationship without question, but Joron had his doubts. As long as he maintained the charade, though, she wasn’t inclined to make an issue of it.

The three non-gifts served the many courses of meat, vegetables and sauces with flawless anonymity. Ramok remarked on Tarvak’s exclusive choice of vegetarian dishes, which Ve’el explained with the practiced cover – that of a digestive condition. She caught the fleeting speculation in the Legate’s mind, and was pleased that it was positive. Here was a Romulan who could easily pass as Vulcan. Joron’s obvious lack of reserve was noted in the same way, though a bit more sourly. While possibly too rambunctious for a Vulcan, Ramok considered that his prowess as a Warrior, coupled with his unusual fighting style, would make for an excellent Indiian. The thought made her chuckle. Wouldn’t her host simply adore that! Her own poise and reserve, Ramok was thinking, would also serve her well as a Vulcan, though he deemed that her hair and eye color would need to be altered. To her surprise, she also found that the Legate was judging what to do with Lahs.

Her scan was interrupted as Deron glanced at Ramok. The Legate seemed to nod, then the Centurion smiled at Joron.

“Warrior, it has been brought to my attention that you and your Bonded seek service to the Empire, since you have both retired from active duty in the Legions.”

Joron leaned forward eagerly. “Yes, Centurion, we are most interested!” the younger Romulan enthused. He glanced at Tarvak, who nodded approvingly.

“And your Lady endorses this course of action?” Deron continued.

“I do, most heartily,” Ve’el put in on cue. “In fact, Deron, I would not be at all adverse to joining my husbands in this glorious endeavor.”

Again Deron looked to Ramok. Again the Legate nodded.

“That is most interesting,” Deron said. “As it happens…”

“Brother, must you talk of the Legions at the dinner table?” Holsa put in with a supposed-to-be-charming pout.

“It is not the Legions of which he speaks, my Lady-wife,” Ramok said.

“Oh?” Holsa’s eyebrows rose, an artful affectation. Then her eyes widened. “Oh!” she exclaimed.

“There is, in Kol-ran Province, a little known but vitally important security base,” Deron went on. “It is engaged in the most delicate but most significant strategy the Empire has currently in place.”

Tarvak raised an intrigued eyebrow. Joron’s face was actually beginning to flush with anticipation. Ve’el herself decided to tense expectantly.

“This base is charged with training carefully selected applicants in the art of espionage,” Deron said, leaning forward himself. “And it employs the best medical personnel in order to make certain necessary surgical changes…”

“Surgical?” Ve’el asked.

Across the table from her, Holsa, spoke quietly to Krel, apparently more interested in discussing her gustatory needs than the Empire’s.

“Agents chosen for this program are assigned to infiltrate certain key Federation posts and positions,” Deron confided, his eyes gleaming. “For which, of course, they are required to pass as the selected Federation races. Currently the Empire has deployed Vulcan, Indiian and Human impersonators, and we hope to soon add Andorians and Cygnians to our arsenal.” He looked at Joron, Tarvak and Ve’el in turn. “Would this type of service be of interest to you?”

“Pretending to be a non-gift?” Tarvak said dubiously.

“Bonded, it could be delicious!” Joron put in and Ve’el heard the echo of both dismay and longing from the Human within him.

“But Vulcans are not non-gifted,” Ve’el put in, “and I’ve heard it rumored that Indiians have some rudimentary empathy.” She chuckled to herself at the frown in the Human engineer’s mind.

“And even some Humans have been known to possess primitive gifts,” Ramok remarked, then turned his gaze to Joron. “If that would be your chief incentive…”

“No, he is simply – fascinated – by new possibilities,” Tarvak returned with a fond smile at his Bonded.

Again, Ve’el had to suppress private amusement.

“My chief incentive is to serve the Empire,” Joron returned, with just the correct amount of pique at the temerity of the Legate’s suggestion.

“And his own abilities as Dei’lrn would provide an excellent base for an Indiian engram,” Deron said to Ramok.

“I had thought of that, Deron,” the Legate said dryly. He then went on to list the advantages that had filled his mind a few minutes earlier. Ve’el watched as Tarvak and Joron exchanged masterfully feigned growing enthusiasm, and even added a few touches of zeal herself.

“Well, then,” Deron said at last, when Ramok had completed his observations, “I have the ear of Linot of the Telanate…”

“I will begin the application process tomorrow,” Ramok interrupted. “With my backing, I have no doubt the Telanate would be happy to accept them.

Deron’s mouth nearly snapped closed. He had been about to, Ve’el knew, make the offer of sponsoring their entrance himself. His eyes grew just a little dark, both coldness and old, bitter pain reflected in their depths. But he nodded, murmuring, “As you say, Legate,” then reached down to the non-gift who knelt beside his chair. When Wen gave out a small whimper, Ve’el knew the lovely, sensual slave would be paying for Deron’s disappointment. She only hoped it would be in as entertaining a way as she had already experienced.

“Tarvak, Joron,” Ve’el said as her guests settled in the living area to await the dessert being brought up from the communal kitchen, “Would you be so good as to play for us? You’re both such accomplished musicians.”

Are we? Del asked Joron. The Romulan began a snide retort, then stopped himself. Del felt the quick scanning of his mind.

Yes, we are, Joron replied, his tone pleased.

I not play this particular kind o’ instrument before.

You mastered its basics in the few moments you’ve had with it, Joron said. That counts for something. If you will let me guide your hands…

You not gonna embarrass me?

Of course not. That would dishonor our Lady. The words may have been polite and proper, but the sneer in Joron’s mind was not.

Now how I s’posed to trust that?

He felt the Romulan’s wry grin A fair point. What if I say I’d never do that to Tarvak?

That do it, Del agreed.

I would never want to do anything that would embarrass my Bonded, Joron vowed. The sincerely that shone in his mind carried no hint of deception or evasion.

Fine. It still gonna make me puke, though.

Within him the Romulan scowled. This is what I get for trying to cooperate with a Human, he snarled.

Don’ get your panties in a bunch, Del drawled, not that the two o’ you wear any. Shee-it, under these damned painted on clothes, how they fit? He shook his head. I jus’ jokin’ wit, ya , there.

No, you’re not, Joron returned stubbornly. You could understand what he means to me, but you’re too obstinate or lazy or self-centered or full of hate to make the effort.

But the panties bit was funny, non?

He felt it when Joron paused in his righteous tirade to replay the comments in his head. The Romulan’s mental expression twisted, first into a frown, then more of a grimace, then almost a smirk, then broke into a full, snorting grin.

They do show off our best attributes, don’t they?

Mine, maybe, Yours not here.

And don’t think Tarvak hasn’t noticed.

There you go wit’ stuff to make me wanna vomit again.

Shut up, Human, Joron said, but there was no malice behind it.

An’ you shut th’ fuck up, too, Romulan, Del grinned.

Tarvak, you must take the foremost place, Spock said quietly. I can play adequately, but I do not know Romulan compositions.

If you wish, Tarvak replied, but there are pieces which are familiar in your memory.

Indeed?

Tarvak’s internal senses pointed to Spock’s knowledge of the most ancient Vulcan selections. These are some of our most seminal melodies.

Ah. As I suspected, Spock said in satisfaction.

They are from before the Sundering?

Yes. I was not certain whether they had survived among your people.

They are greatly honored, and only the most accomplished lythyrists even attempt them.

You and Joron…

Tarvak smiled. Know them well.

Will Joron be able to instruct Mr. DelMonde?

He is quite skilled, Spock.

The Vulcan let the clear innuendo hang between them un-remarked.

Lahs knew that each of Lady Ve’el’s guests had eaten at least one of the tiny, green, crème pastries he was headed to fetch for his Mistress. Two of the guests had taken two. The tray had held twenty-four of the desserts, that meant…

He knew he shouldn’t be thinking of number patterns, but he had to think of something. His head felt like it was about to burst. The non-gift walked past Wen and his master without looking at them. He didn’t like the way looking at Wen made him feel. And the feelings that boiled in the pit of his stomach when he looked at Wen’s master made him fear for his sanity.

I am a non-gift, he began, picking up of the five remaining desert plates and placing one of the sixteen remaining pastries carefully on it using a pair of tongs. Wen’s master is a true Romulan. I am worth less than… The sound of the lythyr reminded him of the presence of Second Master. One, two, three, four…

Turning, he thudded into Krel’s shoulder.

“Clumsy,” the slave growled at him as Lahs bent to pick up the ruined pastry and dispose of it.

“Krel!” the Legate reprimanded sharply. “Stop causing trouble.”

“No, it was my boy’s fault,” Ve’el said, sipping her tea. “Wasn’t it, Lahs?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he murmured, picking up the tongs again to leave fourteen crème puffs in the tray. “Forgive me, Mistress.”

“You weren’t paying attention to what you were doing, were you?” she asked as he knelt down in front of her and offered her the plate. “Thinking of numbers again?”

Lahs bowed his head as he shifted to a position beside her. “Yes, Mistress.”

Lady Holsa gave a snort of laughter. “Numbers?”

“Yes.” Ve’el rolled her eyes long-sufferingly. “This is the latest idiocy I have to contend with. Joron grew annoyed with the creature’s half-witted prattle the other day and ordered him to count whenever he was on the verge of having an improper thought. Now the poor stupid thing counts constantly.”

The lady’s guest laughed as if this were a very funny joke. Lahs felt his face grow hot. He wished he could sink down beneath the fine polished boards of the floor. Even without looking up, he knew the smirk that had to be on Krel’s face as the taller slave stood behind his master and mistress looking down on him.

“It probably hasn’t even occurred to the little monster that what it should do is simply stop being so willful,” Holsa said, still laughing.

“Or perhaps it has,” Deron suggested dryly. “And the beast has decided that counting is easier and more pleasant.”

The sound of the Centurion’s voice and the laughter of the other Romulans made very bad feelings bubble up inside Lahs. To combat them, he pressed his lips together tightly and counted the floorboards before him.

Lady Ve’el’s guests roared with laughter.

“Lahs,” his mistress scolded mildly, reaching down to pinch his arm.

“At least the creature still has its looks,” the Legate observed. “How long have you had him?”

“Not that long, really.” Ve’el brushed her slave’s hair back from his face. “He was my great-aunt’s bedslave. She was very proud of having confiscated him from a subordinate’s daughter to teach the young woman a very valuable lesson in humility.”

The lady’s guests chuckled appreciatively.

“During my aunt’s illness, Lahs cared for her very attentively, didn’t you?” Ve’el ruffled her slave’s hair. “He was so distraught when she died we thought we would have to put him down, didn’t we?”

The non-gift nodded, almost wishing that he had been allowed to follow his second mistress into the Afterlife.

“But, as you say, he still has his looks.” Ve’el patted him on the shoulder carelessly. “He may bring a good price when I sell him.”

Lahs’ eyes snapped open. His mistress had said “when.” Not “if.” “When” she sold him….

His mistress’ guests shouted with laughter again.

“I think you have his attention now, Ve’el.” Krel’s mistress was laughing so hard that she had to wipe tears from her eyes. The pale-haired slave was grinning cruelly from behind her shoulder.

“Maybe that will give him something to think about other than numbers,” his mistress said, giving Lahs a cold smile. “Go fetch another pastry for Lady Holsa.”

“No, thank you, dear,” the lady demurred. “I don’t care for jula flavoring.”

“Oh, my dear Holsa,” Ve’el said, dismayed. “I had no idea.”

“It’s nothing,” her guest replied. “The dinner was lovely and I’ve had plenty…”

“No, no. I won’t hear of it.” Ve’el motioned Lahs to his feet. “There’s a confectionary on the corner. I’ll send my slave… What flavors do you prefer?”

“Well…” Holsa had to lick her lips a little at the prospect of getting her favorite sweets. “If you send Krel with your boy… He knows what I like.”

“If you’ll allow me, my ladies?” Lord Ramok took out a purse and motioned to Krel. “Get some iced y’thishi for us all.”

“You are just like our Tarvak, Legate.” Ve’el said with a sweet smile as she pointed her slave towards the drawer where she kept her household funds. “Too generous… Lahs, do you know which shop to go to?”

“Wen can show him.” The Centurion’s eyes glittered as he urged his slave forward with his foot. “He knows this neighborhood.”

“Bereft of all our non-gifts for more than a quarter of an hour?” Lady Holsa laughed and rolled her eyes in mock dismay. “However will we survive?”

Lord Ramok reached back as an afterthought and gripped his slave’s wrist. “So much as breathe on these boys in a the wrong way, Krel,” he growled. “And you know what will happen to you.”

“Yes, Master,” the pale-haired slave acknowledged very properly.

However when he turned to join Lahs and Wen at the door, the look Krel gave them made Lady Ve’el’s slave wonder if arousing his master’s ire was a risk the thin-faced non-gift was more than willing to take.

Fucked up fucked up bullshit! Del growled.

It’s hardly improper to send a slave to fetch… Joron began.

That is not the nature of the Human’s distress, my Bonded, Tarvak said.

Oh?

He feels responsible for the poor beast’s torment, the older Romulan explained. As it was he who instructed the creature to count rather than reminding itself of its proper place…

‘It’ is a sentient being, Spock put in, his mental voice stern and disapproving, Non-gifted these young men may be, they are still living beings with minds and hearts and feelings. Your systemic abuse of them is abhorrent.

Amen! Del added passionately.

What odd notions you have, Joron mused. The creatures most certainly do not have minds…

How, then, do you know that they are thinking, much less what they are thinking? Spock countered.

Because… because… Joron stammered.

There a sign o’ real intelligence, Del drawled.

To taunt them so cruelly, to mock them for your own amusement is… the Vulcan continued.

Peace, Spock, Tarvak gentled. Neither Joron nor I participated in the game.

Yet you do consider it nothing more than a diversion, Spock again argued.

You know, that our friend in there, DelMonde rejoined.

Ve’el has assured us that he will not remember what has occurred here, Tarvak pointed out.

May be, Del snarled, but we will.

When the guests requested another song, DelMonde kept his frown inside him and tried to lose himself in the music. Tarvak had chosen another ancient piece, and Del let Joron’s fingers move soothingly over the lythyr’s strings. Oddly enough, the melody was familiar. It didn’t have the train-run guitars or the driving beat Del was used to associating with it; in fact, it was slow and lilting and beautiful. He was sure the similarities must be coincidental, because the song he knew certainly wasn’t Romulan, and wasn’t even Vulcan – unless Vulcans visited Terra a whole hell of a lot sooner than anybody ever claim they done, he thought. Still, the words that he would have put to the tune were hilariously appropriate and he couldn’t stop himself from singing them in his mind. As a precaution against being overheard, he sang them to Joron.

I entertain by pickin’ brains
Sell my soul by droppin’ names
“I don’ like those”
“My god, what’s that?”
Oh, it full o’ nasty habits when the bitch get back.
I’m a bitch, I’m a bitch, oh the bitch is back
Stone cold sober, as a matter o’ fact
I can bitch, I can bitch, ‘cause I better than you
It the way that I move the t’ings that I do

Joron was laughing convulsively, though his fingers kept hitting all the proper notes on the strings of the lythyr. Is that for Ve’el or Holsa? he managed.

Take your pick, Del replied modestly, though I leanin’ a li’l bitty bit to…

The bitch who imprisons your beloved. Me, too, Joron confided.

Del started. She not my…

The Romulan scowled. There isn’t a Romulan term for ‘one who I’d like to have sex with but nothing more.’

No fuck-buddy, huh? Friends wit’ benefits?

Those are offensive.

Y’all so much more noble than… Del began with a scowl of his own.

We’re telepaths, Joron said simply. Such a thing is not possible for us, except with a non-gift.

An’ Pelori an’ me are telepaths too. What that say 'bout us?

That you must both be very lonely, the Romulan returned sadly. He returned his attention to the music, leaving Del to wonder whether or not his words had even the smallest truth to them.

“This piece is from the time before The Great Sundering,” Holsa was saying as she sipped her j’lat. “It tells of the uncertainty and terror that gripped our people when we found ourselves cut off from our home. Of course,” she continued with an alluring smile at Joron, “it also speaks of our great determination and prowess in continuing our civilization.”

“And of the Prophecy,” Ramok remarked, his wife’s flirtations meaning less than nothing to him – though he was disdainful of her choice of targets. He had nothing against the young Bonded – other, than, of course, that he was Bonded and so therefore unavailable to take Holsa’s desires off his hands for the night. It was a shame for more reason that the fact that his onerous marital duties would continue to fall upon him: the Lady Ve’el was a true beauty, and the pattern of her mind hinted at a most passionate nature.

“Yes, the Prophecy, Telan be praised,” Deron was saying, and Ramok repressed a scowl. The young man he had dallied with in his own youth had grown into a tedious, officious lecher. Does he think the Legion doesn’t know of his obsessions? he scorned. Deron’s succession of ever-younger, ever prettier bedslaves was becoming an embarrassment to the Legate’s command. This new one was easily lovely enough to be female, if such a ludicrous thing as a female non-gift existed. If I could only confirm the rumors that he instructs his beasts to imagine themselves Bonded… Ramok thought grimly. That indignity would be enough to force Deron’s removal from his posting and a disgraced discharge from the Legions. Then, Ramok sneered, I need never see his insipid face again.

“It is said that a great Warrior from our Sundered Kindred will some day reveal himself,” Deron continued, “and that this Warrior will break all traditions and prove himself Telan returned. On that day he will be proclaimed Caesar, and will heal all schisms, reuniting our divided peoples.”

“A glorious day indeed," Tarvak commented, and Ramok was certain he sensed from the older Warrior the same pattern of distaste that colored his own thoughts. Joron’s head bent slightly as he shared a private communication with his Bonded, and, as propriety demanded, Ramok ignored it.

Break all traditions, Del snorted. You gonna heal the Great Sunderin’ , Commander?

I sincerely doubt it, Mr. DelMonde, Spock returned.

It jus’ coincidence, then, that your name mean…

I am certain it is.

You not get even a li’l bitty bit o’ healin’ urge from…

Concentrate on the lythyr, Lieutenant Commander.

Joron, this is a delicate subject for the Vulcan, Tarvak put in.

Shut up, Human, Joron said to Del, but he was grinning.

Wrestle a gator, Romulan, Del returned in the same tone.

The sudden loud chime from the outer door startled everyone in the room. Ve’el immediately glanced at her feet, then rose with a sigh. When she answered the door, a Legionary officer stood there. He gave a deeply respectful bow, then said, “Forgive my intrusion, Lady. Do these belong to you?”

Behind him, their wrists chained, stood Krel, Wen, and Lahs.

“Lahs, can we talk?” Wen asked quietly as the three slaves made their way through the city streets to the bakery Ramok had ordered them to.

“I don’t see what there is to...” Lahs began, casting a glance at Krel, who was walking ahead of them.

“I know you’re upset by what we did,” Wen interrupted contritely.

“No... well, yes, but…” Lahs took a deep breath. “It was unseemly,” the non-gift whispered.

“Unseemly?” Wen lowered his eyebrows in confusion. “We did as we were instructed. How can that be…?”

“It is not right that your master makes you believe you are gifted,” Lahs muttered fiercely.

The beautiful young slave flushed a bright green. “That is his way,” he offered with a small shrug.

“That may be, and you must, of course, see to his desires, but…” Again Lahs glanced ahead to Krel. “You called me beloved,” he said, his voice so low Wen could barely hear it.

Wen blinked. “And?”

Lahs’ eyes nearly bulged out of his head. “That term is reserved for Bondeds, Wen. To pretend to be gifted is bad enough, but to sully a Warrior Bond…!”

The bedslave was clearly puzzled. “We sullied no Bond,” he began. “It was fantasy only. My Master – “ He paused, clearly wanting to explain, but just as clearly uncertain about doing so.

“Your Master is a perverted pig and everyone knows it,” Krel suddenly put in. The light-haired non-gift had turned, his hands on his thin hips. “He corrupts everything he touches and now, little Lahs, he has corrupted you, too. What will your oh-so-proper Mistress have to say about that?”

“That is no concern of yours, Krel,” Lahs told him sternly.

“Oh, but I think it is. As Senior here, it is my duty to report…”

“There’s no such thing, Krel,” Wen snapped. “We are all slaves and non-gifts and…”

“So you always say,” Krel sneered. “You’ll find out the way of the world when Deron dumps your used-up little behind for someone fresher and younger and prettier.”

From the look of shock on Wen’s face, Lahs knew the boy had not really considered such a thing, despite his question in the pen. He thought Deron would someday tire of his sexual service, yes, but the thought that the only Master he had ever had might not continue to be his only master was not something that had occurred to the lovely slave.

“Why don’t you keep your opinions to yourself,” Lahs snarled. “He’s just a boy.”

Krel laughed. “Just a boy who likes to play make-believe with a worthless shor’vath.”

Wen again grew green in the face. “He’s not…”

Holsa’s slave came close to them. “Did he stick his puny thing up your ass, Wen? Or did you put it in your mouth like a sliver of haam’n?” Haam’n was a sweet, usually sold in strips no more than four inches long and barely a quarter of an inch wide.

“What we did to please our Master and Mistress is none of your business, Krel,” Wen said with a surprising amount of warning. “Just because Holsa doesn’t indulge with non-gifts and Ramok would sooner die than touch you…”

Krel let out a snarl and would’ve lunged at the boy, but Lahs held out a rigid arm, stopping the slave’s intent.

“Enough of this nonsense,” he snapped. “We have an errand to complete. If we dally, we will displease our owners.” He made a swift survey of the street around him. “And may offend other true Romulans.”

Krel glared, but pivoted and stomped away.

“You’re a wise slave, Lahs,” Wen said.

They continued on their way, arriving at the pastry shop without further incident. Lahs longed for more information on the Centurion’s ‘way,’ certain if he could understand it, the terrible, nagging feeling of wrong behavior would leave him. Krel sharply ordered his fellow non-gifts to wait at the shop’s display cases, since he and he alone knew Lady Holsa’s tastes.

After a few minutes, when it was clear Krel was going to take some time ‘sampling’ the offered pastries before choosing ones ‘acceptable for the Lady Holsa,’ Lahs hesitantly broached the subject again.

“Wen, when you say this is your Master’s way…” he began.

Wen looked away from the display case he’d been eyeing with wistful longing. “I’m not sure I should tell you,” the boy began.

“I’ll keep your confidence,” Lahs promised. “I just – I need to – Wen, I need to understand. All my training tells me this is a blasphemy.”

“Mine did, too,” Wen admitted. “But what is the first rule?”

“Obey,” Lahs responded immediately.

“Just so,” the bedslave acknowledged. “And this is what my Master commands.”

“But why?” Lahs pleaded.

Wen leaned very close. “He is Warrior-Set,” he confided softly.

Lahs drew back in alarm. There had been whispered rumors in his training stable of such unfortunates – Warriors whose telepathies were linked to another’s, only to have the true Bond refused. Such men became incapable of the sexual act with females, and spent their lives in a half-empty existence of desire denied. It was said only the most gross perversions could arouse these men, and slaves had to be able to endure whatever such a Master might require in order to achieve satiation.

“Oh, Wen,” Lahs found himself whispering in an equal mix of horror and sympathy. “Oh, Wen…!”

He stopped as Krel brushed past them. Lahs felt something drop from the light-hared non-gift’s hand to the floor next to his feet. He glanced down just as the shopkeeper came storming out from behind his sale-counter.

“You there, slave!” The Romulan snapped. “What have you got there!”

“I?” Krel said innocently as he turned. “Only what I purchased, Master.”

“Not you!” the man barked.

Lahs blinked, opening his mouth, suddenly aware of the pastry that Krel had dropped.

“Not you, either!” the shopkeeper shouted. He stepped forward, grabbing Wen by the collar. “You dare to try and steal from me, slave?”

“No, not that one…” Krel began, and it all came to sudden clarity in Lahs’ mind. Lady Holsa’s non-gift had intended for him to be blamed. But he saw the gleam in the shop owner’s eyes and knew that Wen’s youth and incredible beauty had betrayed him. He knew he himself was by no means ugly, but any true Romulan would much rather discipline a young, fresh slave – particularly if that Romulan knew, as this one had to, that the situation had been set up for a scapegoat anyway.

“No, Master,” Wen was gasping humbly. “No, I assure you, I would never…”

“I’ll teach you to steal from me, worthless non-gift!” the Romulan roared, dragging Wen to the back of the shop. When he reached behind the counter for a sturdy cane, the bedslave cried out, desperately shielding his face with his arms.

Lahs saw green. The injustice tore at him, the flagrant disregard for real guilt or innocence, the remorse, knowing that he and not Wen had been the intended victim of Krel’s cruel ploy. It mingled with his own sense of sacrilege for his earlier sexual play, forced and commanded though it was. It became inextricably entwined with his indignation that Krel, as worthless a non-gift as Lahs had ever seen, would dare to think himself superior, and it blazed into an inferno of anger as he realized what the twisted nature of Wen’s owner might do to the beautiful young boy for being accused of a crime.

There was no rational thought in him when he screamed and lunged at Krel.

The shopkeeper dropped Wen like so much refuse. A few minutes of pleasure gained from beating the boy - and the enivitable and supremely satisfying sexual apology afterwards - was nothing compared to the real danger to his display cases from the suddenly brawling non-gifts.

He turned to his alarm system, punching the buttons that would send a signal to the Legion precinct house.

An officer arrived in minutes, during which time the Romulan attempted to break up the fight by pummeling at the slaves with his cane. The pretty one he had so wanted to take his time with actually tried to help, shouting the names of the non-gifts, even trying to pull on the shorter one’s arms. When the officer shouted “DOWN!” the three creatures froze, dropping to their knees.

“What happened here?” the Warrior demanded. “Which of the filthy beasts started this!”

The shopkeeper thought quickly. Lady Holsa and the Legate were regular customers, and he knew the pretty one belonged to the Centurion. He hadn’t seen the third before.

“He did, “ he said immediately, pointing to the unfamiliar slave.

“Charges and specifics,” the Warrior snapped.

Knowing the accusation of theft wouldn’t stick, the shopkeeper said, “Public brawling.”

“Then it’s a matter for their Mistresses,” the Warrior replied. “On your feet, slaves!”

Lahs’ wrists were bound, and he answered the Warrior with all the humility he was able to muster when asked for his owner’s residence. As Wen’s hands, too, were tied, he met Lahs’ gaze with a mouthed, “I’m sorry.” Krel meekly offered his hands to be bound, but his eyes glared pure hatred at his fellow non-gifts.

The fear of the punishments they knew awaited them kept all three silent on the long walk back to the hostel.