Patrician Chrysostem parted crowds. Her presence affected everyone, merchant, noble, slave, they pulled back, staring at her with longing on their faces. She ignored them, head high as she glided through, Macbeth trailing behind her. The woman didn't look back to see if she followed. She didn't need to, if Macbeth strayed too far, her proximity collar would activate, for a quick, painful death.

Would that be a better fate than what awaited her in the Patrician's home? Even if it was worse, she didn't want to die, not when there was the slightest chance she could escape here. Instead she kept close to her new mistress, studying the layout of the town, searching for guards. She could see none but that didn't mean they weren't there. Many Pathosian men strode about the market favoring their right side. She saw the bulge of weapons hidden beneath their flowing robes. Would they shoot her, cut her down, if she ran now? If they didn't, the town was surrounded by that yellow grass. She would have to travel the roads or be cut to ribbons by the foliage.

The Patrician turned down a private alley, leading to an estate set away from the street. Despite being in the center of town, once they cleared the street side buildings, the grounds opened. Macbeth followed along a stone pathway lined with shoulder high flowering trees, a constant rain of small orange petals swirling on the breeze. There was no yellow grass here, but shorter, almost blue grass. Statues dotted the grounds of nude Pathosians playing instruments, or holding pronged spear-like weapons, all carved from a dark gray stone streaked with iridescent hues of purple and green. Bursting flowers beds were everywhere, species Macbeth never saw before, in bright hues of red, orange. There was one that shimmered from blue to green, like the peacock feathers in Alexandria's museums.

There was no time to study them. The Patrician's pace did not slow. She entered a tall archway, the air heating up several degrees around them. Patrician Chrysostem approached another slave stationed at the entrance. He appeared human at first until he turned his head, revealing long pointed ears, a parbreed, half-Fey. He bowed low to the Patrician, his elongated fingers flat against the front of his thighs.

"Welcome home, Mistress." He spoke in a light baritone, with the echo of another tone, like pan pipes, ringing after each word.

"Anthony, I have acquired a new translator for the household. Show her to the slave quarters, the baths, and dress her for evening meal. I expect her to know her role by then." Patrician Chrysostem turned to Macbeth, her fingers sliding against the proximity collar until it popped off her neck. "There, that is better, is it not?"

Macbeth nodded, not trusting herself to speak. If they were so sure she wouldn't run without the collar, she needed to find out why.

"Now heed what Anthony tells you. I shall introduce you to the household this evening." The Patrician sauntered away. The parbreed stared after the woman's swaying hips until she turned the corner. The intensity of his gaze made Macbeth uncomfortable, especially when he focused it on her, pale blue eyes studying her from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair.

"Well, you're certainly built sturdy, how tall are you?"

"1.8 meters, sir."

"Anthony will do fine. I am a slave like you. You will address the head of the house and his mate as Master Nero and Mistress Calliope. All guests are to be spoken to by their titles, each time and every time you address them." Anthony placed his hands on her face, studying her features. "Pure human bone structure, and those dark eyes mean you don't have a scrap of Fey ancestry. This implant however, mmm."

He clicked his teeth, a frown on his face. "Messy poachers that lot, Barloks take much better care of their catch. Translator, eh?" Anthony cleared his throat. "Do you understand my speech, human?"

Her ears tingled. The chiming overlay of his voice became more pronounced. The language of the Fey consisted of tonal sounds rather than speech. It took concentration, like listening to someone speaking to her over loud music, but she could understand him.

"Yes, but it's difficult." She rubbed her left ear, which began to hum. Anthony's frown deepened.

"Difficult?"

"Like hearing two voices at once."

His brow rose. He gently tilted her head, peering into her ear. "Oh great Bacchus, that's your upgrade? Are you in pain right now, human?"

"Not exactly," she mumbled, fighting the urge to slap at the side of her head. The implant hummed louder, making her teeth buzz.

"Follow me." Anthony grabbed her hand, heading down a long hall of support columns, tugging Macbeth along. "Master Nero entertains many guests from the surrounding system. He likes to use translators during wine service. Pathosians have many dialects across their system, drink brings out their gossip."

They walked through an enormous dining area, set with low banquet style tables, barely a foot off the ground; pillows and cushions comprised the seating. The room was open aired, more columns supported the roof, the space between leading out to the gardens. Several slaves tended the plants outside. A tall Pathosian male walked through the flower beds beside a stooped ancient one with snow white hair. The elder held the arm of a striking human woman, whose dark curls glowed in the sunlight. She glanced up as they passed, her green eyes beacons in her tan face. Surrounded by the blooms and sunlight, she had to be the most beautiful female Macbeth ever saw.

"So, human, what is your name?" Anthony still spoke to her in Fey. Her ear was throbbing now, a dull drumming pain in her skull.

"Macbeth Pembrook." She tugged at her earlobe, pinching it, distracting one pain with another.

"Is it really? Was the Mistress aware of your name when she purchased you?" The throbbing pain intensified.

"No, why?" Macbeth spoke through her teeth. Her palm felt sweaty in Anthony's grip.

"The Master has a taste for ancient human literature." He led her through kitchens filled with hectic activity. A contingent of slaves prepared food for the evening feast. A Pathosian male, his eyes covered in opaque goggles shouted orders to the lot, wearing a belt of knives over a blood smeared apron. The slaves used their hands to prepare and cook everything, not a machine in sight.

"There are no replicating devices here. Pathosians believe in preparing food in the old ways. They say tech dulls the flavors." He kept walking. Macbeth wanted to sit down badly, the pain just kept intensifying until she could barely see straight. Anthony pulled her into a dim hallway. The low light was a small blessing.

"These are the slave quarters. This is where you sleep, bathe, and eat, unless the Master takes an interest in you." They stood in a small but clean common room filled with frayed cushions and a marred table. Five hallways broke up the room in regular intervals. Anthony came to a halt, turning to watch her.

"Why are you staring?" Macbeth now dripped sweat. A stab in her temples wound through her nerves, tightening her gut.

The parbreed sighed, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Because you've heard enough Fey for the implant to process."

Pain sheared off the top of her skull. Macbeth shrieked, collapsing hard on her knees. It blinded her, her sightless eyes wide as a series of clicks went off like cannon blasts in her ear. Her vision slowly cleared as her stomach heaved. She spat out bile, bracing herself with trembling arms. Anthony crouched beside her, smoothing back her hair.

"What happened?" She rasped, wiping her mouth. She sat back on her haunches, the pain rapidly subsided.

"The first time is the worst. It is a nasty piece of tech, but effective." He helped her to a nearby cushion, fetching a canteen of water and a cloth to clean her mess.

"What-"

"What language am I speaking, Macbeth?"

"Unispeak--why is my tongue tingling?"

The parbreed had the nerve to chuckle at her. He shoved the canteen into her hands. "Actually I am still speaking Fey, and your tongue tingles because you are as well."

Macbeth stared at him. "Translator tech can't do that."

"No, most tech is not so invasive and painful. The Nisseri haven't had tech of their own for centuries, but this was designed by the Barlok for full diplomatic immersion. No soft handed diplomat wants to put themselves through this agony so it fell out of favor. To see it implanted into a slave is a surprise."

"It felt like a laser saw cut through my brain. Am I going to feel like this every time someone speaks a different language to me?"

"An echo of it. The first time scars the neural pathways. It's not so intense after that. It's a harsh tech to live with, but you will be in high demand. It might save your life."

Macbeth clutched her stomach. Her muscles felt like rubber. "How do you know so much about this kind of tech?"

"Silly human, I wasn't always a slave." Anthony looked away. "Drink up, the water has been specially treated for human consumption." The water tasted like some animal swam in it and died; it reeked of sulfur. She spit the mouthful back into the canteen. "I think I'd rather drink Barlok swill."

"You'll grow accustomed."

Forcing down half the contents, Macbeth followed Anthony back into the bustle of the kitchen. Several curious slaves peered at her. They must have heard her scream. The Pathosian snapped at them to mind to their tasks though he eyed her with interest as Anthony presented her to him.

"Master Julius, this is Macbeth, our new translator. Mistress wishes for her to be on service tonight."

The Pathosian leered at her, his eyes a fluorescent yellow behind the rim of his goggles. This close she saw scrolling scars decorating his biceps, almost purple against his red skin. His ears were heavily pierced, and a thick silver ring hung from the septum of his hawkish nose.

"Translator? What tech?"

"Barlok, the Nisseri implanted it."

The leer turned into a grin. "What did you do to piss them off?"

Macbeth hesitated, gauging the manner of this Pathosian. "I reckon they thought some back world primate needed all the upgrades they could muster, Master Julius."

Julius threw back his head with a bark of laughter, making the slaves jump. He clapped one huge hand on her shoulder. "I like this one, Anthony."

The parbreed stared at Macbeth like she was crazy, before shaking himself. "Master Julius, would you prepare the translator for tonight's service? If she knows Pathosian, it will be easier to translate the Senator's dialect."

Julius nodded, shooing Anthony away. He shouted a few more orders to the kitchen before leading Macbeth to a small table in the corner.

"I shall switch to my language now, primate." His lips twitched. "Who purchased you today, the Master or Mistress?" The languages slid against each other, her ear beginning to ache. Despite the pain, she recognized the words, her jaws going slack.

"What did your tech melt your brain? Wretched Nisseri-"

"That sounds like Latin." Macbeth caught the incredulous look in his eye. "Master Julius," she mumbled to her knees.

"How would you know a language not spoken by humans for thousands of years?"

"I read, Master Julius." She fidgeted, feeling foolish for opening her mouth.

The Pathosian folded his arms over his chest, a gesture her brothers did when something puzzled them. It made her heart ache. "It was the mistress who bought me, Master Julius."

He smirked at her. "What have you read about my people?"

The implant kicked in, sending another burning wave of pain through her temples but she didn't fall to her knees vomiting. She did not want to think what her brain tissue looked like after the tech blasted her, wondering how many languages it would take before the organ was nothing but a piece of charcoal.

"Not enough, Julius." She grit out, rolling her shoulders to loosen her tensed muscles. "Sorry, not enough, Mas-"

"Hold." He raised a shaking hand, bliss on his face. "I am a common man, Julius is fine. I can see why the Mistress bought you, your emotions are intense."

Macbeth stared. "It's true? Pathosians...feed on emotion." Julius nodded, licking his lips. It left her cold. All she felt on the auction block was fear and despair. When the old senator with the searching fingers bid on her? It must have been a feast for them. The Pathosian grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him.

"It is not all about fear and pain, lovely one, we like the other side of the spectrum too." Julius winked at her. "In fact, we prefer it."

An ominous feeling settled into the pit of her stomach. Julius instructed her on her duties as a server. She concentrated on them, determined not to think of anything else until she was alone in her rooms. The Pathosians feasted in decadence, each dish personally presented to them by slaves. Their drinks were to be constantly topped off, giving Macbeth an excuse to be present at the table for the evening.

"Tonight we have a Senator from Calydon. Since you have processed Pathosian, it will take your implant less time to pick up the dialect. You are to listen to what the Senator says to his aides, what he says to the other slaves, what he says to anyone. After everyone has gone, you will report to the Master."

"What am I listening for?" Macbeth felt a spike of panic. She knew nothing about Pathosian politics. Julius patted her shoulder with one of his huge hands, nearly shoving her to the floor.

"This is a test, assessing your skills, and how you think. If you impress Master Nero, he will treat you well. I would aim for that result."