Another slave came for her, taking her back to their quarters. This one was a full bred Fey, with wide scars spilling from the corners of her mouth and empty eyes. She said nothing as she helped Macbeth strip out of the Nisserian shift, donning a plain version of the Patrician's robes like the other female slaves wore. She teared up as she washed her face with the sulfur scented water, and smoothed down her hair. The silent slave made her uncomfortable, she was afraid to speak to her. Instead she kept still as the woman swabbed her arms and neck with sweet smelling oil before leading her back through the kitchens.

It wasn't long until a bell tolled the beginning of the evening meal. Macbeth straightened, nearly dropping the container of wine one of the slaves handed to her. The smell hit her, like honey and wildflowers, nothing like the poison her father used to drown himself in. It sparkled faintly inside the metal container, like liquid sunlight.

The meal commenced. Macbeth was led into the room, and direly stationed behind the white haired Pathosian she saw in the gardens earlier. He was surrounded by other males, their robes a deep purple color with a stitched embroidery on the hems. At the end of the table on a raised dais sat the master of the house. This was the other Pathosian from the garden. Macbeth took a moment to study him. His skin was a darker red than the others around him, closer to the color of blood. Long black hair artfully braided with threads of gold fell past his shoulders. His dark horns were polished to a shine. He watched everyone with red eyes flecked with gold, giving them a jewel like appearance. His gaze was intent, never looking away from the person speaking to him. One hand grasped a decanter, each finger adorned with a thick gold ring. His robe was pure white, without any embellishments.

He appeared regal. Macbeth could tell in a heartbeat this was a man used to power. Beside him sat Patrician Calliope Chrysostem, nodding and smiling to all who addressed her, but when no one spoke with her, the Patrician's violet eyes were bored. Her gown was more decorative, a light orange color, threaded to look like flames. At the base of the dais, seated at the Master's feet, was the beautiful woman. Between her deep green low cut gown and dazzling smile, every Pathosian around her salivated into their drinking glasses. A living ornament for her master, but Macbeth couldn't look away until those green eyes lifted, feeling her gaze.

Macbeth swallowed, forcing her attention on the white haired senator. Anything to drive out what she glimpsed in that woman's eyes. She listened, barely grimacing when the implant processed the Senator's thick dialect. Soon it became obvious to her what the man was like. This was her test?

She listened to the males around him as she filled their glasses over and over. They drank and talked for hours. It amazed her none of them slumped over in an alcoholic stupor. Course after course rolled out, the Pathosians packing it all in with vigor. Though Macbeth noticed neither Nero nor Calliope ate or drank much at all. Finally, five trances later, another bell tolled the end of the meal. The slaves emerged from the kitchens to clear the tables while the Pathosians continued to drink and talk. The sun had long ago sunk beyond the horizon when the first dining guest rose to excuse themselves from the table. More soon followed, though a few lingered until Master Nero rose to his feet and bid them goodnight. He took Calliope's arm in his, leaving the room, the beautiful human trailing behind them.

Dead on her feet, Macbeth swayed as the last guest cleared out. Anthony slid next to her, taking her arm. "It's time," he whispered to her. She stifled a groan, allowing him to lead her to a smaller chamber set off from the dining area. There were only three people here, the Master, the Mistress, and the green eyed slave. Calliope lounged on a cushioned bench, running her nails through the slave's dark curls. The woman kept her eyes on the floor. Nero sat in a high back chair, a personal throne in the sitting room. His gold-flecked eyes were on her. She realized her eyes were on him. She looked away, still uncertain of her new Master's temperament.

"This is the translator I acquired today, my heart. Is she not lovely?" Calliope purred out. Nero pursed his lips.

"Five thousand trics," he said. He leaned forward, his hands a steeple against his chin. "Tell me what you gleaned from Senator Maleos, woman. I demand five thousand trics worth of information."

"Nero?" Calliope rose up, a frown creasing her brow.

"Five thousand trics!" Nero snapped at her. "Frivolous even for you. Prove to me this investment was worthwhile." He turned back to Macbeth. "Impress me, or I shall take five thousand trics out of your flesh."

After a life time delegating between squabbling siblings and haggling merchants, Macbeth learned to read people. It was survival. She was the one her siblings came to for every problem, between them, between the staff, or with their father. Learning trade talk was a necessity, if she hadn't sold their crops her family would be split up, the men to the trimica mines in New Amsterdam, Portia and Macbeth to New Tokyo where lab techs were always in high demand for the dangerous work. She may not have attended the universities but Macbeth was an excellent student, learning Unispeak by listening to people in the open market. Ariel might have charmed the merchants but he did not possess the tactical shrewdness Macbeth cultivated over the years.

Macbeth stared into Nero's unsettling eyes. She believed him, knew if she failed to please him, he would hurt her in ways she couldn't imagine. Composing her thoughts, Macbeth studied her master.

Nero was not bored throughout the evening's conversations like his mate appeared to be, though Macbeth suspected her boredom a ruse. No, her new master studied everyone with the same keen interest she did. Fear was a useless emotion for her, though expected. To impress this one, she needed to engage him on his level. Calliope's eyes shot to her, before the mistress settled down to stroke her "pet". This message was clear, the woman might have saved her on the auction block, but Macbeth was on her own here. She inhaled and held it.

"Senator Maleos is concerned with replacing the propulsion engine in his ship. He fears his investments in the Minos trimica mines will not yield as much profit as he hoped. He is eager to return home to break in a new slave he purchased." She paused. Nero's expression remained impassive. "Senator Maleos was quite boring. Senator Alcon and Patrician Stolos were far more interesting."

There it was, the flicker of eye contact between the Pathosians. Nero leaned forward, tapping his nails together. "Tell me, human."

"There is talk of a power play in Eretria. Alcon seeks to replace Halius as head of senate, he will take the seat by force if he has the support. Stolos has offered men from his own house to do so. He is very sure of the Senator's success."

A smirk on his lips, Nero asked, "Why is this information interesting to me?"

She would give anything to sleep right now. Macbeth sank to the floor, resting her hands on her knees, in a sort of informal pray. Nero raised an eyebrow, which she ignored. If he chose to beat her for impertinence at least she could rest her legs. "You must be interested, as you are also providing men for Alcon's use."

The beautiful woman peeked at her from beneath her curtain of curls. Nero slapped his thigh. "Ha! You listen well, human. Names, locations, all that delicious information merely from the guests in ear shot." He placed his fingers under her chin. "Once you read lips, you will be worth far more than my mate paid for you."

"Now," Nero released her and rose to his feet. "You have saved your flesh for tonight. Go, rest, tomorrow begins anew my observant one."

Anthony appeared beside her, helping her to her feet. He escorted her from the room, though she felt eyes following her exit. They were in the slave's common room before the parbreed turned to her.

"Whatever you said to put him in that mood, tone it down next time."

"He was going to beat me if I didn't please him."

The man went blank. "There are worse things." Macbeth focused on the scar running under his chin, down his neck. "Come on, we need to get to bed."

She grabbed his arm, feeling him flinch under her fingers. "What's worse, Anthony? Tell me how to survive this place."

He swallowed, shrugging her off. "They'll wait, until you're settled in to show you what they are really like."

Her exhaustion seeped away at his words.

"The Pathosians, they want our fear, our unease, our pain. They will take it from you by the whip; but if you catch their eye, if they are fond of you, they will twist you inside, strip away your self, use you up."

"Is that what happened to you?" She asked, a chill settling on her skin. Anthony's smile was bitter, etched with shame.

"They grew bored with me quickly. Others have not been so fortunate. The girl who helped you dress earlier, Lia, used to be Nero's favorite."

It was hard to breathe. Macbeth well remembered the mute Fey woman, scars dripping from her lips. "What happened to her?"

"She stopped pleasing him." Anthony sighed. "If anything I've said makes you afraid, hold onto it, summon it whenever you can. It might keep them off you for a while. But you will feel the lash eventually, every slave does. Now go, find a pallet in the women's quarters."

Macbeth turned to go, stopping, the question out before she thought better of it. "Who was the woman with them tonight?"

Anthony was in front of her in a blink, his hands on her arms in a bruising grip. "If you want to survive, you stay away from her."

"Is she another favorite?" Macbeth kept her voice calm. Drawing information like this was a delicate act.

"No she's something else." Anthony released her, pushing her towards her room.

"Who is she, Anthony?" The parbreed was gone, leaving Macbeth to stumble along by herself. She made it to her room, the floor covered in sleeping pallets.

The other female slaves didn't wake as she crept for the empty pallet on the far side of the room. Macbeth slid onto her pallet, thoughts spinning. This was her fate now? To end up scarred and broken? Could she ever escape here? Endless questions spun through her mind, as she slowly drifted to sleep, often returning to the green eyed woman, wondering who she was. She wonder why she so badly needed to know.