Playing for keeps, p.1
Playing for Keeps, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Playing for Keeps (Tales from the Arena)
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
ENDGAMES | Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
About the Author
Also by Elizabeth Schechter
About the Publisher
Thank you for buying our book! Want to learn about our new releases? Subscribe to our monthly email newsletter. http://www.circlet.com/contact-us/email-newsletter/
Playing for Keeps © 2018 by Elizabeth Schechter
Previously published as Tales from the Arena: Playing for Keeps
Cover credits:
Male figure © Design Pics | fotosearch.com
Background art © Algolonline | fotosearch.com
ISBN 978-1-61390-193-9 ebook
Published by Circlet Press, Inc.
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Cambridge, MA 02138
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License Notes
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Also by Elizabeth Schechter
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Fools Rush In
Heart’s Master
Her Captive
House of Sable Locks
Princes of Air
The Rebel Mage Series
Chapter One
Rakesh looked out the window of the meditation chamber and judged how long it would be until twilight. Just long enough, he decided, and settled himself onto the floor in proper mediation position, resting his hands on his knees and closing his eyes. Silently, he started to recite the Code.
I will be as supple as the graceful Li-ahn.
Rakesh had never actually seen a li-ahn tree. He'd been told that once there had been forests of them in the northern mountains, and the wood had been prized for its beauty, its incredible flexibility and its astonishing strength. During the early days of the war, the trees had been harvested almost to extinction for use in weaponry. He'd heard gossip, though, that the Council was talking of reforesting the li-ahn groves; Virin had said.... Rakesh grimaced at his lack of focus, banished Virin from his thoughts, and returned to the Code.
I will be as calm as the great Melnamore.
Virin spoke often of taking him on holiday to a place on the northern coast of Lake Melnamore. He called the place a small slice of paradise.... Rakesh opened his eyes, shook his head, and rubbed his face, then rubbed his fingers over the red collar he wore around his throat, feeling the ten studs that marked his years of service. Usually, touching the collar helped calm him, but this time, it had no effect; it had been two months since he'd last seen Virin Zaan-ti-ar, and if Rakesh had harbored any doubts about his feelings for the man, this would have dispelled them completely. His thoughts were too scattered for meditation, and even the rituals of the Code weren't enough to calm and center him. How was he going to serve tonight if he couldn't pull himself together? He took a deep breath and closed his eyes to try again.
I will be as supple as the graceful Li-ahn.
I will be as calm as the great Melnamore.
I will be as strong as the oldest mountains.
I will serve with grace,
I will serve with compassion,
I will serve with love.
I offer my blood as a balm,
I offer my body as a gift,
I offer my life to the greater good.
This time, the silent recitation yielded the quiet that Rakesh sought, and he slipped into the half-trance that was so much a part of the Discipline, so much a part of his life. He slowed his breathing and his heart-rate and examined his body and mind for signs of illness or weakness, anything that would be a detriment in the Arena. Satisfied that the healers had not missed anything, he allowed himself to float on waves of warm solitude, until a soft chiming broke into his meditation and called him back to himself. He took a long, cleansing breath, followed by two shorter ones, stretched slowly, then opened his eyes. In the doorway, looking nervous and with his hands still on the signal bell, was one of the Novices-candidates—an attractive young man dressed in loose, white trousers and a white wrapped shirt. Rakesh nodded, and the youngster bowed from the waist. Ah. Aakari-born. Either a refugee, or else he was the child of refugees, as was Rakesh.
"What is it..." Rakesh paused, just for a heartbeat, until he could remember the Novice-candidate's name. "...Linter?"
"Begging your indulgence, sir, but there's a Black Sword asking for you," Linter answered, his accent marking him as having been born outside of Tyesean borders. "He wishes to know if you're serving tonight."
Rakesh blinked and turned towards the window; it was fully dark outside. "I was in trance longer than I thought. Who is it who asks, Linter?"
"I..." The flush on Linter's olive-dark skin was alluring, and Rakesh smiled. Hopefully, this one would take the collar; his reactions in training were perfect, and his empathy rating was very high. "I am sorry, sir. I didn't hear his name."
"His rank, then?" Rakesh asked, trying to keep his hopes under control.
"Zaan-ti-ar, sir."
Rakesh gave in to his emotions and grinned. "I was hoping. Thank you, Linter. Please return to the Lounge and let the honored Zaan-ti-ar know that I will join him shortly? Offer him Friasin water and tonic while he waits, and have the bar put it on my account."
Linter bowed again and backed out of the room, leaving Rakesh shaking his head in amusement. The boy was lovely, and would be a wonderful Novice once he took the Collar.
"That one is going to have them fighting over him," Rakesh murmured as he got to his feet. He stood in place for a moment, then took a short, sharp breath and started to run through a series of exercises that would leave his muscles warm and flexible. All the better to serve.
Once he was done, he went to the bathing room, stripped and quickly washed, then went back to the living quarters, where one wall contained rows upon rows of the tiny sleeping spaces that the Collared laughingly called the cells. The facing wall was lined with counters, shelves and lockers, and Rakesh went to the ones that were his, taking out the flat box that contained his Arena garb. Opening it, he took out the series of synth-leather control bands, all of them in a brilliant crimson that matched his collar, and laid them out in sequence on the counter. First the belt, with the attached loincloth that hung to his knees, then the bands that encircled each of his ankles, his knees and his thighs. Similar bands went on his wrists, above and below his elbows, around his upper arms, and around his waist. He examined himself in the mirror briefly, checking each band in turn, the crimson standing out bright against his olive skin, then took a moment to comb his dark hair out until it hung straight and shining down his back, reaching past his waist. Virin always commented on how much he liked Rakesh's hair, how much he liked it loose. Rakesh looked at himself in the mirror again, nodded, then grinned and hurried out of the room.
As soon as he passed from the Dormitory and entered the corridor that led to the Arena, he felt his collar pulse—he was being summoned. The signal didn't extend into the living quarters, which was why someone had come to fetch him. "I hear," he said aloud. "And I am coming."
Recognized. The Patrons will be informed. The pulsing stopped as the Arena control computer answered.
"Patrons? I was only informed of one. Identify the Patrons who requested me?"
Two Patrons have requested Rakesh Taramar. Virin Zaan-ti-ar. Martiri Kian-ti-os.
Rakesh stopped, surprised. "The Kian-ti-os? Oh, that could be awkward... Which claim was entered first?"
The Zaan-ti-ar filed his request seven minutes prior to that of the Kian-ti-os.
Rakesh let out a shaky breath. "Good. Ah, inform the Kian-ti-os that I have a prior commitment. Offer him an appointment in no less than three...no, five days. As soon as I have something open." Rakesh smiled as he passed through the security doors and entered the private lift that would take him to the third floor and the Lounge. If Virin was as eager for this meeting as Rakesh was, then Rakesh was probably not going to be cleared to be back on the floor in the usual three days.
The Kian-ti-os accepts. He offers his regrets and his good wishes for your evening's pleasure. The appointment has been added to your calendar for eight days from now, and he has accepted.
"Well, that was nice of him. Tender my thanks, and offer him a drink in my name." As the lift slowed, Rakesh took a long breath, let it out slowly, and drew the mantle of Discipline around himself. When the doors slid open, he was ready, and entered a room whose occupants would send most men flee ing in terror.
Chapter Two
The Lounge was full of a swarming sea of black uniforms, the dark clothing occasionally punctuated by a man or woman dressed as Rakesh himself was, saving only that their bands and collars were white. This was the Lounge, the informal gathering place for some of the most dangerous men and women in Tyese—the Ishkarin. Rakesh knew the stories about them—who didn't? Created in secret, bred to be the perfect soldiers in order to win a stalemated war, the Ishkarin were perfect hunters, perfect killers. Perfect sadists. They had broken the stalemate with a wave of violence and terror that had left the Aakari Empire reeling, and when the war ended, they had demanded as their reward a place in Tyesean society. They'd volunteered to became peace-keepers, to channel their inborn tendencies into something positive. The Council had agreed, and in order to offer the Ishkarin another outlet, the Arena had been created. Here, the Ishkarin could release their aggressions without threatening the people they were supposed to protect.
As Rakesh came out of the lift, the conversation hushed, and people turned to stare. The whispers started as he moved into the room, but Rakesh was used to that by now. Most of the Collared who volunteered to serve in the Arena and who made it through the rigorous testing and training served the required five years, then turned away from the Arena and accepted their rewards of high-caste status and a generous pension. Some chose to stay on, taking the red collars and becoming Taramar, but only for a year, perhaps two.
Rakesh had worn his collar for ten years, five of them as a Taramar. At twenty-eight, he was the oldest among the Collared, and he was the only Red-Collar currently in service. Because of that, he was widely regarded as one of the most skilled, and therefore was the most sought after among the Collared. People wondered aloud at the depths of his servitude, his capacity for pain, never knowing that that the reason for his long service was a single man. A man who had just turned away from his viewing station near the large, interior windows to smile as Rakesh approached.
Virin Zaan-ti-ar was older than Rakesh by perhaps a dozen years. He was well-built and trim like all of his brethren, his once bronze-colored hair gone mostly silver. He was a mid-ranking Sword, one who might someday see the commissioned rank of Kian, if he were lucky enough and diligent enough in his duties. Rakesh certainly hoped so. Rakesh stopped less than an arms-length away from Virin, and sunk to his knees.
"I serve, Zaan-ti-ar," he said quietly, and heard the buzz of admiration from those around them. "What is your pleasure?"
"Rakesh," Virin purred softly in his deep voice, and Rakesh felt as if his spine were melting. "Have you eaten, Taramar?"
"Yes, Zaan-ti-ar, thank you," Rakesh raised his eyes slightly, no higher than Virin's legs, taking in strong thighs encased in black synth-leather. Oh, please hurry and finish the niceties, Rin! "May I offer you a meal? Or a drink?"
"You already brought me a drink," Virin reminded him. "And I've eaten."
Rakesh bowed slightly, crossing his wrists behind him. Above his head, he heard Virin catch his breath. "Then how may I serve, Zaan-ti-ar?"
"Rise," Virin commanded. Rakesh stood up slowly, keeping his eyes downcast and watching through his lashes as Virin reached towards him; there was a moment of pressure as Virin pressed his personal sigil to the front of Rakesh's control collar. The collar warmed and pulsed softly, and Rakesh knew that his collar was now marked with Virin's identicon, marking Rakesh as off-limits to anyone else for the rest of the evening.
"Control," Virin murmured.
What is your will, Patron?
"Activate the wrist bands and the belt."
Immediately, Rakesh's wrists were encircled in steel, his wristbands fused together and sealed to the belt around his waist by the now-active magnetic beads embedded in the synth-leather. For a moment, his control slipped, and he moaned softly; prompting a smile from Virin and a chuckle from the Swords surrounding them.
"Oh, are you the lucky one, Virin?" An older man with Kian-ti-os rank-pins on his collar came closer, openly admiring Rakesh. "Looks like you got to him ahead of me."
"You bid on him, Kian-ti-os?" Virin asked, his eyes darting from Rakesh to the higher-ranking officer.
"Yes. Too late, by only a few minutes, according to Control." Martiri raised his glass to Rakesh. "Thank you, Taramar, for the drink. And for the appointment. I look forward to seeing if I can make you scream."
Rakesh bowed, then slowly went back to his knees at Virin's side as Virin and Martiri spoke, their voices pitched low. Rakesh breathed deep, keeping his eyes lowered and setting himself the task of not listening, focusing on the timber of Virin's voice, and not the words. There was an odd intensity to their conversation—something of some importance was being discussed. Not classified, though, or they'd not be speaking of it in the Lounge. If it was something that Virin thought that Rakesh needed to know, Virin would tell him after their time on the Floor. And if it was not something that Virin thought that Rakesh needed to know...gossip was a form of currency amongst the Collared.
Rakesh was suddenly alert when Virin tapped him on the shoulder. "I'll keep your words in mind, Kian-ti-os. Thank you."
"Of course, Virin," Martiri said. He paused, then asked, "Would I be able to convince you to share him?"
Rakesh felt his muscles tense slightly, and fought to keep himself under control. After two months without a single word from Virin, he didn't want to be shared—he wanted his Zaan-ti-ar alone. He relaxed when he felt Virin's hand running over his head, stroking his hair the way a woman might stroke her pampered pet.
"I've been two months in the field, Kian-ti-os. Tonight, I prefer to take my pleasures alone."
"A fair answer. Have a good night, Virin. Make him scream."
Virin grabbed a handful of Rakesh's hair, tugging it hard and pulling his head back; Rakesh sighed softly, his eyes closing as he pressed his shoulder against Virin's leg.
"I intend to, Kian-ti-os."
AS WAS PROPER, RAKESH followed three paces behind Virin as they made their way through the crowd towards the lift that would take them to the Floor of the Arena. All along the way, Swords stopped them, admiring Rakesh, congratulating Virin. There was some good-natured teasing from one female ir-Kian that Rakesh remembered had been a member of Virin's cadet class, and who commented on just how often Virin seemed to be choosing to spend his time and coin on the Taramar. Then they were through, and inside the lift. As the doors closed, Virin sighed and turned towards Rakesh.
"You look wonderful, Kesh," he murmured. "I missed you. I almost strangled my commanding officer over you; he wanted me to stay in the field another month."
Rakesh stepped closer to Virin, feeling his heart pounding in his chest, unable to quiet it, no matter how he tried to invoke Discipline. "I've missed you, too," he said. "I was worried. You always send word if you're going to be gone longer than a week."
"You never got any of my messages?" Virin asked, sounding shocked. Wordlessly, Rakesh shook his head. Virin grimaced and looked up."Control, hold the lift."
Holding. The lift shuddered as it came to a stop.
Virin looked back at Rakesh, and the heat in his eyes made Rakesh's mouth go dry. Virin stalked towards him, slowly driving him backwards until his back pressed against the side of the lift, his bound hands splayed on the cold metal. Virin grinned, his teeth bared, and touched the control pad on his wrist-comp; Rakesh gasped as all of the magnets in his control bands activated, bonding to the wall of the lift. He strained and squirmed while Virin stood and watched, his eyes half-lidded and a lazy smile on his face.
"Very nice. Very, very nice. I dreamed about you, Kesh. And I wrote down every single dream. I sent a message once a week, the entire time I was gone," Virin said, his voice low. He moved closer, running his hands over Rakesh's chest, then up and down his upper arms. "Long messages, telling you exactly what I was going to do to you once I had you under my thumb again. How I was going to make you scream and cry. How I was going to fill you in every way possible, until your sweat and your tears smelled of me. How I was going to completely destroy you...."
Rakesh shuddered, feeling Virin's fingers digging into his arms, the pressure of the other man's chest against his as Virin pressed against him. It was so easy to forget how much stronger the Swords were than other men, how dangerous they were...until they were at your throat. He moaned as Virin's thigh pressed against his painfully-hard cock, gasping out, "Rin...."
