

 
                                               Chapter five



Hart






  THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! Boom, Peragrine is instantly upon his feet, even before his eyes are open, back against the wall, heart thudding in his chest.

 The door slides open to reveal a trio of officers, faceless, green lensed, identically armored from head to foot, heavily armed.

 The only distinction between any of them is the rank insignia on their matt black armor and the accent color at the joint gaskets.

 Red is for the riot squads, green for homicide, blue for the sky patrol and black for the magus, electric violet was reserved for Imperial shock troops and knights. Other colors stood for other departments, but they need not all be listed, suffice it to say that two wore the black of the mage division and the other the glowing purple of Imperial office.

 By his insignia Peragrine recognized him as the captain who had taken him into custody earlier. 

 The captain gestures with his shock baton. "Face the wall and place your hands on the black circles, you will remain so until further instructed." Peragrine presses his palms flat against the broad black circles, he has to push up on his toes slightly as the circles are almost out of reach.

 He can hear one of them approach him, feels his hairs rise as armor gauntleted hands touch the nape of his neck, feels a collar of cold metal links snapped about his throat, the fingertips lingering a moment under the line of his jaw and then withdrawn.

 "Remove your hands from the black circles and place them wrist to wrist behind your back." It is the captain there behind him, his voice a low husk in the boy’s ear, he can feel the cold metal of the man’s helmet brushing his scalp.

 Peragrine lets his feet rest flat upon the floor and positions his arms as he has been instructed, feeling the armored hands return and take hold of his elbows.

 His arms are drawn through some sort of a rubber sleeve so that his forearms are aligned to one another across the small of his back, causing his shoulders to be drawn painfully close together, his thin chest pushed forward like that of a pouter pigeon.

 He hisses as the rubbery sleeve is drawn even tighter, his shoulders feeling as if the joints are close to their breaking point.

 "Too tight?" Peragrine nods rapidly, relieved at the thought that they might be loosened, and feels the hands slide lightly down his arms, then rapidly draw the restraint several notches tighter till' the tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes and he moans aloud.

 "Better?" The captain asks, Peragrine only groans softly in answer.

 The hand comes around his throat again and grasps his jaw hard enough to make the bones creak. "I asked if it was better and I would appreciate an answer."

 Peragrine moans again, and then hisses between gritted teeth. "Y, yes Sir, much better Sir, thank you for your concern Sir." He is careful to speak loudly enough for his tormentor to hear well. 

 The captain's voice barks forth in harsh laughter. "Oh, well that was very polite, that's a good dog, a good pup." 

 Peragrine's eyes flash with sudden anger, pale electric blue like summer lightning. Despite the pain in his shoulders he twists about to face the captain's mask, speaking low and clear through clenched teeth. "I am your prisoner and if need be, your victim. But I am not, and never will be, a dog."

 The boy's face is positively alight with fury, completely different from the studied passivity he has shown till' now. Captain Darcy is impressed with what he sees in the boy's eyes, a force of raw, undiluted will.

That little loss of composure was very, very interesting, the boy is turning out to be a great deal more complex than he initially lets on. The captain is beginning to enjoy this, it’s going to be fascinating to unravel this young mystery. He wishes with a flash of brief regret that he had about another half an hour before they have to deliver the boy to his lawyer at the courthouse offices.

 The boy looks magnificent, his head flung back, eyes flashing, thin chest heaving for breath as it is forced outward by the tight bondage of his arms. Magnificent in a bondage sleeve, a wraith slender spirit of vengeance enslaved, and a very attractive morsel he made.

 He  reminds him of many of the young princes he had encountered in the high courts, but then blood does tell. This one is of a line both ancient and powerful, steeped deep in the mystery of the immortal blood, with training he could become a force of nature, but first he must learn humility.

 "Do you know what, young man?" The captain's voice is low, neutral in tone but underlaid with deadly clarity. "I'm going to give you this one. I don't have time just now, to explain to you in full, just what sort of position you are in. But you may be sure that we will discuss it at great length later and when we are finished you will have a complete education in the vast differences betwixt hounds and pups, you may count upon it."

 Peragrine was already shocked by his own boldness, but this calm declaration chills him to the bone. The captain takes hold of his shoulders and he is turned about to face the doorway.

 "What you are wearing is a shock collar, it delivers a heavy enough jolt to knock you flat in approximately one second. Myself, my men, the chief prosecutor and the judge, even your own legal counsel, we all possess a control button that activates it.”

 “I suspect that you may be entirely too stupid to behave yourself, but do try to mind your p's and q's and don't you dare to speak unless you are directly addressed, because if you have to be stunned more than twice, it will be an automatic conviction, do you understand?"

 Peragrine nods, his eyes are huge, silver fringed pools of palest lilac-blue, rich with fear, his voice a light trembling contralto. "Yes Sir, I understand perfectly Sir."

 He is visibly shivering as he looks into the dark green lenses. The man is right, no matter how angry he feels, or how humiliating the way he is treated gets to be, he has to keep himself under control. The consequences of acting out could not only be painful, they could be deadly.

 "Good. Now move." Back into the buzzing corridors he is propelled, his bare feet softly slapping the slightly sticky floors, head held high and back arched painfully straight by the taught strictures of his bonds. Past dozens of tall anti-grav racks all hung with writhing, cursing, moaning transport bags being drawn along by scores of identically masked and armored guards, all in the red trimmings of the riot police, everything stinking of tear gas, blood and fear sharp piss.

 It looks as if they’ve hauled in whole neighborhoods of people for processing. Peragrine imagines that there will be some new housing developments opening up as most or the rioters will likely be transported to off-world labor camps as punishment for taking part in the demonstrations.

 Several times everything comes to a screeching halt and Peragrine is spun to face the wall, his forehead pressed hard to it's smooth plastic surface, as a large group passes by, one figure walking at the heart of an Imperial guard of a dozen or more, their swords at ready, their purpose intent and deadly. These ones would not hesitate to cut down anyone who interfered with their duties.

 Some prisoners are not to be looked upon, even the common guards avert their faceplates from those ones. Only the captain and a few others look upon them, green lenses gleaming, for such are privileges of wearing the purple of Imperial service, to look upon the faces of high blood, even in their shame. Others might know what is passing, but never who. Never.

 Those who are born of the blood, are throughout their lives, endowed with many gifts. Not the least of which are some very effective and nasty curses which will fall with a gleeful vengeance upon anyone who is disrespectful of them.

 Every article of clothing, every piece of jewelry, every cosmetic they wear or weapon they carry, everything is crafted and endowed with powerful blessings or curses or virulent poisons of horrifying variety and hellish effect, these are just some of the privileges of their rank.

 They are however just as subject to the Imperial laws that bind them, as is the common man to the laws applied to him, they are simply handled with a great deal more care when they break them.

 Those of the blooded ranks move and exist in a series of spheres of power so utterly different from that of the commoner that it is completely unimaginable to them.

 To move in the uppermost ranks, those of the Imperial house itself, is to literally move among the ranks of gods and godlike beings. For the Imperium is by far, more a religion than a monarchy, and Emperor Christafori's court is known far and wide as the Court of Miracles for the great wieldings of power that are displayed there.

 It is a nearly twenty minute walk through the endless crowded corridors of the monolithic legal complex before they reach the security gate that leads to the judicial sector.

 "Captain Johannan Darcy of the Imperial order of Cair Pollonis, I'm bringing in Prisoner J-1624FRG7 to the court of Judge Rankinsfeld." The security commander in charge of the gate scans each of the guards passes and then runs his hand scanner across the small metal tag inset into Peragrine's collar.

 Apparently satisfied the security commander waves them through the gate, with a sharp salute to the captain. "Peace be upon you Sir, and peace upon the Holy Emperor." 

 The captain nods sharply. "And the Emperor’s peace be upon you as well, Commander." 

 “Oh, Sir? You might have him put these on.” The security commander is offering something very like a pair of plastic shower caps with small elastic openings. “Never know what they’re tracking in.”
 
 “Oh yes, my mistake. Thank you, commander.” Capt. Darcy takes the baggies from him and leads Peragrine to the side.

 He pushes the boy against the polished granite wall, pressing him firmly against the cool stone. “Stay that way.” He orders, and Peragrine feels the captain’s hands wrap smoothly around his right leg, running downward to his ankle, then lifting his calf back so one of the baggies can be slipped over his small dirty foot, the elastic band made snug around his ankle, then the procedure is repeated with the other foot.

 The captain’s hands feel very large and confident on his slim legs, reassuring in their strength, and somewhat frightening as well. He is terribly confused as to why he wishes these strong fingers would linger just a moment longer on his flesh.

With the foot baggies in place, they start off again, up the long escalator and into the whispering world of the judiciary sector. Peragrine feels ridiculous with these silly bags on his feet, but it actually does feel better than being entirely barefoot.

 It is no less trafficked up here, than it was down below, nor is the atmosphere any less charged with bustling determination, and yet it is another world entirely from the one they have left behind. 

 Now Peragrine’s feet make almost no sound, except for the crinkling of plastic, as they fall upon the thick, rich carpeting. The voices of those they passed seeming hushed and muffled, as if in deference to weight of justice’s scales here.

 Unlike the sticky plastic corridors of the intake and police sectors, this place is a world of oiled leather and polished stone, of gleaming wood and brushed copper fixtures.

 The lawyers who stalk these halls wear tailored suits of the most subtle and tasteful sort, and those guards and troops that walk here, walk light and speak softly, disconcerted to be out of their own inviolate territories.

 Few are the jump-suited prisoners like himself, almost all those that he recognized as such were garbed in street clothes, darks suits for men and dark dresses for women, he saw none so young as himself.

 He couldn't know that he was in the place devoted to the crimes of those who had achieved their majorities, he had been charged as an adult because mage law recognized no distinctions of age.

 Peragrine glances to the side and sees that the captain has removed his helmet as they stride along, his stolid, scarred face set in determination.

 His visage is a landscape of sharp angles and deep lines, cheeks cut with deep creases like dry creek-beds, his mouth thin, with fine sensitive lips.

 His deep-set eyes are cold Hebridean gray almost black, dark as the blackening sea at dusk and seeming just as cold, beneath bushy brows of steel gray. The man’s skull is scored across with dozens of thin lines of raised scar tissue, his steel gray hair shorn close to the scalp. It is the classic face of the soldiers who survived the Gythyanke troubles.

 Gythe magicks are powerful and their weapons fiendishly clever, their determination to cede from the empire had cost literally trillions of lives. Dozens of worlds burned out like matchsticks, hundreds more crippled, more than a third of the empire's fleets obliterated.

 The Emperor’s furious vengeance was a blanket of destruction in both scope and proportion, his punishment of the Gythe pushed them to the very edge of extinction. The looted wealth of their treasure houses was the stuff of legends.

 Emperor Christaphori mourned openly the loss of so many worlds and lives, donning only black for five years and abstaining from the comforts of all his wives and consorts for that time as well.

 Such abstention was discouraged in the general populace, their numbers having taken a heavy blow. But there were few children born to the houses of lords in that mourning time, it being considered good policy to follow the fashions and moods of their Imperial master quite closely.

 To commemorate those lost in the Gythyanke revolt Emperor Christaphori commissioned the building of a war memorial museum and gardens that was planetary in scale.

 One of the burnt out worlds was chosen and its atmosphere restored by the hand of the Emperor himself. A great display of personal power, proof positive of the young ruler’s fitness for the great diamond throne of the empire.

 Now, nine years after the revolt, the memorial was nearly finished, it was to be dedicated on the thirteenth anniversary of the end of the twenty year revolt. It would also mark the young emperor's thirty-seventh birthday, he had been four years old when the revolt began.
 
They walk for perhaps ten minutes in the whispering hush of the halls, until at last they stop before a door of deeply polished mahogany. The captain raps his armored knuckle on the copper knocker plate, three sharp taps. It was opened almost instantly by a thin florid looking man dressed in jungle patterned silks, with brilliant little holographic birds of paradise peeping out and fluttering here and there.

 "Oh my, what lovely bondage.” The man says, eyeing Peragrine’s tightly bound arms in the rubber sleeve.

 “Oh, Captain Darcy, you do like your little indulgences, don't you?" His tone is effete and full of innuendo, slightly Germanic in accent. Without waiting for an answer the man takes hold of Peragrine's shoulder and propels him behind him and into the conference room.

 "Thank you, Captain, for the good fulfillment of the duties of your office. We will take charge of the lad now, see you in court. Goodbye." And then the little man shuts the door firmly in the captain's face.

 During the entire scene which had lasted no more than fifty or so seconds, the captain has said nothing, only watching the little man with an expression of patient disgust.

 Peragrine is more than a little mystified by what he sees in the office. There are nearly a dozen people in there and most of them seem to have been waiting for his arrival.

 He can see three women at the far end of the gleaming mahogany conference table, they are all stunningly beautiful and identically dressed in the deep gray of the legal profession, there were two cool blondes and an Asian woman of exquisite delicacy, he assumes that one of them must be his lawyer, Miss O'Hannon.

 They seem deep in discussion as they all study the small glowing hologram that arises from a keyboard set into the conference table's polished surface, from this distance he cannot see what it is, but assumes that it must pertain to him, as they dart the occasional sharp glance in his direction then grow even more intent in their discussions.

 The opposite side of the conference room has been converted into a combination portable beauty parlor and photography studio, he wonders why the lawyer brought these people.

 Peragrine gasps as he is caught by the scruff of the neck, the little man had fingers of iron and no mercy as he digs them into Peragrine's aching muscles. "This way my filthy little friend, your obviously going to take lot more work than I was led to expect. Good god do you know how disgusting you look in that jumper and just look at those nails, I swear they don't pay me enough for this."

 Peragrine isn't sure the man wants to be answered so he chooses to say nothing as he is pushed along to a broad, shallow basin set in the middle of a tarp on the floor.

 He is stood next to the basin and turned around to face the conference table. With an amazement of gratitude he feels the man unloose the bondage sleeve which binds his arms so painfully. 

 He is only given a few seconds to stretch his cramped arms and shoulders before being ordered to strip off his prison jumpsuit. "I don't think I should, I don't want to make the captain angry."

 Crack! The little man's hand flashes out and catches him across the round of his cheek, the man's florid little face now turning a choleric shade of purple.

 "It is not YOUR fucking place to think, my little moron! You will bloody fucking eat my SHITE if I tell you to! The captain is nothing, do you understand me, nothing!" Each word is being punctuated by a glancing cuff across the crown of Peragrine's head.

 At first Peragrine throws up his hands to fend off the blows but this only serves to send the little man into even greater transports of rage, the holographic birds on his shirt have all flown away and now the jungle foliage seems to be tossed and torn by a violent storm.

 "Please, please!" Peragrine cried, still fending off the man's increasingly violent slaps. "Please stop, I'll undress! I'll do whatever you say!"

 "I don't believe you." The man is suddenly calm again, his narrow face still flushed but set in an expression of calm disgust, as if Peragrine were something nasty he'd discovered on the sole of his shoe.

 "I promise." Peragrine pants out, thankful that the horrid little man has calmed and stopped hitting him. "I promise, I'll be good, I'll do as you say."

 The man watches intently as Peragrine straightens up with shaky grace, then pulls down the zipper of his jumpsuit, letting it fall from his shoulders to form a shapeless gray puddle around his ankles.

 His body is an ivory column, white and clean, slightly bony from lack of exercise and lack of solid food.

 Peragrine finds himself shivering under the man’s intense scrutiny, feeling ugly and small when he is looked at that way.

 "That's much better boy, but most definitely not good enough. When I give an order, I expect it to be obeyed with enthusiasm if not pleasure." He scrutinizes Peragrine closely for a moment, the boy for his part getting more nervous by the moment, this dreadful little man had something in mind and he could tell he wasn't going to like it.

 "My name, by the way is Franz, when I tell you to do something, the only thing I want hear coming out of your little cake-hole is 'Yes, Franz', are we clear?" His small blue eyes gleaming like oily glass, shrewd and determined to hunt out the least sign of hesitance.

 "Yes, Franz." Peragrine's voice is a hoarse whisper, his lower lip trembling, his thin arms wrapped about himself, he wanted so much just to be left alone by all these awful people. 

 He can hear a couple of Franz's similarly dressed cronies whispering and giggling behind their hands as they watch the scene unfold, they had obviously watched similar dramas before.

 "What! What was that? Did this colorless little piece of trash speak, or did he merely fart! Come, come, do speak the fuck UP!" Crack! Crack! His hand flies out twice, nearly knocking Peragrine to his knees, reddening both cheeks equally.

 Peragrine can feel a trickle of blood start at the corner of his swelling lips. "YES, Franz!!!" He screams it in the man's face, his features flushed dark pink, fists clenched hard at his sides, his whole body bowed forward as if he stood against a wind storm.

  "Yes, Franz." Peragrine says again, this time speaking more softly, but clearly enough to be heard by all present.

 “Well.” The little man says, looking thoroughly unimpressed. “That is at least, enthusiastic. Now get in the bowl and raise your arms above your head.”

 Peragrine does as he is directed, stepping into the shallow basin and closing his eyes as he raises his arms, his whole flushing in humiliation as they gather around him, commenting on this feature and that.

 He twitches and flinches as he feels a hand reach out to touch him on his stomach, feeling the texture of his skin, sliding downward. His eyes fly wide as his sex is grasped, Franz is looking at him with a sneer on his thin lips.

 “You’re actually supposed to be seventeen?” The man asks mockingly. “Why, you have no more equipment than a child of twelve. Look at this pathetic noodle!” He drops Peragrine’s limp, white, penis as if it were filth and turns away laughing, directing his assistants to clean the boy up.

 Tears of shame and hate flow hot as acid down Peragrine’s cheeks, leaking from beneath his clenched eyelids, but he steels his body to shivering stillness, fighting off the urge to pull away from the hands of the beauticians as the go over every inch of him. 

 Peragrine is sponge bathed, moisturized and dusted with a powder of crushed pearls. He is manicured and pedicured, his hair washed, trimmed and styled into a soft tumble of silver blond curls, every plane of his delicate face subtly highlighted to accent his porcelain features. 

 They even bathe his eyes with some soothing solution to take away the redness and puffiness from his crying, and to erase the bluish shadows from the delicate skin of his lower lids.

 Though he is nearly eighteen, he is fragile-boned as a bird and often mistaken for much younger. But by the time the time they are finished with him, he could easily pass for no more than twelve or thirteen. Playing up his features to create a perfect portrait if youthful innocence.

They dress him in a white linen shirt and a round-necked sweater of clinging black cashmere over gray tweed slacks and a pair of black shoes of the very softest kidskin. No underthings, he wonders if this is deliberate, probably.

 Just as they finish with him and are putting away their equipment, the door from the hallway opens, silhouetting a tall slim figure.
 
 Peragrine is frozen in place, staring into the grass green eyes of the woman, he has absolutely no doubt that this is Miss O’Hannon, his lawyer.

 She is almost six feet in height with a silken curtain of flame-red hair falling to her waist, she wears the same pewter silk suit as the other women with the addition of a black corset that encases her torso from breastbone to mid hip in a gleaming leather sheath and a pair of very tall lace up boots of the same darkly oiled leather.

 In one leather gloved hand she carries a coal black briefcase and dangling from the other hand is a riding crop with an ivory stock delicately carved in the form of a nude woman chained to the back of a madly frenzied horse, her belly exposed to the sky, her mouth an 'O' of terror.

 "So you are the young man I have been hearing so much about." The weight of her gaze is a tangible thing, she is clearly a woman deeply confident in her own power and it shows in every line of her being. “Very nice to meet you Peragrine, you look absolutely wonderful.” She purrs, extending a long, black gloved hand, palm downward.

 Taking his cue from the way she offers her hand, Peragrine bends as he has seen his father do many times, pressing his lips for no more than a heartbeat to the leather-clad back of her hand, and then rising up straight. 

 “Thank you, Miss O’Hannon.” He says, his voice soft and clear. “I’m very happy to meet you as well.”

 “Very nicely spoken.” The lady says, her voice dropping in timber, green eyes crinkling in pleasure at the cultured tones of his sweet voice. She can see exactly why the Society is so interested in retrieving this young man, he’s extraordinarily lovely.

 Gently withdrawing her hand from his, she lifts the end of the riding crop under the narrow point of his chin, her grass green eyes meeting his pale blue ones in the manner of a crouching lioness.

 “Master’s Templeton and Piper have found quite a little gem in you.” Her voice is a velvety purr, as she forces his chin upward. “It’s a pity they are so hard on their toys, I really do think you would be much better suited to serving a lady, such soft skin and those lovely, lovely lips.”

 She has moved close enough that he can smell the faint perfume of her skin-cream, something light and floral, her skin looks very smooth and soft. She is smiling faintly and she bends her head just slightly, so that her lips are very close to his eyelids, her body almost touching his so that he feels the warmth of her.

 “Yes.” She breathes. “I think you would do very nicely, how pretty you would look dressed as a maiden in corset and stockings.” Her rouged lips curl into a lazy smile as Peragrine’s eyes widen at the thought of being dressed up as a girl. She laughs throatily as she turns away to address her assistants. "Listen up ladies! We've been moved up two hours, so we need to get moving!"  

 Franz leads him to a deeply padded leather chair, telling him to sit there and behave himself, pressing a finger to Peragrine's lips. "You will sit right here and be quiet until you are required. If you put one wrinkle in that shirt, I will whip you until you bleed as soon as we get back to the club, do you understand me?"

 Peragrine met his gaze steadily. "Yes Franz, I understand you perfectly." Seeing only seriousness in Peragrine's eyes and not even a hint of willfulness or mockery, Franz simply nods and walks away to direct his crew in the stowing of their equipment.. 

 It is nearly an hour that he sits there, quietly watching the dynamics of this group at work, in much the same fashion as he had watched his classmates at school and on the fencing and gymnastics teams.

 Watching their subtle power plays and petty surrenders, it is soon clear to him that Franz and Miss O'Hannon are contemporaries, each of them with their own set of subordinates. 

 One of the blondes and the Asian woman seem to be on equal footing in servitude to Miss O'Hannon, the other blonde is clearly subordinate to the three of them, her body language speaks it clear as a ringing bell.

 He is already sure that if he keeps his mouth shut and eyes wide open, he can find a way to become a rising star among these ranks.

 He will have to take every advantage his nature allows him, to become invulnerable to the very worst their twisted imaginations can throw at him. Because he knows instinctively that from the position of servitude, one might learn a great deal about the ways of mastery, and these are skills he is going to need desperately to learn.

 Thinking on what he knows about the Elysium society and their clubs, which isn't a hell of a lot. He had looked into the society after meeting Templeton and Piper, and learned that they’re a widespread organization, at least two hundred clubs strung out across the empire.

 If he plays his cards well, he might manage to be transferred to a branch that was closer to his true father's homeworld.

 “Yess, yess, Home, time to go Home.” The caperer whispers soft from the chambers of his heart.

 The boy is becoming wiser. The larvae is become pupae, pupae must soon become imago. He is dangerous, he is stronger by far than any could suspect. His heart is the heart of a sun, it burns bright and strong. His power is growing immense within him, and I am drowning in its brightness, my bones bleach pale in his very shadow.

 Home, he must go Home, to the Winterlands, the Darklands, to the snowy Forest of the Moons, to the place of hounds and roses, to the Grove of the Daughters, where the little princesses dance nude in the Temple of FirstMother. Home. I want to go Home.

 He should never have been allowed to live, the Master must eat his burning heart still beating, with that in his belly he could conquer all.

  Go Home, go Home, go Home.

 "Okay Mr.Harker, it's time to go." Miss O'Hannon stands directly before him, rousing him from the reverie of his inward thoughts. "Now precisely what are you going to say to Judge Rankinsfeld, when you are asked how you plead?"

 Peragrine lifts his eyes as he stands to face her, his pale lilac-blue gaze meeting her grass green one steadily. "I will say 'Not guilty your Honor' and then I'll be silent, Miss O'Hannon." He lifts his silvery white brows slightly as if to ask if this is correct.

 She studies him very closely for a moment, looking for any trace of insolence, and finds none. He has learned the lesson very well, obey without question or hesitation or you will pay dearly.

 "Very good, keep it that way when we get there and everything should be alright." She touches his lips very lightly with the tip of her crop. "Well, let's be off then." 

 She turns on heel and strides for the conference room door and out into the bustling corridor. Katya takes Peragrine's hand in her own and leads him after her, onward toward the courts.



