by Chloe Cox
“Yes,” she said, and tried not to think too hard about the rest of the previous night’s events. She’d already pictured herself laid out for him on the table. She blamed the dress, and the way it felt on her bare skin.
“Would you recognize the voices?”
“I think so.”
He leaned forward in his chair, resting his giant hands flat on the table between them. Lucia watched them grip the tablecloth. His angular face loomed, and a slight scar crinkled his furrowed brow. “Would you recognize the voices?” he asked again.
“Yes, I think I could,” she said. She thought back on it now; one of the men had had a slight lisp. “I think I could if it were important.”
“It’s extremely important, Lucia. There are very few men in this city who could afford to buy your father’s debt and the distilling license that goes with it, and all of them will be in the same place tonight.”
Lucia snapped to attention. “My father’s arrest is because of his debt, then?”
Lord Cesare did not answer. He poured them both a glass of amberwine instead. Lucia ached to press him for whatever information he might have about her father, but she was beginning to recognize the mercurial moods of Lord Cesare Lupin, and something told her that would not be wise at this juncture. He seemed to be following through with his promise to help her. That should be enough. Lucia breathed deep, and took another tack.
She said, “Tonight is the Dance of Lights, is it not? But the entire city will be there.”
Lord Cesare smiled. “Not everyone will be on the barges, Lucia.”
Lucia winced. No one she knew would be on the dazzling barges that would dance in the harbor like firebugs, just as no one she knew had been in the amphitheater.
And now Lord Cesare’s smile turned wolfish. “Everyone of importance will be on the Severille barge,” he said. “As will I, as a member of the Severille, and as a nobleman. And as will you, as my slave.”
A hot flush raced up Lucia’s neck to her cheeks, and a low fire sparked in her belly. She looked down at her plate until Lord Cesare reached across and lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his stare.
“You will come, you will obey, and you will listen,” he said.
~ ~ ~
Lucia spent the rest of the afternoon willing the sun to set. It was judged too dangerous to let her roam around the first floor, as she had the previous night, in case the hated Captain Rickle returned, and Avignon was wary of her apparently reckless tendency to open windows. Lucia passed several idle hours reading fitfully from a romantic novel Avignon had smuggled to her from the library, and occasionally trying to teach herself to play a viola that she’d found lying around. Avignon was generally too polite to wince.
Every time she heard a creak or a servant’s step, she’d look up, perhaps push her chest out. It was never Lord Cesare.
The last time Avignon did not hide his smile. “I told you, Miss Lyselle, my Lord Cesare has business elsewhere this afternoon.”
She reddened. Lord Cesare held her body captive; there was something undignified about the idea that he held her attention, too, and that Avignon could so easily see it. Lucia thought about her long-dead grandmother and the importance of self-control, and then about her own promise to herself, but even those old, familiar thoughts were no match for her anticipation of the Dance of Lights.
She was to be his slave. In public. Just as she’d seen on that first night, ages ago now, in the city streets on the way to the Dance of the Seasons. She couldn’t quite believe it.
At last the shadows began to lengthen, and the streets below grew quiet as the city retreated to prepare for the next night of Bacchanal. Lucia looked up from her book to find that Avignon had disappeared for his own preparations. She could hardly sit still. And all she could think about was Lord Cesare.
It was like every moment away from his body stretched her faculties further, thinned her out, made her more scatterbrained. She couldn’t escape the idea that she was beginning to need him, the way some poor men needed amberwine.
Finally Avignon returned, bearing a discreetly tied parcel. He bowed. “Miss Lyselle, these are for tonight. You are to dress yourself and come down to the hall.”
Lucia waited with what she hoped was demure patience until the door clicked closed. Then she tore at the parcel in a frenzy.
First was the mask. It was finer than any mask she’d seen up close, although that wasn’t hard. It was scarlet red, adorned with what looked like real rubies and the dyed feathers of some fine bird. It was cut asymmetrically, so that it would cover her eyes, nose, and the left side of her face entirely, leaving only her mouth and one cheek exposed. It was carefully sculpted to mimic the contours of what looked like a very beautiful face. She twisted her hair into a simple knot held tight with the scarlet hairpins he’d provided, and tried the mask on.
It fit perfectly.
So did the dress, although it was another thing that could barely be called a dress. It was made of gossamer thin layers of some fine weave, layers so thin that a single one was completely transparent. It took her a moment to figure out how to put it on, and in the end she wasn’t sure she actually had it right. It wrapped around her body, over just her right shoulder, continuing the asymmetry of the mask, and where the edges met it was held together by a single, fragile-looking tie.
There were shoes. They were the same shade of scarlet, and they propped her heels up higher than Lucia thought they were meant to go. She practiced walking until she felt she’d gotten the hang of it, and then she took a deep breath and looked at herself in the mirror.
One could see the hints of her naked body underneath her dress. It looked like she was nude until one looked closely, and then one couldn’t be sure what they saw: a girl or a gossamer dress. It was scandalous. It might even be obscene.
He meant for her to go out in public like this.
As his slave.
Lucia shuddered. She was practically dizzy from anticipation, from want. From Lord Cesare.
The walk down the grand, sweeping stairs to the hall was torturous. By the time she grew confident enough in her steps to look up, she was already descending. Lord Cesare stood at the bottom, waiting for her. Staring at her. He wore the usual black leathers of the Severille, a red band wrapped around one thick wrist, his broad shoulders bare, his muscular arms rippling in the dim candlelight. His chest gleamed at the top of his vest, and Lucia glimpsed his scar from where she tottered on the stairs, suddenly unsteady on her heels. It called to her.
“Lucia,” Lord Cesare said. “Come here.” And he pulled taut the length of something red in his hands.
Lucia’s mind careened about wildly, even as her feet seemed to move on their own accord. It was. It had to be. It couldn’t be anything else.
A leash.
Speechless, she walked toward him, her new heels echoing off the stone floor of the hall. She was frightened, the way anyone would be frightened of something new and unknown, and excited in the same way, but mostly she marveled at the way she looked forward to the moment when Lord Cesare would place the collar and leash around her neck. She wanted to see the outward manifestation of her situation. She wanted to know that she belonged to him, that whatever happened this evening would be because he willed it—Lucia, who had always been known as a strong-willed, independent, stubborn girl, was grateful for this. It didn’t feel weak. It felt strong.
She craved Lord Cesare in a way that she hadn’t known was possible. And, as she stood before him, in the clothing he’d told her to wear, all she could think was: If I please him, he will take me. Again and again, he will take me.
This is stronger than any amberwine, she thought. This is dangerous.
But it was too late for second thoughts, even if she’d been allowed to have them. Lord Cesare reached down and cradled the back of her bare neck in his huge hand. He took the leather lead and began to slowly drag it along her exposed skin, down her neck, into the valley between her breasts, straining at the
delicate material of her dress.
“You know what this is?” he said.
She swallowed. “Yes, my Lord.”
“Remember your place. You are my slave. No one, not even Rickle, will expect to find you as a masked slave on the Severille barge.”
His grip tightened. Lucia looked at the ground. She wished he’d take her right there on the stone floor and give her some relief.
Instead he forced her head down, baring her neck to him. She gasped and stumbled forward. In a moment he had the collar around her neck, and she heard the decisive snap of a metal clasp: she was collared.
“Stand up straight,” he commanded.
She did. Her breasts, thrust forward for his inspection, reminded her that she was virtually naked. A full-body quiver ran through her, and she strained to keep her attention focused forward.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, and before she could speak, he kissed her.
It was worse than the last time. Her mind ceased to function entirely when he kissed her, all of her strength gone, surrendered to him. It was the most dangerous time, when she was most vulnerable, and increasingly incapable of maintaining her ever-weakening defenses. It would be easier if he wouldn’t kiss her, if he would simply lay claim to the rest of her body instead, but she was not even strong enough to wish for that.
When he pulled away, she was breathless. He held her chin in one hand, her leash in the other. Briefly he rested his chin on the top of her head, and then he turned and strode toward the great door, where Avignon waited.
“Come,” he said, and before the leash could pull tight, Lucia trotted after him.
~ ~ ~
Lucia Lyselle, previously a Bacchanal virgin, overworked assistant to a virtuoso distiller, normally squirreled away in the warm, fragrant cave of the still and thus not always in keeping with the currents of the city, had never actually seen the Dance of Lights. She knew what it was, obviously; she had lived in J’Amel her entire life. But as any city-dweller knows, natives often don’t feel compelled to take part in the traditions that make their cities famous.
Lucia understood now how foolish she had been.
The carefully choreographed descent of carriages to the harbor had been wonderful enough. The finest carriages vied for supremacy, decorated for the occasion with glowing designs painted onto their ornately carved doors and hanging lanterns that blinked in festive patterns by unknown mechanisms. All of them made way for Lord Cesare’s carriage. They were to lead the long line of the city’s ruling class in a slow progression to the water.
Lucia’s excitement must have been obvious, because Lord Cesare had laughed and told her she’d only see it properly if she poked her head out the window. She was glad she did. It was astounding.
She couldn’t count the number of boats in the harbor, lit with millions of lights. They seemed to dance with each other in a carefully orchestrated routine to welcome the arrival of the city. Some barges were bouquets of chemical flames, colored in sequence: red, blue, green; others were seemingly endless cascades of flickering lights. All of it was beautiful. Lucia’s heart swelled with pride for her city.
As they grew closer, Lucia made out the shadows of unlit boats, some no bigger than gondolas, loitering in the waters between the brightly lit barges that would host the festivities.
“Those are the ferries,” Lord Cesare explained. “So you can make the rounds of the Houses, if you choose.”
Each of the brilliant barges was the creation of one of the esteemed Bacchanal Societies. Lucia was only passingly familiar with them, though she knew the Severille Society, in addition to its other attributes, was renowned as the playground of the powerful.
“Will we be making the rounds, my Lord?”
He smiled. “The Severille will have everything we need.”
Their carriage pulled up directly to the head of the dock, which was lined all the way to the water with the fearful oscario, guardians of Bacchanal. Each of the ferryboats carried an oscario in its fore, while the ferrymen labored away at the oars.
They were the first to disembark.
Lucia was nervous. The oscario, as usual, was silent; but so was the ferryman. She longed to ask Lord Cesare all sorts of questions, but felt instinctually that this wouldn’t be appropriate for a Severille slave. Or perhaps, truthfully for a captive — and yet, if it weren’t for the silent presence of these witnesses, she would have felt no compunction. She would have felt comfortable.
Yet another new sensation to process.
Their ferry knifed through the water silently; thankfully, there was no wind. There was no sound, either, only an eerie absence that took Lucia a moment to identify. She looked back to see a line of equally silent ferryboats trailing in their wake all the way back to the dock, which was, itself, crowded now with waiting carriages. It was as if the entire city, the entire world, waited for them. For Lord Cesare and his slave.
Their ferry approached the Severille barge, decorated in the customary red and black of the House colors, with white and red lanterns strewn about the hull. Two uniformed men appeared at the edge of the barge and a bridge extended down to their ferry, giving them safe passage.
Lord Cesare led her across on the end of her leash.
It was the first time anyone had seen it. Had seen her in such a state. Leashed. Collared. Even though the ferryman, the oscario, the uniformed servants—even though they were all silent, Lucia’s mind was crowded with the knowledge that they saw. They knew, as they knew the water below was wet, and the lights above burned bright, they knew that she belonged to Lord Cesare.
She shuddered. Lord Cesare looked back and smiled. Then he tugged on the lead.
“Come,” he said.
They were greeted by a phalanx of uniformed servants, all of whom bowed deeply as soon as Lord Cesare stepped foot on the barge. Immediately he was offered amberwine; Lucia was ignored. They didn’t even look at her. She was a non-person at this event. Her only identity was as Lord Cesare’s plaything.
Again, she shuddered.
There was a sort of raised banquet table in the center of the barge. Lord Cesare led her there to wait for the arrival of the other guests. He sat down with his customary sprawl in the seat of honor, and pulled Lucia’s leash until she stood over him.
He grinned. “Come,” he said again, and pulled her onto his lap.
Lucia giggled, but couldn’t hide her nervousness as she burrowed into his chest. She would be perfectly happy if they were alone the rest of the night.
“You are afraid?” His vast chest rumbled in her ear.
“Nervous,” she said. “My Lord.”
He beckoned for a servant to bring them a bottle of amberwine, and slipped a hand between her legs. “This will help,” he said lightly, and she couldn’t tell if he meant his hand or the amberwine.
Both, probably.
Lucia didn’t know how long they sat together like that, getting pleasantly drunk from the wine and the feel of each other’s bodies. It had become easy to be with him again, as it had been at lunch. But before she knew it, they were surrounded by masked guests, many of whom felt the need to come pay their respects to Lord Cesare, who seemed invariably irritated at each interruption.
“My Lord Cesare,” came a stiff, familiar voice, and Lucia turned.
And then froze. It was the vile Captain Rickle, round and pink-faced in tight black velvet. For a moment Lucia forgot her mask, her costume, and the most potent disguise of all: that no one would give her a second glance as Lord Cesare’s slave for the evening.
Captain Rickle bowed to a barely perceptible angle. It seemed to cause him physical distress.
“Rickle.” Lord Cesare laughed, and Lucia realized that was the most insulting thing he could have done to a man like Rickle: laugh at him. And, as a result, Rickle’s attention—his absolute loathing—was focused solely upon Lord Cesare. He didn’t even glance at Lucia. “Go on, Rickle, enjoy yourself for once,” Lord Cesare continued, and waved his hand in dismiss
al.
Rickle seethed, bowed once more, and turned on his heel. Lucia remembered to breathe.
“There,” Lord Cesare whispered into her ear, “Do you see? You are safe, as long as you are mine.”
Lucia put her hand on his chest, and slipped her fingers beneath the lip of his vest to feel the smooth beginnings of his scar. He stiffened beneath her touch.
“Look,” he commanded, gesturing out among the growing crowd. “Pay attention, Lucia. You have a task to perform.”
It actually took Lucia a moment to realize he was talking about the search for the man with a lisp who would be able to help them trace her father’s debt. She blushed at what her first thought had been, but looked out at the patrons of the Severille barge with renewed concentration. This was her chance to help her father.
It was very similar to the Severille take on the Dance of the Dead, the underground party where she’d first met Lord Cesare, only this time afloat and aflame. Paid performers, fire jugglers, and fire-eaters—and one man who would take a swig of amberwine and blow a huge fireball into the air—circulated for the entertainment of the guests. The performers were, of course, mostly background. Everything else was foreplay or fucking. Even Lucia was starting to become immune, and she was able to look at the actual guests, rather than what they were doing.
“They’re all wearing masks,” she complained.
“Look harder.”
She did. And she found she could recognize some of the telltale crests that were cleverly incorporated into some of the masks and costumes. There was Gaston Grimaldi, again surrounded by beautiful, naked women, and again seemingly bored by it. And she was surprised to see Vintner Clavel, David’s father, wearing the crest of the Vintner’s Guild around his neck, his chest puffed up with pride, even as he stood awkwardly by himself, tasting glass upon glass of amberwine. Lucia touched her own elaborate mask, just to remind herself that it was there. Roberto Ramora was there, as well, his mask covering only his eyes, stuffing his face at one of the tables laden with food.