Gambling Heart

by Thom Lane

  I thought his cum tasted of salted almonds.

  If you have to belong to another man—and I did have to, of course I did; I really had no choice about that—then you might as well think that his cum tastes of salted almonds. It doesn’t get much better than that.

  I nuzzled at him until the slow weight of his breathing said that he was asleep again, one last goodwill gesture from the night. The way his luck was running, he’d sleep off his headache and be bright and ready for the day by the time he woke again.

  Meanwhile, his good luck was mine too. I could snuggle down between his legs and drift away myself. Use his thigh for a pillow and pretend I was just being good, staying close, keeping ready. Not really pretending, either. Slaves can always sleep, it’s a gift we have; but I was breathing in the scents of him as I dozed, learning to know him in the dark.

  * * * *

  Next time he woke, he was altogether more vigorous. He did groan a little at the light, maybe—unless it was just at the day, the need to be up and doing when he’d rather just stay in bed. But he rolled me out of it with a single swift, determined thrust of his leg, and by the time I’d scrambled onto my knees like a good boy he was sitting up himself. Feet right there on the floorboards next to me, so I dropped my head down again to kiss them. Like a really good boy, who really doesn’t want to be taken to market this morning. What was left of this morning.

  Please don’t sell me, Master…

  I didn’t say it aloud, but that must have been what he heard, what he read in my submissive obedience. I didn’t think it was necessary at all, but it never hurts—much—to do more than you need for your master, to give more than he demands.

  Besides, this was a man whose feet I was ready to kiss. I’d watched him surreptitiously last night, when he was drunk and reckless; I watched him again this morning, peeping from the corner of my eye as he pushed himself upright and walked over to the window, as he dared the sun’s glare, as he stood in the full force of it, breathing deep and stretching luxuriously.

  He was tall and handsome, my new master; or I thought so, at least. Some women I’d known would dismiss him as too pretty, but that could only ever be envy. I liked the ripple of muscle beneath his skin as he stretched and twisted: nothing too bulky, but he was no man’s weakling. His hair was shocking, but I could deal with that. Like his room, and the way he kept his things.

  I was one of his things now. He’d keep me more carefully, I thought, and I’d take care of everything else, and we’d be good together, happy with each other.

  It was a dream, but I thought I could make it happen.

  I’d thought that before and been wrong, but I was learning more every time, getting better. Learning how to please a man and how to keep him happy.

  If pleasing him made me happy too, that was a gift. I thought it could only help. I’d try harder, if he was someone who—well, someone whose cum tasted of salted almonds, whose feet I was eager to kiss.

  He turned away from the window, knowing nothing—I hoped!—of what I was thinking. Meeting my eyes and frowning slightly, then laughing as I ducked my head in a quick gesture of fear and respect.

  I felt his hand in my hair again, and felt like it belonged there—like my head belonged here, nestled into his palm, just at the height of his hip.

  He sighed, and maybe it was my imagination or else his hangover, but I thought that was a reminder of regret, that he really didn’t want to sell me, though he needed to.

  “Find me some clean clothes, lad, from the press over there, and we’ll—”

  His voice broke off suddenly. I didn’t dare lift my eyes; even so, I could guess exactly where he was looking, even what he was thinking.

  He’s seen it.

  He took three quick paces across the room, away from me. I still wasn’t going to peek—I was taking no chances now—but I heard the dull clink of heavy coins falling on fabric, and I knew just how he was running them between his fingers one after another, scooping them up in handfuls, trying to understand.

  “Boy…?”

  His voice was a breath, disbelieving.

  “Master?” I could lift my head now, obedient to his summons, but he still wasn’t looking at me. Only staring down at the small fortune he held in his fingers.

  Don’t get carried away, Master mine. It really is a very small fortune.

  Still, I knew already how much of a difference it would make to him. He was starting to realize that himself, I thought—but still not quite daring to trust it.

  “Where did all this come from?”

  A free man shouldn’t be turning to his slave for reassurance. He should never need to do that. At least, in his head that ought to be true. In practice, in my experience, free folk do it all the time. They get drunk or casual, and forget what ought to matter most; they need us to keep their heedless feet on the ground. And their hair brushed, their linen clean and properly laced, their boots respectably polished.

  I was itching to get to work on his boots. They were a total disgrace.

  I said, “That’s the rest of your winnings, Master, from last night.” All bundled up in the tunic I’d been wearing, convenient for me to carry at his heel: a weight of gold and silver, fruit of a long evening’s play with young men very much wealthier than he was.

  Still very much wealthier, despite all they’d lost last night. He hadn’t broken anyone; to them this was hardly more than play money. This and me together, no loss to keep any of them awake at night.

  Just as well, in the circumstances.

  To him, though, to my new master it really was a fortune. A change of fortune. When he’d done marveling, he said, “Do you realize what this means?”

  Yes, Master. Better than you do.

  I didn’t say anything aloud; he didn’t expect me to. He went on, “It means I can pay off all my debts. All of them. And still have money left over, money to live on.” He shook his head, then scratched it vigorously. “I still can’t believe it. I never win anything.”

  Perhaps he shouldn’t gamble, then—but there was no point suggesting that. Especially now. If I wasn’t careful with him, he’d just lose it all again in short order. All of it and me too, most likely.

  Some free folk talk to their slaves the same way they talk to their dogs, expecting no reply. I didn’t think he was like that, but there was only one sure way to find out. I smiled gently as I fetched his smallclothes from the press, worn but clean. “Master had a lucky night,” I said.

  “Perhaps I did, yes. Perhaps you did too.”

  He was beginning to catch on at last. Still, I was going to make him say it. No one makes promises to a slave, but even so: if he said it aloud, he might feel himself bound by it. At least a little bound, at least for a while.

  “Master?”

  “I don’t have to sell you now. I can actually afford to keep a boy—and see, here you are. Ready to be kept.” His hand was under my chin, lifting my head till our eyes met. “A bright, pretty boy at that. Just the kind I might have come home with, if I’d gone to market looking.”

  He was bright himself, I thought, as well as pretty. A bit slow this morning, but that was understandable. I needed to be careful and guard my tongue.

  For now, I said nothing: only looked at him hopefully until he laughed, and kissed me, and clipped my ear smartly.

  “Hungry? No, never mind,” even as I nodded with enthusiasm. “You’re a boy, and a slave; of course you’re hungry.” I didn’t think he was that much older than me. A year or two, perhaps; not enough to signify. Which was an idea he reinforced a moment later. “Actually, so am I. Against all odds. Clothes, then, and we’ll see what Mistress Arianne can do about feeding us.”

  Clothes for himself, he meant. He didn’t much care what he wore—I brought him shirt and trousers, and I don’t believe he even looked, just pulled them on any old how—and he cared less about me. He did think about it, briefly, just long enough to go back to the bundle of coins and finger the rough fabric they’
d been wrapped in. “Was this yours?”

  “Yes, Master.” Well, technically it had been my master’s, of course, as I was myself. Even the collar on my neck didn’t belong to me; it just came with me. Or I went with it. Often it felt that way round, when I was leashed and tugged about.

  “Well, I can’t dress you in another man’s livery.” Blue and white, diagonally striped—it was deliberately distinctive, a way to declare the importance of the household I’d belonged to. You couldn’t walk down a street or navigate a market without that jagged design catching your eye, on a slave’s tunic or a carriage door. My new master must know it by sight, as most city folk did, even if he’d never given it a moment’s thought till now. “I’ll find you something later, maybe. If you’re good. For now, breakfast. And then the baths for me. Oh gods, for a bath! I need to steam my head. I think my brain is shrunken…”

  My new master was a talker, clearly. That was better than the cold silence I’d grown used to, the minimal gestures I’d been trained to obey.

  At least that training kept me alert. He’d barely taken a step towards the door before I was slipping past to open it for him. He wasn’t used to service on that level, or any; he hesitated, then chuckled and patted my bare butt as he walked through.

  I liked his chuckle. It was warm and conspiratorial, as if we were both playing the same game here, from the same side. I liked his hand too, the touch of it; that was warm too, and firm and possessive, the kind of pat that’s halfway to a slap, a reminder that we weren’t really playing.

  He took three paces down the hall and stopped, realizing that I wasn’t behind him where I ought to be. I just had time to notice that someone had taken the soiled bowl away while we drowsed; then he grunted and came back, unclipped the chain from my collar and tossed it back into the room, cuffed my ear sharply—which hardly seemed fair, but that’s masters for you—and turned away again.

  Now I was free to pad down the ramshackle wooden stairs at his heel, naked and content enough. My ears might be ringing, but at least he’d promised me breakfast. A new boy couldn’t depend on that. A lot of free folk will starve a slave their first day, just to keep them sharp and teach them discipline.

  Down the stairs and along a corridor: I could have followed my nose if I hadn’t had my master’s heels to track, directly to the kitchen.

  Where he was none too welcome, to judge by the scowls that greeted him. There were two slave girls busy at the range, a free woman sitting at a table sipping kaff and looking through a ledger, making notes. None of the three could spare my master a smile, seemingly.

  “No good you come sobbing to us, young Master,” one of the slaves murmured, hustling past us, her tray laden with steaming dishes. “You’ll get as much sympathy here as you do breakfast, and that’ll be none at all.”

  “Oh, have a heart, Velda!”—but Velda was gone, and hearts were in short supply. Her chain-sister snorted, not even turning from her pots; the free woman glanced up and said, “You might do better begging from the mistress, rather than the slaves.”

  “I doubt that,” my master said cheerfully. “It’s easier for slaves to be openhanded with what they don’t own themselves.”

  “Fair point. Is that how you’ve run your account up quite so far, by wheedling my women more than myself?” She turned to a new page and frowned down at it. “No more, Jensen. I mean it. Not a meal, not a mug of cider, not a spare pin to keep your clothes from falling apart. Not until I see this settled. I’ll have you out of your room tomorrow, and your things at market if you can’t pay me. Is that boy yours?”

  She turned her frown on me, and I couldn’t help a shiver, even knowing what I knew. She’d send me to market without a second thought, if that was the quickest way to get her money. No questions, and no reprieve.

  So would my master have sold me, of course—but at least he would have regretted it, and tried to see me safe. Not her. She’d take the first good offer that came, regardless of where it sent me.

  Blessedly, she wouldn’t get the chance. My master had scooped up a handful of change from his little hoard on our way out—small stuff, silver, and clipped silver at that—and now he tossed it down on the table in front of her, not even bothering to count.

  “See if that’ll cover it,” he said, obviously absolutely confident that it would.

  Startled, she gazed from the scattered coins to him, to me, back to him again. “What have you been up to, lad?”

  “Nothing.” He grinned. “Nothing illegal, at any rate. Nothing to get me into trouble, or you either. Take the money, auntie. It’s quite clean.”

  She was already reaching to gather it up. “Gambling, then, I suppose?”

  “I guess so. The boy says so. He’s part of my winnings.”

  “And you were too drunk to remember, no doubt? You should be grateful you made it home with so much and your head intact.”

  So much and a whole lot more, that he was—just—wise enough not to tell her about. I didn’t think she was truly his auntie; I wasn’t sure how much money it would take to have her break his head for him with one of the heavy pans hanging conveniently to hand.

  Master Jensen was smart, or still being lucky; or else his hangover really did twist back at him just then, just at the right moment. He sank into a chair, buried his head in both hands and groaned aloud. “I’m not sure it is. Intact, I mean. If you love me, auntie, give me a mug of kaff and something solid for my belly. Something for the boy too, he needs feeding up. Ethereal beauty’s all well and good, but I’d sooner see some flesh on his bones.”

  She glanced over to the range and nodded slightly. Her slave was quick; a minute later my master had a plate of ham and eggs in front of him, kaff in his fist, bread within reach. I would have stood behind his chair and served him, in hopes of being slipped a crust to chew on, but I had something better: a bowl of my own, warm with barley porridge. It was only the scrapings, what the girls had left cooling in the kettle. I hadn’t been fed since yesterday; it looked like a feast to me.

  I’d rather have settled under the table at my new master’s feet, let him get used to having me there; but I wouldn’t do that here, under two women’s cynical gazes. Not unless he put me there himself, and the thought hadn’t even occurred to him, apparently. So I hunkered down by the side of the range, where I’d be warm and in no one’s way, nor in their eye line either. You learn not to attract attention, especially in a busy kitchen where there’s always work.

  You learn to eat fast too. Free folk think nothing of whistling their slaves away from the only meal they’ll get that day, for any little task that needs doing. Right now is when they want it done, and if that means you go hungry till next morning, why would they worry? You’re just a slave, and it’s not their belly that flaps empty against their spine. Never that.

  There was honey in the porridge, and sweet spices too. The mistress of the house was more generous than she seemed, or else one of her girls had slipped some flavor in behind her back. I doubted that; her discipline seemed absolute, and who would risk a whipping for a mouthful of sweetness?

  Even now, my master was asking for a spice roll, and I saw the girl who served him glance to her mistress first, before she fetched it. They’d take a little time, I guessed, to get used to the notion that he could have what he wanted. That he could afford what he wanted, more to the point. By the time they’d adjusted, I thought—I hoped!—he might be living somewhere a little grander.

  For now he got his roll, while I cleaned my bowl with my fingers and sucked the last vestige of sweetness from them. Then I just knelt quietly there in the warm until he was done—until he remembered my existence, basically, over his second mug of kaff unless it was his third.

  He glanced around to find me, snapped his fingers to fetch me to his side. I knelt by his leg, hoping he might feed me the scraps from his plate. Instead he said, “I’m going to soak in the bathhouse for an hour, see if I can steam this headache out of me. You get yourself washed; no
need to be underfoot in here, there’s a trough out in the yard. Then trot back up to my room and make yourself useful. The place is a mess; by the time I get back, it had better not be.”

  My heart had been rising hopefully, at the thought of a morning spent soaking in the fierce heat of the baths. I really shouldn’t be greedy—I should have learned by now—but even so: I took a risk, and leaned on him just a little. “Master, can’t I come—”

  That was as far as I got, before the back of his hand knocked me sprawling.

  He wasn’t angry; when I looked up, he was laughing at me. But his boot toe ground into my ribs nonetheless, as he said, “No, you don’t, boy. It’s not that easy to get around me. You’ll do what you’re told and take what you’re given, and that’s all. Understand me?”

  “Y-yes, Master.” I thought I understood him very well. Next time, maybe I’d lean harder. If I dared. Already, I was keen to please him if I could. I’d been through too many masters’ hands; I wanted to settle at one man’s feet and make him happy, be happy myself if I could only manage that.

  I was hoping quite urgently now that this would be the man. He was young and lovely and not unkind, hot in bed and out of it; I thought he’d be easy enough to handle. I thought I could make his life better, and so my own also. So long as I was careful, submissive, subtle. So long as I didn’t try to lean too hard, too soon.

  He gestured me up onto my knees, roughed my hair for me, let me kiss his fingers. I tasted cinnamon, and sucked at them gently till he laughed, wiped them in my hair, cuffed me lightly and was gone. He strode out into the bright day, a shadow in the doorway and then nothing but a memory and a dream together, the dawn of hope.

  “You,” his landlady snapped, “you heard your master. Outside, and start splashing. No, wait. Tara, go with him, and see he scrubs down properly. I can’t be doing with a grubby boy in the house, and I don’t trust this one as far as I could spit him.”

  “Me neither, mistress. He’s a sly one, by the look of him. I can’t tell what Master Jensen was thinking.”