by Thom Lane
“That lad? I don’t suppose he ever does think. Remind me never to ask what he was betting on, to come by all this cash. I’m just glad to have my hands on it. Glad, and very surprised. Go on, get the boy out of here, get him clean, and set him to work. One idle creature in that room is enough.”
Tara was older than me, and I thought probably heavier too. No pretty, slender pleasure slave she, trained to catch a master’s eye and kiss his feet and try to win his smile; she was built for work and kept hard at it, and not inclined to cosset some random boy.
I guess she thought I was exactly that kind of pleasure slave, with ambitions to be as idle as her mistress had suggested. I suppose she wasn’t too far wrong. I’d be as lazy as my master would allow; of course I would. What slave wouldn’t? But I could work when I had to, and my master might be content to live in a pit, but I wasn’t.
Nor did I like feeling grimy and sticky all over. It had been fun to get that way, in Master Jensen’s bed, in his arms, at his hands; now I wanted to wash it all off and be clean.
There was no point protesting that, though, no point insisting that I could be trusted to look after myself. Tara’s mistress had given her orders, and the woman meant to carry them out. To the letter, and more.
She hooked her fingers through my collar and tugged me out into the yard by main force, over to the horse trough. A shove put me down on my knees; she filled a bucket from the trough, and then tipped it over my head without warning.
That sudden cascade of sharp cold water stole all my breath from me. By the time I’d filled my lungs again and opened my mouth to complain, she’d filled the bucket again; at the look on her face, I had wit enough to close my mouth and hold my tongue.
She nodded, approving my wisdom—and then tipped the second bucketful over me anyway.
I blinked the water out of my eyes, and saw her refilling the bucket yet again; and saw her reaching for a stiff-bristled scrubbing brush, and just knew that she was going to wield that herself too.
Given more warning, I might have changed her mind for her, but I was slow and shivering with cold. When she said, “All fours now,” I just did as she told me, posing obediently on hands and knees while she went at me with that chill water and that ruthless brush.
It wasn’t the first time I’d been scrubbed before I could duck; it might have been the hardest, the coldest, the most thorough. The water’s bite was bad enough, but the bristles were worse. They felt sharp and stiff enough to take my skin off. I did actually have to look, to be sure I wasn’t bleeding. And as soon as I lifted my head Tara clouted it, of course, with the hard wooden handle of the brush.
All in all I was feeling pretty sorry for myself by the time she was satisfied. She didn’t say a word, but I glimpsed her bare feet walking off across the cobbles. I stayed exactly where I was, dripping wet and shuddering as the breeze played over my skin. She was back soon enough with a piece of sacking, rough and scratchy and smelling of horse. She tossed that over my shoulders and started rubbing. Hard.
That hurt too. I bit my lip and endured it, as a slow warmth came creeping through my skin and into my flesh again.
She dried me off as swiftly, as thoroughly, as ruthlessly as she’d scrubbed me down. Then, “You’ll do. Up you get now, and come with me.”
I scrambled to my feet and heeled her obediently, though she was just a slave herself; it’s always smart to play humble, when you’re new in a house. Even if you don’t reckon to stay. I’d kiss her feet too if I had to. It would flatter her and not hurt me, and it’s the easiest way I know to dodge a few bruises. Every way else takes more work.
We went up the stairs and back to my master’s room where she said, “I’m not having you roam around my mistress’s house getting into everywhere and wasting all our time.” She clipped the chain to my collar again; I could reach every corner of the room, but I couldn’t get farther than the door.
“You heard what your master said. Get to work sorting out this chaos. I’ll be back in half an hour with a bucket and some cloths, so you can clean it properly. By then you’d better have the floor clear and some kind of order in here. We keep a tidy house, and this room is a disgrace.”
“Yes, mistress.”
She snorted, and cuffed me, and was gone. I rubbed my ear ruefully until the sting faded, looked around at all my master’s things—his other things—where he had dropped them or flung them or forgotten them altogether, and made a start.
* * * *
Tara came back as promised, perhaps a little sooner than she’d promised, hoping perhaps to catch me idling. Instead I think she was impressed, a little, by how much I’d done already.
She wouldn’t say so, of course. Free or slave, high or low, that’s the way of the world; you punish laziness, and take hard work for granted. Instead she just started telling me the One True Way to scrub a floor, and when I interrupted her she lifted her big hard hand to cuff me again.
This time, I was quicker. I looked up and leaned into her, just a touch, nothing clumsy; and that hand changed its mind halfway down. It didn’t sting the way it meant to, it didn’t strike with any power at all. It only played a little with my hair and then slipped into a pouch she wore at her waist, came out with a handful of pressed dates for me.
I kissed her fingers gratefully, and smiled at her broad back as she left me. Then I munched dates in easy contentment as I scrubbed and wiped and rinsed away weeks of dust and dirt. I don’t mind cleaning. It’s nice to be clean.
* * * *
Nicer when your master comes back, all clean himself after a morning in the baths; when he stands in the doorway and looks around his room and blinks a little in surprise and says, “Did you do all this yourself?”
As if any of the women in this house would have offered any help. I managed not to snort at him; that wouldn’t have been safe. Instead I just smiled brightly up from where I was kneeling like a good impatient boy at the foot of his bed, naked and alert and eager to please.
“Yes, Master.”
“Good lad, then.”
He patted my cheek in casual approval and sat on the bed, still looking about him, still looking a little bemused. He’d slopped down the street to the baths in a pair of old disreputable shoes; I bent down to slip those off for him, kissed his feet while I was there—smelling the subtle spices of the oil he’d been rubbed with, and wondering just what lucky slave had had the oiling of him, and wanting to run my tongue up his leg, and not doing it—and replaced the shoes with a pair of soft worn slippers. Just as old, just as disreputable, but he’d be less inclined to wander out again, if he had to change his shoes.
I thought. I hoped.
Free folk give the orders, of course. They make all the decisions that rule our lives—and with luck they never realize just how often or how much they are manipulated. We all have quiet little ways to sway our owners, this way or that. I was starting early, perhaps, but the sooner we grew used to each other, the easier we’d be together.
I was already hoping I could stay with this one for a good long time. Stay just here, kneeling at his feet, leaning against his leg. Resting my cheek against his knee and taking a chance, peeking up at him.
Finding him frowning, focusing on the pile of clothes I’d left beside the door.
“What’s that mess? Why haven’t you tidied those away? If they’re for the laundry, you’ll wash them yourself; I won’t have you making work for the girls of the house.”
“No, Master. Of course I’ll do your laundry”— when I’m let off your chain—“but those are for the rag basket. They’re too far gone to save.” His frown deepened; he drew a breath, and I went on hastily, “You don’t need to wear your old clothes now. You can go to your tailor and have new things made—good things, made to fit.” He didn’t have to disgrace himself and me every time he stepped outside the door.
“My tailor, eh?” He chuckled, and twisted a lock of my hair around his finger. “Poor boy, you have come down in the world. What
ever makes you think I have a tailor?”
“Well, but you can afford one now,” I reminded him.
“Oh,” he said, taken aback for a moment. “I suppose I can. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Dressing your master smartly?”
I nodded, against his palm as it happened to be there.
“Maybe you’re thinking that Master could dress his boy smartly too?”
It had crossed my mind, but I wasn’t going to confess it, exactly. “If Master wishes,” I murmured, all innocence, lipping at his thumb as it strayed from my cheek.
“I’ll dress you when I think you’re ready,” he growled, “and not before.” He scanned the room again, searching. “Where did you put it all?”
In the press, in the closets—but he didn’t actually mean the scatter of all his belongings that I’d tidied away out of sight. I bit back any tendency to be smart, and took him to the window. Leading him by the hand, so he’d be sure to come. There stood his boots, where I’d polished them as best I could, in the best of the light. I picked one up, and tipped it upside down above the bed. Out fell a tumble of heavy colorful shapes: his winnings, all tied up in handkerchiefs and stockings, the best coin bags I could improvise.
“I sorted them out for you, Master. Imperials and shillings in this boot, silver pennies and coppers in the other,” and another little stash hidden in the press among his underthings, in case he was reckless or unlucky with all of this. Slaves yield up everything to their owners—but not always all at once. It’s wise to hold something in reserve. And to hope they don’t find out, and to take the bruises patiently if they do.
His eyes shifted from the money to me and then back to the money; he looked a little pleased, a little baffled. Perhaps he hadn’t expected a boy to show so much initiative. “Did you count it?”
“Yes, Master.” I gave him the count exactly, of everything his boots held. It was enough, for now.
More than enough, apparently. Still enough to shake him. “Clever boy,” he said faintly, when he could breathe again. “Can you read as well?”
“No, Master.”
“Probably just as well. I wouldn’t want you getting above yourself. Though there’s not much danger of that, so long as you belong to me. Were you born slave?”
I nodded against his shoulder. Some masters want to know the whole history of their slaves; others never think to ask. I really didn’t want to tell, but I had it all ready on my tongue if he should want it: the truth because only a fool ever lies to his owner, but not the whole truth. It’s always wise to hold something in reserve.
“That’s probably better than the other thing,” he said, “knowing the taste of freedom and then losing it.” His hand strayed down my back and over my butt. When I shivered against him, he laughed contentedly and slapped me. “Come on then, young slut. Show me these things of mine you want to throw away.”
It doesn’t always help to be too good; the smart boy always leaves something for his master to find fault with. Mine picked through the pile and pulled out a shirt of faded velvet.
“Oh, what—you were going to throw my favorite shirt away, were you?”
“It’s very worn. And fraying, see, at the sleeve…” I was trying to hide my smile, but he might have heard it anyway. I’d had a little bet with myself, that this would be the one he balked at. It’s always the favorite that’s most washed, most patched, kept longest past the last days of its respectability.
“Then you’d better learn how to mend it. Ask the girls, when you hand over the rest of these for the rag basket.”
“Yes, Master.” I could mend it easily enough, if there was a needle somewhere in the house that I could beg the use of. Even so, I didn’t mean to let him out of doors again in that shirt, patched or not. If it meant that much to him, he could wear it around the house, to be comfy in. He could wear it to bed if he wanted to, and I would play along, whatever game might take his fancy. But people judge a body slave by his master’s appearance, as much as anything. If I wanted to see my master walk more proudly in the world, I needed to start with the little things, the easy victories. Shirts that weren’t out at elbow, that wouldn’t make me ashamed to be seen at his heel.
He stirred the rest of the pile with his foot, then laughed down at me unexpectedly. “Little victory for you, this, isn’t it?”
Perhaps I was rushing things; he wasn’t supposed to see through me this fast. I held my breath, until he went on, “If you had your way, I think you’d strip me wholly naked.”
I risked a glance up, and a smile. “That sounds nice.” And then, quickly, “But only till the tailor could dress you the way you should be dressed. The way you can afford now, Master.”
“I am not,” he growled, “a doll for you to play dress up with.” But of course he was, and of course he knew it. All his life, most likely, he would have been dressed by his slaves. Until recently, until now, when he found himself flung back on his own scant resources. I wondered if his family had fallen on hard times, or if he’d fallen out with them. There are any number of ways for a young free man to cut himself adrift, but mostly that’s what they boil down to, one or the other of those.
Just now, I wasn’t the only one who’d like to take the clothes off his back. From where I knelt, I was perfectly placed to see the bulge where his cock was straining at his trousers. It’s a bold boy who reaches to touch without permission, without orders, on his first day—but I was feeling bold, and increasingly confident. I wrapped one arm around his leg and rose up on my knees, pressed my hand against his cock and my head against his belly, leaned into him as much as I dared, an open invitation to play undress.
I heard his chuckle thicken, and knew just how much he wanted me. The sound of soft footsteps in the passage outside was unwelcome to us both. I nuzzled at his groin anyway, through the fabric of his trousers, and wasn’t surprised to be knocked roughly away as someone scratched at the door.
“See who that is,” he growled. “Don’t let them in unless you have to.”
Don’t let them in unless they’re free, he meant—but I thought he’d recognized the pad of bare feet, just as I had. And that scratching had been not exactly tentative, but certainly polite.
Sure enough, it was Tara waiting outside the door. “This was just delivered,” she said, holding out a sheet of paper, folded and sealed and stamped with a signet ring. “For your master.”
Well, obviously for my master. It wasn’t very likely to be for me. Did she think I was dim?
Probably she did, yes. Most slave women think most of us boys are monumentally stupid.
I played smart, buttoned my lip, and took the message; then I remembered my duty and asked who had sent it.
“I don’t know. It was a runner, in livery. From one of the grand houses. I didn’t know him; we don’t see that sort around here.” Despite herself, she sounded impressed.
I nodded, closed the door, turned around. No need to report to Master Jensen; he’d overheard everything we’d said. The room was so small, he’d have had to turn his back and jam his fingers in his ears to have missed it.
He snapped his fingers, held out his hand.
I passed him the paper, impressed myself just by the weight and texture of it. I didn’t get to handle paper much, and it had mostly been cheap stuff when I did, fit for scribbled liaisons and promises worth breaking. This felt important, imposing, as if its message had to matter more for being written out on such expensive stuff.
My master raised his eyebrows at it himself, before he remembered that I was watching. Then he tried to seem casual, as if such things came daily. I looked down, hiding my smile. Every free man has his vanity. Mine was young yet, to worry even a little about what his slave might be thinking.
He broke the seal, unfolded the paper, and read. I used to wonder how it felt to have that skill, to look at marks and understand their meaning. Now I reckon it’s smarter to do what we do, to look at men and understand their moods. Soon enough, I should be able to
read my master like a book.
He glanced up at me, frowning. “Have you had any dealings with a nobleman called Varty?”
“Me? With a nobleman?”
“I take it that means no. And I certainly haven’t, so why is he inviting me to game at his tables tonight?”
“Oh,” I said, suddenly remembering. “Wait just a moment…”
I ducked to the door and peered out. There was Tara, still lingering in the corridor: not quite listening at the keyhole, just being there, in hopes of learning what the message was about. To satisfy her own curiosity, and very possibly her mistress’s too.
I said, “Did that runner wait for a reply?”
She shook her head reluctantly. “He said your master would come, or not come. That would be answer enough.”
I grunted. “You said he was in livery. What colors?”
“Crimson and cinnamon. Good silk stuff too, not your common tunic.”
I didn’t have a tunic, common or otherwise. Not right now. It didn’t matter. I had what I needed more, something to help my master.
I went back into the room, closed the door firmly at my back—if Tara heard what she wanted to, it wouldn’t be from me—and said, “I do know that house. I didn’t know the name, but my last master used to go there to gamble sometimes.”
“Did he so? Well, I guess he wants his revenge, then. And he’s hoping to intimidate me with his grand friends. That’s not going to work.”
Of course it wasn’t going to work. Master Jensen wasn’t fool enough to take up the invitation; he had too much to lose now. He wouldn’t risk gambling in a private house, where anything might happen, but the cards were surely marked.
“Put the money in the press for now, and fetch my boots.”
“Yes, Master.” I took them to him; he looked them up and down, and his face twisted with dissatisfaction.
“Is that the best you can do?”
Absolutely it was the best I could do in one day, given the state of them this morning. It was a miracle that I’d been able to work up any shine at all. I couldn’t say that, though, I couldn’t even hint it; I just looked down and muttered, “I’ll do better tomorrow.”