by Thom Lane
He slapped my butt to get me started. I couldn’t tell if that was drunken energy or some more subtle message or only normal, the everyday way a man handles his slave. As I trotted past Master Leonin, though, his switch bit hard across my calf. I knew what that was: a promise for the future, you’ll be mine again tonight, under my discipline. Fear me…
I already did fear him. Any sensible boy fears his master, of course, but this was different. Any master can be free with the leather—Master Jensen included—and take pleasure from it, and a wise boy only hopes to share that pleasure. But, again, this was different. Master Leonin had a twist in his head. For him it wasn’t about sex, or about good service either. His pleasure only came from pain. In all the time he’d owned me, he’d never once fucked me; I don’t think it had even crossed his mind. He just enjoyed the whip, and his other cold devices.
If I’ve ever, ever been close to running away, this was the moment: when I was on the move already, no one was watching me and my mind was full of terror, imagining this night and so many more to come, in Master Leonin’s hands again.
It was enough to bring a bitter sweat to my skin, almost enough to make me stupid. Not to dream of finding freedom, never that: but if I took just one bag of Master Jensen’s money and made my way down to the docks, I could bribe my way onto a boat and be away with the next tide. A new master and a new life, and that master delighted with his bargain, a boy and a bag of gold both for the asking…
Only, Master Jensen would be so disappointed in me. Angry too, I was sure, but disappointed mainly. Let down. Betrayed again: and under Master Leonin’s eyes too, made to seem weak, a man who couldn’t keep a slave for a single day.
Apparently I couldn’t do that to him. It made little sense even to me, I hardly knew him nor understood myself; but here I was at his boardinghouse, in his room, doing just exactly what he’d told me. Even knowing the cost I faced, what I had to go back to.
I set his new purchases neatly on the side, then collected all his winnings in an old satchel I found hanging on the back of the door. Well, almost all his winnings. What I’d hidden away earlier, I left where it was. It was my first real disobedience, and the skin of my back crawled in anticipation; he’d be angry with me if he found out. But he’d only find the money if he needed it, if he’d lost all the rest, if he’d lost me too. I didn’t mean to let that happen.
I smiled fleetingly at the rebelliousness of that thought. Master Leonin meant it to happen, no question. He’d spiked my master’s drink to make sure of it. He was wealthy, he had powerful friends, and he was well prepared. I was just a slave boy. Until yesterday, he’d owned me outright. What could I possibly do, against him?
Right now, the best I could manage was prompt obedience to Master Jensen. It was petty, maybe, but I could make that feel like a victory. Be the perfect body slave tonight, pay my new master all the little attentions that make a free man’s life more comfortable, all under the eyes of my old master…
I slung the heavy satchel onto my shoulder and hurried out. Down the wooden steps and through the yard, onto the street—and a sharp whistle cut across my thoughts, cut all my strings at once, stopped me dead.
A dark figure detached itself from the wall where it had been lounging, and strolled across.
Rollo, Master Leonin’s steward. I knew the shape of him, the way he walked, the way he carried himself. Actually I’d have known without looking; I’d known him just by his whistle. I used to hear it daily, many times a day, all through the months I’d belonged to his cruel master.
Like master, like man. Rollo was slave like me, but nothing like me. He and Master Leonin made quite the pair. Except that Rollo was brutal instead of subtle, dim instead of sharp. Slave instead of free. That above all, of course. It should have made all the difference in the world; and yet he was like his master’s shadow, an echo of his owner, the same shape only far more crudely drawn.
Rollo, what are you doing here? I really didn’t need to ask. Master Leonin had sent him, of course, to be sure of me. Just in case I yielded to that stray temptation, and made a run for it.
Aloud he said, “Our master thought someone should be with you. Carrying so much money in the street, he said, one boy’s not safe. He wants to keep you safe.”
I didn’t doubt it. He’s not my master, but I didn’t say that either. It might be true—for a while, at least, for these few hours more—but it wouldn’t be safe. I might be tagged with someone else’s name now, but that wouldn’t stop Rollo clouting me. There’s never any point inviting bruises. I just kept my mouth shut and fell into step behind him. Heeling him the way I would my master, or any free folk. He’d like that, and it kept me out of his reach for just a little longer.
At least when we came to Lord Varty’s house I didn’t have to walk in alone. That’s always hard. This way it was easy; I just followed Rollo to the back gate and a side entrance, straight past the kitchen-master and into a maze of narrow passages, hidden doors, and stairs. Every great house has a network of slave ways, to keep us out of sight and out of mind except when and where we’re wanted. Here was where I really did need a guide; I might have been here half a dozen times before, but I still hadn’t learned my way around.
At last, Rollo brought us out into a broad corridor that I recognized, and through a door into Lord Varty’s gaming room.
A good slave never knocks. We’re trained not to draw attention to ourselves. For a big man, Rollo was quiet on his bare feet, and I could be quieter; we drifted into that room like smoke.
Nevertheless, my master’s head lifted the moment we walked in, and his eyes found mine. He’s been waiting for me, I thought, and my heart lifted too.
Perhaps he’d only been waiting for his money—but no, they’d have let him play with tokens, with promises. Of course they would, so long as they knew the money was on its way. It was me he’d wanted to see.
Just for his own comfort, perhaps; he couldn’t really be expecting me to help. At least he knew, though, that he did need help from somewhere. Master Leonin’s drug had worn off, I thought. Behind his rigid unrevealing face, his eyes looked desperate.
I took his satchel to him, knelt at his side, and began to make neat stacks of all his coins on the table, where they’d be conveniently to hand. If I brushed against his leg as I worked, I could only hope it would help: a touch of human contact, a mute promise of support. I might only be a slave, but I was his slave.
At least for now, I was. They were playing cards, he and Master Leonin, and Lord Varty, and a couple of other young nobles whose faces I knew from other such nights, here and in other houses. Their names escaped me. It didn’t matter; they were barely more than furniture here tonight, they barely meant any more than I did. This was all about Master Leonin. He wasn’t the only one who’d lost money to Master Jensen the previous evening, but he was the one who cared. In his pride more than his purse, but that only meant it cut more deeply. He’d want everything back, everything and more.
Everything including me, obviously: but what would really matter to him, he’d want to see Master Jensen humiliated. Stripped and broken, staggering out of here into the dawn light with nothing left to his name bar the clothes on his back.
I really didn’t want to see that happen. For more than my own selfish reasons, I did not. Never mind that it would mean my staying behind, in Master Leonin’s possession again, under his cold hand. That would be terrible, after even such a brief taste of a different life; but still, it was for his own sake, for Master Jensen himself that I felt most determined.
I wasn’t sure, quite, why I felt this way. I’d only known him for a day. In honesty I only knew his vulnerabilities, his poverty, and how easily he was seduced by wine and gaming. I shouldn’t care for him at all, except as a means of escape. That was all he’d been to me last night; and he’d spent most of that night in a drunken stupor, and most of this morning clutching his head and moaning. When he wasn’t clutching me.
He was wildly
handsome, of course, but that wasn’t enough to seize my heart this way. I’m not so shallow. One lesson a slave learns early, the face has nothing to say about the man who wears it. Master Leonin was handsome too, in a colder kind of way.
Maybe that was it, the warmth in Master Jensen. Broke or drunk or dizzy, something still shone through, something that even a slave could respond to: pure gold, I thought he was, at the heart of him. The kind of man I dreamed of, strict and demanding and delightful, tender and careful and impulsive all at once. The kind of free man a boy could learn to love, and love the lessons too.
More than anything in the world, I wanted him to keep me. Which meant he had to walk out of here proudly, with everything he’d come with. Everything and more. I had to be trotting at his heel where I belonged, with his satchel bulging at my hip, the gold inside it straining every seam.
It wouldn’t be easy. This was a trap, laid and ready.
The only thing in our favor was, it was a trap set for Master Jensen, not for me. I was incidental. Master Leonin had barely noticed that I was there; his attention was all on his cards and on my master. I was just a side benefit, a piece of his former property, something he meant to win back.
Win or cheat or steal, he wouldn’t care.
Until then, he’d pay me no mind. I laid out Master Jensen’s money with swift nimble fingers, and he acknowledged that little service with a touch, his fingers lightly in my hair. Another man—Master Leonin!—would have ignored me altogether; is it any wonder that this one made my heart sing, even after only one day? I kissed his fingertips—taking advantage of the moment to lean into him just a little, try to steady his dizzy head—and then slipped away to stand behind his chair as a dutiful body slave should, to be sure that he had everything he needed.
There was a goblet of wine set before him, but he was hardly touching that. Rollo came around the table with a jug, topping up all the other men’s drinks, but Master Jensen just waved him away. Again, my heart lifted. It was impertinent, and I’d never tell him, but I felt so proud of him in that moment.
Master Leonin noticed the gesture, but he didn’t care. Why would he? He had my master where he wanted him, here at the gaming table. It didn’t matter any longer whether he was drunk or drugged or magicked, or sober as a penitent. The result would be the same, whichever. He wasn’t about to walk out now. He was snared, penned, ready to be fleeced. So Master Leonin thought, at least. I guess Master Jensen thought the same.
I thought they might both be due a surprise. At least I really, really hoped so.
Lord Varty’s gaming room was as grand a chamber as I’d ever been in. Even the ceiling was painted in rich colors, naked figures in intricate poses, some kind of orgy scene I didn’t dare to look at too closely because then I’d stare and stare. A smart boy takes one quick look around to know where everything is, and then just pays attention to his master. Otherwise there are whippings in his future, and not the playful kind.
One wall was all windows, curtained now against the dusk. Even the curtains were heavy silk velvet that might have cost as much as Master Jensen won last night. I remembered the first time I saw them, how I had to risk my hide by sneaking close just to touch, just to feel their soft weight between my fingers. Master Leonin lived in luxury himself, or I had thought so before he brought me to Lord Varty’s house. This place could almost make my last master seem cheap.
It made my new master seem exactly what he was—a young man adrift, astray, utterly out of his depth.
Tonight he knew it too. My heart ached for him, for the effort he made not to show it and how much that effort showed in his face, in his every movement. Doomed to lose and lose and lose again, nevertheless he played with a dashing verve, coins flung in the face of fate. He was playing for his own pride, I guess, to have something at least to carry with him when he left: never realizing how proud he made me feel, what little comfort that would be when he was leaving.
If he left me behind, as Master Leonin intended, as he himself no doubt believed he’d have to.
Along the wall opposite the windows stood a heavy sideboard, laden with dishes and jugs. That was where Rollo had gone for the wine. There was brandy there too, and a cask of ale; and bowls of fruit, platters of bread and cold meats, sliced pies and tarts and sweetmeats. My mouth watered just at the sight of so much food. I could smell it too, sweet and savory all intermingled, even from this far away. When I padded softly across the room to stand right over it, I wanted to groan aloud, I wanted to grab handfuls as fast as I could swallow them. No, faster. Fill my mouth and my hands too and still want more.
Of course, I didn’t take a morsel for myself. If nobody else was watching, Rollo was sure to be keeping an eye on me from where he stood behind his master’s chair. If he saw me steal so much as an olive, he would lean forward and murmur it into Master Leonin’s ear, and then… Well, I didn’t quite know what would happen then, only that it would mean pain for me and embarrassment for Master Jensen, embarrassment at best. Seeing his boy punished or wielding the whip himself, either way would be a humiliation for him in another man’s house.
I couldn’t do that to him. Never mind what he’d do to me, to my poor hide. I took a plate and made my way along the sideboard, loading it with food; felt Rollo’s cold gaze on me all the way, and didn’t so much as lick the grease or the sugar crumbs from my fingers.
When I came to the array of drinks, I was relieved to find what I’d been hoping for, a jug of clear, fresh water. It was probably only meant to cut the spirits, but I poured a deep gobletful and carried that back to my master along with the plate of food. I set them both beside his elbow, closer than the wine he wasn’t drinking. Food in his belly would help to clear his muzzy head, whatever Master Leonin had spiked him with, be it drugs or magic. Simple water would probably help more; at the same time it might fight off the incipient headache that had him frowning and rubbing at his temples.
Perhaps he had the same thought. At any rate, it was the water that he reached for first. My own hand was still lingering on the stem of the goblet; it must have looked entirely natural, the way my fingers brushed across his wrist as I drew my hand away.
Just for a moment, we stood skin to skin; just for a moment, my blood pulsed in time with his. I had hopes that brief, warm contact would help more than anything. Food and water are fine in their way, but they need time to work their goodness from the belly to the brain. I hoped to shortcut that. Skin on skin, sweat to sweat. And he was sweating coldly under my touch, my poor master, though you’d have to be touching him to know it: he kept his eyes on his cards and his hair hanging loose to hide his face, his breathing and his fingers steady, showing not a sign of the state he was in. Unless you touched his clammy chill skin; then you’d know. Even that fleeting contact was enough. I could practically read his mind. I tried to send a surge of heat and hope all through his veins, from me to him. Not a gift, because it was his already, whatever I had to offer; call it a duty. What a slave owes his master, which is everything.
I do try to be a good boy.
Being good, then, being dutiful, I stepped back behind his chair and let him be. If we’d been alone, I’d have tried to feed him with my fingers, just to make him laugh; if we’d been alone, I think he’d have let me. Before he swatted me. As it was, I’d do nothing to show him up under the eyes of these men. Private games could wait.
Even so, I felt a private thrill when I saw him reach for a meat roll and swallow it in two bites, then wash it down with a swill of water. No more than his did my face show my feelings, but inside I was glowing.
Also, I was working. No one looks twice at a slave standing in attendance on his master. So long as I didn’t move, even Rollo would ignore me now. He knew where I was; he thought that was all that mattered. What went on in my head meant nothing to him.
I kept half an eye on my own master, in case he wanted my service; the least gesture would bring me to his side. Until then, though, I could give the rest of my att
ention to the other men around the table.
Which meant one man, mostly. This might be Lord Varty’s house, but even he didn’t matter here. Not tonight. The other two were nobodies, just a pair of Master Leonin’s cronies sucked in for the occasion. Rich and idle, this was how they spent their nights, drinking and gambling, anything to pass the time; their days they spent in bed or in the bathhouse, fooling with their latest fancies, recovering enough to do it all again the next night. Just like Master Jensen, a traitor voice murmured in the back of my head.
It was true, too—except that Master Jensen wasn’t rich, and I didn’t think he was idle by nature. I was sure he hadn’t been raised that way. He’d just slipped into bad habits and bad company, been fleeced and seduced and fleeced again, and once he’d started sliding he didn’t know how to stop. There aren’t many footholds on that slippery path down.
There was me, though. Something to keep hold of, someone to help him up again. I was determined on that.
Last night, his luck had turned; I meant to make sure that he kept it.
That he kept me, above all. Long enough to turn his life around, and mine too.
If he thought that decision lay in his hands, he was fooling himself. Master Leonin held all the power here tonight; he held all the cards.
He folded his hand together, smiled blandly around the table and tossed a few coins into the center.
“I bid a hundred. Gentlemen?”
Coins and cards. I’d never seen the appeal. But then, I’d never had a coin of my own; any money I’d ever handled belonged to my master, of course, as I did myself. And while I might know the face value of all the cards—I could count, and read numbers too—I’d never tried to learn the rules of the games that free folk played. Even standing behind Master Leonin’s chair, night after night, I just let it all wash by me. Some slaves do like to gamble; they keep old discarded greasy packs of cards hidden in their blankets and play in secret, betting chores and duties. Not me, never me. I did my work and kept my head down, and took no chances. That way danger lay; there were too many opportunities to cheat, to lend my luck a hand. If I only got a reputation for being lucky, that would be bad enough; slaves get resentful all too easily, and they know a thousand ways to make a chain-brother’s life miserable. And a reputation for being too lucky—well. Slaves talk, word gets around. I couldn’t afford that.