Gambling Heart

by Thom Lane

  Past the Street of Jewels lay the Street of Games. This was where it got serious; nobody was playing now. Any other campsite anywhere in the empire, there would have been card games and shell games up and down, swift-talking swift-fingered men out for any mean coin they could coax from a gullible mark. Not here. Here at this end were heavy tents in a heavy silence—and heavy men watching. Blocking our way, indeed, directing us with a nod to where a sharp-looking woman sat behind a table beneath an awning of oiled silk.

  “If you wish to play,” she said, “you’ll need tokens.”

  “I have coin,” Master Jensen said mildly.

  “We use only tokens. You can change your gold here,” a gesture to the tent at her back, “with confidence. Our bankers are guaranteed by the Guild of Mages.”

  I thought that would probably be news to Master Lucan. Nevertheless, it seemed to be true. We went into the tent, and there were two men with the silver rings and chains of magery glinting obviously in their ears.

  That was the only silver in evidence. The banker they watched over was interested only in gold. Master Jensen snapped his fingers, and I passed him a small, heavy bag from the satchel I carried over one shoulder.

  The banker spilled glimmering coins into the pan of his scale, and weighed them scrupulously. Then he glanced up at my master and said, “You have more?”

  “I do. This is all I choose to play with tonight.”

  The man waved that aside. “Nevertheless. You should deposit all, for security. Your money is safer with me than anywhere in camp. The Guild ensures that.” He nodded to the silent mages. “These gentlemen will seal my receipt, such that you and you alone can redeem your coin or exchange it for playing tokens. Why have your boy carry vulnerable gold, when you can carry secure paper?”

  Master Jensen let himself be persuaded, with more than a show of reluctance; so much gold was still new to him, and he really didn’t like giving it up. Me, I huffed with audible relief as I handed it all over. It was new to me too, and my shoulders weren’t used to the weight of it. Just attracting that much notice earned me a clout from his swift hand; I ducked too late, yelped aggrievedly, and stepped back, rubbing my poor sore ear as soon as I was out of his sight. It was all playacting, and at the same time it was all true; the blow was as real as the hurt, because that was the only way to be convincing.

  The banker weighed every coin, double-checked the amount with my master, and wrote it carefully on one square of ivory parchment, and then another. Each man signed each with his name. One of the mages stepped forward then, stacked the parchments together and had both men press their thumbs on top. He waved his hand above and murmured under his breath; when my master lifted his thumb away, the impression remained, as though every line of his thumb mark had been traced from beneath with a fine black ink. The banker’s was the same, indelibly rendered deep beneath the surface of the parchment; and the same again on the lower square, as though the impression had reached all through the stack.

  “Nobody can claim this gold of me,” the banker said, “but you. If your copy of my receipt is lost or taken, it’s still useless to anyone else without your thumb; I still have my copy, and my thumb is my promise. That promise is guaranteed by the Guild of Bankers and the Guild of Mages too. Are you content?”

  Master Jensen nodded slowly.

  “Good. Here are the tokens you wanted for tonight,” wooden counters bright with color, red and blue and yellow. “Go and enjoy yourself; be easy about your money and lucky with other people’s.”

  Even before we were out of the tent, I heard the clicking of heavy locks, as my master’s gold was transferred into one of the great chests that lined the back wall of the tent. There would be magical security too, stronger than wood and steel; those mages weren’t there only to guarantee the banker’s honesty.

  “Well, now,” my master murmured, tucking the bag of tokens into his belt and the precious parchment inside his shirt, “your burden’s easier, at least. Idle boy. Try to look attentive, if you can’t look busy. Act like my comfort is all of your concern.”

  “Yes, Master.” That wouldn’t be hard; it was truer than he knew.

  “Which gaming tent shall we try first, then?”

  Was he really asking me, or only musing aloud? I wasn’t sure, but I risked it anyway: “That one, Master. The gold and green.”

  “Why so?”

  I wasn’t sure about that either. I’d spoken because he’d asked, without thinking it through, without really realizing that I even had an opinion. I was his boy; I’d go where he went; why did I need an opinion? Now, working it out almost on my fingers: “Because that’s where the serious game is. All the bright young loud people are down the other end,” where they were drinking and flirting as much as gambling, maybe more. We could hear them from here, whooping and laughing against the quiet this end of the street. “I’ve only seen two people going into that tent, and they were both middle-aged women.” And their attendant slaves, but I didn’t mention those; why would I?

  “Maybe that only means that the gaming this end is dull and slow and middle-aged. An excuse for the women to get together and gossip, while their menfolk or their children play for real.”

  Maybe—but I didn’t believe it, and neither did he. He was testing me, or teasing me. I took it for a test. “If they were here to meet they’d be coming with their friends, two and three together. These are individuals. Powerful people.” And then, another degree of honesty to clinch my argument, “They scare me, Master.” A slave’s fear is a very finely developed sense; we know whom we need to be afraid of.

  “Well, then. Let’s see if you’re right, Jay.”

  My name—the name he had given me—slipped from his mouth like a caress, like his hand sliding over my skin. I swear my cock twitched just at the sound of it. It was a real effort to hold myself humble and discreet at his heel, when I wanted to beam up at him and reach for a kiss, for the touch of his actual hand, his actual tongue in my mouth.

  I’m a hopeless case, I confess it. But it’s a slave’s duty to adore his master; I was just trying to be a good boy, nothing more than that.

  Trying really hard, I kept my head down and my hands behind my back, my bare feet treading neatly in his heel marks except when I ducked ahead of him to draw back the door hanging so that my precious master needn’t actually soil his hands with a moment’s labor, needn’t pause, needn’t break step. That’s what we’re for, to ensure that our free folk have an easy stroll through life, never having to open a door or unlace a shirt for themselves.

  Two quiet, watchful guards stood just inside the doorway. They knew my master had money; he wouldn’t have got this far without it. He wouldn’t have got onto the street at all. Even so, I could read surprise and attentiveness just in their stance. He was half the age of anyone else in the tent and not known here, not dressed in the same costly fabrics.

  Still. Tokens in his belt; he was welcome for now. If he was out of his class, he’d learn it soon enough. No doubt that’s what they were thinking, as they nodded him through.

  One broad, dark table, lit by soft-glowing lamps; half a dozen people sat around, a slave behind every chair. Cards and tokens stacked in every player’s place, with more strewn across the wood between them.

  A couple of empty chairs, like an open invitation; every player looking up, gazing at my master noncommittally, the opposite of an open invitation.

  “What’s the buy in?” Master Jensen asked, calm in the face of that mute assessment.

  “A hundred for the house, and the minimum bet is fifty. No limit. Most youngsters prefer to play lower down the street.” That was the woman who held the bank, gathering up the cards and shuffling as she spoke. Her voice was clipped and neutral; it really didn’t matter to her if he stayed or left.

  Master Jensen shrugged, dipped his hand into his pouch, and tossed a handful of tokens onto the table. Took a chair, said, “Deal me in. They’re too noisy down the way; I’m only interested in
the game. Straight sharwa, is it?”

  “Straight sharwa, local customs. Treys are wild, black ambsace kills the hand. We’ll clue you to variants as they arise.”

  “Good enough.” He took a casual swig from his flask, set it by his hand, snapped his fingers for me, and gestured me over to the table in the corner, where jugs and heaped trays waited.

  I knew what he liked, and what he would want, which were not necessarily the same thing. All the bread and meat and pastry I could load onto a plate, to feed his appetite and soak up whatever alcohol he couldn’t avoid; a goblet of wine, diluted with as much water as I thought I could get away with.

  I laid those by his elbow, stood behind his chair, resisted any temptation even to brush my fingers across the smooth skin of his long, strong neck, let alone tuck his hair back neatly behind his ears. Let alone lean into any of the other players, give my master the luck I thought he deserved…

  Not yet. I wasn’t going to do anything yet, not till we understood the lay of the land a little better. Not at all, ever, if there was any chance of bringing trouble down on my master’s head as a result. Better to see him lose all his money and have to start again.

  So long as he didn’t start thinking about selling me again. It would be far better for us both if any new start began with both of us working together. I had to hope that he understood that, as clearly as I did myself.

  All I did that night was watch and listen, and serve my master in every way I could. Which meant keeping his plate and cup filled, my eyes and ears open, my brain buzzing as hard as it was able.

  I saw his pile of tokens rise and fall, rise again and then dribble away hand after hand, until it really wasn’t a pile at all, just a sad scatter. Almost, I thought I should lean into him a little, enough to draw him away from the table, even if he beat me for it after. Just in time, though, he did it all himself, my smart master: gathered up his flask and what little he had left, rose to his feet, nodded politely and bade them all good night. Led the way out with barely an artistic stumble to his feet, to log him in their heads as an inveterate drinker who knew how to carry his losses if not his liquor: probably their favorite kind of player. He’d be absolutely welcome back, which was absolutely what he’d gone in there to achieve.

  Out in the street, he gave another convincing lurch, grabbed at my shoulder for support—because what else is a strong boy for?—and then left his hand there, with his thumb tucked comfortably, controllingly beneath my collar. He shook my head a little, nuzzled my ear under the guise of needing to lean close, and murmured, “Well. That went well.”

  “Yes, Master.” I was almost unbearably proud of him, though of course I couldn’t say so.

  “What did you make of them?”

  “They’ve played together a lot. Every night. They know each other’s play inside out, which is why none of them wins big, or ever will.” The tides of money had flowed back and forth across the table all night, without ever favoring any one player for long. Nobody lost except my master, and even he hadn’t lost enough to hurt. “The game’s honest, and…”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know why they stay. They don’t like each other enough to make it a friendly game; there’s nothing else here worth staying for; I don’t see why they don’t go home.” Master Lucan said that some had been here for months. From what we’d seen tonight, they were just passing their money back and forth, achieving nothing, going nowhere. It bewildered me.

  “Me neither,” he said. “There must be something, though. And we were never going to find it on our first night in camp. We need time. Which means long nights for me—and idle days for you, you lucky boy.”

  “Yes, Master.” Yes please, Master…

  * * * *

  Idle for a slave may not mean the same as it does to a free man. Even when they’re both in the same place and apparently doing the same thing, drowsing in the half-light of a shuttered room while the day goes on unheeded all about them. Free folk can be idle indeed, while a wise boy is always alert inside, ready to rouse at the least touch of a finger, ready to run errands at a word or roll over to be fucked one more time, or just nestle closer into the sticky shared remembered heat of the night before. Idleness is only another kind of service, giving him what he wants. Sometimes it takes a lot of work, to be idle.

  Even so. I wouldn’t begrudge a minute of it, not a moment. I’d sweat to be idle, whichever way he made me do it.

  Most times, an idle morning starts with a sweaty night. I don’t know which is better, but I do know what was best in all my life, right up until the moment we came back to Master Jensen’s rented room that night. It was that moment itself, when the door closed at our backs and I could slip the tunic from my shoulders and be naked before him, as I was made to be. I could light a lamp to help him find his way to the bed and then drop to my knees at his feet, where I belonged. I could pull his boots off one by one and rest my head against his knee, and peep up at him like a bold shy boy taking a minimal risk; I could feel his fingers rough in my hair and smile in delight and hear his soft, bewildered chuckle.

  “Tell me a thing, sweet Jay,” he said, “because I really don’t understand it. Why is this so good for you? I know why I like having my tag on your collar—you’re pretty and willing and obedient, as hot as a furnace and as well trained as a tavern slut, and you’re useful to me in ways I’ve hardly begun to measure. But—well, I own you. I can do what I want with you, and I will, and you know that. I’ll beat you, whip you, keep you hungry and naked and always a little afraid of me—and yet, here you are beaming up at me like this was paradise for you. Like it was the fulfillment of all your dreams. Explain that to me?”

  Oof. I wanted to roll my eyes at him, kiss the palm of his hand, bite his fingers until he lifted me up onto the bed. Even at the cost of a beating, I really really wanted to do that. Much more than I wanted to lay my heart out before him. But he was master, and nothing else counted, and idleness is always hard work one way or another.

  I said, “I’ve always been slave. It’s just what I am, the way life is. I never even dreamed of being free. But for years now, up till you, up till last night I was always holding something back, keeping secrets even from my master. Especially from my master. That’s no way for a slave to live, manipulating free folk, taking their choices from them. It’s a cold, scary thing, and I’ve nursed it inside me all this time and I always hated it. This, now—this is how things ought to be. I belong to you, and you know everything, and it’s all yours, to use as you like. I’m yours, and I haven’t been that for so long, not properly anyone’s. Whoever thought they owned me, they only ever had the outside of me, and no kind of grip on that. I could always slither away if I wanted to, and that’s not ownership. I never was a true slave since this talent grew inside me; I only wanted to be. It’s a silly thing to say, but I belong to you totally now, at last, and I never felt so free.”

  There was more I could have said—you’re beautiful and strong and masterful, and I’ve seen you at your weakest when you were drunk and broke and throwing up, a loser all down the line, and even then I thought you were adorable—but really that was enough. Knowing when to keep your mouth shut isn’t the same as keeping secrets. He didn’t need my compliments, nor my adoration. Masters don’t care how their slaves feel. Why would they?

  “You’re right,” he said, “that is a silly thing to say. You’re mine, and I plan to keep you just the way you are.” That might have meant despite Lucan and the whole Council of Mages, or it might have meant on your knees and in your collar, naked and slave and tagged for me; maybe it meant both of those together. That was what I chose to believe and hope for. It was what I wanted, everything all at once and forever—but again, no one cares what a slave wants.

  Still. Right then, there I was, just where I wanted to be; and sometimes it’s hard to be questioned about the things that matter most. And maybe I was already breaking my promise, trying to manipulate a free man one more time—but my fa
ce was right there on the level of his lap, and my hands weren’t tied, and all I had to do was nuzzle a little at the leather and let my fingers play with his laces, and suddenly I could feel all the length of his cock straining to be released. He took a grip of my collar, and his breath shortened above me, and then it was an act of obedience to slip those laces free and let his cock spring out, to welcome it with mouth and tongue and a hint of teeth, to wrap my arms around his hips and bury my head in his groin and give myself over to his pleasure and never mind mine. He wouldn’t notice and he wouldn’t care but oh, this was glory to me, what I lived for, all I’d ever wanted…

  All I’d ever wanted, but not all of it at once. Little by little is the adult way, taking time to linger over pleasure. Holding back. It’s a lesson slaves learn early, usually under their owner’s leather when they come too soon; masters take an unholy joy in training us to wait and wait and wait. Which was a lesson I thought my master too might profit by, and not just in bed. It’s harder, for a slave to train a free man—especially when he’s made promises not to do that, not ever—but even so. I thought I could show him that he needn’t grab with both hands, that there was more fun to be had in going slow. One bite at a time.

  In pursuit of which, I held myself back like a good example, kissing and nipping and licking his lovely cock from root to tip, when really I just wanted to engulf as much as I could into my eager mouth and have him come and come, right there and then. I wanted to drain him dry and swallow him all, where he could saturate my blood and bone and possess me from the inside out—and instead I swallowed down all my own desires, the way we’re trained to do. Good boys take what they can get, on the way to their master’s contentment. I lipped his swollen glans and tasted sweat and musk; I peeped up through the murky light and saw him bite his own lip in response; I heard him give a brief grunting laugh, and felt both hands of his close around my head.