Master and Servant (Waterman)

by Dusk Peterson

CHAPTER SIX

  Cycle forward: 1317 Barley, Summer Transformation week.

  "Shall I . . . ?"

  "No. Finish it this way." Brun's voice was husky; he sat on the edge of the bed, leaning back with his eyes closed. After a moment, he opened his eyes and said, "Celadon . . . Are you touching yourself?"

  "No, master."

  "Do so. And shift your position so that I can watch you."

  "Yes, master." Celadon's voice was breathless this time. For a few minutes more there was silence, then Brun gave a sharp gasp, followed, after an appropriate interval, by a heavy sigh. When Brun spoke again, the huskiness was replaced by languor.

  "Come up here."

  Celadon obeyed the order without speaking, sliding onto the space of the bed between Brun's legs. Arms enfolded him; Brun's lips touched the side of his neck as Brun's hand travelled down to where Celadon's hand had been a short time before. Celadon gave a soft moan and settled back.

  After a long while: "Try to relax."

  "I'm sorry, master."

  "No need to apologize." Lips softly brushed Celadon's hair. Celadon laid his head back upon Brun's shoulder and closed his eyes. Under his cheek, a blood-vein throbbed steadily.

  "Do you believe that dreams tell of past lives, or of future ones, or of the current life?" Brun murmured presently. Without awaiting an answer, he added, "I had a strange dream last night. I dreamt that the quarterly was taking place in your hall, and I was standing on the platform with the other High Masters, wearing your sunburst gown and your dagger. An argument had broken out amidst the lesser masters as to who was the person in the Dozen Landsteads who was most loyal to his master. Eventually I stood up and ordered in a loud voice that my bed-slave be fetched.

  "You arrived, and I commanded you to demonstrate your duties to the others present. Without hesitation you knelt at my feet, unhooked the bottom half of my gown, and did what you have just finished doing. There was silence in the hall as you performed your task, but when I looked over, I saw that Pentheus had brought down this bed from the tower, so I commanded you to lie stomach-down upon it, and I took you there, before all the masters and slaves. And afterwards, everyone agreed that you were the most loyal person, slave or master, in all the Dozen Landsteads. . . .

  "Do you know the part of the dream I enjoyed most?"

  Celadon was beyond words. He shook his head within the nook of Brun's neck.

  "What I enjoyed most was when I commanded you to reach the climax of your pleasure, and you obeyed me." Brun's lips moved to Celadon's ear, and he ended in a whisper: "Do that for me, Celadon. Serve me."

  Celadon cried out then, jerking within Brun's arms and hand, arching his back as the spasms ran through him. He was still shuddering when Brun pulled forward a cloth from the nearby table and wiped him clean. Brun's other hand ran down his back, gentling him.

  The courtyard lay still now. The only sound drifting through the open window was the faint trickle of midnight rain and the far-off clatter of boots as guards made their rounds. Pulling his sweat-damp face from Brun's shoulder, Celadon said, "I'm sorry I took so long."

  "It hasn't been an easy day for either of us."

  For a space of time, Celadon looked upon Brun, who was staring into the darkness at the end of the chamber. Then Celadon slid from the bed and went over to the shelf nearby. He poured wine, placed it on a tray, and came over and knelt by the bed, as he had been trained to do. Brun took the cup from him with a smile, gesturing him back into the bed. Celadon climbed up, holding the wine he had poured for himself.

  "You do that so gracefully it's as though you were born with the knowledge," Brun commented as he placed his arm around the other man.

  Celadon gave a soft laugh. "It wasn't that way the first time, when I dropped the tray, and wine splattered all over you. You were terribly patient with me."

  "It helped that I remembered my own training." Brun leaned back against the pile of pillows as he spoke. "At least I knew that, in your case, the day would come when the task was utterly natural to you."

  Celadon fingered the cup, staring down at the blood-red wine. After a while, he said, "I shouldn't have had you help the outdoor slaves with the preparations for the quarterly. At least when you're serving in the receiving chamber, you can treat your slave duties as a form of mastership over me."

  "It does me good to spend time with the slaves," replied Brun between sips of wine. "Inner-chamber slaves are notorious for acting master-like to other slaves. If it ever reached the point where your bed-slave acquired a reputation for arrogance – with all the subsequent damage that would do to your reputation – then I would consider our first meeting five summers ago a tragedy. It is only luck that has allowed me the privileges I have."

  Celadon nodded. "I know. I keep thinking about all of the other perverts that must be out there, who aren't as fortunate as us. Sert's a slave, I think, though I don't think he has realized it yet. I keep wanting to tell him, but I can't figure out how to do so without revealing our secret. And what would I tell him? 'Find a slave who's really a master, and risk his death and your public shame'? It's harder for a lesser master to hide perverseness than it is for a High Master. It would be like . . . like asking him to be bedded at a quarterly."

  "Ah." Brun lowered his cup. "My dream disturbed you?"

  Celadon shook his head. "No, the dream was about giving me honor, not shame. The trouble is, in the Dozen Landsteads, any public mention of perverseness is a matter of shame. And it ought not to be that way."

  "So you've been telling the High Masters for five summers now," remarked Brun. "They don't seem to be listening to you. And Pentheus is right: it's reaching the point of danger."

  Celadon looked over at Brun, whose worn, scarred hands were resting lightly upon his cup. The firelight that burnt low as the night stretched its shadow over the homestead burnt sparks into Brun's eyes, which were staring up at the gilded beams of the ceiling.

  "You gave me permission to take steps to try to help the others who are like us," Celadon said.

  "You didn't need my permission, Celadon," Brun said quietly. Without moving his gaze, he reached his hand over to Celadon's and began tracing the line where the cut of Celadon's teeth had made its mark earlier that evening. "I've always told you: if you wish to appear to be a master, you must act like one. I'll advise you, but the final decisions on your work as a High Master are yours – unless you place yourself in danger. That's when my duty requires me to step forward."

  Celadon stared down at his cup, the wine within his stomach suddenly churning. He said in a low voice, "I know that your duty as my master requires you to protect me. But master, there are hundreds of others like us out there, living in fear and in less fortune than we have found. I need to help them—"

  "It would be pleasant if you could help them," Brun agreed, his hand still firm upon Celadon's. "It would also be pleasant if we awoke into a world where we could tell everyone who we truly are. Celadon, I was willing to indulge your dreams as long as you remained safe from danger, but no longer. You heard Pentheus tonight: if you proceed any further, it is likely that the masters will guess what you truly are."

  "But—"

  He stopped; Brun had given him a look such as closed his throat. Celadon found that his hands were shaking. He pulled himself tentatively from Brun's grasp and hurriedly set aside his remaining wine, then turned to take the cup that Brun proffered him.

  The other man pushed away the blankets and stood with one swift, forceful move. He gestured, and Celadon rushed to collect Brun's clothes, which were lying at the foot of the bed.

  "Must you go?" he asked as he pulled the tunic over Brun's head.

  Brun nodded. "The preparations for the quarterly will continue through the night. I could say that you'd kept me with you tonight, but it would make the slaves think less of you, that you'd slept in luxury while they were laboring on your behalf. Better that they respect you for sacrificing the use of your bed-slave tonight." He turned hi
s gaze downward to Celadon, who was painstakingly tying Brun's boots. After a moment, Brun broke the silence by saying, "Very well. What did you wish to say?"

  Celadon finished tying the boots, carefully slipping his finger between one of the boots and Brun's calf to ensure that he had not tied the boot too tight. Brun had taught him many niceties such as that, details that made Celadon often feel as though his own work were that of an artist who took the highest care with his creations.

  Finally Celadon sat back on his heels. Without looking up, he said, "I have been thinking that – that perhaps I should tell the others the truth about myself."

  The silence was as deep as a cavern. Celadon sought to fill it with a rush of words, saying, "I wouldn't endanger you, master – I'd lead the others to believe that you're a true slave and that I've kept you with me all this time in a continued effort to be a true master. And if the new law passes, which protects perverts who act on their perverseness in private—"

  "The law is opposed by your own lesser masters; it will not pass." Brun's voice was as colorless as clear water. "If you tell the others the truth, you will suffer the punishment prescribed by Remigeus: you will be forced to live as a slave."

  "I know."

  Celadon raised his face finally, tilting his head backwards so that he could look up at Brun. What he saw was not reassuring: the other man's expression might have been molded out of the same solid stone that upheld the tower. In a voice as rigid as the castle walls, Brun said, "No. I forbid it."

  "But—"

  He had no opportunity to speak further. Brun swept past him and pulled back the bolt of the door that, out of excessive caution, they always kept barred when they were alone together. Stumbling to his feet, Celadon hurried forward, but Brun had already reached the door to the stairwell by the time Celadon caught up with him. He was no more than a shadowy figure in the moonlit chamber; Celadon could barely see him as he grabbed Brun's arm, saying, "Please, let's talk—"

  "There is nothing for us to speak of." Brun spoke in a flat voice. "I will not allow you to endanger yourself."

  "But all I want is to live as what I am!"

  His master turned. Celadon heard him release his breath, long and hard. "Very well," Brun said in a tight voice. "If you wish to do this, let us do it properly. Wait until the quarterly begins, then announce to the world that you are a slave. Listen to the masters as they laugh and mock you. Hear the words of contempt spoken by the other slaves. And then go and do what I am about to do: place yourself under the command of men who will never give you a choice, never turn to you for advice, never do anything but give you order upon order upon order, until every part of you that was ever alive turns into ice and is frozen forever, because you receive none of the warmth of making your own choices in life. Is that what you want, Celadon?"

  Celadon stood without moving in the fireless room, his hand still clutching Brun's solid warmth. He said in a small voice, "Yes."

  Brun's arm was stiff under Celadon's hand; his voice was silent. Feeling his breath catch as he spoke, Celadon said, "Master, you don't understand – it's different for you. For you, freedom is making your own choices. But for me, choice-making is a prison. I don't know the best choices to make – I never have – and every day I must play-act that I am something I'm not. It's so heavy a weight . . ." He swallowed and said in a steadier voice, "I could continue doing that if I must – you've taught me how. But I think that, if I tell the others the truth about myself, it might shock the High Masters into passing the law I've proposed. No High Master has ever admitted to being a slave during the history of the Dozen Landsteads; my words could make a difference to the lives of perverts, present and future."

  "You say that you wish to live as a slave, yet I have already made clear to you that you must withdraw your law proposal, and you refuse to obey me." Brun's voice was as quiet as it had ever been.

  "Only in this one small matter – I'm sure I'm right about this. If you'd only listen to me—"

  "I have done with listening to you." Brun's voice was still quiet. "The matter is shut. You will do as I have commanded you."

  "But I—"

  It was too dark; if the chamber had been lighter, he would have known what was about to happen and would have had time to brace himself. As it was, he cried out like a child as he felt the blow of Brun's palm strike his cheek. Only his hand upon Brun's other arm prevented him from falling. He let go quickly and tried to gather his thoughts together. He could hear his half-suppressed sobs breaking the silence.

  "You . . . will. . . obey." Brun's voice was like heated lead upon him. "I have not trained you for five summers, only to have you turn into a willful, perverse slave who disregards orders the first time his fancies fail to match the greater knowledge of his master. You don't know what it's like to live as a slave, and I will not allow you to enter into that terrible knowledge. Do you understand what I require of you, Celadon?"

  "I—" He could speak no further; his face felt as though a flame had been struck against it. He pressed his knuckles against his lips, trying to push back the sobs.

  He heard Brun give a low curse, then step away from him. The other man pulled open one of the great gold doors, saying as he did so, "You wanted it this way, Celadon – just remember that." And then the room was filled with light, torchlight from the landing of the tower stairs—

  —and Brun was suddenly on his knees. Beyond him, gazing with narrowed eyes upon the scene before him, stood Pentheus.

  Celadon's mind was still moving sluggishly, like water trapped below ice. For the space of a minute, the High Master could do nothing but stare at his lesser master. Then, instinctively, his hand flew up to hide the mark that he knew must be clear upon his cheek.

  In the next second, he realized the mistake he had made. Pentheus's eyes narrowed yet further, and the older man's gaze switched down to the scar-faced slave who knelt at his feet, his head bowed.

  Celadon heard himself say, "I thought you had gone back to your guest chamber."

  "No," said Pentheus slowly as he looked down at the slave. "I thought I would serve you better tonight if I waited to see who visited you in your chamber." His gaze rose slowly toward the High Master of the Ninth Landstead, who was still standing with his hand upon his left cheek.

  Suddenly Pentheus's voice was brisk. "Master, I would like to borrow your slave."

  "My slave?" said Celadon faintly, as though unsure of who was being referred to.

  "Yes, I have need of him tonight. I trust that you have no objections."

  As he spoke, he gestured. Brun rose to his feet, his gaze still fixed upon the ground, and turned his head in the direction of Celadon, as though seeking his master's permission. Celadon, biting his lip, spoke no word and made no gesture, but the scar-faced slave, as though he had received the needed orders, turned back to the lesser master and began to follow him down the stairs.

  Celadon did not move. He saw the torchlight in the stairwell flicker; he heard Pentheus ask a terse question; he heard Brun's reply.

  The true slave must speak truth to his master. That much of being a slave, Brun appeared to have mastered.